Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 35

From the evening Aunt Eleanor and her friend arrived in town till the day of the trial, nothing occurred to Sylvester worth recording. He invariably slept with Tom, who had procured a pair of manacles—with a thin chain attached—with which he every night secured him to himself, and although he very frequently rose in his sleep, the chain instantly checked and awoke them both.

"Dot a bit of it, old fellow," Tom used to exclaim. "You dod't do adythidg at all of the sort. You wadt to go prowlidg about as usual, do you? Cobe alodg id agaid: cobe—cobe alodg."

When Aunt Eleanor heard of this arrangement, she felt perfectly satisfied of Sylvester's safety; and so did the reverend gentleman, whose whole time was occupied in the conception of ideas, calculated in his view to strengthen the defence. He was to be a witness—a most important witness—and when Mr. Wilks, the solicitor, had taken down his ​evidence, he called, with the view of improving it, two or three times every day upon Mr. Wilks, until he found—and it really appeared to him to be the strangest thing in nature—that Mr. Wilks was never at home when he called! He was continually out. Nothing could be like it. Go when he might, Mr. Wilks was from home. He would occasionally wait an hour or two in the outer office—either reading the paper or conversing with one of the clerks—for there was one very nice young man in that office; all the rest, in the reverend gentleman's judgment, behaved with too much levity, for they were always laughing; they laughed whenever he entered, and continued to laugh all the time he remained—but it mattered not how many hours he waited, Mr. Wilks never returned while he was there.

This extraordinary fact engendered in his mind a strong suspicion that Mr. Wilks neglected his business! and he began to lament that some other solicitor had not been engaged in the case; but as the doctor and Mr. Scholefield—who at once perceived the cause of Mr. Wilks's extraordinary absence on those occasions—set his mind at rest on that point, he regularly conveyed his ideas twice a day to Mr. Wilks on a sheet of foolscap paper, which he invariably filled, and which Mr. Wilks invariably put under the table.

The morning of the day at length arrived: the day on which the trial was appointed to take place: and the reverend gentleman rose at four, and took a constitutional walk round Hyde Park. As he felt very fidgetty he walked very fast, but Time seemed to fly much more slowly than usual. He had to be at Tom's at eight o'clock, but before six he felt quite knocked up. Two hours remained. How was he to pass those two hours? A thought struck him! He would go down to Westminster Hall. He would look at the building, and ascertain whether he thought it likely that justice would be administered that day. He accordingly wended his way towards the Hall, and as he met sundry females, whom he imagined impure, he walked in the middle of the road, conceiving that expostulation would be useless.

On reaching Palace Yard, he stood, and looked, and contemplated deeply, and wildly conjectured, and then went over the whole of his evidence, which, of course, he thought perfectly conclusive.

"Cab, your honour!" said a man, who approached him.

"No, my good man," replied the reverend gentleman: "I was merely looking at Westminster Hall. There is a trial coming on to-day in which I am interested."

"Indeed!" cried the cabman; "what trial is it?"

"It is a crim. con. trial, 'Julian versus Sound,' but my friend—who is the defendant in the action—is a somnambulist."

"Beg pardon, sir; a how much?"

"A somnambulist! A person who walks in his sleep!"

"Oh! one of them there svells—I see!"

"He is innocent of the crime of which he is accused: quite inocent."

"No doubt."

"But then the plaintiff in this case will not believe it."

​"That's alvays the case, sir; they never vill."

"It is lamentable that it should be so!"

"Werry! but they alvays knows better than anybody else."

"They always appear to believe they know better."

"That's jist precisely my meaning."

"But then you know it's obstinacy: nothing but obstinacy!"

"Nothing; I've alvays found them svells the most obstropulusest going."

"If men would in all cases listen to reason—"

"That's the pint. Reason's the ticket!"

"But you see they will not. However, 'suus cuique mos!"

"Werry good."

"Hollo! Bob! what's the row?" inquired one of the cabman's friends.

"Why, Dick," said Bob, winking very significantly: "this here gentleman here is hinterested in a haction."

"Does his mother know he's out?" inquired Dick, with very great indiscretion.

"My mother," replied the reverend gentleman, "of whom you could have had no knowledge, has been dead twenty years!"

