Think That Over, Ye Taxitaxed Wretches
Of New York, And Rend Your Garments, With Lamentations Loud!
There
is this also to be said of the London taxi service - and to an
American it is one
Of the abiding marvels of the place - that, no
matter where you go, no matter how late the hour or how outlying
and obscure the district, there is always a trim taxicab just round
the next corner waiting to come instantly at your whistle, and
with it a beggar with a bleak, hopeless face, to open the cab door
for you and stand, hat in hand, for the penny you toss him.
In the main centers, such as Oxford Circus and Piccadilly Circus
and Charing Cross, and along the Embankment, the Strand and Pall
Mall, they are as thick as fleas on the Missouri houn' dawg famous
in song and story - the taxis, I mean, though the beggars are
reasonably thick also - and they hop like fleas, bearing you swiftly
and surely and cheaply on your way. The meters are honest, openfaced
meters; and the drivers ask no more than their legal fares and are
satisfied with tips within reason. Here in America we have the
kindred arts of taxidermy and taxicabbery; one of these is the art
of skinning animals and the other is the art of skinning people.
The ruthless taxirobber of New York would not last half an hour
in London; for him the jail doors would yawn.
Oldtime Londoners deplored the coming of the taxicab and the
motorbus, for their coming meant the entire extinction of the
driver of the horse-drawn bus, who was an institution, and the
practical extinction of the hansom cabby, who was a type and very
frequently a humorist too.
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