[Illustration]
_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 ensuing
morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late
fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been
separated from his friends and followers, for two whole days; and it
was with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination
can adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle
and Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from
his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr.
Pickwick's beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a
cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not
but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was
a mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.
"And how," said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the
hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome; "how is Tupman?"
Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made
no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy
reflection.
"Snodgrass," said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, "how is our friend--he is not
ill?"
"No," replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental
eyelid, 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? Where
is our friend? What has happened? Speak--I conjure, I entreat--nay, I
command you, speak."
There was a solemnity--a dignity--in Mr. Pickwick's manner, not to be
withstood.
"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, stating
that you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy, which
had hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day, was
observed to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing
during the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the
hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in
the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered
until 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 refolded
the note. "It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under
any circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound to
follow in search of our friend." And so saying, he led the way to the
house.
His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were
pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, required
his 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, which
I had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found
it on the death of a friend of mine--a medical man, engaged in our
County Lunatic Asylum--among a variety of papers, which I had the
option of destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly
believe that the manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in
my friend's hand. However, whether it be the genuine production of a
maniac, or founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I
think more probable), read it, and judge for yourself."
Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent
old gentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem.
It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor
Farm, from which they had received so much hospitality and kindness.
Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies--we were going to say, as if
they were his own daughters, only as he might possibly have infused
a little more warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be
quite appropriate--hugged the old lady with filial cordiality: and
patted the rosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal
manner, as he slipped into the hands of each some more substantial
expression of his approval. The exchange of cordialities with their
fine old host and Mr. Trundle, was even more hearty and prolonged; and
it was not until Mr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, and
at last emerged from a dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose
bright eyes looked unusually dim), that the three friends were enabled
to tear themselves from their friendly entertainers. Many a backward
look they gave at the Farm, as they walked slowly away; and many a
kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air, in acknowledgment of something
very like a lady's handkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper
windows, until a turn in the lane hid the old house from their sight.
At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time
they reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had
sufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellent early
dinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to the
road, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to
Cobham.
A delightful walk it was: for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and
their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind
which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of
the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in
thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread
the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an
ancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of
Elizabeth's time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared
on every side: large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass; and
occasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground, with the speed
of the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny
landscape like a passing breath of summer.
"If this," said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him, "if this were the
place 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 had
brought them to the village, "really, for a misanthrope's choice, this
is one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever
met with."
In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their
concurrence; and having been directed to the Leather Bottle, a clean
and commodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at
once 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, and
the three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a
large number of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic
shapes, and embellished with a great variety of old portraits and
roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the room
was a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast
fowl, 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, as
possible.
On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and
fork, 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 the
perspiration which the walk had engendered. "Finish your dinner, and
walk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone."
Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed
himself with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend's leisure. The
dinner was quickly despatched, and they walked out together.
[Illustration: _At the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man
who had taken his leave of this world as possible._]
For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the
churchyard to and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating his
companion's resolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be
useless; for what language could convey to them that energy and force
which their great originator's manner communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman
was already tired of retirement, or whether he was wholly unable to
resist 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 the
miserable remainder of his days: and since his friend laid so much
stress upon his humble companionship, he was willing to share his
adventures."
Mr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands; and walked back to rejoin their
companions.
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 of
every antiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed the
door of their inn, and walked a little way down the village, before
they recollected the precise spot in which it stood. As they turned
back, Mr. Pickwick's eye fell upon a small broken stone, partially
buried 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 object
near him, but the right one. "God bless me, what's the matter?"
This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned
by seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his
knees before the little stone and commence wiping the dust off it with
his 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 his
might, and gazing intently through his spectacles: "I can discern
a cross, and a B, and then a T. This is important," continued Mr.
Pickwick, starting up. "This is some very old inscription, existing
perhaps long before the ancient almshouses in this place. It must not
be lost."
He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.
"Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?" inquired the
benevolent Mr. Pickwick.
"No, I doan't, sir," replied the man civilly. "It was here long afor I
war 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?"
[Illustration: _"There is an inscription here," said Mr. Pickwick_]
"Ah! but who'd buy it?" inquired the man, with an expression of face
which he probably meant to be very cunning.
"I'll give you ten shillings for it at once," said Mr. Pickwick, "if
you would take it up for me."
The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the
little stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr.
Pickwick, by dint of great personal exertion, bore it with his own
hands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it, deposited it on
the table.
The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their
patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned
with success. The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were
straggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscription
was 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 over
the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest
objects of his ambition. In a county known to abound in remains of the
early ages; in a village in which there still existed some memorials
of the olden time, he--he, the Chairman of the Pickwick Club--had
discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable
antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned
men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his
senses.
"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 once
deposited where it can be thoroughly investigated, and properly
understood. I have another reason for this step. In a few days, an
election is to take place for the borough of Eatanswill, at which
Mr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent of one of
the candidates. We will behold, and minutely examine, a scene so
interesting to every Englishman."
