Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 20

So much has been written and said about Love, that, were not his beautiful features ever varying and ever new, the subject must have been ere this exhausted. One of the peculiar attributes of Love is his perpetual juvenility—his immortal youth. He was created with the Creation: he was the favourite boy of Eve: Eve was remarkably fond of Love; and he has been ever since the first favourite of her daughters. From the Creation he lived till the Deluge: he was in the Ark with Noah, and welcomed back the dove. From the Deluge he lived till the commencement of the Christian Era, and in the whole of the proceedings of the eventful period which intervened took an active and a most conspicuous part. From the commencement of the Christian Era he continued to live; and he is alive now, and full of health, joy, and beauty, and, albeit six thousand years old, doesn't look more than six.

This, however, may be said to be a painter's view of Love. Let us view Love philosophically. Stop!—Philosophically? No: that is impracticable—quite. Love repudiates Philosophy, and Philosophy repudiates Love. They are, and ever have been, at war: they are, in fact, the greatest enemies that ever had existence—each breathes destruction to the other: they are very inveterate foes. Love frequently upsets Philosophy, even in the very streets; which is very incorrect of Love certainly; but then Philosophy is constantly endeavouring to upset Love! Sometimes, however, Love—in his most amiable moments—will meet Philosophy calmly, and try to effect something like a reconciliation; but Philosophy will not be propitiated, conceiving that Love can never love Philosophy. Nor can he; nor can Philosophy ever love Love. Love may be beloved by millions dearly; but never can Philosophy be a lover of Love.

It being, therefore, impossible to take a philosophical view of Love, suppose we take a common sense view—and yet, what on earth has Love to do with Common Sense? Absolutely nothing. Love doesn't even know Common Sense. We cannot, therefore, take a common sense view of Love. No; if we view him at all, we must view him as he is—a monarch reigning in the hearts of his people: a mighty monarch—the King of Hearts: a king without revenues sufficient to find him even in shirts—an absolute and a naked king!—a king, moreover, glorying in his nakedness, of which, being pure, he is never ashamed: a king whose dominion is illimitable, and whose prime minister is so impartial, that he strikes the light of Love into the souls of all, without reference to either cast, colour, or creed.

​He doesn't, however, always inflame the thrilling bosoms of youth: he'll sometimes let people alone for forty or fifty years. This may be held to be an extraordinary fact, but it is a fact, nevertheless—a fact which must not be denied, nor, for more than a moment, even doubted, seeing that Aunt Eleanor and her reverend friend supplied at this period a case in point.

Aunt Eleanor was upwards of forty years of age, and the reverend gentleman was upwards of fifty, while neither had, up to this time, really loved. The germs of love were in the hearts of both, but they had never struck root. And in speaking of love, it must be understood as love, not certainly contradistinguished, but distinguished from affection; for while Aunt Eleanor was one of the most affectionate creatures that ever breathed, the affections of the reverend gentleman were strong. It will hence be seen that love does not necessarily co-exist with affection: in other words, that affection may exist without love; for certain is it that the reverend gentleman never inspired the passion of love until he received Sylvester's letter, and that Aunt Eleanor never really felt that she loved, until her reverend friend spoke of those feelings which had in his bosom lain dormant so long. Then, indeed, the flame burst forth to amaze them with the consciousness of their having been formed to love each other; and that consciousness, coupled with the amazement thereon consequent, kept them awake—on the morning that followed the eventful day of which the preceding chapter treats—until half-past two o'clock.

At half-past two—it was a singular coincidence—they both fell asleep, and they hadn't been asleep more than fifteen minutes, when Tom heard his bells.

"Hollo: very good!" said he, getting out of bed. "Stop a bidite, add I'll give you pepper!" And, grasping a stick, a blow from which would have made the head of any man ache for a month, he went up stealthily into the study.

"Who's there?" he demanded, in tones of indignation. "Do you hear?"

All was silent.

