Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 30

Aunt Eleanor—notwithstanding her apparent tranquillity while speaking to Legge and his friend-no sooner returned to her chamber alone than she burst into tears, for the recollection of her brother's death came again full upon her, and all her former painful apprehensions were renewed. She felt that his spirit still hovered around her—that it had something dreadful to communicate, and that it could not rest until that communication had been made. She wished it would appear to her then: she absolutely prayed that it might then appear; and, while contemplating with feelings of dread the possibility of its appearance, her imagination, being excited strongly at the time, at once created a figure—the very figure of her brother—which stood with an expression of sorrow before her.

She started—and for a time ceased to breathe—and while she glared at the spectre, she became cold as death. There it stood, perfectly motionless and silent, and there it continued to stand, until, inspiring sufficient courage, she exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper, "Dear brother, why are you here?"

This broke the charm. The spectre instantly vanished. But it came again when all was still, and she then saw it even more distinctly than before.

She rose to approach it with feelings of awe, but, as she advanced, it receded, until it completely disappeared beneath the bed-clothes. This was strange, certainly—very strange indeed. She couldn't at all understand it. Could it be possible that she had been deceived? Could she have beheld it in imagination merely? She passed her hands over her eyes, and then, in order to be sure that she was perfectly conscious, proceeded to bathe them.

Again she looked round. The spirit had fled. She turned down the bed-clothes. No spectre was there. But the idea of getting into a bed in which she conceived that a spirit had taken refuge, appeared to her to be monstrous. She, therefore, resumed her seat in her easy chair, and, having looked in vain for the spirit's reappearance for nearly an hour, she involuntarily dropped off to sleep, and slept soundly, until Mary at the usual time came to the door.

The reverend gentleman, soon after this, heard that the ghost had revisited the Grange, and, having made minute inquiries, of which the result was the startling information that it had again entered the cottage, he proceeded to call on his dearest friend in a state of intense anxiety.

As he passed through the gate, she descended the stairs, and when they met, he pressed her hand with affectionate warmth, but her pale face inspired him with fearful apprehensions.

​"Dear Eleanor," said he; "you are not well. Have you been much alarmed?"

"I have been somewhat alarmed," she replied, as she slightly smiled, and led him into the parlour. "Then you have heard," she continued, "you have heard of this mysterious occurrence."

"I heard that the people in the village were alarmed by the appearance of a spirit which they saw enter here. At least they imagined that they saw it. Whether they did or not, of course I must leave. I presume that you saw nothing of it?"

"I saw it as distinctly as I now see you here."

"Is it possible."

"Not at the time it was seen by them, but subsequently, while I was sitting in my chamber."

"Heaven preserve us!"

"I saw it twice; and, as I feared, it was the spirit of my poor, dear brother."

"What, and did it speak to you?"

"No. I spoke to it; but it instantly vanished, and when it reappeared, I rose to approach it; but again it vanished, and I saw it no more."

"You amaze me! Then you absolutely saw its countenance?"

"Yes: and it was that of my poor unhappy brother."

"Bless my heart alive; why, what on earth can it mean. There must be some dreadful mystery at the bottom of all this. It was silent, you say; quite silent?"

"Quite."

"Did it not intimate anything by gestures?"

"Nothing. It was perfectly motionless."

"Strange, very strange. It could not have appeared without an object, and one would have thought that that object, whatever it might be, would have been, of course, communicated in some way. You could not have been mistaken? You were not, I presume, at the time, dreaming?"

"Oh, dear me, no; I was sitting in my chair."

"Well. There are strange things, both in heaven and on earth. Did Sylvester see it, too?"

"No: in this house it appeared to me only. He does not even know that I have seen it: nor do I wish him to know, feeling perfectly sure that the knowledge of my having seen the spirit of his father would break his heart."

"Don't you think it would be prudent to put him on his guard? It may appear to him, and that with the view of revealing some highly-important secret, and, if taken by surprise, he may be too much excited and confused to understand it. What do you think?"

"I am at all times anxious to be guided by you; but it strikes me that when you reflect upon the probable consequences, you will wish to conceal it from him, at least for the present."

"You may be right: I am quite inclined to believe that Let it be so. We may know more anon."

​At this moment Sylvester entered the room, and, having greeted both his aunt and her reverend friend warmly, proceeded to ascertain what had occurred.

