# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX.
THE GUARDIANS OF THE NIGHT.
A parsonage-house in an isolated village, is, of all earthly places, the best adapted to the process of deadening a man's wits. If he have no occupation, save that which is strictly enjoined by the church—no hobby but his garden—no society but that of the fat-headed squires around him—his case is indeed desperate. A clergyman thus situated is morally buried. He must be lofty; he must be grave; he must pull a long face; he must look severe; he must walk with excessive circumspection; he must associate with none but those in whose hearts their horses have a much warmer place than their wives, and of whom it may be recorded that, if taken from their horses, not only while animated, but when they become dogs'-meat, the full half of that which they know isn't much. No clashing of intellect docs a pastor in that position experience—no new lights look in upon him: his mind becomes dim for lack of polish; his imagination soars but to sink; his faculties are weakened by the absence of that exercise which alone can impart to them strength; and he gradually and imperceptibly descends to the recognised level of the sphere in which he moves, severely and securely cloaked up in the arrogant vanity of ignorance.
But this is the rule! Aunt Eleanor's reverend friend was the exception: in as much as he actually conceived the means by which the cause of her perplexities might be discovered. He conceived an idea, which is very remarkable, that if he sat up at the cottage one night, he should know all about it. His mind hadn't struck such a light for a long time. He held it to be brilliant! And so it was: so brilliant that it dazzled him ​at first; but when he had become somewhat reconciled to its brilliancy, he went to the cottage to show the hight there.
He, at that time, had not the slightest knowledge of the fact that the door of the cottage had been found open that very morning; but, when Aunt Eleanor had duly informed him of the circumstance—although he could not help expressing his amazement—he felt highly pleased, seeing that, as it was clear to him that the parties were determined to carry on their game every night, he, without the necessity for sacrificing more than a single night's rest, should be perfectly certain to catch them.
"The fact is," said he, "this must be put a stop to. It cannot be tolerated. It must not be suffered to continue."
"But how, my dear sir?" cried Aunt Eleanor. "How can I prevent its continuance?"
"You cannot," he replied, "but I can; and I will do so, if the scheme which I have conceived meet your approbation."
"My dear sir, whatever you suggest shall be immediately acted upon; gratefully will I adopt any suggestion which may be calculated to relieve me from this painful state of suspense."
"Then allow me, this night, to sit here," said her reverend friend; "here, in this room: take no notice of the arrangement; retire as usual, send the servants to bed, and then leave the rest to me."
"But, my dear sir; oh, but I cannot think for a moment of allowing you to sit up."
"Why not, my dear madam; why not?"
"Oh, it would be so extremely inconsiderate of me to tax your kindness to such an extent."
"My dear madam, you do not tax my kindness—if kindness it may be called—the suggestion is mine, not yours."
"Of course I feel extremely grateful; but you do not think of sitting up alone."
"Let me sit up with you, Mr. Rouse," said Sylvester; "we shall catch them: and when we do, they ought to be punished severely."
"But have you," said Aunt Eleanor, "have you, my dear, sufficient strength to sit up?"
"Oh, quite," replied Sylvester: "sitting up is nothing."
"But it will not be well for you to do so," said the reverend gentleman. "The primary object is to make every thing appear as if no preparation for a discovery had been made."
"Well, it need not appear," returned Sylvester; "I can go into my bedroom, and then come down softly again; and then you and I can have a game of chess to keep us awake. I should enjoy it. It will be so very dull for you to sit here alone. Do let me sit up with you?"
"I fear," said the reverend gentleman, "that it will tend to defeat the object in view."
"Then let Judkins sit up," said Aunt Eleanor; "he can be in the little room adjoining."
"My dear madam, the character of Judkins is still in—if I may so term it—the purgatory of suspicion: it has to be either vindicated clearly or condemned. Against his sitting up with me, I therefore protest."
​"But I cannot consent to your sitting up alone."
"Well, then—let me see. Oh! suppose then I bring Jones, my gardener, with me. He's a very sleepy fellow, it's true, but I'll manage to keep him awake."
"Very well, my dear sir; by all means let him come. I do not care who it is, so long as you have some one with you."
