# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII.
THE PICKLED SMALLS.
Upon those who live in the midst of excitement, who not only feel the world's buffets themselves, but see the world buffeting all around them—whose lives are one perpetual struggle—whose career is a series of ups and downs—who are constantly compelled to be on the qui vive—who, from morning till night, and from year to year, are engaged in overcoming those barriers by which their progress in life is impeded—who, either to amass wealth, or to gain a mere subsistence, have their minds continually on the stretch—who are surrounded by difficulties springing, not only from honourable competition, but from trickery, malignity, and envy—who are thwarted at every step—who are opposed at every point, and have to dodge through the world, which is to them one huge labyrinth, out of which they scarcely know how to get with honour—troubles of an unimportant caste make but little impression, for they really have not time to think much about them; but they, whose lives are passed in an almost perpetual calm—who live but to live—who have a competence which secures to them comfort—who have nothing but tranquillity around them—nothing to prepare for in this world but the next—whose course is clear, whose career is smooth—who experience neither ups nor downs—who live on, and on, in the spirit of peace, hoping for peace hereafter—who know but little of life, or its vicissitudes—who have nothing to oppose their progress—no difficulties to surmount, no barriers to break down, no competition to encounter, no struggling, no straining, no manœuvring—they magnify every cause of vexation by dwelling upon it, brooding over it, and making it the germ of a thousand conceptions, as if anxious to ascertain what monstrous fruit it can thus be imagined to bear.
The impression, however, is not intended to be conveyed that the difficulties which beset Aunt Eleanor at this period were small: the object proposed, is merely to show that, however great they might be, they were perfectly sure to be magnified; seeing that she had never had but one important trouble, and that, with this exception—the nature of which will be hereafter explained—her whole life had been characterised by an almost uninterrupted flow of tranquillity. But, even if this had not been shown, it would scarcely have been deemed, under the circumstances, extraordinary, that these occurrences—for which she could not in any way account—should have seriously interfered with her spirit's peace.
But these annoyances were not all she had been doomed to endure. In the morning when Mary went to assist her to dress, she went, fraught with another mysterious cause of vexation.
​"Oh, ma'am!" she exclaimed."There's been sich goings on! Oh! I never did see, ma'am! The things is all turned topsy-turvy. The picturs, cheers, everything. Oh! it is horrid."
"What is it you mean, Mary?"
"Oh! ma'am! only jist come down stairs, ma'am; that's all."
"But what do you mean?"
"There's been thieves in the house, ma'am! But do come and see. Jist slip on your things, ma'am, and only jist look at the horrid upset."
Aunt Eleanor did slip on her things, and on reaching the door of her favourite parlour, beheld a scene of unexampled confusion. Everything had been displaced. The tables had been turned upside down, and the chairs piled ingeniously upon them: the pictures had been taken from the walls, and placed round the room upon the carpet: the vases, the lambs, dogs, lions, and tigers, had been removed from the mantelpiece to the couch: the china and glass had been taken from the sideboard, and arranged fantastically upon the piano, while, in order to compromise the matter with the sideboard, the hearth-rug, coal-scuttle, fire-irons, and fender, had been in due form placed upon it; but nothing had been broken—nothing even injured!
Aunt Eleanor gazed for a few moments upon this most extraordinary state of things in silence; but, having at length observed calmly that it demanded minute investigation, she locked the door, and taking the key with her, returned to her chamber to dress.
Here she tranquilly turned the thing over in her mind; and, having viewed it in connexion with the ghost-hunting party, she resolved on sending for her reverend friend, with the view of placing the matter before him.
In pursuance of this resolution, she, on descending to the breakfast-room, opened her desk and proceeded to write a note to the reverend gentleman; but she had scarcely commenced it, when Mary appeared: and, having informed her that neither bread, butter, eggs, nor ham, could be found, inquired not only what was to become of them, but what was to be done?
"Can you not find enough for breakfast?"
