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***** 
 
 M E L M O T H 
 
 THE 
 
 WANDERER 
 
 T A L E. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " BERTRAM/' &c. 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 
 PRINTED FOK AHCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY. 
 
 AND HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO. CHEAPSIDE, 
 LONDON. 
 
 1820. 
 
£13 s 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MOST NOBLE 
 
 in 
 
 v THE 
 
 3 MARCHIONESS OF ABERCORN, 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Cftfe &omaure 
 
 Is, by her Ladyship's permission, 
 
 Respectfully inscribed by 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/melmothwanderert01matu 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 X he hint of this Romance (or Tale) was 
 taken from a passage in one of my Ser- 
 mons, which (as it is to be presumed very 
 few have read) I shall here take the liberty 
 to quote. The passage is this. 
 
 u At this moment is there one of us 
 " present, however we may have departed 
 " from the Lord, disobeyed his will, and 
 " disregarded his word — is there one of 
 " us who would, at this moment, accept 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 " all that man could bestow, or earth af- 
 " ford, to resign the hope of his salvation ? 
 " — No, there is not one — not such a fool 
 " on earth, were the enemy of mankind 
 " to traverse it with the offer !" 
 
 This passage suggested the idea of 
 " Melmoth the Wanderer." The Reader 
 will find that idea developed in the follow- 
 ing pages, with what power or success he 
 is to decide. 
 
 The " Spaniard's Tale" has been censur- 
 ed by a friend to whom I read it, as con- 
 taining too much attempt at the revivifi- 
 cation of the horrors of Radcliffe-Romance, 
 of the persecutions of convents, and the 
 terrors of the Inquisition. 
 
 I defended myself, by trying to point 
 out to my friend, that I had made the 
 misery of conventual life depend less on 
 the startling adventures one meets with in 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 romances, than on that irritating series of 
 petty torments which constitutes the mi- 
 sery of life in general, and which, amid 
 the tideless stagnation of monastic exist- 
 ence, solitude gives its inmates leisure to 
 invent, and power combined with malig- 
 nity, the full disposition to practise. I 
 trust this defence will operate more on the 
 conviction of the Reader, than it did on 
 that of my friend. 
 
 For the rest of the Romance, there are 
 some parts of it which I have borrowed 
 from real life. 
 
 The story of John Sandal and Elinor 
 Mortimer is founded in fact. 
 
 The original from which the Wife of 
 Walberg is imperfectly sketched is a living 
 woman, and long may she live, 
 
 I cannot again appear before the public 
 in so unseemly a character as that of a 
 writer of romances, without regretting the 
 
Xii PREFACE. 
 
 necessity that compels me to it. Did my 
 profession furnish me with the means of 
 subsistence, I should hold myself culpable 
 indeed in having recourse to any other, 
 but — am I allowed the choice ? 
 
 Dublin, 1 
 
 Slst August 1820. 
 
MELMOTXL 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Alive again ? Then show me where he is ; 
 I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 _Ln the autumn of 1816, John Melmoth, 
 a student in Trinity College, Dublin, quit- 
 ted it to attend a dying uncle on whom his 
 hopes for independence chiefly rested. John 
 was the orphan son of a younger brother, 
 whose small property scarce could pay 
 John's college expences ; but the uncle was 
 rich, unmarried, and old ; and John, 
 from his infancy, had been brought up 
 
 VOL. I. A 
 
2 MELMOTH : 
 
 to look on him with that mingled sen- 
 sation of awe, and of the wish, with- 
 out the means to conciliate, (that sen- 
 sation at once attractive and repulsive), 
 with which we regard a being who (as 
 nurse, domestic, and parent have tutored 
 us to believe) holds the very threads of 
 our existence in his hands, and may pro- 
 long or snap them when he pleases. 
 
 On receiving this summons, John set 
 immediately out to attend his uncle. 
 
 The beauty of the country through 
 which he travelled (it was the county 
 Wicklow) could not prevent his mind 
 from dwelling on many painful thoughts, 
 some borrowed from the past, and more 
 from the future. His uncle's caprice and 
 moroseness, — the strange reports concern- 
 ing the cause of the secluded life he had led 
 for many years, — his own dependent state, 
 — fell like blows fast and heavy on his 
 mind. He roused himself to repel them, 
 — sat up in the mail, in which he was a 
 solitary passenger, — looked out on the pro- 
 
A TALE. 3 
 
 spect, — consulted his watch ; — then he 
 thought they receded for a moment, — but 
 there was nothing to fill their place, and 
 he was forced to invite them back for 
 company. When the mind is thus active 
 in calling over invaders, no wonder the 
 conquest is soon completed. As the car- 
 riage drew near the Lodge, (the name of 
 old Melmoth's seat), John's heart grew 
 heavier every moment. 
 
 The recollection of this awful uncle 
 from infancy, — when he was never per- 
 mitted to approach him without innumer- 
 able lectures, — not to be troublesome, — not 
 to go too near his uncle, — not to ask him 
 any questions, — on no account to disturb 
 the inviolable arrangement of his snuff- 
 box, hand-bell, and spectacles, nor to suf- 
 fer the glittering of the gold-headed cane 
 to tempt him to the mortal sin of handling 
 it, — and, finally, to pilot himself aright 
 through his perilous course in and out of 
 the apartment without striking against the 
 piles of books, globes, old newspapers, wig- 
 
4 MELMOTH : 
 
 blocks, tobacco-pipes, and snuff-cannisters, 
 not to mention certain hidden rocks of rat- 
 traps and mouldy books beneath the chairs, 
 — together with the final reverential bow 
 at the door, which was to be closed with 
 cautious gentleness, and the stairs to be 
 descended as if he were " shod with felt." 
 — This recollection was carried on to his 
 school-boy years, when at Christmas and 
 Easter, the ragged poney, the jest of the 
 school, was dispatched to bring the reluc- 
 tant visitor to the Lodge, — where his pas- 
 time was to sit vis-a-vis to his uncle, with- 
 out speaking or moving, till the pair re- 
 sembled Don Raymond and the ghost of 
 Beatrice in the Monk, — then watching 
 him as he picked the bones of lean mutton 
 out of his mess of weak broth, the latter 
 of which he handed to his nephew with a 
 needless caution not to " take more than 
 " he liked," — then hurried to bed by day- 
 light, even in winter, to save the expence 
 of an inch of candle, where he lay awake 
 and restless from hunger, till his uncle's 
 
A TALE. 5 
 
 retiring at eight o'clock gave signal to the 
 governante of the meagre household to 
 steal up to him with some fragments of 
 her own scanty meal, administering be- 
 tween every mouthful a whispered cau- 
 tion not to tell his uncle. Then his col- 
 lege life, passed in an attic in the second 
 square, uncheered by an invitation to the 
 country ; the gloomy summer wasted in 
 walking up and down the deserted streets 
 as his uncle would not defray the expences 
 of his journey ; — the only intimation of 
 his existence, received in quarterly epistles, 
 containing, with the scanty but punctual 
 remittance, complaints of the expences of 
 his education, cautions against extrava 
 gance, and lamentations for the failure of 
 tenants and the fall of the value of lands. 
 All these recollections came over him, and 
 alono* with them the remembrance of that 
 last scene, where his dependence on his 
 uncle w 7 as impressed on him by the dying 
 lips of his father. 
 
 " John, 1 must leave you, my poor boy ; 
 
6 MELMOTH : 
 
 it has pleased God to take your father from 
 you before he could do for you what 
 would have made this hour less painful to 
 him. You must look up, John, to your 
 uncle for every thing. He has oddities 
 and infirmities, but you must learn to bear 
 with them, and with many other things 
 too, as you will learn too soon. And now, 
 my poor boy, may He who is the father of 
 the fatherless look on your desolate state, 
 and give you favour in the eyes of your 
 uncle." As this scene rose to John's 
 memory, his eyes filled fast with tears, 
 which he hastened to wipe away as the 
 carriage stopt to let him out at his uncle's 
 gate. 
 
 He alighted, and with a change of linen 
 in a handkerchief, (his only travelling 
 equipment), he approached his uncle's gate. 
 The lodge was in ruins, and a barefooted 
 boy from an adjacent cabin ran to lift on 
 its single hinge what had once been a gate* 
 but was now a few planks so villainously 
 put together, that they clattered like a sign 
 
A TALE. 7 
 
 in a high wind. The stubborn post of 
 the gate, yielding at last to the united 
 strength of John and his barefooted assis- 
 tant, grated heavily through the mud and 
 gravel stones, in which it left a deep and 
 sloughy furrow, and the entrance lay open. 
 John, after searching his pocket in vain for 
 a trifle to reward his assistant, pursued his 
 way, while the lad, on his return, cleared 
 the road at a hop step and jump, plunging 
 through the mud with all the dabbling and 
 amphibious delight of a duck, and scarce 
 less proud of his agility than of his " sarv- 
 " ing a gentleman." As John slowly 
 trod the miry road which had once been 
 the approach, he could discover, by the dim 
 light of an autumnal evening, signs of 
 increasing desolation since he had last vi- 
 sited the spot, — signs that penury had been 
 aggravated and sharpened into downright 
 misery. There was not a fence or a hedge 
 round the domain : an uncemented wall of 
 loose stones, whose numerous gaps were 
 filled with furze or thorns* supplied their 
 
8 MELMOTH : 
 
 place. There was not a tree or shrub on 
 the lawn ; the lawn itself was turned into 
 pasture-ground, and a few sheep were pick- 
 ing their scanty food amid the pebble- 
 stones, thistles, and hard mould, through 
 which a few blades of grass made their rare 
 and squalid appearance. 
 
 The house itself stood strongly defined 
 even amid the darkness of the evening sky ; 
 for there were neither wings, or offices, or 
 shrubbery, or tree, to shade or support it, 
 and soften its strong harsh outline. John, 
 after a melancholy gaze at the grass-grown 
 steps and boarded windows, " addressed 
 " himself " to knock at the door ; but 
 knocker there was none: loose stones, 
 however, there were in plenty ; and John 
 was making vigorous application to the 
 door with one of them, till the furious 
 barking of a mastiff, who threatened at 
 every bound to break his chain, and whose 
 yell and growl, accompanied by " eyes 
 " that glow and fangs that grin," savoured 
 as much of hunger as of rage, made the 
 
A TALE. 9 
 
 assailant raise the siege on the door, and 
 betake himself to a well-known passage 
 that led to the kitchen. A light glimmer- 
 ed in the window as he approached : he 
 raised the latch with a doubtful hand ; but, 
 when he saw the party within, he advanced 
 with the step of a man no longer doubtful 
 of his welcome. 
 
 Round a turf-fire, whose well-replenish- 
 ed fuel gave testimony to the " master's" 
 indisposition, who would probably as soon 
 have been placed on the fire himself as seen 
 the whole kish emptied on it once, were 
 seated the old housekeeper, two or three 
 followers, (i. e. people who ate, drank, and 
 lounged about in any kitchen that was 
 open in the neighbourhood, on an occasion 
 of grief or joy, all for his honor's sake, and 
 for the great rispict they bore the family), 
 andan old woman, whom John immediately 
 recognized as the doctress of the neigh- 
 bourhood, — a withered Sybil, who prolong- 
 ed her squalid existence by practising on 
 the fears, the ignorance, and the sufferings 
 
 a 2 
 
10 MELMOTH : 
 
 of beings as miserable as herself. Among 
 the better sort, to whom she sometimes 
 had access by the influence of servants, she 
 tried the effects of some simples, her skill 
 in which was sometimes productive of suc- 
 cess. Among the lower orders she talked 
 much of the effects of the " evil eye," a- 
 gainst which she boasted a counter-spell, 
 of unfailing efficacy ; and while she spoke, 
 she shook her grizzled locks with such 
 witch-like eagerness, that she never failed 
 to communicate to her half- terrified, half- 
 believing audience, some portion of that 
 enthusiasm which, amid all her conscious- 
 ness of imposture, she herself probably 
 felt a large share of ; still, when the 
 case at last became desperate, when 
 credulity itself lost all patience, and 
 hope and life were departing together, 
 she urged the miserable patient to con- 
 fess " there was something about his 
 "heart;" and when this confession was 
 extorted from the weariness of pain and 
 the ignorance of poverty, she nodded and 
 
A TALE. 11 
 
 muttered so mysteriously, as to convey to 
 the bystanders, that she had had difficulties 
 to contend with which were invincible by 
 human power. When there was no pre- 
 text, from indisposition, for her visiting 
 either " his honor's" kitchen, or the cottar's 
 hut, — when the stubborn and persevering 
 convalescence of the whole country threat- 
 ened her with starvation, — she still had a 
 resource : — if there were no lives to be 
 shortened, there were fortunes to be told ; 
 — she worked " by spells, and by such 
 daubry as is beyond our element." No one 
 twined so well as she the mystic yarn to be 
 dropt into the lime-kiln pit, on the edge of 
 which stood the shivering inquirer into fu- 
 turity, doubtful whether the answer to her 
 question of " who holds ?" was to be ut- 
 tered by the voice of demon or lover. 
 
 No one knew so well as she to find 
 where the four streams met, in which, on 
 the same portentous season, the chemise 
 was to be immersed, and then displayed 
 before the fire, (in the name of one whom 
 we dare not mention to " ears polite"), to be 
 
12 MELMOTH : 
 
 turned by the figure of the destined hus- 
 band before morning. No one but herself 
 (she said) knew the hand in which the 
 comb was to be held, while the other was 
 employed in conveying the apple to the 
 mouth, — while, during the joint operation, 
 the shadow of the phantom- spouse was to 
 pass across the mirror before which it was 
 performed. No one was more skilful or 
 active in removing every iron implement 
 from the kitchen where these ceremonies 
 were usually performed by the credulous 
 and terrified dupes of her wizardry, lest, in- 
 stead of the form of a comely youth exhi- 
 biting a ring on his white finger, an head- 
 less figure should stalk to the rack, 
 (A?iglice, dresser), take down a long spit, 
 or, in default of that, snatch a poker from 
 the fire-side, and mercilessly take measure 
 with its iron length of the sleeper for a 
 coffin. No one, in short, knew better how 
 to torment or terrify her victims into a be- 
 lief of that power which may and has re- 
 duced the strongest minds to the level of 
 the weakest; and under the influence of 
 
A TALE. 13 
 
 which the cultivated sceptic, Lord Lyttle- 
 ton, yelled and gnashed and writhed in his 
 last hours, like the poor girl who, in the be- 
 lief of the horrible visitation of the vampire, 
 shrieked aloud, that her grandfather was 
 sucking her vital blood while she slept, 
 and expired under the influence of imagi- 
 nary horror. Such was the being to whom 
 old Melmoth had committed his life, half 
 from credulity, and (Hibernice speaking) 
 more than half from avarice. Among this 
 groupe John advanced, — recognising some, 
 — disliking more,— distrusting all. The 
 old housekeeper received him with cordia- 
 lity ;-~he was always her " whiteheaded 
 boy," she said, — (imprimis, his hair w r as as 
 black as jet), and she tried to lift her 
 withered hand to his head with an action 
 between a benediction and a caress, till the 
 difficulty of the attempt forced on her the 
 conviction that that head was fourteen 
 inches higher than her reach since she 
 had last patted it. The men, with the 
 national deference of the Irish to a person 
 
14f MELMOTH : 
 
 of superior rank, all rose at his approach, 
 (their stools chattering on the broken flags) 
 and wished his honor " a thousand years 
 and long life to the back of that ; and would 
 not his honor take something to keep the 
 grief out of his heart ;" and so saying, five 
 or six red and bony hands tendered him 
 glasses of whiskey all at once. All this 
 time the Sybil sat silent in the ample chim- 
 ney-corner, sending redoubled whiffs out of 
 her pipe. John gently declined the offer of 
 spirits, received the attentions of the old 
 housekeeper cordially, looked askance at 
 the withered crone who occupied the 
 chimney corner, and then glanced at the 
 table, which displayed other cheer than he 
 had been accustomed to see in his " honor's 
 time." There w r as a wooden dish of pota- 
 toes, which old Melmoth would have con- 
 sidered enough for a week's subsistence. 
 There was the salted salmon, (a luxury un- 
 known even in London Vide Miss Edge- 
 worth's Tales, " The Absentee)." 
 
 There .was the slink-veal, flanked with 
 
A TALE. 15 
 
 tripe ; and, finally, there were lobsters and 
 fried turbot enough to justify what the au- 
 thor of the tale asserts, " suo periculo," 
 that when his great grandfather, the Dean 
 of Killala, hired servants at the deanery, 
 they stipulated that they should not be 
 required to eat turbot or lobster more 
 than twice a-week. There were also bot- 
 tles of Wicklow ale, long and surrep- 
 titiously borrowed from his " honor's" cel- 
 lar, and which now made their first ap- 
 pearance on the kitchen hearth, and mani- 
 fested their impatience of further con- 
 straint, by hissing, spitting, and bouncing 
 in the face of the fire that provoked its ani- 
 mosity. But the whiskey (genuine illegiti- 
 mate potsheen, smelling strongly of weed 
 and smoke, and breathing defiance to ex- 
 cisemen) appeared, the " veritable Amphi- 
 tryon" of the feast ; every one praised, and 
 drank as deeply as he praised. 
 
 John, as he looked round the circle, and 
 thought of his dying uncle, was forcibly re- 
 minded of the scene at Don Quixote's de- 
 
16 7\IELM0TH : 
 
 parture, where, in spite of the grief caused 
 by the dissolution of the worthy knight, 
 we are informed that " nevertheless the 
 niece eat her victuals, the housekeeper 
 drank to the repose of his soul, and even 
 Sancho cherished his little carcase." After 
 returning, " as he might," the courtesies 
 of the party, John asked how his uncle 
 was. " As bad as he can be ;" — " Much 
 better, and many thanks to your honor,'' 
 was uttered in such rapid and discordant 
 unison by the party, that John turned 
 from one to the other, not knowing which 
 or what to believe. " They say his honor 
 has had a fright," said a fellow, upwards 
 of six feet high, approaching by way of 
 whispering, and then bellowing the sound 
 six inches above John's head. " But then his 
 honor has had a cool since," said a man who 
 was quietly swallowing the spirits that 
 John had refused. At these words the 
 Sybil who sat in the chimney corner slow- 
 ly drew her pipe from her mouth, and turn- 
 ed towards the party : The oracular move- 
 
A TALE. 17 
 
 ments of a Pythoness on her tripod never 
 excited more awe, or impressed for the mo- 
 ment a deeper silence. " It's not here" 
 said she, pressing her withered ringer on 
 her wrinkled forehead, " nor here, — nor 
 here ;" and she extended her hand to the 
 foreheads of those who were near her, who 
 all bowed as if they were receiving a bene- 
 diction, but had immediate recourse to the 
 spirits afterwards, as if to ensure its effects. 
 — " It's all here — it's all about the heart ;" 
 and as she spoke she spread and pressed her 
 fingers on her hollow bosom with a force 
 of action that thrilled her hearers. — " It's all 
 here" she added, repeating the action, 
 (probably excited by the effect she had pro- 
 duced), and then sunk on her seat, resumed 
 her pipe, and spoke no more. At this mo- 
 ment of involuntary awe on the part of 
 John, and of terrified silence on that of the 
 rest, an unusual sound was heard in the 
 house, and the whole company started as 
 if a musket had been discharged among 
 them : — it was the unwonted sound of old 
 
18 MELMOTH : 
 
 Melmoth's bell. His domestics were so 
 few, and so constantly near him, that the 
 sound of his bell startled them as much as 
 if he had been ringing the knell for his own 
 interment. " He used always to rap doxv?i 
 for me," said the old housekeeper, hurry- 
 ing out of the kitchen ; " he said pulling 
 the bells wore out the ropes." 
 
 The sound of the bell produced its full 
 effect. The housekeeper rushed into the 
 room, followed by a number of women, 
 (the Irish prasflcas), all ready to prescribe 
 for the dying or weep for the dead, — all 
 clapping their hard hands, or wiping their 
 dry eyes. These hags all surrounded the 
 bed ; and to witness their loud, wild, and 
 desperate grief, their cries of " Oh ! he's 
 going, his honor's going, his honor's going," 
 one would have imagined their lives were 
 bound up in his, like those of the wives in 
 the story of Sinbad the Sailor, who were to 
 be interred alive with their deceased hus- 
 bands. 
 
 Four of them wrung their hands and 
 
A TALE. 19 
 
 howled round the bed, while one, with all 
 the adroitness of a Mrs Quickly, felt his 
 honor's feet, and " upward and upward," 
 and " all was cold as any stone." 
 
 Old Mel moth withdrew his feet from 
 the grasp of the hag, — counted with his 
 keen eye (keen amid the approaching dim- 
 ness of death) the number assembled round 
 his bed, — raised himself on his sharp elbow, 
 and pushing away the housekeeper, (who 
 attempted to settle his nightcap, that had 
 been shoved on one side in the struggle, 
 and gave his haggard, dying face, a kind 
 of grotesque fierceness), bellowed out in 
 tones that made the company start, — 
 " What the devil brought ye all here ?" 
 The question scattered the whole party 
 for a moment ; but rallying instantly, they 
 communed among themselves in whispers, 
 and frequently using the sign of the cross, 
 muttered " The devil, — Christ save us, the 
 devil in his mouth the first word he spoke." 
 " Aye," roared the invalid, " and the devil 
 in my eye the first sight I see," " Where* 
 
20 MELMOTH : 
 
 — where ?" cried the terrified housekeeper, 
 clinging close to the invalid in her terror, 
 and half- hiding herself in the blanket, 
 which she snatched without mercy from 
 his struggling and exposed limbs. " There, 
 there," he repeated, (during the battle of 
 the blanket), pointing to the huddled and 
 terrified women, who stood aghast at 
 hearing themselves arointed as the very- 
 demons they came to banish. " Oh ! Lord 
 keep your honor's head," said the house- 
 keeper in a more soothing tone, when her 
 fright was over ; " and sure your honor 
 knows them all, is'n't her name, — and her 
 name, — and her name," — and she pointed 
 respectively to each of them, adding their 
 names, which we shall spare the English 
 reader the torture of reciting, (as a proof 
 of our lenity, adding the last only, Cotch- 
 
 leen O'Mulligan), " Ye lie, ye b h," 
 
 growled old Melmoth; " their name is 
 Legion, for they are many, — turn them 
 all out of the room, — turn them all out of 
 doors, — if they howl at my death, they 
 
 # 
 
A TALE. 21 
 
 shall howl in earnest,— not for my death, 
 for they would see me dead and damned 
 too with dry eyes, but for want of the 
 whiskey that they would have stolen if 
 they could have got at it," (and here old 
 Melmoth grasped a key which lay under 
 his pillow, and shook it in vain triumph at 
 the old housekeeper, who had long pos- 
 sessed the means of getting at the spirits 
 unknown to his " honor"), " and for want 
 of the victuals you have pampered them 
 with/' " Pampered, oh Ch — st !" ejacu- 
 lated the housekeeper. " Aye, and what 
 are there so many candles for, all fours, 
 and the same below I warrant. Ah ! you 
 — you — worthless, wasteful old devil." 
 " Indeed, your honor, they are all sixes?' 
 " Sixes, — and what the devil are you burn- 
 ing sixes for, d'ye think it's the wake al- 
 ready ? Ha ?" " Oh ! not yet, your ho- 
 nor, not yet," chorussed the beldams ; " but 
 in God's good time, your honor knows," 
 in a tone that spoke ill suppressed impa- 
 tience for the event. " Oh ! that your ho- 
 
22 MELMOTH : 
 
 nor would think of making your soul." 
 " That's the first sensible word you have 
 said," said the dying man, " fetch me the 
 prayer-book, — you'll find it there under 
 that old boot-jack, — blow off the cobwebs ; 
 — it has not been opened this many a year." 
 It was handed to him by the old gover- 
 nante, on whom he turned a reproaching 
 eye. " What made you burn sixes in the 
 kitchen, you extravagant jade ? How 
 many years have you lived in this house ?" 
 " I don't know, your honor." " Did you 
 ever see any extravagance or waste in it 
 " Oh never, never, your honor." " Was 
 any thing but a farthing candle ever 
 Jburned in the kitchen ?" " Never, never, 
 your honor." " Were not you kept as 
 tight as hand and head and heart could 
 keep you, were you not ? answer me that.'" 
 " Oh yes, sure, your honor ; every sowl 
 about us knows that, — every one does your 
 honor justice, that you kept the closest house 
 and closest hand in the country, — your ho- 
 nor was always a good warrant for it." "And 
 
A TALE 23 
 
 how dare you unlock my hold before death 
 has unlocked it," said the dying miser, shak- 
 ing his meagre hand at her. " I smelt meat 
 in the house, — I heard voices in the house, 
 — I heard the key turn in the door over 
 and over. Oh that I was up," he added, 
 rolling in impatient agony in his bed, 
 " Oh that I was up, to see the waste and 
 ruin that is going on. But it would kill 
 me," he continued, sinking back on the 
 bolster, for he never allowed himself a pil- 
 low ; " it would kill me, — the very thought 
 of it is killing me now." The women, 
 discomfited and defeated, after sundry 
 winks and whispers, were huddling out of 
 the room, till recalled by the sharp eager 
 tones of old Melmoth. — " Where are ye 
 trooping to now ? back to the kitchen to 
 gormandize and guzzle ? Won't one of 
 ye stay and listen while there's a prayer 
 read for me ? Ye may want it one day for 
 yourselves, ye hags." Awed by this ex- 
 postulation and menace, the train silently 
 returned, and placed themselves round the 
 
24 MELMOTH : 
 
 bed, while the housekeeper, though a Ca- 
 tholic, asked if his honor would not have 
 a clergyman to give him the rights, (rites) 
 of his church. The eyes of the dying 
 man sparkled with vexation at the propo- 
 sal. " What for,— just to have him ex- 
 pect a scarf and hat-band at the funeral. 
 
