AN AMATEUR ‘CABBY.’
In ‘my salad days’ I was a striking example of that class of young men who are unfortunately weighted with an extra crop of wild-oats to dispose of ere they are transformed into conventional, steady-going, tax-paying members of the community. My personal allowance being considerable, I was able to indulge in all the follies of a man about town. Fortunately or unfortunately, I soon probed to the bottom of things, and speedily tasted the ashes in the cup of pleasure, so that one folly after another was discarded and relegated to the limbo of the past, until, like Heliogabalus, I sighed for a new delight, and would have paid liberally for a fresh sensation. The turf and its wretched gambling associations palled upon me; I was weary of the theatre, both before and behind the curtain. The senseless chatter of my young associates in the club smoking-room roused a feeling of boredom almost intolerable. At this period, the great Cab question was the topic of the hour. The character and remuneration of the London cabman were discussed at every dinner-table in the metropolis. There were two parties in this discussion, which advocated views totally opposed to each other. On the one hand, the earnings of Cabby were described as wealth; on the other, as poverty. He was portrayed as drunken, extravagant, uncivil, and in fact as only fit to be the associate of the most vile. The reverse side of the medal was that of a man sober, frugal, civil, and so courteous in his intercourse with his fares, that the late Lord Chesterfield might have taken lessons of him in politeness.
A sudden determination possessed me. I would be a cabman for the nonce. At all events, for twelve hours I would don the badge and learn for myself the truth of the matter. I frequently employed the same cabman on the rank in Piccadilly. He drove a thoroughbred mare, and his hansom was a model of neatness and elegance. So I took an early opportunity of interviewing the man, whose name was Smith; although in those days ‘interview’ was not classed as an active verb. I told him I wished to hire his cab for a night. At first, Mr Smith was hazy as to my meaning. I asked him how much he paid for the hire of his vehicle. He replied: ‘Seventeen shillings per night.’
‘Very well,’ I said; ‘I will give you that sum for the use of your cab for twelve hours, and hand you over besides, the amount in fares I may chance to receive during that period.’
I could see that my friend entertained doubts for a moment as to my sanity; but I speedily explained matters to him.
Mr Smith shook his head, and said he might lose his license if the fact became known to the police that he had lent his badge, and so on, and that an intimate knowledge of London streets was indispensable.
I pooh-poohed both these objections, especially the last, asserting that I was capable of making a map of Western London, if circumstances required it.
Eventually, Mr Smith agreed to my proposal, giving me several hints as to my conduct; I remember one of these being, that I must on no account ply for hire, as it is termed, while driving through the streets, but wait till I was hailed.
The eventful hour arrived in due course, and at nine o’clock I met Mr Smith by appointment in a quiet street in the parish of St James. It was October; and the night being chilly, I wore an overcoat, somewhat the worse for wear, and a wide-awake, which I could slouch over my eyes, if occasion required; for my chief fear was, that I might, by an unlucky chance, be recognised by some of my numerous acquaintances. I mounted the box, and nodding gaily to Mr Smith, left that individual transfixed with wonder that a gentleman of means and position should voluntarily undergo the pains and penalties of a cabman’s life, even for so brief a period as twelve hours.
I have stated that the mare was a thoroughbred, and in doing so I am only recording a literal fact. In the famous days when Andrew Ducrow reigned supreme at Astley’s Theatre, there was a very popular drama which depicted the life of a racehorse through all its vicissitudes, till it found itself in the shafts of a sand-cart. There is an undoubted instance of a horse (Black Tommy, 1857) which only lost the Derby by a short head, figuring subsequently in the shafts of a cab in Camden Town.
For a time I imagined that I was the centre of observation, especially by the cabmen on the ranks. Suddenly I was hailed by a short thick-set man with a very red face, who in an imperious tone shouted ‘Orme Square,’ and plunged into the recesses of my cab. I was floored completely! My boasted knowledge of the topography of the metropolis was at fault. I had never heard of Orme Square. I ventured to ask my fare if he could direct me to the place. His surprise and indignation were so excessive that I feared for a moment he would succumb to a fit of apoplexy. But he relieved himself by a burst of strong language such as I had rarely listened to in my life before. My first impulse was an angry reply, but I fortunately nipped that impulse in the bud. The line of Jerrold the dramatist occurred to me: ‘A rich man feels through his glove, and thinks all things are soft.’ For the first time I realised what a cabman has occasionally to submit to, and what a Janus-headed thing Society was in its intercourse with the rich and the poor. But it is a remarkable fact that although Orme Square is situated in the Bayswater Road, immediately opposite Kensington Gardens, not one Londoner in ten can define its locality. It is a small unpretending square, with three sides only, the fourth side being the great thoroughfare I have mentioned. I excused my ignorance by saying that I was new to the neighbourhood. As I drove along, I placed my present experience to the credit of the much-abused cabby. I received my exact fare, for which I politely thanked my irritable friend, for I was resolved I would do nothing to increase the prejudice existing in so many quarters, against my brother-cabmen, but practise civility under all temptations to the contrary.
I suppose it was about one o’clock, and I was proceeding leisurely along Oxford Street, the ‘stony-hearted step-mother,’ as De Quincey styles it in his immortal work, admiring the effect of the long vista of gas lamps in the deserted street, when I heard a woman’s voice: ‘Are you going Pimlico-way?’ I turned, and beheld two young girls, in gaudy finery and painted cheeks. I replied that my services were at their disposal. I suppose there was something in the words and manner of my answer which created surprise in their minds, for they stared curiously in my face before jumping into the cab.