"Lor bless you, ma'am, they haven't left a mite!"
Aunt Eleanor pressed her lips closely together, and finished the note; and, while folding it, said ——
"Light the taper, Mary; and then, desire Judkins to come here."
"Judkins, ma'am, can't get up yet," replied Mary.
"Why not? Is he ill?"
"No, ma'am, he isn't ill."
"Why, then, can he not get up?"
"Because ma'am, they've taken away all his things."
"Good gracious! What next shall I hear? Well, put on your bonnet; and take this note, and bring in with you what we require for breakfast."
The note being sealed, Mary left the room, and Sylvester soon after entered; and when his aunt, as usual, had kissed him, and expressed her fond hope that he was well, she proceeded to explain to him what had occurred; and thereby to fill him with utter amazement.
​ The disturbed Furniture.
​"My dear aunt," said he, "what can it all mean?"
"Heaven only knows! I cannot even conjecture. But just come with me, dear, and look at the things. There," she added, on opening the parlour-door, "did you ever see a room in such a state of confusion?"
Sylvester looked, and really felt, quite astonished.
"You see," she continued; "there's not a single thing in its place."
"But what could have been their object?" said Sylvester. "The things are disarranged, it is true; but they appear to have disturbed them with great consideration. I cannot conceive what their motive could have been.
"Nor can I! unless, indeed, it were merely to annoy me."
"I should say that had that been their object, they would never have removed them with so much care. The things have not been thrown together, you perceive: it has been a work of time. Look at this china and glass; there is some little taste, you perceive, displayed in the arrangement."
"I do not admire the taste displayed, but they certainly have been most carefully handled. But that, my dear, which annoys me more than all, is the fact of my being unable to imagine, not only who did it, but how it was done. I should say myself, that thieves have not been in the house. I miss nothing here. The only things which have disappeared, with the exception of the bread, butter, eggs, and ham, are the clothes of poor Judkins."
"Are they gone? Well—that is strange."
"And, especially as there are many things much more portable and infinitely more valuable here: that timepiece, for instance, is worth thirty pounds. However, not a thing shall be touched until Mr. Rouse comes. I'll have the whole matter investigated fully."
She then returned to the breakfast-room, and Sylvester went up to Judkins, whom he found still in bed, for he hadn't a thing to put on.
"Why, how is this, Judkins?" said Sylvester, as he entered; "I hear that you have lost all your clothes."
"Every rag: every individual rag," replied Judkins; "I haven't a mite of anything to put on. I shouldn't have cared if they'd only just left me a pair of breeches; but blarm 'em, to take away the lot was ondecent."
"Didn't you hear them at all?"
"I only wish for their sakes I had; Id ha' cooked the goose of one or two of 'em, I'll warrant. It's worse than highway robbery, ten times over. I'd ha' forgiven 'em if they'd stopped me on the road, but to crawl in and steal a man's clothes clandestinely when he's asleep, is the warmintest proceeding I ever heered tell on."
"Well, how do you mean to manage? Shall I run to the tailor for you?"
"No, I thank you, sir; Mary's just gone to the Parson's gardener, to ask him to lend me a pair of breeches and a waistcoat: but I don't know whether he will or not, I'm sure."
"My trousers, I suppose, will not fit you?"
​"Lor' bless you—I should split 'em all to ribbons; I couldn't get my arms in. Blister 'em: all I wonder at is, they didn't take off my shirt. They have got my stockings. Shouldn't I like to catch 'em. If ever I do come across 'em, I wish 'em success."
Mary now came to the door with a bundle, for Jones—having heard the whole matter explained—had opened his heart, and sent the clothes; and when Sylvester had handed them over to Judkins, he left him to rejoin his aunt.
