tolerantly, just naming it in a simple sentence, that fell with a ring
and chimed: their host's ready acquiescence in receiving, orders, his
contemptuous disclaimer of stuff he did not keep, his flat indifference
to the sheep he sheared, and the phantom half-crown flickering in one eye
of the anticipatory waiter; the pervading and confounding smell of stale
beer over all the apartments; the prevalent, notion of bread, butter,
tea, milk, sugar, as matter for the exercise of a native inventive
genius--these were reviewed in quips of metaphor.

'Come, we can do better at an inn or two known to me,' said Redworth.

'Surely this is the best that can be done for us, when we strike them
with the magic wand of a postillion?' said she.

'It depends, as elsewhere, on the individuals entertaining us.'

'Yet you admit that your railways are rapidly "polishing off" the
individual.'

'They will spread the metropolitan idea of comfort.'

'I fear they will feed us on nothing but that big word. It booms--
a curfew bell--for every poor little light that we would read by.'

Seeing their beacon-nosed postillion preparing too mount and failing in
his jump, Redworth was apprehensive, and questioned the fellow concerning
potation.

'Lord, sir, they call me half a horse, but I can't 'bids water,' was the
reply, with the assurance that he had not 'taken a pailful.'