THE ROAD. 
" Oh no, sir," says the proprietor, " we never go fast over 
this stage ! We have time allowed in consequence of 
being subject to interruptions, and we make it up over 
the lower ground." Five and thirty minutes, however, 
bring them to the noted town of Brentford. " Hah !" 
says the old man, becoming young again; "what! no 
improvement in this filthy place ? Is old Brentford still 
here ? a national disgrace ! Pray, sir, who is your 
county member now?" "His name is Hume, sir," was 
the reply. " The modern Hercules," added the gentle- 
man on the right; "the real cleanser of the Augean 
stable." "A gentleman of large property in the county, 
I presume" said the man of the last century. " Not an 
acre," replied the communicative proprietor: "a Scotch- 
man from the town of Montrose." "Ay, ay; nothing 
like the high road to London for those Scotchmen. A 
great city merchant, no doubt, worth a plum or two." 
" No such thing, sir," quoth the other; "the gentleman 
was a doctor, and made his fortune in the Indies." 
" No quack, I warrant you." The proprietor was 
silent; but the clergyman in the corner again muttered 
something which was again lost, owing to the coach 
coming at the instant, at the rate of ten miles in the 
hour, upon the vile pavement of Brentford. 
In five minutes under the hour the Comet arrives at 
Hounslow, to the great delight of our friend, who by 
this time waxed hungry, not having broken his fast 
before starting. " Just fifty-five minutes and thirty- 
seven seconds," says he, " from the time we left 