While at breakfast they, of course, spoke of nothing, thought of nothing, but the confusion so mysteriously created; but the more they endeavoured to guess the cause, the more deeply involved they became. They had scarcely, however, finished their repast, when the reverend gentleman arrived, and when, with a look which denoted concern, he had greeted them with all his characteristic cordiality, Aunt Eleanor eloquently laid the case before him—connecting it ingeniously with the ghost-hunting party who appeared before her cottage the preceding night—and then asked him what he thought of the matter as it stood, and what course he imagined she ought to pursue.
Now the Reverend Mr. Rouse was a man of the world—that is to say, a man of the world in which he lived; a man possessing a most profound knowledge of the sphere in which he moved—he was a man of observation, as well as a man of reflection; and while his perceptive faculties were strong, he was conversant with, although unable to discover the etymology of, certain idioms which were constantly used by those around him. He knew, for example, what was meant by "a spree:" he moreover knew perfectly the meaning of "a lark:" he knew not whence they were derived, it is true—albeit he strongly inclined to the belief that they had one and the same Greek root: but being thus cognizant of their modern definition, he, after a pause, during which he reflected deeply, said, with all the solemnity which the nature and importance of the words demanded, "Will you do me the favour to send for Legge?"
"Certainly, my dear sir," replied Aunt Eleanor, who turned and rang the bell on the instant. "Mary," she added, when the servant appeared, "as Judkins is busy, run and ask Mr. Legge to step over."
"Tell him I desire that he will come immediately," added the Pastor, with all that humility by which the order to which he belonged was at that particular period distinguished; and when Mary had left, he in silence proceeded to rehearse that highly important part which it was his intention to perform.
Legge, who was a man of business, and who, by virtue of attending to that business, was doing very well at the Crumpet and Crown, received Mary with his customary custom-winning smile; but when she had delivered not only her mistress's message, but that which the reverend gentleman had sent, his features assumed an expression of thought, and he said, as he passed his hand over his chin, "I wonder now what's in the wind."
"You'll hear all about it," returned Mary, promptly; "but do make haste, for they're anxious, I know."
Mrs. Legge then spoke to Mary, and asked her how she found herself, ​and pressed her to have a glass of wine, and got her into the bar, and then made her have one; and during Legge's progress to the cottage, got out of her all she knew and more.
The reverend gentleman having decided upon a course, of which the pursuit he thought would have a somewhat stunning effect, assumed a position of great importance as Legge entered the room, and addressd him in tones indicative of that authority with which he felt doubly invested.
"Mr. Legge," said he, with an expression of severity, "I am sorry, Mr. Legge, that I have so much cause to complain of your keeping a disorderly house."
"A disorderly house, sir?" cried Legge.
"Yes, sir," retorted the reverend gentleman; "a disorderly house—for disorderly every house must be, if it be not conducted with propriety and decorum."
"I beg pardon, sir: but really, I never heard before that I kept a disorderly house."
"I say, sir, that it is a disorderly house, and I warn you that, as a disorderly house, it shall be indicted, if the scenes—the disgraceful scenes which are to be witnessed there—be not discontinued."
"What scenes? What disgraceful scenes?" demanded Legge, who conscious of the propriety of his own conduct, and the consequent fair reputation of his house, began to feel indignant. "What scenes are to be witnessed there?"
"Scenes, sir, of riot and debauchery; scenes—"
"I deny it."
"Silence, sir; how dare you interrupt me?"
"Dare! I'm a plain, blunt man, sir, and will not be silent when I hear myself falsely denounced. I am not a clergyman: I do not preach humility and practise tyranny: I am the mere keeper of a public-house; I was not always in that position, but even as I am, I defy the world to prove that my conduct has not been straightforward and just. I am also the father of a family, and my children, you know, I have endeavoured to rear in the principles of virtue, morality, and religion. You know this: you know that I would neither set them a bad example myself, nor suffer a bad example to be set them by others: and, am I then, by you, sir, to be told, not only that I keep a disreputable house, but—"
"I did not say a disreputable house."
"You said a disorderly house."
"I did: but not in your sense, disorderly. All I meant to say, was, that occasionally scenes of disorder occurred."
