CHAPTER XI.
THE TURNPIKE GATE AT HYDE PARK CORNER—SUBURBAN AND PROVINCIAL TURNPIKE-MEN—THEIR REFLECTIONS—PANORAMA OF THE ROAD—THE "OLD WHITE HORSE CELLAR," PICCADILLY—GROUPS OF ITS FREQUENTERS.
CHAPTER XI.
Few, if any, of my readers will remember the time when a turnpike-gate stood between St. George's Hospital and Apsley House, though many will not be unmindful of those near the Marble Arch, Bayswater, and Kensington, all of which were sad nuisances to the inhabitants of the metropolis.
There was, however, a wide distinction between the official in London and its suburbs, and the rural collector. The latter was generally an uncouth, half-sleepy clod, who, on a moderate calculation, detained you three minutes in procuring the ticket and change, finally placing six or eight pennyworth of dirty coppers and a fresh written scrap of paper in your palm, to the detriment of clean hands or gloves. The suburban was generally "wide awake" to everyone and everything. He might be seen in his easy-chair before the door of his contracted space—his smart, white-painted "box"—smoking a mild havannah, which the kindness of some sporting passer-by had presented him with, making remarks on passing events; and when none occurred he would take part in a duet with his blackbird, whose wicker cage hung by his side, and whistle for want of thought.
His costume was neat; he was ever on the qui vive; his mottoes were "No trust," "Toujours pay, toujours prêt." When, like one of Macheath's gang, he heard "the sound of coaches," his cigar was laid aside, a ticket taken from a neatly-arranged file, when he exclaimed "Twopence!" then, twirling the shilling he had received on his thumb-nail, dived into the multitudinous pockets of his white apron, handing out a sixpence and a fourpenny-piece to the nobility, and tenpennyworth of "browns" to the mobility. And what a field he had for contemplation!
High life and low life, the Royal cortége, the thoroughbred team, the barouche and four, the yellow post-chaise and pair, the smart tilbury, the light dennet, the sporting dog-cart, the heavy "bus," the gaudy van, the sable hearse, the hackney-coach, the tilted waggon, and the Whitechapel cart.
The first object that attracted his notice might have been a ponderous, lumbering, rickety hackney-coach—I write of the days of the fourth George—the arms emblazoned on the panels, showing that it had once seen better days, a remnant of faded greatness. The driver, too, might also have shone in the glittering throng of St. James's on a birthday. And oh, what a sad falling off was there! Instead of the three-cornered hat of quaint appearance, bedizened with gold lace and feathers and its smart cockade, a rusty brown, low-crowned beaver, with a wisp of straw for a hatband. The gaudy livery had given place to an old faded coat, bought in the purlieus of the Seven-dials. Where are the well-curled wig, the silken hose, the silver-buckled shoes, the bouquet, the white gloves—where? Echo answers, "Where?"