# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 21

CHAPTER XXI.
THE PROPOSAL.
The forms in which proposals of marriage are made, are as various as the views, thoughts, and passions of those who make them. It may at first sight appear strange that there should be so many ways of doing one and the same thing; and yet, perhaps, of the myriads of millions who have proposed, no two men ever—either in ancient or modern times—managed this matter precisely alike. Nor is it at all probable that any two men ever will; for, independently of the infinitely varied characters of lovers, the minds, forms, features, and feelings of those whom they love are so diversified, that every proposal, whether romantic ​or rational, ardent or cold, pathetic or comic—and the comic style is by far the most popular among the ladies—will have some little novelty about it.
Without, however, dwelling upon this, it is certain that one of the easiest things in the world for a man to do, is that of proposing to a widow. She understands it so well. She knows so exactly what you mean, and what you are anxious to say; and helps you over any little difficulty with so much tact, that it's really quite delightful. Yes; a widow most certainly affords every possible assistance to a man in this position. But while it is certain that the easiest proposal a man can make is that which is made to a widow, it is equally certain that by far the most difficult is that which a man has to make to an old maid.
Now, albeit Aunt Eleanor was an old maid, it is highly correct to cause it to be distinctly understood that she was not so particularly antiquated as some may imagine. No! she was upwards of forty; but although the exact age of a single lady above forty is conventionally apochryphal, it may be said that she was much nearer one than one hundred with safety, seeing that no man in Europe can prove that she was not.
The reverend gentleman, however, did not look at her age—he looked at her virtues: her amiability, her piety, her benevolence, the sweetness of her disposition, and the purity of her heart. Still he conceived it to be extremely difficult to propose; and that apparent difficulty increased as the time drew near at which he had determined that the proposal should be made. How hard he studied, few can tell; how many times he rehearsed that which he had fixed upon as his opening speech, few have the power to form anything like a correct conjecture; there are, however, many who can tell precisely why, when the time for the delivery of that speech had arrived, his recreant memory abandoned his will; there are also many in a position to understand how it happened that, having resolved on the immediate pursuit of his object, he at once, notwithstanding that desertion, commenced.
At this time he and Aunt Eleanor were in one of the doctor's drawing-rooms alone; and as there appeared to be no prospect of any immediate interruption, he coughed—slightly coughed—and thus began:—
"Have you seen the papers this morning?"
"I saw one in the breakfast-room, but I merely glanced at it."
"You didn't read the debate in the House of Commons, I presume?"
"Parliamentary debates I very seldom read: I am not sufficiently conversant with political affairs to read those awfully long speeches with any degree of interest. Was there anything of importance brought forward last night?"
"Why, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, I perceive, announced that the expenditure exceeds the income."
"Indeed! Some bad management, I presume?"
"He says not—and he ought, I think, to know as well as any man in England. But it strikes me that I could suggest to him the means by which the revenue might be increased!"
​"He would be glad, I should say, if you were to do so. But what is the nature of the means you would suggest?"
"Merely the imposition of an additional tax."
"Are we not sufficiently taxed already?"
"It appears that we are not! If we were, the income would be sufficient to meet the expenditure."
"In private life it sometimes happens that the expenditure exceeds the income, even when, for all just and legitimate purposes, that income is ample; but I suppose that, in public affairs, the case is different. I do not, of course, pretend to understand that difference, but I should like to know what description of tax you would suggest to the Chancellor of the Exchequer."
"Well," said the reverend gentleman, with a peculiarly bland expression, "that which I contemplate is a tax upon all single men above forty!"
Aunt Eleanor smiled and blushed. She knew what he meant: she knew what would follow—she understood him as well as he could have been understood, even by a widow, but was silent.
"I would," he continued—"I would tax those fellows to the extent of five-and-twenty per cent. upon their incomes. What business have men of that age to be single? Do you not think it disgraceful? Don't you think that a tax of the kind ought to be imposed?"
"Why," said Aunt Eleanor, "it would be a novel tax."
"As far as men are concerned, it certainly would be; but in the feudal times the ladies who held fees or estates which required military services were thus taxed, with the view of inducing them to marry, in order that their husbands might perform those services themselves."
"But no tax in this case can be imposed on those grounds."
"Very true: still I'd tax them! I'd make them either marry or pay."
"They had better pay than be unhappy."
"Granted! But I do not associate unhappiness with marriage: it is, I admit, often the result; but there are men who will, when there is a bright prospect of happiness before them, continue to live in the shade."
