SOME years ago an open carriage with four thorough-bred horses, mounted by postillions in black velvet jackets and silver-tasseled caps, was waiting at the door of a small, neat house in London, at the corner of Regent and Argyle streets. The sun was shining brilliantly, and though it was not later than ten o'clock in the morning, brilliant equipages were continually dashing through the street. The horses of the carriage which was waiting, tossed their heads and pawed the ground impatiently, as the other horses galloped by; the postillions repeated to each other the names of the owners as each equipage passed. Two gentlemen in the very plainest morning costume, passed up and down the pavement, looking anxiously each time they went by the open door into the small passage of the house. "Can anything have detained her?" said one of the gentlemen with a strong foreign accent. "We shall be late," said his companion with the purest English accent, looking at his watch. "Warrender and Burghersh!" shouted the groom on the leader to the groom on the wheeler, as an equipage as well appointed as their own new past them. "They are going for Malibran," said the foreigner, "we shall be last." "Coming out!" shouted the footman, opening the carriage door, while his fellow servant let down the steps, and escorted by a large and remarkably ugly man, of most courtly bearing, three ladies issued from the house. One was the Countess C----, the two others were Henriette and Nina Sontag. The Chevalier de Benkhausen, the Russian Charge d'Affaires, followed the ladies into the carriage, the two other gentlemen mounted the box, the postillions tightened the reins, the footmen shouting "All right!" got on the dickey, and off sped the carriage at full speed. They were going to Epsom, and this was the Derby day. In a few minutes, as they went down Conduit street into Bond street, they passed a carriage in which were one lady and three gentlemen. The lady was Marie Malibran; her companions--Lord Burghersh, Sir George Warrender, and Charles de Beriot. Men, grooms, and postillions shouted as they went by, and Malibran impetuously threw herself forward to see into the carriage; but the object of her curiosity was quietly talking to Lady C----, so that all she saw was the back of a very pretty satin bonnet with a blonde veil, and the outside of Nina Sontag's white parasol. Malibran threw herself pettishly back and pulled the fingers of her glove--how she longed to see the rival who had landed but two days before, and for whom all London was already raving! The two carriages continued their race until the crowd separated them, enveloping all in one cloud of dust. For hours later the Countess of C----'s carriage was the scene of the delicious scrambling which is the principal pleasure of Epsom, for those who are not members of the turf; the attentive footmen supplying clean glasses, fresh bottles of champagne, and saucers of Gunter's ice creams to all