"Was there anything the matter last night?" he inquired.

"Do you mean, my dear, when I knocked at your door?"

"Yes: why did you knock?"

"I merely thought that you might have been disturbed."

"What induced you to think so?"

"Why, the people in the village imagined they saw a ghost—"

"What, again!"

"Yes; and some of them declared that they saw it come here."

"How very extraordinary! Mystery follows me, go where I may. you know the persons who fancied they saw it come here?"

"Legge was one: the person who keeps the public-house."

"I'll go over and speak to Legge immediately after breakfast. He is rather a superior man, too; is he not? I speak, of course, with reference to his position."

"Exactly," returned the reverend gentleman. "He is a superior man: a man of strong mind, and good, plain, common sense."

"And a kind creature, too," said Aunt Eleanor, "I'm sure. He came over last night, in order to ascertain if he could render me any assistance."

"Well. I'll go and speak to him," said Sylvester; "and then I shall hear all about it. It certainly is most mysterious. I can't understand it at all."

It will not be incorrect to observe, that these observations were induced by the thought that he might, unconsciously, have been the cause of all. He had previously no conception of being a somnambulist, but, as a remarkable case of somnambulism had just before been published, he thought it possible—just possible—that he was, in reality, a somnambulist himself. He did not—he could not—believe that he was; but feeling, of course, anxious—as the thought had been conceived—to ascertain whether he really was or not, he at once resolved on viewing every circumstance that had occurred in immediate connexion with that.

In pursuance of this resolution, he immediately after breakfast left the cottage, and went to the Crumpet and Crown. Obadiah, and Pokey, and Quocks, were there, with Bobber, and several others, and, as he was perfectly unknown to them all, he was, of course, minutely examined from head to foot as he entered.

"I say," whispered Pokey, in the ear of Obadiah; "who's he?"

"A government spy, you fool. Don't your ideas fructify?"

"Is that a spy?"

"Of course! Hold your tongue."

"But how do you know?"

"I know by the cut of him. Mind what you're after. Bobby Peel has sent him down to feel the pulse of the eternal people. You'll see how I'll cook his goose for him, presently. Fine morning, sir," he added, addressing Sylvester, who had taken a seat immediately opposite.

​"It is, indeed," said Sylvester, "a beautiful morning."

"Barleys want rain, sir."

"You have not yet been able to get much barley in, have you?"

"Not get it in, sir! What not here the latter end of May!"

"They haven't got much barley in, about here," observed Quocks.

"What, not barley?"

"No, not barley. Look at the drought we've had. How could they get it in? The land's as dry and hard as the road."

Sylvester called for a glass of ale, which Mrs. Legge brought with a most winning smile.

"Is that the way you means to cook his goose?" whispered Pokey.

"Stop a bit, my Briton," replied Obadiah; "you'll know more about it, my boy, by-and-bye. He who deals with a deep 'un, must be deep himself: you can't get all out of a spy in a hurry. The drought, sir, I believe, has been pretty general," he added, turning to Sylvester; "how are the wheats in your part of the country?"

"That which I saw along the road looked well."

"The heavy-land wheats about here don't look so much amiss, but those on the light lands are perished. Which road, sir, do you allude to?"

"The road between here and London."

"Oh, London! Ah, exactly. Didn't I tell you so?" he added, turning to Pokey; "I'd have bet ten to one of it! I knew what he was, the very moment I saw him. I don't want to look at a man twice to know who and what he is! Not a bit of it! Have you just arrived from London, sir?"

"I came yesterday."

"Oh, indeed. And what, may I ask, do you think of the spy system generally?"

"The spy system?"

"Aye: you know, in Harry the Eighth's time, they did the trick very deliberately."

"Upon my word, you give me credit for more knowledge than I possess."

"What, don't you remember when Peter the Great came over here just before the French Revolution, when Buonaparte threatened to welt the whole world, and sent Robespierre after the Dutch?"

"Really," said Sylvester, smiling; "you are much too learned for me. I never before heard that Peter the Great, Buonaparte, and Robespierre were so intimately connected."

"Why, they all lived in juxtaposition."

"Obadiah," said Quocks, calmly; "don't be an ass."

"What do you mean?" cried Obadiah, indignantly.

