Of all the cabriolet-drivers whom we have ever had the honour and
gratification of knowing by sight—and our acquaintance in this way has
been most extensive—there is one who made an impression on our mind
which can never be effaced, and who awakened in our bosom a feeling of
admiration and respect, which we entertain a fatal presentiment will
never be called forth again by any human being. He was a man of most
simple and prepossessing appearance. He was a brown-whiskered,
white-hatted, no-coated cabman; his nose was generally red, and his
bright blue eye not unfrequently stood out in bold relief against a
black border of artificial workmanship; his boots were of the
Wellington form, pulled up to meet his corduroy knee-smalls, or at
least to approach as near them as their dimensions would admit of; and
his neck was usually garnished with a bright yellow handkerchief. In
summer he carried in his mouth a flower; in winter, a straw—slight,
but, to a contemplative mind, certain indications of a love of nature,
and a taste for botany.
His cabriolet was gorgeously painted—a bright red; and wherever we
went, City or West End, Paddington or Holloway, North, East, West, or
South, there was the red cab, bumping up against the posts at the
street corners, and turning in and out, among hackney-coaches, and
drays, and carts, and waggons, and omnibuses, and contriving by some
strange means or other, to get out of places which no other vehicle but
the red cab could ever by any possibility have contrived to get into at
all. Our fondness for that red cab was unbounded. How we should have
liked to have seen it in the circle at Astley’s! Our life upon it, that
it should have performed such evolutions as would have put the whole
company to shame—Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.
Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, and others
object to the difficulty of getting out of them; we think both these
are objections which take their rise in perverse and ill-conditioned
minds. The getting into a cab is a very pretty and graceful process,
which, when well performed, is essentially melodramatic. First, there
is the expressive pantomime of every one of the eighteen cabmen on the
stand, the moment you raise your eyes from the ground. Then there is
your own pantomime in reply—quite a little ballet. Four cabs
immediately leave the stand, for your especial accommodation; and the
evolutions of the animals who draw them, are beautiful in the extreme,
as they grate the wheels of the cabs against the curb-stones, and sport
playfully in the kennel. You single out a particular cab, and dart
swiftly towards it. One bound, and you are on the first step; turn your
body lightly round to the right, and you are on the second; bend
gracefully beneath the reins, working round to the left at the same
time, and you are in the cab. There is no difficulty in finding a seat:
the apron knocks you comfortably into it at once, and off you go.
The getting out of a cab is, perhaps, rather more complicated in its
theory, and a shade more difficult in its execution. We have studied
the subject a great deal, and we think the best way is, to throw
yourself out, and trust to chance for alighting on your feet. If you
make the driver alight first, and then throw yourself upon him, you
will find that he breaks your fall materially. In the event of your
contemplating an offer of eightpence, on no account make the tender, or
show the money, until you are safely on the pavement. It is very bad
policy attempting to save the fourpence. You are very much in the power
of a cabman, and he considers it a kind of fee not to do you any wilful
damage. Any instruction, however, in the art of getting out of a cab,
is wholly unnecessary if you are going any distance, because the
probability is, that you will be shot lightly out before you have
completed the third mile.
We are not aware of any instance on record in which a cab-horse has
performed three consecutive miles without going down once. What of
that? It is all excitement. And in these days of derangement of the
nervous system and universal lassitude, people are content to pay
handsomely for excitement; where can it be procured at a cheaper rate?
But to return to the red cab; it was omnipresent. You had but to walk
down Holborn, or Fleet-street, or any of the principal thoroughfares in
which there is a great deal of traffic, and judge for yourself. You had
hardly turned into the street, when you saw a trunk or two, lying on
the ground: an uprooted post, a hat-box, a portmanteau, and a
carpet-bag, strewed about in a very picturesque manner: a horse in a
cab standing by, looking about him with great unconcern; and a crowd,
shouting and screaming with delight, cooling their flushed faces
against the glass windows of a chemist’s shop.—‘What’s the matter here,
can you tell me?’—‘O’ny a cab, sir.’—‘Anybody hurt, do you know?’—‘O’ny
the fare, sir. I see him a turnin’ the corner, and I ses to another
gen’lm’n “that’s a reg’lar little oss that, and he’s a comin’ along
rayther sweet, an’t he?”—“He just is,” ses the other gen’lm’n, ven bump
they cums agin the post, and out flies the fare like bricks.’ Need we
say it was the red cab; or that the gentleman with the straw in his
mouth, who emerged so coolly from the chemist’s shop and
philosophically climbing into the little dickey, started off at full
gallop, was the red cab’s licensed driver?
