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 a 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 name 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 ronchal 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 pre-lection of his poems. So, poor Byron, with his fire and emotion—to say nothing of his mouthings and coxcombry—was dethroned, as I had 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, [141] 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 bethought me 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 recognised 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 anyone 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.’