The stranger, slowly turning round, and disclosing a countenance which  (Here the manuscript was illegible for a few lines), said in English  (A long hiatus followed here, and the next passage that was legible, though it proved to be a continuation of the narrative, was but a fragment). The terrors of the night rendered Stanton a sturdy and unappeasable applicant; and the shrill voice of the old woman, repeating, no heretic  no English  Mother of God protect us  avaunt Satan!  combined with the clatter of the wooden casement (peculiar to the houses in Valentia) which she opened to discharge her volley of anathematization, and shut again as the lightning glanced through the aperture, were unable to repel his importunate request for admittance, in a night whose terrors ought to soften all the miserable petty local passions into one awful feeling of fear for the Power who caused it, and compassion for those who were exposed to it.  But Stanton felt there was something more than national bigotry in the exclamations of the old woman; there was a peculiar and personal horror of the English.  And he was right; but this did not diminish the eagerness of his      The house was handsome and spacious, but the melancholy appearance of desertion       The benches were by the wall, but there were none to sit there; the tables were spread in what had been the hall, but it seemed as if none had gathered round them for many years;  the clock struck audibly, there was no voice of mirth or of occupation to drown its sound; time told his awful lesson to silence alone;  the hearths were black with fuel long since consumed;  the family portraits looked as if they were the only tenants of the mansion; they seemed to say, from their mouldering frames, there are none to gaze on us; and the echo of the steps of Stanton and his feeble guide, was the only sound audible between the peals of thunder that rolled still awfully, but more distantly,  every peal like the exhausted murmurs of a spent heart. As they passed on, a shriek was heard. Stanton paused, and fearful images of the dangers to which travellers on the Continent are exposed in deserted and remote habitations, came into his mind. Dont heed it, said the old woman, lighting him on with a miserable lamp;  it is only he      The old woman having now satisfied herself, by ocular demonstration, that her English guest, even if he was the devil, had neither horn, hoof, or tail, that he could bear the sign of the cross without changing his form, and that, when he spoke, not a puff of sulphur came out of his mouth, began to take courage, and at length commenced her story, which, weary and comfortless as Stanton was,      Every obstacle was now removed; parents and relations at last gave up all opposition, and the young pair were united. Never was there a lovelier,  they seemed like angels who had only anticipated by a few years their celestial and eternal union. The marriage was solemnized with much pomp, and a few days after there was a feast in that very wainscotted chamber which you paused to remark was so gloomy. It was that night hung with rich tapestry, representing the exploits of the Cid, particularly that of his burning a few Moors who refused to renounce their accursed religion. They were represented beautifully tortured, writhing and howling, and Mahomet! Mahomet! issuing out of their mouths, as they called on him in their burning agonies;  you could almost hear them scream. At the upper end of the room, under a splendid estrade, over which was an image of the blessed Virgin, sat Donna Isabella de Cardoza, mother to the bride, and near her Donna Ines, the bride, on rich almohadas; the bridegroom sat opposite her; and though they never spoke to each other, their eyes, slowly raised, but suddenly withdrawn, (those eyes that blushed), told to each other the delicious secret of their happiness. Don Pedro de Cardoza had assembled a large party in honour of his daughters nuptials; among them was an Englishman of the name of Melmoth, a traveller; no one knew who had brought him there. He sat silent like the rest, while the iced waters and the sugared wafers were presented to the company. The night was intensely hot, and the moon glowed like a sun over the ruins of Saguntum; the embroidered blinds flapped heavily, as if the wind made an effort to raise them in vain, and then desisted. (Another defect in the manuscript occurred here, but it was soon supplied). The company were dispersed through various alleys of the garden; the bridegroom and bride wandered through one where the delicious perfume of the orange trees mingled itself with that of the myrtles in blow. On their return to the hall, both of them asked, Had the company heard the exquisite sounds that floated through the garden just before they quitted it? No one had heard them. They expressed their surprise. The Englishman had never quitted the hall; it was said he smiled with a most particular and extraordinary expression as the remark was made. His silence had been noticed before, but it was ascribed to his ignorance of the Spanish language, an ignorance that Spaniards are not anxious either to expose or remove by speaking to a stranger. The subject of the music was not again reverted to till the guests were seated at supper, when Donna Ines and her young husband, exchanging a smile of delighted surprise, exclaimed they heard the same delicious sounds floating round them. The guests listened, but no one else could hear it;  every one felt there was something extraordinary in this. Hush! was uttered by every voice almost at the same moment. A dead silence followed,  you would think, from their intent looks, that they listened with their very eyes. This deep silence, contrasted with the splendour of the feast, and the light effused from torches held by the domestics, produced a singular effect,  it seemed for some moments like an assembly of the dead. The silence was interrupted, though the cause of wonder had not ceased, by the entrance of Father Olavida, the Confessor of Donna Isabella, who had been called away previous to the feast, to administer extreme unction to a dying man in the neighbourhood. He was a priest of uncommon sanctity, beloved in the family, and respected in the neighbourhood, where he had displayed uncommon taste and talents for exorcism;  in fact, this was the good Fathers forte, and he piqued himself on it accordingly. The devil never fell into worse hands than Father Olavidas, for when he was so contumacious as to resist Latin, and even the first verses of the Gospel of St John in Greek, which the good Father never had recourse to but in cases of extreme stubbornness and difficulty,  (here Stanton recollected the English story of the Boy of Bilsdon, and blushed even in Spain for his countrymen),  then he always applied to the Inquisition; and if the devils were ever so obstinate before, they were always seen to fly out of the possessed, just as, in the midst of their cries, (no doubt of blasphemy), they were tied to the stake. Some held out even till the flames surrounded them; but even the most stubborn must have been dislodged when the operation was over, for the devil himself could no longer tenant a crisp and glutinous lump of cinders. Thus Father Olavidas fame spread far and wide, and the Cardoza family had made uncommon interest to procure him for a Confessor, and happily succeeded. The ceremony he had just been performing, had cast a shade over the good Fathers countenance, but it dispersed as he mingled among the guests, and was introduced to them. Room was soon made for him, and he happened accidentally to be seated opposite the Englishman. As the wine was presented to him, Father Olavida, (who, as I observed, was a man of singular sanctity), prepared to utter a short internal prayer. He hesitated,  trembled,  desisted; and, putting down the wine, wiped the drops from his forehead with the sleeve of his habit. Donna Isabella gave a sign to a domestic, and other wine of a higher quality was offered to him. His lips moved, as if in the effort to pronounce a benediction on it and the company, but the effort again failed; and the change in his countenance was so extraordinary, that it was perceived by all the guests. He felt the sensation that his extraordinary appearance excited, and attempted to remove it by again endeavouring to lift the cup to his lips. So strong was the anxiety with which the company watched him, that the only sound heard in that spacious and crowded hall, was the rustling of his habit, as he attempted to lift the cup to his lips once more  in vain. The guests sat in astonished silence. Father Olavida alone remained standing; but at that moment the Englishman rose, and appeared determined to fix Olavidas regards by a gaze like that of fascination. Olavida rocked, reeled, grasped the arm of a page, and at last, closing his eyes for a moment, as if to escape the horrible fascination of that unearthly glare, (the Englishmans eyes were observed by all the guests, from the moment of his entrance, to effuse a most fearful and preternatural lustre), exclaimed, Who is among us?  Who?  I cannot utter a blessing while he is here. I cannot feel one. Where he treads, the earth is parched!  Where he breathes, the air is fire!  Where he feeds, the food is poison!  Where he turns, his glance is lightning!  Who is among us?  Who? repeated the priest in the agony of adjuration, while his cowl fallen back, his few thin hairs around the scalp instinct and alive with terrible emotion, his outspread arms protruded from the sleeves of his habit, and extended towards the awful stranger, suggested the idea of an inspired being in the dreadful rapture of prophetic denunciation. He stood  still stood, and the Englishman stood calmly opposite to him. There was an agitated irregularity in the attitudes of those around them, which contrasted strongly the fixed and stern postures of those two, who remained gazing silently at each other Who knows him? exclaimed Olavida, starting apparently from a trance, who knows him? who brought him here? The guests severally disclaimed all knowledge of the Englishman, and each asked the other in whispers, who had brought him there? Father Olavida then pointed his arm to each of the company, and asked each individually, Do you know him? No! no! no! was uttered with vehement emphasis by every individual But I know him, said Olavida, by these cold drops! and he wiped them off,  by these convulsed joints! and he attempted to sign the cross, but could not. He raised his voice, and evidently speaking with increased difficulty,  By this bread and wine, which the faithful receive as the body and blood of Christ, but which his presence converts into matter as viperous as the suicide foam of the dying Judas,  by all these  I know him, and command him to be gone!  