The Theory of Locomotion.
WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE, ETC.--CLIMATIC VARIETIES OF
LONDON.--LOCOMOTION.--ITS MODES AND DIFFICULTIES.--RULES AND
REGULATIONS FOR PEDESTRIANS.--CARRIAGES.--CAB-LAW AND
LAWLESSNESS.--CABMEN AND WATERMEN.--NOTES OF AN OMNIBUS
PASSENGER.--DRIVERS AND CONDUCTORS.--STAGE-COACHES.--METROPOLITAN
RAILWAYS.
"What a dreadful fog there is to-day!"
"Nothing of the kind, Madam. Cloudy and wet, perhaps, and a little
misty; but a fog--no Madam, that haze is not a fog. Fogs are yellow and
black; in a fog, the carriages and foot-passengers run against one
another. It hurts your eyes, and takes away your breath; it keeps one in
doors. But this is not what a Londoner would call a fog."
"Is it not indeed, Doctor. Well, then, I must prepare myself for a worse
condition than I am now in, low and out of health as I feel."
"Of course," says the Doctor, feeling the fair stranger's pulse. "Have I
not told your husband again and again"----
"Are you again harping at the old theme?"
"I am; and I mean to persist until you follow my advice, Madam," replied
the Doctor, with great unction. "You ought not to live in this part of
the town, the air kills you. You must go and live in Brompton; that's
what every London physician will tell you. This part of the town is too
bleak and cold for you."
We leave the old Doctor to descant on the vast climatic difference
between Regent's Park and Brompton, while we inform the geographers
among our German readers of the whereabouts of the latter place.
Brompton, then, was at one time a small village in the South-west,
between Hyde Park and the Thames. It has, however, these many years lost
its separate existence, and been swallowed up by the metropolis, just as
many larger places around London have been swallowed up before and
since; and Brompton, at the present time, is as much a part of London as
Holborn and Islington. The idea of the immense area which is covered by
this gigantic town may be approximatively realised from the fact, that
many learned physicians discuss the climatic differences of various
parts of the town exactly as if they were comparing the climates of
Italy and Germany. Expressions, such as "I live in the North," or, "I
have taken a house in the West," are common-place and appropriate. This
idea of colossal extension ought to be well considered and fully
realised by those who wish to understand London life in all its various
phases. But, in spite of all divisions into North and South, and East
and West, the London of our days is, nevertheless, one single compact
town; he who inhabits it must be prepared to go many miles to see a
friend or to follow up his business, whatever that business may be. A
Londoner loses one-half of his life in locomotion; he would lose more,
if his ordinary and extraordinary town travels were not regulated
according to some tried and practical theory.
The necessity of expeditious and cheap locomotion in the streets of
London has called forth a variety of methods of travelling. The
cheapest, simplest, oldest, and most natural of them is _walking_. In
the narrow and crowded streets of the City, where conveyances make but
little progress, this method is certainly the safest, and, withal, the
most expeditious. Strangers in London are not fond of walking, they are
bewildered by the crowd, and frightened at the crossings; they complain
of the brutal conduct of the English, who elbow their way along the
pavement without considering that people who hurry on, on some important
business or other, cannot possibly stop to discuss each kick or push
they give or receive. A Londoner jostles you in the street, without ever
dreaming of asking your pardon; he will run against you, and make you
revolve on your own axis, without so much as looking round to see how
you feel after the shock; he will put his foot upon a lady's foot or
dress, exactly as if such foot or dress were integral parts of the
pavement, which ought to be trodden upon; but if he runs you down, if he
breaks your ribs, or knocks out your front teeth, he will show some
slight compunction, and as he hurries off, the Londoner has actually
been known to turn back and beg your pardon.
Of course all this is very unpleasant to the stranger, and the more
delicate among the English themselves do not like it. None but men of
business care to walk through the City at business hours; but if, either
from choice or necessity, you find your way into those crowded quarters,
you had better walk with your eyes wide open. Don't stop on the
pavement, move on as fast you can, and do as the others do, that is to
say, struggle on as best you may, and push forward without any false
modesty. The passengers in London streets are hardened; they give and
receive kicks and pushes with equal equanimity.
