# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI.
THE GHOST HUNT.
In a village like Cotherstone, of which the inhabitants were tradesmen with plenty of time on their hands, labourers trained to thoughtless toil, and persons who, having retired from trade, were anxiously waiting to die, such an occurrence as that of the appearance of a ghost, could not fail to create a sensation. Nor did it. Nor was the sensation thus created either slight or ephemeral: it was deep—very deep—and, therefore, lasting. There was not one in the village upon whom the ghost had not made a powerful impression. Even the exemplary wife of Mr. Pokey who, during the whole of the morning, had been engaged upon a series of nice calculations, of which the result was that, as Pokey, since his marriage, had taken nearly five thousand ounces of snuff, and upwards of twenty-five thousand quarts of beer, (beer enough to deluge the village, and snuff sufficient to fill up his grave,) they would, had he saved the money thus squandered, have had more than five hundred pounds then to play with—even she, repudiating incredulity, became so excessively interested in the spirit, that she actually allowed Mr. Pokey in the evening to go up again to the Crumpet and Crown.
And, oh! what a theatre of excitement it was! Not only the party of the previous evening, but almost every man in the village was present; but, although Mr. Pokey came late, and was, moreover, hailed on his arrival with significance, they, being unwilling to wound his private feelings, did not then allude to the chaff.
Obadiah, of course, was there, and he was, as usual, very dictatorial and deep; but he had one grand object to achieve: he had to justify his conduct on the preceding night. He admitted that that conduct was not indicative of bravery: he freely admitted that it was not exactly characterised by that peculiar boldness for which he was ardently anxious to become distinguished: "But," said he, with much point, "you must view this affair in all its fructifying ramifications. Place before me anything tangible—anything with which I can grapple, my boys and then see how I'll act!"
"But you didn't even speak to it!" said Legge.
"Speak to it!" returned Obadiah. "Why, what's the good of speaking to a spirit? what's the good of arguing with a ghost? what principle, either moral, religious, social, political, or municipal, can you drive into the head of an apparition? Place brains before me—give me fructifying intelligence—give me Harry Brougham, or even Bobby Peel, my boys—and then you'd see how I'd go in; but the idea of speaking to a spectre!—pooh!—what's the good?"
​By this ingenious species of ratiocination—this word is employed here in compliment to him, for ratiocination and fructification were the two stock weapons, which he, on all occasions, used to defeat his opponents, and without which he couldn't well argue a point—he endeavoured to justify himself. But he didn't succeed. His friends attributed his silence in the churchyard to fear—they would not hear of its being ascribable to anything else!—and when he found that he could not then shake this conviction, he, in order to subdue them for the time being, promised to show them that night what he would say, and how he would act in the event of the spirit's re-appearance.
This grand point having been thus far settled, he reverted to politics, in which he knew, of course, that he was perfectly at home, and in possession of the ability to beat them hollow.
Of all highly-influential men, there is not one more capable of commanding the attention of those who form the circle of which he is the centre, than a village politician. Nor would it be correct if there were, for what a patriot he is!—what a pure philanthropist!—nay, what a deeply indignant man! How profound is his political wisdom!—and how boldly he denounces the conduct of the party to whom he is, on principle, opposed! What rogues—what reckless, rampant rogues—does he prove them to be! To his knowledge, what intrigues are they connected with—what flagrant follies are they guilty of—what dead robberies do they commit! In his view, with what tenacity do they stick to the property of the people!—how they batten on corruption!—how they live on pure plunder!—how richly they deserve to be hanged! With what fiery indignation does he declare them to be wretches: how rotten, how venal, how utterly contemptible does he labour to make them all appear, when, to get a coat to make, or a boot to mend, he would take off his hat to the first he met. Precisely such a patriot was Obadiah Drant. But, although he would denounce the aristocracy at night, and bow to them with all humility in the morning, it merely proved the force of example—he would boldly philippicise people of property, and bend low to get the smallest share; but as men envy only the possessors of that which they have not, this was merely the effect of education. He would, moreover, loudly declaim against rank, state, and splendour, and yet
"lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
That thrift might follow fawning;"
but that was a natural matter of business. He was a patriot, notwithstanding; a tyrant, and a slave; and was highly respected by those whom he met at the sign of the Crumpet and Crown.
But, on this particular night, he was singularly eloquent. He, indeed, surpassed himself. He explained what the ministers ought to have done, and what he would have done had he been at the helm: he showed them how easily and how equitably he would have swept off the National Debt—how he would have settled the Currency question—how confidence and credit had proved the nation's curse—how France should ​have been made directly tributary to England—how Russian ambition should have been levelled with the dust—how we should have countenanced American repudiation—and how a British colony should have been made of the Celestial Empire at once.
