There was a story with a singular idea in it, connected with an Inn I
once passed a night at in a picturesque old town on the Welsh border. In
a large double-bedded room of this Inn there had been a suicide committed
by poison, in one bed, while a tired traveller slept unconscious in the
other. After that time, the suicide bed was never used, but the other
constantly was; the disused bedstead remaining in the room empty, though
as to all other respects in its old state. The story ran, that whosoever
slept in this room, though never so entire a stranger, from never so far
off, was invariably observed to come down in the morning with an
impression that he smelt Laudanum, and that his mind always turned upon
the subject of suicide; to which, whatever kind of man he might be, he
was certain to make some reference if he conversed with any one. This
went on for years, until it at length induced the landlord to take the
disused bedstead down, and bodily burn it,--bed, hangings, and all. The
strange influence (this was the story) now changed to a fainter one, but
never changed afterwards. The occupant of that room, with occasional but
very rare exceptions, would come down in the morning, trying to recall a
forgotten dream he had had in the night. The landlord, on his mentioning
his perplexity, would suggest various commonplace subjects, not one of
which, as he very well knew, was the true subject. But the moment the
landlord suggested "Poison," the traveller started, and cried, "Yes!" He
never failed to accept that suggestion, and he never recalled any more of
the dream.

This reminiscence brought the Welsh Inns in general before me; with the
women in their round hats, and the harpers with their white beards
(venerable, but humbugs, I am afraid), playing outside the door while I
took my dinner. The transition was natural to the Highland Inns, with
the oatmeal bannocks, the honey, the venison steaks, the trout from the
loch, the whisky, and perhaps (having the materials so temptingly at