Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 25

Having related in the preceding chapter the only incident of importance connected with this history, which occurred during Sylvester's residence with Mr. Scholefield, it will be necessary now to proceed from that period at which he passed with eclat, both the college and the hall.

Finding a strict adherence to that regimen, to which he had been accustomed while under Mr. Scholefield's roof, now most inconvenient, he gradually reacquired the habit of living as those whom he visited lived; and, as he did so, his somnambulism—of which he was still unconscious—returned.

It did not, however, develope itself strongly at first: but, by degrees, he could eat, drink, walk, converse, read, write, compose, and translate, with as much facility while asleep as he could when awake. It frequently puzzled him, when, on rising in the morning, he found a mass of matter on the table which had been composed by him in the course of the night: indeed, he had not left the house of Mr. Scholefield more than a month, when he discovered in one of his drawers an elaborate Treatise on the Functions of the Heart, of the composition of which ​he had no recollection, although it had been manifestly written by himself.

Nor was this all: essays and other articles, with which he occasionally furnished the various medical journals, were written during sleep: he had but to commence or think about one in the evening, no matter how difficult the subject, to find it completed in the monrning when he rose.

These circumstances, constantly occurring as they did, engendered a peculiar species of superstition. He imagined that he was under the influence of Genii, and this idea led him into abstruse speculations on supernatural influences in general; in which speculations, as a matter of gratitude, those Genii rendered him some powerful assistance, but only of course when their slave was asleep.

He had, however, too much knowledge to progress in the black art to any great extent: his reasoning powers were too acute to allow him to embrace that pseudo science: still he felt involved in a mystery, the solution of which he held to be beyond all human power, and while with reason he annihilated the temples of the Genii, he without reason clung to the ruins still.

But even then his somnambulism was not confined to his chambers. Sometimes he would walk when the moon was up with a lamp in his hand, which, although extinguished, he fancied illumined all around: sometimes he would rise about three o'clock, walk to the Serpentine, fast asleep, bathe for an hour, dress himself, and then return to bed; and frequently, when he had been to a ball, would he return in an hour or two, recommence dancing, and stop till the last, while all whom he met, or with whom he conversed, were unconscious of the fact of his being asleep.

On one occasion, four of his most esteemed friends called at his lodgings about five o'clock—the hour at which he invariably dined—and acted and talked precisely as if they had made up their minds to stop. He would, at any other time, have been very glad to see them; but, as he wanted his dinner, he felt their presence, then, to be extremely inconvenient; and soon began to feel most impatient for their departure. But they had not the slightest notion of starting: not they. There they were, and there they stuck, wondering what highly-important personage had been invited to meet them, for they all felt that he must be a person of great distinction, to induce Sylvester to keep them waiting so long.

"I say," inquired one of them, about six o'clock; "whom are you waiting for?"

"Whom am I waiting for! No one," said Sylvester.

Oh, I thought you were waiting for some one.

"No. What induced you to think that I was?"

"I thought so merely because it's six o'clock. That's all!"

"It is six," said Sylvester, looking at his watch, and, as he did so, he privately wished they'd be off, but of this they had not even the most remote idea; and their manifest tenacity to the place was, in his view, amazing. He couldn't understand it. They never called before at such an hour; nor had he ever known them to linger so long. Had one, or ​even two, of them dropped in upon him, he wouldn't have thought much about it; but the idea of four having called at the same time—and that, too, at such a time—certainly did strike him as being most strange.

Half-past six arrived, and there they were still—impatient but merry—hungry but gay—indulging in pointed but lively allusions to maiden dinners and wolfish guests, which, to Sylvester, were wholly incomprehensible.

"Is your cook ill, old fellow?" said one of them.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I thought that she might have been seized with something suddenly."

"She may have been, for aught I know," said Sylvester, who joined in the general laugh. "I have not had the pleasure of either seeing her lately, or receiving anything from her."