Much less excusable is the kicking and pushing of the English public at
their theatres, museums, railway stations, and other places of public
resort. Nothing but an introduction to every individual man and woman in
the three kingdoms will save you from being, on such occasions, pushed
back by them. You have not been introduced to them; you are a stranger
to them, and there is no reason why they should consult your
convenience. The fact is, the English are bears in all places, except in
their own houses; and only those who make their acquaintance in their
dens, know how amiable, kind, and mannerly they really are.
You cannot lounge about in the streets of London. Those who would walk,
should go at once to the parks, or parade some square. The loungers you
see in Regent Street and its purlieus, are foreigners, chiefly French,
as their hirsute appearance clearly shows. An Englishman likes that sort
of thing on the Boulevards of Paris, or St. Mark's Place, at Venice; but
in his own country he wants the scenery, the climate, the excitement,
and the opportunities. A thousand various interests draw him back to his
family circle. Though accustomed to the Continent, and its manners and
customs, the moment the traveller returns to England, he takes to
English customs and English prejudices, and, in the fulness of his
British pride, he is very careful lest his appearance and conduct show
traces of his residence in foreign countries. The Germans do exactly the
contrary.
He who would economise his time and strength, had better keep his
carriage--if he can afford it; there are plenty on sale, and of the best
of their kind. But the expense of keeping a carriage and horses is by
far greater than in any other capital; the wages of the coachman, and
the hire of the stabling, etc., are so enormous. And, besides, there is
the Chancellor of the Exchequer holding out his hat, for all the world
like one of those greedy Irish beggars, asking you to pay duty for the
carriage and the horses; for the coachman and his livery; for the
servant who stands behind the carriage, and that servant's livery; for
the powder he has on his head; for the cane he holds in his hand; for
the high box-seat, the hammercloth, and the armorial bearings which are
embroidered on it--provided, always, it is your pleasure to indulge in
these aristocratic luxuries. Those are the taxes on luxuries, of which
there are plenty in this country; and so there ought to be. No duty is
paid for tradesmen's carts and vans, if the owner's name and address is
plainly written on them; and the tradesmen, who turn everything to
advantage, write their names very plainly on their carts and vans, and
send them out into the streets to advertise their firms. These
tradesmen's carts are the most numerous and conspicuous among the
countless vehicles, which pass to and fro in London streets. There is
scarcely a shop which has not its cart or van. Of course the grocers
have vans, for they send their goods to any distance within ten miles;
and so do the bakers, butchers, fishmongers, and greengrocers. They
can't help it, for if they were to confine their operations to their
immediate neighbourhood, they would soon be crushed by competition. A
London tradesman, who deals in articles of daily consumption, had better
not try to walk. The very lad who sells odds and ends of meat for the
convenience of Metropolitan cats and dogs, has a meat cart, and a clever
pony; and on the cart there is a splendid legend, in gold letters
"_Dog's and Cat's Meat_." The retailer of such wretched stuff, would
starve in a smaller town; in London he has to keep his horse and cart,
and makes a capital living, as they tell me. And on Sunday, when dogs
and cats have to live on the stores that were taken in on Saturday, the
lad takes his "fancy gal" for a drive into the country, with the legend
of "Dog's and Cat's Meat," flaming brightly behind.
The next great branch of the Metropolitan conveyance system, is that of
the carriages which ply for hire, with or without a number. The latter,
in all their leading features, are similar to the carriages of all the
Continental capitals. They are taken by the hour, by the day, week,
month, or year. Chief among the former are the London cabs.
"Live and learn," ought to be the motto of the student of London
cab-ology. No mortal could ever boast of having mastered the subject.