The ubiquity of this red cab, and the influence it exercised over the
risible muscles of justice itself, was perfectly astonishing. You
walked into the justice-room of the Mansion-house; the whole court
resounded with merriment. The Lord Mayor threw himself back in his
chair, in a state of frantic delight at his own joke; every vein in Mr.
Hobler’s countenance was swollen with laughter, partly at the Lord
Mayor’s facetiousness, but more at his own; the constables and
police-officers were (as in duty bound) in ecstasies at Mr. Hobler and
the Lord Mayor combined; and the very paupers, glancing respectfully at
the beadle’s countenance, tried to smile, as even he relaxed. A tall,
weazen-faced man, with an impediment in his speech, would be
endeavouring to state a case of imposition against the red cab’s
driver; and the red cab’s driver, and the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Hobler,
would be having a little fun among themselves, to the inordinate
delight of everybody but the complainant. In the end, justice would be
so tickled with the red cab-driver’s native humour, that the fine would
be mitigated, and he would go away full gallop, in the red cab, to
impose on somebody else without loss of time.
The driver of the red cab, confident in the strength of his own moral
principles, like many other philosophers, was wont to set the feelings
and opinions of society at complete defiance. Generally speaking,
perhaps, he would as soon carry a fare safely to his destination, as he
would upset him—sooner, perhaps, because in that case he not only got
the money, but had the additional amusement of running a longer heat
against some smart rival. But society made war upon him in the shape of
penalties, and he must make war upon society in his own way. This was
the reasoning of the red cab-driver. So, he bestowed a searching look
upon the fare, as he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, when he had
gone half the mile, to get the money ready; and if he brought forth
eightpence, out he went.
The last time we saw our friend was one wet evening in
Tottenham-court-road, when he was engaged in a very warm and somewhat
personal altercation with a loquacious little gentleman in a green
coat. Poor fellow! there were great excuses to be made for him: he had
not received above eighteenpence more than his fare, and consequently
laboured under a great deal of very natural indignation. The dispute
had attained a pretty considerable height, when at last the loquacious
little gentleman, making a mental calculation of the distance, and
finding that he had already paid more than he ought, avowed his
unalterable determination to ‘pull up’ the cabman in the morning.
‘Now, just mark this, young man,’ said the little gentleman, ‘I’ll pull
you up to-morrow morning.’
‘No! will you though?’ said our friend, with a sneer.
‘I will,’ replied the little gentleman, ‘mark my words, that’s all. If
I live till to-morrow morning, you shall repent this.’
There was a steadiness of purpose, and indignation of speech, about the
little gentleman, as he took an angry pinch of snuff, after this last
declaration, which made a visible impression on the mind of the red
cab-driver. He appeared to hesitate for an instant. It was only for an
instant; his resolve was soon taken.
‘You’ll pull me up, will you?’ said our friend.
‘I will,’ rejoined the little gentleman, with even greater vehemence an
before.
‘Very well,’ said our friend, tucking up his shirt sleeves very calmly.
‘There’ll be three veeks for that. Wery good; that’ll bring me up to
the middle o’ next month. Three veeks more would carry me on to my
birthday, and then I’ve got ten pound to draw. I may as well get board,
lodgin’, and washin’, till then, out of the county, as pay for it
myself; consequently here goes!’
So, without more ado, the red cab-driver knocked the little gentleman
down, and then called the police to take himself into custody, with all
the civility in the world.
A story is nothing without the sequel; and therefore, we may state,
that to our certain knowledge, the board, lodging, and washing were all
provided in due course. We happen to know the fact, for it came to our
knowledge thus: We went over the House of Correction for the county of
Middlesex shortly after, to witness the operation of the silent system;
and looked on all the ‘wheels’ with the greatest anxiety, in search of
our long-lost friend. He was nowhere to be seen, however, and we began
to think that the little gentleman in the green coat must have
relented, when, as we were traversing the kitchen-garden, which lies in
a sequestered part of the prison, we were startled by hearing a voice,
which apparently proceeded from the wall, pouring forth its soul in the
plaintive air of ‘All round my hat,’ which was then just beginning to
form a recognised portion of our national music.
We started.—‘What voice is that?’ said we. The Governor shook his head.
‘Sad fellow,’ he replied, ‘very sad. He positively refused to work on
the wheel; so, after many trials, I was compelled to order him into
solitary confinement. He says he likes it very much though, and I am
afraid he does, for he lies on his back on the floor, and sings comic
songs all day!’
