With respect to his accomplishments they were usually more select than numerous. I speak of the professional coachman of a century and a half ago, and not of the more gifted ones, and amateurs who came into fashion just before the rail drove horseflesh off the road. If the language of the old whip had not the art of a Sydney Smith, it had the easy style of nature, with expletive beauties more particularly its own. On the Shakespearean principle that "discourse is heavy fasting," the coachman never changed horses at a wayside public-house or inn without fortifying his stomach with a snack. Flowing, natural, anecdotal, and occasionally witty (garnished with a few hearty national Attic anathemas) was the conversation of the driver in bygone days; while in the science of music he was generally no mean proficient, warbling forth "Robin Adair," "The Thorn," "The woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree," and other popular melodies of the day, to the delight of the outside passengers. 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!