Chapter 11 - Page 2

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