He is  he is   and he bent forwards as he spoke, and gazed on the Englishman with an expression which the mixture of rage, hatred, and fear, rendered terrible. All the guests rose at these words,  the whole company now presented two singular groupes, that of the amazed guests all collected together, and repeating, Who, what is he? and that of the Englishman, who stood unmoved, and Olavida, who dropped dead in the attitude of pointing to him      The body was removed into another room, and the departure of the Englishman was not noticed till the company returned to the hall. They sat late together, conversing on this extraordinary circumstance, and finally agreed to remain in the house, lest the evil spirit (for they believed the Englishman no better) should take certain liberties with the corse by no means agreeable to a Catholic, particularly as he had manifestly died without the benefit of the last sacraments. Just as this laudable resolution was formed, they were roused by cries of horror and agony from the bridalchamber, where the young pair had retired. They hurried to the door, but the father was first. They burst it open, and found the bride a corse in the arms of her husband. He never recovered his reason; the family deserted the mansion rendered terrible by so many misfortunes. One apartment is still tenanted by the unhappy maniac; his were the cries you heard as you traversed the deserted rooms. He is for the most part silent during the day, but at midnight he always exclaims, in a voice frightfully piercing, and hardly human, They are coming! they are coming! and relapses into profound silence. The funeral of Father Olavida was attended by an extraordinary circumstance. He was interred in a neighbouring convent; and the reputation of his sanctity, joined to the interest caused by his extraordinary death, collected vast numbers at the ceremony. His funeral sermon was preached by a monk of distinguished eloquence, appointed for the purpose. To render the effect of his discourse more powerful, the corse, extended on a bier, with its face uncovered, was placed in the aisle. The monk took his text from one of the prophets,  Death is gone up into our palaces. He expatiated on mortality, whose approach, whether abrupt or lingering, is alike awful to man.  He spoke of the vicissitudes of empires with much eloquence and learning, but his audience were not observed to be much affected.  He cited various passages from the lives of the saints, descriptive of the glories of martyrdom, and the heroism of those who had bled and blazed for Christ and his blessed mother, but they appeared still waiting for something to touch them more deeply. When he inveighed against the tyrants under whose bloody persecutions those holy men suffered, his hearers were roused for a moment, for it is always easier to excite a passion than a moral feeling. But when he spoke of the dead, and pointed with emphatic gesture to the corse, as it lay before them cold and motionless, every eye was fixed, and every ear became attentive. Even the lovers, who, under pretence of dipping their fingers into the holy water, were contriving to exchange amorous billets, forbore for one moment this interesting intercourse, to listen to the preacher. He dwelt with much energy on the virtues of the deceased, whom he declared to be a particular favourite of the Virgin; and enumerating the various losses that would be caused by his departure to the community to which he belonged, to society, and to religion at large; he at last worked up himself to a vehement expostulation with the Deity on the occasion. Why hast thou, he exclaimed, why hast thou, Oh God! thus dealt with us? Why hast thou snatched from our sight this glorious saint, whose merits, if properly applied, doubtless would have been sufficient to atone for the apostacy of St Peter, the opposition of St Paul, (previous to his conversion), and even the treachery of Judas himself? Why hast thou, Oh God! snatched him from us?  and a deep and hollow voice from among the congregation answered,  Because he deserved his fate. The murmurs of approbation with which the congregation honoured this apostrophe, halfdrowned this extraordinary interruption; and though there was some little commotion in the immediate vicinity of the speaker, the rest of the audience continued to listen intently. What, proceeded the preacher, pointing to the corse, what hath laid thee there, servant of God?  Pride, ignorance, and fear, answered the same voice, in accents still more thrilling. The disturbance now became universal. The preacher paused, and a circle opening, disclosed the figure of a monk belonging to the convent, who stood among them. After all the usual modes of admonition, exhortation, and discipline had been employed, and the bishop of the diocese, who, under the report of these extraordinary circumstances, had visited the convent in person to obtain some explanation from the contumacious monk in vain, it was agreed, in a chapter extraordinary, to surrender him to the power of the Inquisition. He testified great horror when this determination was made known to him,  and offered to tell over and over again all that he could relate of the cause of Father Olavidas death. His humiliation, and repeated offers of confession, came too late. He was conveyed to the Inquisition. The proceedings of that tribunal are rarely disclosed, but there is a secret report (I cannot answer for its truth) of what he said and suffered there. On his first examination, he said he would relate all he could. He was told that was not enough, he must relate all he knew. Why did you testify such horror at the funeral of Father Olavida?  Every one testified horror and grief at the death of that venerable ecclesiastic, who died in the odour of sanctity. Had I done otherwise, it might have been reckoned a proof of my guilt. Why did you interrupt the preacher with such extraordinary exclamations?  To this no answer. Why do you refuse to explain the meaning of those exclamations?  No answer. Why do you persist in this obstinate and dangerous silence? Look, I beseech you, brother, at the cross that is suspended against this wall, and the Inquisitor pointed to the large black crucifix at the back of the chair where he sat; one drop of the blood shed there can purify you from all the sin you have ever committed; but all that blood, combined with the intercession of the Queen of Heaven, and the merits of all its martyrs, nay, even the absolution of the Pope, cannot deliver you from the curse of dying in unrepented sin.  What sin, then, have I committed? The greatest of all possible sins; you refuse answering the questions put to you at the tribunal of the most holy and merciful Inquisition;  you will not tell us what you know concerning the death of Father Olavida.  I have told you that I believe he perished in consequence of his ignorance and presumption. What proof can you produce of that?  He sought the knowledge of a secret withheld from man. What was that?  The secret of discovering the presence or agency of the evil power. Do you possess that secret?  After much agitation on the part of the prisoner, he said distinctly, but very faintly, My master forbids me to disclose it. If your master were Jesus Christ, he would not forbid you to obey the commands, or answer the questions of the Inquisition.  I am not sure of that. There was a general outcry of horror at these words. The examination then went on. If you believed Olavida to be guilty of any pursuits or studies condemned by our mother the church, why did you not denounce him to the Inquisition?  Because I believed him not likely to be injured by such pursuits; his mind was too weak,  he died in the struggle, said the prisoner with great emphasis. You believe, then, it requires strength of mind to keep those abominable secrets, when examined as to their nature and tendency?  No, I rather imagine strength of body. We shall try that presently, said an Inquisitor, giving a signal for the torture. The prisoner underwent the first and second applications with unshrinking courage, but on the infliction of the watertorture, which is indeed insupportable to humanity, either to suffer or relate, he exclaimed in the gasping interval, he would disclose every thing. He was released, refreshed, restored, and the following day uttered the following remarkable confession      The old Spanish woman further confessed to Stanton, that         and that the Englishman certainly had been seen in the neighbourhood since;  seen, as she had heard, that very night. Great Gd! exclaimed Stanton, as he recollected the stranger whose demoniac laugh had so appalled him, while gazing on the lifeless bodies of the lovers, whom the lightning had struck and blasted.  As the manuscript, after a few blotted and illegible pages, became more distinct, Melmoth read on, perplexed and unsatisfied, not knowing what connexion this Spanish story could have with his ancestor, whom, however, he recognised under the title of the Englishman; and wondering how Stanton could have thought it worth his while to follow him to Ireland, write a long manuscript about an event that occurred in Spain, and leave it in the hands of his family, to verify untrue things, in the language of Dogberry,  his wonder was diminished, though his curiosity was still more inflamed, by the perusal of the next lines, which he made out with some difficulty. It seems Stanton was now in England. About the year 1677, Stanton was in London, his mind still full of his mysterious countryman. This constant subject of his contemplations had produced a visible change in his exterior,  his walk was what Sallust tells us of Catilines,  his were, too, the fdi oculi.He said to himself every moment, If I could but trace that being, I will not call him man,  and the next moment he said, and what if I could? In this state of mind, it is singular enough that he mixed constantly in public amusements, but it is true. When one fierce passion is devouring the soul, we feel more than ever the necessity of external excitement; and our dependence on the world for temporary relief increases in direct proportion to our contempt of the world and all its works. He went frequently to the theatres, then fashionable, when The fair sat panting at a courtiers play,And not a mask went unimproved away. The London theatres then presented a spectacle which ought for ever to put to silence the foolish outcry against progressive deterioration of morals,  foolish even from the pen of Juvenal, and still more so from the lips of a modern Puritan. Vice is always nearly on an average The only difference in life worth tracing, is that of manners, and there we have manifestly the advantage of our ancestors. Hypocrisy is said to be the homage that vice pays to virtue,  decorum is the outward expression of that homage; and if this be so, we must acknowledge that vice has latterly grown very humble indeed. There was, however, something splendid, ostentatious, and obtrusive, in the vices of Charles the Seconds reign.  A view of the theatres alone proved it, when Stanton was in the habit of visiting them. At the doors stood on one side the footmen of a fashionable nobleman, (with arms concealed under their liveries), surrounding the sedan of a popular actress1, whom they were to carry off vi et armis, as she entered it at the end of the play. At the other side waited the glass coach of a woman of fashion, who waited to take Kynaston (the Adonis of the day), in his female dress, to the park after the play was over, and exhibit him in all the luxurious splendour of effeminate beauty, (heightened by theatrical dress), for which he was so distinguished. Plays being then performed at four oclock, allowed ample time for the evening drive, and the midnight assignation, when the parties met by torchlight, masked, in St Jamess park, and verified the title of Wycherlys play, Love in a Wood. The boxes, as Stanton looked round him, were filled with females, whose naked shoulders and bosoms, well testified in the paintings of Lely, and the pages of Grammont, might save modern puritanism many a vituperative groan and affected reminiscence. They had all taken the precaution to send some male relative, on the first night of a new play, to report whether it was fit for persons of honour and reputation to appear at; but in spite of this precaution, at certain passages (which occurred about every second sentence) they were compelled to spread out their fans, or play with the still cherished lovelock, which Prynne himself had not been able to write down. The men in the boxes were composed of two distinct classes, the men of wit and pleasure about town, distinguished by their Flanders lace cravats, soiled with snuff, their diamond rings, the pretended gift of a royal mistress, (nimporte whether the Duchess of Portsmouth or Nell Gwynne); their uncombed wigs, whose curls descended to