I've known his fair moral in stror bands and capes, 'stead o' cloak and trunk 'ose. Ah! If William 'ad driven
A 'ansom ten year—and I guess for the chance all them Venice canals and their boats 'e'd ha' given!—
What plays 'e'd ha' found ready-made to 'is 'ands! Was it Dizzy as called us the London Gondōlers?
Well, 'e knowed a thing or two, Benjamin did, 'bout Romance; a lot more than your stick-in-the-'olers.
Romance? I could reel you out yarns by the hour, as I've dropped on, or 'eard of from others, since cabbing;
But it's only when Bobby is fair on our track, or there's perks in the wind, as we're given to blabbing.
Trot 'em out in the Shelter sometimes to our pals; some on 'em, I tell you, are creepy and twittery,
Just the right stuff for them "'Aporths of All Sorts" the scrap-'unting parties as calls theirselves littery.
Take railway-stations, theayters, and 'orsepitals, them three alone, and, for comic or tragic,
Imagine the drammers a driver gets glimpses of! Peeps through town-winders, too! Tell you, it's magic,
The way we spot mysteries, caught through a curtain, cock-eyed, from our perch nigh the second-floor level,
In spins through back streets, or the sububs. The world and the flesh, my dear Sir,—with a dash of the d——l!
Me and my fares, and my mates on the Rank, make a pretty big world. To a man as loves 'osses,
A Cabby's life isn't arf bad on the whole, spite of bilks and bad weather, hard bosses and losses.
The grip of the reins, and the flick of the whip, 'ave a fair fascination to fellows built my way,
And dulness—that cuss of the poor!—doesn't 'unt you in spinnin' through Babbylon's 'ighway or byeway.
Dulness! To drowse on the Rank for two hours, or more, waiting a fare, isn't sparkling or thrilling,
And then, p'r'aps, a stingy old mivvey with luggage, as takes yer two miles, full, and tips a bare shilling!
But lively turn-ups are most times on the tappy, or just round the corner. Cab, Sir! Piccadilly?
Now if that chalk-face, with the penny-slot mouth, doesn't 'ide a grim story or two, send me silly!
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Now that the World has taken his wife to the sea-side or the Continent, there is not much demand for heavy literature—especially as the cost of the over-weight in luggage is something considerable beyond Calais—and consequently trifles light as air have become the popular brain-food of the multitude. In the absence of his noble and respected chief, an Old Retainer of the Baron has read Telling Stories, originally published in the St. James's Gazette. The Old Retainer can honestly declare that the stories are not only worth telling, but being re-told—in their present form—they are just the things to amuse the traveller weary of watching the hat-box on the carriage-rack, or the third-rate mountains fading into distance on the Rhine. He will turn to them for recreation when he has tired of sight-seeing. They are, without exception, short, crisp, and interesting. The Old Retainer would not think of leaving town without them. They would be more welcome to him than his armour, and quite as necessary as his weather-worn umbrella. The Veteran Warder, still acting on behalf of his revered, but far-a-field, captain, has peeped into The Times Atlas, a magnificent volume, worthy of the best traditions of Printing House Square. The Aged Watchman has sampled the maps, and found them absolutely accurate in the smallest particulars. The Atlas has caused the Elderly Sentry to think seriously of quitting his guard, and journeying to the far North. He has not yet decided upon his destination. At the moment of writing, his inclination gaily suggest "Greenland," while his banking-account sternly whispers "Southend or Herne Bay." In the meanwhile, the Years'-stricken Looker-out remains at his post, and, with a hand trembling with age and emotion, proudly appends a signature not his own.
The Baron de Book-Worms.