 Read the prayers yourself, you old ; 
 
 that will save something." The house- 
 keeper made the attempt, but soon de- 
 clined it, alleging, as her reason, that her 
 eyes had been watery ever since his honor 
 took ill. " That's because you had always 
 a drop in them," said the invalid, with a 
 spiteful sneer, which the contraction of 
 approaching death stiffened into a hideous 
 grin. — " Here, — is not there one of you 
 that's gnashing and howling there, that 
 can get up a prayer to keep me from it ?" 
 So adjured, one of the women offered her 
 services ; and of her it might truly be said, 
 as of the " most desartless man of the 
 watch" in Dogberry's time, that " her 
 reading and writing came by nature f for 
 
A TALE. 25 
 
 she never had been at school, and had ne- 
 ver before seen or opened a Protestant 
 prayer book in her life ; nevertheless, on 
 she went, and with more emphasis than 
 good discretion, read nearly through the 
 service for the " churching of women ;" 
 which in our prayer-books following that 
 of the burial of the dead, she perhaps 
 imagined was someway .connected with 
 the state of the invalid. 
 
 She read with great solemnity, — it was a 
 pity that two interruptions occurred during 
 the performance, one from old Melmoth, 
 who, shortly after the commencement of 
 the prayers, turned towards the old house- 
 keeper, and said, in a tone scandalously 
 audible, " Go down and draw the niggers 
 of the kitchen fire closer, and lock the 
 door, and let me hear it locked. I can't 
 mind any thing till that's done." The 
 other was from John Melmoth gliding in- 
 to the room, hearing the inappropriate 
 words uttered by the ignorant woman, 
 taking quietly as he knelt beside her the 
 
 VOL. I. b 
 
26 MELMOTH : 
 
 prayer-book from her hands, and reading 
 in a suppressed voice part of that solemn 
 service which, by the forms of the Church 
 of England, is intended for the consolation 
 of the departing. 
 
 " That is John's voice," said the dying 
 man ; and the little kindness he had ever 
 shewed this unfortunate lad rushed on his 
 hard heart at this moment, and touched it. 
 He saw himself, too, surrounded by heart- 
 less and rapacious menials ; and slight as 
 must have been his dependence on a rela- 
 tive whom he had always treated as a 
 stranger, he felt at this hour he was no 
 stranger, and grasped at his support like 
 a straw amid his wreck. " John, my good 
 boy, you are there. — I kept you far from 
 me when living, and now you are nearest 
 me when dying. — John, read on" John, 
 affected deeply by the situation in which 
 he beheld this poor man, amid all his 
 wealth, as well as by the solemn request to 
 impart consolation to his dying moments, 
 read on ; — but in a short time his voice 
 
A TALE. 27 
 
 became indistinct, from the horror with 
 which he listened to the increasing hiccup 
 of the patient, which, however, he strug- 
 gled with from time to time, to ask the 
 housekeeper if the Triggers were closed. 
 John, who was a lad of feeling, rose from 
 his knees in some degree of agitation. 
 " What, are you leaving me like the 
 rest ?" said old Melmoth, trying to raise 
 himself in the bed. " No, Sir," said John ; 
 " but," observing the altered looks of the 
 dying man, " I think you want some re- 
 freshment, some support, Sir." " Aye, 
 I do, I do, but whom can I trust to get it 
 for me. They, (and his haggard eye wan- 
 dered round the groupe), they would poi- 
 son me." " Trust me, Sir," said John ; "I 
 will go to the apothecary's, or whoever 
 you may employ." The old man grasped 
 his hand, drew him close to his bed, cast a 
 threatening yet fearful eye round the par- 
 ty, and then whispered in a voice of ago- 
 nized constraint, " I want a glass of wine. 
 
 
 
28 MELMOTH : 
 
 it would keep me alive for some hours', 
 but there is not one I can trust to get it 
 for me, — they'd steal a bottle, and ruin 
 me" John was greatly shocked. " Sir, 
 for God's sake, let me get a glass of wine 
 for you." " Do you know where ?" said 
 the old man, with an expression in his 
 face John could not understand. " No, 
 Sir; you know I have been rather a 
 stranger here, Sir." " Take this key," said 
 old Melmoth, after a violent spasm ; " take 
 this key, there is wine in that closet, — Ma- 
 deira. I always told them there was no- 
 thing there, but they did not believe me, 
 or I should not have been robbed as I have 
 been. At one time I said it was whiskey, 
 and then I fared worse than ever, for they 
 drank twice as much of it." 
 
 John took the key from his uncle's 
 hand ; the dying man pressed it as he did 
 so, and John, interpreting this as a mark 
 of kindness, returned the pressure. He 
 was undeceived by the whisper that fol- 
 lowed, — " John, my lad, don't drink any 
 
A TALE. 29 
 
 of that wine while you are there." " Good 
 God !" said John, indignantly throwing 
 the key on the bed ; then, recollecting that 
 the miserable being before him was no 
 object of resentment, he gave the promise 
 required, and entered the closet, which no 
 foot but that of old Melmoth had entered 
 for nearly sixty years. He had some diffi- 
 culty in finding out the wine, and indeed 
 staid long enough to justify his uncle's 
 suspicions, — but his mind was agitated, 
 and his hand unsteady. He could not but 
 remark his uncle's extraordinary look, that 
 had the ghastliness of fear superadded to 
 that of death, as he gave him permission 
 to enter his closet. He could not but see 
 the looks of horror which the women ex- 
 changed as he approached it. And, final- 
 ly, when he was in it, his memory was 
 malicious enough to suggest some faint 
 traces of a story, too horrible for imagina- 
 tion, connected with it. He remembered 
 in one moment most distinctly, that no 
 
30 MELMOTH: 
 
 one but his uncle had ever been known to 
 enter it for many years. 
 
 Before he quitted it, he held up the 
 dim light, and looked around him with a 
 mixture of terror and curiosity. There 
 was a great deal of decayed and useless 
 lumber, such as might be supposed to be 
 heaped up to rot in a miser's closet ; but 
 John's eyes were in a moment, and as if 
 by magic, rivetted on a portrait that hung 
 on the wall, and appeared, even to his un- 
 taught eye, far superior to the tribe of 
 family pictures that are left to moulder on 
 the walls of a family mansion. It repre- 
 sented a man of middle age. There was 
 nothing remarkable in the costume, or in 
 the countenance, but the eyes, John felt, 
 were such as one feels they wish they had 
 never seen, and feels they can never forget. 
 Had he been acquainted with the poetry 
 of Southey, he might have often exclaim- 
 ed in his after-life, 
 
 " Only the eyes had life, 
 
 They gleamed with demon light."— Thalaba. 
 
A TALE. 31 
 
 From an impulse equally resistless 
 and painful, he approached the portrait, 
 held the candle towards it, and could 
 distinguish the words on the border of 
 the painting, — Jno. Melmoth, anno 1646. 
 John was neither timid by nature, or 
 nervous by constitution, or superstitious 
 from habit, yet he continued to gaze in 
 stupid horror on this singular picture, till, 
 aroused by his uncle's cough, he hurried 
 into his room. The old man swallowed 
 the wine. He appeared a little revived ; 
 it was long since he had tasted such a cor- 
 dial, — his heart appeared to expand to a 
 momentary confidence. " John, what did 
 you see in that room ?" " Nothing, Sir." 
 " That's a lie ; every one wants to cheat ot- 
 to rob me." " Sir, I don't want to do 
 either." " Well, what did you see that 
 you — you took notice of?" " Only a 
 picture, Sir." " A picture, Sir! — the 
 original is still alive." John, though 
 under the impression of his recent feel- 
 ings, could not but look incredulous 
 
32 MELMOTH : 
 
 " John/' whispered his uncle ; — " John, 
 they say I am dying of this and that ; and 
 one says it is for want of nourishment, 
 and one says it is for want of medicine, — 
 but, John," and his face looked hideously 
 ghastly, " I am dying of a fright. That 
 man," and he extended his meagre arm 
 toward the closet, as if he was pointing to 
 a living being ; " that man, 1 have good 
 reason to know, is alive still." " How is 
 that possible, Sir ?" said John involuntari- 
 ly, " the date on the picture is 1646." 
 " You have seen it, — you have noticed it," 
 said his uncle. " Well," — he rocked and 
 nodded on his bolster for a moment, then, 
 grasping John's hand with an unutterable 
 look, he exclaimed, " You will see him 
 again, he is alive." Then, sinking back 
 on his bolster, he fell into a kind of sleep 
 or stupor, his eyes still open, and fixed on 
 John. 
 
 The house was now perfectly silent, and 
 John had time and space for reflection. 
 More thoughts came crowding on him 
 
A TALE. S3 
 
 than he wished to welcome, but they 
 would not be repulsed. He thought of 
 his uncle's habits and character, turned the 
 matter over and over again in his mind, 
 and he said to himself, " The last man on 
 earth to be superstitious. He never 
 thought of any thing but the price of 
 stocks, and the rate of exchange, and my 
 college expences, that hung heavier at his 
 heart than all ; and such a man to die of 
 a fright, — a ridiculous fright, that a man 
 living 150 years ago is alive still, and yet — 
 he is dying." John paused, for facts will 
 confute the most stubborn logician. " With 
 all his hardness of mind, and of heart, he 
 is dying of a fright. I heard it in the 
 kitchen, I have heard it from himself, — he 
 could not be deceived. If I had ever 
 heard he was nervous, or fanciful, or super- 
 stitious, but a character so contrary to all 
 these impressions ; — a man that, as poor 
 Butler says, in his Remains of the Anti- 
 quarian, would have " sold Christ over a- 
 gain for the numerical piece of silver which 
 
 B 2 
 
34 MELMOTH : 
 
 Judas got for him," — such a man to die 
 of fear! Yet he is dying," said John, 
 glancing his fearful eye on the contracted 
 nostril, the glazed eye, the dropping jaw, 
 the whole horrible apparatus of the fades 
 Hippocratica displayed, and soon to cease 
 its display. 
 
 Old Melmoth at this moment seemed to 
 be in a deep stupor ; his eyes lost that 
 little expression they had before, and his 
 hands, that had convulsively been catch- 
 ing at the blankets, let go their short and 
 quivering grasp, and lay extended on the 
 bed like the claws of some bird that had 
 died of hunger, — so meagre, so yellow, so 
 spread. John, unaccustomed to the sight 
 of death, believed this to be only a sign 
 that he was going to sleep; and, urged 
 by an impulse for which he did not at- 
 tempt to account to himself, caught up the 
 miserable light, and once more ventured 
 into the forbidden room, — the blue chamber 
 of the dwelling. The motion roused the 
 dying man ; — he sat bolt upright in his bed 
 
A TALE. 35 
 
 This John could not see, for he was now 
 in the closet ; but he heard the groan, or 
 rather the choaked and guggling rattle of 
 the throat, that announces the horrible 
 conflict between muscular and mental con- 
 vulsion. He started, turned away; but, 
 as he turned away, he thought he saw the 
 eyes of the portrait, on which his own 
 was fixed, move, and hurried back to his 
 uncle's bedside. 
 
 Old Melmoth died in the course of that 
 night, and died as he had lived, in a kind 
 of avaricious delirium. John could not 
 have imagined a scene so horrible as his last 
 hours presented. He cursed and blasphem- 
 ed about three half-pence, missing, as he 
 said, some weeks before, in an account of 
 change with his groom, about hay to a starv- 
 ed horse that he kept. Then he grasped 
 John's hand, and asked him to give him the 
 sacrament. " If I send to the clergyman, 
 he will charge me something for it, which 
 I cannot pay, — I cannot. They say I am 
 rich, — look at this blanket ; — but I would 
 
36 MELMOTH : 
 
 not mind that, if I could save my soul/' 
 And, raving, he added, " Indeed, Doctor, 
 1 am a very poor man. I never troubled 
 a clergyman before, and all I want is, that 
 you will grant me two trifling requests, 
 very little matters in your way, — save my 
 soul, and (whispering) make interest to 
 get me a parish coffin, — I have not enough 
 left to bury me. I always told every one 
 I was poor, but the more I told them so, 
 the less they believed me." 
 
 John, greatly shocked, retired from the 
 bed-side, and sat down in a distant corner 
 of the room. The women were again in 
 the room, which was very dark. Mel- 
 moth was silent from exhaustion, and 
 there was a death-like pause for some time. 
 At this moment John saw the door open, 
 and a figure appear at it, who looked 
 round the room, and then quietly and de- 
 liberately retired, but not before John had 
 discovered in his face the living original 
 of the portrait. His first impulse was to 
 utter an exclamation of terror, but his 
 
A TALE. 37 
 
 breath felt stopped. He was then rising 
 to pursue the figure, but a moment's re- 
 flection checked him. What could be 
 more absurd, than to be alarmed or amazed 
 at a resemblance between a living man 
 and the portrait of a dead one ! The like- 
 ness was doubtless strong enough to strike 
 him even in that darkened room, but it 
 was doubtless only a likeness ; and though 
 it might be imposing enough to terrify an 
 old man of gloomy and retired habits, and 
 with a broken constitution, John resolved 
 it should not produce the same effect on 
 him. 
 
 But while he was applauding himself 
 for this resolution, the door opened, and 
 the figure appeared at it, beckoning and 
 nodding to him, with a familiarity some- 
 what terrifying. John now started up, 
 determined to pursue it ; but the pursuit 
 was stopped by the weak but shrill cries 
 of his uncle, who was struggling at once 
 with the agonies of death and his house- 
 keeper. The poor woman, anxious for 
 
38 MELMOTK : 
 
 her master's reputation and her own, was 
 trying to put on him a clean shirt and 
 nightcap, and Melmoth, who had just 
 sensation enough to perceive they were 
 taking something from him, continued ex- 
 claiming feebly, " They are robbing me, 
 — robbing me in my last moments, — rob- 
 bing a dying man. John, won't you as- 
 sist me, — I shall die a beggar ; they are 
 taking my last shirt, — I shall die a beg- 
 gar. 5 '— —And the miser died. 
 
A TALE. 39 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 You that wander, scream, and groan^ 
 Round the mansions once your own. 
 
 Rowe. 
 
 A few days after the funeral, the will 
 was opened before proper witnesses, and 
 John was found to be left sole heir to his 
 uncle's property, which, though originally 
 moderate, had, by his grasping habits, 
 and parsimonious life, become very con- 
 siderable. 
 
 As the attorney who read the will con- 
 cluded, he added, " There are some words 
 
40 MELMOTH : 
 
 here, at the corner of the parchment, 
 which do not appear to be part of the will, 
 as they are neither in the form of a codicil, 
 nor is the signature of the testator affixed 
 to them ; but, to the best of my belief, 
 they are in the hand- writing of the de- 
 ceased." As he spoke he shewed the lines 
 to Melmoth, who immediately recognized 
 his uncle's hand, (that perpendicular and 
 penurious hand, that seems determined to 
 make the most of the very paper, thriftily 
 abridging every word, and leaving scarce 
 an atom of margin), and read, not with- 
 out some emotion, the following words: 
 " I enjoin my nephew and heir, John 
 Melmoth, to remove, destroy, or cause to 
 be destroyed, the portrait inscribed J. 
 Melmoth, 1646, hanging in my closet. I 
 also enjoin him to search for a manuscript, 
 which I think he will find in the third and 
 lowest left-hand drawer of the mahogany 
 chest standing under that portrait, — it is 
 among some papers of no value, such as 
 manuscript sermons, and pamphlets on the 
 
A TALE. 41 
 
 improvement of Ireland, and such stuff; 
 he will distinguish it by its being tied 
 round with a black tape, and the paper 
 being very mouldy and discoloured. He 
 may read it if he will ; — I think he had 
 better not. At all events, I adjure him, 
 if there be any power in the adjuration of 
 a dying man, to burn it." 
 
 After reading this singular memoran- 
 dum, the business of the meeting was again 
 resumed ; and as old Melmoth's will was 
 very clear and legally worded, all was soon 
 settled, the party dispersed, and John 
 Melmoth was left alone. 
 
 We should have mentioned, that his 
 guardians appointed by the will (for he 
 was not yet of age) advised him to return 
 to College, and complete his education as 
 soon as proper ; but John urged the expe- 
 diency of paying the respect due to his 
 uncle's memory, by remaining a decent 
 time in the house after his decease. This 
 was not his real motive. Curiosity, or 
 something that perhaps deserves a better 
 
42 MELMOTH : 
 
 name, the wild and awful pursuit of an 
 indefinite object, had taken strong hold of 
 his mind. His guardians (who were men 
 of respectability and property in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and in whose eyes John's con- 
 sequence had risen rapidly since the read- 
 ing of the will), pressed him to accept of 
 a temporary residence in their respective 
 houses, till his return to Dublin. This 
 was declined gratefully, but steadily. They 
 called for their horses, shook hands with 
 the heir, and rode off — Melmoth was left 
 alone. 
 
 The remainder of the day was passed 
 in gloomy and anxious deliberation, — in 
 traversing his late uncle's room, — approach- 
 ing the door of the closet, and then re- 
 treating from it, — in watching the clouds, 
 and listening to the wind, as if the gloom 
 of the one, or the murmurs of the other, 
 relieved instead of increasing the weight 
 that pressed on his mind. Finally, towards 
 evening, he summoned the old woman, 
 from whom he expected something like an 
 
A TALE. 43 
 
 explanation of the extraordinary circum- 
 stances he had witnessed since his arrival 
 at his uncle's. The old woman, proud of 
 the summons, readily attended, but she 
 had very little to tell, — her communication 
 was nearly in the following words : (We 
 spare the reader her endless circumlocu- 
 tions, her Irishcisms, and the frequent 
 interruptions arising from her applica- 
 tions to her snuff-box, and to the glass 
 of whiskey punch with which Mel moth 
 took care to have her supplied). The 
 old woman deposed, " That his honor 
 (as she always called the deceased) was 
 always intent upon the little room inside 
 his bed-chamber, and reading there, within 
 the last two years ; — that people, knowing 
 his honor had money, and thinking it 
 must be there, had broke into that room, 
 (in other words, there was a robbery at- 
 tempted there), but finding nothing but 
 some papers, they had retired ; — that he 
 was so frightened, he had bricked up the 
 window ; but she thought there was more 
 
44 MELMOTH : 
 
 in it than that, for when his honor missed 
 but a half- penny, he would make the 
 house ring about it, but that, when the 
 closet was bricked up, he never said a 
 w T ord ; —that afterwards his honor used to 
 lock himself up in his own room, and 
 though he was never fond of reading, was 
 always found, when his dinner was brought 
 him, hanging over a paper, which he hid 
 the moment anv one came into the room, 
 
 ml * 
 
 and once there was a great bustle about a 
 picture that he tried to conceal ; — that 
 knowing there was an odd story in the 
 family, she did her best to come at it, and 
 even went to Biddy Brannigan's, (the me- 
 dical Sybil before mentioned), to find out 
 the rights of it ; -but Biddy only shook 
 her head, filled her pipe, uttered some 
 words she did not understand, and smoked 
 on ; — that it was but two evenings before 
 his honor was struck, (i. e. took ill), she 
 was standing at the door of the court, 
 (which had once been surrounded by sta- 
 bles, pigeon-house, and all the usual et- 
 
A TALE. 45 
 
 ceteras of a gentleman's residence, but 
 now presented only a ruinous range of 
 dismantled out-offices, thatched with this- 
 tles, and tenanted by pigs), when his honor 
 called to her to lock the door, (his honor 
 was always keen about locking the doors 
 early) ; she was hastening to do so, when 
 he snatched the key from her, swearing at 
 her, (for he was always very keen about 
 locking the doors, though the locks were 
 so bad, and the keys so rusty, that it was 
 always like the cry of the dead in the 
 house when the keys were turned) ; — that 
 she stood aside for a minute, seeing he was 
 angry, and gave him the key, when she 
 heard him utter a scream, and saw him 
 fall across the door- way ; — that she hurried 
 to raise him, hoping it was a fit ; — that 
 she found him stiff and stretched out, and 
 called for help to lift him up ; — that then 
 people came from the kitchen to assist ; — 
 that she was so bewildered and terrified, 
 she hardly knew what was done or said ; 
 but with all her terror remembered, 
 
46 MELMOTH I 
 
 that as they raised him up, the first sign 
 of life he gave was lifting up his arm, and 
 pointing it towards the court, and at that 
 moment she saw the figure of a tall man 
 cross the court, and go out of the court, 
 she knew not where or how, for the outer 
 gate was locked, and had not been opened 
 for years, and they were all gathered round 
 his honor at the other door ; — she saw the 
 figure, — she saw the shadow on the wall, 
 — she saw him walk slowly through the 
 court, and in her terror cried, " Stop him," 
 but nobody minded her, all being busy 
 about her master ; and when he was 
 brought to his room, nobody thought but 
 of getting him to himself again. And 
 further she could not tell. His honor 
 (young Mel moth) knew as much as she, — 
 he had witnessed his last illness, had heard 
 his last words, he saw him die, — how could 
 she know more than his honor." 
 
 " True," said Melmoth, " I certainly 
 saw him die ; but — you say there was an 
 odd story in the family? do you know any 
 
A TALE. 47 
 
 thing about it ?" " Not a word, it was long 
 before my time, as old as I am." " Cer- 
 tainty it must have been so ; but, was my 
 uncle ever superstitious, fanciful ?" — and 
 Mel moth was compelled to use many sy- 
 nonymous expressions, before he could 
 make himself understood. When he did, 
 the answer was plain and decisive, " No, 
 never, never. When his honor sat in the 
 kitchen in winter, to save a fire in his own 
 room, he could never bear the talk of the 
 old women that came in to light their 
 pipes betimes, (from time to time). He 
 used to shew such impatience of their 
 superstitious nonsense, that they were fain 
 to smoke them in silence, without the 
 consolatory accompaniment of one whisper 
 about a child that the evil eye had looked 
 on, or another, that though apparently a 
 mewling, peevish, crippled brat all day, 
 went regularly out at night to dance with 
 the good people on the top of a neighbour- 
 ing mountain, summoned thereto by the 
 sound of a bag-pipe, which was unfailing- 
 
48 MELMOTH : 
 
 ly heard at the cabin door every night." 
 Mel moth's thoughts began to take some- 
 what of a darker hue at this account. If 
 his uncle was not superstitious, might he 
 not have been guilty, and might not his 
 strange and sudden death, and even the 
 terrible visitation that preceded it, have 
 been owing to some wrong that his rapa- 
 city had done the widow and the father- 
 less. He questioned the old woman in- 
 directly and cautiously on the subject, — 
 her answer completely justified the de- 
 ceased. " He was a man," she said, * of 
 a hard hand, and a hard heart, but he was 
 as jealous of another's right as of his own. 
 He would have starved all the world, but 
 he would not have wronged it of a far- 
 thing." 
 