"Hold your tongue. Don't expose yourself before strangers."

Obadiah thought this very severe, and was about to inflict upon Quocks an extremely cutting observation; but as Legge, who had been hopping down some beer, entered the room at the moment, Quocks escaped that infliction.

​"Good morning, sir," said Legge; addressing Sylvester, whom he had quite forgotten.

"Good morning," returned Sylvester. "You were somewhat alarmed last night, were you not?"

"Well; it's true we were, rather. You have heard of it, of course?"

"I heard of it this morning."

"A mysterious piece of business, sir, that. I can't understand it!"

"Nor can I. It is indeed mysterious."

"He's the ghost for a thousand," whispered Obadiah.

"And a spy, too?" said Pokey.

"Both, my boy. I'll bet ten to one of it. Now, you'll just see how I'll pump him. You didn't see the ghost then, yourself, sir?" he added, addressing Sylvester; and then, turning to Pokey, with a wink of great significance.

"No," replied Sylvester. "I wish that I had. By the way, I have to thank you, Mr. Legge, for your attention to my aunt."

"Your aunt, sir?" said Legge. "Upon my word, sir, I haven't the pleasure of knowing you?"

My name is Sound."

"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I hope you're quite well, sir. Upon my word, I'd quite forgotten you. I knew I'd seen you somewhere, too! How is Mrs. Sound, this morning?"

"Not quite so well."

"I don't wonder at it. A thing of this sort must be very alarming to her. I know it gets over me! I can't make it out at all!"

"He's a government spy, is'nt he?" whispered Pokey to Obadiah.

"How do you know that he isn't?"

"And the ghost, too!"

"He may be! You can't tell he's not?"

"You saw this ghost, I believe?" said Sylvester.

"Oh! we all saw it!" returned Legge.

"Distinctly?"

"As distinctly as a thing of the kind could be seen!"

"And what shape did it assume? What did it look like?"

"Why the figure was that of a man: tall—very tall: it stood, I should say, seven feet high."

"Seven feet!" cried Pokey; "more nearer yards!"

"Imagination probably added to its height," observed Sylvester. "But how did it act?"

"Why, sir," replied Legge, "when it was first seen, it was walking up and down just before the cottage-gate; and, from the description, I imagined it might be smoking a cigar; for only one eye, it was said, could be seen, and that was an eye of fire."

"It was no cigar," said Pokey; "not a bit of it. It was an eye—safe!"

"Well," resumed Sylvester; "and did it continue to walk up and down?"

"For a time," replied Legge; "but it afterwards came here—to this very door—and knocked, and lifted up the latch; but somehow or other, I felt afraid at the time to let it in!"

​"I wish that you had done so!" said Sylvester.

"Then do you not think that it was really a ghost?"

"Why, the thing is so extraordinary, that I scarcely know what to think! But had you opened the door at the time, you would have seen at once whether it was a ghost or not."

"I'll do so if it should come again. I've made up my mind to that."

"That's the only way to satisfy yourself on the point. Take hold of it, if you can! You need not have recourse to any violence! Touch it; and if it be tangible, you may then, of course, be quite sure of its being no ghost."

"But if I were to find that it was not a ghost—if I were to catch any fellow playing such a trick as that—I'd make him remember it the longest day he had to live."

"And so would I!" cried Mrs. Legge. "I'd scratch his very eyes out !"

"I'd murder him right off!" exclaimed Pokey.

"And serve him right, too," said Quocks. "Hanging's too good for him."

"If," observed Sylvester, calmly, "a man in a state of consciousness, and with the view of creating alarm, were to be guilty of so disgraceful and dangerous an act, he would deserve to be punished with the utmost severity; but, if even the figure which you saw last night be a man, it does not of necessity follow that he deserves the rough treatment you contemplate. There are men who are in the habit of walking in their sleep, and who perform acts of the most extraordinary character while in a state of somnambulism; and it certainly would not be just to treat a man of that description with as much severity as you would treat a heartless, impious scoundrel, whose sole object is to inspire the most ap- palling species of apprehension!"

"Very true: very good!" said Legge. "That's right: quite right."

