Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 31

In the morning, Sylvester's very first object was to ascertain whether the string was all right, and on finding that it was, he felt, of course, perfectly sure that he had not been out of bed.

This evidence, however, was not alone sufficient to convince him that he was not a somnambulist. He had first to learn whether the "ghost" had re-appeared. If it had, then the evidence of the string might be held to be conclusive; but if it had not—if nothing of a mysterious character had occurred—he felt that he should be still in a state of uncertainty, seeing that he might be in reality a somnambulist, and yet not walk every night.

He, therefore, rose and dressed hastily, and being extremely anxious to make the necessary inquiries, went to Judkins, who was then in the garden.

"Well, Judkins," said he, "have you heard any more about the ghost?"

"No, sir, I don't think he came at all last night: leastways, I haven't heard nothing about it, and I know if he had, I should have heard afore this. I wonder what it wants a-coming poking about here, a-frightening people in this here manner. I expect there's some money hid some​where, or else there's been a murder committed, one of the two. It wouldn't come here, you know for nothing, sir, would it?"

"It must have some object, I should think."

"Them's the very words I said to Legge, yesterday. Says I, 'You may take your oath it don't come here for nothing;' and he agreed with me. Depend upon it, sir, there's something dreadful on the mind of that ghost. I remember, sir, a ghost came here somewhere about five year ago—you may have heard tell of it, perhaps?—well, that played the devil's own tricks: took the horses out of the stable—flew all over the country—frightened people into fits, and kicked up Bob's delight! I expect the parson laid it at last, for we haven't seen nothing on it since."

"Was that about five years ago?" inquired Sylvester, who felt his suspicion confirmed.

"Let me see," replied Judkins, leaning thoughtfully on his spade.

"Five years! To be sure!—it's more than five years. I've had these here breeches above five years, and they was made because the others was found in the pickle-tub shrunk up to nothing, so as I couldn't pull 'em on. It was five year last fall, sir—that was the time. I remember now! they cost me fourteen-and-sixpence, and Pokey, down here, was the man which made 'em. That was a rum start, that was! Up to this blessed day, I could never make out how they got into that precious tub. I thought, at first, that cook put 'em there to spit her spite, but I don't think now that she could have been so vicious. No; it must have been the ghost—leastways I think so: if that didn't put 'em there, I don't know who did. Why, let me see," he added. "Five years! Why, you was down here at the time—to be sure you was! Don't you remember, sir? Don't you remember coming up to me, and asking me whether I wouldn't put your trousers on? Why, that was the very time, sir—don't you recollect?"

"I do remember something of the sort," replied Sylvester. "But," he added, being anxious to check these reminiscences, lest they should tend to inspire Judkins with suspicion—"how do the peaches get on?"

"Capital, sir! They'll be beauties this year, sir! Just look at 'em! Loaded, sir: look here. There can't be finer than them. I expect to beat the parson this year. I never see bigger beauties yet. Don't you remember when you was here, five years ago, sir, the parson would have it that he catched you on the wall, sir, a tucking in his'n?"

"Oh yes," said Sylvester, smiling. "I remember that well."

"That was a rum start, too," resumed Judkins. "How he did believe it was you, to be sure! He was satisfied afterwards, certainly he was; but Jones will have it it was you, to this day; and he'll die in the belief, I expect, for you can't drive it out of him, no how."

Mary, at this moment entered the garden with a note, addressed "To S. Sound, Esquire, Junior." Sylvester smiled as he opened this note, and proceeded to read as follows:—

​"Sir,

"It gives me great pleasure to have the honour of presenting the song of my own composing as promised. My ideas were not perhaps fructifying much when I wrote it; but if placed in juxtaposition with some, it may not amalgamate amiss. It is boney fide my own, and as such

"P.S. I shall be at the Crumpet to-night, about nine; and if you should be there, I should feel highly honoured to see you."

Here followed the song of "Old England," which Sylvester read as a matter of course, and then asked himself what it all meant. He couldn't understand it at all! "It gives me great pleasure to have the honour of presenting the song of my own composing, as promised!" What could the man mean by sending it, "as promised?" "I shall be at the Crumpet to-night about nine!" Did he expect him to go to the Crumpet to meet him?

"Judkins," said Sylvester, having endeavoured to solve this small mystery in vain. "Judkins, do you know a man named Obadiah Drant?"

"Know him, sir! I think I do, rather. He's a lunatic, sir—that's my belief—a political lunatic. He'd talk a horse's hind leg off, sir; and then wouldn't be quiet. He's always contin'ally at it! Chatter, chatter, chatter, chatter—gabble, gabble, gabble! He's a wonder, sir—a political wonder."

"Why a political wonder?"

"'Cause, sir, he's always talking politics."

"But he's a poet as well, is he not?"

"I never see none of his poetry. If he does write poetry, he takes care to stuff lots of politics in it, I'll warrant!"

"Then you think he's insane?"

"Why, sir, I couldn't, we'll say, prove him to be exactly that; but it's my belief a man in his proper senses would never go on at the rate he does. You should just hear him talk, sir: you'd never forget it! He has got a lot of jaw-cracking words at his fingers' ends, and he stuffs 'em in any how, and no how."

