"Hansom up!"—"Ah!" says old Billy. "Percisely! It's jest 'Hansom up, Growler down!' I ain't in it
With sech a smart, dashing young Jehu as you, as can put on your quarter o' mile to the minute!
Hivory fitments, and bevel-edged mirrors! A lady's boodwore in blue cloth! Ain't it 'trotty'?
Wanity Fair upon wheels, Jack, I call it. Wot price now I wonder for me and Old Spotty?
"Women, too, getting that bloomin' hadvanced they all paternise you—and a cigaratte. Drat 'em!
Few years agone they'd a fynted at thought on it. Women fair knock-outs. Could never get at 'em!
Foller their leaders like sheep to a slorter-'ouse. Drive theirselves next, I persoom, on a Forder.
Party you took up outside 'ere larst night, 'er in feathers and paint, was a pooty tall horder."
"Known 'er six year, Bill," I says with a sigh like. "A sweeter young snowdrop than when I first druv 'er
You couldn't 'a' button-holed. Ah! and she's pooty as paint—bar the paint—at this moment, Lord luv 'er!
Frolicsome, freehanded,—fast? Well, I s'pose so. She used to drive up with a toffy young masher.
Turtle-doves? Well,'twas a pleasure to see 'em, Bill; 'er such a dainty 'un, 'im such a dasher."
"Innercent, hay? Yes, as rain-sprinkled laylock boughs. 'E broke 'is neck in a steeplechase, Billy,
She took to sewing, and dropped smiles and 'ansoms. Wilted away like a gas-shrivelled lily.
Then I lost sight on 'er, couple o' year or so. Next she turned up as—well, Billy you've seen 'er,
Pro. at the "Pompydour," generous, gassy, and—well, p'r'aps as good as a lot that look greener."
"Bah!" snaps Bill Boger, dissecting 'is bloater as though 'twos 'umanity, and 'im a surgeon;
"Life as it's seen from the cab-driver's 'pulpit' would give some new texts to a Parker or Spurgeon.
Culler-der-rose, indeed! Yaller-der-janders! It's most on it dubersome, dirty or dingy.
The free 'anded fares is best part on 'em quisby, and them as is righteous runs sour-like and stingy."
I says, "Bill, you're bilious!" 'E snorts supercilious, and bolts the 'ard-roe. "Hah, young Daffydowndilly,"
'E growls as 'e munches, "of all the green bunches o' Spring inguns you are the greenest. It's silly,
Your slop-over sentiment is, for a Cabby!!!"—Fare? "Finsbury Park, and look slippy!" "All right, Sir!"—
"We'll argue it out, Billy Boger, some other time." Right away coachman! Kim up mare! Good night, Sir!
The words of that arch-humourist, the late Artemus Ward, on the subject of the New Woman, whom he designated "a he-lookin' female," are worth repeating:—"'O, woman, woman,' I cried, my feelins worked up to a hi poetick pitch, 'you air a angle when you behave yourself; but when you take off your proper appairel and (mettyforically speaken) get into pantyloons—when you desert your firesides, and with your heds full of wimin's rites noshuns go round like roarin lyons, seekin whom you may devour someboddy—in short, when you undertake to play the man, you play the devil and air an emfatic noosence. My female friends,' I continnered, as they were indignantly departin, 'wa well what A. Ward has sed!'"