"If I were to see this figure," resumed Sylvester—"I'm not in the habit of boasting, nor do I pretend to any extraordinary valour—but if I were to see it, I should go right up to it at once. I should soon, of course, be able to discover what it was; and if I found it to be a man, and not the shade of a man, merely; my very first object would be to ascertain if he were asleep. If I found that he was, I should take the utmost care of him; but if on the contrary I found that he was not, I'd secure the villain instantly, and bring him to justice."

"That's a very proper view to take of the matter," observed Legge.

"Aye; but that's no man," cried Pokey. "There an't a mite of flesh and blood about it."

"I can scarcely believe that it is a man myself," said Legge. "No man could have gone through the panel of a door as that did—eh, Quocks?"

"No," replied Quocks, "not a bit of it. I don't mean to say that no man could go through; but I do mean to say that if he did, he'd make a hole in it, which wouldn't be closed up by magic, as that was."

"Well," said Sylvester, rising, "it is altogether a most extraordinary occurrence; still, were I to see the figure, I certainly should ascertain, ​if possible, what it really was. Good morning, gentlemen," he added; "good morning."

"That's no fool," observed Legge, when Sylvester had left.

"Not a bit of it," said Quocks. "He knows a thing or two, and takes more than one view of a question."

"Drant offered to bet ten to one about his being a government spy," observed Pokey; and this observation produced a hearty laugh.

"Laugh away!" cried Obadiah. "Laugh away, my boys! But just look here! Can you prove that he isn't? Come now! It's easy to laugh: any fool may laugh; but can any of you prove that he isn't a spy?"

"Can any one here prove that you are not one?" said Quocks.

"Me!" cried Obadiah, indignantly. "Me a spy? Me? Where's the gold that could buy me? I scorn the vile fructifying insinuation. What! place me in the juxtaposition of a wretch who would do any cold-blooded business for money—a fellow who'd swear a man's life away just as soon as look at him—a villain, a boney fide villain, whose trade is that of tempting men merely to betray 'em! I call it a most amalgamating insult! No man alive has a right to insult another by such a monstrous insinuation as that!"

"Then why did you thus insult the nephew of Mrs. Sound?"

"I didn't tell him that he was a spy!"

"Nor did I tell you that you were a spy. You asked if any one could prove that he was not: I asked if any one could prove that you were not. I believe one to be as much of a spy as the other; but you forget that when you denounce men for insinuating that which you have insinuated, you, in effect, denounce yourself."

"Well; but look you here: he was quite a stranger."

"What of that? Did that justify you in setting him down for a spy?"

"But he looked like a spy: he came in like a spy, and acted as much like a spy, as I ever saw a man in my life."

"Did you ever see a spy?"

"Why, I can't say that ever I did see one."

"Then how is it possible for you to know when a man either looks or acts like one? Besides, the idea of a spy being sent down here, is too absurd to be thought of."

"Bobby Peel might, you know, send one down just to see, you know, which way the wind blows!"

"Bobby Peel!—psha! What do you think Bobby Peel cares about the wind in a place like this?"

"What! Do you mean to say, then, that you think he don't care?"

"Not a straw! Why should he?"

"Why should he? What, then, are we to be tyrannised over and trampled upon by a plundering lot of oligarchical pensioners, and not have a voice in the matter at all."

"Obadiah," said Quocks. "You'll excuse me; but, as true as I'm alive, Obadiah, you're a fool."

"It's all very well to get over it in that way: there's nothing more easy than to call a man a fool: there's no argument in it! But prove me ​to be one: that's the point of the compass! Place me in juxtaposition with any man in Europe—I don't care who he is!—and if he knows anything of history, he'll find I can tell him what's what. You may call me a fool just as long as you please: I don't care a button about what you call me. Prove me to be one—that's the teaser my boy!—prove me,if you can, to be a boney fide fool, and I'll stand glasses round."

"What do you mean by boney fide?" inquired Pokey.

"Boney fide! Send I may live! What, don't you know what boney fide means? Where did you go to school? Who had the fructification of your ignorant ideas? Boney fide means out-and-out of course. A boney fide fool, is an out-and-out fool; and I should like to see the man who can prove me to be one."

"I should like to see the man who can prove that you are not one," said Quocks, who indignantly finished his beer, and then, without condescending to utter another syllable, left them.

"Poor Quocks!" cried Obadiah. "He can't bear to be beaten! I don't like to be hard upon any man alive, but I can't help being a little hard upon him: he's so ignorant of history."