Shall we add, that our heart had not deceived us and that the comic
singer was no other than our eagerly-sought friend, the red cab-driver?
We have never seen him since, but we have strong reason to suspect that
this noble individual was a distant relative of a waterman of our
acquaintance, who, on one occasion, when we were passing the
coach-stand over which he presides, after standing very quietly to see
a tall man struggle into a cab, ran up very briskly when it was all
over (as his brethren invariably do), and, touching his hat, asked, as
a matter of course, for ‘a copper for the waterman.’ Now, the fare was
by no means a handsome man; and, waxing very indignant at the demand,
he replied—‘Money! What for? Coming up and looking at me, I
suppose!’—‘Vell, sir,’ rejoined the waterman, with a smile of immovable
complacency, ‘_that’s_ worth twopence.’
The identical waterman afterwards attained a very prominent station in
society; and as we know something of his life, and have often thought
of telling what we _do_ know, perhaps we shall never have a better
opportunity than the present.
Mr. William Barker, then, for that was the gentleman’s name, Mr.
William Barker was born—but why need we relate where Mr. William Barker
was born, or when? Why scrutinise the entries in parochial ledgers, or
seek to penetrate the Lucinian mysteries of lying-in hospitals? Mr.
William Barker _was_ born, or he had never been. There is a son—there
was a father. There is an effect—there was a cause. Surely this is
sufficient information for the most Fatima-like curiosity; and, if it
be not, we regret our inability to supply any further evidence on the
point. Can there be a more satisfactory, or more strictly parliamentary
course? Impossible.
We at once avow a similar inability to record at what precise period,
or by what particular process, this gentleman’s patronymic, of William
Barker, became corrupted into ‘Bill Boorker.’ Mr. Barker acquired a
high standing, and no inconsiderable reputation, among the members of
that profession to which he more peculiarly devoted his energies; and
to them he was generally known, either by the familiar appellation of
‘Bill Boorker,’ or the flattering designation of ‘Aggerawatin Bill,’
the latter being a playful and expressive _sobriquet_, illustrative of
Mr. Barker’s great talent in ‘aggerawatin’ and rendering wild such
subjects of her Majesty as are conveyed from place to place, through
the instrumentality of omnibuses. Of the early life of Mr. Barker
little is known, and even that little is involved in considerable doubt
and obscurity. A want of application, a restlessness of purpose, a
thirsting after porter, a love of all that is roving and cadger-like in
nature, shared in common with many other great geniuses, appear to have
been his leading characteristics. The busy hum of a parochial
free-school, and the shady repose of a county gaol, were alike
inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration in Mr. Barker’s
disposition. His feverish attachment to change and variety nothing
could repress; his native daring no punishment could subdue.
If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any weakness in his
earlier years, it was an amiable one—love; love in its most
comprehensive form—a love of ladies, liquids, and pocket-handkerchiefs.
It was no selfish feeling; it was not confined to his own possessions,
which but too many men regard with exclusive complacency. No; it was a
nobler love—a general principle. It extended itself with equal force to
the property of other people.
There is something very affecting in this. It is still more affecting
to know, that such philanthropy is but imperfectly rewarded.
Bow-street, Newgate, and Millbank, are a poor return for general
benevolence, evincing itself in an irrepressible love for all created
objects. Mr. Barker felt it so. After a lengthened interview with the
highest legal authorities, he quitted his ungrateful country, with the
consent, and at the expense, of its Government; proceeded to a distant
shore; and there employed himself, like another Cincinnatus, in
clearing and cultivating the soil—a peaceful pursuit, in which a term
of seven years glided almost imperceptibly away.
Whether, at the expiration of the period we have just mentioned, the
British Government required Mr. Barker’s presence here, or did not
require his residence abroad, we have no distinct means of
ascertaining. We should be inclined, however, to favour the latter
position, inasmuch as we do not find that he was advanced to any other
public post on his return, than the post at the corner of the
Haymarket, where he officiated as assistant-waterman to the
hackney-coach stand. Seated, in this capacity, on a couple of tubs near
the curbstone, with a brass plate and number suspended round his neck
by a massive chain, and his ankles curiously enveloped in haybands, he
is supposed to have made those observations on human nature which
exercised so material an influence over all his proceedings in later
life.
