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,