THE SINGULAR NOISE--SLEEPING IN A MEADOW--THE BOOK--CURE FOR
WAKEFULNESS--LITERARY TEA PARTY--POOR BYRON.
I did not wake 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 drank on the preceding day.
After feeding my horse, and breakfasting, I proceeded on my wanderings.
Nothing occurred worthy of relating till midday 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, I 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 whilst asleep. I
therefore exclaimed, "Sir, sir, awake! you sleep overmuch." 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 awoken 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 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 piebald 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 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 learned 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.