# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
ROSALIE.
The pagans had a little swell whom they called the god of laughter. His name was Comus; and he was fat, as a perfectly natural matter of course. He didn't do much—they who laugh much, very seldom do—but, notwithstanding, in his day, he was popular among the pagans. Very good. Now, there are, of course, various species of laughter. There's the natural laugh, the hysterical laugh, the hypocritical laugh, and the laugh of the idiot; but the natural laugh is the only laugh which springs absolutely from pleasure. Comus had a natural laugh, and he was, therefore, fat. Why, what an immense field does this open for the philanthropist to contemplate! Cæsar—who wasn't a fool—didn't like Cassius, because he was lean. If this and that be put together, to what will they amount! Momus—not Comus, but Momus ​—censured Vulcan, for making a man without a window in his breast, that his ill designs and treacheries might be seen, which was all very well; but what necessity, even in that poetic age, would there have been for this window, had a social and political Fatometer obtained? And how infinitely more valuable would it be now—how society would be simplified by virtue of its introduction! Fat is the natural fruit of laughter: natural laughter springs from pleasure: pleasure is derived from happiness: happiness from goodness, and goodness comprehends all the virtues. That is one side of the question: now look at the other. Who ever saw a really laughter-loving man thin? No one. And why? Because laughter opens the shoulders—expands the chest—strengthens and increases the size of the lungs, and thus generates fat. Leanness, then, denotes the absence of laughter; the absence of laughter, the absence of pleasure; the absence of pleasure, the absence of happiness; the absence of happiness, the absence of goodness; and the absence of goodness, the absence of all the virtues. Who—had they been contemporaries—who would not have trusted Daniel Lambert—a man of one-doesn't-know-how-many stone—in preference to Monsieur—what was his name—the Living Skeleton? Let a Fatometer be established, that the amiable fat ones may be caressed, and the treacherous lean ones avoided! Let a standard of fat be fixed; and, as the crafty and designing can never hope to reach it, society will be all the purer.
Now, it is the peculiar province of an author to be cognizant of the most secret thoughts, not only of his heroes and heroines, but of every person whom he introduces to the world. Hence it is that he is held responsible for those introductions—and very properly, too!—but it would not be fair to attach to him this responsibility, were his liberty restrained. For example: he is allowed to follow a lady into her very chamber, and to contemplate her most private thoughts, even while she is there; which would be, under any other circumstances, highly incorrect. The lady herself wouldn't allow it; and, if even she had no great objection, by society it would not, it could not, be sanctioned. These remarks are held to be necessary as a sort of an apology, or rather as a species of justification, seeing that it has now to be stated that Aunt Eleanor, immediately after Legge had left the cottage, excused herself to her reverend friend, and went direct to her chamber to have a hearty laugh. And she did laugh heartily, and, therefore, very naturally. She loved to laugh, and hence was fat—that is to say, she had reached that standard which ought, for ladies thus circumstanced, to be universally set up. It is no sufficient argument against the establishment of this standard, that they who love to laugh are not at all times happy. The acmé of pleasure, for instance, consists in being entirely free from pain; but where are we to find the acmé of pleasure, seeing that pleasure and pain are twins? Even Aunt Eleanor, who loved to laugh as well as any lady in the county, was not without troubles, albeit they were few; and even while she was laughing in her chamber, she thought of that mystery which had not yet been solved. Feeling, however, then, that she had something like a clue to its solution, her mind was more tranquil, and when she had become, in her judgment, sufficiently composed, she returned to the ​reverend gentleman, who suggested that they should at once ascertain the cause beyond doubt; and the immediate consequence of this suggestion was, that Judkins was duly summoned.
"Judkins," she observed, with the most perfect composure, "the questions which I am now about to put to you, I hope you will answer with truth."
"Cert'ney, ma'am!—cert'ney."
"In the first place, then, I have to ask how you account for that extraordinary confusion in the parlour?"