There is no want of police regulations, and of patriots to enforce them;
but still the cabmen form a class of British subjects, who, for all they
are labelled, booked, and registered, move within a sphere of their own,
beyond the pale of the law. The Commissioners of Police have drawn up
most elaborate regulations concerning cabs; they have clearly defined
what a cab ought to be, but the London cabs are exactly what they ought
not to be. The faults of these four-wheeled instruments of torture can
never sufficiently be complained of. Not only do they shorten the honest
old English mile; but they bear a strong family-likeness to the Berlin
droshkies. If the horse is wanted, it is sure to be eating; if the cabby
is wanted, he is equally sure to be drinking. If you would put the
window down, you cannot move it; if it is down, and you would put it up,
you find that the glass is broken. The straw-covered bottom of the cab
has many crevices, which let in wind and dust; the seats feel as if they
were stuffed with broken stones; the check-string is always broken; the
door won't shut; or if shut, it won't open: in short (we make no mention
of the horse), to discover the faults of a London cab is easy; to point
out its good qualities is, what I for one, have never been able to
achieve.
Whenever a stranger is bold enough to hail a cab, not one, but half a
dozen come at once, obedient to his call; and the eagerness the drivers
display is truly touching. They secure their whips, descend from their
high places, and surround the stranger with many a wink and many a
chuckle, to learn what he wants, and to "make _game_ of him."
Supposing the stranger speaks the English language fluently enough to
make himself understood, of course he will name the place to which he
wishes to go, and ask what they will take him for. He may rely on it,
that of any conclave of cabmen, each one will demand, at least, double
the amount of his legal fare. He demurs to the proposal, whereupon the
six cabmen mount their boxes forthwith, return to their stand in the
middle of the road, and indulge in jocular remarks on "foreigners," and
"Frenchmen" in general. Blessed is that foreigner, if his studies of the
English language have been confined to Byron, Thackeray, and Macaulay,
for in that case he remains in happy ignorance of all the "good things"
that are said at his expense. The retreat, however, was merely a feint;
a few skirmishers advance again, and waylay the stranger. Again, and
again, do they inquire, "what he will give?" They turn up the whites of
their eyes, shrug their shoulders, make offers confidently, and decline
propositions scornfully, and go on haggling and demonstrating until one
of them comes to terms, and drives off with the victim.
But is there no legal scale of fares? Of course there is, but with the
enormous extent of London it was impossible to establish a general fare
for each "course" according to the cab regulations of the German,
French, and Italian towns. A certain sum, say one shilling for each
drive, would have wronged either the passenger or the driver. To get rid
of the dilemma the fare was fixed at eight-pence per mile. But who can
tell how many miles he has gone in a cab? A stranger of course cannot be
expected to possess an intimate knowledge of places and distances. An
old Londoner only may venture to engage in a topographic and geometrical
disputation with a cabman, for gentlemen of this class are not generally
flattering in their expressions or conciliating in their arguments; and
the cheapest way of terminating the dispute is to pay and have done with
the man. As a matter of principle the cabman is never satisfied with his
legal fare; even those who know the town, and all its ways, must at
times appeal to the intervention of a policeman or give their address to
the driver, not, indeed, for the purpose of fighting a duel with him,
but that he may, if he choose, apply to the magistrate for protection.
But it is a remarkable fact, that the cabmen of London are by no means
eager to adopt the latter expedient.
The Hansom Cabs, which of late years have been exported to Paris and
Vienna, are generally in a better condition than the four-wheeled
vehicles; but their drivers are to the full as exacting and impertinent
as their humbler brethren of the whip. To do them justice, if they are
exorbitant in their demands, they at least are satisfactory in their
performance. They go at a dashing pace whenever they have an open space
before them, and they are most skilful in winding and edging their light
vehicles through the most formidable knots of waggons and carriages. The
"Hansom" man is more genteel and gifted than the vulgar race of cabmen;
he is altogether smarter (in more than one sense) and more dashing,
daring, and reckless.
