Chapelle, as at Epsom High Green and Long
Room on a public day." The raffling shops
brought together as many sharpers as
Tunbridge; and the writer takes care to observe
"that it was very diverting for a stander-by to
observe the different humours and passions of
both sexes, which discover themselves with
less art and reserve at play than on any other
occasion; the rude, the sullen, the noisy, and
the affected, the peevish, the covetous, the
litigious and the sharping, the proud, the
prodigal, the impatient, and the impertinent,
become visible foils to the well-bred, prudent,
modest, and good-humoured." At the taverns,
inns, and coffee-houses, all distinctions of
Whig and Tory were forgotten. After an
early dinner, the visitors to the wells rode on
the Downs or took coach for the Ring, where,
on a Sunday evening, this detestable prig had
actually counted as many as sixty vehicles.
Saturday, when the husbands of the city ladies
came from town, was the great evening for
display; and, next to that, Monday, when
there was a public ball in the Assembly Rooms.
On Sundays, in the forenoon, the ever restless
"company " that did not ride the four-mile
course past the old warren (still existing) to
Carshalton, drove to Boxhill, where they partook
of refreshments in arbours out among the trees.

Epsom was no doubt a pretty countrified,
quaint place when Toland (who must have
been a stupendous bore) was there, for nearly
all the houses had porticos of clipped elms,
lime trees, and an avenue of trees shaded the
long terrace that ran from the watchhouse
(where the clock tower now stands) as far as
the chief tavern, now the Albion Hotel. The
citizens and gentlemen took breakfast and
supper al fresco under these whispering bowers,
and pretty Hogarthian pictures the groups
must have formed.

"By the conversation of those walking
in these avenues," says Toland, " you would
fancy yourself to be this minute on the
Exchange, and the next at St. James's; one
while in an East India factory, and another
while with the army in Flanders [how they
swore there, Uncle Toby!], or on board the
fleet on the ocean; nor is there any profession,
trade, or calling, that you can miss of here either
for your instruction or your diversion." Indeed,
considering the races and packs of hounds, the
angling in the Mole, and the rides on the
Downs, one can scarcely wonder that, as
Toland says, the place was well filled with
bankrupts, fortune-hunters, crazed superannuated
beaux, married coquettes, intriguing
prudes, richly dressed waiting-maids, and
complimenting footmen.

By-and-by knavery and quackery invaded
the wells. A rascally apothecary, named
Levingstone, started a sham new wells, gave
concerts and balls, bought and shut up the real
spring, and procured testimonials of cures and
medical certificates (you can't do that sort of
thing now). The cures began to cease, the
restless company to grow shy. The poor
neglected old spring still exists, and is as full
of sulphate of magnesia as ever, but noone
cares to be cured by it now.

              STALLS.

It may not have occurred to you, serene
reader, to trouble yourself much concentrating
the Philosophy of Stalls, if, indeed,
you have ever thought it worth your while
to inquire whether there was anything
philosophical connected with a stall. To
my mind there is, and much. To me a
stall typifies, in an intense degree, the
quality of selfishness. I draw a direct alliance
between a stall and celibacy. I hold the
possession of a stall to be linked with the
ideas of independence, of isolation from
and superiority to, the rest of mankind. In
a stall, properly so termed, you cannot put
two people. The stalled ox is alone, and
may look with infinite contempt on the
poor sheep huddled together in a fold;
the cobbler who lived in his stall, which
served him for kitchen and parlour and all,
was, I will go bail, a bachelor. Robinson
Crusoe, for a very long time, occupied a
stall, and was monarch of all he surveyed.
When Man Friday came, the recluse began
to yearn to mingle with the world again.
Diogenes in his tub perfectly fulfils the
idea of an installed egotist. From his tub-
stall he could witness at leisure the entire
grand opera of Corinth. I have heard of
a royal duke—one of the past generation
of royal dukes; burly, bluff princes in
blue coats and brass buttons, who said
everything twice over, drank hard, swore
a good deal, and were immensely popular
at the Crown and Anchor and the Thatched
House Taverns—who, being in Windsor,
one Sunday afternoon, thought he would
like to attend divine service in St. George's
Chapel. Of course he was a Knight of the
Garter, and had his stall in the old gothic
fane, with his casque and banner above,
and a brass plate let in to the oaken
carving, recording what a high, mighty,
and puissant prince he was. The chapel
happened to be very crowded, and as
H. R. H. essayed to pass through the throng
towards his niche in the choir, a verger
whispered him, deferentially, that a
distinguished foreign visitor, his Decrepitude
the Grand Duke of Pfenningwurst-Schinkenbraten,
had been popped into his stall.
"Don't care a rush—a rush," quoth
H. R. H., poking his walking-cane into
the spine of a plebeian in front of him.
"Want to get to my stall—my stall."