"In such a case they cannot, I submit, see that prospect?"
"No, that's the point. They are blind—morally blind: sand-blind, as I have been—selfishly blind. But I'd open their eyes. I'd tax them; there's nothing in life like taxation, when the object is to bring men to their senses. Nor would I permit them to occupy a whole house: they should merely have lodgings. Look at my house; it's a nice house, a good house, a capital house. You might make it a comfortable house, but I can't; and as I can't, what right have I to live in it alone?"
"You cannot be said to live in it alone."
"Conventionally, an unmarried man is single, and a single man lives in the world morally alone. Now, I want to know why I should live in the world alone: in other words, I want to know why I should remain unmarried?"
"I see no reason why you should: except, indeed, that you are happy."
​"But, my dear madam, I am not happy. I used to be happy certainly; but ever since I received that note I have felt a certain sort of something like a wish to be married. Now, I do not belong to the Church of Rome—I belong to the Church of England; and therefore I do not see why I should not enter into the marriage state. Do you see any just cause or impediment?"
"Oh, dear no: none whatever."
"Do you see why I should not marry, when marriage presents a bright prospect of happiness?"
"No: I really do not."
"Then I want your advice."
"But I have had no experience in these matters."
"So much the better: I'd rather, my dear madam, have your advice—upon this point especially—than that of any other creature breathing. Now, suppose that I were in love—that is to say, suppose that I had so firm—so ardent an affection for a lady, that I imagined marriage to be absolutely essential to my happiness: suppose this, I merely say suppose it, and then tell me what you'd advise me to do?"
"Really," replied Aunt Eleanor, smiling, "I'm so perfectly unacquainted with affairs of this character, that I feel quite incompetent to offer advice."
"But how, in this case, do you think I ought to act?"
"Well, really—I scarcely know: but I should think that if you are in the position you describe, you ought at once to propose to the lady."
"Very good. But how is it to be done?"
"I cannot give you any information upon that point."
"Well, but how do you imagine it ought to be done?"
"Upon my word, I cannot say. I have had so little experience in these affairs, that it may almost be said that I am ignorant of them."
"But you have had offers?"
"Oh, yes! I have had many offers, certainly."
"Will you do me the favour to explain to me how they were made?"
"My dear sir—really—I scarcely know how it is possible for me to do so."
"If you would, you would oblige me. I should then know exactly how to manage it myself."
"Well: but upon my word, the idea of your asking me for information on the subject appears so excessively odd."
"My dear madam, whom should I ask for information but one is able to give it? I pledge you my honour, I never proposed to a lady in my life; I cannot, therefore, be expected to know anything about the matter: whereas, you having had offers made you, know well how the business is done."
"I really do not pretend to know anything about it."
"I am aware that you do not pretend to know; and this absence of all pretension, in my judgment, constitutes one of your most admirable characteristics, but you nevertheless do know all about it; do you not?"
"Upon my word—it seems so strange that I should be thus applied to."
​"To whom else can I apply? Now do let me know all about it."
"Well, but what do you wish to know?"
"How to propose: that's the point. I merely wish to know how it's done."
"But, my dear sir, unless I have some little knowledge of the character of the lady, it will be quite impossible for me to tell what style will be likely to suit her."
"You know her," said the reverend gentleman, with a smile: "I fancy that I know her well; but you know her infinitely better."
"Indeed. Dear me; why whom can it be?"
"Whom should it be? to whom is it likely I could wish to propose? There is but one in this world, my dear madam, and—you are that one! Yes; that's the point—that's it; I wish to propose to you!"
"To me!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, archly. "To me?"
"To you, my dear madam; to you."
"Dear me! why how came you to think of such a thing?"
"I'll explain: when I received that letter, which I then of course believed had been written by Sylvester, I privately asked myself two or three questions. First: what had I been about? Secondly, what could be done? and, thirdly, what ought I to do? I answered these questions, and those answers were—to the first, that I had been very stupid: to the second, that this stout fellow might be supplanted; and to the third, that if he could be, I ought to supplant him. I inspired the spirit of rivalry on the instant, and came up resolved on defeating this porpoise: I felt that he was no friend of mine, and I do really think that if he had appeared, I should not have been particularly courteous. Again. I examined my heart; I examined it minutely; and the result of that examination proved that it was in reality full of affection. I had before no idea that that heart of mine possessed such a treasure of beautiful feelings. I found pearls of happiness—pearls, of the very existence of which I had been previously unconscious. I dived into the depths, and brought them from the caves in which they had been so long concealed: they were rough but pure, and being pure, you are the person to polish them up. I now, therefore, repeat, that I am anxious to propose, my dear madam, to you; and if you'll explain how it is to be done, I'll buckle on my armour, and do it at once."
