The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2)

by Charles Dickens

  CHAPTER XI

  _Involving another Journey and an Antiquarian Discovery. Recording Mr. Pickwick's determination to be present at an Election; and containing a Manuscript of the old Clergyman's._

  A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell,and an hour's breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuingmorning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his latefatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had beenseparated from his friends and followers, for two whole days; and itwas with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imaginationcan adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkleand Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return fromhis early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr.Pickwick's beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still acloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could notbut be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There wasa mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.

  "And how," said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by thehand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome; "how is Tupman?"

  Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, madeno reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholyreflection.

  "Snodgrass," said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, "how is our friend--he is notill?"

  "No," replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimentaleyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame. "No; he is not ill."

  Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.

  "Winkle--Snodgrass," said Mr. Pickwick: "what does this mean? Whereis our friend? What has happened? Speak--I conjure, I entreat--nay, Icommand you, speak."

  There was a solemnity--a dignity--in Mr. Pickwick's manner, not to bewithstood.

  "He is gone," said Mr. Snodgrass.

  "Gone!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. "Gone!"

  "Gone," repeated Mr. Snodgrass.

  "Where?" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.

  "We can only guess, from that communication," replied Mr. Snodgrass,taking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend's hand."Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, statingthat you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy, whichhad hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day, wasobserved to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missingduring the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by thehostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge inthe morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivereduntil night."

  Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend's hand-writing,and these were its contents:--

  "+My dear Pickwick+,--You, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices of a villain, who hid the grin of cunning beneath the mask of friendship. I hope you never may.

  "Any letter, addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will be forwarded--supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of that world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it altogether, pity--forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter's knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink beneath it. You may tell Rachael!--Ah, that name!--

  +Tracy Tupman.+"

  "We must leave this place, directly," said Mr. Pickwick, as he refoldedthe note. "It would not have been decent for us to remain here, underany circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound tofollow in search of our friend." And so saying, he led the way to thehouse.

  His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain werepressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, requiredhis immediate attendance.

  The old clergyman was present.

  "You are not really going?" said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.

  Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination.

  "Then here," said the old gentleman, "is a little manuscript, whichI had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I foundit on the death of a friend of mine--a medical man, engaged in ourCounty Lunatic Asylum--among a variety of papers, which I had theoption of destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardlybelieve that the manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not inmy friend's hand. However, whether it be the genuine production of amaniac, or founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which Ithink more probable), read it, and judge for yourself."

  Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolentold gentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem.

  It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of ManorFarm, from which they had received so much hospitality and kindness.Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies--we were going to say, as ifthey were his own daughters, only as he might possibly have infuseda little more warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not bequite appropriate--hugged the old lady with filial cordiality: andpatted the rosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchalmanner, as he slipped into the hands of each some more substantialexpression of his approval. The exchange of cordialities with theirfine old host and Mr. Trundle, was even more hearty and prolonged; andit was not until Mr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, andat last emerged from a dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whosebright eyes looked unusually dim), that the three friends were enabledto tear themselves from their friendly entertainers. Many a backwardlook they gave at the Farm, as they walked slowly away; and many akiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air, in acknowledgment of somethingvery like a lady's handkerchief, which was waved from one of the upperwindows, until a turn in the lane hid the old house from their sight.

  At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the timethey reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief hadsufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellent earlydinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to theroad, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk toCobham.

  A delightful walk it was: for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, andtheir way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light windwhich gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs ofthe birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept inthick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspreadthe ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with anancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture ofElizabeth's time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appearedon every side: large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass; andoccasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground, with the speedof the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunnylandscape like a passing breath of summer.

  "If this," said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him, "if this were theplace to which all who are troubled with our friend's complaint came,I fancy their old attachment to this world would very soon return."

  "I think so too," said Mr. Winkle.

  "And really," added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour's walking hadbrought them to the village, "really, for a misanthrope's choice, thisis one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I evermet with."

  In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed theirconcurrence; and having been directed to the Leather Bottle, a cleanand commodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and atonce inquired for a gentleman of the name of Tupman.

  "Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom," said the landlady.

