George Cruikshank's Omnibus

by George Cruikshank

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

"Going out" is sometimes a matter of exceeding difficulty; the phrase should rather be "getting out."

Morning is the time for the trial to which we allude. You have an appointment of very considerable importance, and it must be kept; or you have made up your mind, moved by the seductive serenity of the day, to take an easy stroll, and clear off an arrear of pleasant calls—you must go. The sunny look-out is exhilarating after a week's wind and rain, which has held you prisoner in your chambers, without so much as wafting or washing a single visitor to your door. You are tired of the house, and long for the fresh calm air, like a schoolboy for a whole holiday, or a usurer for cent, per cent. Every thing is looking quite gay, like a Christmas fire to one who has just come out of a Christmas fog. The people go by with smiling faces, and in smart attire; you consequently take a little more pains than usual with your dress,—rejecting this waistcoat as too quakerish, and selecting your liveliest pair of gloves to match—when, just as your personal equipments are all but complete, not quite,—"rat-tat-tat—tat-tat—tat!" there is a knock at the door.

Well, a knock at the door is no very astounding occurrence; but in this knock there is something startling, something ominous, something unwelcome. Nobody has knocked (nobody in the shape of a visitor) for some days, and it has an unusual sound. Had it suddenly broke in upon you while you were shaving, its effect might have been felt acutely; but you were just fixing the last shirt-stud, and a slight crumple is the sole consequence. You ring the bell hastily, rather anxious. "Tim," you cry softly, admonishing the sleepy little sinecurist that attends to the door; "Tim, there's a knock. Now, pray be cautious; I'm going out immediately; and can't see any stranger; you know whom I'm always at home to—don't let anybody in that you don't know well—mind!" You listen, with your hands uncomfortably stretched towards the back of your neck, in the suspended action of fastening your stock; and distinctly catch Tim's responsive "Yes, sir!" So, then, you are at home to somebody; and Tim immediately announces Mr. Bluff, your oldest and best friend, who is ever welcome, and to whom you are at home at all hours;—Yes,—only—only you are just now going out! But, never mind. Will he wait five minutes? You won't be longer; and Tim hurries off to him with the Times.

Two minutes more bring you almost to the completion of your toilet, and one arm has already half insinuated itself into the—ay, in the hurry it happens, of course, to be the wrong sleeve of the waistcoat, when alarm the second sounds; there's another knock. "Tim, mind! pray mind! I'm going out. I can't see a soul—unless it's somebody that I must be at home to. You'll see who it is."

Tim returns with a card,—"Mr. Joseph Primly." "Primly, Primly! oh!—a—yes—that man, yes,—you didn't say I was at home?" Tim had not said you were at home, he had said that he didn't know whether you would be at home to him or not, and that he would go and see! "Stupid boy! Well, but this Primly—what can he want? I never spoke to him but once, I think—must see him, I suppose, as he's a stranger. Give him the Chronicle, and say, I'm coming down in one minute—just going out."

But before you can "come down," before you can quite coax on the last article of attire, the knocker is again raised, and rap the third resounds. Confusion thrice confounded! "Now, Tim, who is that? I can't be at home to anybody—you'll know whether I can be denied—I'm going out, Tim. Where are my gloves?—Pray mind!" And, with an anxious face you await the third announcement. "Mr. Puggins Cribb." This is provoking. You can't be out to him. He is your quarrelsome friend, to whom you have just been reconciled; the irascible brother of your soul, who suspects all your motives, makes no allowances for you, and charges you with the perpetual ill-usage which he himself inflicts. Should you be denied to him, he will be sure to suspect you are at home; and should he find you really are, he will make the grand tour of the metropolis in three days, visiting everybody who knows you, and abusing you everywhere. "Yes, Tim, very right—I must be at home to him. But gracious goodness, what's the time? I'm just going out!"

Misfortunes never come single, and visitors seldom come in twos and threes. Before you are fairly at the bottom of the stairs, a fourth arrival is in all probability announced. What can you do? There was an excellent plan, first adopted by Sheridan, of getting rid of untimely visitors; but then his visitors were creditors. They came early, at seven in the morning, to prevent the possibility of being tricked with the usual answer, "Not at home," and of course they would not go away. One was shut up in one room, and another in another. By twelve o'clock in the day there was a vast accumulation; and at that hour, the master of the house would say, "James, are all the doors shut?" "All shut, sir." "Very well, then open the street-door softly;" and Sheridan walked quietly out between the double line of closed doors.

But this plan, though a thought of it darts across your mind, you cannot put in operation against friends. You therefore face them, grasping this one vigorously by the hand; then begging to be excused for a single moment, while, with a ceremonious bow, you just touch the fingertips of another to whom you have scarcely the honour to be known,—or nod familiarly to a third in the farther corner, who, by the way, is testifying to the intimacy of his friendship, by turning over your favourite set of prints with the brisk manner of an accountant tumbling over a heap of receipts and bills of parcels.

For each you have the same welcome, modified only by the tone and action that accompany it! "You are so happy that they arrived in time, for you were just going out, having a very important engagement;" and, curious to remark, each has the same reply to your hospitable intimation; but it is delightfully varied in voice and manner,—"I shall not detain you—don't let me keep you a moment." But each does;—one because he's an acquaintance only, and exacts formality; and another because he's a devoted friend, and thinks it necessary to deprecate formality fifty times over, with—"Nonsense, never mind me—come, no ceremony—I'm going." In fact, those detain you longest with whom you can use most freedom; and though you may bow out a formal visitor in twenty minutes, it takes you half an hour to push out a friendly one.