"We will," was the animated cry of three voices.
Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his
followers, lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their
leader, and he felt it.
"Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass," said
he. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous
applause. Having himself deposited the important stone in a small deal
box, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in
an arm-chair at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted to
festivity and conversation.
It was past eleven o'clock--a late hour for the little village of
Cobham--when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bed-room which had been
prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice-window, and
setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on
the 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 first
stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell
ceased the stillness seemed insupportable;--he almost felt as if he had
lost a companion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing
himself and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.
Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a
sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to
sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment: he tossed first
on one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes
as if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was the
unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the brandy and
water, or the strange bed--whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting
very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old stories
to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After half
an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory conclusion,
that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and partially
dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying there
fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window--it was very
dark. He walked about the room--it was very lonely.
He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the
window to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first time
entered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest
him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat-pocket, and
drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put
on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange
hand-writing, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title
gave him a sudden start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful
glance round the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to
such 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, many
years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon
me sometimes; sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins,
till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my
knees knocked together with fright! I like it now though. It's a fine
name. Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the
glare of a madman's eye--whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as
a madman's grip. Ho! ho! It's a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at
like 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--and
to 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 to
start from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared
from the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment
or happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary
hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my
brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and the
marrow of my bones; that one generation had passed away without the
pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom
it 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 of
a crowded room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes
towards 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 are
long sometimes--very long! but they are nothing to the restless nights
and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember
them. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in the
corners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me to
madness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old house
in which my father's father died, was stained with his own blood, shed
by 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 one
generation before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather
had lived for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent
his tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth--I knew it
well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it
from 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 feared
it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best
among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How
I used to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick
I was playing them after their old pointing and leering, when I was
not mad, but only dreading that I might one day become so! And how I
used to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I kept
my 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 I
dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would
have turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had known that the
dear 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 his
heart. Oh, it was a merry life!
"Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in
pleasures enhanced a thousand-fold to me by the consciousness of my
well-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law--the eagle-eyed law
itself--had been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to
a madman's hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound
mind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The
madman's cunning had over-reached them all.
"I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I was
praised! How those three proud overbearing brothers humbled themselves
before me! The old white-headed father, too--such deference--such
respect--such devoted friendship--he worshipped me! The old man had a
daughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was
rich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon
the faces of her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned
scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To
laugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks
of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.
"Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister's
happiness against her husband's gold. The lightest feather I blow into
the air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!
"In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been
mad--for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered
sometimes--I should have known that the girl would rather have been
placed, stiff and cold, in a dull leaden coffin, than borne an envied
bride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart
was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her
troubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the
poverty of the old white-headed man, and the haughty brothers.
"I don't remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was
beautiful. I _know_ she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when
I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing
still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted
figure with long black hair, which streaming down her back, stirs with
no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or
close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down--that form
is _hers_; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I
know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as
others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful
to me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago--it comes
fresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.
"For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw
the 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 my
wealth, and hated the splendour in which she lived;--I had not expected
that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings
came over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power,
whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated
the boy she still wept for. I pitied--yes, I pitied--the wretched life
to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she
could not live long, but the thought that before her death she might
give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to
its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.
"For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of
fire. A fine sight the grand house in flames, and the madman's wife
smouldering 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, and
all through a madman's cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave
it 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 thin
bright edge would make!
"At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered
in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my
hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed and leaned over
my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them
softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping;
for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face
was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile
lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder.
She started--it was only a passing dream. I leant forward again. She
screamed and woke.
"One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or
sound. 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 quailed
beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily
on 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 withdrew
her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and
clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sunk upon the
ground.
"Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was
alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the
razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for
assistance.
"They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft
of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her
senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.
"Doctors were called in--great men who rolled up to my door in easy
carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her
bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting, and consulted together
in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and most
celebrated among them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the
worst, told me--me, the madman!--that my wife was mad. He stood close
beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand
laid upon my arm. With one effort I could have hurled him into the
street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my
secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I
must 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 laughed
till 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 of
her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of
iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the
white handkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, till
the tears came into my eyes.
"But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless
and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I
could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made
me, when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and
dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the
busy crowd hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard the
sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I
could 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 upon
the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and
no one knew I was a madman yet.
"I remember--though it's one of the last things I _can_ remember; for
now I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and
being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some
strange confusion in which they get involved--I remember how I let it
out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and
feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched
fist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left
them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes
upon me when I think of it. There--see how this iron bar bends beneath
my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long
galleries here with many doors--I don't think I could find my way along
them; and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which they
keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and
they are proud to have me here, to show.
"Let me see;--yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached
home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see
me--urgent business, he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man
with all a madman's hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to
tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly up-stairs. He had a
word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were
alone together--_for the first time_.
"I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little
thought--and I gloried in the knowledge--that the light of madness
gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He
spoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so
soon after his sister's death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling
together many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation,
he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was
right 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 to
demand this explanation.