  A stout country lad opened a door at the end of the passage, andthe three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with alarge number of hi
gh-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantasticshapes, and embellished with a great variety of old portraits androughly-coloured prints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the roomwas a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered with a roastfowl, bacon, ale, and et ceteras: and at the table sat Mr. Tupman,looking as unlike a man who had taken his leave of the world, aspossible.

  On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife andfork, and with a mournful air advanced to meet them.

  "I did not expect to see you here," he said, as he grasped Mr.Pickwick's hand. "It's very kind."

  "Ah!" said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his forehead theperspiration which the walk had engendered. "Finish your dinner, andwalk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone."

  Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshedhimself with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend's leisure. Thedinner was quickly despatched, and they walked out together.

  _At the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a manwho had taken his leave of this world as possible._]

  For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing thechurchyard to and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating hiscompanion's resolution. Any repetition of his arguments would beuseless; for what language could convey to them that energy and forcewhich their great originator's manner communicated? Whether Mr. Tupmanwas already tired of retirement, or whether he was wholly unable toresist the eloquent appeal which was made to him, matters not, he did_not_ resist it at last.

  "It mattered little to him," he said, "where he dragged out themiserable remainder of his days: and since his friend laid so muchstress upon his humble companionship, he was willing to share hisadventures."

  Mr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands; and walked back to rejoin theircompanions.

  It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal discovery,which has been the pride and boast of his friends, and the envy ofevery antiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed thedoor of their inn, and walked a little way down the village, beforethey recollected the precise spot in which it stood. As they turnedback, Mr. Pickwick's eye fell upon a small broken stone, partiallyburied in the ground, in front of a cottage door. He paused.

  "This is very strange," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "What is strange?" inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at every objectnear him, but the right one. "God bless me, what's the matter?"

  This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasionedby seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on hisknees before the little stone and commence wiping the dust off it withhis pocket-handkerchief.

  "There is an inscription here," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Is it possible?" said Mr. Tupman.

  "I can discern," continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all hismight, and gazing intently through his spectacles: "I can discerna cross, and a B, and then a T. This is important," continued Mr.Pickwick, starting up. "This is some very old inscription, existingperhaps long before the ancient almshouses in this place. It must notbe lost."

  He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.

  "Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?" inquired thebenevolent Mr. Pickwick.

  "No, I doan't, sir," replied the man civilly. "It was here long afor Iwar born, or any on us."

  Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.

  "You--you are not particularly attached to it, I dare say," said Mr.Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. "You wouldn't mind selling it, now?"

  _"There is an inscription here," said Mr. Pickwick_]

  "Ah! but who'd buy it?" inquired the man, with an expression of facewhich he probably meant to be very cunning.

  "I'll give you ten shillings for it at once," said Mr. Pickwick, "ifyou would take it up for me."

  The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (thelittle stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr.Pickwick, by dint of great personal exertion, bore it with his ownhands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it, deposited it onthe table.

  The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when theirpatience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crownedwith success. The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters werestraggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscriptionwas clearly to be deciphered:

  + =B I L S T U M P S H I S. M. A R K=

  Mr. Pickwick's eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated overthe treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatestobjects of his ambition. In a county known to abound in remains of theearly ages; in a village in which there still existed some memorialsof the olden time, he--he, the Chairman of the Pickwick Club--haddiscovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionableantiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learnedmen who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of hissenses.

  "This--this," said he, "determines me. We return to town, to-morrow."

  "To-morrow!" exclaimed his admiring followers.

  "To-morrow," said Mr. Pickwick. "This treasure must be at oncedeposited where it can be thoroughly investigated, and properlyunderstood. I have another reason for this step. In a few days, anelection is to take place for the borough of Eatanswill, at whichMr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent of one ofthe candidates. We will behold, and minutely examine, a scene sointeresting to every Englishman."

  "We will," was the animated cry of three voices.

  Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of hisfollowers, lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was theirleader, and he felt it.

  "Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass," saidhe. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimousapplause. Having himself deposited the important stone in a small dealbox, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself inan arm-chair at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted tofestivity and conversation.

  It was past eleven o'clock--a late hour for the little village ofCobham--when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bed-room which had beenprepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice-window, andsetting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation onthe hurried events of the two preceding days.

