From Riverside rolls along at a rapid pace a hansom cab
CBSO at Symphony Hall The clatter of hansom cabs
, the cry of a lavender-seller, Big Ben's chimes muffled by the enveloping fog of a London pea-souper.
However, dismissing Blueline Newcastle's appeal, Mr Justice Hickinbottom said that, ever since hansom cabs
were first regulated in the 19th century, it had been Parliament's policy that taxi services should be 'inherently local' with bookings being made and vehicles dispatched from premises within a single licensing area.
Set in Dickensian London with its hansom cabs
, grime and luxury, the pace never lessens.
First founded in the days of Sherlock Holmes-style Hansom cabs
, the rank was frequently used by guests staying at the nearby Queens Hotel, which opened in 1854 and has since been demolished.
Yes, there are plenty of top hats, canes and Hansom cabs
It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs
Steve Ellis attributes this to the influence of Henry James in his evocations of gas-lit streets and hansom cabs
in the evening mist.
None of the horses that drag the hansom cabs
through New York's Central Park or in the French Quarter would ever get the level of care that Barbaro received.
At one time, up to 18 horses used to be kept upstairs as they took a break from pulling hansom cabs
, known as landaus, around town.
It's a splendid, detailed period reconstruction of Victorian London complete with swirling fog and rattling hansom cabs
The images -- like the stories -- evoke a vast, polluted metropolis of foggy streets and horse-drawn hansom cabs
, bustling crowds and screams in the night.
Two electric trams head towards the Pier Head surrounded by horse-drawn vehicles, including Hansom cabs
and goods wagons.
These citizens of Cardiff journeyed out to St Fagans in their hansom cabs
and I can imagine few more delightful experiences than trotting at a steady pace on a quiet evening down to the Plymouth Arms.
If Arthur Conan Doyle was alive now he wouldn't be writing about hansom cabs
and pea-souper fogs, he'd be writing about Twitter, global terrorism and raunchy dominatrixes.