"It's my opinion, ma'am, that the place is bewitched!—that's my opinion."
"Judkins, what time did you go to bed last night?"
"About half-past ten, ma'am."
"And what time did you rise?"
"About nine, ma'am. I couldn't get up before, because of my clothes."
"Were you in the room the whole of that time?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You didn't once leave it, from half-past ten last night until nine o'clock this morning?"
"No, ma'am."
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"Quite!"
"Judkins, if I discover that you are not telling me the truth, I will immediately discharge you; but if, repudiating falsehood, you confess to me now that those things in the parlour were disturbed by you—"
"By me, ma'am!" cried Judkins, in a state of astonishment; "I disturb the things, ma'am?"
"I have reason to suspect that they were disturbed you."
"Why, I wasn't out of bed, ma'am, the whole live-long night! Besides, why should I disturb them?"
"To annoy cook and Mary. You are not on the most friendly terms, I believe, with either."
"Oh, I don't know, ma'am; I never interfere with 'em. Mary's well enough; but cook's a cook, and you know what cooks is!—they're all alike. But if they was the very last words I had to speak, ma'am, I'd say I didn't touch them things."
"Judkins, I am at present bound to believe you; but if I find that you have been telling me a falsehood, I will on the instant discharge you!"
"You'll never find that, ma'am, I know; but I suppose, ma'am, that cook's been saying something against me!"
"No, not a word; nor have I at present spoken a word to her on the subject. But desire her to come to me now. The matter must not be allowed to rest here."
Judkins then left the room: and both his mistress and the reverend gentleman felt that he was innocent; while Sylvester, who had been watching the proceedings in silence, declared his conviction that Judkins was not the man, and pointed out the utter improbability of his having disturbed the things with the view of annoying cook, seeing that it was not cook's province to replace them. Aunt Eleanor, however, having commenced ​the investigation, felt bound to proceed, and awaited with composure the appearance of cook, who, on entering the room, felt somewhat flurried.
"Cook," said her mistress, "have you and Judkins been quarrelling?"
"No, ma'am."
"There have been no words between you of an unpleasant nature?"
"Nothing that can be called words, ma'am; only, so sure as I ask him for taters, or turnups, or carrots, or inguns, or salary, or anything in respect of that, so sure he won't bring 'em till the very lastest minute, though I ask him over and over and over and over again. There was only the other day—now, ma'am, only jist to show you—"
"I do not wish," said Aunt Eleanor, "to hear any tales, cook, of that description."
"No, ma'am, I know; but then it puts me in a orkard perdicament, as I told him, no longer ago than yesterday—'Judkins,' says I, 'you know,' says I, 'it isn't my place,' says I, 'to go,' says I, 'pottering about in that garden, and I'm sure,' says I, 'that if missis,' says I, 'was to know it—'"
"All I asked was, whether he and you had been quarrelling—whether, in short, you desired to annoy him."
"Annoy him, ma'am!—I want to annoy him? Then he's been a telling you, ma'am, I want to annoy him, ma'am, has he?"
"No cook; but answer my question plainly: have you had any wish to annoy him?"
"Not I, ma'am!—no, ma'am!"
"Then how do you account for the fact of his clothes being found where they were?"
"I, ma'am, account? What, then, has he been a saying that I put 'em there?"
"He has been saying nothing of the sort, cook. I asked you how you accounted for the circumstance?"
"Account for it, ma'am? I can only say it's my belief the house is wholly haunted! If it isn't, ma'am, it's very strange to me! As I said to Mary this blessed morning, 'Mary,' says I"—
"But, cook," said Aunt Eleanor, promptly checking this natural flow of eloquence, "for what purpose did you happen to go to the pickle-tub this morning?"
"I went, ma'am, 'cause, as the ham was gone, I thought I'd bile a tongue. But does he have the imperance to think, ma'am, that I put his clothes there? Where was his clothes, ma'am? In course, in his bed-room! And does he mean to have the howdaciousness to insinivate"—
"He has insinuated nothing of the kind. But by whom do you imagine they were put there?"
