6o THE EXETER ROAD 



seas of oily black mud, Tlie poet Thomson might 

 have written yesterday^ — 



E'en so, through Brentford town, a town of mud ; 



while Dr. Johnson adds his weighty testimony, for 

 when a contemporary, a native of Glasgow, was 

 praising Glasgow to him, the Doctor cut his elocjuence 

 with the c[uery : ' Pray, sir, have you ever seen 

 Brentford ? ' Here was sarcasm indeed ! Happily, 

 however, the Glaswegian had not seen Brentford, and 

 so was not in a position to appreciate the retort. 

 But Bos well, who, ubicjuitous man, was of course 

 present, knew, and told the Doctor this was shock- 

 ing. ' Why, then, sir,' rejoined Johnson, ' you have 

 never seen Brentford ! ' 



Then, when we have all this delightful testimony 

 as to Brentford's dirt, comes Shenstone, the melan- 

 choly poet who ' found his warmest welcome at an 

 inn,' to testify as to the character of its inhabitants. 

 ' No persons,' says he, ' more solicitous about the 

 preservation of rank than those who have no 

 rank at all. Observe the humours of a country 

 christening ; and you will find no court in Christen- 

 dom so ceremonious as "the quality" of Brentford.' 



Despite these criticisms, it must be acknowledged 

 that Brentford is a town of high interest. Its filthy 

 gasworks, its waterworks, its docks have not sufliced 

 to sweep away the old-fashioned appearance of the 

 place. It may, in fact, be safely said that no other 

 such truly picturesque town as Brentford exists near 

 London. This will not lono- remain true of it, for, 

 even now, new buildings are here and there taking 



