'I love mead, when 'tis old like this, as I love to go to church o' Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day of the week.' 'Ha, ha, ha!' said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite of the taciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or would not refrain from this slight testimony to his comrade's humour.
Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year or maiden honey, four pounds to the gallon--with its due complement of white of eggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and processes of working, bottling, and cellaring--tasted remarkably strong; but it did not taste so strong as it actually was.

Hence, presently, the stranger in cinder-gray at the table, moved by its creeping influence, unbuttoned his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair, spread his legs, and made his presence felt in various ways.
'Well, well, as I say,' he resumed, 'I am going to Casterbridge, and to Casterbridge I must go.

I should have been almost there by this time; but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I'm not sorry for it.' 'You don't live in Casterbridge ?' said the shepherd.
'Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.' 'Going to set up in trade, perhaps ?' 'No, no,' said the shepherd's wife.

'It is easy to see that the gentleman is rich, and don't want to work at anything.' The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he would accept that definition of himself.

He presently rejected it by answering, 'Rich is not quite the word for me, dame.