Bob again winked at Dick, who withdrew.

"He's a wulgar man, that, sir," observed Bob, "werry."

"I must say that I don't think him very refined."

"But then vot can you expect? He's had no eddication."

"Then he's much to be pitied."

"Werry true. There you've jist hit my sentiments. Werry true, indeed! A cold morning, sir," added Bob. "Heverythink's werry dull. I hope you'll allow me to drink your honour's health?"

"Here's a shilling," said the reverend gentleman, "which, as you're a civil man, you may apply to that purpose."

"Beg pardon, sir: I hope you von't think me too intruding, but as I knows you're a gentleman as feels for distress, I'd be werry much obleedged to you if you'd be so kind as to lend me jist another eighteenpence. I ain't had a fare to-night, sir, reely. I shall be sure to see you agin, sir; and then I'll pay your honour!"

"Well, my good man, I don't know you at all; but if, as you say, you are distressed, here is one-and-sixpence more: take it home to your wife and family."

"Thank you, sir: I'm werry much obleeged to you," said Bob, who winked at Dick in the distance, "werry."

And having delivered himself to this effect, he at once rejoined his "wulgar" friend, who burst into a loud roar of laughter.

The reverend gentleman didn't understand this: he conceived it to be imputable to the man's vulgarity, and left Palace-yard, and wandered about until half-past seven, when, feeling exceedingly fatigued, he knocked at Tom's door and was admitted.

At eight o'clock precisely, Aunt Eleanor, the doctor, Mr. Scholefield, the reverend gentleman, Sylvester, and Tom, sat down to breakfast, but there was not one of them who had the slightest appetite. Their anxiety caused them all to feel nervous. They couldn't eat. They drank tea ​
The Cabman inquiring after the Parson's Mother.

​and coffee, it is true; but nothing substantial could any one of them touch.

As nine o'clock was the time at which they were instructed to be at the court, they, at a quarter to nine, entered the carriages of the doctor and Mr. Scholefield, which were waiting at the door, and proceeded at once to the Hall.

This was the reverend gentleman's first appearance in a court of justice, and when he saw five or six rows of barristers as he entered, he really felt awed! He however said nothing; even their appearance seemed to have rendered him speechless; but when the Lord Chief Justice took his seat, he felt that it would be perfectly impossible for him to give any evidence at all.

Well! that being then the first case on the list, "Julian versus Sound" was called. Mr. Charles Phillpotts appeared with Mr. Clark for the plaintiff, and Mr. Slashinger with Mr. O'Phail for the defendant.

The legal preliminaries having been arranged, Mr. Clark opened the pleadings, from which he wished his lordship and the jury to understand, that in this case Sir Charles Julian, Bart., was the plaintiff; that Sylvester Sound was the defendant; that the declaration charged the defendant with having assaulted Matilda Maria, the wife of the plaintiff, &c., &c.; and that the damages were laid at five thousand pounds.

