Before, however, we come to Hounslow Heath, we have to cast a glance round Brentford, a town which holds the proud position of the county town of Middlesex. Foreigners might, in the innocence of their hearts, suppose that London would hold that honour; but to Brentford, known from time immemorial, and with the utmost justice, as "dirty Brentford," it has fallen. Has Brentford risen to the occasion? It must sorrowfully be admitted that it has not, and is a very marvel of dirt and dilapidation, and--But no matter! Until quite recently it also possessed, in the church of Old Brentford, the very ugliest church in England, which was so very ugly that it used to be credibly reported that people came long distances to see such a marvel of the unlovely. Alas! the church has been rebuilt, and so Brentford has lost a claim to distinction. But Brentford has the honour of being mentioned in Shakespeare, in a passage whose allusions not all the efforts of antiquaries have been able to explain, and distinguished itself in a peculiar way during the reign of King William the Fourth, whom people used to call, for no very good reason, Silly Billy. The King and Queen were expected to drive through the town, on their way from Windsor to London, and the streets were decorated. But the inhabitants spiced their loyalty with sarcasm, for hanging on a line, stretched prominently across the road, was an old coat, turned inside out, in allusion to His Majesty's uncertain policy. Not satisfied, however, with this delicate way of calling him a turncoat, Brentford had another insult ready a little way down the street. The King was generally supposed to be very much under the influence of Queen Adelaide, and this was more or less gracefully alluded to by a pair of trousers fluttering in the wind like a banner suspended across the road. Their Majesties testified their recognition and appreciation of Brentford wit by never passing through the town again. [Sidenote: _SORDID HOUNSLOW_] A little further afield takes us to Hounslow, where John Jerry is busy putting up those long streets of "villas," whose deadly sameness vexes the soul of the artist. He has torn down the old houses, in one of which, or rather, in several of which--for they had intercommunicating passages--Dick Turpin was wont to hide when he was in refuge from the Bow Street runners. "Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, His mare, Black Bess, bestrod--er; Ven there he see'd the bishop's coach Coming along the road--er." Thus sang Sam Weller; but "Bold Turpin" would be hard put to it to identify his suburban haunts now, and we, before our hair is grey, will find those places strange which were so familiar the matter of a few years ago. [Illustration: COTTAGES, SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN THE HAUNTS OF DICK TURPIN.]