Then let us pray that come it may, As come it shall for a' that, That plundering gents may keep the sway, And help themselves, and a' that. For a' that and a' that. Leg bail's the thing, and a' that; For travelling improves the mind, The body saves, and a' that. THE THIRTEENTH MAN IN THE OMNIBUS. The New-York omnibus was constructed to seat and carry twelve persons; certainly not more. Indeed, when twelve men, of nominal size, sit squarely on the seats and do not clownishly cross their legs, one may ride in an omnibus with comfort. Nay, with these conditions, he _may_ generally escape having his toes crushed, his shins kicked, his shoes soiled, or his trowsers daubed with mud by his neighbor. But alas! how often is this paradisiacal state disturbed by the intrusion of "the thirteenth man in the omnibus." Shall I attempt to portray the creature? He is pretty well known, and perhaps the picture will be recognized. Sometimes he may be seen standing at the corner of the street lying in wait for the "bus." He is never known to walk toward its starting-place, lest he might be confounded with the "twelve" by getting inside before the seats are filled. No; he is "nothing if not" odd. His very hat never sits squarely upon his head like the hat of a gentleman. It is either elevated in front like a sophomore's, or depressed on one side, as if he had just come from a cheap spree in the Bowery, or was troubled with some obtrusive "bump" that kept his hat awry. If by chance he gets a seat inside the omnibus, (as "accidents will happen," etc.,) he must cross his legs and wipe the mud from his ill-shod feet upon your trowsers or your wife's dress. Indeed, methinks it was he who invented sitting cross-legged in a public vehicle. Do savages ever sit thus when in close company? I have never been able to imagine what special human sin this ingenious mode of annoyance was meant to punish. It has been suggested that it might be the man's pantomimic protest against sitting at all. But the saddest commentary upon this vice of our hero is, that by some mysterious magnetism of awkwardness and ill-breeding, he has betrayed into imitation of it men whose early education has been less neglected than his own. Sometimes, as he gets into the "'bus," he carries in his hand or mouth the stump of a half-burned, extinct cigar, which fills the atmosphere with a rank and sickening odor. More frequently he is dressed in well-worn black, and his clothes reek with noisome exhalations of stale tobacco-smoke. Shall I finish his picture? I verily believe he is the original Loafer. Methinks I see him in my mind's eye. I am riding in a Broadway ominibus. I have just handed up my fare, and, taking my seat, have surrendered myself to a sweet half-hour of reverie. I disdain to spoil my eyes or waste my time by newspaper-reading. I dream, and save my time for better things, as I conceive.