Sylvester was now summoned to breakfast, and on entering the parlour with the note in his hand, he said—

"Aunt! I have received a highly important communication this morning, from one of your neighbours."

"Indeed, my dear! Of what nature?"

"Here it is! perhaps you would like to look at it."

​Aunt Eleanor, with an expression of anxiety, opened the note; and having read, exclaimed—

"What on earth could have induced him to send this to you?"

"I can't imagine," replied Sylvester, "But read the song!"

She did so, and laughed most heartily.

"What is the meaning of all that, my dear?"

"That's the chorus," said Sylvester.

"Oh! the chorus: I understand!" she exclaimed, and merrily laughed again.

"I'll show this to Rouse, when he comes," said Sylvester.

"No, my dear: you must not do that."

"Why not? He'll be amused."

"Do you think so?"

"He's sure to be. Besides, he ought to know what a genius he has in his fold."

"I fear that this person is not in his fold. I do not believe he belongs to the flock. I never saw him at church in my life."

"Judkins believes him to be insane."

"It is possible; but I never before heard it even hinted. But he says here, my dear, that he presents the song 'as promised!' Did he ever promise to send a thing of the kind?"

"Certainly not."

"Then the inference is that he must be insane. But we shall hear what Mr. Rouse says about him."

They then sat down to breakfast, and while they were at it, Sylvester highly amused his aunt by occasionally chanting this celebrated chorus.

"We must have this song set to music," said he. "You can do it admirably. It's a capital song. There's plenty of scope for the development of musical genius: for example, those two happy lines—

"Sylvester!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, "my dear!"

"Oh! but they are excellent: and might be rendered very effective! I don't know exactly whether he means 'precious plump,' or 'plump and precious,' but that you'll see. And then what effect may be given to these lines—

"Sylvester! How can you go on so! You will not let me have half a breakfast."

"Well, but look at the 'tidy good juxtaposition.' There's a chance for a musical composer!"

"But what does he mean by the word 'welt?'"

"To welt, is to beat—to conquer! It ought to have been, perhaps, 'to towel the world;' but 'welt' will do. And then 'the flat flag of free​dom!' there's another opportunity. You have but to mark the note flat over the word, and there you are. But the thing might be studded with musical effects: and I submit that, as he has presented us with the song, we ought, as a matter of courtesy, to present him with the music."

"We shall have Mr. Rouse here before we have finished breakfast. I know that we shall."

"You are right: here he is," said Sylvester, as the reverend gentleman passed through the gate, and Aunt Eleanor felt—as she always did feel when he first appeared—somewhat confused.

As soon as the first cordial greeting was over, Sylvester said, "I have received a letter this morning."

"Containing some good news, I hope," observed the reverend gentleman, anxiously.

"Why it contains no bad news."

"I'm happy to hear it."

"Do you like poetry?"

"I am very fond of poetry: the poetry of the Scriptures, especially: there's a great deal of poetry in the Scriptures, and that, too, of the most sublime character. David's lament, for example, in the first chapter of the Second Book of Samuel, is beautiful, and touching in the extreme:—'The beauty of Israel is slain!' and again, 'Ye mountains of Gilboa let there be no more dew: neither let there be rain upon you, nor fields of offerings: for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil. From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not empty. Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions.' And then the conclusion, 'How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O, Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!'"

The fervour and solemnity with which these beautiful passages were delivered, prompted Sylvester to put Obadiah's communication into his pocket.

"This," continued the reverend gentleman, "is but one example: the Scriptures are studded with gems equally sublime. But why did you ask if I were a lover of poetry?"

"Because I have a piece to show you: but it is of so different a character that I must defer it for a time."

"Why not show it to me now—without variety what were life? It is perhaps a laughable piece? Well, I can weep with David or laugh with Swift. What is the nature of it—let me see it now? But first—and this is perhaps of more importance—you said you had had a letter: what was that?"

"That and the poetry are intimately connected—they come from the same source. The letter, in fact, has reference to the poetry."

​"Then why not let me see it at once?"

"Well, as you appear to be somewhat anxious about it, there it is; but read the poetry first."

The reverend gentleman adjusted his spectacles, and assuming the expression of a stern critic commenced.

"'Tol de rol,'— what's this?" said he, on arriving at the chorus. "'Tol,' eh? 'Tol de rol,' what? 'Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, diddle lol,'—why what's the meaning of all this?"

Sylvester couldn't answer him. He was so convulsed with laughter that he went round and round the room, holding his sides, while Aunt Eleanor perspired with the utmost freedom as she twisted and tortured herself on the couch.

"Well," resumed the reverend gentleman, whose gravity was still imperturbable, "let's try again: we may perhaps make something of it by-and-bye. It's some foreign language, I presume! 'Tol de rol'—no—'looral-li-day!' I can make nothing of it. Well, we'll pass that for the present. Let's go on. Here we are again," he added, having got to the end of the second verse; "here's some more 'tol de rol.' I can't understand it;—what on earth are you laughing at!" he exclaimed, as Sylvester burst into a roar.