"I've got you, have I?" he continued. "Very good. Wait a bidite: let's strike a light, add have a look at you. Dow thed!" he added, having lighted the candle; "dow thed! where are you? Do you hear? It's of doe use, you kdow—codcealbedt is vaid. Do you hear? I'll sbash you, if you dod't cobe out! Where have you got to? Hollo!"

All was still silent. There was not a breath to indicate the presence of a soul.

"I'll tell you what it is, old fellow," resumed Tom, "you've poked yourself sobewhere; but dod't believe I'b goidg to give you up: dot a bit of it! I'll have you, add doe bistake: you'd better cobe out of your hole: d'ye hear?"

Tom examined minutely every cupboard and every corner; he looked round and round, but no creature could he see. He also examined the skeleton. There it stood—it didn't appear to have been removed—it didn't appear to have been touched, and yet he heard the bells ring ​
Tom goes to answer the bells.

​He surely could not have been mistaken it that? The very thought induced a doubt. He felt that he might have been mistaken: he thought it possible—just possible—that he had been dreaming, and, while dreaming, fancied he heard the bells.

"Well, if it is so, it is!" he at length exclaimed. "I certaidly thought that I heard theb. However, it's clear that there's dobody here, so I bay just as well go to bed agaid as dot."

He, therefore, descended, and put out the light, and, having established his stick near the pillow, got into bed again calmly. He had scarcely, however, covered himself comfortably up, when the bells began to ring again merrily.

"That's sobethidg dear the bark, at all evedts!" cried Tom, who was out of bed again in the twinkling of an eye. "There cad be doe bistake dow! Wud bobedt, by friedd," he added, grasping his stick—"odly stop wud bobedt, add you'll oblige be."

Again he stealthily ascended to the study, and with feelings of hope looked round and round. There wasn't a corner—there wasn't a hole sufficiently large to admit a mouse—that then escaped minute examination. He looked everywhere again and again, but the result was destruction to the hope he had inspired.

"If," he exclaimed, "I do dail you, Heaved have bercy upod your bodes, for they shall bake the sweetest busic bodes ever had the ability to bake."

Having given emphatic expression to this sentiment, he again descended and got into bed; but his head had not been on the pillow three minutes, when the bells again recommenced ringing.

"Go it!" he cried, "by all badder of beads. There's dothidg like bakidg edough doise. But if you thidk I'b goidg to cut up add dowd stairs all the blessed bordidg, you'll fide yourself bistaked, by friedd, doe doubt! Dow thed," he added, in the depths of thought, "what's to be dode? That fellow's sobewhere—there cad't be two opidiods about that. But where? That's the questiod. He's havidg a gabe, add a dice gabe it is. But sedd I could catch hib! Pull 'eb dowd," he added, as the bells continued to ring; "dod't be dice about it—dod't bidce the batter: pull 'eb dowd! Well, I'll go up agaid—wodce bore; add if I should dail this idgedious gedtlebad, it strikes be as beidg extrebely probable that he'll kdow it!"

Once more, accordingly, Tom left his room, and, on going up stairs he fell over a string, which not only brought the bells and the skeleton down, but pulled Sylvester half out of bed and awoke him.

"Who's there?" cried Sylvester, in startling tones—"Who's there?"

"I!" replied Tom. "Dod't be alarbed—dod't be alarbed!" and he rushed at once into the study.

"Tom!" cried the doctor, who had heard the noise, "what on earth are you about?"

"Adother gabe!" replied Tom. "Here's adother dice gabe! Just cobe up—odly cobe; frob this spot I'll dot bove ad idch!"

The doctor, who really felt very much annoyed, slipped on his dressing-gown at once; and as he was proceeding up stairs, with the view of ​speaking to Tom very severely, Sylvester, who was somewhat alarmed, came cautiously out of his room.

"What is the meaning of this?" said the doctor.

"Upon my word, I don't know," replied Sylvester. "Some one pulled me nearly out of bed just now."