Mr. Phillpots then rose, and spoke as follows: "My lord and gentlemen of the jury. This is one of those cases which, to the honour of the mighty and moral empire in which we live—considering its importance, its population, and its wealth—are comparatively rare. I need not explain to you, gentlemen of the jury, that it is with the most profound anxiety that I approach this subject, for that anxiety will be appreciated when I state that I have confided in my hands the dearest interests of a fellow-creature, who has been wantonly—cruelly—vilely reduced from a state of supreme—of ecstatic happiness, to the deepest and most inconceivable misery. Oh, how I wish that I could place my unhappy—my heart-broken client before you, that his haggard brow, his sorrowing features, his wasted form, and his hollow eye, might manifest the horrible pangs he has endured! Oh, that I could bring him before you now, that you might see what havoc—what agonising havoc—his sufferings have caused! You would then behold a picture of appalling misery, which no words at my command can even feebly portray. I hope most fervently that you may never know how poor—how weak are the utmost exertions of an advocate, when placed under such afflicting circumstances as these! I hope that you may never experience the heart-rending pangs, the agonising sufferings of a man placed—basely placed—in the position of my unhappy client. Gentlemen, the plaintiff is the scion of an honourable family—a family whose antiquity stands unsurpassed, and upon whose escutcheon calumny never dared to breathe. In the affectionate bosom of that family he passed the early portion of his life: but becoming enamoured of her whose honour the defendant has thus vilely tarnished, he married, and for years enjoyed the most supreme felicity on earth. She was amiable, beautiful, and highly accomplished. She possessed every virtue that could adorn her ​sex. She was all his heart could wish. His soul adored her. In her his every earthly hope was centered. And thus years of bliss rolled on, till the defendant basely drew her into his accursed meshes, compassing the destruction of an amiable woman—crushing the spirit of an honourable man—and blasting his happiness for ever. Gentlemen, up to this period the plaintiff had not the most distant idea of his wife's infidelity. He believed her to be faithful—he believed her to be virtuous—he believed her to be pure—and I cherish a strong conviction that he was justified in believing her to be faithful, and virtuous, and pure; nor was it until he absolutely saw, to his astonishment and horror, the defendant leave the house at night, after having been seen in her chamber, that he entertained the slightest suspicion of his having been for ever dishonoured and disgraced. Gentlemen, I shall bring before you evidence of the most incontrovertible character to prove that the defendant was actually seen to come from Lady Julian's chamber, while the lady herself was in bed. I shall moreover prove to you, beyond all doubt, that the butler in the service of the plaintiff absolutely let the defendant out of the house! And what is the defendant? He is a medical man. He is a member of the Royal College of Surgeons. Now, if there be one man more than another in whose honour and integrity we feel ourselves justified in confiding, that man is a medical adviser. At all times, in all seasons, and under all conceivable circumstances, a medical adviser has free and unfettered access to our homes. Relying upon his honour, we place our wives and daughters freely under his care, and, although the defendant was not the medical adviser of Lady Julian—although it cannot be said that he violated any confidence directly reposed in him by the plaintiff—if once the case of a medical man, guilty of so infamous a practice as that of which the defendant has been guilty, be suffered to pass without being strongly marked, farewell confidence, farewell security, farewell virtue, farewell peace. Gentlemen, the fact of the defendant being a medical man greatly aggravates his infamy, for, up to this time, it has been scarcely conceivable that so base, so heartless a reptile could be found connected with that ancient and honourable profession. We have hitherto looked for friends there, not for vipers: we have looked for integrity, not for abomination. I admit this unhappy lady's fall. I admit her utter worthlessness, but, not being skilled in that atrocious, that execrable species of necromancy, of which the defendant is so perfect a master, I cannot pretend to tell you by what witchcraft—by what hellcraft—he succeeded in destroying the soul of such a woman, by prompting her thus to disgrace and dishonour so fond, so affectionate, so doting a husband. And now, having thus briefly drawn the faint outline of this most abominable case, I have to direct your attention, gentlemen, to the only question open for your consideration—for the pleas of the defendant are not worth a rush—namely, what damages you ought to give the plaintiff.

Turn your complexion there, gentlemen, and say what damages you ought to give him. Deeply do I lament that an injured husband has no other remedy: deeply do I regret that the legislature of this great nation has not made the outrage a criminal offence. He who steals your purse, steals trash: yet he forfeits his liberty—it may be, his life: but he who basely plunders you of the dearest treasure of your heart of hearts, escapes, if rich, with comparative impunity. But the law is so, and your award can be merely that of money. And how are you to calculate the damages? There is but one rule—'Do as you would be done by.' Many of you are basking in the light of wedded love—blessed with a home to which you turn as to a haven from the storms of life, surrounded by joys, and sipping bliss from the lips of her whom you dearly love. What would you take to have this vision dissipated? What would you take to lose her? What you would take in such a case, give!—award that which you would feel yourselves justified in receiving. The damages are laid at five thousand pounds. Would you think that sum too much for you to receive? Do I insult you by the question? No; not I. It is the law that interrogates you. 'Do as you would be done by.' If you think that that sum would be too much for you, give my client what you would think enough. Place yourselves individually in his position, and say what you—feeling the earthquake of your happiness beneath you, and looking round for one last prop to cling to, and seeing the visions you had cherished, the bliss you had enjoyed, the hopes you had idolised, with every household deity dearest and most divine, shivered to atoms round the hearth where they were worshipped—say what you would consider a sufficient compensation. Gentlemen, I now leave the case of my unhappy client—deprived as he has been by the vile, insidious arts of the defendant, of the society of her who formed the lovely centre of his happy circle—with the most entire confidence, in your hands. Your verdict must be for the plaintiff, of course. The only point for you to consider is, that which has reference to compensation. What you think would compensate you in such a case, award him. 'Do as you would be done by!'"