"Then that is decided: Jones comes with me. What time do you usually retire to rest?"
"About ten, or half-past."
"Then at ten o'clock precisely, we'll be here. When those shutters are closed and the curtains are drawn no light can be seen, I believe?"
"Not a ray."
"Then at ten, my dear madam, expect us. It will of course be necessary for you to let us in."
"Of course. I will be at the window at that hour precisely."
The reverend gentleman then took his leave, and Aunt Eleanor congratulated herself on the prospect of the mystery being cleared up. She, at the same time, resolved on having an excellent supper on the table, with wine, whiskey, brandy, and books, that there might be no lack of food, of either an animal or an intellectual character; and having, in pursuance of this wise resolution, arranged all her plans, she felt as if a weight had been removed from her heart, and became quite joyous and gay.
Oh, how easily are we elevated—how easily depressed—and when analysed, what puppets we appear, not always the puppets of others, but frequently our own—acting by virtue of the very strings which we pull—the creatures of the very circumstances of which we are the creators—but at all times puppets. It is strange that the human mind—which is often so powerful in its resistance to oppression, so strict in its adherence to principle, so firm in its pursuit of all that is noble, just, virtuous, and true, should be swayed by mere trifles: yet, while possessing all the elements of strength, so it is. A single word may cause our spirits either to rise or to sink: a mere thought of our own may either plunge us into despair, or place us upon the very apex of hope. A cork at sea is more constant than we are; the under-currents may swell and roll, but it still retains its position on the surface: whereas, we are the sport of every wave—the slightest ripple may upset us. No matter how strong the mind may be, the loftiest, the mightiest, may be wrought upon by trifles. Men scale a mountain and stumble over a brick.
We are not, it is true, all equally sanguine; but when we are depressed, how soon may we be elated, and how frequently are we, by virtue of viewing the veriest bubbles which Hope can blow. At such a time that which is nothing per se, may be made to amount to a great deal per saltum.
In the suggestion of Aunt Eleanor's reverend friend, there was, however, something in reality. The course proposed was, perhaps, the only one at all calculated to lead to the achievement of the object in view. But Aunt Eleanor, instead of waiting for that achievement, viewed the object as being already achieved, in so far as that, after that night, she ​should be no more annoyed. It was therefore that she felt as if a weight had been removed from her heart, and became joyous. Nor was the pleasure derived therefrom transient. She was joyous throughout the day, and at night, when the village clock struck ten, she went to the window with a smile.
The reverend gentleman was punctual—that is to say, as punctual as reverend gentlemen are in general: he was ten minutes behind—ten minutes being always allowed to the cloth; and when he appeared at the gate, with the gentle Jones, Sylvester quietly opened the door.
Jones had been instructed to make no noise. He, therefore, made none. As he entered, he walked on the tips of his toes: not elegantly—no, by no means—but carefully, and ground his teeth to indicate the interest he felt in the due preservation of silence.
"My dear sir," whispered Aunt Eleanor, as her reverend friend took her hand, "I really feel so grateful—"
"Not a word, my dear madam, not a word," he replied. "We entered, I believe, unobserved?"
"I think so: I saw no one near."
"Are the servants in bed?"
"They will not go until I retire."
"Very good. Then retire, my dear madam, and leave all to me. I'll lock the door after you, in order that, if it be tried, it may appear that you locked it. I shall catch them, never fear. I only want to know who they are: I only want to see them: there isn't a man in the village whom I shouldn't be able to recognise at a glance."
"Be sure," said Aunt Eleanor, "that you do not expose yourself to danger. I am almost ashamed to leave you; but do make yourself quite at home. You will find some hot water in the kettle, and—let me seeyes, this is cold. Do make a good supper. The sugar and the lemons are on the sideboard, with the nutmegs, and—"
"Really, my dear madam, all this was unnecessary; but as it shows your kind consideration, I appreciate it."
"Well but do make yourself, now, as comfortable as possible."
"I will do so."
"You had better let me sit up with you now," said Sylvester.
"No, my dear fellow, no: that might spoil all. Good night: good night. God bless you: good night!"
Aunt Eleanor and Sylvester then withdrew, and their reverend friend, having locked the door, sat down to contemplate the supper before him, while Jones, in the corner, stood scratching his head, with great constitutional freedom.