"'Tol de rol's' the chorus," cried Sylvester.

"The chorus! Oh, I see: 'Tol de rol, lol de rol'—exactly."

Aunt Eleanor, being utterly unable to endure it, left the room.

"Well, and whose composition is this?" inquired the reverend gentleman.

"Read the note," said Sylvester: "read that now."

The reverend gentleman calmly proceeded to do so, but when he came to the name, he was filled at once with indignation and amazement.

"What!" he exclaimed; "is it possible that you are in communication with this man. Why, he's a heretic; he never comes to church, nor does he go to any other place of worship. It surely cannot be possible that you associate with such a man as this."

"I know nothing of the man," said Sylvester, whose convulsions were by this time subdued.

"But he here says that he sends this according to promise."

"And what he means by that I can't imagine. I never received a promise from him."

"Why, the impudent fellow! Stop a minute; here's a postcript—'I shall be at the Crumpet to-night about nine:' why he writes as if he expected you to meet him. Well, of all the effrontery I ever heard or read of: but I'll see about it—I'll see about this; I've long wished for an opportunity of speaking to this man, and this is one which I'll certainly embrace."

"But he's insane, I understand."

"Insane! Not he. No, no, no, he's not insane. I know him well—alas: too well I know him. But however he could have had the unblushing impudence to write to you I can't conceive. But I'll see him on the subject. Do not name this my intention to your aunt, or she'll probably persuade me to have nothing to do with him; but I really do ​
The Parson Puzzled.

​feel myself bound to check this unexampled insolence, and at the same time—if possible—to reclaim him. You received it this morning?"

"Yes; just before breakfast."

"Very well—very well. I'll give him such a lecture. The Crumpet—tchoo! However, I'll see about it."

Aunt Eleanor now re-entered the room. She felt much better, although still in pain: her cheeks were rosy, and tears were in her eyes. She was, moreover, still very warm.

"Have you made out the chorus yet?" she inquired.

"We have certainly made it out," replied the reverend gentleman. "But did you ever in your life hear of such consummate impudence as that which prompted this man to send a thing of that kind here?"

"Oh, I dare say that he thinks it excessively clever. He is evidently proud of its being his own—and I've no doubt at all that it is."

"But the idea—the impudent idea—of his sending it to Sylvester: that's what I look at."

"He, perhaps, conceived that Sylvester was the only one here who could appreciate its beauty, and he's not a man who imagines that he was 'born to blush unseen.' We must forgive these little exhibitions of vanity. They are really too ridiculous to excite anger. The song has amused me amazingly: I have not had so hearty a laugh for a long time."

"There is," said the reverend gentleman, "in your character but one trait of which I have reason to complain, and which is this: that you invariably take a too charitable view of the moral delinquencies of those around you. If you cannot conceive any actual excuse, you are sure to find something in extenuation. You are too good to live in this world: that's the only fault I have to find with you. If you had the absolute rule, you would wrest the sword from the hand of justice, and administer nothing but mercy."

"Cotherstone Grange is the place for compliments, after all," observed Sylvester.

"Nay, but it's the truth," resumed the reverend gentleman. "It is invariably the case. If she were to fill the office of chief magistrate—an office for which she is not by nature qualified—we should have all mercy and no justice. You perceive she endeavours to palliate the insolence of this man, even after he has had the effrontery to state that he'll be at 'the Crumpet' at nine, and to intimate clearly that he expects you to meet him!"

"Are you sure," said Aunt Eleanor, as Sylvester left the room smiling "quite sure that this poor unhappy man is not insane?"

"There you are again, my dear Eleanor! He is not insane. Besides, he's a bad man. He never comes to church: there's no religion in him."

"Is not that a proof of his insanity?"

This puzzled the reverend gentleman. He felt unable to get over it. He, therefore, smiled, and kissed Aunt Eleanor, and exclaimed—

"God bless you, my dear: you are a kind, good creature! We'll say no more about it."

This defeat, however, did not at all interfere with that which the re​verend gentleman conceived to be his duty. He was still resolved to speak to Obadiah on the subject; and in pursuance of this resolution, he, on seeing him with Pokey in the course of the morning, rode up to him, with an appropriate expression of severity.

"Here comes Ted," said Obadiah, as the reverend gentleman approached. "I wonder what he's up to? There's something in the wind, safe. He's coming to talk to you."

"Or to you," observed Pokey.

"To me! He knows better: I should just like to catch him at it. Wouldn't I walk in!"

"Mr. Drant," said the reverend gentleman, solemnly, as Pokey touched his hat, and passed on, "I am desirous of having a word with you."

"Very well, sir," returned Obadiah, who didn't at the moment feel exactly self-possessed. "What is it, sir?"

"Is this your handwriting?" demanded the reverend gentleman, producing the letter containing the song.

"Yes, sir: that's my hand," replied Obadiah.

"Then, sir, let me ask, how you dared to send a letter of this description to Mr. Sound, accompanied, too, by this low trashy song."

"I can see nothing low and trashy about it."