This address, of course, produced an extraordinary sensation. The great majority of those who were in court thought that the verdict must be for the whole five thousand: that Sir Charles deserved it, and that he, therefore, ought to have it.

James Thompson, the butler, was then called and sworn.

"Your name is James Thompson, I believe," said Mr. Phillpots.

"It is," replied the butler.

"You hold the situation of butler in Sir Charles's establishment?"

"I do."

​"And have held it for the last seven years?"

"I have."

"Do you remember the morning of the 5th of last month?"

"I do."

"State to the court what then occurred."

"About three o'clock that morning, on going up stairs, I saw Mr. Sound coming slowly from the ante-room which leads to Lady Julian's chamber, and conceiving that he had called professionally, I returned, opened the door, and let him out."

"You know the defendant well?"

"Quite well."

"You know the defendant quite well. Now, just pay attention to the question I'm about to ask. Is it possible for you to have been mistaken?"

"No: that is quite impossible."

"Quite impossible. Did you let him in?"

"No."

"Who let him in?"

"I can't say."

"Did either of the other servants let him in?"

"They all declare that they did not."

"Is there any window through which he might have entered?"

"There is no window he could have got in at."

"Then the presumption is, that Lady Julian let him in herself?"

"I don't know; but I think that if she had let him in, she would also have let him out."

"I don't ask you what you think! You didn't let him in, nor did either of the other servants let him in. The presumption, therefore, is that she let him in herself. But you are quite sure that it was Mr. Sound, the defendant, whom you saw coming slowly from the anteroom, and whom you let out of the house?"

"I am quite sure."

"That you swear to?"

"I do."

"Solemnly?"

"Most solemly."

Mr. Slashinger then rose to cross-examine this witness.

"You know Mr. Sound, the defendant in this action, quite well?"

"I do."

"You have known him for some years?"

"I have."

"As the assistant of Mr. Scholefield, the medical adviser of Lady Julian, he used to come frequently to the house?"

"Very frequently."

"Both with Mr. Scholefield, and alone?"

"Very frequently alone."

"Now, Mr. Thompson, I am going to put to you a most important question, and your well-known honesty and integrity prompts me to believe that you will answer it in a candid and straightforward manner. ​"Did you ever, at any time, see anything in the conduct of Lady Julian to induce you to believe that she was not strictly virtuous?"

"Never, sir! never!" replied Thompson, with emotion. "Nor do I believe that she is not virtuous now."

"You do not! What not after the eloquent speech of my learned friend!"

"That has not shaken my belief: nor do I think that if Sir Charles had been here, he would have allowed him to go on so. So much about the money!"

"I repeat," said Mr. Phillpots, rising indignantly, "I tell you again that we don't ask you what you think. Answer the questions that are put to you, sir."

"I do to the best of my ability."

"Then," resumed Mr. Slashinger, "you still believe Lady Julian to be virtuous?"

"I do."

"Sir Charles was not at home, I believe, when you saw Mr. Sound on that occasion?"

"He was not."

"You have no idea how he got in?"

"I have not the slightest."

"Were you in the house the whole of the morning in question?"

"Except for a few moments, when I went to speak to the butler at the house adjoining."

"Did you leave the door open—or partially open—when you went to speak to the butler?"

"I did."

"Might not Mr. Sound have walked in while you were absent?"

"He certainly might have done so."

"He might have done so. And you believe, notwithstanding you saw Mr. Sound coming slowly from the ante-room, that Lady Julian is virtuous still."

"I do. I don't believe she knew that he was there."

"How did he look when you let him out? At all confused?"

"No: calm and serious."

"Did he make any observation?"

"None."

"Then he walked straight out, and took no notice?"

"He did."

"Very well."

