RUSTICS. 119 



As I approached, one called to another, who was nearer the 

 fire, to give me his seat, and offered me, with truly rustic 

 grace and politeness, his half-emptied pot of beer. I have a 

 strong stomach, and dislike to repulse what is meant for kind 

 ness ; so I tasted it, and tried to enter into conversation with 

 them. I soon found it was impossible ; for I could make 

 nothing of two-thirds of their replies, and I doubted if they 

 could understand me much better. So I contented myself 

 with listening, while they continued to talk or mumble with 

 each other. The subjects of their conversation were beer and 

 &quot; the girls :&quot; of the latter topic they said nothing to be re 

 peated ; of the former, they wished the farmers never gave 

 worse drink than that they were now enjoying &quot; it was most 

 good for nothing, some of it, what they gave out.&quot; And one 

 told how he had had to drink so much of it once, it had made 

 him clear sick ; and then another told how, on the other hand, 

 he had made himself sick one day, when somebody wouldn t 

 give him as much beer as he wanted, by taking a draught of 

 cold w~ater. 



When the little maid came in to say that my bed was 

 now &quot; quite ready,&quot; and I rose to withdraw from the circle, 

 they all gave a singular jerk forward of their heads and 

 touched their foreheads with their right hand, as a parting 

 salutation. 



&quot; Would you let me take something else down to be dried 

 now, sir, your coat, sir, or any thing the socks, sir ; thank you, 

 sir. Hope you ll sleep well, sir.&quot; 



I didn t do any thing else till, when I stopped, I found it 

 nine o clock the next morning. There was a steady roar upon 

 the tiles the rain still continued I drew the window-curtain, 

 and there was Geoffrey Crayon s picture almost to the life : a 

 sleepy old gray mare &quot; letting it rain ;&quot; a draggle-tailed cock 

 on a smoking dunghill eyeing with the air of a miserable sick 



