High life and low life, the Royal cortége, the thoroughbred team, the barouche and four, the yellow post-chaise and pair, the smart tilbury, the light dennet, the sporting dog-cart, the heavy "bus," the gaudy van, the sable hearse, the hackney-coach, the tilted waggon, and the Whitechapel cart. The first object that attracted his notice might have been a ponderous, lumbering, rickety hackney-coach--I write of the days of the fourth George--the arms emblazoned on the panels, showing that it had once seen better days, a remnant of faded greatness. The driver, too, might also have shone in the glittering throng of St. James's on a birthday. And oh, what a sad falling off was there! Instead of the three-cornered hat of quaint appearance, bedizened with gold lace and feathers and its smart cockade, a rusty brown, low-crowned beaver, with a wisp of straw for a hatband. The gaudy livery had given place to an old faded coat, bought in the purlieus of the Seven-dials. Where are the well-curled wig, the silken hose, the silver-buckled shoes, the bouquet, the white gloves--where? Echo answers, "Where?" Behind this vehicle might be heard the wheels of a tilbury, guided by an impatient young exquisite in the extreme of fashion, his glossy hat perched slantingly on his well-oiled, curly hair; his tight frock coat lined and faced with silk and velvet; the snowy corner of a white pocket-handkerchief peeping out of the breast pocket, perfuming the air with the choicest scents of Arabia; the half-blown moss-rose in his button-hole; his boots shining in all the brilliancy of _day_--and Martin, and his hands enveloped in light fawn coloured kid gloves. "How much?" asks the dandy. "Twopence," is the reply. A shilling is thrown to the turnpike man. "You may keep the change, old fellow." "Quite the gentleman!" exclaims the collector. Then comes the cabriolet (now out of fashion), on its well-balanced springs, plainly painted--"unadorned adorned the most." See the owner, how he prides himself on his splendid horse and diminutive "tiger!" "Now, Sir," exclaims the driver and _mis_-conductor of a galloping "bus," with two raw-boned bits of blood, ten outside and thirteen in, trying to pass the cabriolet. "Don't keep the whole of the King's highway." The unfortunate owner of the cabriolet stops rather suddenly, and finds himself, like the lions at the Zoological Gardens, "stirred up with a long pole." A rival "bus" approaches. "Bank! Bank! City! Bank!" cries the conductor. The driver makes a rush to pass both vehicles, locks his wheel in that of the cabriolet, leaving it in what the Americans term "a very unhandsome fix." "I hate these French himportations and hinventions, the homnibusses!" exclaims the gate-keeper, "they're a regular nuisance."