When cabby returns to his stand, he drops the reins, chats with his
comrades, recounts his adventures, and "fights his battles o'er again,"
or he lights his pipe and disappears for a while in the mysterious
recesses of a pothouse. His horse and carriage are meanwhile left to the
care of an unaccountable being, who on such occasions pops out from some
hiding-place, wall-niche, or cellar. This creature appears generally in
the shape of a dirty, ricketty, toothless, grey-haired man; he is a
_servus servorum_, the slave of the cabmen, commonly described as a
"waterman." For it was he who originally supplied the water for the
washing of the vehicles. In the course of time, however, his functions
have extended, and the waterman is now all in all to the cab-stand. He
cleans the cabs, minds the horses, attends to the orders of passengers,
opens and shuts the doors, and fetches and carries to the cabstand
generally tobacco, pipes, beer, gin, _billets-doux_, and other articles
of common consumption and luxury; in consideration for which services,
he is entitled to the gratuity of one penny on account of each "fare";
and he manages to get another penny from the "fare" as a reward for the
alacrity and politeness with which he opens the door. But further
particulars of this mysterious old man we are unable to give. No one
knows where he lives; no one, not even Mr. Mayhew, has as yet been able
to ascertain where and at what hours he takes his meals. At two o'clock
in the morning he may be seen busy with his pails, and at five or six
o'clock you may still observe him at his post, leaning against the area
railings of some familiar public-house. But the early career of the man,
his deeds and misdeeds, joys and sufferings, before he settled down as
waterman to a cab-stand--these matters are a secret of the Guild, and
one which is most rigorously preserved. Poor, toothless, old man! The
penny we give thee will surely find its way to the gin-shop, but can we
be obdurate enough to refuse giving it, since a couple of those coins
will procure for thee an hour's oblivion?
We turn to the omnibuses, the principal and most popular means of
locomotion in London. And here we beg to inform our German friends, that
those classes of English society whose members are never on any account
seen at the Italian Opera, and who consume beer in preference to wine,
and brandy in preference to beer, affect a sort of pity, not unmixed
with contempt, for those who go the full length of saying "Omnibus." The
English generally affect abbreviations; and the word "bus" is rapidly
working its way into general acceptation, exactly as in the case of the
word "cab," which is after all but an abbreviation of "cabriolet."
Among the middle classes of London, the omnibus stands immediately after
air, tea, and flannel, in the list of the necessaries of life. A
Londoner generally manages to get on without the sun; water he drinks
only in case of serious illness, and even then it is qualified with "the
ghost of a drop of spirits." Certain other articles of common use and
consumption on the Continent, such as passports, vintage-feasts,
expulsion by means of the police, _cafés_, cheap social amusements, are
entirely unknown to the citizens of London. But the Omnibus is a
necessity; the Londoner cannot get on without it; and the stranger, too,
unless he be very rich, has a legitimate interest in the omnibus, whose
value he is soon taught to appreciate.
The outward appearance of the London omnibus, as compared to similar
vehicles on the Continent, is very prepossessing. Whether it be painted
red as the Saints' days in the Almanack, or blue as a Bavarian soldier,
or green as the trees in summer, it is always neat and clean. The horses
are strong and elegant; the driver is an adept in his art; the conductor
is active, quick as thought, and untiring as the _perpetuum mobile_.
But all this cannot, I know, convey an idea of "life in an omnibus." We
had better hail one and enter it, and as our road lies to the West, we
look out for a "Bayswater."
We are at the Whitechapel toll-gate, a good distance to the East of the
Bank. From this point, a great many omnibuses run to the West; and among
the number is the particular class of Bayswater omnibuses one of which
we have entered. It is almost empty, the only passengers being two
women, who have secured the worst seats in the furthermost corners,
probably because they are afraid of the draught from the door. The
omnibus is standing idly at the door of a public-house, its usual
starting-place. The driver and conductor have been bawling and jumping
about, especially the latter, and they are now intent upon "refreshing"
themselves. The horses look a little the worse for the many journeys
they have made since the morning. Never mind! this omnibus will do as
well as any other, and we prepare to secure places on the outside.