And thus he amused and amazed them all, until the hour had arrived at which the spirit was expected to re-appear; when, summoning all the courage they had, they repaired to the quiet churchyard.
The night was clear. The moon was bright, and seemed to smile at the scene below; and while the stars merrily winked at each other, as if they enjoyed it too, the small white clouds in a playful spirit assumed shapes bearing the semblance of ghosts, and flew before the moon in the perfect conviction that she would at once cast their shadows to earth. But in this they were mistaken. The moon would do nothing at all of the sort. The light was not her own; it was but borrowed: and, therefore, she didn't feel justified in lending it for any such purpose to these little scamps.
Accordingly, no shadow appeared; and the party became quite bold. They even went right round the church! which was daring. They kept all together, it is true—not one of them would move without the rest—still they went completely round, and seemed to dare that or any other spectre to appear!—nay, on finding that nothing of the kind became visible, some began to treat the affair with contempt, and felt inclined to laugh, when Pokey, who had kept a remarkably sharp look out, exclaimed—
"There!—there you are!—that's it!—there it is!"
And there it was!—a narrow tomb, surmounted by an urn about the size of a very thick head.
Being, however, utterly unconscious of this, and having their minds on the instant wrought up to a state fit to receive any frightful impression, they looked with terror at the object before them, and felt as if their time was come.
But then it didn't move!—this they held to be extraordinary: nor did it seem as if it intended to move!—which they thought more extraordinary still, That it was a ghost, no doubt existed; but the fact of its being a fixture, beat them.
At length Click, the farrier, who was not a coward, proposed that they should approach it en masse, and this proposition was seconded by Legge; but as it was almost unanimously negatived, Click and Legge made up their minds to go together, and went, leaving their valiant friends trembling behind them. Long, however, before they had reached the object in view, they saw distinctly what it was; and Legge, on the impulse of the moment, was about to call out to them, but Click checked him promptly.
"Hold your tongue, Legge!" said he. "Now we'll have a game."
And he led him to the tomb and groaned deeply, and then led him back to his friends, who felt ill!
"Obadiah Drant," said Click, on his return, in the most solemn tone he could assume, "it wishes to speak with Obadiah Drant."
"With me?" cried Obadiah. "You don't mean with me?"
​"With you!' returned Click, in an awful growl.
'No, no, no, no, I shan't go! not a bit of it! What does it want? I shan't go!"
"You must," growled Click, who instantly locked his arms in those of Obadiah, and carried him, dos-a-dos, towards the tomb.
But on the way, oh! how sharp were the strictly private feelings of this great man! He felt his heart sink deeper and deeper still at every step, and as the cold sweat bedewed his highly-intellectual brow, he was half dead with "fructifying" fright. He did not even try to evade the iron grasp of Click, for Nature had taught him, in his early youth, the inutility of attempting that which he knew to be impossible: he rode on, a martyr to this eternal principle, and riding as he did—with his back towards the horrible object he was approaching—he gave himself up for lost.
"Behold!" exclaimed Click, on reaching the spot. "Behold!" and having uttered this awful exclamation, he turned sharply round, and presented the face of his terror-stricken load to the tomb.
Obadiah—who felt very faint—looked at the urn with an expression of despair, but, his eyes being veiled with a film of horror, he couldn't at first see what it was. Gradually, however, that film disappeared, and as it vanished, the changes which his countenance underwent, were of the most extraordinary character perhaps ever beheld; but, even when he had become completely conscious of what it was—when he had touched the urn, and found that it was stone, and therefore knew that it was no ghost—although he felt a little better, his features expressed infelicity still.
"Mr. Click, sir," said he, between a sigh and a moan, "I'll never forgive you; I'll never forgive you."
Click, as he released him, laughed loudly, and continued to laugh; and as Legge had, in the interim, explained all to his friends, they approached the spot, and laughed loudly too. They were highly amused: they enjoyed it much: they were all, indeed, in most excellent spirits: but Obadiah was indignantly dumb. He viewed the contortions of Mr. Click and his disciples with disgust. As they pealed forth their merriment, and held their sides, and irreverently trampled upon the graves around to subdue the pain which the laughter created, he scowled at them all with refined disdain, and, contemning their practices, left them.
"This is your ghost, then, is it?" cried Click, when the laughter had somewhat subsided. "This is your fiery-eyed phantom after all, then?"
"No," replied Legge, "we have been deceived by this, it is true; but this is not that which we saw last night. That was a spirit—a real spirit, if ever a spirit appeared upon earth."
"I don't believe it," retorted the incredulous Click; "nothing can make me believe it."
"But I saw it, I tell you! I saw it walk—I'm not exactly blind! I saw it pass my house, and go straight to the cottage."