"And now," said Mr. Phillpots, who looked very fierce, "I am about to put a question, which, from 'your well-known honesty and integrity,' to use the flowing language of my learned friend, I expect you, in a candid and straightforward manner, to answer. When did you see the defendant's attorney last?"

"I never did see him to my knowledge."

"But you have seen his clerk, haven't you?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Is it not indiscreet," said Mr. Clark, in a whisper, "to throw a doubt upon any portion of the evidence of our own witness?"

​Mr. Phillpots winked at Mr. Clark, and then resumed.

"It was about three o'clock when you saw the defendant coming from the ante-room leading to Lady Julian's chamber?"

"About three."

"And you couldn't by any possibility have mistaken any one else for the defendant?"

"I could not. The thing is impossible."

"Impossible. Very well. That will do."

This was the case for the plaintiff; and, after a pause, Mr. Slashinger rose, and said—

"My lord and gentlemen of the jury. My learned friend, with his usual tact, having but one single fact to adduce, has brought forward a multitude of figures. Knowing the actual weakness of his case, he has endeavoured to strengthen it with flights of fancy: feeling that the solitary point for you to consider was of itself insufficient, his object has been to carry away your judgment by a flaming flood of forensic eloquence. That object however has not been accomplished. If it had been, it would have been my duty to bring you back to the point from which you started. But as I feel that I have now to address intelligent men—men who will not suffer their judgment to be carried away so easily-my task is comparatively light. Gentlemen, what are the facts of the case?—nay, rather let me say what is the fact?—there being but one at present for your consideration. The fact, gentlemen, is, that the witness Thompson, swears that he saw the defendant at the time in question walking—slowly walking—from the ante-room which leads to Lady Julian's chamber. Now, gentlemen, I am not about to impugn Thompson's evidence. He gave it in a very proper manner, and I take it for granted that he believes that which he stated to be true. He may be correct. The defendant may have been there: he may have walked from the ante-room slowly: he may have been let out by Thompson: he may have been seen to pass the gate by Sir Charles. I don't know that he was not—nor does the defendant!—but if he were there, he was there while in a state of somnambulism! [This announcement created an extraordinary sensation. Even the reverend gentleman, whom the speech of Mr. Phillpots had perfectly bewildered, rubbed his hands, and smiled.] Gentlemen," continued the learned counsel, "unhappily my client is a confirmed somnambulist. I shall prove that to your entire satisfaction anon. At present I feel it to be my duty to account for his presence—for I assume that he was present—at the house of Sir Charles Julian on the occasion in question. Gentlemen, somnambulists generally, when asleep remember everything which occurs to them while awake, but they remember nothing when awake which happens while they are asleep. I beg of you to bear this in mind. The defendant, Mr. Sound, lived for the period of five years with Mr. Scholefield, Lady Julian's medical attendant. During that period, as the witness has told us, he was frequently—very frequently—at the house of Sir Charles. Now, gentlemen, may I not venture to say, that on the morning in question, he dreamt that Lady Julian required his professional attendance, and that acting on that dream, he rose and went to the house? You have heard ​Thompson state that he left the door open when he went to speak to the butler, at the house adjoining: you have also heard him state that the defendant might have entered the house during his absence. Now, is it too much to assume, knowing him to be a confirmed somnambulist, that the defendant did enter the house at that time, and with no other view than that of attending to Lady Julian professionally? I do submit, gentlemen, that when I have proved, as I shall prove beyond all question, that my client is a somnambulist, the case will be, in your judgment, perfectly clear. As to Lady Julian, I believe her to be still strictly virtuous, still pure: and in that belief I am joined, as you have heard by the witness Thompson, who has had the most ample opportunities of observing her character and conduct. Gentlemen, my firm impression is, that this proceeding on the part of Sir Charles Julian ought to cause him to blush. He married Lady Julian in all the pride of youth and beauty; he himself being rather advanced in years; and, although I will not say that it is natural for an old man to be jealous of a young and lovely wife, I may say, that it is too often the case, and that the slightest circumstance is sufficient to create suspicion. I have, however, no desire to dwell upon this point. He saw the defendant coming from the house: his suspicion was aroused, and he brought this action: for damages!—for compensation, for the loss of her whom, on these slight grounds, he turned out of his house, and who never was unfaithful to him. I do not envy the feelings of that man: I do not envy the feelings of any man who, on such slender grounds, casts 'his soul's idol' off—his soul's idol—psha!—it is sickening. But, gentlemen, he wants compensation—he wants money! yes: he wants you to award him an immense amount of money. Well, if you think him entitled to it, of course you'll award it. I would merely submit that such grovelling ideas do not in general co-exist with affection. Money is his suit! Well, let him have money, if you think that he has been injured—if you can believe Lady Julian to be impure. I shall not say one word in mitigation of damages—no damage has been sustained by Sir Charles. I will prove to you that the defendant is a somnambulist, and I have so much confidence in your judgment, that you will see that the object of Sir Charles Julian is money, that Lady Julian is still virtuous, still pure, that the defendant went to the house while under the influence of a dream, and that therefore he is entitled to your verdict."

