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: + B I L S T U M P S H I S.M.A R KMr.Pickwick's eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over the treasure he had discovered.He had attained one of the greatest objects of his ambition.In a county known to abound in remains of the early ages;in a village in which there still existed some memorials of the olden time, he--he, the Chairman of the Pickwick Club--had discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned men who had preceded him.He could hardly trust the evidence of his senses.
"This--this," said he, "determines me.We return to town, to-morrow.""To-morrow!" exclaimed his admiring followers.
"To-morrow," said Mr.Pickwick."This treasure must be at once deposited where it can be thoroughly investigated, and properly understood.I have another reason for this step.In a few days, an election is to take place for the borough of Eatanswill, at which Mr.Perker, a gentleman whom Ilately met, is the agent of one of the candidates.We will behold, and minutely examine, a scene so interesting to every Englishman.""We will," was the animated cry of three voices.
Mr.Pickwick looked round him.The attachment and fervour of his followers, lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him.He was their leader, and he felt it.
"Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass," said he.
This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause.
Having himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an arm-chair at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted to festivity and conversation.
It was past eleven o'clock--a late hour for the little village of Cobham--when Mr.Pickwick retired to the bed-room which had been prepared for his reception.
He threw open the lattice-window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried events of the two preceding days.
The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation; Mr.Pickwick was roused by the church-clock striking twelve.The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable;--he almost felt as if he had lost a companion.He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing himself and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.
Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to sleep.It was Mr.Pickwick's condition at this moment: he tossed first on one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes as if to coax himself to slumber.It was of no use.Whether it was the unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the brandy and water, or the strange bed--whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures down-stairs, 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 bed-side, trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read.It was a strange hand-writing, and the paper was much soiled and blotted.The title gave him a sudden start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance round the room.Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings, however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows: A MADMAN'S MANUSCRIPT"Yes!--a madman's! How that word would have struck to my heart, many years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes; sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright! I like it now though.It's a fine name.Shew me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a madman's eye--whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman's grip.Ho!
ho! It's a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wild lion through the iron bars--to gnash one's teeth and howl, through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain--and to roll and twine among the straw, transported with such brave music.Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh, it's a rare place!