But before we ascend, let us look at the ark which is to bear us through
the deluge of the London streets. It is an oblong square box, painted
green, with windows at the sides, and a large window in the door at the
back. The word "BAYSWATER" is painted in large golden letters on the
green side panels, signifying that the vehicle will not go beyond "that
bourn," and also furnishing a name for the whole species. A great many
omnibuses are in this manner named after their chief stations. There are
Richmonds, Chelseas, Putneys, and Hammersmiths. Others again luxuriate
in names of a more fantastic description, and the most conspicuous among
them are the Waterloos, Nelsons, Wellingtons, Taglionis, Atlases, etc.
One set of omnibuses is named after the "_Times_"; others, such as the
"Crawford's," are named after their owners.
The generic name of the omnibus shines, as we have said, in large golden
letters on the side panels; but this is not by any means the only
inscription which illustrates the omnibus. It is covered all over with
the names of the streets it touches in its course. Thus has the London
omnibus the appearance of a monumental vehicle, one which exists for the
sake of its inscriptions. It astonishes and puzzles the stranger in his
first week of London life; he gazes at the omnibus in a helpless state
of bewilderment. The initiated understand the character of an omnibus at
first sight; but the stranger shrugs his shoulders with a sigh, for
among this conglomeration of inscriptions, he is at a loss to find the
name and place he wants.
But to the comfort of my countrymen be it said, that the study of
omnibus-law is not by any means so difficult as the study of cab-law.
Practice will soon make them perfect; still we would warn them not to be
too confident. Many a German geographer, with all the routes from the
Ohio to the Euxine engraven in his memory, has taken his place in an
omnibus, and gone miles in the direction of Stratford, while he, poor
man, fondly imagined he was going to Kensington. Even the greatest
caution cannot prevent a ludicrous mistake now and then; and the
stranger who would be safe had better consult a policeman, or inform the
conductor of the exact locality to which he desires to go. In the worst
case, however, nothing is lost but a couple of hours and pence.
While we have been indulging in these reflections, the number of
passengers has increased. There is a woman with a little boy, and that
boy _will_ not sit decently, but insists on kneeling on the seat, that
he may look out of the window. An old gentleman has taken his seat near
the door; he is a prim old man, with a black coat and a white cravat.
There is also a young girl, a very neat one too, with a small bundle.
Possibly she intends calling on some friends on the other side of the
town; she proposes to pass the night there, and has taken her measures
accordingly. A short visit certainly is not worth the trouble of a long
omnibus journey. Thus there are already six inside passengers, for the
little boy, who is not a child in arms, is a "passenger," and his fare
must be paid as such. The box-seat, too, has been taken by two young
men; one of them smokes, and the other, exactly as if he had been at
home, reads the police reports in to-day's "_Times_."
Stop! another passenger! a man with an opera-hat, a blue, white-spotted
cravat, with a corresponding display of very clean shirt-collar, coat of
dark green cloth, trousers and waistcoat of no particular colour; his
boots are well polished, his chin is cleanly shaved; his whiskers are of
respectable and modest dimensions. There is a proud consciousness in the
man's face, an easy, familiar carelessness in his movements as he
ascends. He takes his seat on the box, and looks to the right and left
with a strange mixture of _hauteur_ and condescension, as much as to
say: "You may keep your hats on, gentlemen." He produces a pair of stout
yellow gloves; he seizes the reins and the whip--by Jove! it's the
driver of the omnibus!
Immediately after him there emerges from the depths of the public-house
another individual, whose bearing is less proud. He is thin, shabbily
dressed, and his hands are without gloves. It is the conductor. He
counts the inside passengers, looks in every direction to find an
additional "fare," and takes his position on the back-board. "All
right!" the driver moves the reins; the horses raise their heads; and
the omnibus proceeds on its journey.
