Volume 25 — SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND.

Seedy Cab-driver, whither art thou going! Sad is thy fate—reduced to law and order, Local self-government yielding to the gripe of Centralisation. Victim of Fitzroy! little think the M.P.'s, Lording it o'er cab, 'bus, lodging-house and graveyard, Of the good times when every Anglo-Saxon's House was his castle. Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. Chadwick— Underground foe to the British Constitution— Or my Lord Shaftesbury, put up Mr. Fitzroy Thus to assail you? Was it the growth of Continental notions, Or was it the Metropolitan police force Prompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free and Easiest of doctrines? Have you not read Mr. Toulmin Smith's great work on Centralisation? If you haven't, buy it; Meanwhile I should be glad at once to hear your View on the subject.

View on the subjeck? jiggered if I've got one; Only I wants no centrylisn', I don't— Which I suppose it's a crusher standin' sentry Hover a cabstand. Whereby if we gives e'er a word o' cheek to Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin'— And them there blessed beaks is down upon us Dead as an 'ammer! As for Mr. Toulmin Smith, can't say I knows him— But as you talks so werry like a gem'man, Perhaps you're a goin' in 'ansome style to stand a Shillin' a mile, Sir?

I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first— Sixpence a mile—or drive me straight to Bow Street— Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty, Insolent rascal!