It is very generally allowed that public conveyances afford an
extensive field for amusement and observation. Of all the public
conveyances that have been constructed since the days of the Ark—we
think that is the earliest on record—to the present time, commend us to
an omnibus. A long stage is not to be despised, but there you have only
six insides, and the chances are, that the same people go all the way
with you—there is no change, no variety. Besides, after the first
twelve hours or so, people get cross and sleepy, and when you have seen
a man in his nightcap, you lose all respect for him; at least, that is
the case with us. Then on smooth roads people frequently get prosy, and
tell long stories, and even those who don’t talk, may have very
unpleasant predilections. We once travelled four hundred miles, inside
a stage-coach, with a stout man, who had a glass of rum-and-water,
warm, handed in at the window at every place where we changed horses.
This was decidedly unpleasant. We have also travelled occasionally,
with a small boy of a pale aspect, with light hair, and no perceptible
neck, coming up to town from school under the protection of the guard,
and directed to be left at the Cross Keys till called for. This is,
perhaps, even worse than rum-and-water in a close atmosphere. Then
there is the whole train of evils consequent on a change of the
coachman; and the misery of the discovery—which the guard is sure to
make the moment you begin to doze—that he wants a brown-paper parcel,
which he distinctly remembers to have deposited under the seat on which
you are reposing. A great deal of bustle and groping takes place, and
when you are thoroughly awakened, and severely cramped, by holding your
legs up by an almost supernatural exertion, while he is looking behind
them, it suddenly occurs to him that he put it in the fore-boot. Bang
goes the door; the parcel is immediately found; off starts the coach
again; and the guard plays the key-bugle as loud as he can play it, as
if in mockery of your wretchedness.
Now, you meet with none of these afflictions in an omnibus; sameness
there can never be. The passengers change as often in the course of one
journey as the figures in a kaleidoscope, and though not so glittering,
are far more amusing. We believe there is no instance on record, of a
man’s having gone to sleep in one of these vehicles. As to long
stories, would any man venture to tell a long story in an omnibus? and
even if he did, where would be the harm? nobody could possibly hear
what he was talking about. Again; children, though occasionally, are
not often to be found in an omnibus; and even when they are, if the
vehicle be full, as is generally the case, somebody sits upon them, and
we are unconscious of their presence. Yes, after mature reflection, and
considerable experience, we are decidedly of opinion, that of all known
vehicles, from the glass-coach in which we were taken to be christened,
to that sombre caravan in which we must one day make our last earthly
journey, there is nothing like an omnibus.
We will back the machine in which we make our daily peregrination from
the top of Oxford-street to the city, against any ‘buss’ on the road,
whether it be for the gaudiness of its exterior, the perfect simplicity
of its interior, or the native coolness of its cad. This young
gentleman is a singular instance of self-devotion; his somewhat
intemperate zeal on behalf of his employers, is constantly getting him
into trouble, and occasionally into the house of correction. He is no
sooner emancipated, however, than he resumes the duties of his
profession with unabated ardour. His principal distinction is his
activity. His great boast is, ‘that he can chuck an old gen’lm’n into
the buss, shut him in, and rattle off, afore he knows where it’s
a-going to’—a feat which he frequently performs, to the infinite
amusement of every one but the old gentleman concerned, who, somehow or
other, never can see the joke of the thing.
We are not aware that it has ever been precisely ascertained, how many
passengers our omnibus will contain. The impression on the cad’s mind
evidently is, that it is amply sufficient for the accommodation of any
number of persons that can be enticed into it. ‘Any room?’ cries a hot
pedestrian. ‘Plenty o’ room, sir,’ replies the conductor, gradually
opening the door, and not disclosing the real state of the case, until
the wretched man is on the steps. ‘Where?’ inquires the entrapped
individual, with an attempt to back out again. ‘Either side, sir,’
rejoins the cad, shoving him in, and slamming the door. ‘All right,
Bill.’ Retreat is impossible; the new-comer rolls about, till he falls
down somewhere, and there he stops.