The street is broad. There is plenty of room for half a dozen vehicles,
and there are not many foot-passengers to engage the conductor's
attention. He is at liberty to play some fantastic tricks to vary the
monotony of his existence; he jumps down from his board and up again; he
runs by the side of the omnibus to rest his legs, for even running is a
recreation compared to standing on that board. He makes a descent upon
the pavement, lays hands on the maid of all work that is just going home
from the butcher's, and invites her to take a seat in the "bus." He
spies an elderly lady waiting at the street-corner; he knows at once
that she is waiting for an omnibus, but that she cannot muster
resolution to hail one. He addresses and secures her. Another
unprotected female is caught soon after, then a boy, and after him
another woman. Our majestic coachman is meanwhile quite as active as his
colleague. He is never silent, and shouts his "Bank! Bank!
Charing-cross!" at every individual passenger on the pavement. Any spare
moments he may snatch from this occupation are devoted to his horses. He
touches them up with the end of his whip, and exhorts them to courage
and perseverance by means of that peculiar sound which holds the middle
between a hiss and a groan, and which none but the drivers of London
omnibuses can produce.
In this manner we have come near the crowded streets of the city. The
seat at our back is now occupied by two Irish labourers, smoking
clay-pipes, and disputing in the richest of brogues, which is better,
Romanism without whiskey, or Protestantism with the desirable addition
of that favourite stimulant. There is room for two more passengers
inside and for three outside.
Our progress through the city is slow. There are vehicles before us,
behind us, and on either side. We are pulling up and turning aside at
every step. At the Mansion-house we stop for a second or two, just to
breathe the horses and take in passengers. This is the heart of the
city, and, therefore, a general station for those who wish to get into
or out of an omnibus. These vehicles proceed at a slow pace, and take up
passengers, but they are compelled to proceed by the policeman on duty,
who has strict instructions to prevent those stoppages which would
invariably result from a congregation of omnibuses in this crowded
locality.
Our particular omnibus gives the policeman no trouble, for it is full,
inside and out, and this important fact having been notified to the
driver, the reins are drawn tight, the whip is laid on the horses'
backs, and we rush into the middle of crowded Cheapside. Three tons,
that is to say, 60 cwt., is the weight of a London omnibus when full,
and with these 60 cwts. at their backs, the two horses will run about a
dozen English miles without the use of the whip, cheered only now and
then by the driver's hiss. And with all that they are smooth and round
and in good condition; they are not near so heavy as those heavy horses
of Norman build which go their weary pace with the Paris omnibuses, nor
are they such wretched catlike creatures as the majority of the horses
which serve a similar purpose in Germany. Their harness is clean; on the
continent it might pass for elegant. Although fiery when in motion, they
never lay aside that gentleness of temper which is peculiar to the
English horses. A child might guide them; they obey even the slightest
movement of the reins; nay, more, an old omnibus-horse understands the
signals and shouts of the conductor. It trots off the moment he gives
that stunning blow on the roof of the omnibus, which, in the jargon of
London conductors, means: "Go on if you please;" and the word "stop"
will arrest it in the sharpest trot.
But for the training and the natural sagacity of those animals, it would
be impossible for so many omnibuses to proceed through the crowded city
streets at the pace they do, without an extensive smashing of carriages,
and a great sacrifice of human life resulting therefrom. We communicated
our impressions on this subject to the omnibus driver, and were much
pleased to find our opinion corroborated by the authority of that
dignitary.
"The city," said he, "is a training-school for carriage-osses and for
any gent as would learn to drive. As for a man who is'nt thoroughly up
to it, I'd like to see him take the ribbons, that's all! 'specially with
a long heavy 'bus behind and two osses as is going like blazes in front.
I see many a country fellow in my time as funky as can be, and sweating,
cause why? he feeled hisself in a fix. And an oss, too, as has never
been in the city afore, gets giddy in his head, and all shaky-like, and
weak on his legs. But it's all habit, that's what it is with men and
osses."