 Melmoth's last resource was to send for 
 Biddy Brannigan, who was still in the 
 house, and from whom he at least hoped 
 to hear the odd story that the old woman 
 confessed was in the family. She came, 
 and, on her introduction to Melmoth, it 
 
A TALE. 4§ 
 
 was curious to observe the mingled look 
 of servility and command, the result of 
 the habits of her life, which was alternate- 
 ly one of abject mendicity, and of arro- 
 gant but clever imposture. When she 
 first appeared, she stood at the door, awed 
 and curtseying in the presence, and mut- 
 tering sounds which, possibly intended for 
 blessings, had, from the harsh tone and 
 witch-like look of the speaker, every ap- 
 pearance of malediction ; but when inter- 
 rogated on the subject of the story, she 
 rose at once into consequence, — her figure 
 seemed frightfully dilated, like that of 
 Virgil's Alecto, who exchanges in a mo- 
 ment the appearance of a feeble old woman 
 for that of a menacing fury. She walked 
 deliberately across the room, seated, or ra- 
 ther squatted herself on the hearth-stone 
 like a hare in her form, spread her bony 
 and withered hands towards the blaze, and 
 rocked for a considerable time in silence 
 before she commenced her tale. When 
 she had finished it, Melmoth remained in 
 vol. i. c 
 
50 MELMOTH : 
 
 astonishment at the state of mind to which 
 the late singular circumstances had reduc- 
 ed him, — at finding himself listening with 
 varying and increasing emotions of inter- 
 est, curiosity, and terror, to a tale so wild, 
 so improbable, nay, so actually incredible, 
 that he at least blushed for the folly he 
 could not conquer. The result of these 
 impressions was, a resolution to visit the 
 closet, and examine the manuscript that 
 very night. 
 
 This resolution he found it impossible 
 to execute immediately, for, on inquiring 
 for lights, the gouvernante confessed the 
 very last had been burnt at his honor's 
 wake ; and a bare -footed boy was charged 
 to run for life and death to the neighbour- 
 ing village for candles ; and if you could 
 horry a couple of candlesticks, added the 
 housekeeper, f Are there no candlesticks 
 in the house ?" said Melmoth. " There 
 are, honey, plinty, but it's no time to be 
 opening the old chest, for the plated ones, 
 in regard of their being at the bottom of 
 
A TALE, 51 
 
 it, and the brass ones that's in it (in the 
 house), one of them has no socket, and the 
 other has no bottom." " And how did 
 you make shift yourself," said Melmoth. 
 " 1 stuck it in a potatoe," quoth the house- 
 keeper. So the gossoon ran for life and 
 death, and Melmoth, towards the close of 
 the evening, was left alone to meditate. 
 
 It was an evening apt for meditation, 
 and Melmoth had his fill of it before the 
 messenger returned. The weather was 
 cold and gloomy ; heavy clouds betokened 
 a long and dreary continuance of autumnal 
 rains ; cloud after cloud came sweeping on 
 like the dark banners of an approaching 
 host, whose march is for desolation. As 
 Melmoth leaned against the window, w r hose 
 dismantled frame, and pieced and shatter- 
 ed panes, shook with every gust of wind, 
 his eye encountered nothing but that most 
 cheerless of all prospects, a miser's garden, 
 — walls broken down, grass-grown walks 
 whose grass w r as not even green, dwarfish, 
 doddered, leafless trees, and a luxuriant 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UKSVERSfTY Of ttXIWO» 
 
52 MELMOTH : 
 
 crop of nettles and weeds rearing their 
 unlovely heads where there had once been 
 flowers, all waving and bending in capri- 
 cious and unsightly forms, as the wind 
 sighed over them. It was the verdure of 
 the church yard, the garden of death. He 
 turned for relief to the room, but no relief 
 was there, — the wainscotting dark with 
 dirt, and in many places cracked and 
 starting from the walls, — the rusty grate, 
 so long unconscious of a fire, that nothing 
 but a sullen smoke could be coaxed to 
 issue from between its dingy bars, — the 
 crazy chairs, their torn bottoms of rush 
 drooping inwards, and the great leathern 
 seat displaying the stuffing round the 
 worn edges, while the nails, though they 
 kept their places, had failed to keep the 
 covering they once fastened, — the chimney- 
 piece, which, tarnished more by time than 
 by smoke, displayed for its garniture half 
 a pair of snuffers, a tattered almanack of 
 1750, a time-keeper dumb for want of re- 
 pair, and a rusty fowling-piece without a 
 
A TALE. 5o 
 
 lock. — No wonder the spectacle of desola- 
 tion drove Melmoth back to his own 
 thoughts, restless and uncomfortable as 
 they were. He recapitulated the Sybil's 
 story word by word, with the air of a man 
 who is cross-examining an evidence, and 
 trying to make him contradict himself. 
 
 " The first of the Melmoths, she says, who 
 settled in Ireland, was an officer in Crom- 
 well's army, who obtained a grant of lands, 
 the confiscated property of an Irish family 
 attached to the royal cause. The elder bro- 
 ther of this man was one who had travelled 
 abroad, and resided so long on the Conti- 
 nent, that his family had lost all recollec- 
 tion of him. Their memory was not sti- 
 mulated bv their affection, for there were 
 strange reports concerning the traveller. 
 He was said to be (like the " damned ma- 
 gician, great Glendower,") " a gentleman 
 profited in strange concealments." 
 
 It must be remembered, that at this 
 period, and even to a later, the belief in 
 astrology and witchcraft was very general 
 
34 MELMOTH : 
 
 Even so late as the reign of Charles II. 
 Dryden calculated the nativity of his son 
 Charles, the ridiculous books of Glanville 
 were in general circulation, and Delrio 
 and Wierus were so popular, that even a 
 dramatic writer (Shadwell) quoted copious- 
 ly from them, in the notes subjoined to 
 his curious comedy of the Lancashire 
 witches. It was said, that during the 
 life-time of Melmoth, the traveller paid 
 him a visit; and though he must have 
 then been considerably advanced in life, 
 to the astonishment of his family, he did 
 not betray the slightest trace of being a 
 year older than when they last beheld him. 
 His visit was short, he said nothing of the 
 past or the future, nor did his family ques- 
 tion him. It was said that they did not 
 feel themselves perfectly at ease in his pre- 
 sence. On his departure he left them his 
 picture, (the same which Melmoth saw in 
 the closet, bearing date 1646), and they 
 saw him no more. Some years after, a 
 person arrived from England, directed to 
 
A TALE. 55 
 
 Melmoth's house, in pursuit of the travel- 
 ler, and exhibiting the most marvellous 
 and unappeasable solicitude to obtain some 
 intelligence of him. The family could 
 give him none, and after some days of 
 restless inquiry and agitation, he departed, 
 leaving behind him, either through negli- 
 gence or intention, a manuscript, contain- 
 ing an extraordinary account of the cir- 
 cumstances under which he had met John 
 Melmoth the Traveller (as he was called). 
 
 The manusqrifjjt and portrait were both 
 preserved, and of the original a report 
 spread that he was still alive, and had been 
 frequently seen in Ireland even to the pre- 
 sent century, — but that he wasnever known 
 to appear but on the approaching death of 
 one of the family, nor even then, unless 
 when the evil passions or habits of the in- 
 dividual had cast a shade of gloomy and 
 fearful interest over their dying hour. 
 
 It was therefore judged no favourable 
 augury for the spiritual destination of the 
 last Melmoth, that this extraordinary per- 
 
56 MELMOTH : 
 
 son had visited, or been imagined to visits 
 the house previous to his decease." 
 
 Such was the account given by Biddy 
 Brannigan, to which she added her own 
 solemnly- attested belief, that John Mel- 
 moth the Traveller was still without a hair 
 on his head changed, or a muscle in his 
 frame contracted ; — that she had seen those 
 that had seen him, and would confirm 
 their evidence by oath if necessary ; — that 
 he was never heard to speak, seen to par- 
 take of food, or known to enter any dwell- 
 ing but that of his family ; — and, finally, 
 that she herself believed that his late ap- 
 pearance boded no good either to the living 
 or the dead. 
 
 John was still musing on these things 
 when the lights were procured, and, dis- 
 regarding the pallid countenances and mo- 
 nitory whispers of the attendants, he reso- 
 lutely entered the closet, shut the door, 
 and proceeded to search for the manuscript. 
 It was soon found, for the directions of 
 old Melmoth were forcibly written, and 
 
A TALE. 57 
 
 strongly remembered. The manuscript, 
 old, tattered, and discoloured, was taken 
 from the very drawer in which it was 
 mentioned to be laid. Melmoth's hands 
 felt as cold as those of his dead uncle, 
 when he drew the blotted pages from their 
 nook. He sat down to read, — there was 
 a dead silence through the house. Mel- 
 moth looked wistfully at the candles, snuff- 
 ed them, and still thought they looked 
 dim, (perchance he thought they burned 
 blue, but such thought he kept to himself.) 
 Certain it is, he often changed his posture, 
 and would have changed his chair, had 
 there been more than one in the apartment. 
 He sunk for a few moments into a tit of 
 gloomy abstraction, till the sound of the 
 clock striking twelve made him start, — it 
 was the only sound he had heard for some 
 hours, and the sounds produced by inani- 
 mate things, while all living beings around 
 are as dead, have at such an hour an effect 
 indescribably awful. John looked at his 
 manuscript with some reluctance, opened 
 
 c 2 
 
58 MELMOTH : 
 
 it, paused over the first lines, and as the 
 wind sighed round the desolate apartment, 
 and the rain pattered with a mournful 
 sound against the dismantled window, 
 wished what did he wish for? — he 
 wished the sound of the wind less dismal, 
 and the dash of the rain less monotonous. 
 He may be forgiven, it was past mid- 
 night, and there was not a human being 
 awake but himself within ten miles when 
 he began to read. 
 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Apparebat eidolon senex. 
 
 Pliny. 
 
 A he manuscript was discoloured, oblite- 
 rated, and mutilated beyond any that had 
 ever before exercised the patience of a 
 reader. Michaelis himself, scrutinizing 
 into the pretended autograph of St Mark 
 at Venice, never had a harder time of it.-— 
 Melmoth could make out only a sentence 
 here and there. The writer, it appeared, 
 was an Englishman of the name of Stan- 
 ton, who had travelled abroad shortly after 
 
60 MELMOTH : 
 
 the Restoration. Travelling was not then 
 attended with the facilities which modern 
 improvement has introduced, and scholars 
 and literati, the intelligent, the idle, and 
 the curious, wandered over the Continent 
 for years, like Tom Cory at, though they 
 had the modesty, on their return, to en- 
 title the result of their multiplied observa- 
 tions and labours only " crudities." 
 
 Stanton, about the year 1676, was in 
 Spain ; he was, like most of the travellers 
 of that age, a man of literature, intelli- 
 gence, and curiosity, but ignorant of the 
 language of the country, and fighting his 
 way at times from convent to convent, in 
 quest of what was called " Hospitality," 
 that is, obtaining board and lodging on 
 the condition of holding a debate in Latin, 
 on some point theological or metaphysical, 
 with any monk who would become the 
 champion of the strife. Now, as the theo- 
 logy was Catholic, and the metaphysics 
 Aristotelian, Stanton sometimes wished 
 himself at the miserable Posada from 
 
A TALE. 61 
 
 whose filth and famine he had been fight- 
 ing his escape ; but though his reverend 
 antagonists always denounced his creed, 
 and comforted themselves, even in defeat, 
 with the assurance that he must be damn- 
 ed, on the double score of his being a he- 
 retic and an Englishman, they were ob- 
 liged to confess that his Latin was good, 
 and his logic unanswerable ; and he was 
 allowed, in most cases, to sup and sleep 
 in peace. This was not doomed to be his 
 fate on the night of the 17th August 
 1677, when he found himself in the plains 
 of "V alencia, deserted by a cowardly guide, 
 who had been terrified by the sight of a 
 cross erected as a memorial of a murder, 
 had slipped off his mule unperceived, 
 crossing himself every step he took on his 
 retreat from the heretic, and left Stanton 
 amid the terrors of an approaching storm, 
 and the dangers of an unknown country. 
 The sublime and yet softened beauty of 
 the scenery around, had filled the soul of 
 Stanton with delight, and he enjoyed that 
 
62 MELMOTH : 
 
 delight as Englishmen generally do, si- 
 lently. 
 
 The magnificent remains of two dynas- 
 ties that had passed away, the ruins of 
 Roman palaces, and of Moorish fortresses, 
 were around and above him; — the dark 
 and heavy thunder- clouds that advanced 
 slowly, seemed like the shrouds of these 
 spectres of departed greatness ; they ap- 
 proached, but did not yet overwhelm or 
 conceal them, as if nature herself was for 
 once awed by the power of man ; and far 
 below, the lovely valley of Valencia blush- 
 ed and burned in all the glory of sunset, 
 like a bride receiving the last glowing kiss 
 of the bridegroom before the approach of 
 night. Stanton gazed around. The dif- 
 ference between the architecture of the 
 Roman and Moorish ruins struck him. 
 Among the former are the remains of a 
 theatre, and something like a public place ; 
 the latter present only the remains of for- 
 tresses, embattled, castellated, and fortified 
 from top to bottom, — not a loop-hole for 
 
A TALE. 63 
 
 pleasure to get in by, — the loop-holes were 
 only for arrows ; all denoted military power 
 and despotic subjugation a toutrance. 
 The contrast might have pleased a philo- 
 sopher, and he might have indulged in 
 the reflection, that though the ancient 
 Greeks and Romans were savages, (as Dr 
 Johnson says all people who want a press 
 must be, and he says truly), yet they were 
 wonderful savages for their time, for they 
 alone have left traces of their taste for 
 pleasure in the countries they conquered, 
 in their superb theatres, temples, (which 
 were also dedicated to pleasure one way or 
 another), and baths, while other conquer- 
 ing bands of savages never left any thing 
 behind them but traces of their rage for 
 power. So thought Stanton, as he still 
 saw strongly defined, though darkened by 
 the darkening clouds, the huge skeleton 
 of a Roman amphitheatre, its arched and 
 gigantic colonnades now admitting a gleam 
 of light, and now commingling with the 
 purple thunder-cloud ; and now the solid 
 
64 MELMOTH : 
 
 and heavy mass of a Moorish fortress, no 
 light playing between its impermeable 
 walls, — the image of power, dark, isolated, 
 impenetrable. Stanton forgot his coward- 
 ly guide, his loneliness, his danger amid 
 an approaching storm and an inhospitable 
 country, where his name and country 
 would shut every door against him, and 
 every peal of thunder would be supposed 
 justified by the daring intrusion of a here- 
 tic in the dwelling of an old Christian, as 
 the Spanish Catholics absurdly term them- 
 selves, to mark the distinction between 
 them and the baptised Moors. — All this 
 was forgot in contemplating the glorious 
 and awful scenery before him, — -light 
 struggling with darkness, — and darkness 
 menacing a light still more terrible, and 
 announcing its menace in the blue and 
 livid mass of cloud that hovered like a de- 
 stroying angel in the air, its arrows aimed, 
 but their direction awfully indefinite. But 
 he ceased to forget these local and petty 
 dangers, as the sublimity of romance 
 
A TALE. 65. 
 
 would term them, when he saw the first 
 flash of the lightning, broad and red as 
 the banners of an insulting army whose 
 motto is Vce victis, shatter to atoms the 
 remains of a Roman tower ; — the rifted 
 stones rolled down the hill, and fell at the 
 feet of Stanton. He stood appalled, and, 
 awaiting his summons from the Power in 
 whose eye pyramids, palaces, and the 
 worms whose toil has formed them, and 
 the worms who toil out their existence 
 under their shadow or their pressure, are 
 perhaps all alike contemptible, he stood 
 collected, and for a moment felt that de- 
 fiance of danger which danger itself ex- 
 cites, and we love to encounter it as a 
 physical enemy, to bid it " do its worst," 
 and feel that its worst will perhaps be ulti- 
 mately its best for us. He stood and saw 
 another flash dart its bright, brief, and 
 malignant glance over the ruins of ancient 
 power, and the luxuriance of recent ferti- 
 lity. Singular contrast ! The relics of art 
 for ever decaying, — the productions of na~ 
 
66 MELMOTH : 
 
 ture for ever renewed. — (Alas ! for what pur- 
 pose are they renewed, better than to mock 
 at the perishable monuments which men try 
 in vain to rival them by). The pyramids 
 themselves must perish, but the grass that 
 grows between their disjointed stones will 
 be renewed from year to year. Stanton 
 was thinking thus, when all power of 
 thought was suspended, by seeing two 
 persons bearing between them the body of 
 a young, and apparently very lovely girl, 
 who had been struck dead by the light- 
 ning. Stanton approached, and heard the 
 voices of the bearers repeating, " There is 
 none who will mourn for her !" " There 
 is none who will mourn for her !" said 
 other voices, as two more bore in their 
 arms the blasted and blackened figure of 
 what had once been a man, comely and 
 graceful ; — " there is not one to mourn for 
 her now !" They were lovers, and he had 
 been consumed by the flash that had de- 
 stroyed her, while in the act of endeavour- 
 ing to defend her. As they were about 
 
A TALE. 67 
 
 to remove the bodies, a person approached 
 with a calmness of step and demeanour, 
 as if he were alone unconscious of danger, 
 and incapable of fear; and after looking 
 on them for some time, burst into a laugh 
 so loud, wild, and protracted, that the 
 peasants, starting with as much horror at 
 the sound as at that of the storm, hurried 
 away, bearing the corse with them. Even 
 Stanton's fears were subdued by his asto- 
 nishment, and, turning to the stranger, 
 who remained standing on the same spot, 
 he asked the reason of such an outrage on 
 humanity. 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 Stan- 
 ton a sturdy and unappeasable applicant ; 
 and the shrill voice of the old woman, re- 
 
68 MELMOTH : 
 
 peating, " no heretic — no English — Mo- 
 ther of God protect us — avaunt Satan !" — 
 combined with the clatter of the wooden 
 casement (peculiar to the houses in Valen- 
 tia) which she opened to discharge her 
 volley of anathematization, and shut again 
 as the lightning glanced through the aper- 
 ture, 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 excla- 
 mations of the old woman ; there was a 
 peculiar and personal horror of the En- 
 glish. — And he was right ; but this did 
 
 not diminish the eagerness of his 
 
 ■&- «■ * , * 
 
 The house was handsome and spacious, 
 but the melancholy appearance of deser- 
 tion * * * 
 
A TALE. 69 
 
 — 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 man- 
 sion ; they seemed to say, from their moul- 
 dering 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. " Don't heed it," said the old wo- 
 
70 MELMOTH : 
 
 man, fighting him on with a miserable 
 lamp ; — " it is only he * * * 
 
 The old woman having now satisfied her- 
 self, 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 op- 
 position, 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, 
 
A TALE. 71 
 
 representing the exploits of the Cid, par- 
 ticularly that of his burning a few Moors 
 who refused to renounce their accursed 
 religion. They were represented beauti- 
 fully tortured, writhing and howling, and 
 H 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 to 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 happi- 
 ness. Don Pedro de Cardoza had assem- 
 bled a large party in honour of his daugh- 
 ter's nuptials ; among them was an En- 
 glishman of the name of Melmoth, a tra- 
 veller ; no one knew who had brought him 
 
72 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 
 flowed like a sun over the ruins of Sa- 
 guntum ; 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 oc- 
 curred 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 
 
A TALE. 73 
 
 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, ex- 
 changing a smile of delighted surprise, ex- 
 claimed 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 extra- 
 ordinary 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 as- 
 vol. i. © 
 
74 MELMOTH : 
 
 sembly of the dead. The silence was in- 
 terrupted, 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, be- 
 loved in the family, and respected in the 
 neighbourhood, where he had displayed 
 uncommon taste and talents for exorcism ; 
 — in fact, this was the good Father's forte, 
 and he piqued himself on it accordingly. 
 The devil never fell into worse hands than 
 Father Olavida's, for when he was so con- 
 tumacious 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 stub- 
 bornness and difficulty, — (here Stanton re- 
 collected the English story of the Boy of 
 Bilson, and blushed even in Spain for his 
 country men ),-*-then he always applied to 
 
A TALE. 75 
 
 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 blas- 
 phemy), 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 Olavida's 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 Father's countenance, but it dis- 
 persed as he mingled among the guests, 
 and was introduced to them. Room was 
 soon made for him, and he happened ac- 
 cidentally to be seated opposite the En- 
 glishman. As the wine was presented to 
 him, Father Olavida, (who, as I observed, 
 
76 ivAlmoth : 
 
 was a man of singular sanctity), prepared 
 to utter a short internal prayer. He hesi- 
 tated, — 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 en- 
 deavouring 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 at- 
 tempted to lift the cup to his lips once 
 more — in vain. The guests sat in asto- 
 nished silence. Father Olavida alone re- 
 
A TALE. 77 
 
 mainecl standing ; but at that moment the 
 Englishman rose, and appeared determin- 
 ed to fix Olavida's regards by a gaze like 
 that of fascination. Olavida rocked, reel- 
 ed, grasped the arm of a page, and at last, 
 closing his eyes for a moment, as if to 
 escape the horrible fascination of that un- 
 earthly glare, (the Englishman's eyes were 
 observed by all the guests, from the mo- 
 ment of his entrance, to effuse a most 
 fearful and preternatural lustre), exclaim- 
 ed, " Who is among us ? — Who ? — I can- 
 not 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 f — Who?" 
 repeated the priest in the agony of adju- 
 ration, 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 
 
78 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 com- 
 pany, and asked each individually, " Do 
 you know him ?" " No ! no ! no I" 
 was uttered with vehement emphasis by 
 every individual. " But I know him," 
 said Olavida, u by these cold drops !" and 
 
A TALE. 79 
 
 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 dif- 
 ficulty, — " 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 — J 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. ****** 
 
SO MELMOTH : 
 
 The body was removed into another 
 room, and the departure of the English- 
 man was not noticed till the company re- 
 turned to the hall. They sat late toge- 
 ther, conversing on this extraordinary cir- 
 cumstance, and finally agreed to remain in 
 the house, lest the evil spirit (for they be- 
 lieved 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 be- 
 nefit of the last sacraments. Just as this 
 laudable resolution was formed, they were 
 roused by cries of horror and agony from 
 the bridal-chamber, 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 hus- 
 band. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 He never recovered his reason ; the family 
 deserted the mansion rendered terrible by 
 
A TALE. 81 
 
 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 mid- 
 night he always exclaims, in a voice fright- 
 fully piercing, and hardly human, " They 
 are coming ! they are coming !" and re- 
 lapses into profound silence. 
 
