appearances, as the late Mr. Mathews used to do in his celebrated ‘At Homes.’  One day Peter would be seen ducking under the mews’ entrance in one of those greasy, painfully well-brushed hats, the certain precursors of soiled linen and seedy, most seedy-covered buttoned coats, that would puzzle a conjuror to say whether they were black, or grey, or olive, or invisible green turned visible brown.  Then another day he might be seen in old Mrs. Gadabout’s sky-blue livery, with a tarnished, gold-laced hat, nodding over his nose; and on a third he would shine forth in Mrs. Major-General Flareup’s cockaded one, with a worsted shoulder-knot, and a much over-daubed light drab livery coat, with crimson inexpressibles, so tight as to astonish a beholder how he ever got into them.  Humiliation, however, has its limits as well as other things; and Peter having been invited to descend from his box—­alas! a regular country patent leather one, and invest himself in a Quaker-collared blue coat, with a red vest, and a pair of blue trousers with a broad red stripe down the sides, to drive the Honourable old Miss Wrinkleton, of Harley Street, to Court in a ‘one oss pianoforte-case,’ as he called a Clarence, he could stand it no longer, and, chucking the nether garments into the fire, he rushed frantically up the area-steps, mounted his box, and quilted the old crocodile of a horse all the way home, accompanying each cut with an imprecation such as ‘me make a guy of myself!’ (whip) ’me put on sich things!’ (whip, whip) ‘me drive down Sin Jimses-street!’ (whip, whip, whip), ‘I’d see her ——­ fust!’ (whip, whip, whip), cutting at the old horse just as if he was laying it into Miss Wrinkleton, so that by the time he got home he had established a considerable lather on the old nag, which his master resenting a row ensued, the sequel of which may readily be imagined.  After assisting Mrs. Clearstarch, the Kilburn laundress, in getting in and taking out her washing, for a few weeks, chance at last landed him at Mr. Benjamin Buckram’s, from whence he is now about to be removed to become our hero Mr. Sponge’s Sancho Panza, in his fox-hunting, fortune-hunting career, and disseminate in remote parts his doctrines of the real honour and dignity of servitude.  Now to the inspection.

Peter Leather, having a peep-hole as well as his master, on seeing Mr. Sponge arrive, had given himself an extra rub over, and covered his dirty shirt with a clean, well-tied, white kerchief, and a whole coloured scarlet waistcoat, late the property of one of his noble employers, in hopes that Sponge’s visit might lead to something.  Peter was about sick of the suburbs, and thought, of course, that he couldn’t be worse off than where he was.

‘Here’s Mr. Sponge wants some osses,’ observed Mr. Buckram, as Leather met them in the middle of the little yard, and brought his right arm round with a sort of military swing to his forehead; ’what ‘ave we in?’ continued Buckram, with the air of a man with so many horses that he didn’t know what were in and what were out.