Well! our _man_ and our "osses" are accustomed to the confusion and the
turmoil which surrounds us. With the exception of a few short stoppages,
which are unavoidable in these crowded streets, we proceed almost at a
giddy pace round St. Paul's, down the steep of Ludgate Hill, and up
through Fleet Street and Temple Bar. We are in the "Strand"; and here we
are less crowded, and proceed at a still more rapid pace, with twelve
inside and nine outside passengers, making the respectable total of
one-and-twenty men and women. More than this number it is illegal to
cram into an omnibus. That vehicle is among the few places in England
where you come into immediate contact with Englishmen without the
formality of a previous introduction. Parliament, which has to provide
not only for Great Britain, Ireland, and the town of Berwick upon-Tweed,
but also for a considerable portion of Africa, America, Asia, and the
whole of Australia--whose duty it is to keep a sharp eye on the Germanic
Confederation, the French Empire, the Papal See, the Oriental question,
and a great many similar nuisances; and which, over and above all these
important avocations, has to adjourn for the Easter recess and the Epsom
races--though thus overwhelmed with business still the English
Parliament has found time to pass some salutary laws for the proper
regulation and management of omnibuses, to prevent the over-crowding of
those useful vehicles, and to ensure regularity, politeness, and honesty
on the part of the drivers and conductors. The laws with respect to
omnibuses are few in number; but they work well, and suffice to secure
the passengers in those vehicles against insult and imposition. As,
however, accidents _will_ happen, so it may now and then come to pass
that a stranger, or a genteel and ignorant female is cheated, and
induced to pay the sum of threepence over and above the legal fare; but
in these cases it will generally be found, that the passenger might have
prevented the imposition, if he or she had condescended to enquire of
some other passenger as to the exact amount of the fare. Such questions
are always readily answered, and every one is eager to give the stranger
the information he requires.
On the Continent, it is generally asserted that the English are haughty
and shy, that they will not answer if a question is put to them; and
that, especially to foreigners, they affect silence, incivility, and
even rudeness. There is no truth whatever in such assertions. Any one,
whose good or ill fortune it is to make frequent omnibus journeys, will
find that the notion of English rudeness, like many other Continental
notions, is but a vulgar error. It is true that no fuss or ceremony is
made about the stowing away of legs, that an unintentional kick is not
generally followed by a request for ten thousand pardons; but, in my
opinion, there is a good deal of natural politeness in this neglect of
hollow conventional forms, which, after all, may be adopted by the
greatest brute in creation. Why should there be a begging of pardon when
every one is convinced that the kick was accidental, unintentional, and
that no offence was meant? Why should I express my gratitude to the hand
that is held out to me in getting in? The action is kind, but natural,
and does not, in my opinion, call for a verbose recognition. Those who
discover rudeness in the absence of polite phrases, cannot, of course,
but think that the English are brutes. But simple and ingenuous
characters are soon at their ease in English society.
There were no stoppages in the Strand; but at Northumberland House, in
Trafalgar Square, we stop for a minute or two, as at the Mansion House,
to take in and let out passengers. Moving forward again, we go up part
of Pall Mall and the whole length of Regent Street to the upper Circus.
This point is more than half way in the journey from Whitechapel to
Bayswater, and that distance--above five English miles--is, after all,
only a three-penny fare.
Within the last quarter of an hour we have changed our complement of
passengers, and the sky, too, has altered its aspect. Large drops of
rain are falling. The driver produces his oilskin cape, a stout leather
covering is put over his knees, and over those of the box-seat
passengers, whose upper halves are protected by an umbrella. All the
outside passengers, too, produce their umbrellas--for few Londoners
venture to go out without that necessary protection against the
variableness of the climate.
Luckily, however, the shower is over before we have come to Hyde Park
Gate, at the western end of Oxford Street. The sun breaks through the
clouds, as we turn down that splendid street which runs parallel with
the side of the Park. Stately, elegant buildings on our right;
Kensington Gardens, green meadows, and shady trees, on our left. Here we
leave the omnibus, for we cannot resist the temptation of taking a
stroll in these charming gardens. We have made a journey of eight miles.