They now thought that something must have occurred in the kitchen, and attributed Sylvester's obvious impatience to some peculiar species of domestic mortification. They, therefore, resolved on waiting till seven without making any further allusion to the subject; but, before that hour had arrived, Sylvester—finding they wouldn't go—said, boldly, "I'll tell you what, gentlemen, I must have my dinner!"

"Do so, by all means," said one of them; "oh, yes; have it up at once."

Well. Sylvester certainly thought this cool; but as it was then quite clear that they meant to see him eat it, he turned and rang the bell.

"Bring up the dinner," said he, when the servant entered.

"Here, sir; in this room?"

"Yes."

The servant looked, and frowned upon them all, which was, perhaps, but natural, seeing that cook had, for nearly two hours, been frowning upon her. She left the room, however, immediately; and on her return laid the cloth for one! The guests glanced at each other, as if they didn't understand this—nor did they: but, conceiving that the servant might feel confused, and that, in her confusion, she had become quite oblivious, they were silent. When, however, the girl—whom they now watched narrowly—brought up the tray, and placed on the table nothing but a small calf's tongue, and a couple of chickens done to rags, the case became, in their judgment, serious.

"I say, old fellow, how's this?" said one of them; "are you going to dine alone?"

"Unless you'll have a cut in with me," replied Sylvester.

"A cut in? What! four or five fellows, as hungry as wolves, cut into a couple of chickens! You know, I suppose, that we came to dine with you?"

"Dine with me? No! Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I'd no idea of it!"

"Not after having invited us?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you not send notes to all of us this morning, inviting us to dine with you at five?"

​"No: certainly not!"

"Well, but I received one."

"And so did I!—and I!—and I!" cried the rest.

"But not from me. Have you one of them with you?"

Their hands were in their pockets in an instant, but they found that not one of the notes had been brought.

"And have you been waiting all this time for dinner?"

"Of course."

"And I have been waiting for you to go! It's a hoax! But come along: we'll soon make it all right."

"Stop a minute," said one, "for I'm ready to drop!" And seizing a chicken, he had a "cut in." The rest followed his example, for their appetites were keen; and when they had managed to pick all the bones, which they did in the space of three minutes, Sylvester took them to the nearest hotel, and ordered the best dinner that could be served up at eight.

The "hoax," as they all now conceived it to be, was a source of much merriment during the evening. It gave a zest to the dinner, a zest to the wine, and a zest to every joke that was uttered. They enjoyed themselves exceedingly—infinitely more than they could otherwise have done; and, on leaving, they all pronounced it to be the merriest evening they had ever spent.

It was about twelve when Sylvester returned to his lodgings, and in ten minutes after his return he was in bed and asleep. He had not, however, been asleep long, when—his imagination being somewhat heated by wine—he commenced dreaming; and as this led to results which will be anon explained, it will be as well for the dream itself to be at once related.

In the first place, then, he imagined himself a candidate for the representation of his native county. A requisition, signed by all the freeholders in the county save one, had been forwarded to him, and as he had therefore consented to stand, the whole of the scenes which are held to be inseparable from a contested election, then passed in review before him. The formation of the committee—the preliminary meetings—the nomination—the election—the declaration—the chairing—and the ball, followed each other in rapid succession. He was returned, of course: for there was only one man who voted against him, and that was the other candidate, whom he challenged in consequence: fought, with two pieces of ordnance carrying twenty-four pounders, and wounded in the ear; and having accomplished all this, came to town, where he then was engaged in the preparation of various highly important bills, which he intended to submit to the house without delay.

Having arrived at this interesting point, he imagined that that was the very day on which his presence in the house was expected, and as it soon came down to the hour at which two honourable members would be waiting to introduce him, he rose, and having dressed with care, walked down to the House, with one of his "bills"—which was, in reality, a "Treatise on the Ear"—under his arm.

This was about half-past twelve; for the whole of the dream had ​not occupied more than three minutes; and, on reaching the House, into which he well knew the way, having been frequently under the gallery, he looked about the lobby for the honourable members whom he expected would be waiting to receive him; when, being unable to recognise them there, he walked boldly into the house, bowed to the Speaker, and took his seat.

