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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 hislate fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had beenseparated from his friends and fol lowers for two whole days; and it waswith a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination canadequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle andMr. 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 was amysterious 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 reachof many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannotovercome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by alovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artificesof a villain, who had the grin of cunning beneath the mask offriendship. I hope you never may.

'Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, willbe forwarded--supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight ofthat world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from italtogether, pity--forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has becomeinsupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter'sknot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; andwhen that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sinkbeneath 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, which Ihad hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found iton the death of a friend of mine--a medical man, engaged in our countylunatic asylum--among a variety of papers, which I had the option ofdestroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly believe thatthe manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend'shand. However, whether it be the genuine production of a maniac, orfounded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I think moreprobable), read it, and judge for yourself.'

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

It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of ManorFarm, from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr.Pickwick kissed the young ladies--we were going to say, as if they werehis own daughters, only, as he might possibly have infused a littlemore warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be quiteappropriate--hugged the old lady with filial cordiality; and patted therosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal manner, as heslipped into the hands of each some more substantial expression of hisapproval. 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 froma dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose bright eyes lookedunusually dim), that the three friends were enabled to tear themselvesfrom their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at thefarm, as they walked slowly away; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrasswaft in the air, in acknowledgment of something very like a lady'shandkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper windows, until aturn of 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 the placeto which all who are troubled with our friend's complaint came, I fancytheir 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 clean andcommodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at onceinquired 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 thethree friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a largenumber of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic shapes, andembellished with a great variety of old portraits and roughly-colouredprints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the room was a table, witha white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, andet ceteras; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man whohad taken his leave of the world, as possible.

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.

For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyardto and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating his companion'sresolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless; for whatlanguage could convey to them that energy and force which their greatoriginator's manner communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tiredof retirement, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquentappeal 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 of everyantiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed the doorof their inn, and walked a little way down the village, before theyrecollected the precise spot in which it stood. As they turned back, Mr.Pickwick's eye fell upon a small broken stone, partially buried in theground, 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 his might,and gazing intently through his spectacles--'I can discern a cross, anda 13, and then a T. This is important,' continued Mr. Pickwick, startingup. 'This is some very old inscription, existing perhaps long before theancient alms-houses 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 thebenevolent Mr. Pickwick.

'No, I doan't, Sir,' replied the man civilly. 'It was here long afore Iwas 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?'

'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 (the littlestone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr. Pickwick, bydint 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 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:--

[cross] B I L S T u m P S H I S. M. ARK

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 the remains ofthe early 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 once depositedwhere it can be thoroughly investigated and properly understood. I haveanother reason for this step. In a few days, an election is to takeplace for the borough of Eatanswill, at which Mr. Perker, a gentlemanwhom I lately met, is the agent of one of the candidates. We willbehold, and minutely examine, a scene so interesting to everyEnglishman.'

'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,' 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 anarm-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 bedroom which had been preparedfor his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting hislight upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurriedevents 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 bell ceasedthe stillness seemed insupportable--he almost felt as if he had lost acompanion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing himselfand 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 wasthe unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or thebrandy-and-water, or the strange bed--whatever it was, his thoughts keptreverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and theold stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening.After half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactoryconclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up andpartially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lyingthere fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window--it wasvery dark. 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 interest him,it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, anddrawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on hisspectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting,and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave him a suddenstart, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance roundthe 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, manyyears ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon mesometimes, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, tillthe cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my kneesknocked 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 ofa madman's eye--whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman'sgripe. Ho! ho! It's a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wildlion through the iron bars--to gnash one's teeth and howl, through thelong still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain and to roll andtwine among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for themadhouse! Oh, it's a rare place!

'I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to startfrom my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared fromthe curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment orhappiness, 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 whom itwould revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and soit ever would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowdedroom, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, Iknew they were telling each other of the doomed madman; and I slunk awayagain 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 nights,and 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 died, was stained with his own blood, shed by hisown hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but theyscreamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generationbefore him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had livedfor years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his tearinghimself to pieces. I knew they told the truth--I knew it well. I hadfound 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 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. How Iused to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I wasplaying 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 tolaugh 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 hadknown the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alonewith 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 whosat close to him, sharpening a bright, glittering knife, was a madmanwith all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, itwas a merry life!

'Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasuresenhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-keptsecret. I inherited an estate. The law--the eagle-eyed law itself--hadbeen deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman'shands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Wherethe dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The madman'scunning had overreached 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! To laughoutright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks ofmerriment. 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 was beautiful.I know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start upfrom my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still andmotionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure withlong black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthlywind, 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; theface 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, thatfill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, eventhan the spirits that tempted me many years ago--it comes fresh from thegrave; 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. Ifound it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. Shehad never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth,and hated the splendour in which she lived; but I had not expected that.She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings cameover me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirledround and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy shestill wept for. I pitied--yes, I pitied--the wretched life to which hercold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could notlive long; but the thought that before her death she might give birthto 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 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 thin,bright edge would make! 'At last the old spirits who had been with me sooften before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust theopen 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. Iwithdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She hadbeen 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 tranquilsmile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on hershoulder. She started--it was only a passing dream. I leaned forwardagain. She screamed, 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 knew 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. Shemade towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew hereyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutchedher by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sank upon the ground.

'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 her bedsidefor weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted together in low andsolemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and most celebratedamong them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst, toldme--me, the madman!--that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me atan open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon myarm. 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 atstake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place herunder some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went intothe open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the airresounded 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 herwhose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron.All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the whitehandkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, till the tearsCame into my eyes.

'But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless anddisturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I couldnot hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made mewhen 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 crowds hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard thesound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, thatI 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 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: for nowI mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and beingalways hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strangeconfusion in which they get involved--I remember how I let it out atlast. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel theease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched fist intotheir white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screamingand shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me whenI think of it. There--see how this iron bar bends beneath my furiouswrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries herewith many doors--I don't think I could find my way along them; and evenif I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked andbarred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proudto 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 man withall a madman's hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tearhim. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a wordto say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alonetogether--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 with mymoney, and his sister's misery! This was the man who had been foremostin the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who hadbeen the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowingthat her heart was given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! Thelivery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him--I could not helpit--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 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," Isaid.--"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 before youcompelled 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 to tearhis heart out.

'"Damn you," said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; "I killed her. Iam 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,fighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroyhim. 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, 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 burstopen with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, cryingaloud 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 the 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 me onevery side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borneupon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore downbank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a rustleand a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me fromthem with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When Iwoke I found myself here--here in this gray 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 from thefirst shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still standsmotionless 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 melancholyinstance 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 daysproduced fever and delirium. The first effects of the latter was thestrange delusion, founded upon a well-known medical theory, stronglycontended for by some, and as strongly contested by others, that anhereditary madness existed in his family. This produced a settled gloom,which in time developed a morbid insanity, and finally terminated inraving madness. There is every reason to believe that the eventshe 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 shrouded thelandscape, and his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay as themorning itself. After a hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen salliedforth to walk to Gravesend, followed by a man bearing the stone in itsdeal box. They reached the town about one o'clock (their luggage theyhad directed to be forwarded to the city, from Rochester), and beingfortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach, arrived inLondon 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 references 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 a General Club Meeting, convened on thenight succeeding their return, and entered into a variety of ingeniousand erudite speculations on the meaning of the inscription. It alsoappears that a skilful artist executed a faithful delineation of thecuriosity, which was engraven on stone, and presented to the RoyalAntiquarian Society, and other learned bodies: that heart-burnings andjealousies without number were created by rival controversies which werepenned upon the subject; and that Mr. Pickwick himself wrote a pamphlet,containing ninety-six pages of very small print, and twenty-sevendifferent readings of the inscription: that three old gentlemen cut offtheir eldest sons with a shilling a-piece for presuming to doubt theantiquity of the fragment; and that one enthusiastic individual cuthimself off prematurely, in despair at being unable to fathom itsmeaning: that Mr. Pickwick was elected an honorary member of seventeennative and foreign societies, for making the discovery: that none of theseventeen could make anything of it; but that all the seventeen agreedit was very extraordinary.

Mr. Blotton, indeed--and the name will be doomed to the undying contemptof those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime--Mr. Blotton, wesay, with the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed tostate a view of the case, as degrading as ridiculous. Mr. Blotton, witha 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 theman from whom the stone was purchased; that the man presumed thestone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of theinscription--inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely carved byhimself in an idle mood, and to display letters intended to bear neithermore or 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 thestrict rules of orthography, had omitted the concluding 'L' of hisChristian 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 from the society,and voted Mr. Pickwick a pair of gold spectacles, in token of theirconfidence and approbation: in return for which, Mr. Pickwick caused aportrait of himself to be painted, and hung up in the club room.

Mr. Blotton was ejected but 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 indignation ofthe seventeen learned societies being roused, several fresh pamphletsappeared; the foreign learned societies corresponded with the nativelearned societies; the native learned societies translated the pamphletsof the foreign learned societies into English; the foreign learnedsocieties translated the pamphlets of the native learned societies intoall sorts of languages; and thus commenced that celebrated scientificdiscussion so well known to all men, as the Pickwick controversy.

But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick recoiled upon the head ofits calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies unanimously votedthe presumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler, and forthwith set to workupon more treatises than ever. And to this day the stone remains, anillegible monument of Mr. Pickwick's greatness, and a lasting trophy tothe littleness of his enemies.