THE ROAD. 
the cleanliness of his person, the neatness of his apparel, 
and the language he made use of, I mistook him for 
some enthusiastic bachelor of arts, wishing to become a 
charioteer after the manner of the illustrious ancients." 
" You must have been long in foreign parts, sir," 
observes the proprietor. In five minutes, or less, after 
this parley commenced the wheels went round, and in 
another five the coach arrived at Hyde Park gate ; but 
long before it got there, the worthy gentleman of 1 742 
(set down by his fellow-travellers for either a little 
cracked or an emigrant from the backwoods of America) 
exclaimed, " What ! off the stones already?" "You 
have never been on the stones," observes his neighbour 
on his right; "No stones in London now, sir." "Bless 
me!" quoth our friend, "here's a noble house! to 
whom does it belong ? But why those broken windows, 
those iron blinds, and strong barricade ?"* "It is the 
Duke of Wellington's," says the coach proprietor, "the 
greatest captain since the days of Scipio. An ungrateful 
people made an attack upon his life, on the anniversary 
of the day upon which he won the most important battle 
ever fought in Europe." Here a passenger in black 
threw out something about Alcibiades, which, however, 
the rattle made it impossible to understand. " But we 
are going at a great rate !" exclaims again the stranger. 
* Nearly on the site occupied by Apsley House stood, in 1742, the 
suburban inn, the Hercules' Pillars, where Squire Western put up on his 
arrival in town in quest of his daughter ; and from whence, by-the-bye, he 
sent back his chaplain several stages to fetch his forgotten tobacco-box ! 
