The driver is paid by the week. His remuneration is 34_s._ a-week on
most of the lines. On others he receives 21_s._ and his box--that is,
the allowance of a fare each journey for a seat outside, if a seat be
so occupied. In fine weather this box plan is more remunerative to the
driver than the fixed payment of 34_s._; but in wet weather he may
receive nothing from the box. The average then the year through is only
34_s._ a-week; or, perhaps, rather more, as on some days in sultry
weather the driver may make 6_s._, “if the ’bus do twelve journeys,”
from his box.
The omnibus drivers have been butchers, farmers, horsebreakers,
cheesemongers, old stage-coachmen, broken-down gentlemen, turfmen,
gentlemen’s servants, grooms, and a very small sprinkling of mechanics.
Nearly all can read and write, the exception being described to me as a
singularity; but there are such exceptions, and all must have produced
good characters before their appointment. The majority of them are
married men with families; their residences being in all parts, and
on both sides of the Thames. I did not hear of any of the wives of
coachmen in regular employ working for the slop-tailors. “We can keep
our wives too respectable for that,” one of them said, in answer to my
inquiry. Their children, too, are generally sent to school; frequently
to the national schools. Their work is exceedingly hard, their lives
being almost literally spent on the coach-box. The most of them must
enter “the yard” at a quarter to eight in the morning, and must see
that the horses and carriages are in a proper condition for work; and
at half-past eight they start on their long day’s labour. They perform
(I speak of the most frequented lines), twelve journeys during the day,
and are so engaged until a quarter-past eleven at night. Some are on
their box till past midnight. During these hours of labour they have
twelve “stops;” half of ten and half of fifteen minutes’ duration.
They generally breakfast at home, or at a coffee-shop, if unmarried
men, before they start; and dine at the inn, where the omnibus almost
invariably stops, at one or other of its destinations. If the driver
be distant from his home at his dinner hour, or be unmarried, he
arranges to dine at the public-house; if near, his wife, or one of
his children, brings him his dinner in a covered basin, some of them
being provided with hot-water plates to keep the contents properly
warm, and that is usually eaten at the public-house, with a pint of
beer for the accompanying beverage. The relish with which a man who
has been employed several hours in the open air enjoys his dinner can
easily be understood. But if his dinner is brought to him on one of his
shorter trips, he often hears the cry before he has completed his meal,
“Time’s up!” and he carries the remains of his repast to be consumed
at his next resting-place. His tea, if brought to him by his family,
he often drinks within the omnibus, if there be an opportunity. Some
carry their dinners with them, and eat them cold. All these men live
“well;” that is, they have sufficient dinners of animal food every day,
with beer. They are strong and healthy men, for their calling requires
both strength and health. Each driver, (as well as the time-keeper and
conductor), is licensed, at a yearly cost to him of 5_s._ From a driver
I had the following statement:--
“I have been a driver fourteen years. I was brought up as a builder,
but had friends that was using horses, and I sometimes assisted them
in driving and grooming when I was out of work. I got to like that
sort of work, and thought it would be better than my own business if I
could get to be connected with a ’bus; and I had friends, and first got
employed as a time-keeper; but I’ve been a driver for fourteen years.
I’m now paid by the week, and not by the box. It’s a fair payment, but
we must live well. It’s hard work is mine; for I never have any rest
but a few minutes, except every other Sunday, and then only two hours;
that’s the time of a journey there and back. If I was to ask leave
to go to church, and then go to work again, I know what answer there
would be--‘You can go to church as often as you like, and we can get
a man who doesn’t want to go there.’ The cattle I drive are equal to
gentlemen’s carriage-horses. One I’ve driven five years, and I believe
she was worked five years before I drove her. It’s very hard work for
the horses, but I don’t know that they are overworked in ’busses. The
starting after stopping is the hardest work for them; it’s such a
terrible strain. I’ve felt for the poor things on a wet night, with a
’bus full of big people. I think that it’s a pity that anybody uses a
bearing rein. There’s not many uses it now. It bears up a horse’s head,
and he can only go on pulling, pulling up a hill, one way. Take off his
bearing rein, and he’ll relieve the strain on him by bearing down his
head, and flinging his weight on the collar to help him pull. If a man
had to carry a weight up a hill on his back, how would he like to have
his head tied back? Perhaps you may have noticed Mr. ----’s horses pull
the ’bus up Holborn Hill. They’re tightly borne up; but then they are
very fine animals, fat and fine: there’s no such cattle, perhaps, in a
London ’bus--leastways there’s none better--and they’re borne up for
show. Now, a jib-horse won’t go in a bearing rein, and will without it.
I’ve seen that myself; so what can be the use of it? It’s just teasing
the poor things for a sort of fashion. I must keep exact time at every
place where a time-keeper’s stationed. Not a minute’s excused--there’s
a fine for the least delay. I can’t say that it’s often levied; but
still we are liable to it. If I’ve been blocked, I must make up for
the block by galloping; and if I’m seen to gallop, and anybody tells
our people, I’m called over the coals. I must drive as quick with
a thunder-rain pelting in my face, and the roads in a muddle, and
the horses starting--I can’t call it shying, I have ’em too well in
hand,--at every flash, just as quick as if it was a fine hard road,
and fine weather. It’s not easy to drive a ’bus; but I can drive, and
must drive, to an inch: yes, sir, to half an inch. I know if I can get
my horses’ heads through a space, I can get my splinter-bar through. I
drive by my pole, making it my centre. If I keep it fair in the centre,
a carriage must follow, unless it’s slippery weather, and then there’s
no calculating. I saw the first ’bus start in 1829. I heard the first
’bus called a Punch-and-Judy carriage, ’cause you could see the people
inside without a frame. The shape was about the same as it is now, but
bigger and heavier. A ’bus changes horses four or five times a-day,
according to the distance. There’s no cruelty to the horses, not a bit,
it wouldn’t be allowed. I fancy that ’busses now pay the proprietors
well. The duty was 2-1/2_d._ a-mile, and now it’s 1-1/2_d._ Some
companies save twelve guineas a-week by the doing away of toll-gates.
The ’stablishing the threepennies--the short uns--has put money in
their pockets. I’m an unmarried man. A ’bus driver never has time to
look out for a wife. Every horse in our stables has one day’s rest in
every four; but it’s no rest for the driver.”