Every description of wheeled vehicles known to the civilized world—broughams, barouches, landaus, chaises, buggies, sulkies, gigs, rockaways, carryalls, omnibuses, stages, brakes, carts, drags, wagons, jaunting cars, in an endless number and variety, and drawn by every available species of quadrupeds—horses, mules, donkeys, goats, dogs, oxen—thronged and crushed and pressed together for miles and miles behind and before on the main road and up and down every branch road—crowding toward Epsom. In this vast, moving mixed multitude the only saving feature was this, that they were all moving the same way, and all, or nearly all, in high, good humor. Pressed on all sides as they were—behind, before, on the right and on the left, our friends in the barouche and their young guests in the gig, managed to keep together;—sometimes brought to a standstill, sometimes moving on at the rate of an inch a minute. “Now you understand why it was necessary to start so early, though Epsom is but fourteen miles from London, and though the great race does not come off before two o’clock,” called out young Spencer. “Yes; and I begin to see the wisdom of those who went down to Epsom last night to avoid all this,” answered the general. “Ah, but they were either old stagers who had experienced this sort of thing many times before, or else individuals who had some deep stake in the races to come off to-day. For my own part, I enjoy the going and returning—the ‘road,’ in short, quite as much as anything else appertaining to the great Derby Day.” “It is a novel and interesting sight, in its contrasts if in nothing else,” replied the General, glancing from the handsome barouche decorated with a duke’s coronet painted on its panels, and occupied by an aristocratic party of stately men and elegant women, in splendid apparel, that crowded him on the right—to the old dilapidated omnibus, filled within and without with the ragged refuse of the London streets and alleys, which pressed him on the left. But truth to tell, the ragamuffins seemed the merrier, if not the richer party of the two. And many jests flew over General Lyon’s head between the Bohemians in the old omnibus and a young member of the ducal family who occupied a seat on the box beside the coachman. For that one day “free-born Britons” of every rank enjoyed something like liberty and equality—not to say unbridled license. “Hey day! What’s the matter now?” exclaimed the General, as the whole immense march, with much rearing and plunging of quadrupeds, came to a dead halt. “There’s a lock at the turnpike gate, sir,” called out a vagrant from the old ‘bus. “A lock on the toll-gate! It’s a shame,” replied the innocent old gentleman; “the gate should never be locked in the daytime, and most especially on such a day as this, when they must keep such a vast multitude of people waiting while they unlock it.”