As we get into the city a little before ten, four or five of our party
are regular passengers. We always take them up at the same places, and
they generally occupy the same seats; they are always dressed in the
same manner, and invariably discuss the same topics—the increasing
rapidity of cabs, and the disregard of moral obligations evinced by
omnibus men. There is a little testy old man, with a powdered head, who
always sits on the right-hand side of the door as you enter, with his
hands folded on the top of his umbrella. He is extremely impatient, and
sits there for the purpose of keeping a sharp eye on the cad, with whom
he generally holds a running dialogue. He is very officious in helping
people in and out, and always volunteers to give the cad a poke with
his umbrella, when any one wants to alight. He usually recommends
ladies to have sixpence ready, to prevent delay; and if anybody puts a
window down, that he can reach, he immediately puts it up again.
‘Now, what are you stopping for?’ says the little man every morning,
the moment there is the slightest indication of ‘pulling up’ at the
corner of Regent-street, when some such dialogue as the following takes
place between him and the cad:
‘What are you stopping for?’
Here the cad whistles, and affects not to hear the question.
‘I say [a poke], what are you stopping for?’
‘For passengers, sir. Ba—nk.—Ty.’
‘I know you’re stopping for passengers; but you’ve no business to do
so. _Why_ are you stopping?’
‘Vy, sir, that’s a difficult question. I think it is because we perfer
stopping here to going on.’
‘Now mind,’ exclaims the little old man, with great vehemence, ‘I’ll
pull you up to-morrow; I’ve often threatened to do it; now I will.’
‘Thankee, sir,’ replies the cad, touching his hat with a mock
expression of gratitude;—‘werry much obliged to you indeed, sir.’ Here
the young men in the omnibus laugh very heartily, and the old gentleman
gets very red in the face, and seems highly exasperated.
The stout gentleman in the white neckcloth, at the other end of the
vehicle, looks very prophetic, and says that something must shortly be
done with these fellows, or there’s no saying where all this will end;
and the shabby-genteel man with the green bag, expresses his entire
concurrence in the opinion, as he has done regularly every morning for
the last six months.
A second omnibus now comes up, and stops immediately behind us. Another
old gentleman elevates his cane in the air, and runs with all his might
towards our omnibus; we watch his progress with great interest; the
door is opened to receive him, he suddenly disappears—he has been
spirited away by the opposition. Hereupon the driver of the opposition
taunts our people with his having ‘regularly done ’em out of that old
swell,’ and the voice of the ‘old swell’ is heard, vainly protesting
against this unlawful detention. We rattle off, the other omnibus
rattles after us, and every time we stop to take up a passenger, they
stop to take him too; sometimes we get him; sometimes they get him; but
whoever don’t get him, say they ought to have had him, and the cads of
the respective vehicles abuse one another accordingly.
As we arrive in the vicinity of Lincoln’s-inn-fields, Bedford-row, and
other legal haunts, we drop a great many of our original passengers,
and take up fresh ones, who meet with a very sulky reception. It is
rather remarkable, that the people already in an omnibus, always look
at newcomers, as if they entertained some undefined idea that they have
no business to come in at all. We are quite persuaded the little old
man has some notion of this kind, and that he considers their entry as
a sort of negative impertinence.
Conversation is now entirely dropped; each person gazes vacantly
through the window in front of him, and everybody thinks that his
opposite neighbour is staring at him. If one man gets out at Shoe-lane,
and another at the corner of Farringdon-street, the little old
gentleman grumbles, and suggests to the latter, that if he had got out
at Shoe-lane too, he would have saved them the delay of another
stoppage; whereupon the young men laugh again, and the old gentleman
looks very solemn, and says nothing more till he gets to the Bank, when
he trots off as fast as he can, leaving us to do the same, and to wish,
as we walk away, that we could impart to others any portion of the
amusement we have gained for ourselves.