OUR REPRESENTATIVE MAN. 259 



when in a hurry, there is nothing in nature so irritating as a 

 slow Hansom. This cab was not only slow, it was doddling; 

 that's the word, doddling. Also, it was waggling; going 

 from one side to the other, like one of those jointed toy- 

 serpents that you hold by the tail, and making very little 

 more progress. To whichever side it swerved, it got into 

 danger ; in avoiding a cart on the left, it threatened an 

 omnibus on the right ; in giving a wide berth to a waggon 

 approaching, it narrowly escaped the hind wheel of a 

 barouche passing us. Life was pro tern, not worth having 

 on such terms. It was sudden extinction, or premature 

 greyness. It was Westminster Abbey, or Mr. Somebody's 

 Hair-restorer. O pilot ! 'twas an awful night — I mean a 

 fearful drive ! The horse was the most perfect multuvi in 

 p.irvo I had ever seen. I mean he was too small for the cab 

 every way, and he had nearly every fault that you could 

 imagine in so small a compass. He had a kink in his moral 

 and physical being, and couldn't go straight ; he stumbled a 

 little, he jibbed a little, he kicked a little, he chucked himself 

 up, quite frolicsomely, a little, he trotted a little, he cantered 

 a little, he walked a little — in fact, he did everything a little 

 and nothing well, or for long. The trick which was the 

 most unsatisfactory and perplexing to the person inside was 

 a dejected way he had, after the failure of any great 

 effort at breaking into a canter, of hanging his head so low 

 as to be completely out of sight. For minutes, while going 

 down Piccadilly hill, there was nothing before me but the 

 headless trunk of a horse, slowly and unevenly trotting. It 

 was ghostly — it was Gustave-Dore-ish. I had a mind to 



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