The Romany Rye

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I told him that I was travelling down the road, and said, that if
his way lay in the same direction as mine he could do no better
than accompany me for some distance, lest the fellow who, for aught
I knew, might be hovering nigh, might catch him alone, and again
get his ass from him. After thanking me for my offer, which he
said he would accept, he got upon his ass, and we proceeded
together down the road. My new acquaintance said very little of
his own accord; and when I asked him a question, answered rather
incoherently. I heard him every now and then say, "Villain!" to
himself, after which he would pat the donkey's neck, from which
circumstance I concluded that his mind was occupied with his late
adventure. After travelling about two miles, we reached a place
where a drift-way on the right led from the great road; here my
companion stopped, and on my asking him whether he was going any
farther, he told me that the path to the right was the way to his
home.

I was bidding him farewell, when he hemmed once or twice, and said,
that as he did not live far off, he hoped that I would go with him
and taste some of his mead. As I had never tasted mead, of which I
had frequently read in the compositions of the Welsh bards, and,
moreover, felt rather thirsty from the heat of the day, I told him
that I should have great pleasure in attending him. Whereupon,
turning off together, we proceeded about half a mile, sometimes
between stone walls, and at other times hedges, till we reached a
small hamlet, through which we passed, and presently came to a very
pretty cottage, delightfully situated within a garden, surrounded
by a hedge of woodbines. Opening a gate at one corner of the
garden he led the way to a large shed, which stood partly behind
the cottage, which he said was his stable; thereupon he dismounted
and led his donkey into the shed, which was without stalls, but had
a long rack and manger. On one side he tied his donkey, after
taking off her caparisons, and I followed his example, tying my
horse at the other side with a rope halter which he gave me; he
then asked me to come in and taste his mead, but I told him that I
must attend to the comfort of my horse first, and forthwith, taking
a wisp of straw, rubbed him carefully down. Then taking a pailful
of clear water which stood in the shed, I allowed the horse to
drink about half a pint; and then turning to the old man, who all
the time had stood by looking at my proceedings, I asked him
whether he had any oats? "I have all kinds of grain," he replied;
and, going out, he presently returned with two measures, one a
large and the other a small one, both filled with oats, mixed with
a few beans, and handing the large one to me for the horse, he
emptied the other before the donkey, who, before she began to
despatch it, turned her nose to her master's face, and fairly
kissed him. Having given my horse his portion, I told the old man
that I was ready to taste his mead as soon as he pleased, whereupon
he ushered me into his cottage, where, making me sit down by a deal
table in a neatly sanded kitchen, he produced from an old-fashioned
closet a bottle, holding about a quart, and a couple of cups, which
might each contain about half a pint, then opening the bottle and
filling the cups with a brown-coloured liquor, he handed one to me,
and taking a seat opposite to me, he lifted the other, nodded, and
saying to me--"Health and welcome," placed it to his lips and
drank.

"Health and thanks," I replied; and being very thirsty, emptied my
cup at a draught; I had scarcely done so, however, when I half
repented. The mead was deliciously sweet and mellow, but appeared
strong as brandy; my eyes reeled in my head, and my brain became
slightly dizzy. "Mead is a strong drink," said the old man, as he
looked at me, with a half smile on his countenance. "This is at
any rate," said I, "so strong, indeed, that I would not drink
another cup for any consideration." "And I would not ask you,"
said the old man; "for, if you did, you would most probably be
stupid all day, and wake the next morning with a headache. Mead is
a good drink, but woundily strong, especially to those who be not
used to it, as I suppose you are not." "Where do you get it?" said
I. "I make it myself," said the old man, "from the honey which my
bees make." "Have you many bees?" I inquired. "A great many,"
said the old man. "And do you keep them," said I, "for the sake of
making mead with their honey?" "I keep them," he replied, "partly
because I am fond of them, and partly for what they bring me in;
they make me a great deal of honey, some of which I sell, and with
a little I make some mead to warm my poor heart with, or
occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself." "And do you
support yourself entirely by means of your bees?" "No," said the
old man; "I have a little bit of ground behind my house, which is
my principal means of support." "And do you live alone?" "Yes,"
said he; "with the exception of the bees and the donkey, I live
quite alone." "And have you always lived alone?" The old man
emptied his cup, and his heart being warmed with the mead, he told
his history, which was simplicity itself. His father was a small
yeoman, who, at his death, had left him, his only child, the
cottage, with a small piece of ground behind it, and on this little
property he had lived ever since. About the age of twenty-five he
had married an industrious young woman, by whom he had one
daughter, who died before reaching years of womanhood. His wife,
however, had survived her daughter many years, and had been a great
comfort to him, assisting him in his rural occupations; but, about
four years before the present period, he had lost her, since which
time he had lived alone, making himself as comfortable as he could;
cultivating his ground, with the help of a lad from the
neighbouring village, attending to his bees, and occasionally
riding his donkey to market, and hearing the word of God, which he
said he was sorry he could not read, twice a week regularly at the
parish church. Such was the old man's tale.