The learned counsel then called Thomas Delolme, who promptly appeared in the box, and was sworn.

"Mr. Delolme," said Mr. Slashinger, "you are a medical man?"

"I ab," replied Tom.

"You have, I believe, an extensive practice?"

"Dot very extedsive! About a thousadd a year."

"About a thousand a year. You are intimately acquainted with Mr. Sound, the defendant in this action?"

"I ab."

"Is it your impression that he is a somnambulist?"

"It is."

"Tell the court how that impression was created."

​"Id codsequedce of his havidg idforbed be the other day, that he suspected that he was a sobdabbulist, I idduced hib to sleep at by house, add sat up id a roob adjoiding that id which he slept. About two o'clock he cabe idto the roob id which I was sittidg, add had a a glass of braddy-add-water, add sboked a cigar, add codversed for sobe tibe, add thed wedt to bed agaid; but id the borbidg he recollected dothidg at all about it. Dot satisfied with this, I sat up the dext dight without his kdowledge, havidg previously attached a stridg to the sash of his bedroob widdow, add adother to the haddle of his door; add, at about the sabe tibe, that is to say, two o'clock, the stridg attached to the door was pulled out of by hadd; I wedt out, add heard footsteps asceddidg the stairs. I therefore followed, and codtidued to follow udtil I had reached the attic, frob the widdow of which I saw Sylvester, that is to say the defeddadt id this actiod—walkidg od the very verge of the parapet, with dothidg whatever od but his shirt. I was of course at the tibe appalled, add as he passed be, I iddiscreetly seized hib by the wrist, add the sudded shock caused hib to fall over the parapet. I held hib, however, still, add biraculously got hib up; add whed I had succeeded id doidg so, it appears that I faidted: but the fact of his beidg a sobdabbulist is sufficiedt to accoudt for bady extraordidary things which occurred whed he lived id by father's house about five years ago."

"Then you have not the slightest doubt of his being a somnampulist?"

"Dode whatever! His is the bost codfirbed case I ever bet with."

"Has he slept in your house ever since you made the discovery?"

"Yes, every dight; add with be."

"In the same bed?"

"Yes."

"And does he still walk in his sleep?"

"Doe: he would do so, but I prevedt hib. Whed we go to bed I attach a sball haddcuff to his wrist, add adother to by owd. He therefore caddot rise without wakidg be."

"Which he does, I suppose, frequently?"

"Every dight."

"And that he is a somnambulist you solemnly swear?"

"I do."

"You have a practice," said Mr. Phillpots, who rose to cross-examine Tom, "which yields you a thousand a-year?"

"I have."

"Will you swear that?"

"Beidg dow od by oath, I codsider that everythidg I say I swear to."

"And you swear that your practice yields you a thousand a-year?"

"I do."

"You do. Well, you have known the defendant for some years, haven't you?"

"I have."

"And did it never occur to you that he was a somnambulist until the other night?"

​"Dever."

"Isn't that somewhat strange?"

"Well, it certaidly bay appear to be so."

"I don't ask you what it may appear to be! I ask you whether it is, or not?"

"Well, perhaps it is stradge that I dever before discovered it."

"Perhaps!"

"Yes, perhaps. He looks add talks whed he is asleep, precisely the sabe as he does whed awake."