"This man had a commission in the army--a commission, purchased with
my money, and his sister's misery! This was the man who had been
foremost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the
man 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--I
could not help it--but I spoke not a word.
"I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was
a bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his
chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and as I laughed--I was very merry
then--I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was
afraid 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 his
chair: but he said nothing.
"'You villain,' said I, 'I found you out; I discovered your hellish
plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before
you compelled her to marry me. I know it--I know it.'
"He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me
stand back--for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I
spoke.
"I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying
through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to
tear 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 floor
together.
"It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall strong man, fighting
for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I
knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though
a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and
clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple;
his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue he
seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.
"The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of
people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.
"My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty and
freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among
my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a
hatchet 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 the
noise of feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and
fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether: but on I
bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild
shout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me
on every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was
borne upon the arms of demons, who swept along upon the wind, and bore
down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a
rustle and speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me
from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When
I woke I found myself here--here in this gay cell where the sunlight
seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show
the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner.
When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from
distant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but they
neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from
the first shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still
stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron
chain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed."
At the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this note:
[The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a melancholy
instance of the baneful results of energies misdirected in early
life, and excesses prolonged until their consequences could never be
repaired. The thoughtless riot, dissipation, and debauchery of his
younger days, produced fever and delirium. The first effects of the
latter was the strange delusion, founded upon a well-known medical
theory, strongly contended for by some, and as strongly contested by
others, that an hereditary madness existed in his family. This produced
a settled gloom, which in time developed a morbid insanity, and finally
terminated in raving madness. There is every reason to believe that the
events he detailed, though distorted in the description by his diseased
imagination, really happened. It is only matter of wonder to those who
were acquainted with the vices of his early career, that his passions,
when no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to the commission
of still more frightful deeds.]
* * * * *
Mr. Pickwick's candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concluded
the perusal of the old clergyman's manuscript; and when the light
went suddenly out, without any previous flicker by way of warning, it
communicated a very considerable start to his excited frame. Hastily
throwing off such articles of clothing as he had put on when he rose
from his uneasy bed, and casting a fearful glance around, he once more
scrambled hastily between the sheets, and soon fell fast asleep.
The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber when he awoke, and
the morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on the
previous night, had disappeared with the dark shadows which shrouded
the landscape, and his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay
as the morning itself. After a hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen
sallied forth to walk to Gravesend, followed by a man bearing the
stone in its deal box. They reached that town about one o'clock (their
luggage 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 which
were necessary for their journey to the borough of Eatanswill. As
any reference to that most important undertaking demands a separate
chapter, we may devote the few lines which remain at the close of
this, to narrate, with great brevity, the history of the antiquarian
discovery.
It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr. Pickwick
lectured upon the discovery at the General Club Meeting, convened
on the night succeeding their return, and entered into a variety of
ingenious and erudite speculations on the meaning of the inscription.
It also appears that a skilful artist executed a faithful delineation
of the curiosity, which was engraved on the stone, and presented
to the Royal Antiquarian Society, and other learned bodies--that
heart-burnings and jealousies without number, were created by rival
controversies which were penned upon the subject--and that Mr. Pickwick
himself wrote a pamphlet, containing ninety-six pages of very small
print, and twenty-seven different readings of the inscription. That
three old gentlemen cut off their eldest sons with a shilling a-piece
for presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment--and that one
enthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely, in despair at
being unable to fathom its meaning. That Mr. Pickwick was elected an
honorary member of seventeen native and foreign societies, for making
the 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 undying
contempt 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 name
of Pickwick, actually undertook a journey to Cobham in person, and on
his return, sarcastically observed in an oration at the club, that
he had seen the man from whom the stone was purchased; that the man
presumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity
of the inscription--inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely
carved by himself in an idle mood, and to display letters intended
to bear neither more nor less than the simple construction of--"BILL
STUMPS, HIS MARK;" and that Mr. Stumps, being little in the habit of
original composition, and more accustomed to be guided by the sound
of words than by the strict rules of orthography, had omitted the
concluding "L" of his Christian name.
The Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so enlightened an
Institution) 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 and
approbation; in return for which, Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait of
himself 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, and
rather more than half intimating his opinion that the seventeen learned
societies were so many "humbugs." Hereupon the virtuous indignation
of the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign, being roused,
several fresh pamphlets appeared; the foreign learned societies
corresponded with the native learned societies; the native learned
societies translated the pamphlets of the foreign learned societies
into English; the foreign learned societies translated the pamphlets
of the native learned societies into all sorts of languages; and thus
commenced that celebrated scientific discussion so well known to all
men as the Pickwick controversy.
But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick, recoiled upon the head
of its calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies unanimously
voted the presumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler, and forthwith
set to work upon more treatises than ever. And to this day the stone
remains, an illegible monument of Mr. Pickwick's greatness, and a
lasting trophy of the littleness of his enemies.