Page:Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist (1844).djvu/234

me, to be perfectly clear that you would scorn to tell a deliberate falsehood; but it is—nay, it must be—equally clear that you imagine that when a falsehood is involved in a joke, it loses its reprehensible character."

"Not at all!" said Sylvester, who had been throughout utterly at a loss to understand what the reverend gentleman was driving at. "A falsehood, no matter what colour it may assume, or however ingeniously it may be disguised, is, as you have said, a falsehood still; and I should no more think of telling a falsehood in jest, than I should of telling an absolute falsehood in earnest."

"My dear madam," said the reverend gentleman, "just oblige me with that letter. Sylvester," he added, "my anxiety is to impress upon your mind that a falsehood is a falsehood, and nothing but a falsehood, if even it be playfully enveloped in a joke. Now, allow me to read this letter: 'My dear aunt desires me to inform you that she has an idea of entering into the marriage state.' Is there not a falsehood involved in this? Were you ever desired by her to inform me of anything of the sort? But to proceed—"

"Nay—I beg pardon—what letter is that which you are reading?"

"What letter? This letter—your letter."

"My letter?"

"The letter you sent to me!"

"You are mistaken. I have sent you no letter."

"But this letter is yours?"

"Not if it be addressed to you. I never wrote to you in my life."

"Well, but look at it. That is your writing, is it not?"

"It looks like my writing—most certainly; but I never wrote it."

"My dear," said Aunt Eleanor, "if it be yours confess it. I will not be angry; indeed, I will not: although it is certainly very incorrect, yet I pledge you my word that I will not be angry."

"My dear aunt," said Sylvester, "if it were mine I should feel myself bound to confess it at once; but I assure you, most solemnly, that it is not. I never had occasion to write to Mr. Rouse; nor have I ever written to him. The resemblance which this writing bears to my own is amazing—but I pledge you my honour that it is not mine."

"Well, but really," observed the reverend gentleman, "it seems to me to be almost impossible to have been written by any one else."

"If I cannot induce you to believe me," said Sylvester, "I am, of course, sorry—exceedingly sorry—I can, however, say no more than I have said, the substance of which is, that that letter never was written by me."

"But you perceive it bears your signature! He who counterfeits the signature of another, is guilty of an act of forgery, and forgery is a crime which is punishable by law—it is, in fact, a transportable offence—it used to be, indeed, a hanging matter—but even now a man who commits an act of forgery, may be taken up and treated as a felon—he may be tried in a criminal court, and if the jury find him guilty, the judge may pass upon him a sentence of transportation. It is therefore improbable—most improbable—that any man could, for the sake of a