  The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation; Mr.Pickwick was roused by the church-clock striking twelve. The firststroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bellceased the stillness seemed insupportable;--he almost felt as if he hadlost a companion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressinghimself and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.

  Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which asensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability tosleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment: he tossed firston one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyesas if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was theunwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the brandy andwater, or the strange bed--whatever it was, his thoughts kept revertingvery uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old storiesto which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After halfan hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory conclusion,that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and partiallydressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying therefancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window--it was verydark. He walked about the room--it was very lonely.

  He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from thewindow to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first timeentered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interesthim, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat-pocket, anddrawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, puton his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strangehand-writing, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The titlegave
him a sudden start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistfulglance round the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way tosuch feelings, however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:

  A MADMAN'S MANUSCRIPT

  "Yes!--a madman's! How that word would have struck to my heart, manyyears ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come uponme sometimes; sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins,till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and myknees knocked together with fright! I like it now though. It's a finename. Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like theglare of a madman's eye--whose cord and axe were ever half so sure asa madman's grip. Ho! ho! It's a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped atlike a wild lion through the iron bars--to gnash one's teeth and howl,through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain--andto roll and twine among the straw, transported with such brave music.Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh, it's a rare place!

  "I remember days when I was _afraid_ of being mad; when I used tostart from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be sparedfrom the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merrimentor happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the wearyhours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume mybrain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and themarrow of my bones; that one generation had passed away without thepestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whomit would revive. I knew it _must_ be so: that so it always had been,and so it ever would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner ofa crowded room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyestowards me, I knew they were telling each other of the doomed madman;and I slunk away again to mope in solitude.

  "I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here arelong sometimes--very long! but they are nothing to the restless nightsand dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to rememberthem. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in thecorners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me tomadness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old housein which my father's father died, was stained with his own blood, shedby his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears,but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in onegeneration before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfatherhad lived for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to preventhis tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth--I knew itwell. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep itfrom me. Ha! ha! I was too cunning for them, madman as they thought me.

  "At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have fearedit. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the bestamong them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. HowI used to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trickI was playing them after their old pointing and leering, when I wasnot mad, but only dreading that I might one day become so! And how Iused to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I keptmy secret, and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me,if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when Idined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he wouldhave turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had known that thedear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright glittering knife,was a madman with all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in hisheart. Oh, it was a merry life!

  "Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted inpleasures enhanced a thousand-fold to me by the consciousness of mywell-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law--the eagle-eyed lawitself--had been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands toa madman's hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of soundmind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? Themadman's cunning had over-reached them all.

  "I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I waspraised! How those three proud overbearing brothers humbled themselvesbefore me! The old white-headed father, too--such deference--suchrespect--such devoted friendship--he worshipped me! The old man had adaughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I wasrich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play uponthe faces of her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-plannedscheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! Tolaugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieksof merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.

  "Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister'shappiness against her husband's gold. The lightest feather I blow intothe air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!

  "In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not beenmad--for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewilderedsometimes--I should have known that the girl would rather have beenplaced, stiff and cold, in a dull leaden coffin, than borne an enviedbride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heartwas with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in hertroubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve thepoverty of the old white-headed man, and the haughty brothers.

  "I don't remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl wasbeautiful. I _know_ she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, whenI start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standingstill and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wastedfigure with long black hair, which streaming down her back, stirs withno earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink orclose. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down--that formis _hers_; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but Iknow them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths asothers do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadfulto me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago--it comesfresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.

  "For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I sawthe tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause.I found it out at last, though. They could not keep it from me long.She had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised mywealth, and hated the splendour in which she lived;--I had not expectedthat. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelingscame over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power,whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hatedthe boy she still wept for. I pitied--yes, I pitied--the wretched lifeto which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that shecould not live long, but the thought that before her death she mightgive birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness toits offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.

  "For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then offire. A fine sight the grand house in flames, and the madman's wifesmouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too,and of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, andall through a madman's cunning! I thought often of this, but I gaveit up at last. Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day,feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thinbright edge would make!