 The funeral of Father Olavida was at- 
 tended by an extraordinary circumstance. 
 He was interred in a neighbouring con- 
 vent; and the reputation of his sanctity, 
 joined to the interest caused by his extra- 
 ordinary death, collected vast numbers at 
 the ceremony. His funeral sermon was 
 preached by a monk of distinguished elo- 
 quence, 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 
 
 d 2 
 
82 MELMOTH : 
 
 our palaces." He expatiated on mortali- 
 ty, 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 au- 
 dience were not observed to be much af- 
 fected. — He cited various passages from the 
 lives of the saints, descriptive of the glo- 
 ries 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 persecu- 
 tions those holy men suffered, his hearers 
 were roused for a moment, for it is always 
 easier to excite a passion than a moral feel- 
 ing. 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 be- 
 came attentive. Even the lovers, who, 
 under pretence of dipping their fingers 
 
A TALE. 83 
 
 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 deceas- 
 ed, 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 ex- 
 claimed, " 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 apos- 
 tacy 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 
 
84 MELMOTH : 
 
 from among the congregation answersed, 
 — " Because he deserved his fate." The 
 murmurs of approbation with which the 
 congregation honoured this apostrophe, 
 half-drowned this extraordinary interrup- 
 tion ; and though there was some little 
 commotion in the immediate vicinity of 
 the speaker, the rest of the audience con- 
 tinued to listen intently. " What," pro- 
 ceeded the preacher, pointing to the corse, 
 " what hath laid thee there, servant of 
 God ?" — " Pride, ignorance, and fear," an- 
 swered 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 admoni- 
 tion, exhortation, and discipline had been 
 employed, and the bishop of the diocese, 
 who, under the report of these extraordi- 
 
A TALE. 85 
 
 nary circumstances, had visited the con- 
 vent 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 Olavida's death. His hu- 
 miliation, and repeated offers of confes- 
 sion, 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 re- 
 late 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 
 
86 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 exclama- 
 tions ?" — 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 a- 
 gainst this wall," and the Inquisitor point- 
 ed 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 inter- 
 cession of the Queen of Heaven, and the 
 merits of all its* martyrs, nay, even the 
 absolution of the Pope, cannot deliver 
 yon from the curse of dying in unrepent- 
 ed sin." — " What sin, then, have I com- 
 mitted ?" " The greatest of all possible 
 
A TALE. 87 
 
 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 conse- 
 quence 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 Je- 
 sus Christ, he would not forbid you to 
 obey the commands, or answer the ques- 
 tions of the Inquisition."—" I am not 
 sure of that." There was a general out- 
 cry of horror at these words. The exami- 
 nation then went on. " If you believed 
 Olavida to be guilty of any pursuits* ov 
 
88 MELMOTII : 
 
 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 pur- 
 suits ; 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 se- 
 cond applications with unshrinking cou- 
 rage, but on the infliction of the water- 
 torture, which is indeed insupportable to 
 humanity, either to suffer or relate, he ex- 
 claimed in the gasping interval, he would 
 disclose every thing. He was released, 
 refreshed, restored, and the following day 
 uttered the following remarkable confession 
 
A TALE. 89 
 
 * # # # * 
 
 * # * # # * 
 
 The old Spanish woman further confess- 
 ed to Stanton, that * * * 
 ****** and that 
 the Englishman certainly had been seen 
 in the neighbourhood since ;- — seen, as she 
 had heard, that very night. " Great 
 G — d !" exolaimed Stanton, as he recol- 
 lected 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 unsatis- 
 fied, not knowing what connexion this 
 Spanish story could have with his ances- 
 tor, whom, however, he recognised under 
 the title of the Englishman ; and wonder* 
 ing how Stanton could have thought it 
 
90 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 Stan- 
 ton was now in England. * * * 
 ***•* **** 
 
 About the year 1677, Stanton was in 
 London, his mind still full of his myste- 
 rious countryman. This constant subject 
 of his contemplations had produced a visi- 
 ble change in his exterior, — his walk was 
 what Sallust tells us of Catiline's, — his 
 were, too, the " fcedi ocali" 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 con- 
 stantly in public amusements, but it is 
 
A TALE. 91 
 
 true. When one fierce passion is devour- 
 ing 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 courtier's 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 pro- 
 gressive deterioration of morals, — foolish 
 even from the pen of Juvenal, and still 
 more so from the lips of a modern Puri- 
 tan. Vice is always nearly on an ave- 
 rage : The only difference in life worth 
 tracing, is that of manners, and there we 
 have manifestly the advantage of our an- 
 cestors. Hypocrisy is said to be the ho- 
 mage that vice pays to virtue, — decorum is 
 the outward expression of that homage* 
 
92 MELMOTII : 
 
 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 Second's 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), sur- 
 rounding the sedan of a popular actress \ 
 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 
 
 * Mrs Marshall, the original Roxana in Lee's Alex- 
 ander, and the only virtuous woman then on the stage. 
 She was carried off in the manner described, by Lord 
 Orrery, who, finding all his solicitations repelled, had 
 recourse to a sham marriage performed by a servant 
 in the habit of a clergyman. 
 
A TALE. 93 
 
 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 
 o'clock, allowed ample time for the even- 
 ing drive, and the midnight assignation, 
 when the parties met by torch-light, mask- 
 ed, in St James's park, and verified the title 
 of Wycherly's 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 Gram- 
 mont, might save modern puritanism many 
 a vituperative groan and affected reminis- 
 cence. 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 
 
94 MELMOTH : 
 
 still cherished love-lock, which Prynne him- 
 self 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, (nHmporte whether 
 the Duchess of Portsmouth or Nell 
 G wynne) ; their uncombed wigs, whose 
 curls descended to their waists, and the 
 loud and careless tone in which they abus- 
 ed 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 address- 
 ed to a lady, with the profane exclamation 
 of # " Oh Jesu !" or the softer, but equally 
 
 * Vide Pope, (copying from Doune). 
 
 " Peace, fools, or Gonson will for Papists seize you, 
 If once he catch you at your Jesu, Jesu." 
 
A TALE. 95 
 
 unmeaning one of " I beseech you, Ma- 
 dam," or, " Madam, I burn *." One circum- 
 stance 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 lan- 
 guage borrowed from Orondates worship- 
 ping Cassandra, in the next accosted her 
 with ribaldry that might put to the blush 
 the piazzas of Coven t Garden f . 
 
 The pit presented a more various spectacle. 
 There were the critics armed cap-a-pee from 
 Aristotle and Bossu ; these men dined at 
 twelve, dictated at a coffee-house till four, 
 
 * Vide the Old Bachelor, whose Araminta, wearied 
 by the repetition of these phrases, forbids her lover 
 to address her in any sentence commencing with 
 them. 
 
 + Vide any old play you may have the patience to 
 peruse ; or, instar omnium, read the courtly loves of 
 Rodolphil and Melantha, Palamede and Doratice, in 
 Dryden's Marriage a la Mode. 
 
90 MELMOTH : 
 
 then called to the boy to brush their shoes, 
 and strode to the theatre, where, till the 
 curtain rose, they sat hushed in grim re- 
 pose, and expecting their evening prey. 
 There were the templars, spruce, pert, and 
 loquacious ; and here and there a sober 
 citizen, doffing his steeple-crowned 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 Ke- 
 dar." There were females, too, but all in 
 vizard masks, which, though worn as well 
 as aunt Dinah's in Tristram Shandy, served 
 to conceal them from the " young bub- 
 bles" they were in quest of, and from all but 
 the orange- women, who hailed them loud- 
 ly as they passed the doors # . In the gal- 
 leries were the happy souls who waited for 
 
 * Vide Southern's Oroonoko, — I mean the comic 
 part. 
 
A TALE. 97 
 
 the fulfilment of Dryden's promise in one 
 of his prologues * ; no matter to them whe- 
 ther it were the ghost of Almanzor's mo- 
 ther in her dripping shroud, or that of 
 Lai us, who, according to the stage direc- 
 tions, rises in his chariot, armed with the 
 ghosts of his three murdered attendants 
 behind him ; — a joke that did not escape 
 l'Abbe le Blanc f, 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, El- 
 kanah Settle, and John Dryden, all agree- 
 ing in their choice of Spanish and Moorish 
 
 * ce A charm, a song, a murder, and a ghost." 
 
 Prologue to (Ediptis, 
 t Vide Le Blanc's Letters. 
 VOL. I. E 
 
9S MELMOTH : 
 
 subjects for their principal plays. Among 
 this joyous groupe were seated several 
 women of fashion masked, enjoying in 
 secrecy the licentiousness which they dar- 
 ed not openly patronise, and verifying 
 Gay's characteristic description, though 
 it was written many years later, 
 
 <e 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 god- like 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 prin- 
 
A TALE. 99 
 
 cesses 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 *, Mrs 
 Barry, who personated Roxana, had a 
 green-room squabble with Mrs Bowtell, 
 the representative of Statira, about a veil, 
 which the partiality of the property-man 
 adjudged to the latter. Roxana suppress- 
 ed 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 per- 
 formance was suspended, and, in the com- 
 motion which this incident caused in the 
 house, many of the audience rose, and 
 Stanton among them. It was at this mo- 
 ment that, in a seat opposite to him, he 
 discovered the object of his search for four 
 
 * Vide Betterton's History of the Stage. 
 
100 MELMOTH : 
 
 years, — the Englishman whom he had met 
 in the plains of Valentia, and whom he be- 
 lieved the same with the subject of the ex- 
 traordinary narrative he had heard there. 
 
 He was standing up. There was no- 
 thing particular or remarkable in his ap- 
 pearance, but the expression of his eyes 
 could never be mistaken or forgotten. 
 The heart of Stanton palpitated with vio- 
 lence, — a mist 'overspread his eyes, — a 
 nameless and deadly sickness, accompa- 
 nied with a creeping sensation in every 
 pore, from which cold drops were gush- 
 ing, announced the * * 
 
 ******* 
 
 Before he had well recovered, a strain of 
 music, soft, solemn, and delicious, breath- 
 ed round him, audibly ascending from the 
 ground, and increasing in sweetness and 
 power till it seemed to fill the whole build- 
 ing. Under the sudden impulse of amaze- 
 ment and pleasure, he inquired of some 
 around him from whence those exquisite 
 sounds arose. But, by the manner in 
 
A TALE. 101 
 
 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 suspi- 
 cion. He then remembered that night in 
 Spain, when the same sweet and myste- 
 rious 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 e blasts from hell' ?" 
 It is very singular that at this moment, 
 when his imagination had reached its 
 highest pitch of elevation, — when the ob- 
 ject 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 
 
102 MELMOTH : 
 
 declare its name, that Stanton began to 
 feel a kind of disappointment at the futi- 
 lity of his pursuits, like Bruce at disco- 
 vering 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 pas- 
 sion is more insatiable, or more capable 
 of giving a kind of romantic grandeur to 
 all its wanderings and eccentricities ? Cu- 
 riosity is in one respect like love, it al- 
 ways compromises between the object and 
 the feeling ; and provided the latter pos- 
 sesses 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 acciden- 
 tal appearance of a stranger ; but no man, 
 in the full energy of his passions, was 
 there, but must have trembled at the hor- 
 rible agony of emotion with which he felt 
 approaching, with sudden and irresistible 
 velocity, the crisis of his destiny. 
 
A TALE. 103 
 
 V 
 
 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, pro- 
 jected half across the street, (there were 
 no flagged ways then, chains and posts 
 were the only defence of the foot-passen- 
 ger), appeared to him of gigantic magni- 
 tude. He had been so long accustomed 
 to contend with these phantoms of the 
 imagination, that he took a kind of stub- 
 born delight in subduing them. He walk- 
 ed up to the object, and observing the 
 shadow only was magnified, and the figure 
 was the ordinary height of man, he ap- 
 proached it, and discovered the very ob- 
 ject 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."— 
 
104 MELMOTH : 
 
 u 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 Stan- 
 ton, grasping his arm ; " name your hour 
 and your place." " The hour shall be 
 mid-day," answered the stranger, with a 
 horrid and unintelligible smile ; " and the 
 place shall be the bare walls of a mad- 
 house, 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 
 
A TALI?. 105 
 
 full-lighted blaze of those demon eyes. 
 " I never," said the stranger, in an em- 
 phatic 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 a- 
 gain able to trace its continuation, describ- 
 ed Stanton, some years after, plunged in a 
 state the most deplorable. 
 
 tie had been always reckoned of a sin- 
 gular turn of mind, and the belief of this, 
 aggravated by his constant talk of Mel- 
 moth, his wild pursuit of him, his strange 
 behaviour at the theatre, and his dwelling 
 on the various particulars of their extra- 
 ordinary meetings, with all the intensity 
 of the deepest conviction, (while he never 
 could impress them on any one's convic- 
 tion but his own), suggested to some pru- 
 dent people the idea that he was deranged. 
 Their malignity probably took part with 
 
 e 2 
 
106 MELMOTH 5 
 
 their prudence. The selfish Frenchman * 
 says, we feel a pleasure even in the mis- 
 fortunes 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 Stanton's malady was propa- 
 gated with infernal and successful indus- 
 try. Stanton's next relative, a needy un- 
 principled 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 appear- 
 ance. 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 equi- 
 pages, though infinitely fewer than they 
 
 * Rochefoucault. 
 
A TALE. 10 
 
 w 
 
 are now, exceeded the number of hired 
 ones), and proposed going by water. This, 
 however, did not suit the kinsman's views ; 
 and, after pretending to send for a car- 
 riage, (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, — 
 il 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 ; 
 u I shall take order that you like it better, 
 when you have been some time a dweller 
 therein." Some attendants of a mean ap- 
 pearance, and with most suspicious visages, 
 awaited them on their entrance, and they 
 ascended a narrow staircase, which led to 
 
108 MELMOTH : 
 
 a room meanly furnished. " Wait here," 
 said the kinsman, to the man who accom- 
 panied 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 pro- 
 posal (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 mas- 
 sive 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." 
 
A TALE. 109 
 
 The next was entitled, " A modest pro- 
 posal for the spreading of Christianity in 
 foreign pans, whereby it is hoped its en- 
 tertainment 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 Chris- 
 tians. 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 d'eclat, — one fine morn- 
 
110 MELMOTH : 
 
 ing, 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 Can- 
 terbury, in pontificalibus, performing Ca- 
 thedral 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, w by 
 those who have more spleen than brain, 
 that forasmuch as the Archbishop preach- 
 eth 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 ser- 
 vice 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 
 
A TALE. Ill 
 
 singing litanies, (in a language his majes- 
 ty could not posssibly 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 ex- 
 quisitely in paper the liknesses 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 moon-beam as it enter- 
 ed 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 con- 
 tained some insane lines, ascribed to Lee 
 the dramatic poet, commencing, 
 
11£ melmoth: 
 
 " O that my lungs could bleat like buttered pease/' &e. 
 
 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 mad-house, without ever reflecting on 
 the place where he was, and which such 
 compositions too manifestly designated. 
 
 It was after a long interval that he look- 
 ed round, and perceived that his compa- 
 nion was gone. Bells were unusual then. 
 He proceeded to the door, — it was fasten- 
 ed. He called aloud, — his voice was echo- 
 ed in a moment by many others, but in 
 tones so wild and discordant, that he de- 
 sisted 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 hu- 
 man being was; and if there had, from 
 
A TALE. 113 
 
 such a being no human feeling could have 
 been extracted. 
 
 Sickening with unspeakable horror, he 
 sunk rather than sat down beside the mi- 
 serable window, and " wished for day." 
 # # # # 
 
 At midnight he started from a doze, half 
 a swoon, half a sleep, which probably tlje 
 hardness of his seat, and of the deal table 
 on which he leaned, had not contributed 
 to prolong. 
 
 He was in complete darkness ; the hor- 
 ror of his situation struck him at once 3 
 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 ut- 
 tered 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 extraordi- 
 nary acuteness of some of the senses, par- 
 ticularly in distinguishing the voice of a 
 
114 MELMOTH : 
 
 stranger. The cries that he heard on every 
 side seemed like a wild and infernal veil of 
 joy, that their mansion of misery had ob- 
 tained 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, what's all this noise for ?" " Where 
 am I?" " Where you ought to be." 
 " Will you dare to detain me ?" " Yes, 
 and a little more than thafcf' answered the 
 ruffian, applying a loaded horse-whip to 
 his back and shoulders, till the patient 
 soon fell to the ground convulsed with 
 rage and pain. " Nov/ you see you are 
 where you ought to be," repeated the ruf- 
 fian, brandishing the horse-whip 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 they'll 
 clink them on in the crack of this whip, 
 
A TALE. 115 
 
 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 unwilling- 
 ness to apply them. Their harsh rattle on 
 the stone pavement made Stanton's blood 
 run cold; the effect, however, was use- 
 ful. He had the presence of mind to 
 acknowledge his (supposed) miserable con- 
 dition, to supplicate the forbearance of the 
 ruthless keeper, and promise complete sub- 
 mission to his orders. This pacified the 
 ruffian, and he retired. 
 
 Stanton collected all his resolution to 
 encounter the horrible night ; he saw ail 
 that was before him, and summoned him- 
 self to meet it. After much agitated de- 
 liberation, 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 appare 
 
116 MELMOTH: 
 
 inoffensiveness, procure such opportuni- 
 ties of indulgence, as might perhaps ulti- 
 mately 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 de- 
 gree of prudence which he already shud- 
 dered 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 Stan- 
 ton's apartment were lodged two most un- 
 congenial neighbours. One of them was 
 a puritanical weaver, who had been driven 
 mad by a single sermon from the celebrat- 
 ed Hugh Peters, and was sent to the 
 mad-house as full of election and reproba- 
 tion as he could hold, — and fuller. He 
 regularly repeated over the five points 
 while day-light lasted, and imagined him- 
 self preaching in a conventicle with dis- 
 tinguished success; towards twilight his 
 
A TALE. 117 
 
 visions were more gloomy, and at mid- 
 night 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 Jit 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 mad- 
 house echo with fragments of the ill-fated 
 Colonel Lovelace's songs, scraps from 
 Cowley's " Cutter of Coleman street," and 
 some curious specimens from Mrs Aphra 
 Bella's plays, where the cavaliers are deno- 
 minated the heroicks, and Lady Lambert 
 and Lady Desborough represented as go- 
 ing 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 
 
118 melmoth: 
 
 tfey 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 
 sky-coloured mule, which signifies instruc- 
 tion *." " Ye lie, ye round-head son of a 
 b h," roared the cavalier tailor, " Co- 
 lonel Harrison will be damned before he 
 ever mounts a sky-coloured mule ;" and 
 he concluded this pithy sentence with 
 fragments of anti-Oliverian songs. 
 
 iC 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 
 
 * Vide Cutter of Coleman street. 
 
A TALE. 119 
 
 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," ex- 
 claimed the tailor, dancing wildly about 
 his cell (as far as his chains allowed him) 
 to an imaginary measure. The weaver 
 could contain no longer. t( 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 
 flood-gates of thy power, and though thy 
 waves and storms go over me, let me tes- 
 tify 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 dis- 
 cover my frailty ? — Lord, let thine arm of 
 power be with us as it was w r hen thou 
 
120 MELMOTH J 
 
 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 wine- 
 press 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 
 
A TALE. 121 
 
 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 reminiscen- 
 ces were in a moment exchanged for war- 
 like 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 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
122 MELMOTH : 
 
 false Scots, and their solemn league and 
 covenant, and Carisbrook Castle, for that, 
 ye crop-eared 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 knock- 
 ed the " copper nose" into the Thames, 
 and sent it a-drift 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 man's (such was the indecent language 
 in which Charles the First was spoken of 
 by the Puritans) — it was the man's carnal, 
 self-seeking, world-loving, prelatical hier- 
 archy, that drove the godly to seek the 
 sweet word in season from their own 
 pastors, who righteously abominated the 
 Popish garniture of lawn-sleeves, lewd 
 organs, and steeple houses. Sister Ruth, 
 tempt me not with that calf's head, it is 
 
A TALE. 123 
 
 all streaming with blood ; — drop it, I be- 
 seech thee, sister, it is unmeet in a wo- 
 man's hand, though the brethren drink of 
 it. — Woe be unto thee, gain say er, dost 
 thou not see how flames envelope the ac- 
 cursed city under his Arminian and Po- 
 pish* son ? — London is on fire ! — on fire !" 
 he yelled ; " and the brands are lit by 
 the half-papist, whole-arminian, all-damn- 
 ed 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 re-echoed 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 Satur- 
 
124 MELMOTH: 
 
 day night, too, and she was always ob- 
 served to be particularly violent on that 
 night, — it w r as 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 
 Stanton's resolution was far more in dan- 
 ger 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 ap- 
 peared to be scrambling up a stair-case to 
 
A TALE. 125 
 
 her children's room. She exclaimed she 
 was scorched, singed, suffocated ; her cou- 
 rage 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 dis- 
 abled — 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 in- 
 fant — 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 stair-case 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 ; li I bear up the pillars of it." 
 The maniac marked the destruction of 
 
126 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 
 ttiutterings, and her convulsions into faint, 
 cold shudderings, like the sobbings of a 
 spent storm, as she imagined herself to 
 t( stand in safety and despair," amid the 
 thousand houseless wretches assembled in 
 the suburbs of London on the dread- 
 ful nights after the fire, without food, 
 roof, or raiment, all gazing on the burn- 
 ing ruins of their dwellings and their 
 property. She seemed to listen to their 
 complaints, and even repeated some of 
 them very afFectingly, but invariably an- 
 swered them with the same words, " But 
 I have lost all my children — allr It was 
 remarkable, that when this sufferer began 
 to rave, all the others became silent. The 
 
A TALE. 127 
 
 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 out-break of her frenzy always was, 
 Stanton used to await it as a kind of relief 
 from the dissonant, melancholy, and ludi- 
 crous 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 fright- 
 ful 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 in- 
 dulgence, might contribute to his escape, 
 or perhaps convince the keeper of his 
 sanity) was interpreted by the callous ruf- 
 fian, who was acquainted only with the 
 varieties of madness, as a more refined 
 
128 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 inces- 
 santly about his cell, and availed himself 
 of every opportunity of being in the open 
 air. He took the strictest care of his per- 
 son 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 frequent- 
 ly 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 heart-broken despon- 
 
A TALE. 129 
 
 dency. Formerly, when the air breath d 
 through his grating, he used to ,ay, 
 " 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 un- 
 heeded. 
 
 He began at times to listen with sullen 
 and horrible pleasure to the cries of his 
 miserable companions. He became squa- 
 lid, 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, 1 ' — he per- 
 ceived the miserable light that burned in 
 
 f 2 
 
130 MELMOTH : 
 
 the hearth was obscured by the interven- 
 tion of some dark object. He turned 
 feebly towards the light, without cu- 
 riosity, without excitement, but with a 
 wish to diversify the monotony of his mi- 
 sery, by observing the slightest change 
 made even accidentally in the dusky at- 
 mosphere 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. 
 
 Stanton's ruling passion rushed on his 
 soul ; he felt this apparition like a sum- 
 mons to a high and fearful encounter. He 
 heard his heart beat audibly, and could 
 have exclaimed with Lee's unfortunate he- 
 roine, — " It pants as cowards do before 
 a battle ; Oh the great march has sound- 
 ed !" 
 