"Why, of course they do. Where is there a house of that description in which scenes of disorder do not occur occasionally? But is it, therefore, to be called a disorderly house?—a house to be indicted?"
"You keep bad hours, sir; you cannot deny that!"
"Occasionally we are compelled to be rather late, but in general we close between ten and eleven."
"The house, sir, was not closed at twelve last night."
​"I am aware of it; but that was under extraordinary circumstances."
"It is to that point we would come," interposed Aunt Eleanor, who, although she had been silent, didn't at all like her reverend friend's mode of proceeding. "We wish to speak of that solely, Mr. Legge. You had a party last night, and that party, or a number of those persons who composed that party, appeared before the gate of my cottage at midnight. We wish, Mr. Legge, to know the motives of those persons: that is the point at which we are anxious to arrive."
"Exactly," added the reverend gentleman; "that is the point. Now, sir, what were their motives?"
"I know but of one," replied Legge.
"Aye, that is the ghost story: that we have heard. But do you not know that their principal object, sir, was to annoy this lady?"
"No, sir; on the contrary, I know that it was not. There is not a man amongst them, sir, by whom she is not respected. She is too kind—too good, sir, to be annoyed wantonly by them."
"Then, do you mean to say, Mr. Legge, that you don't know that some of those persons burglariously entered this cottage last night?"
"Entered this cottage?"
"Aye, sir! That is the question. Do you, or do you not, know that fact?"
"Most certainly I do not. Nor do I believe it to be a fact. Why, sir, there isn't one of them, who—leaving inclination out of the question entirely—would, under the circumstances, have dared, sir, to enter the cottage!"
"Very well. You are entitled to the full benefit of this opinion; but I'll now just trouble you to look at the state of this room."
The reverend gentleman then rose, and, accompanied by Sylvester and his aunt, proceeded to the parlour, duly followed by Legge, who, as he entered, looked round the room utterly astonished.
"You have, indeed, been annoyed, ma'am," at length he observed, "and I'm very sorry for it; but I'm sure—quite sure, that this was not done by either of those men."
"These things," said the reverend gentleman, "could not have been removed without hands."
"Nor could they have been removed in haste," rejoined Legge. "Were the doors broken open, ma'am?"
"No! all seemed secure in the morning! How ever they got in, I can't Imagine."
"Do you think, ma'am, it's likely that any one got in?"
"What else am I to think, Mr. Legge?"
"I ought not perhaps to offer any suggestion."
"Oh, I do hope that you will, for the affair is now so involved in mystery, that if you could throw any light upon the subject I should feel indeed grateful."
"Well, ma'am, of course, I don't know that I can; but you have a gardener, and that gardener sleeps in the house. Now, I should be very sorry, even to throw out a hint that would tend to injure any man breathing, but as I know what servants are, and what quarrels—petty ​quarrels—they have occasionally among themselves, I would suggest that it is possible—just possible—that the gardener, during the night, thus carefully displaced these things—not with any wicked object in view—but merely for the purpose of annoying the maids."
"A very proper suggestion," observed the reverend gentleman, who, finding that stilts wouldn't do, came down. "Very proper, indeed. It is possible: nay, highly probable."
"But," observed Sylvester, "Judkins has lost all his clothes!"
"Have you lost anything of value, ma'am?—anything out of this room?" inquired Legge.
"Not a single thing! Oh! by-the-bye," she added, "where's the silver tankard?"
They looked round the room: it was not to be seen: nor could they see the salver upon which it had stood. Presently, however, the reverend gentleman perceiving something under the couch, removed it, and there found, not only the tankard and salver, but the bread, butter, ham, and a bundle of clothes, which were instantly known to belong to Judkins!
This altered at once the complexion of things. It was then quite clear to them all, that this confusion had been created with no felonious intention; and as it was plain that no entrance had been forced, Aunt Eleanor, as well as her reverend friend, felt convinced, that with the motive assigned by Legge, the things had been thus disturbed by Judkins.