"Then up to the time which you have named, you never imagined him to be a somnambulist?"

"Doe, I certaidly dever did."

"Very well. That'll do."

Mr. Slashinger then called the Reverend Edward Rouse, and when the reverend gentleman had been sworn, he proceeded to examine him as follows:—

"You are, I believe, a clergyman?"

"I thank God I am."

"You know the defendant?"

"I do. When first I knew him I fancied that I saw him on my garden wall, helping himself to—"

"Exactly. We shall come to all that by-and-bye. You reside at Cotherstone?"

"I do: and whenever he comes down there to visit his aunt, something extraordinary is sure to occur: sometimes a 'ghost' appears in the village—sometimes the horse is taken out of the stable at night—sometimes—"

"Exactly. And many other extraordinary things occur for which you have been utterly unable to account. Now do these things ever occur when the defendant is absent?"

"Never! that's the point, as I said the other day—"

"Nothing of the kind ever happens at Cotherstone when he is in town?"

"Nothing! We are as quiet as possible when he is away; but the fact of his being a somnambulist affords a key—if I may use the expression—to all which we have heretofore regarded as inexplicable mysteries."

Mr. Phillpots then rose to cross-examine the reverend gentleman.

"You know the defendant," said he; "you know him well. Now will you take upon yourself, as a clergyman of the Church of England, to swear that he is a somnambulist?"

"Why, what else can he be?"

"No matter what else he can be; will you swear that he is a somnambulist?"

"Why, when we look at—"

"We don't want to look, sir, at anything but you. My question is plain. Will you swear that he is a somnambulist?"

"Well, perhaps I am not justified strictly in swearing it, but—"

"Of course not; there, that'll do; go down."

​"But, my lord," said the reverend gentleman, addressing the bench.

"Mr. Rouse," interposed Mr. Slashinger, "you have given your evidence very clearly. You have not the slightest doubt of his being a somnambulist, but you do not feel justified in swearing that he is one, seeing that you have never exactly discovered him in a state of somnambulism."

"Exactly. That's what I mean. Exactly."

"Very good."

The reverend gentleman then left the box, but he was not by any means satisfied.

This being the case for the defendant, Mr. Charles Phillpots rose to reply.

"In all my experience, gentlemen," said he; "I never met with anything more absurd than this defence. It is the most ridiculous on record. Somnambulism! Let us but once admit this plea, and we may shut up every court of justice in the empire. A man may seduce your wife, and plead somnambulism: he may ruin your daughters, and plead somnambulism: he may pick your pocket, and plead somnambulism: he may knock you down, and plead somnambulism: he may even murder you, and plead somnambulism: nay, there's nothing which he could do, that he might not do, and put in the plea of somnambulism. Can my learned friend produce any witness to prove that his client was in a state of somnambulism when he left Lady Julian's chamber? No! Somnambulism, indeed! The idea is preposterous! Suppose that either of you gentlemen, on going home to-night, were to find a man in your chamber: what would you think of his plea of somnambulism? Suppose that, on your way home, a fellow were to stop you, and rob you of your watch, what would you think of his plea of somnambulism? Suppose that I were to say that I thought you sufficiently foolish to entertain such an absurdity, what would you say to my plea of somnambulism? Somnambulism, forsooth! Why, there isn't a crime under heaven that might not be committed with absolute impunity, if once we admitted, in justification, the monstrous plea of somnambulism. Repudiate it, gentlemen, with scorn. Treat it with the contempt it so richly deserves. I am amazed that, in this enlightened age—in the middle of the nineteenth century—and in a country boasting, and justly too, its high and refined state of civilisation—such an absurd, such a perfectly ridiculous plea, as that of somnambulism, should have been entered. Why, gentlemen, it must be imagined that you are idiots—if, indeed, it be imagined that you are capable of entertaining such a vile plea as this! Repudiate it, gentlemen, indignantly. Look to the plaintiff, whose heart's dearest treasure has been stolen from him by the insidious arts of this somnambulist, and give exemplary damages, convinced, as you must be, that he has been abused, and that his relief must be to loathe her!"

His lordship then briefly summed up, and the jury, without retiring, returned a verdict for the Plaintiff—Damages £2,000.