 Melmoth approached him with that 
 frightful calmness that mocks the terror 
 
A TALE. 131 
 
 it excites. " My prophecy has been ful- 
 filled ;— 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 il- 
 lusion of madness. He thought to him- 
 self, " How could he have gained en- 
 trance here?"- — " Would you not wish 
 to be delivered from it ?" Stanton toss- 
 ed on his straw, and its rustling seem- 
 ed 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 fiend-like 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 de- 
 bility, was at once feeble and querulous. 
 His intellects had become affected by the 
 gloom of his miserable habitation, as the 
 
132 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 Stanton's situation ; he was 
 enfeebled now, and the power of the ene- 
 my seemed without a possibility of oppo- 
 sition from either his intellectual or corpo- 
 real powers. * * 
 
 ***** 
 
 Of all their horrible dialogue, only these 
 words were legible in the manuscript, 
 " You know me now." — " 1 always knew 
 you." — u 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 
 
A TALE. 133 
 
 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 thunder-clouds, you must hear one I 
 Stanton, think of your misery. These 
 bare walls — what do they present to the 
 intellect or to the senses ?— White- wash, 
 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 im- 
 prove. And here's a grating, through 
 which the sun squints on you like a step- 
 dame, and the breeze blows, as if it meant 
 to tantalize yon with a sigh from that 
 sweet mouth, whose kiss you must never 
 enjoy. And where's your library, — intel- 
 lectual man, — travelled man ?" he repeated 
 in a tone of bitter derision ; " where be 
 your companions, your peaked men of 
 
134 MELMOTH : 
 
 countries, as your favourite Shakespeare 
 has it? You must be content with the 
 spider and the rat, to crawl and scratch 
 round your flock-bed ! I have known pri- 
 soners in the Bastile to feed them for com- 
 panions, — why don't you begin your task? 
 1 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 fellow-prisoner ! — How delight- 
 ful 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 ban- 
 quet, 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 gnash- 
 ing 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 lapp«d ; and (as her 
 
A TALE. 135 
 
 progeny has probably contributed to the 
 
 hell-broth) why not ? Then your 
 
 hours of solitude, deliciously diversified 
 by the yell of famine, the howl of mad- 
 ness, the crash of whips, and the broken- 
 hearted 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 un- 
 impaired, 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 
 
136 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 extin- 
 guished 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 si- 
 tuation, that you will experience in its 
 most frightful and deplorable efficacy. 
 Then comes the dreadful doubt of one's 
 own sanity, the terrible announcer that 
 that doubt will soon become fear, and that 
 fear certainty. Perhaps (still more dread- 
 ful) 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, un- 
 able to exchange ideas but with those 
 whose ideas are only the hideous spectres 
 
A TALE. 137 
 
 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 conscious- 
 ness. 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 *, you will 
 hear them laugh amid their wildest pa- 
 roxysms ; 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 de- 
 vour their miserable meals, while I loathe 
 mine. They sleep sometimes soundly, 
 while my sleep is — worse than their wak- 
 
 * A fact, related to me by a person who was near 
 committing suicide in a similar situation, to escape 
 what he called " the excruciating torture of giddi* 
 ness.'- 
 
138 MELMOTH: 
 
 ing. They are revived every morning by 
 some delicious illusion of cunning mad- 
 ness, soothing them with the hope of escap- 
 ing, baffling or tormenting their keeper ; 
 my sanity precludes all such hope. / 
 know I never can escape^ and the preser- 
 vation of my faculties is only an aggrava- 
 tion of my sufferings. I have all their 
 miseries, — I have none of their consola- 
 tions. They laugh,—! hear them ; would 
 I could laugh like them.' You will try, 
 and the very effort will be an invocation 
 
 mr 
 
 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 in- 
 sertion. 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 
 
A TALE. 139 
 
 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 sub- 
 tleties 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 them- 
 selves ; mischief is their occupation, ma- 
 lice 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, rt 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 him- 
 
140 MELMOTH : 
 
 self in a pulpit, denouncing damnation 
 against Papists, Arminians, and even Sub- 
 lapsarians, (he being a Supra-lapsarian 
 himself). He foams, he writhes, he gnash- 
 es his teeth ; you would imagine him in 
 the hell he was painting, and that the fire 
 and brimstone he is so lavish of, were ac- 
 tually exhaling from his jaws. At night 
 his creed retaliates on Mm; he believes 
 himself one of the reprobates he has been 
 all clay denouncing, and curses God for 
 the very decree he has all day been glori- 
 fying 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 remark- 
 able, 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 TALE. 141 
 
 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 inte- 
 rests, 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, how- 
 ever, to have been rejected by Stanton 
 with the utmost rage and horror, for Mel- 
 moth at last made out, — " Begone, mon- 
 ster, demon ! begone to your native 
 
 place. Even this mansion of horror 
 trembles to contain you ; its walls sweat, 
 
142 MELMOTH : 
 
 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, Mel- 
 moth 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 JEneis in 
 Virgil's own autograph, or at least some 
 unutterable abomination of Petronius or 
 Martial, happily elucidatory of the mys- 
 teries of the Spintrise, 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 ra- 
 ther 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 
 
A TALE. 148 
 
 confinement, — that his pursuit of Mel- 
 moth was incessant and indefatigable, — 
 that he himself allowed it to be a species 
 of insanity, — that while he acknowledged 
 it to be the master-passion, he also felt it 
 the master- torment of his life. He again 
 visited the Continent, returned to Eng- 
 land, — pursued, inquired, traced, bribed, 
 but in vain. The being whom he had 
 met thrice, under circumstances so extra- 
 ordinary, he was fated never to encounter 
 again in his life-time. At length, dis- 
 covering 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 ima- 
 gined, they prudently refused to disclose 
 to a stranger, and Stanton departed unsa- 
 tisfied. It is remarkable, that he too, as 
 appeared from many half-obliterated pages 
 of the manuscript, never disclosed to mor- 
 tal the particulars of their conversation in 
 the mad-house ; and the slightest allusion 
 
144 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 inacquaint- 
 ance 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 com- 
 mit it to the waves. The last lines of the 
 manuscript that were legible, were suffi- 
 ciently extraordinary. 
 
 * * ^ * 
 
 " I have sought him every where. — The 
 desire of meeting him once more, is be- 
 come 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 manu- 
 
A TALE. 145 
 
 script which Melmoth found in his uncle's 
 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 re- 
 ceive an explanation from its lips. 
 
 He gazed on it in return, — all was 
 silent in the house, — they were alone toge- 
 ther. 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 as- 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
146 MELMOTH : 
 
 sist 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 por- 
 trait 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 turf-fire 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; 
 
A TALE. 147 
 
 but his slumber was not so sound as he 
 had hoped for. The sullen light of the 
 turf-fire, burning but never blazing, dis- 
 turbed 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 Mel- 
 moth never could decide) was it in a 
 dream or not, that he saw the figure of 
 his ancestor appear at the door ? — hesitat- 
 ingly as he saw him at first on the night 
 of his uncle's 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 start- 
 ed, sprung from his bed, — it was broad 
 day-light. He looked round, — there was 
 no human being in the room but himself 
 
148 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 IV. 
 
 Haste with your weapons, cut the shrouds and stay, 
 And hew at once the miz en-mast away. 
 
 Falconer. 
 
 jL he following evening Mel moth 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 
 
150 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 ; 
 Melmoth's 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 chim- 
 neys, 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, 
 
A TALE. 151 
 
 breathing shuddering prayers for those 
 who were " out at sea that night." The 
 vicinity of Melmoth's house to what sea- 
 men call an iron-bound coast, gave a dread- 
 ful sincerity to their prayers and their 
 fears. 
 
 In a short time, however, Melmoth per- 
 ceived 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 Melmoth's ears at every step that 
 he measured across the broken floor of the 
 kitchen. Terror is very fond of associa- 
 tions ; 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 con- 
 nected in the imagination of some one, 
 
152 MELMOTH : 
 
 •with a calamity that was to oe 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 Cromwell's 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 Eli- 
 jah ; while all the cavalier party, putting 
 their own construction on the matter, pro- 
 claimed 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 pur- 
 chase) in a tempest, whose wild howl and 
 triumphant ravage might have been va- 
 riously, and with equal justice, interpret- 
 ed by each party as giving testimony to 
 their mutual denunciations. Just such 
 a party (mutatis mutandis) were collected 
 round the bickering fire and rocking chim- 
 ney in Melmoth's kitchen. " He is going 
 in that blast," said one of the hags, taking 
 
A TALE. 153 
 
 the pipe from her mouth, and trying vain- 
 ly to rekindle it among the embers that 
 the storm scattered about like dust ; " he 
 is going in that blast." — " He'll come a- 
 gain," cried another Sybil, " he'll come 
 again, — he's not at rest ! — He roams and 
 wails about till something is told that he 
 never could tell in his life-time. — G-d 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 re- 
 treated. "If it's 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 ridicu- 
 lous 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 law-papers of the 
 family, and who now imagined that they 
 
 G 2 
 
154 MELMOTH : 
 
 " who kept this dreadful pudder o'er her 
 head," were particularly provoked by her 
 still retaining about her whatever belong- 
 ed 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 Melmoth's a- 
 bode to the sea-shore. This had well ac- 
 customed its inmates to all the terrors of 
 shipwrecked vessels and drowning passen- 
 gers. To their honour be it spoken, they 
 never heard those sounds but as a claim, a 
 piteous, irresistible claim on their huma- 
 nity. They knew nothing of the barba- 
 rous practice on the English coast, of fas- 
 tening a lanthorn to the limbs of a span- 
 
A TALE. 155 
 
 selled horse, whose plungings were to mis- 
 direct the wrecked and sinking wretches, 
 in the vain hope that the light they saw 
 was a beacon, and thus to double the hor- 
 rors of death by the baffled expectation of 
 relief. 
 
 The party in the kitchen all watched 
 Melmoth's countenance intently, as if its 
 expression could have told them " the se- 
 crets 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 Mel- 
 moth ; " 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 excite- 
 ment 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 
 
156 ~ MELMOTH : 
 
 stimulus to action, and a solace to pride, 
 which those must want who sit shudder- 
 ing 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 snatch- 
 ing 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 kit- 
 tens for a pair of old boots which she had 
 been pleased to make the seat of her ac- 
 couchement, — 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, 
 
A TALE. 157 
 
 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 re- 
 port 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 ac- 
 cents, " Call up the people in those cab- 
 bins — 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 dark- 
 ness, and the heavy sound rolled round the 
 shore, as if fired over the grave of the suf- 
 ferers. " Here's the rock, hold fast, and 
 cling together." They scaled it. " Great 
 
158 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 break- 
 ers from a distant rock almost choak- 
 ed 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 mo- 
 ment, the racking clouds flying rapidly a- 
 cross the sky, like the scattered fugitives 
 of a routed army, the moon burst forth 
 with the sudden and appalling efful- 
 gence of lightning. Melmoth caught a 
 full view of the vessel, and of her dan- 
 ger. She lay beating against a rock, 
 
A TALE. 159 
 
 over which the breakers clashed 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 ex- 
 hausted, 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 pe- 
 rishing 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 Mel moth's 
 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; 
 
160 MELMOTH : 
 
 and those who, from experience or confi- 
 dence, or even ignorance, repeated inces- 
 santly, " it is impossible to save her, — 
 every soul on board must perish," involun- 
 tarily quickened their steps as they uttered 
 the words, as if they were anxious to be- 
 hold the fulfilment of their own prediction, 
 while they appeared hurrying to avert it. 
 
 Of one man, in particular, it was ob- 
 served, 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 ! don't say that," " No, 
 please God, we'll do some good," with a 
 laugh almost of triumph. When they ar- 
 rived, this man scaled a rock at the risk of 
 his life, caught a view of the vessel, point- 
 ed out her desperate situation to those be- 
 low, and shouted, " Didn't I tell you so? 
 wasn't I right?" And as the storm in- 
 creased, his voice was still heard, " wasn't 
 I right ?" And when the cries of the pe- 
 
A TALE. 161 
 
 rishing crew were distinctly wafted to 
 their ears, he was still heard in the interval 
 repeating, " But wasn't I right ?" Singu- 
 lar 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, " Didn't 
 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 deperate and fruitless attempt to save 
 the life of one of the crew who was swim- 
 ming within six yards of him. The whole 
 shore was now crowded with helpless ga- 
 zers, 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 — impossi- 
 
162 TVIELMOTH : 
 
 sible ; — Ian thorns held aloft in all directions, 
 that displayed to the sufferers the shore all 
 peopled with life, and the roaring and im- 
 passable 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 Mel- 
 moth, 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 fel- 
 lows !" 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 compara- 
 tive consciousness of safety. He had, in- 
 deed, no leisure, for just then he descried, 
 
A TALE. 163 
 
 standing a few yards above him on the 
 rock, a figure that shewed neither sympa- 
 thy 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. Melmoth's 
 surtout, in spite of his efforts to wrap it 
 round him, was fluttering in rags, — not a 
 thread of the stranger's garments seemed 
 ruffled by the blast. But this did not 
 strike him so much as his obvious insensi- 
 bility 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 with- 
 out 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, Mel- 
 moth distinctly heard the words, " Let 
 them perish." He looked up, the figure 
 still stood unmoved, the arms folded across 
 
164 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 
 moon-light, seeming to watch the scene 
 with an expression formidable, revolting, 
 and unnatural. At this moment, at re- 
 mendous wave breaking over the deck of 
 the hulk, extorted a cry of horror from the 
 spectators ; they felt as if they were echo- 
 ing 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 me- 
 mory 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 re- 
 cognised his supposed demoniac character 
 by the laugh with which he hailed the 
 
A TALE. 165 
 
 spectacle of the blasted lovers. The echo 
 of that laugh rung in Melmoth's 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 
 thunder- cloud, had now no power of in- 
 quiry, 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 Snare * themselves, in all the en- 
 thusiasm of professional zeal, never ut- 
 tered, " If I but once get him with- 
 in 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 
 
 * See Henry IV. Second Part. 
 
166 MELMOTH : 
 
 storm, the vehemence of his own exer- 
 tions, 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 life-grasp of a man, his hold fail- 
 ed — 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 trum- 
 pets 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 
 
A TALE. 167 
 
 he found himself in bed, the old gouver- 
 nante beside him, and uttered faintly, 
 " What a horrid dream !" then sinking 
 back as he felt his exhaustion, " and how 
 weak it has left me !" 
 
Ai- 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " I have heard/' said the Squire, " that from hell 
 there is no retention." 
 
 Cervantes. 
 
 X 1 oil some hours after this exclamation, 
 Melmoth lay silent, his memory returning, 
 — his senses gradually defecated, — the in- 
 tellectual lord slowly returning to his ab- 
 dicated throne. — 
 
 " I remember all now," he cried, start- 
 ing up in his bed with a sudden vehe- 
 mence, that terrified his old nurse with 
 the apprehension of returning insanity; 
 
A TALE. 169 
 
 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 w r hether any but him- 
 self had survived the wreck, she could not 
 deny herself the gratification of answer- 
 ing, 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 satis- 
 fy you ?" 
 
 She began her narrative, the effect of 
 which was, to lull Melmoth into a pro- 
 found repose before half of it was con- 
 
 VOL. I, H 
 
170 melmoth: 
 
 eluded ; he felt the full benefit of the in- 
 valids mentioned in Spenser, who used to 
 hire Irish story-tellers, and found those in- 
 defatigable persons still pursuing the tale 
 when they awoke. At first Melmoth lis- 
 tened with eager attention ; soon he was 
 in the situation of him described by Miss 
 Baillie, 
 
 ce Who, half asleep, but faintly hears/ 
 The gossip's 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 mo- 
 ment, though nothing distinctly, but felt 
 the most intense anxiety to see the stran- 
 ger saved from the shipwreck, who, he 
 
A TALE. 171 
 
 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 re- 
 ceived, 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 be- 
 ing 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 mys- 
 terious haughtiness and reserve about him, 
 that somewhat repelled the officious curio- 
 sity of his attendants. He spoke often to 
 himself in a language they did not under- 
 stand ; they hoped relief from the priest 
 on this point, but the priest, after listen- 
 ing long at the invalid's door, pronounced 
 
172 JVIELMOTH I 
 
 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 him- 
 self in, and forbid all inquiry on the sub- 
 ject. 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 Eng- 
 lish," said the harassed housekeeper, " and 
 he can call for candle in English, and he 
 can say he'll go to bed in English ; and 
 why the devil can't he do every thing in 
 English ? — He can say his prayers too in 
 English to that picture he's always pulling 
 out of his breast and talking to, though 
 it's no saint, I am sure, he prays to, (from 
 the glimpse I got of it), but more like the 
 devil, — Christ save us !" AH these strange 
 
A TALE. 173 
 
 rumours, and ten thousand more, were 
 poured into Melmoth's ears, fast and faster 
 than he could receive them. " Is Father 
 Fay in the house," said he at last, under- 
 standing 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 stranger's 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, Mel moth 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 vera- 
 city, and of there being no mystery in the 
 
174 MELMOTH : 
 
 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 Wex- 
 ford 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 accompa- 
 nied 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 col- 
 lected 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 Mel- 
 moth was unconscious of them ; and in 
 the morning they were found on the 
 
A TALE. 175 
 
 strand, locked in each other's hold, but 
 stiff and senseless. They shewed some 
 signs of life when an attempt was made to 
 remove them, and the stranger was con- 
 veyed to Melmoth's house. " You owe 
 your life to him," said the priest, when he 
 had ended. " I shall go and thank him 
 for it this moment," said Melmoth ; but as 
 he was assisted to rise, the old woman 
 whispered to him with visible terror, " Ja- 
 sus* sake, dear, don't tell him ye're a 
 Melmoth, for the dear life ! He has been 
 as mad as any thing out of Bedlam, since 
 some jist mintioned the name before him 
 the ither night." A sickening recollection 
 of some parts of the manuscript came 
 over Melmoth at these words, but he 
 struggled with himself, and proceeded to 
 the apartment of the stranger. 
 
 The Spaniard was a man about thirty, 
 of a noble form and prepossessing manners. 
 To the gravity of his nation was super- 
 added a deeper tint of peculiar melancholy. 
 He spoke English fluently ; and when 
 
176 MELMOTH : 
 
 questioned on it by Melmoth, he remark- 
 ed with a sigh, that he had learnt it in a 
 painful school. Melmoth then changed 
 the subject, to thank him with earnest 
 gratitude for the preservation of his life. 
 " Senhor," said the Spaniard, " spare me ; 
 if your life was no dearer to you than 
 mine, it would not be worth thanks." 
 " Yet you made the most strenuous exer- 
 tions to save it," said Melmoth. " That 
 was instinct," said the Spaniard. " But 
 you also struggled to save mine," said 
 Melmoth. " That was instinct too at the 
 moment," said the Spaniard ; then resum- 
 ing his stately politeness, " or I should say? 
 the influence of my better genius. I am 
 wholly a stranger in this country, and 
 must have fared miserably but for the 
 shelter of your roof." 
 
 Melmoth observed that he spoke with 
 evident pain, and he confessed a few mo- 
 ments afterwards, that though he had 
 escaped without any serious injury, he had 
 been so bruised and lacerated, that he still 
 
A TALE. 17 
 
 in- 
 
 breathed with difficulty, and hardly pos- 
 sessed the use of his limbs. As he con- 
 cluded the account of his sufferings during 
 the storm, the wreck, and the subsequent 
 struggle for life, he; exclaimed in Spanish, 
 " God ! why did the Jonah survive, and 
 the mariners perish ?" Melmoth, imagining 
 he was engaged in some devotional ejacu- 
 lation, was going to retire, when the Spa- 
 niard detained him. " Senhor, I under- 
 stand your name is " He paused, 
 
 shuddered, and with an effort that seemed 
 like convulsion, disgorged the name of 
 Melmoth. " My name is Melmoth." 
 " Had you an ancestor, a very remote 
 one, who was — at a period perhaps beyond 
 family-tradition— ——It is useless to in- 
 quire," said the Spaniard, covering his face 
 with both his hands, and groaning aloud. 
 Melmoth listened in mingled excitement 
 and terror. u Perhaps, if you would pro- 
 ceed, I could answer you — go on, Senhor," 
 " Had you," said the Spaniard, forcing 
 himself to speak, abruptly and rapidly, 
 
 H % 
 
178 MELMOTH : 
 
 " had you, then, a relative who was, about 
 one hundred and forty years ago, said to 
 be in Spain." " I believe — yes, I fear — I 
 had." " It is enough, Senhor — leave me 
 — to-morrow perhaps — leave me now." 
 * It is impossible to leave you now," said 
 Melmoth, catching him in his arms before 
 he sunk on the floor. He was not sense- 
 less, for his eyes were rolling with terrible 
 expression, and he attempted to articulate. 
 They were alone. Melmoth, unable to 
 quit him, called aloud for water; and 
 while attempting to open his vest, and 
 give him air, his hand encountered a mi- 
 niature portrait close to the heart of the 
 stranger. As he touched it, his touch 
 operated on the patient with all the force 
 of the most powerful restorative. He 
 grasped it with his own cold hand with a 
 force like that of death, and muttered in 
 a hollow but thrilling voice, " What have 
 you done?" He felt eagerly the ribbon 
 by which it was suspended, and, satisfied 
 that his terrible treasure was safe, turned 
 
A TALE. 179 
 
 his eyes with a fearful calmness of expres- 
 sion on Melmoth, " You know all, then ?" 
 — " I know nothing," said Melmoth faul- 
 tering. The Spaniard rose from the 
 ground, to which he had almost fallen, 
 disengaged himself from the arms that 
 supported him, and eagerly, but stagger- 
 ingly, hurrying towards the candles, (it- 
 was night), held up the portrait full before 
 Melmoth's eve. It was a miniature like- 
 ness of that extraordinary being. It was 
 painted in a coarse and unartist-like style, 
 but so faithfully, that the pencil appear- 
 ed rather held by the mind than by the 
 fingers. 
 
 " Was he — was the original of this — 
 your ancestor ? — Are you his descendant ? 
 — Are you the depository of that terrible 
 
 secret which " He again fell to the 
 
 ground convulsed, and Melmoth, for whose 
 debilitated state this scene was too much, 
 was removed to his own apartment. 
 
 It was several days before he again saw 
 
180 MELMOTH : 
 
 his visitor ; his manner was then calm and 
 collected, till he appeared to recoHect the 
 necessity of making an apology for his 
 agitation at their last meeting. He began 
 — hesitated — stopped ; tried in vain to ar- 
 range his ideas, or rather his language; 
 but the effort so obviously renewed his 
 agitation, that Melmoth felt an exertion 
 on his part necessary to avert its conse- 
 quences, and began most in auspiciously to 
 inquire into the motive of his voyage to 
 Ireland. After a long pause, the Spa- 
 niard said, u , That motive, Senhor, a few 
 days past I believed it was not in mortal 
 power to compel me to disclose. I deem- 
 ed it incommunicable as it was incredible. 
 I conceived myself to be alone on the 
 earth, without sympathy and beyond re- 
 lief. It is singular that accident should 
 have placed me within the reach of the 
 only being from whom I could expect 
 either, and perhaps a developement of 
 those circumstances which have placed me 
 in a situation so extraordinary." This ex- 
 
A TALE. 181 
 
 ordium, delivered with a composed but 
 thrilling gravity, had an effect on Mel- 
 moth. He sat down and prepared to 
 listen, and the Spaniard began to speak ; 
 but after some hesitation, he snatched the 
 picture from his neck, and trampling on it 
 with true continental action, exclaimed, 
 " Devil ! devil ! thou choakest me I" and 
 crushing the portrait, glass and all, under 
 his feet, exclaimed, " Now I am easier." 
 
 The room in which they sat was a low, 
 mean, wretchedly furnished apartment ; 
 the evening was tempestuous, and as the 
 windows and doors rattled in the blast, 
 Melmoth felt as if he listened to some 
 herald of " fate and fear." A deep and 
 sickening agitation shook his frame ; and 
 in the long pause that preceded the narra- 
 tive of the Spaniard, the beating of his 
 heart was audible to him. He rose, and 
 attempted to arrest the narration by a mo- 
 tion of his hand ; but the Spaniard mis- 
 took this for the anxiety of his impatience, 
 and commenced his narrative, which, in. 
 
182 MELMOTH : 
 
 mercy to the reader, we shall give without 
 the endless interruptions; and queries, and 
 anticipations of curiosity, and starts of 
 terror, with which it was broken by Mel- 
 moth. 
 
 ©ate xrf tf)t J^pantartr* 
 
 " I am, Senhor, as you know, a native 
 of Spain, but you are yet to learn I am a 
 descendant of one of its noblest houses, — 
 a house of which she might have been 
 proud in her proudest day,— the house of 
 Moneada. Of this I was not myself con- 
 scious during the first years of my life; 
 but during those years, I remember expe- 
 riencing the singular contrast of being 
 treated with the utmost tenderness, and 
 kept in the most sordid privacy. I lived 
 in a wretched house in the suburbs of Ma- 
 drid with an old woman, whose affection 
 
A TALE. 18S 
 
 for me appeared prompted as much by in- 
 terest as inclination. I was visited every 
 week by a young cavalier and a beautiful 
 female ; they caressed me, called me their 
 beloved child, and I, attached by the grace 
 with which my young father's capa was 
 folded, and my mother's veil adjusted, and 
 by a certain air of indescribable superiority 
 over those by whom I was surrounded, 
 eagerly returned their caresses, and peti- 
 tioned them to take me home with them ; 
 at these words they always wept, gave a 
 valuable present to the woman I lived 
 with, whose attention was always redou- 
 bled by this expected stimulant, and de- 
 parted. 
 
 " I observed their visits were always short, 
 and paid late in the evening ; thus a sha- 
 dow of mystery enveloped my infant days, 
 and perhaps gave its lasting and inefface- 
 able tinge to the pursuits, the character, 
 and the feelings of my present existence. 
 A sudden change took place ; — one day 
 I was visited, splendidly dressed, and 
 
1 84 MELMOTH : 
 
 carried in a superb vehicle, whose mo- 
 tion made me giddy with novelty and sur- 
 prise, to a palace whose front appeared to 
 me to reach the heavens. I was hurried 
 through several apartments, whose splen- 
 dour made my eyes ache, amid an army of 
 bowmg domestics, to a cabinet where sat an 
 old nobleman, whom, from the tranquil ma- 
 jesty of his posture, and the silent magni- 
 ficence that surrounded him, I felt disposed 
 to fall down and worship as we do those 
 saints, whom, after traversing the aisles of 
 an immense church, we find niched in some 
 remote and solitary shrine. My lather and 
 mother were there, and both seemed awed 
 by the presence of that aged vision, pale 
 and august ; their awe increased mine, and 
 as they led me to his feet, I felt as if about 
 to be sacrificed. He embraced me, how- 
 ever, with some reluctance and more aus- 
 terity ; and when this ceremony was per- 
 formed, during which I trembled, I was 
 removed by a domestic, and conducted to 
 an apartment where I was treated like the 
 son of a grandee ; in the evening I was 
 
A TALE. 185 
 
 visited by my father and mother; they shed 
 tears over me as they embraced me, but I 
 thought I co. 'Id perceive they mingled 
 the tears of grief with those of fondness. 
 Every thing around appeared so strange, 
 that perhaps I felt something appropriate in 
 this change. I was so much altered myself, 
 that I expected an alteration in others, and 
 the reverse would have struck me as a phe- 
 nomenon. 
 