When he had finished speaking, he led me behind his house, and
showed me his little domain. It consisted of about two acres in
admirable cultivation; a small portion of it formed a kitchen
garden, while the rest was sown with four kinds of grain, wheat,
barley, peas, and beans. The air was full of ambrosial sweets,
resembling those proceeding from an orange grove; a place which
though I had never seen at that time, I since have. In the garden
was the habitation of the bees, a long box, supported upon three
oaken stumps. It was full of small round glass windows, and
appeared to be divided into a great many compartments, much
resembling drawers placed sideways. He told me that, as one
compartment was filled, the bees left it for another; so that,
whenever he wanted honey, he could procure some without injury to
the insects. Through the little round windows I could see several
of the bees at work; hundreds were going in and out of the doors;
hundreds were buzzing about on the flowers, the woodbines, and
beans. As I looked around on the well-cultivated field, the
garden, and the bees, I thought I had never before seen so rural
and peaceful a scene.

When we returned to the cottage we again sat down, and I asked the
old man whether he was not afraid to live alone. He told me that
he was not, for that, upon the whole, his neighbours were very kind
to him. I mentioned the fellow who had swindled him of his donkey
upon the road. "That was no neighbour of mine," said the old man,
"and, perhaps, I shall never see him again, or his like." "It's a
dreadful thing," said I, "to have no other resource, when injured,
than to shed tears on the road." "It is so," said the old man;
"but God saw the tears of the old, and sent a helper." "Why did
you not help yourself?" said I. "Instead of getting off your ass,
why did you not punch at the fellow, or at any rate use dreadful
language, call him villain, and shout robbery?" "Punch!" said the
old man, "shout! what, with these hands, and this voice--Lord, how
you run on! I am old, young chap, I am old!" "Well," said I, "it
is a shameful thing to cry even when old." "You think so now,"
said the old man, "because you are young and strong; perhaps when
you are as old as I, you will not be ashamed to cry."

Upon the whole I was rather pleased with the old man, and much with
all about him. As evening drew nigh, I told him that I must
proceed on my journey; whereupon he invited me to tarry with him
during the night, telling me that he had a nice room and bed above
at my service. I, however, declined; and bidding him farewell,
mounted my horse, and departed. Regaining the road, I proceeded
once more in the direction of the north; and, after a few hours,
coming to a comfortable public-house, I stopped, and put up for the
night.

CHAPTER XXII

The Singular Noise--Sleeping in a Meadow--The Book--Cure for
Wakefulness--Literary Tea Party--Poor Byron.

