It has often struck me that the relation of two important members of the social body to one another has never been sufficiently considered, or treated of, so far as I know, either by the philosopher or the poet.  I allude to that which exists between the omnibus driver and his conductor.  Cultivating literature as I do upon a little oatmeal, and driving, when in a position to be driven at all, in that humble vehicle, the ’bus, I have had, perhaps, exceptional opportunities for observing their mutual position and behaviour; and it is very peculiar.  When the ’bus is empty, these persons are sympathetic and friendly to one another, almost to tenderness; but when there is much traffic, a tone of severity is observable upon the side of the conductor.  ’What are yer a-driving on for just as a party’s getting in?  Will nothing suit but to break a party’s neck?’ ’Wake up, will yer? or do yer want that ere Bayswater to pass us?’ are inquiries he will make in the most peremptory manner.  Or he will concentrate contempt in the laconic but withering observation:  ’Now then, stoopid!’

When we consider that the driver is after all the driver—­that the ’bus is under his guidance and management, and may be said pro tem, to be his own—­indeed, in case of collision or other serious extremity, he calls it so:  ’What the infernal regions are yer banging into my ‘bus for?’ etc., etc.,—­I say, this being his exalted position, the injurious language of the man on the step is, to say the least of it, disrespectful.

On the other hand, it is the conductor who fills the ’bus, and even entices into it, by lures and wiles, persons who are not voluntarily going his way at all.  It is he who advertises its presence to the passers-by, and spares neither lung nor limb in attracting passengers.  If the driver is lord and king, yet the conductor has a good deal to do with the administration:  just as the Mikado of Japan, who sits above the thunder and is almost divine, is understood to be assisted and even ‘conducted’ by the Tycoon.  The connection between those potentates is perhaps the most exact reproduction of that between the ’bus driver and his cad; but even in England there is a pretty close parallel to it in the mutual relation of the author and the professional critic.

While the former is in his spring-time, the analogy is indeed almost complete.  For example, however much he may have plagiarised, the book does belong to the author:  he calls it, with pardonable pride (and especially if anyone runs it down), ‘my book.’  He has written it, and probably paid pretty handsomely for getting it published.  Even the right of translation, if you will look at the bottom of the title-page, is somewhat superfluously reserved to him.  Yet nothing can exceed the patronage which he suffers at the hands of the critic, and is compelled to submit to in sullen silence.  When the book-trade is slack—­that is, in the summer season—­the pair get on together pretty