"Pulled you nearly out of bed? Oh! we must investigate this. Now, sir," he added, on reaching the study, "what is all this about?"

"It's a gabe," replied Tom. "But he's here—I kdow he's here!"

"Who's here?"

"He whob I'd give ady buddy to see."

"Nonsense!" cried the doctor. "I demand an explanation."

"You shall have it," said Tom. "But just wait a bidite: just wait till I've foudd hib. I'b adxious to give hib ad expladatiod first."

"What do you mean, Tom? Surely you are mad. There's no one here."

"Sobe wud was here, add that dot two bidites ago."

"I don't believe it: I cannot believe it!"

"I'b sure of it. If dot, how cabe by bells to ridg?"

"What bells?"

"Why, by bells: the bells which I hudg up id by roob last dight."

"Tom, what do you mean?"

"I bead that the bells which I hudg up id by roob last dight, add which cobbudicated with the legs of by bad, have beed ridgidg away for the last half hour; add I also bead that those bells would dot have rudg if the stridgs had dot beed pulled; that by bad would dot have falled if he had dot beed touched, add that, therefore, sobe wud has beed here."

"Tom," said the doctor, with an expression of severity, "I'll not be disturbed thus night after night. We must, I see, get lodgings for you somewhere else."

"The disturbadce is dot of by creatiod. You dod't thidk that I have disturbed you?"

"Who else could have done it?"

"That's the very poidt I'd give a billiod to ascertaid!"

"As far as I alone am concerned, it's a matter of slight importance but when the whole house is disturbed, it's most unpardonable. Even Sylvester must have his rest broken! What was your object in pulling him out of bed?"

"Out of bed!—Syl!—pull hib out of bed? Why I haved't beed idto his roob!"

"If you didn't, who could have pulled him out of bed?"

"That's the poidt—that's the very questiod! But were you thed pulled out of bed, Syl?"

"I was, very nearly."

"But you dod't bead to thidk that I did it?"

"It's a matter of little moment, Tom, whether you did or not."

"But I didd't! I haved't beed dear you!"

"Then it must have been some one else. I only wish that he hadn't cut my hand quite so much."

"Has your hand been cut?" inquired the doctor, taking it immediately ​in his. "It appears to have been cut with a string. Tom," he added sternly, "go to bed, sir; and let us have no more of this folly."

"Well," said Tom, "but do you bead to bead—"

"I have nothing more to say," observed the doctor.

"Well, I suppose you'll let be explaid?"

"I don't require any explanation," said the doctor, who left the study, and in silence returned to his room.

"Victibized agaid!" exclaimed Tom, as the doctor left him. "Shouldd't I be happier id the grave? I do believe that if you were to go frob us roudd to our Adtipodes, you wouldd't beet with a bore udfortudate swell. If there be ady luck afloat, it's perfectly sure to cobe idto by harbour. I'b wud of the elect to receive addoyadce. I'll back byself agaidst ady bad id the udiverse to have byself bisudderstood, add by botives bisidterpreted. Dow look here, Syl: you kdow the purpose for which I put up those bells. Well, about half ad hour ago, I heard theb ridg, add I cabe up daturally with this sball stick, expectidg to fide a bad of sobe sort. But doe: he'd cut it; add I wedt dowd agaid; add the bells radg gaid, add agaid I cabe up add had by usual luck agaid; add agaid I wedt dowd, whed the bells radg agaid; add just as I was cobidg up here for the last tibe, to see if I could dail this varbidt—what would I dot give to see hib dow!—I fell over sobethidg, add grazed by shid—brought dowd by bells, add brought dowd by bad—add 'for all these courtesies' I ab dedoudced! If this be dot edough to bake a bad love his bother, I dod't kdow what is!"

"Then did you fall?"

"Fall! Slap! over sobethidg: I dod't kdow what, dor do I care—but I fell, add I suppose it was the doise I bade that woke you?"

"No," returned Sylvester, "some one had hold of my hand!"

