“‘I will not go to bed to-night!
For, of all foes that man should dread,
The first and worst one is a bed!
Friends I have had, both old and young;
Ale have we drunk, and songs we’ve sung.
Enough you know when this is said,
That, one and all, they died in bed!’”
Here Giddings’s voice broke with grief, and he stopped to drink the rest of the glassful, and went on:
“‘In bed they died, and I’ll not go
Where all my friends have perished so!
Go, ye who fain would buried be;
But not to-night a bed for me!’”
“Do you often have these Horatian fits?” I inquired.
“Base groveler!” said he, “if you can’t rise to the level of the occasion, don’t butt in.”
“‘For me to-night no bed prepare,
But set me out my oaken chair,
And bid me other guests beside
The ghosts that shall around me glide!’”
“You will, of course,” said Cornish, “permit us to withdraw for the purpose of having our conference with our Eastern friends? If I take your meaning, you’ll not be alone.”
“Not by a jugful, I’ll not be alone!” said Giddings, tossing off another glass:
“‘In curling smoke-wreaths I shall see
A fair and gentle company.
Though silent all, fair revelers they,
Who leave you not till break of day!
Go, ye who would not daylight see;
But not to-night a bed for me!
For I’ve been born, and I’ve been wed,
And all man’s troubles come of bed!’”
Here Giddings sank down in his chair and began weeping.