begin healths like a horse-leech and swallowed down his cups without feeling, as if he had had the dropsy, or nine pound of sponge in his maw. In a word, as he is a post, he drank post, striving and calling by all means to make the reckoning great, or to make us men of great reckoning. But in his payment he was tired like a jade, leaving the gentleman that was with me to discharge the terrible shot, or else one of my horses must have lain in pawn for his superfluous calling, and unmannerly intrusion.
But leaving him, I left Huntington, and rode on the Sunday to Puckeridge, where Master Holland at the Falcon, (mine old acquaintance) and my loving and ancient host gave me, my friend, my man, and our horses excellent cheer, and welcome, and I paid him with, not a penny of money.
The next day I came to London, and obscurely coming within Moorgate, I went to a house and borrowed money: and so I stole back again to Islington, to the sign of the Maidenhead,[1] staying till Wednesday, that my friends came to meet me, who knew no other, but that Wednesday was my
- ↑ To Islington to the Sign of the Maidenhead.—This then roadside Public-house, we are informed from recent enquiries, was situate at the corner of Maiden Lane, Battle Bridge, now known as King's Cross, from a statue of George IV.—a most execrable performance—taken down 1842. The "Old Pub" is turned into a gin palace, and named the Victoria, while Maiden Lane—an ancient way leading from Battle Bridge to Highgate Hill—is known now as York Road.