  "At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whisperedin my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into myhand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed and leaned overmy sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew themsoftly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping;for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her facewas calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smilelighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder.She started--it was only a passing dream. I leant forward again. Shescreamed and woke.

  "One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry orsound. But I was startled and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine.I know not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailedbeneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and
steadilyon me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move.She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrewher eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, andclutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sunk upon theground.

  "Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house wasalarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced therazor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly forassistance.

  "They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereftof animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, hersenses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.

  "Doctors were called in--great men who rolled up to my door in easycarriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at herbedside for weeks. They had a great meeting, and consulted togetherin low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and mostcelebrated among them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for theworst, told me--me, the madman!--that my wife was mad. He stood closebeside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his handlaid upon my arm. With one effort I could have hurled him into thestreet beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but mysecret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me Imust place her under some restraint; I must provide a keeper for her._I!_ I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and laughedtill the air resounded with my shouts!

  "She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave,and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse ofher whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles ofiron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind thewhite handkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, tillthe tears came into my eyes.

  "But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restlessand disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. Icould not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and mademe, when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, anddance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw thebusy crowd hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard thesound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that Icould have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb,and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet uponthe floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; andno one knew I was a madman yet.

  "I remember--though it's one of the last things I _can_ remember; fornow I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, andbeing always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from somestrange confusion in which they get involved--I remember how I let itout at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, andfeel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenchedfist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and leftthem screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comesupon me when I think of it. There--see how this iron bar bends beneathmy furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are longgalleries here with many doors--I don't think I could find my way alongthem; and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which theykeep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, andthey are proud to have me here, to show.

  "Let me see;--yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reachedhome, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to seeme--urgent business, he said: I recollect it well. I hated that manwith all a madman's hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed totear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly up-stairs. He had aword to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we werealone together--_for the first time_.

  "I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he littlethought--and I gloried in the knowledge--that the light of madnessgleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. Hespoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made sosoon after his sister's death, were an insult to her memory. Couplingtogether many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation,he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he wasright in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory,and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore todemand this explanation.

  "This man had a commission in the army--a commission, purchased withmy money, and his sister's misery! This was the man who had beenforemost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was theman who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me;well knowing that her heart was given to that puling boy. Due to _his_uniform! The livery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him--Icould not help it--but I spoke not a word.

  "I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He wasa bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back hischair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and as I laughed--I was very merrythen--I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He wasafraid of me.

  "'You were very fond of your sister when she was alive'--I said--'Very.'

  "He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of hischair: but he said nothing.

  "'You villain,' said I, 'I found you out; I discovered your hellishplots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else beforeyou compelled her to marry me. I know it--I know it.'

  "He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid mestand back--for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time Ispoke.

  "I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddyingthrough my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me totear his heart out.

  "'Damn you,' said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; 'I killed her.I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!'

  "I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror,and closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floortogether.

  "It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall strong man, fightingfor his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. Iknew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, thougha madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, andclasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple;his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue heseemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.

  "The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd ofpeople rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.

  "My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty andfreedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself amongmy assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore ahatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door,dropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.

  "Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard thenoise of feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter andfainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether: but on Ibounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wildshout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around meon every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I wasborne upon the arms of demons, who swept along upon the wind, and boredown bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with arustle and speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw mefrom them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. WhenI woke I found myself here--here in this gay cell where the sunlightseldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to showthe dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner.When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries fromdistant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but theyneither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For fromthe first shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it stillstands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my ironchain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed."

&nbs
p; At the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this note:

  [The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a melancholyinstance of the baneful results of energies misdirected in earlylife, and excesses prolonged until their consequences could never berepaired. The thoughtless riot, dissipation, and debauchery of hisyounger days, produced fever and delirium. The first effects of thelatter was the strange delusion, founded upon a well-known medicaltheory, strongly contended for by some, and as strongly contested byothers, that an hereditary madness existed in his family. This produceda settled gloom, which in time developed a morbid insanity, and finallyterminated in raving madness. There is every reason to believe that theevents he detailed, though distorted in the description by his diseasedimagination, really happened. It is only matter of wonder to those whowere acquainted with the vices of his early career, that his passions,when no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to the commissionof still more frightful deeds.]