"Let's go to the cottage now, then," interposed Pokey. "As it isn't here, I dare say we shall see it there. Let's go to the cottage."
"Aye—let's go!" exclaimed several of his friends, "let's all go together."
​ The alarm at the Cottage.
​"You may go, if you like," said Click, "but you don't catch me ghost-hunting again. I'll have no more of it. I shall go in and smoke a pipe, and so I tell you."
"Well go—what's the odds?" cried Pokey, who had become extremely valiant! "I'll be bound to say we shall find our way without you. Come along, my Britons. Here we goes. Let them as is afeared stop behind, that's all."
They then boldly left the churchyard, led on by the courageous Pokey, and as they passed the Crumpet and Crown, Click and Legge turned in, but the rest went on to the cottage.
Here all was still. Not a sound was heard. The lights were out and the blinds were down. But as they stood before the gate they fancied they saw the curtains move.
"It's in there, now," said Pokey to Quocks; "depend upon it, it's in there, now."
"I cert'ney see something," said Quocks. And the friends around him saw something; but what that something was, they wouldn't undertake to say, although, at any other time, they would have sworn—and safely too—that it was really a white curtain, and nothing else. But then, fancy converted that curtain into all sorts of shapes, and as ghosts are white by prescription, it so far resembled a ghost, while the difficulty experienced in conceiving a head, was, under the circumstances, small.
"Do you see it?" "Yes: what?" "There it is, you fool!' "Oh!" "There's the head." "That the head?" "To be sure." "Where's the tail?" "What tail?" "What tail?" "Oh!" Ah!" "No doubt."
This is a very fair epitome of the sentiments expressed, when Aunt Eleanor, hearing a most extraordinary buzz about the premises, slipped out of bed with the view of ascertaining whence it proceeded; but the moment she drew the white curtain aside, and appeared in her nightdress before them, the effect was electric! Her appearance alone inspired them with terror! But when she proceeded to open the window, for the purpose of asking them what it all meant, even as affrighted sheep follow their leader, so did they follow the valiant Pokey, who did instantaneously take to his heels.
In vain she called upon them to stop. They didn't like to do it! "What do you want my good people?" she cried. "What on earth do you all want?"
They heard her; but, conceiving the voice to be that of some fiend, they went right on: nor did they stop until they arrived at the Crumpet and Crown.
"Have you seen it?" cried Legge, as they rushed in wildly.
"Yes!" replied Pokey, panting for breath. "At the cottage!—it's there!"
"I don't believe a word of it," said Click; "it's all stuff."
"Well, go and look yourself," cried Pokey, "that's all. There it is at the window!"
"Is it there now?"
"If it isn't, I'll forfeit a couple of gallons."
​" Good!" said Click. "Legge and I will go at once. You had better come with us."
"I!" exclaimed Pokey.
"To be satisfied, of course!"
"Well, we don't want to go very near?"
"Oh no; just come with us." And Pokey did go with them; but long before they had reached the gate, he stopped, and cried, pointing to the window—"There—there! There it is! Don't you see it?"
They looked, and certainly did see something: they saw something move: they, moreover, heard a voice; and the voice did proceed from that window.
"Let us go a little nearer," said Click, who at that moment didn't feel exactly the thing; his heart didn't beat with its accustomed regularity: it thumped and stopped, and blundered about, as if it didn't care whether it worked or not; but as he wasn't inspired with absolute fear, they went a little nearer, and as they approached, Aunt Eleanor, who knew Legge well by his arms, which he at all times swung in a most extraordinary fashion, cried out—"Is that you, Mr. Legge?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Legge, promptly, for he knew the voice in an instant. "Is there anything amiss, ma'am?"
"What, in the name of goodness, did those persons want here just now?"
"They thought they saw a ghost, ma'am."
"Ridiculous! I really have no patience with such folly."
"I know," observed Pokey, "that something appeared, and at that very window, too."
"'Twas I, you simple man," said Aunt Eleanor. "You saw me appear at the window. I'm ashamed of you. Tell them from me, Mr. Legge, that if they come here again, I'll have them all taken up: they shall all be punished: I will not submit to be thus annoyed. Good night."
She then retired from the window, and they, being quite satisfied, returned to their friends; the whole of whom felt exceedingly mortified on learning, not only that they had been thus deceived, but that they had been the cause of annoyance to a lady, who had been so kind to the poor around, and to whom the whole village had reason to be grateful.
They, notwithstanding, had Pokey's two gallons in: and Click, in order to heal the deep wounds he had inflicted upon the feelings of Obadiah, ordered two gallons more, but Obadiah again and again declared he'd never forgive him: nor when the party, at midnight, broke up, had a reconciliation between those two gentlemen been effected.
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