It was a very nice supper: very nice indeed: cold, but delicious: unique, but enough. The reverend gentleman eyed it with pleasure; he then eyed the brandy, wine, whiskey, and rum; he, moreover, looked at the books—very good: they were very good books; but—very good.
"Jones," said he, "you and I are fixed here for the night. Now, sir, repudiating all considerations having reference to station, I invite you to sup with me this evening."
​"When you've done, sir, if you please," said Jones.
"Nothing of the sort, sir! Sit down now; and I'll show you how gentlemen enjoy themselves. Under the British constitution, sir, there is no station to which you may not be called. It is highly proper, therefore, that you, and every man, should be cognizant of gentlemanly conduct. Cincinnatus, sir, followed the plough; therefore, sit down at once, like a gentleman!"
Jones didn't understand much of this, but as that which he did understand appeared to him to be very good and much to the point, he did sit down, although with evident reluctance.
"Now, sir," continued the reverend gentleman, who had resolved on enjoying the society of Jones, "consider yourself, for the time being, my equal. You are my friend, and I am yours. We are now gentlemen. What have you there, Mr. Jones?"
"What, that?"
"Yes, that!"
"That's a fowl, sir!"
"A fowl, sir! Did I not say that we were on an equality? No gentleman ever says sir, but to his servant! Do me the favour to send me a wing."
Jones had never waited at table. He, therefore, didn't know how a fowl was usually dissected. He, notwithstanding, took up a knife and fork, and, although his hands trembled with violence, he, by virtue of diligent sawing and digging, got off the wing at last, and with it half the back-bone and part of the ribs.
"Very good," said the reverend gentleman; "very good. What can I have the pleasure of helping you to? Allow me to recommend this pigeon-pie."
"If you please. Thank you: I'll take it," said Jones.
Take it! Well! The reverend gentleman sent him the pie, and as Jones thought he couldn't go very far wrong, he walked into it bodily, and ate from the dish.
"A glass of wine, Mr. Jones?" said the reverend gentleman.
"Yes, sir," replied Jones; and, having turned over the mustard-pot, poured out a bumper, and handed it politely to his reverend friend.
"Pass the bottle, Mr. Jones," said the reverend gentleman. "That is your glass. I shall be happy to take wine with you."
"Thank you, sir—good health!" said Jones.
"My love to you," said the reverend gentleman.
Jones then proceeded to scrape up the mustard, which certainly didn't look tidy on the cloth; and when he had succeeded in spreading it about, he, not knowing what else on earth to do with the spoon, carefully wiped it on his apron.
"Shall I send you a glass of ale?" said the reverend gentleman, whose gravity was imperturbable, while the face of Jones was fired with confusion.
"Thank you," replied Jones, who made another mess on the cloth, for ​in his haste to put down his knife and fork to reply, he, having his elbows quite square at the time, upset a decanter of sherry.
The reverend gentleman took no apparent notice of this circumstance: he handed him the glass of ale gracefully; but Jones felt very uncomfortable. He didn't enjoy himself at all. He couldn't keep his eyes off his reverend friend. His very anxiety to do nothing wrong, rendered him so nervous, that he could do nothing right.
"How do you get on, Mr. Jones?" said the reverend gentleman, who saw that he didn't and couldn't get on.
"Capital," replied Jones; "the pigeons is nice."
This was said on speculation. The pigeons he had not even tasted. He could do nothing with them. He turned them over and over, and did once try to cut one of them fairly in half, but as his knife slipped, and the gravy flew, he gave the thing up as a bitter bad job. True, he broke in the crust, and fished up a piece of steak, but he dared not again attempt to get a bit of pigeon. He wanted that pie in his tool-house alone!—the pigeons would not have got over him there.
"Another glass of wine?" said the reverend gentleman.
Down went the knife and fork again on the instant, for every time the reverend gentleman spoke, Jones appeared as if struck with paralysis.
"Good health," said he, having filled his glass.
"My love to you," again said the reverend gentleman.