"But you don't mean to say—" observed Pokey, "you can't mean to say, that you've beaten him this morning!"

"Beaten him! What did he run away for? I'd beat half a million of men like him before breakfast! Why, I'll bet you what you like that, if you were to offer him five hundred pounds, he couldn't tell you who Peter the Great's mother was! What's the use of a man like that. I don't want to boast, but he's no more fit to be put in juxtaposition with me, than Bobby Peel is fit to be put in juxtaposition with Julius Cæsar. There's nothing in him! In all that relates to boney fide argument, he's what I should call a mere non compos; and he knows just as much about fructifying logic as Harry the Eighth knew about this pint pot. The mind of a man must be properly amalgamated to be in a juxtaposition to stand against one who has studied things as I have. Study's the point, my boys! no getting on without study. Study will beat the world hollow; and Quocks has got no study in him."

"Well," said Pokey, "I must go to work. I've got a pair of buckskins to finish to day."

"Business must be attended to," observed Obadiah; who, notwithstanding the loss of Pokey, continued to work his amalgamated fructifying boney fide juxtaposition until he was left quite alone.

Sylvester, meanwhile, deeply reflected, not only upon the events of the preceding night, but upon the whole of the equally mysterious circumstances which had occurred to him since he left the house of Mr. Scholefield. The event, however, upon which he dwelt chiefly, was that which formed the ground of Sir Charles Julian's action; and when he viewed the nature of the evidence against him, in connexion with the idea of his being a somnambulist, it appeared to him to be perfectly clear that to nothing but somnambulism could it be ascribed.

But how was the fact of his being a somnambulist to be proved? That was the primary question. The readiest and most effectual way of proving it appeared to be that of communicating the idea to some one ​by whom he might be watched; but his anxiety to conceal it from his aunt, whose mind he well knew would be for ever after filled with apprehension, induced him eventually to decide on endeavouring to prove it himself.

He therefore set to work and conceived various schemes, the operation of which were in his view calculated to prove the thing beyond all doubt, and having decided at length upon one which appeared to be the easiest and also the best, he, on retiring that night about ten, attached to one of his ancles a string, which communicated with a bell which he ingeniously hung, so that it would of necessity ring in the event of his getting out of bed, and at the same time prevent him from leaving the room.

Having artfully adjusted this machinery to his entire satisfaction he went to sleep, and as his thoughts soon afterwards reverted to the "ghost," which he then felt an extremely strong desire to see, he with great deliberation removed the string from his ancle, rose, dressed himself, and left the house.

For some time he walked leisurely up and down the road in the full expectation of seeing this spectre, but as in this he was, as a matter of course, disappointed, he, perceiving a light at the Crumpet and Crown, and hearing voices within, at length went to the door.

That night Mrs. Legge, who had been having some more private brandy-and-water, would have the door bolted, and Sylvester in consequence could not get in. He therefore knocked, and immediately heard such a hissing as that which might proceed from a dozen young serpents anxious to cry simultaneously "Hush!"

"There it is!" said Pokey.

"That's it!" exclaimed Obadiah.

"It's the same knock," observed Quocks.

"Exactly!" cried Legge. "Now then, what's to be done? Shall I open the door?"

"I'll have no ghost in this house to-night, if I know it," said Mrs. Legge, pointedly; "not if I know it."

"Go to bed, my dear," observed Legge; "go to bed."

"I shan't go to bed! you're a rogue to me, Legge, you know you are."

"Hark!" cried Legge, who had been so used to these affectionate observations that they really passed by him as the "idle wind." "Did you hear?"

"What!" exclaimed Pokey.

"A groan. Shall I open the door? Will you back me?"

"I will," replied Quocks, "at all events."

"Then the door shall be opened."

"Don't!" cried Pokey. "Don't! pray don't!"

Legge rose; but Mrs. Legge on the instant threw her arms round his neck, and cleverly burst into tears!

Legge couldn't stand this. He could, as well as any man in England; stand any given quantity of abuse, but all was over the very moment he saw a tear. Mrs. Legge knew this—of course she knew it—she hadn't ​lived all those years with him without finding that out!—it wasn't at all likely.

"If you won't go," said Quocks, who also knew Legge's weakness in this respect, "I will."