 " Change followed change with such ra- 
 pidity, that it produced on me an effect like 
 that of intoxication. I was now twelve 
 years old, and the contracted habits of my 
 earily life had had their usual effect, of ex- 
 alting my imagination, w r hile they impaired 
 every other faculty. I expected an adven- 
 ture whenever the door opened, and that 
 was but seldom, to announce the hours of 
 devotion, food, and exercise. On the third 
 day after I Was received, into the palace of 
 Moneada, the door was opened at an un- 
 usual hour, (a circumstance that made me 
 tremble with anticipation), and my father 
 
186 MELMOTH: 
 
 and mother, attended by a number of do- 
 mestics, entered, accompanied by a youth 
 whose superior height and already distin- 
 guished figure, made him appear my se- 
 nior, though he was in fact a year younger. 
 " Alonzo," said my father to me, " em- 
 brace your brother." I advanced with all 
 the eagerness of youthful affection, that 
 feels delight from new claims on its store, 
 and half wishes those new claims were end- 
 less ; but the slow step of my brother, the 
 measured air with which he extended his 
 arms, and declined his head on my left 
 shoulder for a moment, and then raising it, 
 viewed me with eyes in whose piercing and 
 haughty lustre there was not one beam of 
 fraternity, repelled and disconcerted me. 
 We had obeyed our father, however, 
 and embraced. " Let me see you hand in 
 hand together," said my father, as if he 
 would have enjoyed the sight. I held out 
 my hand to my brother, and we stood thus 
 linked for a few moments, my father and 
 mother remaining at some distance to gaze 
 
A TALE. 187 
 
 on us ; during these few moments, I had 
 leisure to glance from my parents to my 
 brother, and judge of the comparative ef- 
 fect our appearance thus contrasted might 
 produce on them. The contrast was by 
 no means favourable to me. I was tall, 
 but my brother was much taller ; he had an 
 air of confidence, of conquest I might say ; 
 the brilliancy of his complexion could be 
 equalled only by that of his dark eyes, 
 which turned from me to our parents, and 
 seemed to say, " Chuse between us, and re- 
 ject me if you dare." 
 
 " My father and mother advanced and. 
 embraced us both. I clung round their* 
 necks ; my brother submitted to their ca- 
 resses with a kind of proud impatience, that 
 seemed to demand a more marked recog- 
 nition. 
 
 " 1 saw no more of them, — that evening 
 the whole household, which perhaps contain 
 two hundred domestics, were in despair. 
 The Duke de Moncada, that awful vision 
 of anticipated mortality whom I had seen 
 
188 MELMOTH : 
 
 but- once, was dead. The tapestry was torn 
 from the walk ; every room was filled with 
 ecclesiastics; Iwas neg'ected by my atten- 
 dants, and wandered through the spacious 
 rooms, till I by chance lifted up a curtain of 
 black velvet, and saw a sight which, young 
 as I was, paralyzed me. My father and 
 mother, dressed in black, sat beside a figure 
 which I believed to be my grandfather 
 asleep, but his sleep was very profound ; 
 my brother was there too, in a mourning 
 dress, but its strange and grotesque dis-. 
 figurement could not conceal the impa- 
 tience with which he wore it, and the flash- 
 ing eagerness of his expression, and the 
 haughty brilliancy of his eye, shewed a kind 
 of impatience of the part he was compelled- 
 to act. — I rushed forward ; — I was withheld 
 by the domestics ; — I asked, " Why am I 
 not permitted to be here, where my 
 younger brother is ?" An ecclesiastic drew 
 me from the apartment. I struggled with 
 him, and demanded, with an arrogance 
 which suited my pretensions better than. 
 
A TALE. 1 89 
 
 my prospects, " Who I was ?" " The 
 grandson of the late Duke of Moncada," 
 was the answer. •• And why am 1 thus 
 treated ?" To this no answer. I was con- 
 veyed to my apartment, and closely watch- 
 ed during the interment of the Duke of 
 Moncada. I was not permitted to at- 
 tend his funeral. I saw the splendid 
 and melancholy cavalcade depart from 
 the palace. I ran from window to win- 
 dow to witness the funeral pomp, but 
 was not allowed to accompany it. Two 
 days after I was told a carriage waited for 
 me at the gate. I entered it, and was con- 
 veyed to a convent of Ex- Jesuits, (as they 
 were well known to be, though no one in 
 Madrid dared to say so), where an agree- 
 ment had been made for my board and 
 education, and where I became an inmate 
 that very day. I applied myself to my 
 studies, my teachers were pleased, my pa- 
 rents visited me frequently, and gave the 
 usual marks of affection, and all was well ; 
 till one day as they were retiring, I heard 
 
190 MELMOTH : 
 
 an old domestic in their suite remark, how 
 singular it was, that the eldest son of the 
 (now) Duke de Moneada should be edu- 
 cated in a convent, and brought up to a 
 monastic life, while the younger, living in 
 a superb palace, was surrounded by teachers 
 suited to his rank. The word i( monastic 
 life" thrilled in my ears ; it furnished me 
 with an interpretation not only of the in- 
 dulgence 1 had experienced in the convent, 
 (an indulgence quite inconsistent with the 
 usual severity of their discipline), but of 
 the peculiar language in which I had been 
 always addressed by the Superior, the bre- 
 thren, and the boarders. The former, whom 
 I saw once a week, bestowed the most flat- 
 tering praises on the progress I had made 
 in my studies, (praises that covered me with 
 blushes, for I well knew it was very mode- 
 rate compared with that of the other board- 
 ers), and then gave me his benediction, 
 but never without adding, " My God ! 
 thou wilt not suffer this lamb to wander 
 from thy fold." 
 
A TALE. 191 
 
 The brethren always assumed before me 
 an air of tranquillity, that eulogized their 
 situation more powerfully than the most 
 exaggerated eloquence. The petty squab- 
 bles and intrigues of the convent, the bit- 
 ter and incessant conflict of habits, tem- 
 pers, and interests, the efforts of incar- 
 cerated minds for objects of excitement, 
 the struggles to diversify endless mono- 
 tony, and elevate hopeless mediocrity ; — all 
 that makes monastic life like the wrong 
 side of tapestry, where we see only un- 
 couth threads, and the harsh outlines, with- 
 out the glow of the colours, the richness of 
 the tissue, or the splendour of the embroid- 
 ery, that renders the external surface so 
 rich and dazzling ; all this was carefully 
 concealed. I heard something of it, how- 
 ever, and, young as I was, could not help 
 wondering how men who carried the worst 
 passions of life into their retreat, could 
 imagine that retreat was a refuge from the 
 erosions of their evil tempers, the moni- 
 tions of conscience, and the accusations of 
 
1 98 MELMOTH : 
 
 God. The same dissimulation was prac- 
 tised by the boarders ; the whole house was 
 in masquerade from the moment I entered 
 it. If I joined the latter at the time of re- 
 creation, they went through the few a- 
 musements allowed them with a kind of 
 languid impatience, as if it was an inter- 
 ruption of better pursuits to which they 
 were devoted. One of them, coming up 
 to me, would say, " What a pity that 
 these exercises are necessary for the sup- 
 port of our frail nature ! what a pity we 
 cannot devote its whole powers to the ser- 
 vice of God !" Another would say, " I 
 never am so happy as in the choir ! What 
 a delightful eulogy was that pronounced 
 by the Superior on the departed FreJose! 
 How thrilling was that requiem ! I ima- 
 gined the heavens opened, and angels 
 descending to receive his soul, as I listened 
 to it !" 
 
 " All this, and much more, I had been 
 accustomed to hear every day. I now be- 
 gan to understand it. 1 suppose they 
 
A TALE. 193 
 
 thought they had a very weak person to 
 deal with ; but the bare- faced coarseness of 
 their manoeuvres only quickened my pe- 
 netration, which began to be fearfully 
 awake. I said to them, " Are you, then, 
 intended for the monastic life?" " We 
 hope so." " Yet I have heard you, Oliva, 
 once (it was when you did not think I 
 overheard you) I heard you complain of 
 the length and tediousness of the homilies 
 delivered on the eves*of the saints." — " I 
 was then under the influence of the evil 
 spirit doubtless," said Oliva, who was a 
 boy not older than myself; " Satan is 
 sometimes permitted to buffet those whose 
 vocation is but commencing, and whom 
 he is therefore more afraid to lose." " And 
 I have heard- you, Balcastro, say you had 
 not taste for music ; and to me, I confess, 
 that of the choir appears least likely to 
 inspire a taste for it." " God has touched 
 my heart since," replied the young hypo- 
 crite, crossing himself; " and -you know, 
 friend of my soul, there is a promise, that 
 vol. I. I 
 
194 MELMOTH : 
 
 the ears of the deaf shall be opened. 5 ' 
 " Where are those words?" " In the 
 Bible." " The Bible ?— But we are not 
 permitted to read it." " True, dear Mon- 
 $ada, but we have the word of our Supe- 
 rior and the brethren for it, and that is 
 enough." " Certainly ; our spiritual guides 
 must take on themselves the whole respon- 
 sibility of that state, whose enjoyments 
 and punishments they reserve in their own 
 hands ; but, Balcastro, are you willing to 
 take this life on their word, as well as the 
 next, and resign it before you have tried 
 it ?" " My dear friend, you onjy speak 
 to tempt me." " I do not speak to tempt" 
 said I, and was turning indignantly away, 
 when the bell ringing, produced its usual 
 effect on us all. My companions assumed 
 a more sanctified air, and I struggled for a 
 more composed one. 
 
 As we went to the church, they con- 
 versed in whispers, but those whispers 
 were intended to reach my ear. I could 
 hear them say, " It is in vain that he 
 
A TALE. 195 
 
 struggles with grace; there never was a 
 more decided vocation ; God never ob- 
 tained a more glorious victory. Already 
 he has the look of a child of heaven ; — the 
 monastic gait, — the downcast look; — the 
 motion of his arms naturally imitates the 
 sign of the cross, and the very folds of his 
 mantle arrange themselves, by a divine 
 instinct, into those of a Monk's habit." 
 And all this while my gait was disturbed, 
 my countenance flushed, and often lifted 
 to heaven, and my arms employed in 
 hastily adjusting my cloak, that had fallen 
 off my shoulder from my agitation, and 
 whose disordered folds resembled any thing 
 but those of a Monk's habit. From that 
 evening I began to perceive my dan- 
 ger, and to meditate how to avert it. I 
 had no inclination for the monastic life ; 
 but after vespers, and the evening exer- 
 cise in my own cell, I began to doubt 
 if this very repugnance was not itself a 
 sin. Silence and night deepened the im- 
 pression, and I lay awake for many hours> 
 
196 MELMOTH : 
 
 supplicating God to enlighten me, to eii* 
 able me not to oppose his will, but clearly 
 to reveal that will to me ; and if he was 
 not pleased to call me to a monastic life, 
 to support my resolution in undergoing 
 every thing that might be inflicted on me, 
 sooner than profane that state by extorted 
 vows and an alienated mind. That my 
 prayers might be more effectual, I offered 
 them up first in the name of the Virgin, 
 then in that of the Patron-saint of the 
 family, and then of the Saint on whose 
 eve I was born. I lay in great agitation 
 till morning, and went to matins with- 
 out having closed my eyes, I had, how- 
 ever, I felt, acquired resolution, — at least 
 I thought so. Alas ! I knew not what 
 I had to encounter. I was like a man 
 going to sea with a day's provision, and 
 imagining he is victualled for a voyage 
 to the poles. I went through my exercises 
 (as they were called) with uncommon assi- 
 duity that day ; already I felt the necessity 
 
A TALE. 197 
 
 of imposition, — fatal lesson of monastic in- 
 stitutions. We dined at noon ; and soon 
 after my father's carriage arrived, and I 
 was permitted to go for an hour on the 
 banks of the Manzanares. To my surprise 
 my father was in the carriage, and though 
 he welcomed me with a kind of embar- 
 rassment, 1 was delighted to meet him. 
 He was a layman at least, — he might have 
 a heart. 
 
 I was disappointed at the measured 
 phrase he addressed me in, and this froze 
 me at once into a rigid determination, to 
 be as much on my guard with him, as I 
 must be within the walls of the convent. 
 The conversation began, " You like your 
 convent, my son ?" " Very much," (there 
 was not a word of truth in my answer, but 
 the fear of circumvention always teaches 
 falsehood, and we have only to thank our 
 instructors). " The Superior is very fond 
 of you." " He seems so." " The brethren 
 are attentive to your studies, and capable 
 of directing them, and appreciating your 
 
198 MELMOTH : 
 
 progress." " They seem so." " And the 
 boarders — they are sons of the first families 
 in Spain, they appear all satisfied with 
 their situation, and eager to embrace its 
 advantages." " They seem so." My dear 
 «on, why have you thrice answered me in 
 the same monotonous, unmeaning phrase ?" 
 " Because I thought it all seeming." "How, 
 then, would you say that the devotion of 
 those holy men, and the profound atten- 
 tion of their pupils, whose studies are alike 
 beneficial to man, and redounding to the 
 glory of the church to which they are de- 
 dicated — " " My dearest father, — I say 
 nothing of them, — but / dare to speak of 
 myself, — I can never be a monk, — if that 
 is your object — spurn me, — order your 
 lacqueys to drag me from this carriage, — 
 leave me a beggar in the streets to cry 
 * "fire and water," — but do not make me 
 a monk." My father appeared stunned 
 
 * ** Fire for the cigars, and iced- water for drink." 
 s^A cry often heard in Madrid, 
 
A TALE. 199 
 
 by this apostrophe. He did not utter a 
 word. He had not expected such a pre- 
 mature developement of the secret which 
 he imagined he had to disclose, not to hear 
 disclosed. At this moment the carnage 
 turned into the Prado; a thousand magnifi- 
 cent equipages, with plumed horses, superb 
 caparisons, and beautiful women bowing 
 to the cavaliers, who stood for a moment 
 on the foot-board, and then bowed .their 
 adieus to the " ladies of their love," passed 
 before our eyes. I saw my father, at this 
 moment, arrange his superb mantle, and the 
 silk net in which his long black hair was 
 bound, and give the signal to his lacqueys 
 to stop, that he might mingle among the 
 crowd. I caught this moment, — 1 grasped 
 his mantle. — " Father, you find this world 
 delightful then, — would you ask me to 
 resign it, — me, — who am your child." — 
 " But you are too young for it, my son." 
 " Oh, then, my father, 1 am surely much 
 too young for another world, to which you 
 would force me." " Force you, my child. 
 
200 aVIELMOTH : 
 
 mv first-born !" And these words he ut- 
 tered with such tenderness, that I invo- 
 luntarily kissed his hands, while his lips 
 eagerly pressed my forehead. It was at 
 this moment that 1 studied, with all the 
 eagerness of hope, my father's physiognomy, 
 or what artists would call his physique. 
 
 " He had been my parent before he was 
 sixteen ; his features were beautiful, his 
 figure the most graceful and lover-like I 
 ever beheld, and his early marriage had 
 preserved him from all the evils of youth- 
 ful excess, and spared the glow of feature, 
 and elasticity of muscle, and grace of ju- 
 venility, so often withered by vice, almost 
 before they have bloomed. He was now 
 but twenty- eight, and looked ten years 
 younger. He was evidently conscious of 
 this, and as much alive to the enjoyments 
 of youth, as if he were still in its spring. 
 He was at the same moment rushing into 
 all the luxuries of youthful enjoyment and 
 voluptuous splendour, and dooming one, 
 who was at least young enough to be his 
 
A TALE. 201 
 
 son, to the frozen and hopeless monotony 
 of a cloister. I laid hold of this with the 
 grasp of a drowning man. But a drown- 
 ing man never grasped a straw so weak as 
 he who depends on the worldly feeling of 
 another for the support of his own. 
 
 " Pleasure is very selfish ; and when sel- 
 fishness pleads to selfishness for relief, it is 
 like a bankrupt asking his fellow-prisoner 
 to go bail for him. This was my convic- 
 tion at the moment, yet still I reflected, 
 (for suffering supplies the place of experi- 
 ence in youth, and they are most expert 
 casuists who have graduated only in the 
 school of misfortune), I reflected, that a 
 taste for pleasure, while it renders a man 
 selfish in one sense, renders him generous 
 in another. The real voluptuary, though 
 he would not part with his slightest in- 
 dulgence to save the world from destruc- 
 tion, would yet wish all the world to be 
 enjoying itself, (provided it was not at his 
 expence), because his own would be in- 
 creased by it. To this I clung, and in = 
 
 I 2 
 
202 MELMOTH : 
 
 treated my father to indulge me with ano- 
 ther view of the brilliant scene before us. 
 He complied, and his feelings, softened by 
 this compliance, and exhilarated by the 
 spectacle, (which interested him more than 
 me, who observed it only for its effect on 
 him), became more favourable than ever. 
 I availed myself of this, and, while return- 
 ing to the convent, threw the whole power 
 of my nature and intellect into one (almost) 
 shrieking appeal to his heart. I compared 
 myself to the unhappy Esau, deprived of 
 his birthright by a younger brother, and 1 
 exclaimed in his language, " Hast thou no 
 blessing for me ! Bless me, even me also, 
 Oh my father !" My father was affected ; 
 he promised my intreaty every considera- 
 tion ; but he hinted some difficulty to be 
 encountered on my mother's part, much 
 on that of her Director, who (I afterwards 
 found) governed the whole family, and 
 still more remotely hinted at something 
 insurmountable and inexplicable. He suf- 
 fered me, however, to kiss his hand at 
 
A TALE. 203 
 
 parting, and vainly struggled with his 
 emotions when he felt it damp with my 
 tears. 
 
 " It was not till two days after, that I 
 was summoned to attend my mother's Di- 
 rector, who was waiting for me in the 
 parlour. I deemed this delay the result 
 of a long family debate, or (as it seemed to 
 me) conspiracy ; and I tried to prepare 
 myself for the multifarious warfare in 
 which I had now to engage with parents, 
 directors, superiors, and monks, and board- 
 ers, all sworn to win the day, and not 
 caring whether they carried their point by 
 storm, sap, mine, or blockade. I began to 
 measure the power of the assailants, and to 
 try to furnish myself with weapons suited 
 to their various modes of attack. My fa- 
 ther was gentle, flexible, and vacillating. 
 I had softened him in my favour, and I 
 felt that was all that could be done with 
 him. But the Director was to be encoun- 
 tered with different arms. As I went 
 down to the parlour, I composed my looks, 
 
204 MELMOTH : 
 
 my gait, I modulated my voice, I adjust- 
 ed my dress. 1 was on my guard, body, 
 mind, mien, clothes, every thing. He was 
 a grave, but mild-looking ecclesiastic ; one 
 must have had the treachery of Judas to 
 suspect him of treachery. I felt disarmed, 
 I even experienced some compunction. 
 " Perhaps," said I, " I have all this while 
 armed myself against a message of recon- 
 ciliation." The Director began with some 
 trifling inquiries about my health, and my 
 progress in study, but he asked them in 
 a tone of interest. I said to myself, it 
 would not be decorous for him to enter on 
 the subject of his visit too soon ; — I answer- 
 ed him calmly, but my heart palpitated 
 with violence. A silence ensued, and then 
 suddenly turning towards me, he said, 
 " My dear child, I understand your objec- 
 tions to a monastic life are insurmountable. 
 I do not wonder at it ; its habits must ap- 
 pear very unconciliating to youth, and, in 
 fact, I know not to what period of life ab- 
 stinence, privation, and solitude, are parti- 
 
A TALE. 205 
 
 cularly agreeable ; it was the wish of your 
 parents doubtless ; but" — This address, so 
 full of candour, almost overpowered me ; 
 caution and every thing else forsook me as 
 I exclaimed, " But what then, my father?" 
 " But, I was going to observe, how rarely 
 our own views coincide with those which 
 others entertain for us, and how difficult 
 it is to decide which are the least erroneous." 
 " Was that all ?" said I, shrinking with 
 disappointment. " That was all ; for in- 
 stance, some people, (of whom I once hap- 
 pened to be one), might be fanciful enough 
 to imagine, that the superior experience 
 and proved affection of parents should 
 qualify them to decide on this point bet- 
 ter than their children ; nay, I have heard 
 some carry their absurdity so far, as to talk 
 of the rights of nature, the obligations of 
 duty, and the useful coercion of restraint ; 
 but since I had the pleasure of becoming 
 acquainted with your resolution, I am be- 
 ginning to be of opinion, that a youth, not 
 thirteen years of age, may be an incom- 
 
206 MELMOTH : 
 
 parable judge in the last resort, particular- 
 ly when the question bears a trifling relation 
 to his eternal as well as temporal interest ; 
 in such a case, he has doubtless the double 
 advantage of dictating both to his spiri- 
 tual and natural parents." " My father, I 
 beg you to speak without irony or ridi- 
 cule ; you may be very clever, but I mere- 
 ly wish you to be intelligible and serious." 
 " Do you wish me, then, to speak serious- 
 ly ?" and he appeared to collect himself as 
 he asked this question. " Certainly." " Se- 
 riously, then, my dear child, do you not 
 believe that your parents love you ? Have 
 you not received from your infancy every 
 mark of affection from them ? Have you 
 not been pressed to their bosoms from 
 your very cradle?" At these words I 
 struggled vainly with my feelings, and 
 wept, while I answered, " Yes." " I am 
 sorry, my dear child, to see you thus over- 
 powered ; my object was to appeal to your 
 reason, (for you have no common share of 
 reasoning power), — and to your reason I 
 
A TALE. 207 
 
 appeal ;— can you suppose that parents, who 
 have treated you with such tenderness, 
 who love you as they do their own souls, 
 could act (as your conduct charges them) 
 with causeless and capricious cruelty to- 
 wards you ? Must you not be aware there 
 is a reason, and that it must be a profound 
 one ? Would it not be more worthy of 
 your duty, as well as your superior sense, 
 to inquire into, than contend with it ?" " Is 
 it founded upon any thing in my con- 
 duct, then? — I am willing to do every 
 thing, — to sacrifice every thing." — " I un- 
 derstand, — you are willing to do every 
 thing but what is required of you, — and to 
 sacrifice every thing but your own inclina- 
 tion." " But you have hinted at a reason." 
 The Director was silent. " You urged 
 me to inquire into it." The Director was 
 silent still. " My father, I adjure you, by 
 the habit you wear, un muffle this terrible 
 phantom to me ; there is nothing 1 cannot 
 encounter"--" Except the commands of your 
 parents. But am I at liberty to discover 
 
208 MELMOTH : 
 
 this secret to you ?" said the Director, in a 
 tone of interna] debate. " Can I imagine 
 that you, who have in the very outset out- 
 raged parental authority, will revere pa- 
 rental feelings ?" " My father, I do not 
 understand you." " My dear child, I am 
 compelled to act with a caution and re- 
 serve unsuited to my character, which is 
 naturally as open as yours. I dread the 
 disclosure of a secret ; it is repugnant to 
 my habits of profound confidence ; and I 
 dread disclosing any thing to a character 
 impetuous like yours. I feel myself re- 
 duced to a most painful situation." " My 
 father, act and speak with candour, my si- 
 tuation requires it, and your own profes- 
 sion demands it from you. My father, re- 
 member the inscription over the confes- 
 sional which thrilled my very blood to 
 read, " God hears thee." Remember 
 God hears you always, and will you not 
 deal sincerely with one whom God has 
 placed at your mercy?" I spoke with 
 much agitation, and the Director appeared 
 
A TALE. 209 
 
 affected for a moment ; that is, he passed 
 his hand over his eyes, which were as dry- 
 as — his heart. He paused for several mi- 
 nutes, and then said, " My dear child, dare 
 I trust you ? I confess I came prepared 
 to treat you like a boy, but I feel I am 
 disposed to consider you as a man. You 
 have the intelligence, the penetration, the 
 decision of a man. Have you the feelings 
 of one ?" " Try me, my father." I did 
 not perceive that his irony, his secret, and 
 his parade of feeling, were all alike thea- 
 trical, and substitutionary for real inte- 
 rest and sincerity. " If I should be in- 
 clined to trust you, my dear child," — 
 " I shall be grateful." " And secret." 
 " And secret, my father." " Then imagine 
 yourself" — •* Oh ! my father, let me not 
 have to imagine any thing — tell me the 
 truth." " Foolish boy, — am I then so bad 
 a painter, that I must write the name under 
 the figure." " I understand you, my fa- 
 ther, and shall not interrupt you again." 
 " Then imagine to yourself the honour of 
 
£10 MELMOTH : 
 
 one of the first houses in Spain ; the peace 
 of a whole family, — the feelings of a father, 
 -—the honour of a mother, — the interests of 
 religion, — the eternal salvation of an indi- 
 vidual, all suspended in one scale. What 
 do you think could outweigh them?" 
 w Nothing," I replied ardently. " Yet, in 
 the opposite scale you throw nothing, — the 
 caprice of a boy not thirteen years old ; — 
 this is all you have to oppose to the claims 
 of nature, of society, and of God." " My 
 father, I am penetrated with horror at what 
 you have said, — does all this depend on 
 me ?" " It does, — it does all depend on 
 you." " But how, then, — I am bewilder- 
 ed, — I am willing to make a sacrifice, — tell 
 me what I am to do." " Embrace, my 
 dear child, the monastic life ; this will ac- 
 complish the views of all who love you, 
 ensure your own salvation, and fulfil the 
 will of God, who is calling you at this 
 moment by the voices of your affectionate 
 parents, and the supplications of the mi- 
 nister of heaven, who is now kneeling be- 
 
A TALE. 211 
 
 fore you." And he sunk on his knees 
 before me. 
 