their waists, and the loud and careless tone in which they abused Dryden, Lee, and Otway, and quoted Sedley and Rochester;  the other class were the lovers, the gentle squires of dames, equally conspicuous for their white fringed gloves, their obsequious bows, and their commencing every sentence addressed to a lady, with the profane exclamation of Oh Jesu!2 or the softer, but equally unmeaning one of I beseech you, Madam, or, Madam, I burn.3 One circumstance sufficiently extraordinary marked the manners of the day; females had not then found their proper level in life; they were alternately adored as goddesses, and assailed as prostitutes; and the man who, this moment, addressed his mistress in language borrowed from Orondates worshipping Cassandra, in the next accosted her with ribaldry that might put to the blush the piazzas of Covent Garden.4 The pit presented a more various spectacle. There were the critics armed capapee from Aristotle and Bossu; these men dined at twelve, dictated at a coffeehouse till four, then called to the boy to brush their shoes, and strode to the theatre, where, till the curtain rose, they sat hushed in grim repose, and expecting their evening prey. There were the templars, spruce, pert, and loquacious; and here and there a sober citizen, doffing his steeplecrowned hat, and hiding his little band under the folds of his huge puritanic cloke, while his eyes, declined with an expression half leering, half ejaculatory, towards a masked female, muffled in a hood and scarf, testified what had seduced him into these tents of Kedar. There were females, too, but all in vizard masks, which, though worn as well as aunt Dinahs in Tristram Shandy, served to conceal them from the young bubbles they were in quest of, and from all but the orangewomen, who hailed them loudly as they passed the doors.5 In the galleries were the happy souls who waited for the fulfilment of Drydens promise in one of his prologues;6 no matter to them whether it were the ghost of Almanzors mother in her dripping shroud, or that of Laius, who, according to the stage directions, rises in his chariot, armed with the ghosts of his three murdered attendants behind him;  a joke that did not escape lAbbe le Blanc7, in his recipe for writing an English tragedy. Some, indeed, from time to time called out for the burning of the Pope; but though Space was obedient to the boundless piece, Which oped in Mexico and closed in Greece, it was not always possible to indulge them in this laudable amusement, as the scene of the popular plays was generally laid in Africa or Spain; Sir Robert Howard, Elkanah Settle, and John Dryden, all agreeing in their choice of Spanish and Moorish subjects for their principal plays. Among this joyous groupe were seated several women of fashion masked, enjoying in secrecy the licentiousness which they dared not openly patronise, and verifying Gays characteristic description, though it was written many years later, Mobbed in the gallery Laura sits secure, And laughs at jests that turn the box demure. Stanton gazed on all this with the look of one who could not be moved to smile at any thing. He turned to the stage, the play was Alexander, then acted as written by Lee, and the principal character was performed by Hart, whose godlike ardour in making love, is said almost to have compelled the audience to believe that they beheld the son of Ammon. There were absurdities enough to offend a classical, or even a rational spectator. There were Grecian heroes with roses in their shoes, feathers in their hats, and wigs down to their waists; and Persian princesses in stiff stays and powdered hair. But the illusion of the scene was well sustained, for the heroines were rivals in real as well as theatrical life. It was that memorable night, when, according to the history of the veteran Betterton,8 Mrs Barry, who personated Roxana, had a greenroom squabble with Mrs Bowtell, the representative of Statira, about a veil, which the partiality of the propertyman adjudged to the latter. Roxana suppressed her rage till the fifth act, when, stabbing Statira, she aimed the blow with such force as to pierce through her stays, and inflict a severe though not dangerous wound. Mrs Bowtell fainted, the performance was suspended, and, in the commotion which this incident caused in the house, many of the audience rose, and Stanton among them. It was at this moment that, in a seat opposite to him, he discovered the object of his search for four years,  the Englishman whom he had met in the plains of Valentia, and whom he believed the same with the subject of the extraordinary narrative he had heard there. He was standing up. There was nothing particular or remarkable in his appearance, but the expression of his eyes could never be mistaken or forgotten. The heart of Stanton palpitated with violence,  a mist overspread his eyes,  a nameless and deadly sickness, accompanied with a creeping sensation in every pore, from which cold drops were gushing, announced the      Before he had well recovered, a strain of music, soft, solemn, and delicious, breathed round him, audibly ascending from the ground, and increasing in sweetness and power till it seemed to fill the whole building. Under the sudden impulse of amazement and pleasure, he inquired of some around him from whence those exquisite sounds arose. But, by the manner in which he was answered, it was plain that those he addressed considered him insane; and, indeed, the remarkable change in his expression might well justify the suspicion. He then remembered that night in Spain, when the same sweet and mysterious sounds were heard only by the young bridegroom and bride, of whom the latter perished on that very night. And am I then to be the next victim? thought Stanton; and are those celestial sounds, that seem to prepare us for heaven, only intended to announce the presence of an incarnate fiend, who mocks the devoted with airs from heaven, while he prepares to surround them with blasts from hell? It is very singular that at this moment, when his imagination had reached its highest pitch of elevation,  when the object he had pursued so long and fruitlessly, had in one moment become as it were tangible to the grasp both of mind and body,  when this spirit, with whom he had wrestled in darkness, was at last about to declare its name, that Stanton began to feel a kind of disappointment at the futility of his pursuits, like Bruce at discovering the source of the Nile, or Gibbon on concluding his History. The feeling which he had dwelt on so long, that he had actually converted it into a duty, was after all mere curiosity; but what passion is more insatiable, or more capable of giving a kind of romantic grandeur to all its wanderings and eccentricities? Curiosity is in one respect like love, it always compromises between the object and the feeling; and provided the latter possesses sufficient energy, no matter how contemptible the former may be. A child might have smiled at the agitation of Stanton, caused as it was by the accidental appearance of a stranger; but no man, in the full energy of his passions, was there, but must have trembled at the horrible agony of emotion with which he felt approaching, with sudden and irresistible velocity, the crisis of his destiny. When the play was over, he stood for some moments in the deserted streets. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and he saw near him a figure, whose shadow, projected half across the street, (there were no flagged ways then, chains and posts were the only defence of the footpassenger), appeared to him of gigantic magnitude. He had been so long accustomed to contend with these phantoms of the imagination, that he took a kind of stubborn delight in subduing them. He walked up to the object, and observing the shadow only was magnified, and the figure was the ordinary height of man, he approached it, and discovered the very object of his search,  the man whom he had seen for a moment in Valentia, and, after a search of four years, recognised at the theatre.


You were in quest of me?  I was. Have you any thing to inquire of me?  Much. Speak, then.  This is no place. No place! poor wretch, I am independent of time and place. Speak, if you have any thing to ask or to learn?  I have many things to ask, but nothing to learn, I hope, from you. You deceive yourself, but you will be undeceived when next we meet.  And when shall that be? said Stanton, grasping his arm; name your hour and your place. The hour shall be midday, answered the stranger, with a horrid and unintelligible smile; and the place shall be the bare walls of a madhouse, where you shall rise rattling in your chains, and rustling from your straw, to greet me,  yet still you shall have the curse of sanity, and of memory. My voice shall ring in your ears till then, and the glance of these eyes shall be reflected from every object, animate or inanimate, till you behold them again.  Is it under circumstances so horrible we are to meet again? said Stanton, shrinking under the fulllighted blaze of those demon eyes. I never, said the stranger, in an emphatic tone,  I never desert my friends in misfortune. When they are plunged in the lowest abyss of human calamity, they are sure to be visited by me. The narrative, when Melmoth was again able to trace its continuation, described Stanton, some years after, plunged in a state the most deplorable. He had been always reckoned of a singular turn of mind, and the belief of this, aggravated by his constant talk of Melmoth, his wild pursuit of him, his strange behaviour at the theatre, and his dwelling on the various particulars of their extraordinary meetings, with all the intensity of the deepest conviction, (while he never could impress them on any ones conviction but his own), suggested to some prudent people the idea that he was deranged. Their malignity probably took part with their prudence. The selfish Frenchman9 says, we feel a pleasure even in the misfortunes of our friends,  a plus forte in those of our enemies; and as every one is an enemy to a man of genius of course, the report of Stantons malady was propagated with infernal and successful industry. Stantons next relative, a needy unprincipled man, watched the report in its circulation, and saw the snares closing round his victim. He waited on him one morning, accompanied by a person of a grave, though somewhat repulsive appearance. Stanton was as usual abstracted and restless, and, after a few moments conversation, he proposed a drive a few miles out of London, which he said would revive and refresh him. Stanton objected, on account of the difficulty of getting a hackney coach, (for it is singular that at this period the number of private equipages, though infinitely fewer than they are now, exceeded the number of hired ones), and proposed going by water. This, however, did not suit the kinsmans views; and, after pretending to send for a carriage, (which was in waiting at the end of the street), Stanton and his companions entered it, and drove about two miles out of London. The carriage then stopped. Come, Cousin, said the younger Stanton,  come and view a purchase I have made. Stanton absently alighted, and followed him across a small paved court; the other person followed. In troth, Cousin, said Stanton, your choice appears not to have been discreetly made; your house has something of a gloomy aspect.  