"Is that a fact?"

"Oh! there's no doubt at all about it. I was pulled more than half out of bed!"

"Add did you see do wud dear?"

"Not a soul! I was somewhat alarmed at the moment, and called out to know who was there, and you answered me."

"Thed I suppose that I'b let id for that?"

"Not at all. You stated just now that you didn't come near me: I am, therefore, quite satisfied on that point; but that some one was near me at the time, is quite clear."

"Well, but where could he have gode to? I saw doe wud cobe frob your roob! I wish I had—it would have beed a happy idcidedt! How could he by ady possibility have got out? Add if he could have got out, he couldd't have rushed past be without by seeidg hib; add if eved he could have rushed past be idvisibly, he couldd't have pulled you out of bed dowd there, add kdocked by bad dowd here, at wud add the sabe tibe."

"There may be two of them."

"Good! so there bay. But if I odly caught wud, I'd give hib edough for both. I dod't thidk, however great a gluttod he bight be, that he'd hesitate for wud sidgle bobedt to codfess that he had had bore thad his ​bodicub—bore thad he could, with ady great degree of cobfort, digest. But isd't it stradge, dow, that we cad't get to the bottob of this? Isd't it barvellous, Syl?"

"It is indeed. I know not what to think of it."

"Well," said Tom, "I suppose they are pretty well satisfied dow? I presube they dod't idtedd to do ady bore bischief this bout! we'll, therefore, go to bed. But I'll try adother dodge or two. Of course, I'b safe to be bade a bartyr: I've suffered three bartyrdobs already, but I'll dot give it up. If they are to be caught, I'll catch 'eb; add if I do catch 'eb, I'll strodgly recobbedd theb to look out! I'll reward theb haddsobely—they shall be paid! I feel dow as if I could half burder a couple with all the pleasure that appertaids to life. However, let's pludge idto bed agaid. I feel so biserable, Syl, that I've a good bide to say I'll go to sleep for a bodth!"

They then returned to their respective rooms, and were disturbed no more.

In the morning, almost immediately after breakfast, the reverend gentleman called; and Aunt Eleanor, with all that tact by which ladies are commonly characterised, arranged matters so that they were alone. The reverend gentleman was in excellent spirits—he had not, indeed, been for some years so gay; but Aunt Eleanor felt tremulous, and anxious, and odd: her pulse did not beat with anything like regularity, nor did she speak with any certainty of tone: she knew not, in fact, what to make of her feelings: they appeared to her to be so extraordinary—so droll—there was, in a word, a certain novelty about them which she could not at all understand.

"Now, my dear madam," said the reverend gentleman, when all the preliminaries to conversation had been arranged, "I'll show you my credentials." And taking Sylvester's letter from his pocket, he presented it with an air of confidence perfectly consistent with the feelings he entertained.

"Dear me," said Aunt Eleanor, on glancing at the letter, "this is indeed his handwriting! And yet how extraordinary it is, that he should have sent such a letter. I cannot account for it at all!"

"The young rogue! like a young colt or a young kitten—full of play, my dear madam, full of play!"

"But it is so contrary to his general character and conduct."

"Youth, youth!" said the reverend gentleman. "Youth always was, and always will be youth!"

This remarkable observation settled the point as far as it went, and Aunt Eleanor proceeded to read the letter; but while she was reading, the reverend gentleman—who watched her with an expression of anxiety mingled with delight—could not perceive the slightest change in her countenance; at which he marvelled—and naturally; seeing that he was at the time perfectly unconscious of the fact that, although she was reading with great apparent care, she was in reality thinking of something else. Had the reverend gentleman the previous day omitted the observation having reference to the resuscitation of certain feelings, which had long been lying dormant, she would, while reading this letter, ​have laughed heartily; but as that observation had been made, she looked at the fruit, of which she conceived it to be the germ—her thoughts were not upon the cause, but the effect—and therefore, while reading it, she didn't laugh at all.