Mr. Barker had not officiated for many months in this capacity, when
the appearance of the first omnibus caused the public mind to go in a
new direction, and prevented a great many hackney-coaches from going in
any direction at all. The genius of Mr. Barker at once perceived the
whole extent of the injury that would be eventually inflicted on cab
and coach stands, and, by consequence, on watermen also, by the
progress of the system of which the first omnibus was a part. He saw,
too, the necessity of adopting some more profitable profession; and his
active mind at once perceived how much might be done in the way of
enticing the youthful and unwary, and shoving the old and helpless,
into the wrong buss, and carrying them off, until, reduced to despair,
they ransomed themselves by the payment of sixpence a-head, or, to
adopt his own figurative expression in all its native beauty, ‘till
they was rig’larly done over, and forked out the stumpy.’
An opportunity for realising his fondest anticipations, soon presented
itself. Rumours were rife on the hackney-coach stands, that a buss was
building, to run from Lisson-grove to the Bank, down Oxford-street and
Holborn; and the rapid increase of busses on the Paddington-road,
encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker secretly and cautiously inquired in the
proper quarters. The report was correct; the ‘Royal William’ was to
make its first journey on the following Monday. It was a crack affair
altogether. An enterprising young cabman, of established reputation as
a dashing whip—for he had compromised with the parents of three
scrunched children, and just ‘worked out’ his fine for knocking down an
old lady—was the driver; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr.
Barker’s qualifications, appointed him to the vacant office of cad on
the very first application. The buss began to run, and Mr. Barker
entered into a new suit of clothes, and on a new sphere of action.
To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by this extraordinary
man into the omnibus system—gradually, indeed, but surely—would occupy
a far greater space than we are enabled to devote to this imperfect
memoir. To him is universally assigned the original suggestion of the
practice which afterwards became so general—of the driver of a second
buss keeping constantly behind the first one, and driving the pole of
his vehicle either into the door of the other, every time it was
opened, or through the body of any lady or gentleman who might make an
attempt to get into it; a humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting
all that originality of idea, and fine, bold flow of spirits, so
conspicuous in every action of this great man.
Mr. Barker had opponents of course; what man in public life has not?
But even his worst enemies cannot deny that he has taken more old
ladies and gentlemen to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and
more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to go to
Paddington, than any six men on the road; and however much malevolent
spirits may pretend to doubt the accuracy of the statement, they well
know it to be an established fact, that he has forcibly conveyed a
variety of ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had not
the slightest or most distant intention of going anywhere at all.
Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distinguished himself, some
time since, by keeping a tradesman on the step—the omnibus going at
full speed all the time—till he had thrashed him to his entire
satisfaction, and finally throwing him away, when he had quite done
with him. Mr. Barker it _ought_ to have been, who honestly indignant at
being ignominiously ejected from a house of public entertainment,
kicked the landlord in the knee, and thereby caused his death. We say
it _ought_ to have been Mr. Barker, because the action was not a common
one, and could have emanated from no ordinary mind.
It has now become matter of history; it is recorded in the Newgate
Calendar; and we wish we could attribute this piece of daring heroism
to Mr. Barker. We regret being compelled to state that it was not
performed by him. Would, for the family credit we could add, that it
was achieved by his brother!
It was in the exercise of the nicer details of his profession, that Mr.
Barker’s knowledge of human nature was beautifully displayed. He could
tell at a glance where a passenger wanted to go to, and would shout the
name of the place accordingly, without the slightest reference to the
real destination of the vehicle. He knew exactly the kind of old lady
that would be too much flurried by the process of pushing in and
pulling out of the caravan, to discover where she had been put down,
until too late; had an intuitive perception of what was passing in a
passenger’s mind when he inwardly resolved to ‘pull that cad up
to-morrow morning;’ and never failed to make himself agreeable to
female servants, whom he would place next the door, and talk to all the
way.
Human judgment is never infallible, and it would occasionally happen
that Mr. Barker experimentalised with the timidity or forbearance of
the wrong person, in which case a summons to a Police-office, was, on
more than one occasion, followed by a committal to prison. It was not
in the power of trifles such as these, however, to subdue the freedom
of his spirit. As soon as they passed away, he resumed the duties of
his profession with unabated ardour.
We have spoken of Mr. Barker and of the red cab-driver, in the past
tense. Alas! Mr. Barker has again become an absentee; and the class of
men to which they both belonged is fast disappearing. Improvement has
peered beneath the aprons of our cabs, and penetrated to the very
innermost recesses of our omnibuses. Dirt and fustian will vanish
before cleanliness and livery. Slang will be forgotten when civility
becomes general: and that enlightened, eloquent, sage, and profound
body, the Magistracy of London, will be deprived of half their
amusement, and half their occupation.