"Beg pardon: my love to you," echoed Jones, who felt bound to follow whatever suit might be led. But, oh! how sincerely did he wish it all over. "If this here's the way," thought he, "gentlemen enjoys 'emselves, blest if I a'nt pleased I wasn't a gentleman."
"This is very fair wine," said his reverend companion.
"Yes," returned Jones; "this is very fair wine."
"There's some body in it."
"Yes, there's some body in it," but whether that body were dead or alive, Jones didn't know; nor did he care.
"Have another glass of ale," said the reverend gentleman, when Jones had recommenced operations on the pie, and Jones again left his work, and passed the glass; but these startling interruptions were very distressing: indeed, so distressing, that Jones, having drank the glass of ale, which he felt bound to do, the very moment he had received it, put his knife and fork together and gave the thing up.
"But you haven't finished," said his reverend friend.
"Done capital well," replied Jones. "Not a mite more, I thank you."
"Well; you have made but a very poor supper!"
"I ain't the leastest hungry in life!" returned Jones.
"Well, then, let us have the cheese."
Jones rose, and having cleared a sufficient space on the tray, went to the sideboard and brought the cheese; and when the reverend gentleman had sent him a slice, he put it into his mouth with a great degree of comfort.
"A small piece more?" said his reverend friend.
​Jones held his plate, and had a small piece more. It might have weighed a quarter of a pound; but as he felt that while eating bread and cheese, he couldn't make any very great mistake, quantity was not at all an object. He ate it; and then had another small piece, and ate that, and enjoyed it pretty well; and could have eaten a small piece more, but wouldn't.
"Now, then, suppose we have a clearance, Mr. Jones," said the reverend gentleman, blandly. "As you are, I believe, the younger man, I'll leave the job to you."
Jones then put all the plates and dishes upon the tray, and cleverly removed it to the sideboard; and when he had placed the various bottles upon the table, the reverend gentleman invited him again to a chair.
"Are you fond of punch, Mr. Jones?" he inquired.
"Yes, I'm very fond of punch. I never tasted none; but I know I'm very fond of it, cos everybody as I ever knowed says it's nice!"
"Then we'll have some!" rejoined the reverend gentleman—"We'll have some, my friend; and I shall be able to say with safety, Mr. Jones, that you never tasted anything like it in your life."
Of punch the reverend gentleman was a great connoisseur. He never drank any but that which he made himself; and, as a maker, he was prepared to back himself against any man in Europe. Such being the case, there were, as a matter of course, great preparations. The lemons were cut in a singular style, the water was measured, the liquors were measured, the sugar was measured, and the jugs were placed in a very peculiar position on the hob; where they remained closely covered with napkins, until Jones thought his reverend friend had forgotten they were there. But this was a mistake altogether. When the time prescribed had duly expired, the reverend gentleman drew off the napkins, and taking a jug in each hand, poured the beverage from jug to jug, backwards and forwards, for a quarter of an hour, during the whole of which time Jones's mouth was wide open. The jugs were then placed on the hob again, and there they remained another quarter of an hour, when they were again taken off, and again filled and emptied, until the reverend gentleman filled a glass, and having three times sipped it, smacked his lips.
"That's the way, my friend, to make punch!" he exclaimed. "Now, Mr. Jones, try that."
Jones accepted a glass, and having drank it, boldly pronounced it to be nice. He liked it much; he admired its flavour, and thought that it was almost worth while being a gentleman, since gentlemen drank such rare stuff as that.
"What do you think of it?" inquired his reverend friend. "Will it do?"
"Capital!" replied Jones. "Out and out! But I didn't know what it was till it was gone."
"Then take another glass, Mr. Jones."
And Jones took another glass; but his reverend friend helped himself to the sixth, before he asked him to have a third. Te then said———
​ Keeping watch.
​"Now, my friend, have one more—one more, Mr. Jones. Beware of the besetting sin of drunkenness."
"You never see me tocksicated yet, sir, I believe?"
"Never, Mr. Jones! But a drunkard is not to be trusted. What do you think of my sermons on the subject, Mr. Jones?"
"Capital good! But them hard words puzzles us more than a bit."
"Hard words, Mr. Jones, hit hard; and to hit a man hard is to make a man feel. Certainly; veritatis simplex oratio est; but———"
"What say?"