We have seen life on and in an omnibus, in all its varieties; at least,
as far as it is possible in a single journey; and we pay for the
accommodation the very moderate charge of sixpence.
The London omnibuses, though much abused, are vastly superior to similar
vehicles in other Continental capitals; but still greater, as compared
to the Continental "Post," or "Schnellwagen," is the superiority of
those public vehicles which run in longer or shorter stages across the
country. It is a pity these _stage-coaches_ are being driven off the
road by the superior speed of the railways. They are going out rapidly.
And yet, how glorious it was to ride on the top of one of them! Their
decline destroys all the poesy of travelling amidst the leafy hedge-rows
on the splendid English roads, which are more similar to our park-roads
than to our "Landstrassen." What a wholesome, social, adventurous
pleasure it was, to sit on the outside of a stage-coach with about
twelve travelling companions, male and female, and drawn by four
splendid horses, to skim, as it were, over the smiling garden-like
country. No Englishman, of the olden time, was too rich or too
aristocratic for this mode of travelling; and the occasional driving of
such a stage, and the playing the part of coachman to the public at
large, was among the "noble passions" of the sporting aristocrats of the
time. Since then, the steam-engine has conquered the length and breadth
of the country, and he who would enjoy stage-coach travelling, must go
in quest of it to the outlying parts of England; for instance, to the
Isle of Wight, where the old coach may still be seen in all its glory.
Long may it be so, until, in that island, too, it is compelled to yield
to the improvements of the age!
We have already, in another place, given an account of the Thames
steamers. But in treating of the chief methods of locomotion in London,
we ought not to forget the railroads. They are among the peculiarities
and sights of London, for no other town in the world is so large that
the communications between its various parts are carried on by means of
rails and locomotive engines. Here, where the majority of the termini
are, if not in the centre, according to Mr. Pearson's salutary project,
at least within the town, the railways which communicate with the
interior of the country, and the various seaports, have several stations
in the interior of the town, and passengers are conveyed from one town
station to another. There are, moreover, railways especially intended
for London and the suburbs: among these, are the lines to Greenwich and
Blackwall, which communicate with that extraordinary railroad which,
forming an enormous semicircle, facilitates the communication between
the eastern and the whole of the northern parts of London.
This peripheric line is essentially a London railway; it does not, on
any one point, travel beyond the boundaries of that monster town. It is
laid out between garden-walls and backyards, between roofs and chimneys;
it is bridged over canals and crowded streets, or laid on viaducts for
many miles through the poorer quarters, almost touching the houses, and
passing hard by the windows of the upper stories. In other places,
according to the peculiarities of the ground, the line is carried on
through tunnels under the houses, cellars, sewers, and aqueducts. It is
a miraculous railway, and one which has been constructed at an enormous
outlay of ingenuity and money; but it enables the Londoners to go to the
northern suburbs for sixpence, in a first-class carriage too, and in
less than twenty minutes. There is no cessation in the traffic of this
line; the trains are moving from early morn till late at night; every
quarter of an hour a train is despatched from either terminus, and these
trains stop at all the intermediate stations.
The journeys being so short, and time, speed, and cheapness the chief
objects in view, the railway company have paid little attention to the
comfort of the passengers. And here I ought to add, that with the
exception of greater speed, which, after all, is the main object, all
the English railways are inferior to those of the Continent. In London,
and in short journeys, the want of comfortable carriages and convenient
waiting-rooms is not a very painful infliction; but woe to the wretch
whom fate condemns to go from London to Edinburgh in a second-class
carriage at the express speed of fifty miles per hour! It is true it
takes him but twelve hours to go that enormous distance; but in those
twelve hours he will have ample time and occasion to ponder on the vast
difference of second-class accommodation in England and in Germany!