" "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.
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