How we should have liked to have seen it in the circle at Astley's! Our life upon it, that it should have performed such evolutions as would have put the whole company to shame--Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.
Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, and others object to the difficulty of getting out of them; we think both these are objections which take their rise in perverse and ill-conditioned minds.
The getting into a cab is a very pretty and graceful process, which, when well performed, is essentially melodramatic.

First, there is the expressive pantomime of every one of the eighteen cabmen on the stand, the moment you raise your eyes from the ground.

Then there is your own pantomime in reply--quite a little ballet.

Four cabs immediately leave the stand, for your especial accommodation; and the evolutions of the animals who draw them, are beautiful in the extreme, as they grate the wheels of the cabs against the curb-stones, and sport playfully in the kennel.

You single out a particular cab, and dart swiftly towards it.
One bound, and you are on the first step; turn your body lightly round to the right, and you are on the second; bend gracefully beneath the reins, working round to the left at the same time, and you are in the cab.
There is no difficulty in finding a seat: the apron knocks you comfortably into it at once, and off you go.
The getting out of a cab is, perhaps, rather more complicated in its theory, and a shade more difficult in its execution.