Complete.

I CANNOT conceive any prospect more agreeable to a weary traveler than the approach to Bedfordshire. Each valley reminds him of Sleepy Hollow; the fleecy clouds seem like blankets; the lakes and ponds are clean sheets; the setting sun looks like a warming pan. He dreams of dreams to come. His traveling cap transforms to a nightcap; the coach lining feels softlier squabbed; the guard’s horn plays “Lullaby.” Every flower by the roadside is a poppy. Each jolt of the coach is but a drowsy stumble upstairs. The lady opposite is the chambermaid; the gentleman beside her is Boots. He slides into imaginary slippers; he winks and nods flirtingly at Sleep, so soon to be his own. Although the wheels may be rattling into vigilant Wakefield, it appears to him to be sleepy Ware, with its great bed, a whole county of down, spread “all before him where to choose his place of rest.”

  It was in a similar mood, after a long, dusty, droughty dog-day’s journey, that I entered the Dolphin at Bedhampton. I nodded in at the door; winked at the lights; blinked at the company in the coffeeroom; yawned for a glass of negus; swallowed it with my eyes shut, as though it had been “a pint of nappy”; surrendered my boots; clutched a candlestick; and blundered, slipshod, up the stairs to number nine.

  Blessed be the man, says Sancho Panza, who first invented sleep; and blessed be heaven that he did not take out a patent and keep his discovery to himself. My clothes dropped off me; I saw through a drowsy haze the likeness of a four-poster; “Great Nature’s second course” was spread before me; and I fell to without a long grace!

  It would have been gross improvidence to waste more words on the occasion, for I was to be roused up again at four o’clock the next morning to proceed by the early coach. I determined, therefore, to do as much sleep within the interval as I could; and in a minute, short measure, I was with that mandarin, Morpheus, in his Land of Nod.

  How intensely we sleep when we are fatigued! Some as sound as tops, others as fast as churches. For my own part I must have slept as fast as a Cathedral,—as fast as Young Rapid wished his father to slumber;—nay, as fast as the French veteran who dreams over again the whole Russian campaign while dozing in his sentry box. I must have slept as fast as a fast post coach in my four-poster—or rather I must have slept “like winkin,” for I seemed hardly to have closed my eyes when a voice cried, “Sleep no more!”

  It was that of Boots, calling and knocking at the door, whilst through the keyhole a ray of candlelight darted into my chamber.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, your honor, I humbly ax pardon—but somehow I’ve oversleeped myself, and the coach be gone by!”

  “The devil it is!—then I have lost my place!”

  “No, not exactly, your honor. She stops a bit at the Dragon, t’other end of the town; and if your honor wouldn’t object to a bit of a run—”

  “That’s enough—come in. Put down the light—and take up that bag—my coat over your arm—and waistcoat with it—and that cravat.”

  Boots acted according to orders. I jumped out of bed—pocketed my nightcap—screwed on my stockings—plunged into my trousers—rammed my feet into wrong right and left boots—tumbled down the back stairs—burst through a door, found myself in the fresh air of the stable yard holding a lantern, which, in sheer haste, or spleen, I pitched into the horsepond. Then began the race, during which I completed my toilet, running and firing a verbal volley at Boots, as often as I could spare breath for one.

  “And you call this waking me up—for the coach?—My waistcoat!—Why I could wake myself—too late—without being called. Now my cravat—and be hanged to you!—Confound that stone!—and give me my coat. A nice road for a run.—I suppose you keep it—on purpose. How many gentlemen—may you do a week?—I’ll tell you what. If I—run—a foot—further—”

  I paused for wind, while Boots had stopped of his own accord. We had turned a corner into a small square; and on the opposite side certainly stood an inn with the sign of the Dragon, but without any sign of a coach at the door. Boots stood beside me, aghast, and surveying the house from the top to the bottom; not a wreath of smoke came from the chimney; the curtains were closed over every window, and the door was closed and shuttered. I could hardly contain my indignation when I looked at the infernal somnolent visage of the fellow, hardly yet broad awake—he kept rubbing his black-lead eyes with his hands, as if he would have rubbed them out.

  “Yes, you may well look—you have overslept yourself with a vengeance. The coach must have passed an hour ago—and they have all gone to bed again!”

  “No, there be no coach, sure enough,” soliloquized Boots, slowly raising his eyes from the road, where he had been searching for the track of recent wheels, and fixing them with a deprecating expression on my face. “No, there’s no coach—I ax a thousand pardons, your honor—but you see, sir, what with waiting on her, and talking on her, and expecting on her, and giving notice on her, every night of my life, your honor—why I sometimes dreams on her—and that’s the case as is now!”