"I haven't, ma'am, so much as a idea!"
"Then, cook, I'm to understand that you can throw no light whatever on the subject?"
"Not the leastest in the world, ma'am!"
"Very well: then I have nothing more to say to you at present."
Cook then, although with manifest reluctance, retired; and as she was ​instantly acquitted of all participation, the mystery resumed its original character. Neither Sylvester, his aunt, nor their reverend friend, could imagine another clue. Even the power to conjecture seemed lost. Neither could suggest—neither could conceive—the slightest means whereby that mystery might be solved.
"We must still," said the reverend gentleman at length, "we must still have patience. Time alone can bring this strange matter to light: and that it will be brought to light, I have not the slightest doubt. We must, therefore, my dear madam, still have patience."
Patience! What an admirable attribute is patience! How sweet are its influences—how softening its effects! In the hour of affliction, how beautiful, how calm, how serene, how sublime, is patience! Behold the afflicted, racked with pain, from which Death alone can relieve them. By what are they sustained but by that sweet patience which springs from faith and hope! Patience, ever lovely, shows loveliest then. But who ever met with passive patience co-existing with active suspense? We may endure affliction the most poignant with patience—but we cannot with patience endure suspense. The knowledge of the worst that can befal us, may be borne with patience—but patience will hold no communion with our ignorance of that which we are ardently anxious to know. Aunt Eleanor, for example, had she known that the smalls had been put into the pickle-tub by cook, and that Judkins had upset the things in the parlour—nay, had she even known that Mr. Pokey and his companions, or any other gentleman and his companions, had actually entered the cottage—she would have endured that knowledge with patience; but as she was utterly ignorant of everything connected with the origin of these mysterious proceedings—as she neither knew what had induced them, nor had the power even to guess the cause to which alone they could have been fairly ascribed—patience was altogether out of the question. Hers was essentially a state of suspense with which patience had nothing whatever to do.
Still it was, notwithstanding this, all very well for her reverend friend to recommend it: it was, in fact, his province to do so; for having studied deeply the Book of Job, he held patience to be one of the sublimest virtues. It is true—quite true—that he hadn't much himself. But then look at his position. He had to read two sermons every week of his life; and his sermons cost him a guinea per dozen! Such a man could not rationally be expected to have patience. Nor, indeed, have men in general, much. The women are the great cards for patience. Hence it is that they are so frequently termed ducks; seeing that, as ducks, when they are hatching, sit upon their eggs a whole month, they are the legitimate emblems of patience. But men are not ducks.
It must not, however, be imagined, that because Aunt Eleanor was in a state of suspense then, she was not in general a patient person. She was; but being then in a state of suspense, she could not have been expected to be patient. She panted to know the cause of these strange proceedings—and people never pant with patience—and although the reverend gentleman had advised her to be patient, she continued to pant ​ The Sylphide.
​anxiously throughout the day; but at night she was as far from the Achievement of her object, as she would have been had that object never been proposed.
About half-past ten—being weary of the day—she retired to her chamber, and sat alternately listening and reading until twelve; when, everything both in and around the cottage being still as death, she prayed, and went to bed, im the full assurance of protection.
It has been said that there is no virtue in prayer, seeing that He, to whom we pray, knows our thoughts before we attempt to give them utterance; but who, having fervently prayed, has not felt his spirit etherealised, his mind more at ease, his heart lighter; inspired as he then must be with the conviction that, "putting his whole trust and confidence in Him," he has been in communion with his God? "Ask, and ye shall have!" involves a point of faith which teems with the most holy influences; and piety can no more exist without prayer, than prayer can be effective without piety.
Of course, it is not necessary to pursue this subject here: the only object of its introduction is, to hens how natural it was for Aunt Eleanor, having fervently prayed, to feel assured of protection; and, feeling thus assured, to go to sleep.