"It is low and trashy; and if it were not, how dared you presume, sir, to send it to him?"

"I presumed, sir, to send it to him, because he wished me to do so."

"What, sir!—what!"

"Because he liked it so much, when he heard me sing it, that he asked me to let him have a copy."

"Is it possible that you can stand here, sir, and look me in the face, and unblushingly tell me such a falsehood as that?"

"It is not a falsehood. I sent it at his own request."

"Have you forgotten the fate of Ananias? Have you no care for your immortal soul? Why do you not come to church, sir?"

"That has got nothing to do with the song. Let's settle that point of the compass first. I say that he, boney fide, asked me to let him have a copy of 'Old England!'"

"When, sir?"

"Why, last night?"

"And where?"

"At the Crumpet!"

"Are you mad?"

"Not a bit of it! I suppose I know whether he was there or not? My mind don't amalgamate to such an extent, neither, as not to know that!"

"Do you mean then, solemnly to assert that he, Mr. Sound, was with you there last night?"

"To be sure I do! He was there last night, and stood brandy-and-water all round, like a fructifying trump as he is!"

"Like a what?"

"Like a fructifying trump! a good boney fide fellow! He's worth a ​million of your proud upstart muck, which turn up their noses at honest men, because they don't belong to the pauper aristocracy, which sucks so many millions out of their vitals."

"I don't understand this language," said the reverend gentleman; "nor was I speaking of the aristocracy. I wished to know whether you meant to assert that Mr. Sound was in company with you last night."

"Well, sir; he was. I do mean to assert it."

"And to that assertion you intend to adhere?"

"Of course, I do; because it's the truth."

"Have a care! Have a care!" cried the reverend gentleman. "You may not live to repent. You know, sir, that he was not there."

"I know that he was."

"I do not believe it."

"I can't help that, sir. No man in Europe can help it. He was there, sir, whether you believe it or not. Why he was there till past twelve!"

"Monstrous!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman, who really felt appalled. "I tremble for you! You are incorrigible!"

"Well!" said Obadiah. "Have it your own way, if you will. I know what I know, sir; and that's all about it. I wish you a very good morning."

The reverend gentleman was so much amazed, that before he knew either what to say or how to act, Obadiah had got a considerable distance; and even when he had somewhat recovered his faculties, he continued to sit as motionless as Irresolution's statue. Eventually, however, he turned his horse's head, and rode on to the Common, with the view of reflecting upon all that had passed, and deciding on what was then best to be done; while Obadiah proceeded to the Crumpet and Crown, to tell the news to his friends, who at once crowded round him.

"Well!" cried Pokey. "Well! Well! What did he want?"

"Want!" exclaimed Obadiah. "He wanted to do as good as swear me out of my Christian name."

"Well, but what was his object?" demanded Legge.

Why his object, my boy, was to make me believe that young Mr. Sound was not with us last night drinking brandy-and-water."

"What!" cried Legge, angrily! "did you tell him that he was?"

"Of course I did; and stuck to it too, like a Briton."

"What right," cried Legge, "had you to tell him that? Do you think that he wanted them to know where he was? Can no man come to enjoy himself for an hour without its being known all over the place, you chattering fool? Had he even come in here and drank his glass to himself, you would have had no right to name it, but as he behaved so handsomely, and as you with the rest partook—and freely too—of that which he ordered and paid for, you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Shame, shame," cried the rest. "Shame, shame: it is shameful!"

"Stop a bit, my boys," said Obadiah; "stop a bit. I'll soon fructify your ideas on that point."

"Fructify!" cried Legge, who was deeply indignant. "It would ​serve you right if we fructified your ideas, and that through the horse-pond."

"So it would—so it would," cried all the rest. "It's shameful; that it is—shameful!"

"Now you're all about five-and-twenty minutes too fast," said Obadiah. "If you will but just listen, I'll clear it all up—"

"You'll never clear that up," exclaimed Legge, "I know."

"Now just look you here. Me and Pokey was walking and talking together—well, who should come up but Teddy Rouse. 'Mr. Drant,' says he, 'I want to speak to you.' 'Very well,' says I, 'what's the row?' 'Is this your handwriting?' says he. 'Yes,' says I, 'it is.' 'Then, how dare you,' says he, to send this letter with such muck as that to Mr. Sound?'"

"What letter—what muck?" demanded Legge.

"Why he asked me last night—didn't he—to give him a copy of my song? Very well then; I wrote it out and sent it this morning, and that with a very polite note. Well. 'How dare you to send it to him?' says he. 'Because,' says I, 'he wished me to do so.' 'When?' says he. 'Last night,' says I. 'Where?' says he. 'At the Crumpet,' says I. 'It's false,' says he, 'he wasn't there.' 'I know better,' says I, 'I know he was, and stood brandy-and-water all round,' and so we went on; he saying it was false, and I saying it was true, until I became so disgusted that I left him."

"Disgusted!" cried Legge. "You're a fool. What did you want to stick to it for, when you found that he wouldn't believe it. You'd no right to say that Mr. Sound was here at all.