 " This prostration, so unexpected, so re- 
 volting, and so like the monastic habit of 
 artificial humiliation, completely annihi- 
 lated the effect of his language. I retreat* 
 ed from his arms, which were extended 
 towards me. " My father, / cannot, — I 
 will never become a monk " " Wretch ! 
 and you refuse, then, to lis .1 to the call 
 of ycur conscience, the adjuration of your 
 parents, and the voice of God ?" The fury 
 with which he uttered these words, — the 
 change from a ministering angel to an in- 
 furiated and menacing demon, had an 
 effect just contrary to what he expected. 
 I said calmly, " My conscience does not 
 reproach me, — I have never disobeyed 
 its calls. My parents have adjured me 
 only through your mouth ; and I hope, 
 for their sakes, the organ has not been in- 
 spired by them. And the voice of God, 
 echoed from my own heart, bids me not 
 to obey you, by adulterating his service 
 
212 MELMOTH : 
 
 with prostituted vows." As I spoke thug, 
 the Director changed the whole character 
 of his figure, his attitude, and his lan- 
 guage ; — from the extreme of supplication 
 or of terror, he passed in a moment, with 
 the facility of an actor, to a rigid and 
 breathless sternness. His figure rose from 
 the ground before me like that of the Pro- 
 phet Samuel before the astonished eyes of 
 Saul. He dropt the dramatist, and was 
 the monk in a moment. " And you will 
 not take the vows ?" " 1 will not, my 
 father." " And you will brave the resent- 
 ment of your parents, and the denuncia- 
 tions of the church." " I have done no- 
 thing to deserve either." " But you will 
 encounter both, to cherish your horrid re- 
 solution of being the enemy of God." 
 " I am not the enemy of God for speak- 
 ing the truth." " Liar and hypocrite, you 
 blaspheme !" " Stop, my father, these are 
 words unbecoming your profession, and 
 unsuited to this place." " I acknowledge 
 the justice of the rebuke, and submit to 
 
A TALE. 213 
 
 it, though uttered by the mouth of a 
 child." — And he dropped his hypocritical 
 eyes, folded his hands on his breast, and 
 murmured, " Fiat voluntas tua. My dear 
 child, my zeal for the service of God, and 
 the honour of your family, to which I am 
 attached equally by principle and affection, 
 have carried me too far, — 1 confess it ; but 
 have I to ask pardon of you also, my 
 child, for a redundance of that affection 
 and zeal for your house, which its descen- 
 dant has proved himself destitute of?" 
 The mingled humiliation and irony of this 
 address had no effect on me. He saw it had 
 not; for after slowly raising his eyes to 
 watch that effect, he saw me standing in 
 silence, not trusting my voice with a word, 
 lest I should utter something rash and dis- 
 respectful, — not daring to lift up my eyes, 
 lest their expression should speak without 
 making language necessary. 
 
 " I believe the Director felt his situation 
 rather critical ; his interest in the family 
 depended on it, and he attempted to coveF 
 
£14 MELMOTH : 
 
 his retreat with all the expertness and fer- 
 tility of manoeuvre which belong to an 
 ecclesiastical tactician. " My dear child, 
 we have been both wrong, I from zeal, 
 and you from — no matter what ; our busi- 
 ness is to exchange forgiveness with each 
 other, and to implore it of God, whom we 
 have both offended. My dear child, let 
 us prostrate ourselves before him, and even 
 while our hearts are glowing with human 
 passion, God may seize that moment to 
 impress the seal of his grace on both, and 
 fix it there for ever. Often the earthquake 
 and the whirlwind are succeeded by the 
 still, small voice, and God is there. — Let 
 us pray. 5 ' I fell on my knees, resolved to 
 pray in my heart ; but in a short time, the 
 fervour of his language, the eloquence and 
 energy of his prayers, dragged me along 
 with him, and I felt myself compelled to 
 pray against every dictate of my own 
 heart. He had reserved this display for 
 the last, and he had judged well. I never 
 heard any ^thing so like inspiration ; as I 
 
A TALE. 215 
 
 listened, and involuntarily, to effusions 
 that seemed to issue from no mortal lips, 
 I began to doubt my own motives, and 
 search my heart. I had disdained his 
 taunts, I had defied and conquered his 
 passion, but as he prayed, I wept. This 
 going over the same ground with the 
 heart, is one of the most painful and hu- 
 miliating of all exercises ; the virtue of 
 yesterday becomes the vice of to-day ; we 
 ask with the desponding and restless scep- 
 ticism of Pilate, " What is truth ?" but 
 the oracle that was so eloquent one mo- 
 ment, is dumb the next, or if it answers, 
 it is with that ambiguity that makes us 
 dread we have to consult again — again 
 — and for ever — -in vain. 
 
 I was now in a state quite fit for the Di- 
 rector's purpose ; but he was fatigued with 
 the part he had played with so little suc- 
 cess, and took his leave, imploring me to 
 continue my importunities to Heaven to 
 direct and enlighten me, while he himself 
 would supplicate all the saints in heaven 
 
216 MELMOTH : 
 
 to touch the hearts of my parents, and re* 
 veal to them some means of saving me 
 from the crime and perjury of a forced 
 vocation, without involving themselves in 
 a crime, if possible, of blacker dye and 
 greater magnitude. Saying so he left me, 
 to urge my parents, with all his influence, 
 to pursue the most rigorous measures to 
 enforce my adoption of the conventual 
 life. His motives for doing so were suffi- 
 ciently strong when he visited me, but their 
 strength was increased tenfold before his 
 departure. He had reckoned confidently 
 on the power of his remonstrances ; he 
 had been repulsed ; the disgrace of such a 
 defeat rankled in the core of his heart. 
 He had been only a partizan in the cause, 
 but he was now a party. What was a 
 matter of conscience before, was now a 
 matter of honour with him ; and I rather 
 believe that the Director laid a greater 
 stress on the latter, or made a great havock 
 of confusion between both in his mind. 
 Be that as it may, I passed a few days 
 
A TALE. 217 
 
 after his visit in a state of indescribable 
 excitement. 1 had something to hope, 
 and that is often better than something to 
 enjoy. The cup of hope always excites 
 thirst, that of fruition disappoints or 
 quenches it. I took long walks in the 
 garden alone. I framed imaginary con- 
 versations to myself. The boarders ob- 
 served me, and said to each other, accord- 
 ing to their instructions, " He is meditat- 
 ing on his vocation, he is supplicating for 
 illuminating grace, let us not disturb him." 
 I did not undeceive them ; but I reflected 
 with increasing horror on a system that 
 forced hypocrisy to a precocity unparallel- 
 ed, and made the last vice of life the ear- 
 liest of conventual youth. But I soon for- 
 got reflection, to plunge into reverie. I 
 imagined myself at the palace of my fa- 
 ther ; I saw him, my mother, and the Di- 
 rector, engaged in debate. I spoke for 
 each, and felt for all. I supplied the pas- 
 sionate eloquence of the Director, his 
 strong representations of my aversion to 
 
 VOL,. I. K 
 
218 3V1ELM0TH : 
 
 the habit, his declaration that further im- 
 portunity on their part would be as impious 
 as it was fruitless. I saw all the impres- 
 sion I once flattered myself I had made 
 on my father revived. I saw my mother 
 yield. I heard the murmur of doubtful 
 acquiescence, — the decision, the congratu- 
 lations. I saw the carriage approaching, 
 — I heard the convent doors fly open. Lk 
 berty, — liberty, — I was in their arms ; no, 
 I was at their feet. Let those who smile 
 at me, ask themselves whether they have 
 been indebted most to imagination or reali- 
 ty for all they have enjoyed in life, if in- 
 deed they have ever enjoyed any thing. 
 In these internal dramas, however, I al- 
 ways felt that the persons did not speak 
 with the interest I wished; and the speeches 
 1 put into their mouths would have been 
 spoken with ten thousand times more 
 animation by myself. Still I felt the 
 most exquisite enjoyment in these reve- 
 ries, and perhaps it was not diminished by 
 
A TALE. 21$ 
 
 the thought how I was deceiving my com- 
 panions the whole time. But dissimula- 
 tion always teaches dissimulation ; and the 
 only question is, whether we shall be the 
 masters of the art or its victims ? a ques- 
 tion soon decided by our self-love. 
 
 " It was on the sixth day that I heard, 
 with a beating heart, a carriage stop. I 
 could have sworn to the sound of its 
 wheels. I was in the hall before I was 
 summoned. 1 felt I could not be in the 
 wrong, nor was I. I drove to my father's 
 palace in a delirium, — a vision of repulse 
 and of reconciliation, of gratitude and of 
 -despair. I was ushered into a room, where 
 were assembled my father, my mother, and 
 the Director, all seated, and silent as sta- 
 tues. I approached, I kissed their hands, 
 and then stood at a small distance breath- 
 less. My father was the first to break si- 
 lence, but he spoke very much with the 
 air of a man who was repeating a part 
 dictated to him ; and the tone of his voice 
 contradicted every word he prepared to 
 
220 MELMOTH : 
 
 utter. " My son, I have sent for you, no 
 longer to contend with your weak and 
 wicked obstinacy, but to announce to you 
 my own resolution. The will of Heaven 
 and of your parents has devoted you to 
 its service, and your resistance can only 
 make us miserable, without in the least 
 frustrating that resolution." At these 
 words, gasping for breath, my lips invo- 
 luntarily unclosed ; my father imagined 
 this was an attempt to reply, though in 
 fact I was not capable of uttering a syl- 
 lable, and hastened to prevent it. " My 
 son, all opposition is unavailing, all dis- 
 cussion fruitless. Your destiny is decided, 
 and though your struggles may render it 
 wretched, they cannot reverse it. Be re- 
 conciled, my child, to the will of Heaven 
 and your parents, which you may insult, 
 but cannot violate. This reverend person 
 can better explain to you the necessity of 
 your obedience than 1 can." And my fa- 
 ther, evidently weary of a task which he 
 had reluctantly undertaken, was rising to 
 
A TALE. 221 
 
 go away, when the Director detained him. 
 " Stay, Senhor, and assure your son be- 
 fore you depart, that, since I last saw him, 
 I have fulfilled my promise, and urged 
 every topic on your mind, and that of the 
 duchess, that I thought might operate for 
 his best interests" I was aware of the 
 hypocritical ambiguity of this expression ; 
 and, collecting my breath, I said, " Ilever 
 rend father, as a son I seek not to employ 
 an intercessor with my own parents. I 
 stand before them, and if I have not an 
 intercessor in their hearts, your mediation 
 must be ineffectual altogether. I implored 
 you merely to state to them my invincible 
 reluctance." They all interrupted me with 
 exclamations, as they repeated my last 
 words, — " Reluctance ! invincible ! Is it 
 for this you have been admitted to our 
 presence ? Is it for this we have borne so 
 long with your contumacy, only to hear it 
 repeated^with aggravations?" "Yes, my 
 father, — yes, for this or nothing. If I am 
 not permitted to speak, why am I suffered 
 
£22 MELMOTH : 
 
 in your presence ?" " Because we hoped 
 to witness your submission." " Allow me 
 to give the proofs of it on my knees f — 
 and I fell on my knees, hoping that my 
 posture might soften the effect of the 
 words 1 could not help uttering. I kissed 
 my fathers hand, — he did not withdraw 
 it, and I felt it tremble. I kissed the 
 skirt of my mother's robe, — she attempted 
 to withdraw it with one hand, but with 
 the other she hid her face, and I thought 
 I saw tears bursting through her fingers. 
 I knelt to the Director too, and besought 
 his benediction, and struggled, though 
 with revolting lips, to kiss his hand ; but 
 he snatched his habit from my hand, ele- 
 vated his eyes, spread out his fingers, and 
 assumed the attitude of a man who recoils 
 in horror from a being who merits the ex- 
 treme of malediction and reprobation. 
 Then I felt my only chance was with my 
 parents. I turned to them, but they 
 shrunk from me, and appeared willing to 
 devolve the remainder of the task on the 
 
A TALE. 223 
 
 Director. He approached me. " My 
 child, you have pronounced your reluc- 
 tance to the life of God invincible, but 
 may there not be things more invincible 
 even to your resolution? The curses of 
 that God, confirmed by those of your pa- 
 rents, and deepened by all the fulmina- 
 tions of the church, whose embraces you 
 have rejected, and whose holiness you 
 have desecrated by that rejection." " Fa- 
 ther, these are terrible words, but I have 
 no time now but for meanings." " Besot- 
 ted wretch, I do not understand you, — 
 you do not understand yourself." " Oh ! 
 I do, — I do !" I exclaimed. And turning 
 to my father, still on my knees, I cried, 
 " My dear father, is life, — human life, all 
 shut up from me ?" " It is," said the Di- 
 rector, answering for my father. " Have 
 I no resource ?" " None." " No profes- 
 sion ?" " Profession ! degenerate wretch !" 
 " Let me embrace the meanest, but 
 do not make me a monk." " Profligate 
 as weak," " Oh ! mv father," still call 
 
224f MELMOTH : 
 
 ing on my father, " let not this man an- 
 swer for yon. Give me a sword, — send 
 me into the armies of Spain to seek death, 
 — death is all I ask, in preference to that 
 life you doom me to." " It is impossible," 
 said my father, gloomily returning from 
 the window against which he had been 
 leaning ; " the honour of an illustrious fa- 
 mily, — the dignity of a Spanish grandee — " 
 " Oh ! my father, of how little value will 
 that be, when I am consuming in my early 
 grave, and you die broken-hearted on it, 
 over the flow T er your own voice has doom- 
 ed to wither there." My father trembled. 
 " Senhor, I entreat, — I command you to 
 retire ; this scene will unfit you for the de- 
 votional duties you must perform this 
 evening." " And you leave me then ?" I 
 cried as they departed. M Yes,— yes," — re- 
 peated the Director ; " leave you burden- 
 ed with the curse of your father." " Oh 
 no !" exclaimed my father ; but the Direc- 
 tor had hold of his hand, and pressed it 
 strongly. " Of your mother," he repeat- 
 
A TALE. 225 
 
 ed. I heard my mother weep aloud, and 
 felt it like a repeal of that curse; but she 
 dared not speak, and I could not. The 
 Director had now two victims in his hands, 
 and the third at his feet. He could not 
 avoid showing his triumph. He paused, 
 collected the full power of his sonorous 
 voice, and thundered forth, " And of God !" 
 And as he rushed from the room, accom- 
 panied by my father and mother, whose 
 hands he grasped, I felt as if struck by a 
 thunderbolt. The rushing of their robes, 
 as he dragged them out, seemed like the 
 whirlwind that attends the presence of tha 
 destroying angel. I cried out, in my hope- 
 less agony of destitution, " Oh ! that my 
 brother were here to intercede for me," — 
 and, as i uttered these words, I fell. My 
 head struck against a marble table, and I 
 sunk on the floor covered with blood. 
 
 " The domestics (of whom, according 
 to the custom of the Spanish nobility, 
 there were about two hundred in the 
 palace) found me in this situation. They 
 
 K 2 
 
226 MELMOTH : 
 
 uttered outcries, — assistance was procur- 
 ed, — it was believed that I had attempt- 
 ed to kill myself; but the surgeon who 
 attended me happened to be a man both 
 of science and humanity, and having 
 cut away the long hair clotted with blood, 
 and surveyed the wound, he pronounced 
 it trifling. My mother was of his opinion, 
 for within three days I was summoned to 
 her apartment. I obeyed the summons. 
 A black bandage, severe head-ache, and an 
 unnatural paleness, were the only testi- 
 monies of my accident, as it was called ; 
 and the Director had suggested to her that 
 this was the time to fix the impression. 
 How well religious persons understand the 
 secret of making every event of the pre- 
 sent world operate on the future, while 
 they pretend to make the future predomi- 
 nate over the present. Were I to outlive 
 the age of man, I should never forget my 
 interview with my mother. She was alone 
 when I entered, and seated with her back 
 to me. I knelt and kissed her hand. Mv 
 
A TALE. 227 
 
 paleness and my submission seemed to af- 
 fect her, — but she struggled with her emo- 
 tions, overcame them, and said in a cold 
 dictated tone, " To what purpose are those 
 marks of exterior reverence, when your 
 heart disowns them ?" " Madam, I am not 
 conscious of that." " Not conscious ! How 
 then are you here ? How is it that you 
 have not, long before this, spared your fa- 
 ther the shame of supplicating his own 
 child, — the shame, still more humiliating, 
 of supplicating him in vain ; spared the 
 Father Director the scandal of seeing the 
 authority of the church violated in the 
 person of its minister, and the remon- 
 strances of duty as ineffectual as the calls 
 of nature ? And me, — oh ! why have you 
 not spared me this hour of agony and 
 shame ?" and she burst into a flood of tears, 
 that drowned my soul as she shed them. 
 " Madam, what have I done that deserves 
 the reproach of your tears ? My disincli- 
 nation to a monastic life is no crime?' 3 
 c; In you it is a crime." " But how then, ? 
 
£28 MELMOTH : 
 
 dear mother, were a similar choice offered 
 to my brother, would his rejection of it 
 be deemed a crime ?" I said this almost in- 
 voluntarily, and merely by way of com- 
 parison. I had no ulterior meaning, nor 
 the least idea that one could be developed 
 by my mother, except a reference to an 
 unjustifiable partiality. I was undeceived, 
 when she added, in a voice that chilled my 
 blood, " There is a great difference be- 
 tween you." " Yes, Madam, he is your fa- 
 vourite." <fc No, I take Heaven to witness, 
 i — no;" and she, who had appeared so severe, 
 so decisive, and so impenetrable before, ut- 
 tered these words with a sincerity that pene- 
 trated to the bottom of my heart ; — she ap- 
 peared to be appealing to Heaven against 
 the prejudices of her child. I was affect- 
 ed — I said, " But, Madam, this difference 
 of circumstances is inexplicable." " And 
 would you have it explained by me?" " By 
 any one, Madam." " By me /" she re- 
 peated, not hearing me ; then kissing a 
 crucifix than hung on her bosom, " My 
 
A TALE. 229 
 
 God ! the chastisement is just, and I sub- 
 mit to it, though inflicted by my own 
 child. You are illegitimate," she added, 
 turning suddenly towards me ; " you are 
 illegitimate, — your brother is not ; and 
 your intrusion into your father's house is 
 not only its disgrace, but a perpetual mo- 
 nitor of that crime which it aggravates 
 without absolving." I stood speechless. 
 " Oh ! my child," she continued, " have 
 mercy on your mother. Has not this con- 
 fession, extorted from her by her own son, 
 been sufficient to expiate her offence?" 
 7 Go on, Madam, I can bear any thing 
 now." " You must bear it, for you have 
 forced me to this disclosure. I am of rank 
 far inferior to your father, — you were our 
 first child. He loved me, and forgiving 
 my weakness as a proof of my devotion 
 to him, we were married, and your bro- 
 ther is our lawful child. Your father, 
 anxious for my reputation, since I was 
 united to him, agreed with me, as our 
 marriage was private, and its date uncer- 
 
830 MELMOTH : 
 
 tain, that you should be announced as our 
 legitimate offspring. For years your 
 grandfather, incensed at our marriage, re- 
 fused to see us, and we lived in retirement, 
 —would that I had died there. A few 
 days before his death he relented, and sent 
 for us ; it was no time to acknowledge the 
 imposition practised on him, and you were 
 introduced as the child of his son, and the 
 heir of his honours. But from that hour I 
 have never known a moment's peace. The 
 lie I had dared to utter before God and the 
 world, and to a dying parent, — the injustice 
 done to your brother , — the violation of na- 
 tural duties and of legal claims, — the con- 
 vulsions of my conscience, that heavily up- 
 braided me, not only with vice and perjury, 
 but with sacrilege." " Sacrilege !" " Yes ; 
 every hour you delay the assumption of 
 the habit is a robbery of God. Before you 
 were born, I devoted you to him, as the 
 only expiation of my crime. While 1 yet 
 T)ore you in my bosom without life, I dared 
 to implore his forgiveness only on the con- 
 
A TALE. 231 
 
 dition of your future intercession for me as 
 a minister of religion. I relied on your 
 prayers before you could speak. I proposed 
 to intrust my penitence to one, who, in 
 becoming the child of God, had atoned for 
 my offence in making him the child of sin, 
 In imagination I knelt already at your 
 confessional, — heard you, by the authority 
 of the church, and the commission of 
 Heaven, pronounce me forgiven. I saw 
 you stand beside my dying bed, — I felt 
 you press the cross to my cold lips, and 
 point to that heaven where I hoped my 
 vow had already secured a seat for you. 
 Before your birth I had laboured to lift 
 you to heaven, and my recompence is, 
 that your obstinacy threatens to drag us 
 both into the gulph of perdition. Oh ! my 
 child, if our prayers and intercessions are 
 available to the delivery of the souls of our 
 departed relatives from punishment, hear 
 the adjuration of a living parent, who im- 
 plores you not to seal her everlasting con- 
 demnation !" I was unable to answer, my 
 
£32 MELMOTH : 
 
 mother saw it, and redoubled her efforts. 
 " My son, if I thought that my kneel- 
 ing at your feet would soften your obdu- 
 racy, I would prostrate myself before them 
 this moment." " Oh ! madam, the sight 
 of such unnatural humiliation ought to 
 kill me." "And yet you will not yield — 
 the agony of this confession, the interests 
 of my salvation and your own, nay, the 
 preservation of my life, are of no weight 
 with you." She perceived that these 
 words made me tremble, and repeated, 
 " Yes, my life ; beyond the day that your 
 inflexibility exposes me to infamy, I will 
 not live. If you have resolution, I have 
 resolution too; nor do 1 dread the result, 
 for God will charge on your soul, not on 
 mine, the crime an unnatural child has 
 forced me to — and yet you will npt yield. — 
 Well, then, the prostration of my body is 
 nothing to that prostration of soul you 
 have already driven me to. 1 kneel to my 
 own child for life and for salvation," and 
 she knelt to me. I attempted to raise her; 
 
A TALE. 283 
 
 she repelled me, and exclaimed, in a voice 
 hoarse with despair, " And you will not 
 yield ?" " I do not say so." " And what, 
 then, do you say? — raise me not, approach 
 me not, till you answer me." " That I 
 will think." " Think! you must decide." 
 " I do, then, I do." " But how ?" " To 
 be whatever you would have me." As I 
 uttered these w r ords, my mother fell in a 
 swoon at my feet. As I attempted to lift 
 her up, scarce knowing if it was not a corse 
 I held in my arms, I felt I never could 
 have forgiven myself if she had been re- 
 duced to that situation by my refusing 
 
 to comply with her last request. * 
 
 * * * *■- 
 
 I was overpowered with congratula- 
 tions, blessings, and embraces. I received 
 them with trembling hands, cold lips, a 
 rocking brain, and a heart that felt turn- 
 ed to stone. Every thing passed before 
 me as in a dream. I saw the pageant 
 move on, without a thought of who was 
 to be the victim, I returned to the con- 
 
2$4 MELMOTH : 
 
 vent — 1 felt my destiny was fixed — 1 had 
 no wish to avert or arrest it — I was like 
 one who sees an enormous engine (whose 
 operation is to crush him to atoms) put 
 in motion, and, stupified with horror, 
 gazes on it with a calmness that might 
 be mistaken for that of one who was 
 eoolly analysing the complication of its 
 machinery, and calculating the resist- 
 less crush of its blow. I have read of a 
 wretched Jew *, who, by the command of 
 a Moorish emperor, was exposed in an 
 area to the rage of a lion who had been 
 purposely kept fasting for eight and forty 
 hours. The horrible roar of the famished 
 and infuriated animal made even the exe- 
 cutioners tremble as they fastened the rope 
 round the body of the screaming victim. 
 Amid hopeless struggles, supplications for 
 mercy, and shrieks of despair, he was 
 bound, raised, and lowered into the area. 
 At the moment he touched the ground, 
 he fell prostrate, stupefied, annihilated, 
 
 * Vide Buffa — Anachronism prepense, 
 
A TALE. 235 
 
 He uttered no cry — he did not draw a 
 breath — he did not make an effort — he 
 fell contracting his whole body into a ball, 
 and lay as senseless as a lump of earth. — 
 So it fared with me ; my cries and strug- 
 gles were over, — 1 had been flung into the 
 area, and I lay there. I repeated to my- 
 self, " I am to be a monk," and there the 
 debate ended. If they commended me for 
 the performance of my exercises, or re- 
 proved me for my deficiency, I showed 
 neither joy nor sorrow, — I said only, " I 
 am to be a monk." If they urged me to 
 take exercise in the garden of the convent, 
 or reproved me for my excess in walk- 
 ing beyond the allotted hours, I still an- 
 swered, " I am to be a monk." I was 
 showed much indulgence in these wander- 
 ings. A son — the eldest son of the Duke 
 de Moneada, taking the vows, was a glo- 
 rious triumph for the ex- Jesuits, and they 
 did not fail to make the most of it. They 
 asked what books I would like to read,-— 
 I answered, " What they pleased," They 
 
236 MELMOTH : 
 
 saw I was fond of flowers, and vases of 
 porcelain, filled with the most exquisite 
 produce of their garden, (renewed every 
 day), embellished my apartment. I was 
 fond of music, — that they perceived from 
 my involuntary joining in the choir. My 
 voice was good, and my profound me- 
 lancholy gave an expression to my tones, 
 which these men, always on the watch to 
 grasp at any thing that may aggrandize 
 them, or delude their victims, assured me 
 were like the tones of inspiration. 
 
