INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND ANANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY; RECORDING Mr.PICKWICK’S DETERMINATION TO BEPRESENT AT AN ELECTION; ANDCONTAINING A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLDCLERGYMAN’Snight of quiet and repose in the profound silence ofDingley Dell, and an hour’s breathing of its fresh andfragrant air on the ensuing morning, completelyrecovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late fatigue of bodyand anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been separatedfrom his friends and followers for two whole days; and it was witha degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imaginationcan adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr.

　　Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen onhis return from his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for whocould ever gaze on Mr. Pickwick’s beaming face withoutexperiencing the sensation? But still a cloud seemed to hang overhis companions which that great man could not but be sensible of,and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious airabout them both, as unusual as it was alarming.

　　‘And how,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped hisfollowers by the hand, and exchanged warm salutations ofwelcome―‘how is Tupman?’

　　A Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarlyaddressed, made no reply. He turned away his head, and appearedabsorbed in melancholy reflection.

　　‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, ‘how is our friend―heis not ill?’

　　‘No,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on hissentimental eyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame-’no; he isnot 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, Ientreat―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 hisfriend’s hand. ‘Yesterday morning, when a letter was receivedfrom Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be home with his sister atnight, the melancholy which had hung over our friend during thewhole of the previous day, was observed to increase. He shortlyafterwards disappeared: he was missing during the whole day, andin the evening this letter was brought by the hostler from theCrown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in themorning, 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 manymortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannotovercome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be desertedby a lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to theartifices of a villain, who had the grin of cunning beneath the maskof 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 thesight of that world, which has become odious to me. Should Ihasten from it altogether, pity―forgive me. Life, my dearPickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit which burnswithin us, is a porter’s knot, on which to rest the heavy load ofworldly cares and troubles; and when that spirit fails us, theburden is too heavy to be borne. We sink beneath it. You may tellRachael―Ah, that name!―‘TRACY TUPMAN.’

　　‘We must leave this place directly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as herefolded the note. ‘It would not have been decent for us to remainhere, under any circumstances, after what has happened; and nowwe are bound to follow in search of our friend.’ And so saying, heled the way to the house.

　　His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties toremain 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. Ifound it on the death of a friend of mine―a medical man, engagedin our county lunatic asylum―among a variety of papers, which Ihad the option of destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. Ican hardly believe that the manuscript is genuine, though itcertainly is not in my friend’s hand. However, whether it be thegenuine production of a maniac, or founded upon the ravings ofsome unhappy being (which I think more probable), read it, andjudge for yourself.’

　　Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from thebenevolent old gentleman with many expressions of good-will andesteem.

　　It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates ofManor Farm, from whom they had received so much hospitalityand kindness. Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies―we weregoing to say, as if they were his own daughters, only, as he mightpossibly have infused a little more warmth into the salutation, thecomparison would not be quite appropriate―hugged the old ladywith filial cordiality; and patted the rosy cheeks of the femaleservants in a most patriarchal manner, as he slipped into thehands 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 untilMr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at lastemerged from a dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whosebright eyes looked unusually dim), that the three friends wereenabled to tear themselves from their friendly entertainers. Manya backward look they gave at the farm, as they walked slowlyaway; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air, inacknowledgment of something very like a lady’s handkerchief,which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a turn ofthe lane hid the old house from their sight.

　　At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By thetime they reached the last-named place, the violence of their griefhad sufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellentearly dinner; and having procured the necessary informationrelative to the road, the three friends set forward again in theafternoon 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 thelight wind which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened bythe songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy andthe moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the softgreen turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They emergedupon an open park, with an ancient hall, displaying the quaint andpicturesque architecture of Elizabeth’s time. Long vistas of statelyoaks and elm trees appeared on every side; large herds of deerwere cropping the fresh grass; and occasionally a startled harescoured along the ground, with the speed of the shadows thrownby the light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape like apassing 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 complaintcame, I fancy their old attachment to this world would very soonreturn.’

　　‘I think so too,’ said Mr. Winkle.

　　‘And really,’ added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour’s walkinghad brought them to the village, ‘really, for a misanthrope’schoice, this is one of the prettiest and most desirable places ofresidence I ever met with.’

　　In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrassexpressed their concurrence; and having been directed to theLeather Bottle, a clean and commodious village ale-house, thethree travellers entered, and at once inquired for a gentleman ofthe 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, furnishedwith a large number of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, offantastic shapes, and embellished with a great variety of oldportraits and roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity. At theupper end of the room was a table, with a white cloth upon it, wellcovered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and et ceteras; and at thetable sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man who had taken hisleave of the world, as possible.