Legge, however, now had a doubt on the subject, and gave Judkins the benefit of that doubt without delay. "1 do not," said he, "think it was the gardener now."
"Oh!" cried the Pastor, "the case is clear against him! Look at his clothes! How came they here?"
"The very fact," returned Legge, "of their being here, tends to convince me, that he is not, after all, the man. I think that if he had done it, he would not have left his clothes—for I do not believe that he has sufficient art to leave them in order that all suspicion might be removed, on the ground that no man, in his senses, would thus convict himself. If he left them at all, he could only have left them for the purpose of having it said, 'Oh, it couldn't have been him: he would never have been such a fool!' and I do not think that he is artful enough for that."
"There's no telling," observed the reverend gentleman. "Really the world has got to such a pitch that there's no such thing as knowing the human heart at all."
"But," said Aunt Eleanor, "if it were not Judkins, who on earth could it have been?"
"1 can't imagine," returned Legge; "still I would not too hastily condemn him. All I can say is, that this was not done by any one of the party at my house last night."
"I believe it," said Aunt Eleanor; "firmly believe it."
"And so do I now," observed the reverend gentleman. "I did at first think that they had done it by way of a frolic, which, in the house of a lady, would have been of course disgraceful. However, as it is, I ​recal those observations which I made with respect to your house, but I do hope that you will in future keep good hours."
Aunt Eleanor now got out the wine, and requested Legge to help himself, which he, as a matter of course, did; but just as he had filled his glass, Mary came into the room, exclaiming—"We've found the eggs, ma'am; but, oh! in such a place!"
"Where did you find them?" demanded her mistress.
"In the pickle-tub, ma'am."
"In the pickle-tub?"
"Yes, ma'am; as cook was a fishing for a tongue, what should she find but the eggs, tied up in an old pair of Judkins's ———?
Here she stopped and blushed, and Aunt Eleanor blushed too, and the reverend gentleman turned to smile, but Legge, who had just got his mouth full of sherry, didn't know at all how to get rid of it. He blew out his cheeks, and grunted, and strained, while his face became crimson, and every vein visible, seemed in a fit state to burst, until, at length, he made a desperate effort to gulp it, but, as a portion of it went "the wrong way," that portion found out its mistake, and returned, and, by virtue of returning thus, caused him to spirt and to cough with unparalleled violence. This was annoying, but he really couldn't help it. Aunt Eleanor knew that he couldn't, and, therefore, in order to relieve him from embarrassment, appeared to be unconscious of the circumstance entirely, and, turning to Mary, said to her, "Has cook been quarrelling with Judkins?"
"No, ma'am: they've had a few words, but not about anything particular!"
"Very good," said her mistress, "you can now leave the room. "It is," she added, when Mary had left, "it is, I apprehend, as you suggested, Mr. Legge. These people, no doubt, have been quarrelling, and their object has been to annoy each other, This, however, must be ascertained, But have another glass of wine, Mr. Legge."
Legge was almost afraid, but he took another glass, and managed to drink it with proper effect, and, when Aunt Eleanor had thanked him for his attention, and the reverend gentleman had playfully entreated him to let him know immediately the "ghost" re-appeared, he bowed and left them to contemplate the case as it stood, and to devise the means of gaining the knowledge desired.
Now, while he was thus engaged at the cottage, Mrs. Legge—having ascertained from Mary the substance of' all that had occurred, with the single exception of the eggs being found in that peculiar envelope—had, as a natural matter of course, been retailing the circumstances to all who came, among whom were Mr, Pokey, Mr. Obadiah Drant, Mr. Click, Mr. Quocks, and Mr. Bobber. When, therefore, Legge returned, their anxiety to learn the minutiæ of that of which they had heard but the outline, was intense. They crowded round him, and urged him to begin at the beginning, and pressed him to drink, that he might open more freely; but Legge, having whispered to his wife, assumed an expression of mortification, and sat down in silence. ​"Why, what is the matter? What's wrong?" inquired Pokey. But Legge returned no answer.