In a few seconds I was careering along at the rate of ten miles an hour. What a situation for the son of the much-esteemed rector of Cawley-cum-Mortlock! My fares sang snatches of the popular melodies of the day, sometimes as a solo, sometimes as a duet. When we arrived at our destination, they sprang out of the cab and inquired my fare. I replied: ‘Two shillings.’ The countenance of the younger assumed a plaintive expression as she whispered: ‘Give the poor cabby an extra tanner, Loo; I daresay he has a wife and children at home.’
As I did not wish to obtain money under false pretences, I modestly disclaimed the honour of paternity, at the same time pocketing my fare. As I did so, two gentlemen approached, and my feelings of dismay may be imagined when I recognised in one of them Mr Spalland, my father’s curate! There was a gas-lamp close at hand, so that my features must have been plainly discernible. The girls had just bidden me good-night. Observing the look of wonder and horror on Mr Spalland’s features, I boldly took the bull by the horns, and exclaimed: ‘Cab, sir?’
‘The very voice!’ cried the curate. ‘What a marvellous resemblance!’ Then he whispered a few words to his companion, who was a stranger to me.
‘Nonsense!’ came from his lips. ‘The thing is impossible.—What is your name, cabby?’
‘Here is my ticket, sir,’ I promptly replied. ‘John Smith, Lisson Grove.’
The curate indulged in another prolonged stare, and then they both entered the cab, and I drove them to an address where I was as well known as in my own home. I managed to drive rapidly away as soon as I had deposited the worthy curate and his friend, as I did not wish to undergo the critical examination of the hall porter, who might not have been put off so easily.
At this moment I observed a crimson glow in the sky, which was clearly caused by some conflagration, but evidently at a very considerable distance. Notwithstanding, a man almost insisted on my driving him to the scene of the fire, no matter what might be the distance. This I declined to do, alleging that my horse was tired; and after a volley of objurgations, the fellow departed, making some strong remarks about the independence of cabmen and their large earnings. Up to this time, I had not earned the amount of the hire of the horse and cab. Whether my experience on this point was special or normal, I am unable to judge, but I could easily picture the despair of a cabman who in similar circumstances would have but a gloomy outlook for the morrow. True, there were several hours remaining, and it was impossible to tell what they might produce.
The aspect of a mighty slumbering city at early dawn is a remarkable spectacle. The line of Wordsworth involuntarily recurred to me:
And all that mighty heart is lying still.
London at sunrise was by no means a novel sight to one who had kept ‘early hours’ for some years; but I do not think I was ever so impressed with the sight as I was when perched on that elevated seat at the back of a hansom cab. The first faint streaks of red in the distant east, succeeded by a pale primrose light, and then the gradual dispersal of the midnight gloom, was inexpressibly lovely. The scenes I had witnessed had aroused certain trains of thought, more or less painful, as I beheld the varied fortunes of my fellow-creatures, the struggle for a bare existence, the sins and follies created in a great measure by ‘iron circumstance.’
With the history of my final fare I must conclude this veritable account of my experience as a cab-driver. It was exactly a quarter to six, and I was crawling along Holborn, when a man of gentlemanly appearance and address emerged rapidly from a side-street, and springing into my cab, said: ‘Cabman—Victoria. If you can catch the six o’clock train for Newhaven, I will pay you double fare.’
I glanced at the church clock, and found I had exactly a quarter of an hour to accomplish a distance of nearly three miles. Fortunately, the streets were comparatively empty, and I sent the mare along at a pace of something like twelve miles an hour. Although I had only seen the face of my fare for a couple of seconds, the expression and features are indelibly impressed on my memory. It was a handsome face, but the eyes were more like those of a hunted stag than of a human being. The colour of the face was ashen gray, and I fancied the teeth chattered somewhat as he addressed me. But the last circumstance I attributed to the cold raw October morning. I felt so curious about my fare that I cautiously lifted the small wooden flap in the roof of the cab, and felt almost pleased to behold him imbibing brandy from a flask. One or two policemen peered at the cab as it flew past, apparently undecided whether or not to take cognisance of the excessive speed; but I cared not; I felt as anxious to catch the train for Newhaven as if my life depended on it. At length I sighted Victoria Station. The minute-hand wanted two minutes to six. Passing a half-sovereign through the trap, my fare shouted: ‘Never mind the change!’ and sprang out of the cab.
Involuntarily, I paused to watch the end of the affair. I saw him leave the pay-box with the ticket, and then in half a minute I heard the shriek of the engine, and congratulated myself on having accomplished my task. Ere I could drive from the entrance of the booking-office, another hansom deposited two men, who simultaneously rushed to the booking-office. The horse of the cab was covered with lather, and seemed completely blown. The men appeared again on the pavement with vexation and disappointment plainly written on their features. Suddenly their eyes lighted on the cab which I drove. They advanced, and the shorter man of the two said: ‘Cabman, we are police-officers. Have you just brought any one who was anxious to catch the six o’clock express?’
I had felt certain they were officers of justice. How is it that policemen out of uniform and servants out of livery are always distinguishable? There is a hall-mark, so to say, which stamps them.
I stated all I knew, which, as the reader knows, was not much. Then they left me.
Whether they utilised the telegraph for the arrest of the unhappy fugitive—a forger, as they told me—I never knew.
I examined my takings, and found they amounted to one pound five shillings, making a profit of eight shillings. But it is not the luck of every cabman to have as a fare a runaway forger who will pay so liberally as ten shillings for three miles.
Mr Smith was quite satisfied with the result, and expressed his willingness to lend his horse and cab again on similar terms. But this was my first and last cab-drive. I cannot explain it, but that night was a turning-point in my career. I married soon afterwards; and not even the wife of my bosom is aware that her husband once officiated in the character of a London cab-driver!