Some time ago I wrote in these columns an article called
"The Extraordinary Cabman." I am now in a position to
contribute my experience of a still more extraordinary cab.
The extraordinary thing about the cab was that it did not like me;
it threw me out violently in the middle of the Strand.
If my friends who read the DAILY NEWS are as romantic (and as rich)
as I take them to be, I presume that this experience is not uncommon.
I suppose that they are all being thrown out of cabs, all over London.
Still, as there are some people, virginal and remote from the world,
who have not yet had this luxurious experience, I will give
a short account of the psychology of myself when my hansom cab
ran into the side of a motor omnibus, and I hope hurt it.
I do not need to dwell on the essential romance of the hansom cab--
that one really noble modern thing which our age, when it is judged,
will gravely put beside the Parthenon. It is really modern in that
it is both secret and swift. My particular hansom cab was modern in
these two respects; it was also very modern in the fact that it came
to grief. But it is also English; it is not to be found abroad; it
belongs to a beautiful, romantic country where nearly everybody is
pretending to be richer than they are, and acting as if they were.
It is comfortable, and yet it is reckless; and that combination
is the very soul of England. But although I had always
realised all these good qualities in a hansom cab, I had not
experienced all the possibilities, or, as the moderns put it,
all the aspects of that vehicle. My enunciation of the merits
of a hansom cab had been always made when it was the right way up.
Let me, therefore, explain how I felt when I fell out of a hansom
cab for the first and, I am happy to believe, the last time.
Polycrates threw one ring into the sea to propitiate the Fates.
I have thrown one hansom cab into the sea (if you will excuse a rather
violent metaphor) and the Fates are, I am quite sure, propitiated.
Though I am told they do not like to be told so.
I was driving yesterday afternoon in a hansom cab down one
of the sloping streets into the Strand, reading one of my own
admirable articles with continual pleasure, and still more
continual surprise, when the horse fell forward, scrambled a moment
on the scraping stones, staggered to his feet again, and went forward.
The horses in my cabs often do this, and I have learnt to enjoy
my own articles at any angle of the vehicle. So I did not see
anything at all odd about the way the horse went on again.
But I saw it suddenly in the faces of all the people on the pavement.
They were all turned towards me, and they were all struck
with fear suddenly, as with a white flame out of the sky.
And one man half ran out into the road with a movement of the
elbow as if warding off a blow, and tried to stop the horse.
Then I knew that the reins were lost, and the next moment the horse
was like a living thunder-bolt. I try to describe things exactly
as they seemed to me; many details I may have missed or mis-stated;
many details may have, so to speak, gone mad in the race down the road.
I remember that I once called one of my experiences narrated in this
paper "A Fragment of Fact." This is, at any rate, a fragment of fact.
No fact could possibly be more fragmentary than the sort of fact
that I expected to be at the bottom of that street.
. . . . .
I believe in preaching to the converted; for I have generally
found that the converted do not understand their own religion.
Thus I have always urged in this paper that democracy has
a deeper meaning than democrats understand; that is, that common
and popular things, proverbs, and ordinary sayings always have
something in them unrealised by most who repeat them. Here is one.
We have all heard about the man who is in momentary danger,
and who sees the whole of his life pass before him in a moment.
In the cold, literal, and common sense of words, this is obviously
a thundering lie. Nobody can pretend that in an accident
or a mortal crisis he elaborately remembered all the tickets
he had ever taken to Wimbledon, or all the times that he had ever
passed the brown bread and butter.
But in those few moments, while my cab was tearing towards
the traffic of the Strand, I discovered that there is a truth
behind this phrase, as there is behind all popular phrases.
I did really have, in that short and shrieking period,
a rapid succession of a number of fundamental points of view.
I had, so to speak, about five religions in almost as many seconds.
My first religion was pure Paganism, which among sincere men
is more shortly described as extreme fear. Then there succeeded
a state of mind which is quite real, but for which no proper
name has ever been found. The ancients called it Stoicism,
and I think it must be what some German lunatics mean
(if they mean anything) when they talk about Pessimism.
It was an empty and open acceptance of the thing that happens--
as if one had got beyond the value of it. And then, curiously enough,
came a very strong contrary feeling--that things mattered very
much indeed, and yet that they were something more than tragic.
It was a feeling, not that life was unimportant, but that
life was much too important ever to be anything but life.
I hope that this was Christianity. At any rate, it occurred
at the moment when we went crash into the omnibus.
It seemed to me that the hansom cab simply turned over on top of me,
like an enormous hood or hat. I then found myself crawling
out from underneath it in attitudes so undignified that they
must have added enormously to that great cause to which the
Anti-Puritan League and I have recently dedicated ourselves.
I mean the cause of the pleasures of the people. As to my demeanour
when I emerged, I have two confessions to make, and they are both
made merely in the interests of mental science. The first is that
whereas I had been in a quite pious frame of mind the moment before
the collision, when I got to my feet and found I had got off with a
cut or two I began (like St. Peter) to curse and to swear.
A man offered me a newspaper or something that I had dropped.
I can distinctly remember consigning the paper to a state
of irremediable spiritual ruin. I am very sorry for this now,
and I apologise both to the man and to the paper. I have not the
least idea what was the meaning of this unnatural anger; I mention
it as a psychological confession. It was immediately followed by
extreme hilarity, and I made so many silly jokes to the policeman
that he disgraced himself by continual laughter before all the
little boys in the street, who had hitherto taken him seriously.
. . . . .
There is one other odd thing about the matter which I also mention
as a curiosity of the human brain or deficiency of brain.
At intervals of about every three minutes I kept on reminding
the policeman that I had not paid the cabman, and that I hoped
he would not lose his money. He said it would be all right,
and the man would appear. But it was not until about half an hour
afterwards that it suddenly struck me with a shock intolerable
that the man might conceivably have lost more than half a crown;
that he had been in danger as well as I. I had instinctively
regarded the cabman as something uplifted above accidents, a god.
I immediately made inquiries, and I am happy to say that they
seemed to have been unnecessary.
But henceforward I shall always understand with a darker and more delicate
charity those who take tythe of mint, and anise, and cumin, and neglect
the weightier matters of the law; I shall remember how I was once really
tortured with owing half a crown to a man who might have been dead.
Some admirable men in white coats at the Charing Cross Hospital tied
up my small injury, and I went out again into the Strand. I felt upon
me even a kind of unnatural youth; I hungered for something untried.
So to open a new chapter in my life I got into a hansom cab.
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