while his wife dressed, and got angry with Mrs. Pepys
because she was so long about it. They were off in the coach by five,
with bottles of wine and beer, and a cold fowl, and talked all the way
pleasantly, Pepys writes, and so came "to Epsom, by eight o'clock, to
the well; where much company, and I drank the water: they did not but I
did drink four pints. And to the town, to the King's Head; and hear
that my Lord Buckhurst and Nelly are lodged at the next house, and Sir
Charles Sedley with them; and keep a merry house." Lord Buckhurst had
just persuaded Nell Gwynne to leave the King's playhouse for a hundred
pounds a year and his company: she was to act no more, which saddened
Pepys. However, she was back at the playhouse next month, jeered at by
the graceful Buckhurst and as poor as ever. She was less exacting than
Barbara Villiers: she never had a palace to sell.

When Nonsuch was built up again into Durdans and other houses near the
Wells, then came the full tide. Epsom was completed. About the year
1690, Pownall dates the climax: Mr. Parkhurst, lord of the manor, built
a ball-room seventy feet long, and the inns sprang up on all sides.
"Taverns at that time reputed to be the largest in England were opened;
sedan chairs and numbered coaches attended, there was a public
breakfast, with dancing and music every morning at the Wells. There was
also a ring, as in Hyde Park; and on the downs races were held daily at
noon; with cudgelling and wrestling matches, foot races, &c., in the
afternoon. The evenings were usually spent in private parties,
assemblies or cards; and we may add, that neither Bath nor Tunbridge
ever boasted of more noble visitors than Epsom, or exceeded it in
splendour, at the time we are describing." So Pownall praises the great
days; but they have not left a glamour about Epsom, as the days of Nash
and Brummell have shed on Bath.

Why has Epsom so broad a main street? In the great days the open way was
narrower. Down the centre of the road as we see it Mr. Parkhurst planted
a long walk of elms, and there they stood from James the Second's day
till the nineteenth century. Then Sir Joseph Mawbey, lord of the manor,
cut them down and sold the timber. He made a good bargain too; for the
townpeople were grieved at losing their trees, and to quiet them he
promised to give L200 to help build a market-house, but he never did it,
and kept the cash. The trunks of the fallen trees must have made a
pleasant pro