"Well, but how did the parson get hold of the letter?" said Quocks, "that's what I want to know."

"Oh, I see how it was," returned Legge. "This fool sent the letter to the cottage, and it fell into the hands of Mrs. Sound, who showed it to Rouse, as a matter of course: and a pretty mess the young man's got into, no doubt."

"Well now," said Quocks, 'I don't know, but I don't think there's anything disgraceful in the fact of a man coming here to enjoy himself for an hour—do you?"

"No, Quocks," said Legge, "there may be nothing disgraceful in the fact, but we must look at it with reference to his position. You would not like to frequent the beer-shop behind."

"No, I certainly should not."

"And if you did—although there might be nothing disgraceful in the fact—your friends would in all probability think that you should aim at something higher. That young man enjoyed himself here last night; if he hadn't, he wouldn't have stopped so long; but his friends—and more especially Mr. Rouse—doubtless think that it is not a proper place for him to come to. We must look at the position a man occupies."

"I see," said Quocks; "I see. Oh! I see."

"But I don't see," cried Obadiah.

"You don't see," said Legge, contemptuously. "You can see to make ​mischief. I wouldn't have had it known that that young man was here standing brandy-and-water—as you told Rouse—for five times the money he spent."

"Well, but Teddy didn't believe me."

"You say that you stuck to it."

"And so I did. But he thought it was false: and he thinks so still. Mr. Sound, no doubt, denied it. And—as it proved—he believed him and not me."

"If I were sure of that, I'd deny it, too," said Quocks.

"And so would I," cried Pokey.

"Well, but how can we manage it?" said Legge. "How is it to be done?"

This was the question: and while they were engaged in discussing it, the reverend gentleman—who, after due deliberation, had decided on calling upon Legge, with the view of ascertaining whether Obadiah's statement was, or was not, false—rode up to the door.

"I've been told," said he, when Legge went out to speak to him, "that young Mr. Sound was here drinking last night."

"Who told you that, sir?" demanded Legge.

"Drant: Obadiah Drant."

"Obadiah Drant!" said Legge, with a contemptuous expression; "why you surely don't believe a word he says."

"Well, I certainly did not believe that," returned the reverend gentleman: "and I told him at the time that I didn't believe it; and yet thought it strange—very strange—that he should adhere to his assertion so firmly."

"Oh, he'll assert anything, sir: that man will. His word's not worth a rush. Had he spread a report that you were here drinking last night, sir, I shouldn't have been in the slightest degree astonished."

"Why, he must be a very bad man!"

"He's not a bit too good, sir: depend upon that. But no one takes notice of anything that he says, and I'm quite sure that nothing that he can say is worth your attention."

"Well: he's a bad man—a very bad man. I am sorry to find that there's a man in my parish so bad. Good day, Mr. Legge."

"I wish you good day, sir."

"If you see that wretched man, tell him, from me, that I hold his conduct in abhorrence."

"I will, sir," replied Legge; "depend upon that."

The reverend gentleman then rode towards the cottage, and Legge returned to the room, in which he found Obadiah secured by Quocks, Bobber, and Pokey. The cause of this may be briefly explained. Obadiah had heard all that passed outside; and, conceiving himself to be an ill-used man, became so highly indignant, that he was about to rush out and spoil all, with a view to his own complete justification, when Quocks and Bobber seized him, and held him in a chair, while brave Pokey stopped up his mouth with a towel.

"Well!" he exclaimed, on being released, "you've done it. Haven't you? You amalgamated nicely! Didn't you? What! do you think ​that I'm going to stand this? Do you imagine that I'm going to be made the scapegoat of that young wretch in this here sort of manner?"

"Do you call this gratitude," cried Pokey, "after drinking his brandy-and-water?"

"As for you," said Obadiah, with a most ferocious aspect, "I've as great a mind to give you a regular boney fide good welting as I ever had in my life, mind you that. If you ever touch me again—if you ever dare to lay so much as a finger upon me, I'll welt you till you can't see out of your eyes."

"Well, but how is this?" said Legge. "Haven't I heard you say, five hundred times, that you cared no more for Teddy Rouse than you did for Bobby Peel?"

"Nor do I. Care for him! Why should I care? What's Teddy Rouse to me? Care for him, indeed!"

"Well it appears that you do care for him, or you wouldn't be so angry at what I said."

"Do you think that I'm going to have my character taken away then—"

"Your what!"—exclaimed Quocks—"your character? If you can find a man who can take away your character, pay him well: he'll deserve all you give him."

"Indeed! I owe you nothing: so you needn't call out so loud. But if any man in Europe lays the function to his soul that I'll stand being made the greatest liar that ever walked, he's mistaken."

"Well, the thing's done now," said Legge.

"Yes, it is done. But I'll call on Ted."

"And being done, I think we'd better drop it."

"Drop it! Yes it's all mighty fine to say drop it; but I won't let it drop. And you—you little wretch"—he added, turning to Bobber, "for two pins, I'd tan you!"

"Tan me!" cried Bobber, who was not at all afraid of him; "you talk like an old woman generally, but now you are talking like a child."