Hold you content, Cousin, replied the other; I shall take order that you like it better, when you have been some time a dweller therein. Some attendants of a mean appearance, and with most suspicious visages, awaited them on their entrance, and they ascended a narrow staircase, which led to a room meanly furnished. Wait here, said the kinsman, to the man who accompanied them, till I go for company to divertise my cousin in his loneliness. They were left alone. Stanton took no notice of his companion, but as usual seized the first book near him, and began to read. It was a volume in manuscript,  they were then much more common than now. The first lines struck him as indicating insanity in the writer. It was a wild proposal (written apparently after the great fire of London) to rebuild it with stone, and attempting to prove, on a calculation wild, false, and yet sometimes plausible, that this could be done out of the colossal fragments of Stonehenge, which the writer proposed to remove for that purpose. Subjoined were several grotesque drawings of engines designed to remove those massive blocks, and in a corner of the page was a note,  I would have drawn these more accurately, but was not allowed a knife to mend my pen. The next was entitled, A modest proposal for the spreading of Christianity in foreign parts, whereby it is hoped its entertainment will become general all over the world.  This modest proposal was, to convert the Turkish ambassadors, (who had been in London a few years before), by offering them their choice of being strangled on the spot, or becoming Christians. Of course the writer reckoned on their embracing the easier alternative, but even this was to be clogged with a heavy condition,  namely, that they must be bound before a magistrate to convert twenty mussulmans a day, on their return to Turkey. The rest of the pamphlet was reasoned very much in the conclusive style of Captain Bobadil,  these twenty will convert twenty more a piece, and these two hundred converts, converting their due number in the same time, all Turkey would be converted before the Grand Signior knew where he was. Then comes the coup declat,  one fine morning, every minaret in Constantinople was to ring out with bells, instead of the cry of the Muezzins; and the Imaum, coming out to see what was the matter, was to be encountered by the Archbishop of Canterbury, in pontificalibus, performing Cathedral service in the church of St Sophia, which was to finish the business. Here an objection appeared to arise, which the ingenuity of the writer had anticipated.  It may be redargued, saith he, by those who have more spleen than brain, that forasmuch as the Archbishop preacheth in English, he will not thereby much edify the Turkish folk, who do altogether hold in a vain gabble of their own. But this (to use his own language) he evites, by judiciously observing, that where service was performed in an unknown tongue, the devotion of the people was always observed to be much increased thereby; as, for instance, in the church of Rome,  that St Augustine, with his monks, advanced to meet King Ethelbert singing litanies, (in a language his majesty could not possibly have understood), and converted him and his whole court on the spot;  that the sybilline books      Cum multis aliis. Between the pages were cut most exquisitely in paper the likenesses of some of these Turkish ambassadors; the hair of the beards, in particular, was feathered with a delicacy of touch that seemed the work of fairy fingers,  but the pages ended with a complaint of the operator, that his scissars had been taken from him. However, he consoled himself and the reader with the assurance, that he would that night catch a moonbeam as it entered through the grating, and, when he had whetted it on the iron knobs of his door, would do wonders with it. In the next page was found a melancholy proof of powerful but prostrated intellect. It contained some insane lines, ascribed to Lee the dramatic poet, commencing, O that my lungs could bleat like buttered pease, c. There is no proof whatever that these miserable lines were really written by Lee, except that the measure is the fashionable quatrain of the period. It is singular that Stanton read on without suspicion of his own danger, quite absorbed in the album of a madhouse, without ever reflecting on the place where he was, and which such compositions too manifestly designated. It was after a long interval that he looked round, and perceived that his companion was gone. Bells were unusual then. He proceeded to the door,  it was fastened. He called aloud,  his voice was echoed in a moment by many others, but in tones so wild and discordant, that he desisted in involuntary terror. As the day advanced, and no one approached, he tried the window, and then perceived for the first time it was grated. It looked out on the narrow flagged yard, in which no human being was; and if there had, from such a being no human feeling could have been extracted. Sickening with unspeakable horror, he sunk rather than sat down beside the miserable window, and wished for day. At midnight he started from a doze, half a swoon, half a sleep, which probably the hardness of his seat, and of the deal table on which he leaned, had not contributed to prolong. He was in complete darkness; the horror of his situation struck him at once, and for a moment he was indeed almost qualified for an inmate of that dreadful mansion. He felt his way to the door, shook it with desperate strength, and uttered the most frightful cries, mixed with expostulations and commands. His cries were in a moment echoed by a hundred voices. In maniacs there is a peculiar malignity, accompanied by an extraordinary acuteness of some of the senses, particularly in distinguishing the voice of a stranger. The cries that he heard on every side seemed like a wild and infernal yell of joy, that their mansion of misery had obtained another tenant. He paused, exhausted,  a quick and thundering step was heard in the passage. The door was opened, and a man of savage appearance stood at the entrance,  two more were seen indistinctly in the passage.  Release me, villain! Stop, my fine fellow, whats all this noise for? Where am I? Where you ought to be. Will you dare to detain me? Yes, and a little more than that, answered the ruffian, applying a loaded horsewhip to his back and shoulders, till the patient soon fell to the ground convulsed with rage and pain. Now you see you are where you ought to be, repeated the ruffian, brandishing the horsewhip over him, and now take the advice of a friend, and make no more noise. The lads are ready for you with the darbies, and theyll clink them on in the crack of this whip, unless you prefer another touch of it first. They then were advancing into the room as he spoke, with fetters in their hands, (strait waistcoats being then little known or used), and shewed, by their frightful countenances and gestures, no unwillingness to apply them. Their harsh rattle on the stone pavement made Stantons blood run cold; the effect, however, was useful. He had the presence of mind to acknowledge his (supposed) miserable condition, to supplicate the forbearance of the ruthless keeper, and promise complete submission to his orders. This pacified the ruffian, and he retired. Stanton collected all his resolution to encounter the horrible night; he saw all that was before him, and summoned himself to meet it. After much agitated deliberation, he conceived it best to continue the same appearance of submission and tranquillity, hoping that thus he might in time either propitiate the wretches in whose hands he was, or, by his apparent inoffensiveness, procure such opportunities of indulgence, as might perhaps ultimately facilitate his escape. He therefore determined to conduct himself with the utmost tranquillity, and never to let his voice be heard in the house; and he laid down several other resolutions with a degree of prudence which he already shuddered to think might be the cunning of incipient madness, or the beginning result of the horrid habits of the place. These resolutions were put to desperate trial that very night. Just next to Stantons apartment were lodged two most uncongenial neighbours. One of them was a puritanical weaver, who had been driven mad by a single sermon from the celebrated Hugh Peters, and was sent to the madhouse as full of election and reprobation as he could hold,  and fuller. He regularly repeated over the five points while daylight lasted, and imagined himself preaching in a conventicle with distinguished success; towards twilight his visions were more gloomy, and at midnight his blasphemies became horrible. In the opposite cell was lodged a loyalist tailor, who had been ruined by giving credit to the cavaliers and their ladies,  (for at this time, and much later, down to the reign of Anne, tailors were employed by females even to make and fit on their stays), who had run mad with drink and loyalty on the burning of the Rump, and ever since had made the cells of the madhouse echo with fragments of the illfated Colonel Lovelaces songs, scraps from Cowleys Cutter of Coleman street, and some curious specimens from Mrs Aphra Behns plays, where the cavaliers are denominated the heroicks, and Lady Lambert and Lady Desborough represented as going to meeting, their large Bibles carried before them by their pages, and falling in love with two banished cavaliers by the way.  Tabitha, Tabitha, cried a voice half in exultation and half in derision; thou shalt go with thy hair curled, and thy breasts naked;  and then added in an affected voice,  I could dance the Canaries once, spouse. This never failed to rouse the feelings, or rather operate on the instincts of the puritanic weaver, who immediately answered, Colonel Harrison shall come out of the west, riding on a skycoloured mule, which signifies instruction.10 Ye lie, ye roundhead son of a b  h, roared the cavalier tailor, Colonel Harrison will be damned before he ever mounts a skycoloured mule; and he concluded this pithy sentence with fragments of antiOliverian songs. And may I live to see Old Noll upon a tree, And many such as he; Confound him, confound him, Diseases all around him. Ye are honest gentlemen, I can play many tunes, squeaked a poor mad loyalist fiddler, who had been accustomed to play in the taverns to the cavalier party, and just remembered the words of a similar minstrel playing for Colonel Blunt in the committee. Then play me the air to Rebellion is breaking up house, exclaimed the tailor, dancing wildly about his cell (as far as his chains allowed him) to an imaginary measure. The weaver could contain no longer. How long, Lord, how long, he exclaimed, shall thine enemies insult thy sanctuary, in which I have been placed an anointed teacher? even here, where I am placed to preach to the souls in prison?  Open the floodgates of thy power, and though thy waves and storms go over me, let me testify in the midst of them, even as he who spreadeth forth his hands to swim may raise one of them to warn his companion that he is about to sink.  Sister Ruth, why dost thou uncover thy bosom to discover my frailty?  Lord, let thine arm of power be with us as it was when thou brakest the shield, the sword, and the battle.  when thy foot was dipped in the blood of thine enemies, and the tongue of thy dogs was red through the same.  Dip all thy garments in blood, and let me weave thee fresh when thou art stained.  When shall thy saints tread the winepress of thy wrath? Blood! blood! the saints call for it, earth gapes to swallow it, hell thirsts for it!  Sister Ruth, I pray thee, conceal thy bosom, and be not as the vain women of this generation.  Oh for a day like that, a day of the Lord of hosts, when the towers fell!  Spare me in the battle, for I am not a mighty man of war; leave me in the rear of the host, to curse, with the curse of Meroz, those who come not to the help of the Lord against the mighty,  even to curse this malignant tailor,  yea, curse him bitterly.  Lord, I am in the tents of Kedar, my feet stumble on the dark mountains,  I fall,  I fall!  And the poor wretch, exhausted by his delirious agonies, fell, and grovelled for some time in his straw. Oh! I have had a grievous fall,  Sister Ruth,  Oh Sister Ruth!  