"Veritatis simplex oratio est."
"Them's the dodges as does us."
"Hark! What noise is that? Listen!"
"They're only coming out of the Crumpet!" said Jones.
"That's a late house, my friend. People go there to drink till they are drunk, and a drunkard has no command over himself. He cannot even keep his own counsel. Quod est in corde sobrii est in ore ebrii. Therefore, never get intoxicated, Jones, my friend; never get intoxicated."
"No, sir."
"Never. The practice is bad. It's a bad practice, Jones, a very bad practice. Intoxication— What's o'clock? Past twelve. Mr. Jones, can I trust you?"
"Trust me, sir?"
"I think I can. Now, Mr. Jones, look here. By this timepiece it's now ten minutes past twelve. Very well. Now I've got a great deal on my mind, and I want to turn it over. I'll therefore just stretch myself here on this couch, and if I should drop off, when it's one o'clock call me. You are sure that I can trust you?"
"There's no fear of that, sir."
"You'll not go to sleep?"
"Not if it isn't one o'clock for a month."
"Very good. But recollect, if you should go to sleep, I'll discharge you."
"Oh, there's no fear of that," returned Jones. "I'll keep awake if I live."
The reverend gentleman then reclined upon the couch, and in less than five minutes he snored so loudly that Jones felt justified in looking into the jugs; but he found nothing there; they were perfectly empty; and as they were empty, he mixed himself a glass of stiff brandy-and-water.
But brandy-and-water. Brandy-and-water after punch, and such punch—pooh! what was brandy-and-water? There had been a time, and that time was not very remote, when he held brandy-and-water to be drink fit for—gods he didn't know anything about, but he thought it fit for actual noblemen—they being the next best things he could think of. But then after punch, he didn't relish brandy-and-water. He drank it, it is true—that may be recorded—but he couldn't persuade his palate to relish it! and, as such was the case, "why," thought he; "why shouldn't I try to make a little?" He couldn't see why he ​should not. He had seen his friend make it, and that friend was then fast asleep. He, of coarse, felt justified in doing so, and commenced—at the wrong end, it is true—but he commenced; he measured out the whiskey, and then measured out the brandy, and then measured out the rum, and then peeled one of the lemons, and then cut it in half, and then squeezed it very properly into the jug, and then put in about the same quantity of sugar as that which his reverend friend had put in; and then —altogether forgetting the water—he covered the jug with a napkin, and placed it upon the hob. Very well! But while it was there, how was he to amuse himself? The thought of the pigeon-pie: and a great thought it was. That pie had been a source of much annoyance, and, therefore, he resolved on having sat.—sat. being in those days the short for satisfaction—he would have sat., and he had it. He took the pigeons up without reference to knife or fork, and pulled them limb from limb! A lot of pigeons get over him! Well, it was rich as far as it went; but the idea then appeared to be very ridiculous. And so in reality it was. They didn't get over him, then. He cleared the dish—completely cleared it—and having done so, turned with an expression of triumph to see how his punch got on. Well; it smelt very nice. He sipped a little—it was very good; but as it seemed rather strong, he thought a little more water would do it no harm. He therefore put in a little water, and then, following the example of his reverend friend, poured it from jug to jug, till his arms ached. " Now," said he, privately, "master and me is the only two gentlemen in this here village as knows how to make this here punch;" and having delivered himself to this effect, and with the most entire self-satisfaction, he began to enjoy the fruit of his labours; and, having drank several glasses, pronounced it to be better—infinitely better, and nicer and stronger—than that which his reverend friend had made.
But, then, how was he to keep himself awake? He couldn't read; he had never been taught to read; but he had been taught the game of push-halfpenny. He therefore got three halfpence, and a small piece of chalk out of his pocket, and having drawn five regular bars upon the table—his right hand played with his left.
This, however, didn't last very long. It was not at all an interesting game. There was not much excitement about it. Whether the right hand won or the left hand won was a matter of very slight importance. He therefore turned with the view of conceiving some new delight; but during the process of conception he suddenly fell into the arms of Somnus, when Morpheus, who is generally on the qui vive, tickled his fancy with the flavour of punch.
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