NEIGH.

It was rather late on the following morning when I awoke. At first I was
almost unconscious of what had occurred on the preceding day;
recollection, however, by degrees returned, and I felt a deep melancholy
coming over me, but perfectly aware that no advantage could be derived
from the indulgence of such a feeling, I sprang up, prepared my
breakfast, which I ate with a tolerable appetite, and then left the
dingle, and betook myself to the gypsy encampment, where I entered into
discourse with various Romanies, both male and female. After some time,
feeling myself in better spirits, I determined to pay another visit to
the landlord of the public-house. From the position of his affairs when
I had last visited him, I entertained rather gloomy ideas with respect to
his present circumstances. I imagined that I should either find him
alone in his kitchen smoking a wretched pipe, or in company with some
surly bailiff or his follower, whom his friend the brewer had sent into
the house in order to take possession of his effects.

Nothing more entirely differing from either of these anticipations could
have presented itself to my view than what I saw about one o'clock in the
afternoon, when I entered the house. I had come, though somewhat in want
of consolation myself, to offer any consolation which was at my command
to my acquaintance Catchpole, and perhaps like many other people who go
to a house with "drops of compassion trembling on their eyelids," I felt
rather disappointed at finding that no compassion was necessary. The
house was thronged with company, the cries for ale and porter, hot brandy
and water, cold gin and water, were numerous; moreover, no desire to
receive and not to pay for the landlord's liquids was manifested--on the
contrary, everybody seemed disposed to play the most honourable part:
"Landlord, here's the money for this glass of brandy and water--do me the
favour to take it; all right, remember I have paid you." "Landlord,
here's the money for the pint of half-and-half--fourpence halfpenny,
a'n't it?--here's sixpence; keep the change--confound the change!" The
landlord, assisted by his niece, bustled about; his brow erect, his
cheeks plumped out, and all his features exhibiting a kind of surly
satisfaction. Wherever he moved, marks of the most cordial amity were
shown him, hands were thrust out to grasp his, nor were looks of respect,
admiration, nay almost of adoration, wanting. I obser