I did not awake till rather late the next morning; and when I did,
I felt considerable drowsiness, with a slight headache, which I was
uncharitable enough to attribute to the mead which I had drunk on
the preceding day. After feeding my horse, and breakfasting, I
proceeded on my wanderings. Nothing occurred worthy of relating
till mid-day was considerably past, when I came to a pleasant
valley, between two gentle hills. I had dismounted, in order to
ease my horse, and was leading him along by the bridle, when, on my
right, behind a bank in which some umbrageous ashes were growing,
heard a singular noise. I stopped short and listened, and
presently said to myself, "Surely this is snoring, perhaps that of
a hedgehog." On further consideration, however, I was convinced
that the noise which I heard, and which certainly seemed to be
snoring, could not possibly proceed from the nostrils of so small
an animal, but must rather come from those of a giant, so loud and
sonorous was it. About two or three yards farther was a gate,
partly open, to which I went, and peeping into the field, saw a man
lying on some rich grass, under the shade of one of the ashes; he
was snoring away at a great rate. Impelled by curiosity, I
fastened the bridle of my horse to the gate, and went up to the
man. He was a genteelly-dressed individual; rather corpulent, with
dark features, and seemingly about forty-five. He lay on his back,
his hat slightly over his brow, and at his right hand lay an open
book. So strenuously did he snore that the wind from his nostrils
agitated, perceptibly, a fine cambric frill which he wore at his
bosom. I gazed upon him for some time, expecting that he might
awake; but he did not, but kept on snoring, his breast heaving
convulsively. At last, the noise he made became so terrible, that
I felt alarmed for his safety, imagining that a fit might seize
him, and he lose his life while fast asleep. I therefore
exclaimed, "Sir, sir, awake! you sleep over-much." But my voice
failed to rouse him, and he continued snoring as before; whereupon
I touched him slightly with my riding wand, but failing to wake
him, I touched him again more vigorously; whereupon he opened his
eyes, and, probably imagining himself in a dream, closed them
again. But I was determined to arouse him, and cried as loud as I
could, "Sir, sir, pray sleep no more!" He heard what I said,
opened his eyes again, stared at me with a look of some
consciousness, and, half raising himself upon his elbows, asked me
what was the matter. "I beg your pardon," said I, "but I took the
liberty of awaking you, because you appeared to be much disturbed
in your sleep--I was fearful, too, that you might catch a fever
from sleeping under a tree." "I run no risk," said the man, "I
often come and sleep here; and as for being disturbed in my sleep,
I felt very comfortable; I wish you had not awoke me." "Well,"
said I, "I beg your pardon once more. I assure you that what I did
was with the best intention." "Oh! pray make no further apology,"
said the individual, "I make no doubt that what you did was done
kindly; but there's an old proverb, to the effect, 'that you should
let sleeping dogs lie,'" he added with a smile. Then, getting up,
and stretching himself with a yawn, he took up his book and said,
"I have slept quite long enough, and it's quite time for me to be
going home." "Excuse my curiosity," said I, "if I inquire what may
induce you to come and sleep in this meadow?" "To tell you the
truth," answered he, "I am a bad sleeper." "Pray pardon me," said
I, "if I tell you that I never saw one sleep more heartily." "If I
did so," said the individual, "I am beholden to this meadow and
this book; but I am talking riddles, and will explain myself. I am
the owner of a very pretty property, of which this valley forms
part. Some years ago, however, up started a person who said the
property was his; a lawsuit ensued, and I was on the brink of
losing my all, when, most unexpectedly, the suit was determined in
my favour. Owing, however, to the anxiety to which my mind had
been subjected for several years, my nerves had become terribly
shaken; and no sooner was the trial terminated than sleep forsook
my pillow. I sometimes passed nights without closing an eye; I
took opiates, but they rather increased than alleviated my malady.
About three weeks ago a friend of mine put this book into my hand,
and advised me to take it every day to some pleasant part of my
estate, and try and read a page or two, assuring me, if I did, that
I should infallibly fall asleep. I took his advice, and selecting
this place, which I considered the pleasantest part of my property,
I came, and lying down, commenced reading the book, and before
finishing a page was in a dead slumber. Every day since then I
have repeated the experiment, and every time with equal success. I
am a single man, without any children; and yesterday I made my
will, in which, in the event of my friend's surviving me, I have
left him all my fortune, in gratitude for his having procured for
me the most invaluable of all blessings--sleep."

