The Sport of Our ctjincestors 



man from the town of Montrose.' * Ay, ay ; nothing hke 

 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 start- 

 ing. ' Just fifty-five minutes and thirty-seven seconds,' 

 says he, ' from the time we left London ! — wonderful travel- 

 ling, gentlemen, to be sure, but much too fast to be safe. 

 However, thank Heaven, we are arrived at a good-looking 



house ; and now, waiter ! I hope you have got breakf ' 



Before the first syllable, however, of the word could be pro- 

 nounced, the worthy old gentleman's head struck the back 

 of the coach by a jerk, which he could not account for (the 

 fact was, three of the four fresh horses were bolters), and 

 the waiter, the inn, and indeed Hounslow itself (' terraeque 

 urbesque recedunt '), disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. 

 Never did such a succession of doors, windows, and window- 

 shutters pass so quickly in his review before — and he hoped 

 they might never do so again. Recovering, however, a little 

 from his surprise — ' My dear sir,' said he, ' you told me we 

 were to change horses at Hounslow ? Surely they are not 

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