Rejoice not against me, Oh mine enemy! though I fall, I shall rise again. Whatever satisfaction Sister Ruth might have derived from this assurance, if she could have heard it, was enjoyed tenfold by the weaver, whose amorous reminiscences were in a moment exchanged for warlike ones, borrowed from a wretched and disarranged mass of intellectual rubbish. The Lord is a man of war, he shouted.  Look to Marston Moor!  Look to the city, the proud city, full of pride and sin!  Look to the waves of the Severn, as red with blood as the waves of the Red Sea!  There were the hoofs broken by means of the prancings, the prancings of the mighty ones.  Then, Lord, was thy triumph, and the triumph of thy saints, to bind their kings in chains, and their nobles in links of iron. The malignant tailor burst out in his turn Thank the false Scots, and their solemn league and covenant, and Carisbrook Castle, for that, ye cropeared Puritan, he yelled. If it had not been for them, I would have taken measure of the king for a velvet cloak as high as the Tower of London, and one flirt of its folds would have knocked the copper nose into the Thames, and sent it adrift to Hell. Ye lie, in your teeth, echoed the weaver; and I will prove it unarmed, with my shuttle against your needle, and smite you to the earth thereafter, as David smote Goliah. It was the mans (such was the indecent language in which Charles the First was Spoken of by the Puritans)  it was the mans carnal, selfseeking, Worldloving, prelatical hierarchy, that drove the godly to seek the sweet word in season from their own pastors, who righteously abominated the Popish garniture of lawnsleeves, lewd organs, and steeple houses. Sister Ruth, tempt me not with that calfs head, it is all streaming with blood;  drop it, I beseech thee, sister, it is unmeet in a womans hand, though the brethren drink of it.  Woe be unto thee, gainsayer, dost thou not see how flames envelope the accursed city under his Arminian and Popish son?  London is on fire!  on fire! he yelled; and the brands are lit by the halfpapist, wholearminian, alldamned people thereof.  Fire!  fire! The voice in which he shrieked out the last words was powerfully horrible, but it was like the moan of an infant, compared to the voice which took up and reechoed the cry, in a tone that made the building shake. It was the voice of a maniac, who had lost her husband, children, subsistence, and finally her reason, in the dreadful fire of London. The cry of fire never failed to operate with terrible punctuality on her associations. She had been in a disturbed sleep, and now started from it as suddenly as on that dreadful night. It was Saturday night, too, and she was always observed to be particularly violent on that night,  it was the terrible weekly festival of insanity with her. She was awake, and busy in a moment escaping from the flames; and she dramatized the whole scene with such hideous fidelity, that Stantons resolution was far more in danger from her than from the battle between his neighbours Testimony and Hothead. She began exclaiming she was suffocated by the smoke; then she sprung from her bed, calling for a light, and appeared to be struck by the sudden glare that burst through her casement.  The last day, she shrieked, The last day! The very heavens are on fire!  That will not come till the Man of Sin be first destroyed, cried the weaver; thou ravest of light and fire, and yet thou art in utter darkness.  I pity thee, poor mad soul, I pity thee! The maniac never heeded him; she appeared to be scrambling up a staircase to her childrens room. She exclaimed she was scorched, singed, suffocated; her courage appeared to fail, and she retreated. But my children are there! she cried in a voice of unspeakable agony, as she seemed to make another effort; here I am  here I am come to save you.  Oh God! They are all blazing!  Take this arm  no, not that, it is scorched and disabled  well, any arm  take hold of my clothes  no, they are blazing too!  Well, take me all on fire as I am!  And their hair, how it hisses!  Water, one drop of water for my youngest  he is but an infant  for my youngest, and let me burn! She paused in horrid silence, to watch the fall of a blazing rafter that was about to shatter the staircase on which she stood.  The roof has fallen on my head! she exclaimed. The earth is weak, and all the inhabitants thereof, chaunted the weaver; I bear up the pillars of it. The maniac marked the destruction of the spot where she thought she stood by one desperate bound, accompanied by a wild shriek, and then calmly gazed on her infants as they rolled over the scorching fragments, and sunk into the abyss of fire below. There they go,  one  two  three  all! and her voice sunk into low mutterings, and her convulsions into faint, cold shudderings, like the sobbings of a spent storm, as she imagined herself to stand in safety and despair, amid the thousand houseless wretches assembled in the suburbs of London on the dreadful nights after the fire, without food, roof, or raiment, all gazing on the burning ruins of their dwellings and their property. She seemed to listen to their complaints, and even repeated some of them very affectingly, but invariably answered them with the same words, But I have lost all my children  all! It was remarkable, that when this sufferer began to rave, all the others became silent. The cry of nature hushed every other cry,  she was the only patient in the house who was not mad from politics, religion, ebriety, or some perverted passion; and terrifying as the outbreak of her frenzy always was, Stanton used to await it as a kind of relief from the dissonant, melancholy, and ludicrous ravings of the others. But the utmost efforts of his resolution began to sink under the continued horrors of the place. The impression on his senses began to defy the power of reason to resist them. He could not shut out these frightful cries nightly repeated, nor the frightful sound of the whip employed to still them. Hope began to fail him, as he observed, that the submissive tranquillity (which he had imagined, by obtaining increased indulgence, might contribute to his escape, or perhaps convince the keeper of his sanity) was interpreted by the callous ruffian, who was acquainted only with the varieties of madness, as a more refined species of that cunning which he was well accustomed to watch and baffle. On his first discovery of his situation, he had determined to take the utmost care of his health and intellect that the place allowed, as the sole basis of his hope of deliverance. But as that hope declined, he neglected the means of realizing it. He had at first risen early, walked incessantly about his cell, and availed himself of every opportunity of being in the open air. He took the strictest care of his person in point of cleanliness, and with or without appetite, regularly forced down his miserable meals; and all these efforts were even pleasant, as long as hope prompted them. But now he began to relax them all. He passed half the day in his wretched bed, in which he frequently took his meals, declined shaving or changing his linen, and, when the sun shone into his cell, turned from it on his straw with a sigh of heartbroken despondency. Formerly, when the air breathed through his grating, he used to say, Blessed air of heaven, I shall breathe you once more in freedom!  Reserve all your freshness for that delicious evening when I shall inhale you, and be as free as you myself. Now when he felt it, he sighed and said nothing. The twitter of the sparrows, the pattering of rain, or the moan of the wind, sounds that he used to sit up in his bed to catch with delight, as reminding him of nature, were now unheeded. He began at times to listen with sullen and horrible pleasure to the cries of his miserable companions. He became squalid, listless, torpid, and disgusting in his appearance. It was one of those dismal nights, that, as he tossed on his loathsome bed,  more loathsome from the impossibility to quit it without feeling more unrest,  he perceived the miserable light that burned in the hearth was obscured by the intervention of some dark object. He turned feebly towards the light, without curiosity, without excitement, but with a wish to diversify the monotony of his misery, by observing the slightest change made even accidentally in the dusky atmosphere of his cell. Between him and the light stood the figure of Melmoth, just as he had seen him from the first; the figure was the same; the expression of the face was the same,  cold, stony, and rigid; the eyes, with their infernal and dazzling lustre, were still the same. Stantons ruling passion rushed on his soul; he felt this apparition like a summons to a high and fearful encounter. He heard his heart beat audibly, and could have exclaimed with Lees unfortunate heroine,  It pants as cowards do before a battle; Oh the great march has sounded! Melmoth approached him with that frightful calmness that mocks the terror it excites. My prophecy has been fulfilled;  you rise to meet me rattling from your chains, and rustling from your straw  am I not a true prophet? Stanton was silent. Is not your situation very miserable?  Still Stanton was silent; for he was beginning to believe this an illusion of madness. He thought to himself, How could he have gained entrance here?  Would you not wish to be delivered from it? Stanton tossed on his straw, and its rustling seemed to answer the question. I have the power to deliver you from it. Melmoth spoke very slowly and very softly, and the melodious smoothness of his voice made a frightful contrast to the stony rigour of his features, and the fiendlike brilliancy of his eyes. Who are you, and whence come you? said Stanton, in a tone that was meant to be interrogatory and imperative, but which, from his habits of squalid debility, was at once feeble and querulous. His intellects had become affected by the gloom of his miserable habitation, as the wretched inmate of a similar mansion, when produced before a medical examiner, was reported to be a complete Albinos.  His skin was bleached, his eyes turned white; he could not bear the light; and, when exposed to it, he turned away with a mixture of weakness and restlessness, more like the writhings of a sick infant than the struggles of a man. Such was Stantons situation; he was enfeebled now, and the power of the enemy seemed without a possibility of opposition from either his intellectual or corporeal powers. Of all their horrible dialogue, only these words were legible in the manuscript, You know me now.  I always knew you.  That is false; you imagined you did, and that has been the cause of all the wild      of the           of your finally being lodged in this mansion of misery, where only I would seek, where only I can succour you. You, demon!  Demon!  Harsh words!  Was it a demon or a human being placed you here?  Listen to me, Stanton; nay, wrap not yourself in that miserable blanket,  that cannot shut out my words. Believe me, were you folded in thunderclouds, you must hear me! Stanton, think of your misery. These bare walls  what do they present to the intellect or to the senses?  Whitewash, diversified with the scrawls of charcoal or red chalk, that your happy predecessors have left for you to trace over. You have a taste for drawing,  I trust it will improve. And heres a grating, through which the sun squints on you like a stepdame, and the breeze blows, as if it meant to tantalize you with a sigh from that sweet mouth, whose kiss you must never enjoy. And wheres your library,  intellectual man,  travelled man? he repeated in a tone of bitter derision; where be your companions, your peaked men of countries, as your favourite Shakespeare has it? You must be content with the spider and the rat, to crawl and scratch round your flockbed! I have known prisoners in the Bastile to feed them for companions,  why dont you begin your task? I have known a spider to descend at the tap of a finger, and a rat to come forth when the daily meal was brought, to share it with his fellowprisoner!  