"Don't! Quocks!—Mr. Quocks!—don't!" cried Pokey. "For God's sake, don't do nothing of the sort.

"Why not?" demanded Quocks. "Hark! hark!" he added, as Sylvester again knocked. "I will go, and that's all about it."

"You shan't!" exclaimed Mrs. Legge, seizing his arm.

"What do you mean, woman?"

"Look at me—Mr. Quocks—pray consider my children."

Quocks had children of his own. He, therefore, resumed his seat in silence.

"Well, I'm blow'd if I won't go," cried Bobber.

"Mr. Bobber," said Mrs. Legge, "haven't you a sister depending upon you? If anything should happen to you what will become of her?"

Bobber poured out another glass of ale.

"Well, but this ought to be seen to," cried Pokey. "You remember what that young gentleman said? I'll open the door myself."

"I believe," said Mrs. Legge, "that you have an aged father. Do you wish him to come to the workhouse? Beware!"

Pokey knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and re-filled it.

"Don't you think that we'd better just ask who it is?" said Obadiah.

"You may open the door, if you like," said Mrs. Legge, who well knew that he dared do nothing of the sort.

"No," returned Obadiah, "not a bit of it! I shall not open the door. Why don't you open it? I've heard that ghosts won't touch virtuous women."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Legge, angrily.

"Oh! I meant no offence. I merely said that I had heard that virtuous women were safe."

"Since it's come to that," cried Mrs. Legge, indignantly, "I'll open the door myself, if I die for it."

Obadiah now seized the poker, and Quocks spat in his hand, in order to grasp his stick firmly, while Pokey and Bobber turned up their cuffs and doubled their fists.

"Who's there?" demanded Mrs. Legge.

"'Tis I," replied Sylvester; "don't be alarmed."

The bolt was withdrawn; the latch was raised, and in walked Sylvester calmly.

The moment he entered, Pokey and Bobber resumed their seats, and and as Obadiah relinquished the poker, Quocks dropped his stick between his legs and felt better.

"I've been looking for this ghost," observed Sylvester, "but I can see nothing of it. Have you seen it to-night?"

"Not to-night, sir," replied Legge. "No, I haven't heard of it to-night."

"I should like to see it very much indeed. Am I too late to have a little brandy-and-water?"

​
Obadiah expressing his sentiments.

​"Oh, dear me—no: not at all, sir."

"These gentlemen probably will join me? Suppose, Mr. Legge, we have glasses round?"

"If you please, sir," replied Legge, who really felt very much obliged to him: "warm, sir—or cold?"

"Suit the tastes of these gentlemen; I'll have it cold."

"But really, sir," observed Quocks, "we don't wish that."

"You're a good fellow, I believe," returned Sylvester. "It appears to me that you are all good fellows; and as such you'll not refuse to drink with me?"

"Certainly not, sir. We're very much obliged to you, only we don't like to impose on goodnature, sir; that's all."

"If that be all, then, don't say another word about it."

Legge—who had a brilliant eye to business—produced five glasses of brandy-and-water, and Sylvester, on counting them, observed, "You, of course, never drink brandy-and-water, yourself?"

"Much obliged to you," said Legge, who at once took the hint, but had no more idea of his guest being asleep than he had of his being the "spectre." Nay, it is questionable whether he would have believed it, if he had even been told.

"Well," said Sylvester, "I wonder whether this mysterious swell intends to visit us to-night."

"The swell, sir," observed Legge; "beg pardon; whom do you mean?"

"The ghost!"

"Oh," cried Legge, who raised a hearty laugh, in which the rest, as a matter of gratitude, joined. "The idea of calling a ghost a swell. Well, I never heard anything better in my life."

"It's a boney fide 'un, that is," observed Obadiah. "Julius Cæsar couldn't have made a better joke than that."

"Was Julius Cæsar very fond of joking?" inquired Sylvester.

"Fond of joking! What! don't you remember when he and Pompey there welted the Dutch, what a game they had with 'em? Why, there wasn't a more fructifying joker in the world: he was the very very first original inventor of joking: Joe Miller stole the whole of his jokes from Julius Cæsar."

"Indeed! Well now, I wasn't aware of that."

"Oh, yes. Why, didn't the Greeks deify him—isn't he the Heathen god of joking?"