"Well, my dear madam," said the reverend gentleman, "what is your impression now?"

"It certainly is Sylvester's hand-writing," she replied; "but what his object could have been, I cannot possibly conceive."

"Fun, was the young rogue's object, no doubt! It is clear that he thought it an excellent jest."

"But such jests, my dear sir, are highly incorrect!—he must be scolded!"

"Leave that to me, my dear madam: leave all that to me. I'll give him a lecture. Shall we have him in now?"

"I think that we had better."

The bell was rung, and Sylvester was summoned; and when he appeared, he greeted the reverend gentleman, precisely as if unconscious of the existence of any such letter, as that which Aunt Eleanor held in her hand—which was thought very remarkable.

"Sylvester," said the reverend gentleman, assuming a somewhat stern expression, "I am anxious to have a few words with you, calmly. Sylvester: there are jests which are venial, and jests which are not: there are jests which are harmless, and jests which are not: jests which are harmless, are those which I hold to be venial; jests which are not harmless, must be condemned. But there are, independently of those which I have named, jests which, although in themselves unimportant—or, I should rather say, apparently unimportant—are calculated to lead to important results, and it is to this particular species of jest that I now wish to call your attention. In all ages jesting has been known. History, both sacred and profane, speaks of jesting. The Pagans' chief jester was deified: Momus was the heathen god of jesting. Kings and princes have kept their jesters, sometimes with the view of being rebuked for their follies, but more frequently, I fear, for the purpose of being applauded for those follies—sometimes, that their passions might be regulated by wit, but more often that wit might pander to those passions. Jesting has, therefore, antiquity to recommend it; but this is not the point at which I am anxious to arrive. Jests or jokes—they are strictly synonymous—may be divided into two distinct classes:—those which are salutary and those which are pernicious: I use the term 'salutary,' advisedly, seeing that a well-timed jest has frequently been known to do much more good than a sermon. Again: there are white lies and there are black lies: there are also white jokes and black jokes; but albeit, a lie, whether white or black, is still a lie; and a joke, whether white or black, is still a joke; lies are at all times highly reprehensible, while jokes at all times are not. There are practical jokes and theoretical jokes: moral jokes and physical jokes: there are, moreover, jokes which are based upon falsehood and jokes which are based upon truth; but the jokes to which I am anxious to direct your attention, are those in which falsehood is involved. Now, it seems to ​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 ​
The Letter.

​joke, be so awfully reckless, as to place himself thus in a position to be torn from the bosom of his family—to be branded as a felon—a common felon—and compelled to work in ignominious chains."

"However improbable it may appear," said Sylvester, "that any one besides myself wrote that letter, I repeat—most firmly and most solemnly repeat—that it never was written by me. You remember the note that was found at the cottage—the note addressed to Rosalie—the hand in which that was written resembled mine as strongly as this does, and I have not the slightest doubt that the person who wrote the one wrote the other."

"Well; it's very mysterious," said the reverend gentleman. "Of course, I am bound to believe you on your honour; still I must say it's very mysterious."

"It is," returned Sylvester, "very mysterious. But I assure you, my dear aunt—I do assure you both—that I would not be guilty of so great an act of folly."

"I am sure that you would not my dear," said Aunt Eleanor. "I'm perfectly satisfied now, but I thought—I did think—that you might perhaps have done it by way of a jest. I am now, however, firmly convinced you did not, and you must therefore forgive me for supposing that I was justified by that letter in believing that you did."

The reverend gentleman scarcely even then knew what to make of it: nor did he much care about saying another syllable on the subject; he saw more clearly than he had ever seen before that Aunt Eleanor was an amiable affectionate creature, who was anxious to take the most charitable view of everything that could be said to involve a doubt, and was therefore most anxious for Sylvester to leave; but before he was able to give an intimation of this anxiety, they were joined by the doctor and Mrs. Delolme, whose presence prevented an interesting scene which the reverend gentleman had in contemplation.