"white horse cellar," PICCADILLY. 191 



now all is vulgar mirth and uproarious merri- 

 ment ; the trappings of woe, the plumes, the 

 " inky cloaks," the customary suits of solemn 

 black, are a perfect mockery of grief. 



Turn we to a bris^hter theme. An advanced 

 guard of a crack Lancer regiment announces 

 the approach of the Royal cortege. The accla- 

 mations that rend the sky herald the approach 

 of the " observed of all observers," the luxu- 

 rious George IV., then in the height of his 

 popularity. Such was the turnpike gate in 

 bygone days.' 



Few sio^hts were more amusing^ than the 

 *' White Horse Cellar," Piccadilly, in the old 

 times of coaching. What a confusion — what a 

 Babel of tongues ! The tumult, the noise, was 

 w^orthy the pen of a Boz, or the pencil of Cruik- 

 shank. People hurrying hither and thither, 

 some who had come too soon, others too late. 

 There were carriages, hackney-coaches, vans, 

 carts, and barrows ; porters jostling, touters 

 swearing, cads elbowing, coachmen wrangling, 

 passengers grumbling, men pushing, women 

 scolding. Trunks, portmanteaus, hat-boxes, 

 band-boxes, strewed the pavement ; orange 

 merchants, cigar merchants, umbrella mer- 

 chants, dog merchants, sponge merchants, pro- 