How delightful to have vermin for your guests! Aye, and when the feast fails them, they make a meal of their entertainer!  You shudder  Are you, then, the first prisoner who has been devoured alive by the vermin that infested his cell?  Delightful banquet, not where you eat, but where you are eaten! Your guests, however, will give you one token of repentance while they feed; there will be gnashing of teeth, and you shall hear it, and feel it too perchance!  And then for meals  Oh you are daintily off!  The soup that the cat has lapped; and (as her progeny has probably contributed to the hellbroth) why not?  Then your hours of solitude, deliciously diversified by the yell of famine, the howl of madness, the crash of whips, and the brokenhearted sob of those who, like you, are supposed, or driven mad by the crimes of others!  Stanton, do you imagine your reason can possibly hold out amid such scenes?  Supposing your reason was unimpaired, your health not destroyed,  suppose all this, which is, after all, more than fair supposition can grant, guess the effect of the continuance of these scenes on your senses alone. A time will come, and soon, when, from mere habit, you will echo the scream of every delirious wretch that harbours near you; then you will pause, clasp your hands on your throbbing head, and listen with horrible anxiety whether the scream proceeded from you or them. The time will come, when, from the want of occupation, the listless and horrible vacancy of your hours, you will feel as anxious to hear those shrieks, as you were at first terrified to hear them,  when you will watch for the ravings of your next neighbour, as you would for a scene on the stage. All humanity will be extinguished in you. The ravings of these wretches will become at once your sport and your torture. You will watch for the sounds, to mock them with the grimaces and bellowings of a fiend. The mind has a power of accommodating itself to its situation, that you will experience in its most frightful and deplorable efficacy. Then comes the dreadful doubt of ones own sanity, the terrible announcer that that doubt will soon become fear, and that fear certainty. Perhaps (still more dreadful) the fear will at last become a hope,  shut out from society, watched by a brutal keeper, writhing with all the impotent agony of an incarcerated mind without communication and without sympathy, unable to exchange ideas but with those whose ideas are only the hideous spectres of departed intellect, or even to hear the welcome sound of the human voice, except to mistake it for the howl of a fiend, and stop the ear desecrated by its intrusion,  then at last your fear will become a more fearful hope; you will wish to become one of them, to escape the agony of consciousness. As those who have long leaned over a precipice, have at last felt a desire to plunge below, to relieve the intolerable temptation of their giddiness,11 you will hear them laugh amid their wildest paroxysms; you will say, Doubtless those wretches have some consolation, but I have none; my sanity is my greatest curse in this abode of horrors. They greedily devour their miserable meals, while I loathe mine. They sleep sometimes soundly, while my sleep is  worse than their waking. They are revived every morning by some delicious illusion of cunning madness, soothing them with the hope of escaping, baffling or tormenting their keeper; my sanity precludes all such hope. I know I never can escape, and the preservation of my faculties is only an aggravation of my sufferings. I have all their miseries,  I have none of their consolations. They laugh,  I hear them; would I could laugh like them. You will try, and the very effort will be an invocation to the demon of insanity to come and take full possession of you from that moment for ever. (There were other details, both of the menaces and temptations employed by Melmoth, which are too horrible for insertion. One of them may serve for an instance).


You think that the intellectual power is something distinct from the vitality of the soul, or, in other words, that if even your reason should be destroyed, (which it nearly is), your soul might yet enjoy beatitude in the full exercise of its enlarged and exalted faculties, and all the clouds which obscured them be dispelled by the Sun of Righteousness, in whose beams you hope to bask for ever and ever. Now, without going into any metaphysical subtleties about the distinction between mind and soul, experience must teach you, that there can be no crime into which madmen would not, and do not precipitate themselves; mischief is their occupation, malice their habit, murder their sport, and blasphemy their delight. Whether a soul in this state can be in a hopeful one, it is for you to judge; but it seems to me, that with the loss of reason, (and reason cannot long be retained in this place), you lose also the hope of immortality.  Listen, said the tempter, pausing, listen to the wretch who is raving near you, and whose blasphemies might make a demon start.  He was once an eminent puritanical preacher. Half the day he imagines himself in a pulpit, denouncing damnation against Papists, Arminians, and even Sublapsarians, (he being a Supralapsarian himself). He foams, he writhes, he gnashes his teeth; you would imagine him in the hell he was painting, and that the fire and brimstone he is so lavish of, were actually exhaling from his jaws. At night his creed retaliates on him; he believes himself one of the reprobates he has been all day denouncing, and curses God for the very decree he has all day been glorifying Him for. He, whom he has for twelve hours been vociferating is the loveliest among ten thousand, becomes the object of demoniac hostility and execration. He grapples with the iron posts of his bed, and says he is rooting out the cross from the very foundations of Calvary; and it is remarkable, that in proportion as his morning exercises are intense, vivid, and eloquent, his nightly blasphemies are outrageous and horrible  Hark! Now he believes himself a demon; listen to his diabolical eloquence of horror! Stanton listened, and shuddered      Escape  escape for your life, cried the tempter; break forth into life, liberty, and sanity. Your social happiness, your intellectual powers, your immortal interests, perhaps, depend on the choice of this moment.  There is the door, and the key is my hand. Choose  choose!  And how comes the key in your hand? and what is the condition of my liberation? said Stanton. The explanation occupied several pages, which, to the torture of young Melmoth, were wholly illegible. It seemed, however, to have been rejected by Stanton with the utmost rage and horror, for Melmoth at last made out,  Begone, monster, demon!  begone to your native place. Even this mansion of horror trembles to contain you; its walls sweat, and its floors quiver, while you tread them. The conclusion of this extraordinary manuscript was in such a state, that, in fifteen mouldy and crumbling pages, Melmoth could hardly make out that number of lines. No antiquarian, unfolding with trembling hand the calcined leaves of an Herculaneum manuscript, and hoping to discover some lost lines of the neis in Virgils own autograph, or at least some unutterable abomination of Petronius or Martial, happily elucidatory of the mysteries of the Spintri, or the orgies of the Phallic worshippers, ever pored with more luckless diligence, or shook a head of more hopeless despondency over his task. He could but just make out what tended rather to excite than assuage that feverish thirst of curiosity which was consuming his inmost soul. The manuscript told no more of Melmoth, but mentioned that Stanton was finally liberated from his confinement,  that his pursuit of Melmoth was incessant and indefatigable,  that he himself allowed it to be a species of insanity,  that while he acknowledged it to be the masterpassion, he also felt it the mastertorment of his life. He again visited the Continent, returned to England,  pursued, inquired, traced, bribed, but in vain. The being whom he had met thrice, under circumstances so extraordinary, he was fated never to encounter again in his lifetime. At length, discovering that he had been born in Ireland, he resolved to go there,  went, and found his pursuit again fruitless, and his inquiries unanswered. The family knew nothing of him, or at least what they knew or imagined, they prudently refused to disclose to a stranger, and Stanton departed unsatisfied. It is remarkable, that he too, as appeared from many halfobliterated pages of the manuscript, never disclosed to mortal the particulars of their conversation in the madhouse; and the slightest allusion to it threw him into fits of rage and gloom equally singular and alarming. He left the manuscript, however, in the hands of the family, possibly deeming, from their incuriosity, their apparent indifference to their relative, or their obvious inacquaintance with reading of any kind, manuscript or books, his deposit would be safe. He seems, in fact, to have acted like men, who, in distress at sea, intrust their letters and dispatches to a bottle sealed, and commit it to the waves. The last lines of the manuscript that were legible, were sufficiently extraordinary. I have sought him every where.  The desire of meeting him once more, is become as a burning fire within me,  it is the necessary condition of my existence. I have vainly sought him at last in Ireland, of which I find he is a native.  Perhaps our final meeting will be in      Such was the conclusion of the manuscript which Melmoth found in his uncles closet. When he had finished it, he sunk down on the table near which he had been reading it, his face hid in his folded arms, his senses reeling, his mind in a mingled state of stupor and excitement. After a few moments, he raised himself with an involuntary start, and saw the picture gazing at him from its canvas. He was within ten inches of it as he sat, and the proximity appeared increased by the strong light that was accidentally thrown on it, and its being the only representation of a human figure in the room. Melmoth felt for a moment as if he were about to receive an explanation from its lips. He gazed on it in return,  all was silent in the house,  they were alone together. The illusion subsided at length; and as the mind rapidly passes to opposite extremes, he remembered the injunction of his uncle to destroy the portrait. He seized it;  his hand shook at first, but the mouldering canvas appeared to assist him in the effort. He tore it from the frame with a cry half terrific, half triumphant;  it fell at his feet, and he shuddered as it fell. He expected to hear some fearful sounds, some unimaginable breathings of prophetic horror, follow this act of sacrilege, for such he felt it, to tear the portrait of his ancestor from his native walls. He paused and listened There was no voice, nor any that answered;  but as the wrinkled and torn canvas fell to the floor, its undulations gave the portrait the appearance of smiling. Melmoth felt horror indescribable at this transient and imaginary resuscitation of the figure. He caught it up, rushed into the next room, tore, cut, and hacked it in every direction, and eagerly watched the fragments that burned like tinder in the turffire which had been lit in his room. As Melmoth saw the last blaze, he threw himself into bed, in hope of a deep and intense sleep. He had done what was required of him, and felt exhausted both in mind and body; but his slumber was not so sound as he had hoped for. The sullen light of the turffire, burning but never blazing, disturbed him every moment. He turned and turned, but still there was the same red light glaring on, but not illuminating, the dusky furniture of the apartment. The wind was high that night, and as the creaking door swung on its hinges, every noise seemed like the sound of a hand struggling with the lock, or of a foot pausing on the threshold. But (for Melmoth never could decide) was it in a dream or not, that he saw the figure of his ancestor appear at the door?  hesitatingly as he saw him at first on the night of his uncles death,  saw him enter the room, approach his bed, and heard him whisper, You have burned me, then; but those are flames I can survive.  