Sylvester at that time had been asleep nearly two hours; but having in a most enchanting dream fallen desperately in Jove with a Dryade, he dressed himself with care, and, on leaving the cottage, proceeded by appointment to the arbour.
But the Dryade was not there! He looked anxiously round; but no! What could be the cause of it? That she would keep her appointment he felt convinced, and therefore sat down to await her coming; but he had no sooner taken his seat than the scene in an instant changed, and he beheld in imagination a beautiful dell, in the centre of which he sat, upon a couch composed of moss and the still living leaves of wild roses. For a time his eyes were dazzled by this lovely scene, and he saw but indistinctly the objects around him; but anon he could clearly distinguish them all, and he turned with breathless wonder to contemplate their incomparable brightness and beauty. The dell was thickly studded with the sweetest and richest flowers with which the face of Nature teens; fruit of every conceivable species hung in clusters around, and while the herbs lent their fragrance to perfume the air, the mingled odours were delicious in the extreme. Above his head there were myriads of golden-winged butterflies joyously basking in the glorious sun; and, as the beautiful birds, whose plumage, reflecting every ray of light, shone with surpassing lustre, were floating around him and skimming the clear miniature lake, of which the surface was like polished silver, and carolling with all the wild sweetness of their nature: it was, altogether, the loveliest scene of which his fancy could boast the creation.
He had not, however, contemplated this scene long, when the warbling of the birds simultaneously ceased, and he heard in the distance, one—as he imagined—burst forth in rich strains of seraphic joy. The effect was ravishing. He listened with feelings of the purest rapture, and with feelings of rapture the birds listened too. How sweet—how en​chanting were those liquid notes! How soft—how delightful—how full of wild beauty! What bird—what celestial bird—could it be? The music ceased: and on the instant a sylph imperceptibly approached, and, with balmy breath, softly whispered "Rosalie," and kissed him. That kiss was electric. The blood ran thrilling through his veins, and he felt, with delight, transported. Rosalie! That was the name of her in whom his whole soul was centered. Rosalie! He turned: and she had vanished. But he heard again those ravishing strains, and was thus reinspired with hope. But again they ceased: and again he turned; and Rosalie stood before him. Oh, with what ecstacy did he behold her. What joy—what delight—what rapture he felt as he gazed on her peerless beauty! And she was a most beautiful blonde! Her eyes, which shone like brilliant stars, were orbs of fascination; her cheeks bloomed like the downy peaches; nature's nectar bedewed her lips; and while her rich auburn hair flowed in wild ringlets luxuriantly over her shoulders, her lovely form was enveloped in a veil wrought by zephyrs and silkworms combined.
"Rosalie, sweet Rosalie!" said Sylvester, at length, in the softest and most endearing accents of love, and extended his arms to embrace her; but just as he fondly hoped to clasp her to his heart, a bird of Paradise brought her a beautiful rose, which she placed in his bosom, smiled sweetly, and fled.
"Rosalie, my love," he cried; "let me embrace thee."
Rosalie smiled again and glided round the dell, and then stood on the margin of the lake—her only mirror—and adjusted her ringlets, and sang again, even more sweetly than before; and, while singing, entered a bower, and reclined upon a couch, when, in an instant the birds flew to the sides of the dell, and having each plucked a leaf from the rose, lily, eglantine, or briar, flew to the couch on which their goddess was reclining, and, having strewn the leaves over her beautiful form, commenced warbling their song of repose.
"Rosalie!" again cried Sylvester, sweetly. "Dear Rosalie, come to my arms."
Rosalie smiled; but pointing to the couch on which he had been sitting, apparently wished him to sit there again.