  * * * * *

  Mr. Pickwick's candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concludedthe perusal of the old clergyman's manuscript; and when the lightwent suddenly out, without any previous flicker by way of warning, itcommunicated a very considerable start to his excited frame. Hastilythrowing off such articles of clothing as he had put on when he rosefrom his uneasy bed, and casting a fearful glance around, he once morescrambled hastily between the sheets, and soon fell fast asleep.

  The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber when he awoke, andthe morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on theprevious night, had disappeared with the dark shadows which shroudedthe landscape, and his thoughts and feelings were as light and gayas the morning itself. After a hearty breakfast, the four gentlemensallied forth to walk to Gravesend, followed by a man bearing thestone in its deal box. They reached that town about one o'clock (theirluggage they had directed to be forwarded to the city, from Rochester)and being fortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach,arrived in London in sound health and spirits, on that same afternoon.

  The next three or four days were occupied with the preparations whichwere necessary for their journey to the borough of Eatanswill. Asany reference to that most important undertaking demands a separatechapter, we may devote the few lines which remain at the close ofthis, to narrate, with great brevity, the history of the antiquariandiscovery.

  It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr. Pickwicklectured upon the discovery at the General Club Meeting, convenedon the night succeeding their return, and entered into a variety ofingenious and erudite speculations on the meaning of the inscription.It also appears that a skilful artist executed a faithful delineationof the curiosity, which was engraved on the stone, and presentedto the Royal Antiquarian Society, and other learned bodies--thatheart-burnings and jealousies without number, were created by rivalcontroversies which were penned upon the subject--and that Mr. Pickwickhimself wrote a pamphlet, containing ninety-six pages of very smallprint, and twenty-seven different readings of the inscription. Thatthree old gentlemen cut off their eldest sons with a shilling a-piecefor presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment--and that oneenthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely, in despair atbeing unable to fathom its meaning. That Mr. Pickwick was elected anhonorary member of seventeen native and foreign societies, for makingthe discovery; that none of the seventeen could make anything of it;but that all the seventeen agreed it was very extraordinary.

  Mr. Blotton, indeed--and the name will be doomed to the undyingcontempt of those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime--Mr.Blotton, we say, with the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds,presumed to state a view of the case, as degrading as ridiculous. Mr.Blotton, with a mean desire to tarnish the lustre of the immortal nameof Pickwick, actually undertook a journey to Cobham in person, and onhis return, sarcastically observed in an oration at the club, thathe had seen the man from whom the stone was purchased; that the manpresumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquityof the inscription--inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudelycarved by himself in an idle mood, and to display letters intendedto bear neither more nor less than the simple construction of--"BILLSTUMPS, HIS MARK;" and that Mr. Stumps, being little in the habit oforiginal composition, and more accustomed to be guided by the soundof words than by the strict rules of orthography, had omitted theconcluding "L" of his Christian name.

  The Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so enlightened anInstitution) received this statement with the contempt it deserved,expelled the presumptuous and ill-conditioned Blotton, and voted Mr.Pickwick a pair of gold spectacles, in token of their confidence andapprobation; in return for which, Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait ofhimself to be painted, and hung up in the club-room.

  Mr. Blotton though ejected was not conquered. He also wrote a pamphlet,addressed to the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign,containing a repetition of the statement he had already made, andrather more than half intimating his opinion that the seventeen learnedsocieties were so many "humbugs." Hereupon the virtuous indignationof the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign, being roused,several fresh pamphlets appeared; the foreign learned societiescorresponded with the native learned societies; the native learnedsocieties translated the pamphlets of the foreign learned societiesinto English; the foreign learned societies translated the pamphletsof the native learned societies into all sorts of languages; and thuscommenced that celebrated scientific discussion so well known to allmen as the Pickwick controversy.

  But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick, recoiled upon the headof its calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies unanimouslyvoted the presumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler, and forthwithset to work upon more treatises than ever. And to this day the stoneremains, an illegible monument of Mr. Pickwick's greatness, and alasting trophy of the littleness of his enemies.