"Well come," said Quocks, "it's all over now: let's drink and forget it."

Legge brought in some beer, and endeavoured to pacify the incensed one, but Obadiah threatened still to call upon "Ted." As, however, he seldom carried his threats into execution, Legge had not the slightest fear of his doing so in this case, well knowing that as "Ted" never gave him an order, he was a man whom—above all other men alive—Obadiah abhorred.

Meanwhile, the reverend gentleman was anxiously waiting an opportunity of explaining to Sylvester the result of his interview with Obadiah, whom he conceived to be utterly irreclaimable. It was evening, however, before an opportunity occurred; but when it did occur, the reverend gentleman embraced it, and said—

"Well, I've seen that wretched man!"

"What the author of 'Old England?'"

"Yes: I've had a long talk with him."

​"Have you? Well, what did he say?"

"Why he absolutely had the audacity to tell me that you were at the public-house with him last night, drinking brandy-and-water till past twelve o'clock."

"What!"

"It's a positive fact, that he declared that you were there, treating them all, as he said, 'like a trump!'"

"The animal! Why I went to bed soon after ten."

"He moreover told me that his reason for sending that song to you this morning was, that you heard him sing it last night, and admired it so much, that you begged of him to send you a copy of it."

"Oh, the man must be mad. I never heard him sing! But, of course, you don't imagine for a moment that I was there?"

"I have ascertained beyond all doubt that you were not: for, in order to satisfy my mind upon that point, I called upon Legge—"

"And, of course, he told you—"

"Oh! yes, at once: and, like a sensible man, treated the whole matter with contempt. Why, he absolutely told me that he should not have felt astonished if this man had spread a report that I was there drinking brandy-and-water! Why, you know this is a very awful state for a man's mind to be in!"

"The man must be insane."

"He is wicked, sir—desperately wicked! Such conduct can be ascribed to wickedness alone. But I'll not give him up: I must not give him up. I must not suffer his soul to be lost."

"Why, let me see," said Sylvester, thoughtfully: "you were here last night till nearly ten o'clock."

"It wanted twelve minutes to ten when I left."

"I was in bed and asleep in less than half an hour after that."

"Oh! the idea of your being there is perfectly ridiculous! But that man must be reclaimed. You see it's dreadful, when you come to reflect upon it—positively dreadful! I understand his word is not at any time to be taken; that it's not worth a rush; that he never speaks the truth, and that no one believes him. Why, you know this continual commission of sin must, of necessity, have its effect. However, if he is to be reclaimed, I'll reclaim him."

Sylvester—notwithstanding the reverend gentleman had thus expressed his conviction that he was not the previous night at the Crumpet and Crown—reflected deeply upon all that he had heard in connexion with the idea of his being a somnambulist, and the immediate result of that reflection was the confirmation of his suspicion.

"And yet, thought he, subsequently, "Legge must know whether I was there or not; and as he says that I was not there, I have a right to infer that the statement of this Drant is false. Besides, how is it possible that I could have been there? The string was round my ancle when I awoke this morning, precisely as I tied it round last night, and, of course, the idea of my having been able to leave the room with that on, or even to get out of bed, is absurd. It is certainly strange that this report should have been circulated just at this time. But then the fact ​of its being strange affords no proof. When suspicions of any description have been engendered, the slightest occurrences tend to confirm them. I shall now be apt, doubtless, to attribute every circumstance that occurs to this imagined somnambulism, as readily as a non-professional man who, on reading a medical work, conceives that he has the disease described. I must, notwithstanding, be satisfied; and until I am satisfied, I'll not only tie the string to my ancle every night, but I'll lock my room door, and hide the key."

Had Sylvester referred to his purse—out of which he had paid for the brandy-and-water—it might have thrown a little more light upon the subject; but this didn't occur to him: he tried to believe that Obabiah's assertions were utterly false, and on retiring that night, he locked the door, placed the key in his writing desk, locked that, and then put it under the bed.

But this was of no use at all. In less than an hour after he had fallen asleep, he released his ancle, dressed himself, got the key out of the desk, opened the door, and left the house with the utmost deliberation; and yet, in the morning, when he awoke, he found his ancle secured, the key in his desk, and the desk itself in precisely the same place as that in which he had the previous night left it.

And thus he acted, night after night—adjusting the string and hiding the key, which he found and hid again, without having, when awake, even the most remote idea of the fact—but beyond this nothing at all worth recording occurred till the following Tuesday.

On that day, Cotherstone Fair was held, and gaiety was in the ascendant. Legge had, as usual, erected a booth—in a paddock adjoining his house—for dancing; and while the girls of the village, with their pink and blue streamers, were laughing and clapping their hands for joy, and cracking nuts, and promenading, and glancing at their sweethearts, in all the pride of youth and rustic beauty; the men were drinking and joking, and smoking their pipes, and apparently somewhat more happy than princes.

Legge, morever, had procured prolific germs of amusement; and these prolific germs were chemises, shawls, scarfs, and a couple of fine legs of mutton.

The chemises were to be run for—and so were the shawls and scarfs—but the mutton was to be climbed for, by those whose ambition might prompt them to go to the pole.