Sylvester, however, with that impetuosity which usually mars our loftiest designs, felt resolved to approach the sacred bower, but no sooner, in pursuance of this resolution, did he advance, than myriads of birds flew in a mass to intercept him. He tried to force a passage, but they opposed him still, and when, eventually, they retired, he found himself standing upon the very margin of the lake. For a moment he stood gazing intently at the bower, and the beautiful Rosalie covered with leaves. The lake, then, alone was between them, and feeling still resolved to approach, he was about to plunge in; but again the birds Hew in a dense mass towards him, and, on being absolutely forced back to the couch, in an instant the whole scene vanished before him, and he found himself sitting in darkness, and alone, in Aunt Eleanor's arbour again.
Here for some time he remained sighing "Rosalie!—sweet Rosalie!—​Rosalie!—my love!" But as darkness still reigned, and the nymph did not appear, he at length returned in sadness and in silence to the cottage; and having passed the outer door, which he omitted to close, proceeded to his chamber, undressed, and went to bed.
Now as Sylvester made not the slightest noise, he disturbed neither his aunt nor any one of the servants: "they slept soundly and well, and thus continued to sleep for several hours after his return; but, in the morning, when cook came down, she, on finding the outer door open, was struck at once with horror, and without giving even a glance, with the view of ascertaining how matters really stood, rushed up stairs again, shrieking "Thieves!—thieves!—thieves!"
Out rushed Judkins with a gash across his throat—for at the moment the first shriek was uttered, he was endeavouring to improve the characteristic respectability of his appearance by shaving—and out rushed Mary, with her hair dishevelled; but their mistress on coming to the door, without leaving her room, demanded to know what was the matter.
"Oh! ma'am," replied cook, "it's a mercy, ma'am, we haven't all been murdered! The door's as wide open as ever it can stick!"
"What, the outer door?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good gracious!—what can all this mean? Why I saw the door fastened myself. Have any of the things been taken away?"
"I don't know I'm sure, ma'am. Go, Judkins, and look."
Judkins did go, and found all secure, and then returned to report progress; but while engaged in making that report, Aunt Eleanor, perceiving the sanguinary state of his throat, exclaimed "Judkins!—why, what on earth have you been doing?"
"I was only a shaving, ma'am, when cook shruck."
"For goodness sake, go and stop the blood immediately. Do not," she added, addressing the cook, "do not suffer a thing to be touched till I come down."
She then closed her door and proceeded to dress; and Judkins returned to his room, where he found, on consulting his glass, that although he never even contemplated suicide, he looked as if he had not only meant to commit, but had, in reality, committed the act. He had before no idea of having made such an incision. The blood was actually streaming down his neck—it looked frightful—it moreover created the absolute necessity for a clean shirt. Now, Judkins, who was a tidy man, had a strong aversion to whiskers: he had also an aversion to the practice of allowing the hair to grow under the chin: he therefore shaved all off, from his temples to his collar-bone, and being endowed with a broad face and neck, he not only had an extensive field of stubble to go over, but as he was not, as a shaver, expert, and as his razors were never in very fine order, he scratched and grinned during the pleasing operation, while the stubble contested the ground, inch by inch, and thus amused himself for more than half an hour every morning of his existence.
On this occasion the entertainment was nearly at an end—he was in the last act, taking the final and triumphant upper scrape—when he heard the first shriek, which so paralysed his frame, that the razor ​walked in instead of keeping on the surface. No material injury, however, had been inflicted: he bled, it 1s true, very freely—which, he being a man of full habit, was not at all marvellous—but, when he had got his best hat from the box, and had filled up the gash with a handful of nap, he was all right again, and got down just in time to assist his mistress in taking a general survey.
But there was nothing wrong—nothing lost—nothing out of its place; everything was found precisely as they had left it, with the single exception of the outer door, and how that had been opened none could tell. It had a lock, two bolts, a bar, and a chain, and as there was not a single mark on the outside to indicate violence, it was perfectly clear that it had not been forced. The only question, therefore, was—how could any one have got inside to open it? But this was a question which could not be answered.
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