"Upon my word, I cannot give you any such explanation; nor do I think that you in reality need it."
"I never did such a thing in all my life. I never before thought of doing such a thing. I cannot therefore be expected to know much about it. But I suppose that there's a fashion in these matters—a sort of style—a kind of form—which society prescribes; is there not?"
"I really cannot say."
"Well, but pray do assist me a little?"
"Why, what assistance can you possibly require?"
"I require, in an affair of this description, every conceivable assistance. I feel altogether at a loss. I know no more what to say than an infant would know, were it possible to place one in a similar position. What am I to say? What can I say?"
​"My dear sir! say whatever your feelings may prompt, and be assured of this, that nothing that you may say, will be at all displeasing to me."
"Well, now that's very kind. It's exactly like you. I appreciate it, believe me, as I appreciate every feeling and every principle by which you are guided; but then, I'm no nearer the mark—not a bit! However, do me the favour to listen for a moment, and I'll make something like an attempt."
The reverend gentleman then drew his chair nearer to the couch upon which Aunt Eleanor sat, and having taken her hand affectionately in his, thus proceeded:—
"The parsonage—the house in which I live—is, as you are well aware, a nice house—a substantial, well-built, roomy house, with a garden attached—a beautiful garden—surrounded by a capital wall: very well. Now, the cottage in which you reside, is a very nice cottage; there is also a garden attached to that, and, albeit it is not surrounded by a wall, it is still a very beautiful garden. But do you not think, that if you were to leave this cottage and come to live with me in that house, you would make me one of the happiest men alive? and, do you not believe that I would endeavour to promote your happiness by all the means at my command?"
"That I do most fervently believe."
"Very good! Again. The affair, I apprehend, might thus be managed: I might, some fine morning, proceed to this cottage and take you to church, and when the marriage ceremony had been performed, we might leave the village for a month or so, and then return to that house together, and live in peace, harmony, and love. Do you not think it might be managed thus?"
"Certainly, it might be thus managed."
"And do you not also think that we had better thus manage it?"
"That is another question, altogether!"
"I am aware of it: but what are your feelings upon the point—that is to say—what is your impression?"
"Why, my impression is that—to use parliamentary language—this debate had better be adjourned: in other words, that we had better wait until we get back again to Cotherstone, and calmly talk the matter over there."
"Very good! I am not an impetuous man: I have no desire at all to be precipitate; but you really must promise me this, that if in the interim any stout individual should in reality solicit you hand, you will not let him have it."
"I will promise this, and more: I will promise that if any individual should do so, no matter whether he be stout or thin, I'll not marry without your consent."
The reverend gentleman, hereupon, kissed the hand he held, and, having done so, felt perfectly happy.
"And now," said he, after a pause, during which they most affectionately reciprocated each others' glances, "when do you think of returning?"
​"Why, I scarcely know," replied Aunt Eleanor; "I am anxious to see Sylvester settled before I leave town."
"Exactly. He is to be a surgeon, of course?"
"Yes; that has been decided upon, and Dr. Delolme, who is a kind, good creature, is now gone to have an interview with a gentleman, whose talents are distinguished, whom he holds in high esteem, and to whom he is anxious that Sylvester should be articled."
"This may be arranged then in three or four days?"
"Oh yes: it will, I expect, be very soon settled."
"And will you, when this has been settled, have anything at all to detain you in town?"
"Nothing. I think of returning on the following day."
"Oh, then we had better return together—that is, if you have no objection?"
"I can have no objection. I shall be, indeed, most happy to accompany you."
"Then let it be so—I need not explain to you how happy I shall feel!—let it be so."
"You will dine with us to-day, of course?"
"I scarcely know. I dined here yesterday!"
"Oh, but if you are not engaged, you must! The doctor, I know, expects that you will."
"Then I will. I have scarcely time," he observed, on looking at his watch, "to run back to the inn, but I will. The doctor's a fine fellow, and you are a fine fellow—that is to say, I don't mean exactly that, but—you know what I mean. Adieu, until dinner-time! Eleanor!" he added, taking both her hands in his, and gazing upon her, with an unfeigned expression of fervour, "God bless you!"
He then left the room, and Aunt Eleanor, who felt very happy, went up stairs to dress.
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