These delights were, however, reserved till the evening, for Legge knew something of human nature. He had kept that house nearly twenty years! he, therefore, cannot be supposed to have been unconscious of the way in which the house had kept him. No: the prizes were exhibited throughout the day. None could think of leaving until they had been won; and while all beheld them with fond anticipations, they panted for pleasure, and drank more beer.

Anxious to witness the amusements of the people, Sylvester himself walked through the village immediately after he had dined, and as Obadiah, from one of the windows of "The Crumpet" saw him—for the first time since the night of the brandy-and-water—he rushed out of ​the house, and, having followed him for a time, touched his hat respectfully, and asked him how he was.

"Quite well," replied Sylvester, who had forgotten him; "quite."

"Come, sir, to see the pleasures of the poverty-stricken?" observed Obadiah, who was not a man to be easily shaken off.

"The people do not appear to be poverty-stricken," returned Sylvester. "All whom I have seen look contented and happy."

"Ah!" exclaimed Obadiah; "thoughtlessness! It's nothing but that, sir; and ignorance. If they knew their power, they wouldn't be as they are."

"Would the knowledge of their power, then, render them more happy?"

"I allude to their position, sir: that's what I allude to: I mean that they wouldn't be in such a position. They would take higher ground, sir."

"What ground do you imagine they would take?"

"What ground, sir! Why, they'd stand up for their rights!"

"Have they not their rights?"

"How can the poor have their rights, sir? How is it possible?"

"I conceive it to be quite possible for the poor to have their rights as well as the rich."

"But if men had their rights, sir, they could not be poor."

"Indeed! Why—why could they not?"

"Because the rich would have to divide their riches with them."

"Oh! Aye! That's it! I see!" cried Sylvester, who began to be rather amused. "Then all who have their rights must be equally rich?"

"Of course, sir! It's one of the laws of nature."

"Well, now, do you know, I wasn't aware of that?"

"Indeed! Well, that's strange, too. But don't you see now that it must be?"

"Well, but suppose that a division were to take place to-day, and that you were to spend your share to-night, how would you stand to-morrow?"

"Why, of course, if I'd spent it, I couldn't have it."

"Then, you couldn't have your rights."

"Aye! but that's altogether a different thing. We weren't speaking of spending our shares."

"We were speaking of wealth being equally divided—a state of things which couldn't last an hour—and, as you advanced as a proposition, that men could not be poor who had their rights, I put a case which, I apprehend, proved that men might have their rights, and yet be poor."

"Yes, sir, but—"

"Do you admit that?"

"But were there two Adams?"

"Nay, keep to the point."

"I'm coming to it—fructifying right direct to the point."

"Fructifying!" thought Sylvester, who thought that he had heard that word ill-used before.

"The question is," continued Obadiah, "were there or were there not two Adams?"

​"We read but of one."

"Was there an Adam connected with the aristocracy, and an Adam pledged to support the eternal principles of the people?"

"I have always understood that when Adam was created, there was neither an aristocracy nor a people."

"No; but I was only just going to say, if there was no aristocracy in those days, why should there be an aristocracy now? an aristocracy which lives upon the vitals of the people, and sucks a matter of two hundred millions a-year from the sweat of the poor man's brow. Did Nature ever make an aristocracy?"

"Yes."

"Never in this world."

"The aristocracy of intellect is Nature's own."

"Aye! but that's altogether a different thing: we weren't speaking of the aristocracy of intellect—that's a spark from heaven's anvil, struck to enlighten the world; like a boney fide star which shoots to another and tells it all it knows. We were speaking of the aristocracy of wealth—the aristocracy of corruption—the aristocracy of plunder—the profligate, pandering, puppet-show, pudding-headed, pompous, aristocracy—did Nature ever make that?"

"Do you speak of the aristocracy of England?"

"Of course!"

"Then what, I ask, do you know of that aristocracy?"

"What do I know of them!—what! Are they not a parcel of plundering, pandering, arrogant—"

"Stop," said Sylvester. "Language of that description tells only with a mob—men of sense despise it. The vulgar have been taught to believe that arrogance forms one of the chief characteristics of the aristocracy. They have yet to learn that the nearer we approach the apex of civilised society, the nearer we approach the perfection of civilised simplicity. But you appear to have lost sight of the point from which we started, and to which I imagined you were about to return."

"What point was that?"

"Equality."

"Just so. Well; don't you think it monstrous that some should have so much, sir, while others have so little?"

"Why that depends entirely upon circumstances."

"Well, but just look you here, sir; you see that man there, sir, in the smock-frock—him that's got a pipe in his mouth, sir."

"Yes—well?"

"Well, sir, what do you think he has a-week?"

"Ten shillings, perhaps."

"Five, sir. No more than five."

"Is that a fact?"

"I know it well, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if I called him?"

"Certainly not! I should like to speak to him."

"You won't find much intellect about him; he hasn't been fructified to any amalgamating extent. Dick!"

Dick stopped as if he had some remote idea of his having been called, ​
Obadiah introducing Dick to Sylvester.