I am alive,  I am beside you. Melmoth started, sprung from his bed,  it was broad daylight. He looked round,  there was no human being in the room but himself. He felt a slight pain in the wrist of his right arm. He looked at it, it was black and blue, as from the recent gripe of a strong hand. Chapter 4 Haste with your weapons, cut the shrouds and stay, And hew at once the mizenmast away. FALCONER The following evening Melmoth retired early. The restlessness of the preceding night inclined him to repose, and the gloom of the day left him nothing to wish for but its speedy conclusion. It was now the latter end of Autumn; heavy clouds had all day been passing laggingly and gloomily along the atmosphere, as the hours of such a day pass over the human mind and life. Not a drop of rain fell; the clouds went portentously off, like ships of war after reconnoitering a strong fort, to return with added strength and fury. The threat was soon fulfilled; the evening came on, prematurely darkened by clouds that seemed surcharged with a deluge. Loud and sudden squalls of wind shook the house from time to time, and then as suddenly ceased. Towards night the storm came on in all its strength; Melmoths bed was shaken so as to render it impossible to sleep. He liked the rocking of the battlements, but by no means liked the expected fall of the chimneys, the crashing in of the roof, and the splinters of the broken windows that were already scattered about his room. He rose and went down to the kitchen, where he knew a fire was burning, and there the terrified servants were all assembled, all agreeing, as the blast came roaring down the chimney, they never had witnessed such a storm, and between the gusts, breathing shuddering prayers for those who were out at sea that night. The vicinity of Melmoths house to what seamen called an ironbound coast, gave a dreadful sincerity to their prayers and their fears. In a short time, however, Melmoth perceived that their minds were occupied with terrors beside those of the storm. The recent death of his uncle, and the supposed visit of that extraordinary being in whose existence they all firmly believed, were connected in their minds inseparably with the causes or consequences of this tempest, and they whispered their fearful suggestions to each other, till the sound reached Melmoths ears at every step that he measured across the broken floor of the kitchen. Terror is very fond of associations; we love to connect the agitation of the elements with the agitated life of man; and never did a blast roar, or a gleam of lightning flash, that was not connected in the imagination of some one, with a calamity that was to be dreaded, deprecated, or endured,  with the fate of the living, or the destination of the dead. The tremendous storm that shook all England on the night of Cromwells death, gave the hint to his puritanic chaplains to declare, that the Lord had caught him up in the whirlwind and chariot of fire, even thereafter, as he caught the prophet Elijah; while all the cavalier party, putting their own construction on the matter, proclaimed their confidence, that the Prince of the power of the air was vindicating his right, and carrying off the body of his victim (whose soul had long been his purchase) in a tempest, whose wild howl and triumphant ravage might have been variously, and with equal justice, interpreted by each party as giving testimony to their mutual denunciations. Just such a party (mutatis mutandis) were collected round the bickering fire and rocking chimney in Melmoths kitchen. He is going in that blast, said one of the hags, taking the pipe from her mouth, and trying vainly to rekindle it among the embers that the storm scattered about like dust; he is going in that blast.  Hell come again, cried another Sybil, hell come again,  hes not at rest! He roams and wails about till something is told that he never could tell in his lifetime.  Gd save us! she added, howling up the chimney, as if addressing the troubled spirit; tell us what you want, and stop the blast, will ye?  The wind came like thunder down the chimney; the hag shuddered and retreated. If its this you want  and this  and this, cried a young female whom Melmoth had not noticed before, take them; and she eagerly tore the papers out of her hair, and flung them into the fire. Then Melmoth recollected a ridiculous story told him the day before of this girl, who had had the bad luck, as she called it, to curl her hair with some of the old and useless lawpapers of the family, and who now imagined that they who kept this dreadful pudder oer her head, were particularly provoked by her still retaining about her whatever belonged to the deceased; and as she flung the fragments of paper into the fire, she cried aloud, There stop for the holy J s sake, and let us have no more about it!  You have what you wanted, and will you have done? The laugh that Melmoth could hardly resist, was checked by a sound which he heard distinctly amid the storm. Hush  silence! that was a signal gun!  there is a vessel in distress. They all paused and listened. We have already mentioned the closeness of Melmoths abode to the seashore. This had well accustomed its inmates to all the terrors of shipwrecked vessels and drowning passengers. To their honour be it spoken, they never heard those sounds but as a claim, a piteous, irresistible claim on their humanity. They knew nothing of the barbarous practice on the English coast, of fastening a lanthorn to the limbs of a spanselled horse, whose plungings were to misdirect the wrecked and sinking wretches, in the vain hope that the light they saw was a beacon, and thus to double the horrors of death by the baffled expectation of relief. The party in the kitchen all watched Melmoths countenance intently, as if its expression could have told them the secrets of the hoary deep. The storm ceased for a moment, and there was a deep and dreary silence of fearful expectation. The sound was heard again,  it could not be mistaken. It is a gun, cried Melmoth; there is a vessel in distress! and he hurried out of the kitchen, calling on the men to follow him. The men partook eagerly of the excitement of enterprise and danger. A storm without doors is, after all, better than a storm within; without we have something to struggle with, within we have only to suffer; and the severest storm, by exciting the energy of its victim, gives at once a stimulus to action, and a solace to pride, which those must want who sit shuddering between rocking walls, and almost driven to wish they had only to suffer, not to fear. While the men were in search of a hundred coats, boots, and hats of their old master, to be sought for in every part of the house,  while one was dragging a great coat from the window, before which it had long hung as a blind, in total default of glass or shutters,  another was snatching a wig from the jack, where it had been suspended for a duster,  and a third was battling with a cat and her brood of kittens for a pair of old boots which she had been pleased to make the seat of her accouchement,  Melmoth had gone up to the highest room in the house. The window was driven in;  had there been light, this window commanded a view of the sea and the coast. He leaned far out of it, and listened with fearful and breathless anxiety. The night was dark, but far off, his sight, sharpened by intense solicitude, descried a light at sea. The gust drove him from the window for a moment; at returning the next, he saw a faint flash, and then the report of a gun followed. There needed no more; and in a few moments after, Melmoth was on the shore. Their way was short, and they walked with their utmost speed; but the violence of the storm made their progress very slow, and their anxiety made it seem still slower. From time to time they said to each other, in choaked and breathless accents, Call up the people in those cabins  there is a light in that house  they are all up  no wonder  who could sleep in such a night  hold the lanthorn low  it is impossible to keep footing on the strand. Another gun! they exclaimed, as the flash faintly broke through the darkness, and the heavy sound rolled round the shore, as if fired over the grave of the sufferers. Heres the rock, hold fast, and cling together. They scaled it. Great God! cried Melmoth, who was among the first, what a night! and what a spectacle!  Hold up your lanthorns  do you hear cries?  shout to them  tell them there is help and hope near them.  Stay, he added, let me scramble up that crag  they will hear my voice from that. He dashed desperately through the water, while the foam of the breakers from a distant rock almost choaked him, gained the point, and, elated by his success, shouted aloud with his utmost strength. But his voice, baffled and drowned by the tempest, was lost even to his own hearing. Its sound was faint and querulous, more like the wail of grief, than the encouraging cry of hope. At this moment, the racking clouds flying rapidly across the sky, like the scattered fugitives of a routed army, the moon burst forth with the sudden and appalling effulgence of lightning. Melmoth caught a full view of the vessel, and of her danger. She lay beating against a rock, over which the breakers dashed their foam to the height of thirty feet. She was half in the water, a mere hulk, her rigging torn to shreds, her main mast cut away, and every sea she shipped, Melmoth could hear distinctly the dying cries of those who were swept away, or perhaps of those whose mind and body, alike exhausted, relaxed their benumbed hold of hope and life together,  knew that the next shriek that was uttered must be their own and their last. There is something so very horrible in the sight of human beings perishing so near us, that we feel one firm step rightly planted, one arm steadily held out, might save at least one,  yet feel we know not where to fix that step, and cannot stretch that arm, that Melmoths senses reeled under the shock, and for a moment he echoed the storm with yells of actual insanity. By this time the country, having been alarmed by the news of a vessel going to pieces on the shore, had poured down in multitudes; and those who, from experience or confidence, or even ignorance, repeated incessantly, it is impossible to save her,  every soul on board must perish, involuntarily quickened their steps as they uttered the words, as if they were anxious to behold the fulfilment of their own prediction, while they appeared hurrying to avert it. Of one man, in particular, it was observed, that during their hurried rush to the shore, he was, with what breath his haste allowed him, assuring the rest every moment, she would be down before they could get there, and heard the ejaculations of Christ save us! dont say that, No, please God, well do some good, with a laugh almost of triumph. When they arrived, this man scaled a rock at the risk of his life, caught a view of the vessel, pointed out her desperate situation to those below, and shouted, Didnt I tell you so? wasnt I right? And as the storm increased, his voice was still heard, wasnt I right? And when the cries of the perishing crew were distinctly wafted to their ears, he was still heard in the interval repeating, But wasnt I right? Singular sentiment of pride, that