prompt:
Chapter: 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 had 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 whom 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 of 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.

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 13, and then a T. This is important,' continued Mr.
Pickwick, starting up. 'This is some very old inscription, existing
perhaps long before the ancient 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 the
benevolent Mr. Pickwick.

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

[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 over
the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest
objects of his ambition. In a county known to abound in the 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 bedroom 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 handwriting,
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
gripe. 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 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 thousandfold 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 overreached 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 _her's_;
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; but 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 leaned 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
knew 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 sank 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
crowds 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 upstairs. 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 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 the 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 a 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 gray 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 the 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
references 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 a 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 engraven on 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 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 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 from the society,
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 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, 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 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 to
the littleness of his enemies.

Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited
scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but
peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and
observation. His sitting-room was the first-floor front, his bedroom the
second-floor front; and thus, whether he were sitting at his desk in his
parlour, or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had
an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous
phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare.
His landlady, Mrs. Bardell--the relict and sole executrix of a deceased
custom-house officer--was a comely woman of bustling manners and
agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by
study and long practice, into an exquisite talent. There were no
children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house
were a large man and a small boy; the first a lodger, the second a
production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always home precisely at
ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into
the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlour; and the
infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were
exclusively confined to the neighbouring pavements and gutters.
Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; and in it Mr.
Pickwick's will was law.

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the
establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr.
Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behaviour on the morning previous to
that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill would have
been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro
with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of
about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and
exhibited many other manifestations of impatience very unusual with him.
It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation,
but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell had been enabled to
discover.

'Mrs. Bardell,' said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female
approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment.

'Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell.

'Your little boy is a very long time gone.'

'Why it's a good long way to the Borough, sir,' remonstrated Mrs.
Bardell.

'Ah,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'very true; so it is.' Mr. Pickwick relapsed
into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting.

'Mrs. Bardell,' said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.

'Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell again.

'Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep
one?'

'La, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border
of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle
in the eyes of her lodger; 'La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!'

'Well, but do you?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'That depends,' said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to
Mr. Pickwick's elbow which was planted on the table. 'That depends a
good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it's a
saving and careful person, sir.'

'That's very true,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'but the person I have in my eye
(here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these
qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and
a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to
me.'

'La, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap-
border again.

'I do,' said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in
speaking of a subject which interested him--'I do, indeed; and to tell
you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind.'

'Dear me, sir,' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.

'You'll think it very strange now,' said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with
a good-humoured glance at his companion, 'that I never consulted you
about this matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your little
boy out this morning--eh?'

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr.
Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a
pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared
to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose--a deliberate plan, too--
sent her little boy to the Borough, to get him out of the way--how
thoughtful--how considerate!

'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what do you think?'

'Oh, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, 'you're
very kind, sir.'

'It'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir,' replied Mrs.
Bardell; 'and, of course, I should take more trouble to please you then,
than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much
consideration for my loneliness.'

'Ah, to be sure,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I never thought of that. When I am
in town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you
will.'

'I am sure I ought to be a very happy woman,' said Mrs. Bardell.

'And your little boy--' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Bless his heart!' interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob.

'He, too, will have a companion,' resumed Mr. Pickwick, 'a lively one,
who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would
ever learn in a year.' And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.

'Oh, you dear--' said Mrs. Bardell.

Mr. Pickwick started.

'Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,' said Mrs. Bardell; and without more
ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's
neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.

'Bless my soul,' cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; 'Mrs. Bardell, my
good woman--dear me, what a situation--pray consider.--Mrs. Bardell,
don't--if anybody should come--'

'Oh, let them come,' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically; 'I'll never
leave you--dear, kind, good soul;' and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell
clung the tighter.

'Mercy upon me,' said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, 'I hear
somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature,
don't.' But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing; for Mrs.
Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms; and before he could gain
time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room,
ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his
lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his
friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation.
They, in their turn, stared at him; and Master Bardell, in his turn,
stared at everybody.

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the
perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained
in exactly the same relative situations until the suspended animation of
the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching
expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in
a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very
considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and
uncertain; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have
suffered some personal damage pervaded his partially developed mind, and
considering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and
semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head,
commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs,
with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence
of his excitement, allowed.

'Take this little villain away,' said the agonised Mr. Pickwick, 'he's
mad.'

'What is the matter?' said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians.

'I don't know,' replied Mr. Pickwick pettishly. 'Take away the boy.'
(Here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling,
to the farther end of the apartment.) 'Now help me, lead this woman
downstairs.'

'Oh, I am better now,' said Mrs. Bardell faintly.

'Let me lead you downstairs,' said the ever-gallant Mr. Tupman.

'Thank you, sir--thank you;' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell hysterically. And
downstairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son.

'I cannot conceive,' said Mr. Pickwick when his friend returned--'I
cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely
announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when she fell
into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very
extraordinary thing.'

'Very,' said his three friends.

'Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,' continued Mr.
Pickwick.

'Very,' was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and
looked dubiously at each other.