"Very likely. I thought it had been Momus."

"Momus! Momus was a fool to him. He couldn't hold the candle to Julius Cæsar.

"That's true," observed Sylvester, who was highly amused.

"He wasn't fit to tie Julius Cæsar's shoe-strings," continued Obadiah. "There isn't a man alive like him, with the exception of Harry Brougham, and he's a rattler. Put all the Bobby Peels you can find in a lump, and they won't come half up to Harry Brougham."

"Brougham's a great man," said Sylvester.

"A great man, sir! He's a cut above a great man: he's what I call ​a boney fide fructifier of freedom. Talk of the Tories. Your Tories can't be put in juxtaposition with him. Look at 'em. What are they? A plundering set of blood-sucking pensioners, screwing a matter of ninety millions a year out of the vitals of the people, and putting men in prison for speaking their mind, while their bishops are living on the fat of the land. Do you call this liberty?" he continued, rising with the view of giving more emphatic expression to his sentiments. "Do you call this fructifying freedom? If the people were not most amalgamated fools they'd hang, draw, and quarter the lot. Look at France—would they have it? Look at Spain—would they stand it? Look anywhere you like—I don't care where you look: take Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and point out a people groaning under such a heap of national debt, if you can. Look at the currency—there's a currency. Look at the corn-laws—only look at 'em. Was there ever such a mighty mass of monstrous corruption—isn't it enough to make one's hair stand on end? If a man becomes poor he must go to the workhouse and live upon gruel and such like muck, while the very men who have made him poor are swimming in sherry, and port, and champagne! Do you call this justice? Is this carrying out the eternal principal of equal rights? I'm for all men in the world being equal—why should'nt they be? A'n't the poor as good as the rich? Haven't they got souls and bodies as well as the rich have? Why should they be crushed? Why should they be ground down and trampled upon? I'm for an equitable adjustment. I'd have whatever money there is in the country equally divided among us all. It belongs to us all as a matter of right, and therefore we all ought to have it. One man should be just as rich as another. The whole system ought to be changed, and it can't be changed without a rattling revolution. A revolution we must have. That would bring the beggarly aristocracy to their senses. That would let your bishops and your parsons and all the rest of your muck know what's what. We must have a revolution: and, mark my words, when we have one they'll know it. What! isn't it monstrous that we should work and slave to let a limited lot of locusts live in luxury? Isn't it disgraceful to our intellects as men that we should suffer a parcel of puppet-show paupers to plunder and propagate the people in this way? Down with them. That's my sentiments! Down with the lot. We'll have no king—no constitution—no aristocracy!—strangle them all:—no bishops—no parsons—no church—no nothing. Down with tyranny and up with freedom: fair, fructifying freedom: unlimited liberty is all we require. Britons never shall be slaves!"

"Bravo," cried Sylvester; "bravo, bravo! Why are you not in the House?"

"The House—the corrupt House of Commons! If I ever put a foot into such a house as that I should feel it a national disgrace. No; if it was honest—if it was pure—if it wasn't what it is a notorious den of thieves—I'd say something to you, but as it's rank, rascally, rampant, and rotten, neither you nor any other man in Europe will ever catch me there."

"I hope you've been amused, sir," observed Legge, aloud. ​"I have indeed," replied Sylvester, smiling.

"Amused, sir!" exclaimed Obadiah, who started again to his feet. "Why, when William the Conqueror welted the French, he said to Boney, said he, 'Now I'll tell you what it is'—"

"Don't let's have any more speechifying," interrupted Quocks.

"What do you mean?" demanded Obadiah, contemptuously.

"I'd rather, myself, hear a song," observed Sylvester; "perhaps you will give us a song instead?"

"A song. With all my heart!" cried Obadiah; "I'm ready for anything in nature. If you want a song, I'm the boy to sing one."

"You can't sing," observed Pokey.

"Not sing, you fool. Why, I'm open to sing against any man in Europe, for anything aside you like to name. Not sing! Why, if you come to that, I'll sing you a song of my own composing. Now then!"

"Stop!" said Sylvester; "you've nothing to drink. Mr. Legge, you'd better replenish these glasses."

Legge, who was always on the qui vive, did so, when Obadiah put down his pipe, and commenced. "Anybody else," said he, "may call it what he likes, but I, my boys, call it

"Bravo!" cried Sylvester; "bravo!"