　　On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down hisknife 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 hisforehead the perspiration which the walk had engendered. ‘Finishyour dinner, and walk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone.’

　　Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick havingrefreshed himself with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend’sleisure. The dinner was quickly despatched, and they walked outtogether.

　　For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing thechurchyard to and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged incombating his companion’s resolution. Any repetition of hisarguments would be useless; for what language could convey tothem that energy and force which their great originator’s mannercommunicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tired ofretirement, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquentappeal which was made to him, matters not, he did not resist it atlast.

　　‘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 torejoin their companions.

　　It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortaldiscovery, which has been the pride and boast of his friends, andthe envy of every antiquarian in this or any other country. Theyhad passed the door of their inn, and walked a little way down thevillage, before they recollected the precise spot in which it stood.

　　As they turned back, Mr. Pickwick’s eye fell upon a small brokenstone, partially buried in the ground, in front of a cottage door. Hepaused.

　　‘This is very strange,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘What is strange?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly atevery object near him, but the right one. ‘God bless me, what’s thematter?’

　　This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment,occasioned by seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm fordiscovery, fall on his knees before the little stone, and commencewiping 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 allhis might, and gazing intently through his spectacles―‘I candiscern a cross, and a 13, and then a T. This is important,’

　　continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. ‘This is some very oldinscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-housesin 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?’ inquiredthe benevolent Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘No, I doan’t, sir,’ replied the man civilly. ‘It was here long aforeI was born, or any on us.’

　　Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.

　　‘You―you―are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,’ saidMr. Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. ‘You wouldn’t mind sellingit, now?’

　　‘Ah! but who’d buy it?’ inquired the man, with an expression offace which 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 little stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade)Mr. Pickwick, by dint of great personal exertion, bore it with hisown 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 followingfragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered:―Mr. Pickwick’s eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloatedover the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of thegreatest objects of his ambition. In a county known to abound inthe remains of the early ages; in a village in which there stillexisted some memorials of the olden time, he―he, the chairman ofthe Pickwick Club―had discovered a strange and curiousinscription of unquestionable antiquity, which had wholly escapedthe 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 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 which Mr.

　　Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent of one of thecandidates. 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 ofhis followers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He wastheir leader, 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 smalldeal box, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placedhimself in an arm-chair, at the head of the table; and the eveningwas devoted to festivity and conversation.

　　It was past eleven o’clock―a late hour for the little village ofCobham―when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which hadbeen prepared for his reception. He threw open the latticewindow, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train ofmeditation 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. Thefirst stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when thebell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable―he almost felt as ifhe had lost a companion. He was nervous and excited; and hastilyundressing himself and placing his light in the chimney, got intobed.

　　Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, inwhich a sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against aninability to sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick’s condition at this moment:

　　he tossed first on one side and then on the other; andperseveringly closed his eyes as if to coax himself to slumber. Itwas of no use. Whether it was the unwonted exertion he hadundergone, or the heat, or the brandy-and-water, or the strangebed―whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting veryuncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old storiesto which they had given rise in the course of the evening. Afterhalf 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 thanlying there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of thewindow―it was very dark. He walked about the room―it was verylonely.

　　He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, andfrom the window to the door, when the clergyman’s manuscriptfor the first time entered his head. It was a good thought. if it failedto interest him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coatpocket, and drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmedthe light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. Itwas a strange handwriting, and the paper was much soiled andblotted. The title gave him a sudden start, too; and he could notavoid casting a wistful glance round the room. Reflecting on theabsurdity of giving way to such feelings, however, he trimmed thelight again, and read as follows:―‘Yes!―a madman’s! How that word would have struck to myheart, many years ago! How it would have roused the terror thatused to come upon me sometimes, sending the blood hissing andtingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood in largedrops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright! Ilike it now though. It’s a fine name. Show me the monarch whoseangry 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 gripe.

　　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, throughthe long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain and to rolland 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 usedto start from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to bespared from the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight ofmerriment or happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, andspend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever thatwas to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up withmy very blood, and the marrow of my bones! that one generationhad passed away without the pestilence appearing among them,and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I knew it must beso: that so it always had been, and so it ever would be: and when Icowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room, and saw menwhisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I knew theywere 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 hereare long sometimes―very long; but they are nothing to therestless nights, and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makesme cold to remember them. Large dusky forms with sly andjeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent overmy bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in lowwhispers, that the floor of the old house in which my father died,was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in ragingmadness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed intomy head till the room rang with it, that in one generation beforehim the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived foryears 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 havefeared it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout withthe best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not evensuspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight, when I thoughtof the fine trick I was playing them after their old pointing andleering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might oneday 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 kindfriends would have fallen from me, if they had known the truth. Icould ha............