"If there's anything fructifying in your mind, unpleasant," said Obadiah, "out with it, my boy, like a Briton!"
"Who," demanded Legge, with feigned ferocity, "who broke into the Grange Cottage, last night?"
"I didn't," said Pokey, "so that's enough for me."
"They who did," said Obadiah, "ought to be served, as they used to serve them in Nova Scotia, in the time of Julius Cæsar, and Peter the Great!"
"But was it broken into?" said Click.
"She sent for me, as you have heard, and there were the things! I never in my life witnessed such a scene of confusion. The parson was there, and he told me at once that he should indict me for keeping a disorderly house!"
"The parson! pooh!" exclaimed Obadiah. "Don't they draw nine-and-twenty millions of money, annually, every year, from the vitals of the people? What do they want more? Look at the ecclesiastical swindle exposed by Joey Hume! Could Bobby Peel defend it? Look, again, at Charley Buller's motion, that was backed by Tommy Duncombe! Do you mean to tell me—"
"But," interrupted Click, "was the cottage broken into last night?"
"Why, that's involved in mystery," replied Legge, "no locks appear to have been broken, but, as Mr. Rouse said—"
"Who cares for Teddy Rouse?" cried Obadiah; "Who cares for the cloth to which Teddy Rouse belongs? They are what I call the locusts of liberty!"
"As he said," continued Legge, "the things couldn't have been thus disturbed without hands. And now Pokey will have to prove that he didn't disturb them.".
"I!" exclaimed Pokey. "Why do they pitch upon me?"
"Mrs. Sound saw you near the premises. That's strong circumstantial evidence. You were there twice, which makes the case stronger. The bottom of it is, you're in a mess!"
"But I'll take my oath—"
"That you'll not be suffered to do. Mind you, I don't say that you are the man that broke in, you will recollect that. I shall give no evidence against you; but it strikes me you'd better prepare for your defence."
"I remember," observed Obadiah, "I remember that, during the French Revolution—"
"Blister the French Revolution!" cried Pokey, who began to feel very much alarmed. "What's the French Revolution to this? But are you serious, Mr. Legge? Really, now, are you serious?"
"Serious! It isn't a thing to joke about, I can tell you. You'd better leave the place till the matter blows over."
"I can't leave the place. How can I leave? I've no less than four pair of breeches in hand!"
In an instant Legge, unable to control himself, sent forth a loud ​peal of laughter, and as Click, Bobber, Quocks, and Obadiah, perceived that he had only been frightening Pokey, they, to some extent, joined him; but when he had explained the real cause of his mirth—when he had told them of the eggs being found in the pickle-tub, tied up in Judkins's smalls—they opened their shoulders, and set up a roar which might have been heard at the cottage. Nor was this ebullition of merriment transitory. Peal after peal did they send forth in raptures, now holding their ribs in, and calling out with pain, and then bursting forth again with fresh vigour, until two or three of them became so exhausted that, had not the chairs been established in a row, they really must have rolled on the ground.
"Was the eggs smashed?" cried Pokey, in the midst of this scene. And again they broke loose, though in agony. "I've heered of pickled inguns," he added, and this was the signal for another loud roar, "but pickled breeches," he continued, "pick—pickled—" Being utterly unable to finish this sentence, he threw himself down on the mat, and panted.
As the thunder succeeds the lightning's flash, so did a roar on this occasion succeed every sentence that was uttered, whether witty or not; but as men cannot even laugh for ever, they at length became sufficiently worn out to sit down in a state of comparative tranquillity.
Legge then explained to them what he had suggested, and they then saw, with perfect distinctness, that a quarrel between Judkins and cook had been the origin of it all. They, moreover, thought it a very fair match; but confessed that cook then had, decidedly, the best of it, seeing that Judkins had done nothing equal to her assumed feat of pickling the smalls.
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