can erect its trophies amid the grave. Tis in this spirit we give advice to those who suffer from life, as well as from the elements; and when the heart of the victim breaks, console ourselves by exclaiming, Didnt I foretell it all? did I not tell you how it would be? It is remarkable that this man lost his life that very night in the most desperate and fruitless attempt to save the life of one of the crew who was swimming within six yards of him. The whole shore was now crowded with helpless gazers, every crag and cliff was manned; it seemed like a battle fought at once by sea and land, between hope and despair. No effectual assistance could be rendered,  not a boat could live in that gale,  yet still, and to the last, cheers were heard from rock to rock,  terrible cheers, that announced safety was near and  impossible;  lanthorns held aloft in all directions, that displayed to the sufferers the shore all peopled with life, and the roaring and impassable waves between;  ropes flung out, with loud cries of help and encouragement, and caught at by some chilled, nerveless, and despairing hand, that only grasped the wave,  relaxed its hold,  was tossed once over the sinking head,  and then seen no more. It was at this moment that Melmoth, starting from his trance of terror, and looking round him, saw all, to the number of hundreds, anxious, restless, and occupied; and, though obviously in vain, the sight cheered his heart. How much good there is in man, he cried, when it is called forth by the sufferings of his fellows! He had no leisure or inclination, then, to analyse the compound he called good, and resolve it into its component parts of curiosity, strong excitement, the pride of physical strength, or the comparative consciousness of safety. He had, indeed, no leisure, for just then he descried, standing a few yards above him on the rock, a figure that shewed neither sympathy or terror,  uttered no sound,  offered no help. Melmoth could hardly keep his footing on the slippery and rocking crag on which he stood; the figure, who stood still higher, appeared alike unmoved by the storm, as by the spectacle. Melmoths surtout, in spite of his efforts to wrap it round him, was fluttering in rags,  not a thread of the strangers garments seemed ruffled by the blast. But this did not strike him so much as his obvious insensibility to the distress and terror around him, and he exclaimed aloud, Good God! is it possible that any thing bearing the human form should stand there without making an effort, without expressing a feeling, for those perishing wretches! A pause ensued, or the blast carried away the sound; but a few moments after, Melmoth distinctly heard the words, Let them perish. He looked up, the figure still stood unmoved, the arms folded across the breast, the foot advanced, and fixed as in defiance of the white and climbing spray of the wave, and the stern profile caught in the glimpses of the stormy and doubtful moonlight, seeming to watch the scene with an expression formidable, revolting, and unnatural. At this moment, a tremendous wave breaking over the deck of the hulk, extorted a cry of horror from the spectators; they felt as if they were echoing that of the victims whose corses were in a few moments to be dashed against their feet, mangled and lifeless. When the cry had ceased, Melmoth heard a laugh that chilled his blood. It was from the figure that stood above him. Like lightning then glanced on his memory the recollection of that night in Spain, when Stanton first encountered that extraordinary being, whose charmed life, defying space and time, held such fatal influence over his, and when he first recognised his supposed demoniac character by the laugh with which he hailed the spectacle of the blasted lovers. The echo of that laugh rung in Melmoths ears; he believed it was indeed that mysterious being who was standing so near him. His mind, by its late intense and bewildering pursuits, at once heated and darkened, like the atmosphere under an incumbent thundercloud, had now no power of inquiry, of conjecture, or of calculation. He instantly began to climb the rock,  the figure was but a few feet above him,  the object of his daily and nightly dreams was at last within the reach of his mind and his arm,  was almost tangible. Fang and Snare12 themselves, in all the enthusiasm of professional zeal, never uttered, if I but once get him within my vice, with more eagerness than did Melmoth, as he scrambled up his steep and perilous path, to the ledge of the rock where the figure stood so calm and dark. Panting from the fury of the storm, the vehemence of his own exertions, and the difficulty of the task, he was now almost foot to foot, and face to face, with the object of his pursuit, when, grasping at the loosened fragment of a stone whose fall could not have hurt a child, though on its tottering insecurity hung the lifegrasp of a man, his hold failed  he fell backwards,  the roaring deep was beneath, seeming to toss its ten thousand arms to receive and devour him. He did not feel the instantaneous giddiness of his fall, but as he sunk he felt the splash, he heard the roar. He was engulphed, then for a moment thrown to the surface. He struggled with nothing to grasp at. He sunk with a vague thought, that if he could reach the bottom, if he could arrive at any thing solid, he was safe. Ten thousand trumpets then seemed to ring in his ears; lights flashed from his eyes. He seemed to go through fire and water, and remembered no more till several days afterwards, when he found himself in bed, the old gouvernante beside him, and uttered faintly, What a horrid dream! then sinking back as he felt his exhaustion, and how weak it has left me! Chapter 5 I have heard, said the Squire, that from hell there is no retention. CERVANTES For some hours after this exclamation, Melmoth lay silent, his memory returning,  his senses gradually defecated,  the intellectual lord slowly returning to his abdicated throne.  I remember all now, he cried, starting up in his bed with a sudden vehemence, that terrified his old nurse with the apprehension of returning insanity; but when she approached the bed, candle in hand, cautiously veiling her eyes with the other, while she threw the full glare of the light on the face of the patient, she saw in a moment the light of sanity in his eyes, and the strength of health in his movements. To his eager inquiries of how he had been saved, how the storm had terminated, and whether any but himself had survived the wreck, she could not deny herself the gratification of answering, though conscious of his weakness, and solemnly charged neither to let him speak or hear, as she valued the recovery of his reason. She had faithfully observed the charge for several days,  a dreadful trial!  and now she felt like Fatima in Cymon, who, when threatened by the magician with the loss of speech, exclaims, Barbarian, will not my death then satisfy you? She began her narrative, the effect of which was, to lull Melmoth into a profound repose before half of it was concluded; he felt the full benefit of the invalids mentioned in Spenser, who used to hire Irish storytellers, and found those indefatigable persons still pursuing the tale when they awoke. At first Melmoth listened with eager attention; soon he was in the situation of him described by Miss Baillie, Who, half asleep, but faintly hears, The gossips tale hum in his ears. Soon after his lengthened respiration gave token that she was only vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; while, as she closed the curtain, and shaded the light, the images of her story were faintly painted on his dream, that still seemed half a waking one. In the morning Melmoth sat up, gazed round, remembered every thing in a moment, though nothing distinctly, but felt the most intense anxiety to see the stranger saved from the shipwreck, who, he remembered the gouvernante had told him, (while her words seemed to falter on the threshold of his closing senses), was still alive, and an inmate in his house, but weak and ill from the bruises he had received, and the exhaustion and terror he had undergone. The opinions of the household on the subject of this stranger were various. The knowledge of his being a Catholic had conciliated their hearts, for the first act of his recovered reason was to request that a Catholic priest might be sent for, and the first use of his speech was to express his satisfaction that he was in a country where he might enjoy the benefits of the rites of his own church. So far all was well; but there was a mysterious haughtiness and reserve about him, that somewhat repelled the officious curiosity of his attendants. He spoke often to himself in a language they did not understand; they hoped relief from the priest on this point, but the priest, after listening long at the invalids door, pronounced the language in which he was soliloquizing not to be Latin, and, after a conversation of some hours with him, refused to tell what language the stranger spoke to himself in, and forbid all inquiry on the subject. This was bad enough; but, still worse, the stranger spoke English with ease and fluency, and therefore could have no right, as all the household argued, to torment them with those unknown sounds, that, sonorous and powerful as they were, seemed to their ears like an evocation of some invisible being. He asks for what he wants in English, said the harassed housekeeper, and he can call for candle in English, and he can say hell go to bed in English; and why the devil cant he do every thing in English?  He can say his prayers too in English to that picture hes always pulling out of his breast and talking to, though its no saint, I am sure, he prays to, (from the glimpse I got of it), but more like the devil,  Christ save us! All these strange rumours, and ten thousand more, were poured into Melmoths ears, fast and faster than he could receive them. Is Father Fay in the house, said he at last, understanding that the priest visited the stranger every day; if he be, let me see him. Father Fay attended him as soon as he quitted the strangers apartment. He was a grave and decent priest, well spoken of by those that were without the pale of his own communion; and as he entered the room, Melmoth smiled at the idle tattle of his domestics. I thank you for your attention to this unfortunate gentleman, who, I understand, is in my house.  It was my duty.  I am told he sometimes speaks in a foreign tongue. The priest assented. Do you know what countryman he is? He is a Spaniard, said the priest. This plain, direct answer, had the proper effect on Melmoth, of convincing him of its veracity, and of there being no mystery in the business, but what the folly of his servants had made. The priest proceeded to tell him the particulars of the loss of the vessel. She was an English trader bound for Wexford or Waterford, with many passengers on board; she had been driven up the Wicklow coast by stress of weather, had struck on the night of the 19th October, during the intense darkness that accompanied the storm, on a hidden reef of rocks, and gone to pieces. Crew, passengers, all had perished, except this Spaniard. It was singular, too, that this man had saved the life of Melmoth. While swimming for his own, he had seen him fall from the rock he was climbing, and, though his strength was almost exhausted, had collected its last remains to preserve the life of a being who, as he conceived, had been betrayed into danger by his humanity. His efforts were successful, though Melmoth was unconscious of them; and in the morning they were found on the strand, locked in each others hold, but stiff and senseless. They shewed some signs of life when an attempt was made to remove them, and the stranger was conveyed to Melmoths house. You owe your life to him, said the priest, when he had ended.