"What do you think of that, my boys?" exclaimed Obadiah; "that's more than Bobby Peel could do, I'll bet a million."

"And is it really your own composition?" said Sylvester.

"My own, and nobody else's!"

"I should like to have a copy of it."

"That you shall have, with all the pleasure in life, because I know you're a boney fide trump!"

"And won't you let me have a copy?" said Pokey.

"Yes, my brave boy, you shall have a copy, too."

​"And you'll give me a copy, of course," said Quocks.

"Well, I don't mind, because it'll fructify your views."

"You'll give me one, too," cried Bobber, "won't you?"

"Well, you shall have a copy."

"I must have one," said Legge.

"How many more of you?"

"It's such a very pretty song," said Mrs. Legge, archly; "you'll not, of course, refuse to give me a copy of it."

"Well. I'd better have three or four secretaries of state down here, just to assist me. But you shall have copies: I'll take care of that, and you know, if I say that I'll do a thing, I'll do it. There's no mistake at all about me. I'm John Bull, right up and down straight, and I don't care who knows it, that's another thing, my boys."

"Well, but how about the ghost?" suggested Sylvester; "I'm afraid we shall not see it to-night."

"The ghost, sir, may come if it likes," said Obadiah; "or keep away if it likes, and do what it likes. I'd extend the eternal principle of liberty, even to a ghost. But, gentlemen," he added, rising, "I've a toast to propose—a toast which I'm sure you'll all fructify in juxtaposition with as much boney fideness as I do. It is a toast, gentlemen, which reflects upon the country the highest national honour a man can feel: a toast which, setting aside all party questions, is, perhaps, the most exuberant manifestation of manhood it's possible for any nation in Europe to show. The mind may amalgamate, the senses may soar, the human heart which beats in the breast of a man may fructify, and fructify, and keep on continually fructifying, till fructification is lost in the utter annihilation of worlds; but the toast I'm about to propose to you, gentlemen, is one which beats all your philosophy hollow. Gentlemen, we have been honoured to-night with the presence of one who shines a lustre in the atmosphere of intellect, and beats metaphysics into fits. He has come amongst us, gentlemen, to illumine our rays, like the rainbow in the heavens, great, glorious, and grammatical. He is, gentlemen, one of that boney fide nobleness of nature in his bosom, which scorns an act of meanness in his nature, and makes his mind throb with hospitality. He has, gentlemen, been with us to-night like a star in the horizon which sheds its refreshment around; and I, as I think that you'll have no difficulty in guessing the party to which I allude, I'll at once, without preface, propose the good health of that boney fide trump, there, by which we've been honoured."

Cheers, of course, followed this eloquent speech, which so convulsed Sylvester with laughter, that it nearly awoke him. At length, however, assuming a look of gravity, he rose and said—

"Gentlemen, I duly appreciate the extremely high compliment which has just been paid me by our eloquent friend, who is, moreover, a friend to the human race, including Bonaparte, Peter the Great, and Harry Brougham. I call it a bona fide compliment, associated as it has been with fructifying freedom; and I ought to feel proud of being thus in amalgamating juxtaposition with a statesman whose chief characteristics have been so conspicuously developed."

​"That's the time o' day, my boys!" exclaimed Obadiah, as Sylvester, with appropriate gravity, resumed his seat. "They're the words to fructify the bosom of a Briton, and touch the ideas of the human heart! What do you think of that, my boy, eh?" he added, slapping Pokey on the back in a state of ecstacy. "What do you think of that for a boney fide speech?"

"It is a boney fide 'un, that," replied Pokey. "It's what I call splendacious!"

The glasses were again replenished, and Obadiah sang another song, at the conclusion of which Sylvester suddenly rose, exclaiming—

"The ghost—I must see the ghost!"

"Oh, stop a little longer, sir—do!" said Obadiah.

"Yes, do, sir," cried Pokey; "and then we'll go together."

"It may be there now," resumed Sylvester, whose eyes became fixed. "I must go and see."

"Well, come back again for five minutes," cried Obadial—"do come back again, if it's only merely just to say good night."

Sylvester, who had by this time reached the door, left the house, and walked deliberately home; and having undressed himself, got into bed, and adjusted the string round his ancle again.