This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their
incredulity. They evidently suspected him.

'There is a man in the passage now,' said Mr. Tupman.

'It's the man I spoke to you about,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I sent for him
to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up,
Snodgrass.'

Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith
presented himself.

'Oh--you remember me, I suppose?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'I should think so,' replied Sam, with a patronising wink. 'Queer start
that 'ere, but he was one too many for you, warn't he? Up to snuff and a
pinch or two over--eh?'

'Never mind that matter now,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily; 'I want to
speak to you about something else. Sit down.'

'Thank'ee, sir,' said Sam. And down he sat without further bidding,
having previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside the
door. ''Tain't a wery good 'un to look at,' said Sam, 'but it's an
astonishin' 'un to wear; and afore the brim went, it was a wery handsome
tile. Hows'ever it's lighter without it, that's one thing, and every
hole lets in some air, that's another--wentilation gossamer I calls it.'
On the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the
assembled Pickwickians.

'Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concurrence of these
gentlemen, sent for you,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'That's the pint, sir,' interposed Sam; 'out vith it, as the father said
to his child, when he swallowed a farden.'

'We want to know, in the first place,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'whether you
have any reason to be discontented with your present situation.'

'Afore I answers that 'ere question, gen'l'm'n,' replied Mr. Weller, 'I
should like to know, in the first place, whether you're a-goin' to
purwide me with a better?'

A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick's features as he
said, 'I have half made up my mind to engage you myself.'

'Have you, though?' said Sam.

Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative.

'Wages?' inquired Sam.

'Twelve pounds a year,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'Clothes?'

'Two suits.'

'Work?'

'To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these gentlemen here.'

'Take the bill down,' said Sam emphatically. 'I'm let to a single
gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.'

'You accept the situation?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Cert'nly,' replied Sam. 'If the clothes fits me half as well as the
place, they'll do.'

'You can get a character of course?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Ask the landlady o' the White Hart about that, Sir,' replied Sam.

'Can you come this evening?'

'I'll get into the clothes this minute, if they're here,' said Sam, with
great alacrity.

'Call at eight this evening,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'and if the inquiries
are satisfactory, they shall be provided.'

With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in which an
assistant housemaid had equally participated, the history of Mr.
Weller's conduct was so very blameless, that Mr. Pickwick felt fully
justified in closing the engagement that very evening. With the
promptness and energy which characterised not only the public
proceedings, but all the private actions of this extraordinary man, he
at once led his new attendant to one of those convenient emporiums where
gentlemen's new and second-hand clothes are provided, and the
troublesome and inconvenient formality of measurement dispensed with;
and before night had closed in, Mr. Weller was furnished with a grey
coat with the P. C. button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a pink
striped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety of other
necessaries, too numerous to recapitulate.

'Well,' said that suddenly-transformed individual, as he took his seat
on the outside of the Eatanswill coach next morning; 'I wonder whether
I'm meant to be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I
looks like a sort of compo of every one on 'em. Never mind; there's a
change of air, plenty to see, and little to do; and all this suits my
complaint uncommon; so long life to the Pickvicks, says I!'

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: On returning to Manor Farm, Mr. Pickwick learns that Tupman has left, intending to commit suicide in a fit of romantic despair. The Pickwickians take their leave of the Wardles and hurry after Tupman, whom they find in Cobham enjoying a hearty meal. Things are patched up, and Mr. Pickwick tells his friends that they will all go to Eatanswill in a few days to witness an election. At Cobham, meanwhile, Mr. Pick-wick finds a stone with a strange inscription, which he assumes to be ancient. Unable to sleep that evening, Mr. Pickwick reads a manuscript that the old clergyman at Wardle's had given him. This story, told in the first person by a raving maniac, relates how the mad author married a woman who was in love with someone else. Her family had contrived the match because the madman was wealthy. He tries to murder his wife because she does not love him, but he is prevented. His wife, how-ever, is driven mad and dies. Her brother, who benefited from the evil marriage, visits the madman and they get into a violent fight, which is interrupted by a crowd of people. The madman, pursued by the crowd, is finally caught and locked in an asylum. The Pickwickians return to London with the inscribed stone, which everyone makes much of but no one understands. Blotton, a club member, deciphers it accurately as "BILL STUMPS, HIS MARK." But he is expelled and no one pays him any heed. At his London apartments Mr. Pickwick tells his widowed landlady, Mrs. Bardell, that he has something important to discuss with her. His way of broaching the subject leads her to assume that he is proposing, whereupon she flings her arms about his neck and faints with tearful joy. The three Pickwickians enter at that point, along with Mrs. Bardell's son, Tommy, who starts kicking and butting Mr. Pickwick for hurting his mother. Tupman, Snodgrass, and Winkle look abashed, each assuming that their leader has been up to something. Then Sam Weller enters, and Mr. Pickwick hires Sam, at two suits and 12 pounds a year, to attend on him as a personal servant. This was what Mr. Pickwick wanted to discuss with Mrs. Bardell -- whether she could put up Sam Weller.