Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 350: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

oe | ZR iS CHAPTER XXXV., THE SELF-DEVOTED.—A TALE | Part II. THE NOBLE SACRIFICE OF THE SELF-DEVOTED.—THE SUPPLICATIONS OF A FATHER.-—THE CHURCH OF ST. ETIENNE DU MONT.—SEQUEL. Ir appears that when John Melville heard of the departure of my- self and aunt from England, he was plunged intoa state of the deepest and darkest despair. He at one time raved as if he were mad—and at another sank into a profound and melancholy reverie. Thus about a month passed away without affording comfort or consolation to the lacerated bosom of John Melville. _ At length he suspected—or else was informed—that we were in Paris; and he hastened to that city. But the seclusion in which we lived precluded the possibility of his speedily discovering the place of our abode; and this state of doubt and uncertainty only irritated the more an already agitated frame. But after the most persevering search and the most unintermitted pursuit, Melville discovered that my aunt was dead, and that I was in one of the mad cells of the Salpetriere ! Volumes could not describe the anguish he must have felt when his endeavours were thus crowned with so sad and sorrowful a success. It was in vain that he endeavoured to obtain access to me: all ad- mittance to those who were in such a state of delirium as myself, was rigorously refused ; and John Melville was reduced to the last. extrem- ity of despair. At that crisis he conceived a terrible project—a plan which only the most sincere affection could have suggested—a schemie which only the most adventurous of men could have dared to carry into execution. Alas! too faithful to her who had been compelled to desert and sever herself from him, /e affected that madness which in reality possessed her; and so admirably did he imitate the ways of the insane, that he succeeded in causing himself to be consigned to that living tomb whither it was his chief object to penetrate. But Oh! how can I ever detail: the sad—the terrible resutt to this miserable scheme? Melville, although in the possession of his perfect senses, dwelt amidst madness—gazed on naught but madness—heard no other language than that of madness—felt no sympathies but those of madness—the unvarying scene in which he moved, was one of mad- ness! Madness had him in its grasp—madness followed his steps— madness was his constant attendant. He went about the gloomy building, followed, and preceded, and surrounded on all sides, by his faithful companion, Madness! Like no other companion is mad- ness—like no other comrade: it waits not upon its associates in the reality of terror, but in the horrors of fiction and delusion. Thus madness was his unwearied companion; and he soon learnt the peculiarities, the eccentricities, the wildness, and the contortions of madness. His brain was soon filled with strange images—his range of vision embraced a world of unearthly and unnatural figures—his dreams were peopled with terrible beings—phantoms of all shapes haunted his couch, followed his footsteps, waited upon his meals, lulled him to rest and woke him in the morning. Reason tottered upon CORNICLOOOKS (C(O)