The confident air with which he entered, would alone have been sufficient to disarm all suspicion of his being a stranger, if even any such suspicion had been excited; but as it occurred just after a general election, when a host of new members are almost invariably returned, the door-keepers thought of course that he was one of them.

Nor did the members themselves for a moment suspect that he was not: in fact, the idea of his being an intruder, never occurred to any one of them. They all thought that of course he was one of the new members; and, being interested in his appearance, inquired anxiously of each other who he was.

Sylvester, however, took no notice of them; that is to say, individually: he viewed them only in the mass: his attention was fixed upon those who addressed the house; the arguments adduced by some of whom he rose to answer, but being unable to catch the Speaker's eye, others followed, and he resumed his seat.

The question before the house on that occasion, had reference to the practice of baking the dinners of the poor on the Sunday, and Sylvester felt disgusted with the wild fanaticism by which the speeches of some of the opponents of that practice were characterised. It was hence that he rose to reply to them, and was sorry when he found himself compelled to resume his seat. He was still, however, on the qui vive; and as the honourable member who was then speaking, was the most malignant, bigoted, superficial, self-sufficient, persecuting, narrow-minded puritan of them all, the very moment he had finished, Sylvester, fired with indignation, started up, caught the eye of the Speaker, and commenced.

He was, however, for a moment compelled to pause; for the house, as a matter of courtesy, cheered him; and when the cheering had subsided into the most profound silence, he felt himself much more calm and said,

"Sir,—In every society, and in every circle, in every house, institution, or assembly, in which religious enthusiasm has been tolerated, it has engendered dissensions, bitterness, heart-burnings, and hatred—severed friendships, subdued affections, destroyed brotherly love and sympathy—converted harmony into discord, happiness into misery, and filled the mind in which sweet peace reigned, with fearful apprehensions. (Cheers.) Sir, religious enthusiasm, as it is called, but which I call fanaticism, is as distinct from religion itself, as intolerance is from charity, as humility is from pride, as meekness is from arrogance, or as christian forbearance is from cruel persecution. Its essence is tyranny: its history has been written in blood. Ignorance is one of its chief characteristics, and even where the germs of genius have struck root in the soil, it has sprung up, and waved and bloomed but to be blasted. Its presumption shocks heaven. It would impiously wrest the sword of Justice, and the sceptre of Mercy, from the hands of the Eternal God. ​(Great sensation.) To the advancement of human knowledge it has been opposed: to the progress of science it has ever been a bitter foe. The pretence of the puritans is, and always has been, that they fear that science will compass the destruction of religion! Science compass the destruction of religion! It is false that they have any such fear; and if it were true, the inspiration of that fear is of itself impious. Religion derives its light from truth, even as the moon derives her lustre from the sun. It is based upon truth, and truth is eternal:

No! (continued Sylvester, when the cheering had subsided.) It is not that they fear the destruction of religion: they are apprehensive only of the destruction of that fanaticism which stands between darkness and light. It therefore behoves us, as the chosen representatives of the people, whose morality and whose happiness it is our duty to promote, it behoves us, I say, when we see this religious enthusiasm, or rather this fanaticism, thus endeavouring to creep in here, to repudiate it in limine. (Cheers.) They who are anxious to introduce it may be pure—say that they may be—I do not know that they are not; but this I know, there's nothing looks so much like a good shilling as a bad one. (Loud laughter.) Let us throw out at once this fanatical bill: let us crush this and every other attempt to circumscribe the already too limited comforts of the poor, and instead of sowing religious dissensions among the people, creating discord, and inspiring them with hatred of each other; let us legislate with a view to promote the cultivation of those kindly, beautiful, generous, philanthropic feelings which impart a zest to life, and which bind man to man."

At the conclusion of this speech, which was hailed with loud cheers, and which really was delivered with much point and energy, Sylvester at once resumed his seat; but while the members around him were crying—"Who is he?" in vain—for none could tell them—he rose and left the house.