THE TURF. 
of old Prunella. It is a terrible race ! There are seven 
in front within the distance, and nothing else has a 
chance to win. The set-to begins ; they are all good 
ones. Whips are at work the people shout hearts 
throb ladies faint the favourite is beat white jacket 
with black cap wins. 
Now a phalanx of cavalry descend the hill towards 
the grand stand, with " Who has won?" in each man's 
mouth. " Hurrah ! " cries one, on the answer being 
given ; "my fortune is made ! " " Has he, by ? " 
says another, pulling up with a jerk ; " I am a ruined 
man ! Scoundrel that I was to risk such a sum ! and I 
have too much reason to fear I have been deceived ! 
Oh ! how shall I face my poor wife and my children ? 
I '11 blow out my brains." But where is the owner of 
the winning horse ? He is on the hill, on his coach-box ; 
but he will not believe it till twice told. " Hurrah ! " 
he exclaims, throwing his hat into the air. A gipsy 
hands it to him. It is in the air again, and the gipsy 
catches it, and half-a-sovereign besides, as she hands it 
to him once more. " Heavens bless your honour," 
says the dark ladye ; " did I not tell your honour you 
could not lose ? " 
There are two meetings now at Epsom, as indeed 
there were more than half a century back; but the 
October Meeting is of minor importance, The grand 
stand on the course is the largest in Europe ; and to 
give some idea of its magnificence, it has been assessed 
to the poor-rate at five hundred pounds per annum. 
216 