"Dear me," said I, "how very extraordinary! Do you think that your
going to sleep is caused by the meadow or the book?" "I suppose by
both," said my new acquaintance, "acting in co-operation." "It may
be so," said I; "the magic influence does certainly not proceed
from the meadow alone; for since I have been here, I have not felt
the slightest inclination to sleep. Does the book consist of prose
or poetry?" "It consists of poetry," said the individual. "Not
Byron's?" said I. "Byron's!" repeated the individual, with a smile
of contempt; "no, no; there is nothing narcotic in Byron's poetry.
I don't like it. I used to read it, but it thrilled, agitated, and
kept me awake. No; this is not Byron's poetry, but the inimitable
-'s"--mentioning a name which I had never heard till then. "Will
you permit me to look at it?" said I. "With pleasure," he
answered, politely handing me the book. I took the volume, and
glanced over the contents. It was written in blank verse, and
appeared to abound in descriptions of scenery; there was much
mention of mountains, valleys, streams, and waterfalls, harebells
and daffodils. These descriptions were interspersed with
dialogues, which, though they proceeded from the mouths of pedlars
and rustics, were of the most edifying description; mostly on
subjects moral or metaphysical, and couched in the most gentlemanly
and unexceptionable language, without the slightest mixture of
vulgarity, coarseness, or pie-bald grammar. Such appeared to me to
be the contents of the book; but before I could form a very clear
idea of them, I found myself nodding, and a surprising desire to
sleep coming over me. Rousing myself, however, by a strong effort,
I closed the book, and, returning it to the owner, inquired of him,
"Whether he had any motive in coming and lying down in the meadow,
besides the wish of enjoying sleep?" "None whatever," he replied;
"indeed, I should be very glad not to be compelled to do so, always
provided I could enjoy the blessing of sleep; for by lying down
under trees, I may possibly catch the rheumatism, or be stung by
serpents; and, moreover, in the rainy season and winter the thing
will be impossible, unless I erect a tent, which will possibly
destroy the charm." "Well," said I, "you need give yourself no
further trouble about coming here, as I am fully convinced that
with this book in your hand, you may go to sleep anywhere, as your
friend was doubtless aware, though he wished to interest your
imagination for a time by persuading you to lie abroad; therefore,
in future, whenever you feel disposed to sleep, try to read the
book, and you will be sound asleep in a minute; the narcotic
influence lies in the book, and not in the field." "I will follow
your advice," said the individual; "and this very night take it
with me to bed; though I hope in time to be able to sleep without
it, my nerves being already much quieted from the slumbers I have
enjoyed in this field." He then moved towards the gate, where we
parted; he going one way, and I and my horse the other.

More than twenty years subsequent to this period, after much
wandering about the world, returning to my native country, I was
invited to a literary tea-party, where, the discourse turning upon
poetry, I, in order to show that I was not more ignorant than my
neighbours, began to talk about Byron, for whose writings I really
entertained considerable admiration, though I had no particular
esteem for the man himself. At first, I received no answer to what
I said--the company merely surveying me with a kind of sleepy
stare. At length a lady, about the age of forty, with a large wart
on her face, observed, in a drawling tone, "That she had not read
Byron--at least, since her girlhood--and then only a few passages;
but that the impression on her mind was, that his writings were of
a highly objectionable character." "I also read a little of him in
my boyhood," said a gentleman about sixty, but who evidently, from
his dress and demeanour, wished to appear about thirty, "but I
highly disapproved of him; for, notwithstanding he was a nobleman,
he is frequently very coarse, and very fond of raising emotion.
Now emotion is what I dislike;" drawling out the last syllable of
the word dislike. "There is only one poet for me--the divine--"
and then he mentioned a name which I had only once heard, and
afterwards quite forgotten; the same mentioned by the snorer in the
field. "Ah! there is no one like him!" murmured some more of the
company; "the poet of nature--of nature without its vulgarity." I
wished very much to ask these people whether they were ever bad
sleepers, and whether they had read the poet, so called, from a
desire of being set to sleep. Within a few days, however, I learnt
that it had of late become very fashionable and genteel to appear
half asleep, and that one could exhibit no better mark of superfine
breeding than by occasionally in company setting one's rhomal organ
in action. I then ceased to wonder at the popularity, which I
found nearly universal, of -'s poetry; for, certainly in order to
make one's self appear sleepy in company, or occasionally to induce
sleep, nothing could be more efficacious than a slight prelection
of his poems. So poor Byron, with his fire and emotion--to say
nothing of his mouthings and coxcombry--was dethroned, as I
prophesied he would be more than twenty years before, on the day of
his funeral, though I had little idea that his humiliation would
have been brought about by one, whose sole strength consists in
setting people to sleep. Well, all things are doomed to terminate
in sleep. Before that termination, however, I will venture to
prophesy that people will become a little more awake--snoring and
yawning be a little less in fashion--and poor Byron be once more
reinstated on his throne, though his rival will always stand a good
chance of being worshipped by those whose ruined nerves are
insensible to the narcotic powers of opium and morphine.