​and turning round with about as much velocity as a man who is heavily ironed would turn, he had some slight notion that some one stood there whose face he had somewhere seen before.

"Dick," cried Obadiah again, "here!"

A new idea seemed to have entered Dick's brains, and that idea was that he knew Obadiah. He therefore took the pipe out of his mouth and approached; but when he saw Sylvester, he didn't know exactly whether he ought to take off his hat or not.

"Well, Dick, how goes it?" inquired Obadiah.

"Oh; doon knoo, sir, mooch aboot the seame."

"How are wages in this part of the country?" inquired Sylvester.

"Bad, sir," replied Dick. "Very bad, indeed."

"This is a friend of mine, Dick," said Obadiah: "and he seemed to be fructified when I told him that you hadn't ten shillings a week!"

"Ten, sir!—I've only foive! Hard loins that, sir!—foive shillin' aweek."

"Well, but what do you do with five shillings a week?"

"Why it arn't too mooch to spend, is it, sir?"

"No: but how do you manage to get rid of it?"

"Oh, I never have not the leasest trouble aboot that. I'll tell 'ee sir, hoo I manage. First, then—jist 'ee keep count—I pays a shillin' a week for me lodgin's. Well, that's one shillin' isn't it? Well, then, I has a stone o' flour a week: that's two-an'-threepence. How mooch is that together? Two-an'-threepence an' a shillin': that's three-an'-threepence. Well, twopence the bakin', an' penny the yeast—that's threepence—that's three-an'-sixpence. Three-an'-sixpence, well; then I have two poound of flet cheese, to eat wi' me bread, at threepence a poond, that's sixpence. Three-an'-six-pence an' sixpence moor is foor shillin'. Well! then I can't do without half-a-pint o' beer a day—that arn't too mooch is it?—well, a penny a half-pint, seven days in the week, that's sevenpence. Sevenpence an' foor shillin's, that's foor-an'-sevenpence. I arn't mooch of a scholard, boot that's soon counted. Foor-an'-sevenpence. Well, I moost have a shirt washed once a week, an' a han'kercher, an' a pair o' stockin's, that moost be mended—I never see sich devils to goo into holes—well, the washin' an' mendin' takes away the other fippence, an' that's hoo I meake ends meet."

"Well, but how do you manage when your clothes are worn out?"

"I gets a trifle more in the harvest time, sir: that's how I manages that."

"I see. But have men in this part of the country, in general, no more than five shillings a week?"

"Oh! 'ees, sir: soom have ten, and soom twelve! Boot I'm a bit of a cripple, you see, sir: that's where it is: I can't work noo as I used to could."

Sylvester gave him half-a-crown, which so astonished Dick that he burst into tears.

"Can you wonder at the fires after that?" cried Obadiah, as Dick, with a heart full of gratitude, left them.

"But this is a peculiar case," observed Sylvester. "You hear that the ​wages average from ten to twelve shillings. This man is a cripple, and can't do much work."

"Well, but have we got no lords cripples? Place him in juxtaposition with a lord, and—"

"Juxtaposition!" echoed Sylvester. "Your name is—"

"Drant, sir: Obadiah Drant. You recollect me, sir, don't you?"

"It is to you, I believe, that I am indebted for a song?"

"Exactly, sir: I did myself the honour of sending a copy of it as you requested."

"As I requested! I am not conscious of having made any such request."

"What! don't you remember, the other night, at the Crumpet, when you heard me sing that song—"

"I never heard you sing the song."

"Oh, yes, you did sir! when you were there the other night—you recollect!"

"But I was not there the other night. I understand that you told Mr. Rouse that I was—"

"Well, I'm sorry for that, sir. I wish I hadn't mentioned it now."

"But how came you to think of such a falsehood?"

"I'm sorry it was named; but, of course, you know it wasn't a falsehood."

"I know that it was a falsehood, and a most atrocious falsehood, too."

"Well, but you know you were there."

"What! Are you a lunatic?"

"A lunatic? No!"

"I thought you were," returned Sylvester, calmly. "As you are not, I wish to have no farther communication with you."

"Well, sir; but—what!—do you mean—"

"I have nothing more to say," observed Sylvester, who waved his hand, and, with a look of contempt, left Obadiah astounded!

The sports proceeded; the mutton was gained; the chemises, the shawls, and the scarfs, were won; and, when night came on, the booth was illumined, and dancing commenced, and was kept up with spirit till twelve, when a cry of "the ghost!" was raised.

The men rushed instantly out of the booth, and the girls shrieked and fainted by dozens, while the "ghost" walked leisurely through the village, fearfully shunned by all.

No one approached it. All kept aloof. The stoutest hearts shrank back appalled, and the ghost had the road to itself.

The night was dark: not a star could be seen; and when the ghost reached the chesnut-trees, beneath which all was gloom, the multitude breathed: but lo! it turned and walked through the village again.

Horror filled each manly breast, and all was consternation. But the ghost seemed to treat the whole throng with contempt. It walked up and down just as long as it liked, and then vanished, they knew neither how nor where.

The alarm in the village.