CHAPTER XXIII

Drivers and Front Outside Passengers--Fatigue of Body and Mind--
Unexpected Greeting--My Inn--The Governor--Engagement.

I continued my journey, passing through one or two villages. The
day was exceedingly hot, and the roads dusty. In order to cause my
horse as little fatigue as possible, and not to chafe his back, I
led him by the bridle, my doing which brought upon me a shower of
remarks, jests, and would-be witticisms from the drivers and front
outside passengers of sundry stage-coaches which passed me in one
direction or the other. In this way I proceeded till considerably
past noon, when I felt myself very fatigued, and my horse appeared
no less so; and it is probable that the lazy and listless manner in
which we were moving on, tired us both much more effectually than
hurrying along at a swift trot would have done, for I have observed
that when the energies of the body are not exerted a languor
frequently comes over it. At length arriving at a very large
building with an archway, near the entrance of a town, I sat down
on what appeared to be a stepping-block, and presently experienced
a great depression of spirits. I began to ask myself whither I was
going, and what I should do with myself and the horse which I held
by the bridle? It appeared to me that I was alone in the world
with the poor animal, who looked for support to me, who knew not
how to support myself. Then the image of Isopel Berners came into
my mind, and when I thought how I had lost her for ever, and how
happy I might have been with her in the New World had she not
deserted me, I became yet more miserable.

As I sat in this state of mind, I suddenly felt some one clap me on
the shoulder, and heard a voice say, "Ha! comrade of the dingle,
what chance has brought you into these parts?" I turned round, and
beheld a man in the dress of a postillion, whom I instantly
recognized as he to whom I had rendered assistance on the night of
the storm.

"Ah!" said I, "is it you? I am glad to see you, for I was feeling
very lonely and melancholy."

"Lonely and melancholy," he replied, "how is that? how can any one
be lonely and melancholy with such a noble horse as that you hold
by the bridle?"

"The horse," said I, "is one cause of my melancholy, for I know not
in the world what to do with it."

"It is your own?"

"Yes," said I, "I may call it my own, though I borrowed the money
to purchase it."

"Well, why don't you sell it?"

"It is not always easy to find a purchaser for a horse like this,"
said I; "can you recommend me one?"

"I? Why no, not exactly; but you'll find a purchaser shortly--
pooh! if you have no other cause for disquiet than that horse,
cheer up, man, don't be cast down. Have you nothing else on your
mind? By the bye, what's become of the young woman you were
keeping company with in that queer lodging place of yours?"

"She has left me," said I.

"You quarrelled, I suppose?"

"No," said I, "we did not exactly quarrel, but we are parted."

"Well," replied he, "but you will soon come together again."

"No," said I, "we are parted for ever."

"For ever! Pooh! you little know how people sometimes come
together again who think they are parted for ever. Here's
something on that point relating to myself. You remember, when I
told you my story in that dingle of yours, that I mentioned a young
woman, my fellow-servant when I lived with the English family in
Mumbo Jumbo's town, and how she and I, when our foolish governors
were thinking of changing their religion, agreed to stand by each
other, and be true to old Church of England, and to give our
governors warning, provided they tried to make us renegades. Well,
she and I parted soon after that, and never to meet again, yet we
met the other day in the fields, for she lately came to live with a
great family not far from here, and we have since agreed to marry,
to take a little farm, for we have both a trifle of money, and live
together till 'death us do part.' So much for parting for ever!
But what do I mean by keeping you broiling in the sun with your
horse's bridle in your hand, and you on my own ground? Do you know
where you are? Why, that great house is my inn, that is, it's my
master's, the best fellow in -. Come along, you and your horse
both will find a welcome at my inn."

Thereupon he led the way into a large court in which there were
coaches, chaises, and a great many people; taking my horse from me,
he led it into a nice cool stall, and fastened it to the rack--he
then conducted me into a postillion's keeping-room, which at that
time chanced to be empty, and he then fetched a pot of beer and sat
down by me.

After a little conversation he asked me what I intended to do, and
I told him frankly that I did not know; whereupon he observed that,
provided I had no objection, he had little doubt that I could be
accommodated for some time at his inn. "Our upper ostler," said
he, "died about a week ago; he was a clever fellow, and, besides
his trade, understood reading and accounts."

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