 " Amid these displays of indulgence, 
 I exhibited an ingratitude totally fo- 
 reign from my character. I never read 
 the books they furnished me with, — I 
 neglected the flowers with which they 
 filled my room,— and the superb organ 
 they introduced into my apartment, I 
 never touched, except to elicit some 
 deep and melancholy chords from its 
 keys. To those who urged me to employ 
 my talents for painting and music, I still 
 answered with the same apathetic mono- 
 tony, " I am to be a monk." " But, my 
 
A TALE. 237 
 
 brother, the love of flowers, of music, 
 of all that can be consecrated to God, 
 is also worthy of the attention of man 
 — you abuse the indulgence of the Su- 
 perior." " Perhaps so." " You must, 
 in gratitude to God, thank him for these 
 lovely works of his creation ;" — the room 
 was at this time filled with carnations and 
 roses ; — " you must also be grateful to him 
 for the powers with which he has distin- 
 guished you in hymning his praises — your 
 voice is the richest and most powerful 
 in the church." " 1 don't doubt it." " My 
 brother, you answer at random." " Just 
 as I feel— but don't heed that." " Will you 
 take a turn in the garden ?" " If you 
 please." 6t Or will you seek a moment's 
 consolation from the Superior?" " If you 
 please." " But why do you speak with 
 such apathy ? are the odour of the flowers, 
 and the consolations of your Superior, to be 
 appreciated in the same breath ?" " I be- 
 lieve so." f* Why ?" " Because I am to 
 be a monk." " Nay, brother, will you 
 
23S MELMOTH : 
 
 never utter any thing but that phrase, 
 which carries no meaning with it but that 
 of stupefaction or delirium ?" " Imagine 
 me, then, stupefied, delirious — what you 
 please — you know I must be a monk." 
 At these words, which I suppose I uttered 
 in a tone unlike that of the usual chaunt 
 of monastic conversation, another inter- 
 posed, and asked what I was uttering in 
 so loud a key ? " I am only saying," I re- 
 plied, " that I must be a monk." " Thank 
 God it is no worse," replied the querist, 
 " your contumacy must long ago have 
 wearied the Superior and the brethren — 
 thank God it's no worse." At these words 
 1 felt my passions resuscitated, — I exclaim- 
 ed, " Worse ! what have I to dread ? — am 
 I not to be a monk ?" From that evening, 
 (I forget when it occurred), my liberty was 
 abridged ; I was no longer suffered to walk, 
 to converse with the boarders or novices, — 
 a separate table was spread for me in the 
 refectory, — the seats near mine were left 
 vacant at service, — yet still my cell was 
 
A TALE. 239 
 
 embellished with flowers and engravings, 
 and exquisitely-wrought toys were left on 
 my table. I did not perceive they were 
 treating me as a lunatic, yet certainly 
 my foolishly reiterated expressions might 
 have justified them in doing so, — they had 
 their own plans in concert with the Direc- 
 tor, — my silence went for proof. The Di- 
 rector came often to visit me, and the hy- 
 pocritical wretches would accompany him 
 to my cell. I was generally (for want of 
 other occupation) attending to my flowers, 
 or gazing at the engravings, — and they 
 would say, " You see he is as happy as he 
 wishes to be — he wants for nothing — he is 
 quite occupied in watching those roses.** 
 " No, I am not occupied," I returned, " it 
 is occupation I want." Then they shrug- 
 ged their shoulders, exchanged mysterious 
 looks with the Director, and I was glad 
 when they were gone, without reflecting 
 on the mischief their absence threatened 
 me with. At this moment, consultation af- 
 ter consultation was held at the palace de 
 
240 MELMOTH : 
 
 Moncada, whether I could be induced t# 
 shew sufficient intellect to enable me to 
 pronounce the vows. It seems the reve- 
 rend fathers were as anxious as their old 
 enemies the Moors, to convert an idiot in- 
 to a saint. There was now a party com- 
 bined against me, that it would have re- 
 quired more than the might of man to resist. 
 All was uproar from the palace de Mon- 
 cada to the convent, and back again. I 
 was mad, contumacious, heretical, idiotical, 
 —any thing — every thing- — that could ap- 
 pease the jealous agony of my parents, the 
 cupidity of the monks, or the ambition of 
 the ex-Jesuits, who laughed at the terror 
 of all the rest, and watched intently over 
 their own interests. Whether I was mad 
 or not, they cared very little ; to enroll a 
 son of the first house of Spain among their 
 converts, or to imprison him as a madman, 
 or to exorcise him as a demoniac, was all 
 the same to them. There was a coup de 
 theatre to be exhibited, and provided they 
 played first parts, they cared little about 
 
A TALE. 241 
 
 the catastrophe. Luckily, during all this 
 uproar of imposture, fear, falsehood, and 
 misrepresentation, the Superior remained 
 steady. He let the tumult go on, to ag- 
 grandize his importance ; but he was re- 
 solved all the time that I should have sa- 
 nity enough to enable me to take the vows. 
 I knew nothing of all this, but was asto- 
 nished at being summoned to the parlour 
 on the last eve of my noviciate. I had 
 performed my religious exercises with re- 
 gularity, had received no rebukes from 
 the master of the novices, and was totally 
 unprepared for the scene that awaited me, 
 In the parlour were assembled my father, 
 mother, the Director, and some other per- 
 sons whom I did not recognize. I ad- 
 vanced with a calm look, and equal step. 
 I believe I was as much in possession of 
 my reason as any one present. The Su- 
 perior, taking my arm, led me round the 
 
 room, saying, " You see " I inter* 
 
 rupted him — " Sir, what is this intend- 
 VOL. i. L 
 
242 MELMOTH f 
 
 ed for?" He answered only by putting 
 his finger on his lips, and then desired me 
 to exhibit my drawings. I brought 
 them, and offered them on one knee, first 
 to my mother, and then to my father. 
 They were sketches of monasteries and 
 prisons. My mother averted her eyes 
 —and my father said, pushing them a- 
 way, " I have no taste in those things." 
 " But you are fond of music doubtless," 
 said the Superior; " you must hear his 
 performance." There was a small organ 
 in the room adjacent to the parlour ; my 
 mother was not admitted there, but my 
 father followed to listen. Involuntarily I 
 selected an air from the " Sacrifice of 
 Jephtha." My father was affected, and bid 
 me cease. The Superior imagined this 
 was not only a tribute to my talent, but 
 an acknowledgement of the power of his 
 party, and he applauded without measure 
 or judgement. Till that moment, I had 
 never conceived I could be the object of a 
 
A TALE. 243 
 
 party in the convent. The Superior was 
 determined to make me a Jesuit, and 
 therefore was pledged for my sanity. The 
 monks wished for an exorcism, an auto 
 defe, or some such bagatelle, to diversify 
 the dreariness of monasticism, and there- 
 fore were anxious I should be, or appear, 
 deranged or possessed. Their pious wishes, 
 however, failed. I had appeared when sum- 
 moned, behaved with scrupulous correct- 
 ness, and the next day was appointed for 
 my taking the vows. 
 
 " That next day— Oh ! that I could de- 
 scribe it ! — but it is impossible — the pro- 
 found stupefaction in which I was plung- 
 ed prevented my noticing things which 
 would have inspired the most uninterested 
 spectator. I was so absorbed, that though 
 I remember facts, I cannot paint the slight- 
 est trace of the feelings which they excited. 
 During the night I slept profoundly, till I 
 was awoke by a knock at my door. — " My 
 dear child, how are you employed ?" I knew 
 
£44 MELMOTH : 
 
 the voice of the Superior, and I replied, 
 " My father, I was sleeping." " And I 
 was macerating myself at the foot of the 
 altar for you, my child, — the scourge is 
 red with my blood." I returned no an- 
 swer, for I felt the maceration was better 
 merited by the betrayer than the betrayed. 
 Yet I was mistaken ; for in fact, the Su- 
 perior felt some compunction, and had un- 
 dergone this penance on account of my re- 
 pugnance and alienation of mind, more 
 than for his own offences. But Oh ! how 
 false is a treaty made with God, which we 
 ratify with our own blood, when he has 
 declared there is but one sacrifice he will 
 accept, even that of the Lamb slain from 
 the foundation of the world ! Twice in 
 the night, I was thus disturbed, and twice 
 answered in the same language. The Su- 
 perior, I make no doubt, was sincere. He 
 thought he was doing all for God, and his 
 bleeding shoulders testified his zeal. But 
 I was in such a state of mental ossification. 
 
A TAIJE. 245 
 
 that I neither felt, heard, or understood ; 
 and when he knocked a second and third 
 time at the door of my cell to announce 
 the severity of his macerations, and the ef- 
 ficacy of his intercessions with God, I an- 
 swered, " Are not criminals allowed to 
 sleep the night before their execution?" 
 At hearing these words, which must have 
 made him shudder, the Superior fell 
 prostrate before the door of my cell, 
 and I turned to sleep again. But 1 could 
 hear the voices of the monks as they 
 raised the Superior, and bore him to his 
 cell. They said, " He is incorrigible — you 
 humiliate yourself in vain — when he is 
 ours, you shall see him a different being — 
 he shall then prostrate himself before you." 
 I heard this, and slept on. The morning 
 came — I knew what it would bring — I 
 dramatized the whole scene in my own 
 mind, I imagined I witnessed the tears 
 of my parents, the sympathy of the con- 
 gregation. I thought I saw the hands 
 
246 MKLMOTH : 
 
 of the priests tremble as they tossed the 
 incense, and even the acolytes shiver as 
 they held their robes. Suddenly my mind 
 changed: I felt — what was it I felt? — a 
 union of malignity, despair, and power, 
 the most formidable. Lightning seemed 
 flashing from my eyes as I reflected, — I 
 might make the sacrificers and the sacri- 
 ficed change places in one moment, — I 
 might blast my mother as she stood, by a 
 word, — I might break my father's heart, 
 by a single sentence, — I might scatter 
 more desolation around me, than it was 
 apparently possible for human vice, human 
 power, or human malignity, more potent 
 th'in both, to cause to its most abject vic- 
 tim. — Yes ! — on that morning I felt within 
 myself the struggles of nature, feeling, 
 compunction, pride, malevolence, and de- 
 spair. — The former I had brought with me, 
 the latter had been all acquired in the con- 
 vent. I said to those who attended me 
 that morning, " You are arraying me for 
 
A TALK. 247 
 
 a victim, but I can turn the executioners 
 into the victims if I please" — and I laugh- 
 ed. The laugh terrified those who were 
 about me — they retreated — they repre- 
 sented my state to the Superior. He came 
 to my apartment. The whole convent was 
 by this time alarmed — their credit was at 
 stake — the preparations had all been made 
 — the whole world was determined I was 
 to be a monk, mad or not. 
 
 * The Superior was terrified, I saw, as 
 he entered my apartment. " My son, 
 what means all this ?" " Nothing, my fa- 
 ther — nothing but a sudden thought that 
 has struck me." " We will discuss it an- 
 other time, my son ; at present — " u At 
 present" I repeated with a laugh that 
 must have lacerated the Superior's ears — 
 M At present I have but one alternative to 
 propose — let my father or my brother take 
 my place — that is all. I will never be a 
 monk." The Superior, at these words, ran 
 ill despair round the cell. 1 followed him, 
 exclaiming, in a voice that must have filled 
 
248 MELMOTH ! 
 
 him with horror, " I exclaim against the 
 vows — let those who forced me to it, take 
 the guilt on themselves — let my father, in 
 his own person, expiate his guilt in bringing 
 me into the world — let my brother sacrifice 
 his pride — why must I be the only victim 
 of the crime of the one, and the passions 
 of the other ?" " My son, all this was ar- 
 ranged before." " Yes, I know that — I 
 know that by a decree of the Almighty I 
 was doomed to be cursed even in my mo- 
 ther's womb, but I will never subscribe that 
 decree with my own hand." " My son, 
 what can I say to you — you have passed 
 your noviciate." " Yes, in a state of stu- 
 pefaction." " All Madrid is assembled to 
 hear you take your vows." " Then all 
 Madrid shall hear me renounce them, and 
 disavow them." " This is the very day 
 fixed on. The ministers of God are pre- 
 pared to yield you to his arms. Heaven 
 and earth, — all that is valuable in time, or 
 precious in eternity, are summoned, are 
 waiting for the irrevocable words that seaL 
 
A TALE. 249 
 
 your salvation, and ensure that of those 
 you love. What demon has taken pos- 
 session of you, my child, and seized the 
 moment you • were coming to Christ, to 
 cast you down, and tear you ? How shall 
 I — how shall the fraternity, and all the 
 souls who are to escape from punishment 
 by the merit of your prayers, answer to 
 God for your horrible apostacy ?" " Let 
 them answer for themselves — let every one 
 of us answer for ourselves — that is the dic- 
 tate of reason." " Of reason, my deluded 
 child, — when had reason any thing to do 
 with religion ?" I had sat down, folded 
 my arms on my breast, and forbore to an- 
 swer a word. The Superior stood with 
 his arms crossed, his head declined, his 
 whole figure in an air of profound and 
 mortified contemplation. Any one else 
 would have imagined him seeking God in 
 the abvsses of meditation, but I felt he was 
 only seeking him where he is never to be 
 found, — in the abyss of that heart which is 
 " deceitful and desperately wicked." He 
 
 L 2 
 
250 MELMOTH : 
 
 approached— I exclaimed, " Come not near 
 me! — you will renew again the story of 
 my submission— I tell you it was artificial;— 
 of my regularity in devotional exercises- 
 it was all mechanism or imposture ;— of my 
 conformity to discipline — it was all prac- 
 tised with the hope of escaping from it ul- 
 timately. Now, I feel my conscience dis- 
 charged and my heart lightened. Do you 
 hear, do you understand me ? These are 
 the first words of truth I ever uttered since I 
 entered these walls — the only ones that will, 
 perhaps, ever be uttered within them — aye, 
 treasure them up, knit your brows, and 
 cross yourself, and elevate your eyes as 
 you will. Go on with your religious 
 drama. What is there you see before you 
 so horrible, that you recoil, that you cross 
 yourself, that you lift your eyes and hands 
 to heaven ? — a creature whom despair has 
 driven to utter desperate truth! Truth 
 may be horrible to the inmates of a con- 
 vent, whose whole life is artificial and 
 perverted, — whose very hearts are sophis- 
 
A TALE. 251 
 
 ticated beyond the hand even of Heaven 
 (which they alienate by their hypocrisy) 
 to touch. But I feel I am at this moment 
 an object of less horror in the sight of 
 the Deity, than if I were standing at his 
 altar, to (as you would urge me) insult him 
 with vows, which my heart was bursting 
 from my bosom to contradict, at the mo- 
 ment I uttered them." 
 
 i( At these words, which I must have 
 uttered with the most indecent and insult- 
 ing violence, I almost expected the Supe- 
 rior would have struck me to the earth, — 
 would have summoned the lay-brothers to 
 bear me to confinement, — would have shut 
 me up in the dungeon of the convent, for 
 I knew there was such a place. Perhaps 
 I wished for all this. Driven to extremity 
 myself, I felt a kind of pride in driving 
 others to it in return. Any thing of vio- 
 lent excitement, of rapid and giddy vicis- 
 situde, or even of intense suffering, I was 
 prepared for, and equal to, at that mo- 
 ment. But these paroxysms soon exhaust 
 themselves and us by their violence. 
 
£5£ MELMOTH : 
 
 Astonished by the Superior's silence, I 
 raised my eyes to him. I said, in a tone 
 of moderation that seemed unnatural to 
 my own ears, " Well, let me hear my 
 sentence." He was silent still. He had 
 watched the crisis, and now skilfully seiz- 
 ed the turn of the mental disease, to ex- 
 hibit his applications. He was standing 
 before me meek and motionless, his arms 
 crossed, his eyes depressed, not the slight- 
 est indication of resentment to be traced 
 in his whole figure. The folds of his ha- 
 bit, refusing to announce his internal agi- 
 tation, seemed as they were cut out of • 
 stone. His silence imperceptibly soft- 
 ened me, — I blamed myself for my -vio- 
 lence. Thus men of the world command 
 us by their passions, and men of the other 
 world by the apparent suppression of them. 
 At last he said, " My son, you have re- 
 volted from God, resisted his Holy Spirit, 
 profaned his sanctuary, and insulted his 
 minister, — in his name and my own 1 for- 
 give you all. Judge of the various cha- 
 
A TALE. 25$ 
 
 racters of our systems, by their different 
 results on us two. You revile, defame, 
 and accuse, — I bless and forgive ; which of 
 us is then under the influence of the gos- 
 pel of Christ, and within the pale of the 
 church's benediction ? But leaving this 
 question, which you are not at present in 
 a frame to decide, I shall urge but one to- 
 pic more ; if that fails, I shall no longer 
 oppose your wishes, or urge you to prosti- 
 tute a sacrifice which man would despise, 
 and God must disdain. I add, I will even 
 do my utmost to facilitate your wishes, 
 which are now in fact my own." At these 
 words, so full of truth and benignity, I 
 was rushing to prostrate myself at his feet, 
 but fear and experience checked me, and 
 I only bowed. " Promise me merely that 
 you will wait with patience till this last 
 topic is urged ; whether it succeeds or not 
 I have now little interest, and less care." I 
 promised, — he went out. A few moments 
 after he returned. His air was a little 
 more disturbed, but still struggling for a 
 
254 MELMOTH : 
 
 calmness of expression. There was agita- 
 tion about him, but I knew not whether 
 it was felt on his own account or mine. 
 He held the door half open, and his first 
 sentence astonished me. — " My son, you 
 are well acquainted with the classical his- 
 tories." " But what is that to the purpose, 
 my father ?" " You remember a remark- 
 able story of the Roman general, who 
 spurned from the steps of his tribune, 
 people, senators, and priests, — trampled 
 on all law, — outraged all religion, — but 
 was at last moved by nature, for, when 
 his mother prostrated herself before him, 
 and exclaimed, ' My son, before you tread 
 the streets of Rome, you must first tread 
 on the body of her who bore you !' he re- 
 lented." " I remember all, but to what 
 does this tend ?" " To this" and he threw 
 open the door ; " now, prove yourself, if 
 vou can, more obdurate than a heathen." 
 As the door opened, across the threshold 
 lay my mother, prostrate on her face. 
 She said in a stifled voice, " Advance, — 
 
A TALE, 255 
 
 break your vows, — but you must rush to 
 perjury over the body of your mother." 
 I attempted to raise her, but she clung to 
 the ground, repeating the same words ; 
 and her magnificent dress, that overspread 
 the floor of stone with gems and velvet, 
 frightfully contrasted her posture of hu- 
 miliation, and the despair that burned in 
 her eyes, as she raised them to me for a 
 moment. Convulsed with agony and hor- 
 ror, 1 reeled into the arms of the Superior, 
 who seized that moment to bear me to the 
 church. My mother followed, — the cere- 
 mony proceeded. I vowed chastity, po- 
 verty, and obedience, and in a few mo- 
 ments my destiny was decided. * 
 
 " Day followed day for many a month, 
 of which I have no recollections, nor wish 
 to have any. I must have experienced 
 many emotions, but they all subsided like 
 the waves of the sea under the darkness of 
 a midnight sky, — their fluctuation conti- 
 nues, but there is no light to mark their 
 
256 MELMOTH : 
 
 motion, or trace when they rise and fall. 
 A deep stupor pervaded my senses and 
 soul ; and perhaps, in this state, I was best 
 fitted for the monotonous existence to 
 which I was doomed. It is certain that I 
 performed all the conventual functions 
 with a regularity that left nothing to be 
 blamed, and an apathy that left nothing 
 for praise. My life was a sea without a 
 tide. The bell did not toll for service with 
 more mechanical punctuality than I obey- 
 ed the summons. No automaton, con- 
 structed on the most exquisite principles 
 of mechanism, and obeying those princi- 
 ples with a punctuality almost miraculous, 
 could leave the artist less room for com- 
 plaint or disappointment, than I did the 
 Superior and community. I was always 
 first in my place in the choir. I received 
 no visits in the parlour, — when I was per- 
 mitted to go, I declined the permission. 
 If penance was enjoined, I submitted ; if 
 relaxation was permitted, I never partook 
 of it. I never asked a dispensation from 
 
A TALE. 257 
 
 morning prayers, or from vigils. I was 
 silent in the refectory, — in the garden I 
 walked alone. 1 neither thought, nor felt, 
 nor lived, — if life depends on consciousness, 
 and the motions of the will. I slept 
 through my existence like the Simorgh in 
 the Eastern fable, but this sleep was not 
 to last long. My abstraction and calmness 
 would not do for the Jesuits. My stupor, 
 my noiseless tread, my fixed eyes, my 
 ghastly silence, might indeed have im- 
 pressed a superstitious community with 
 the idea that it was no human creature 
 who stalked through their cloisters, and 
 haunted their choir. But they had quite 
 different ideas. They considered all this 
 as a tacit reproach to the struggles, the 
 squabbles, the intrigues, and the circum- 
 ventions, in which they were immersed, 
 body and soul, from morn till night. Per- 
 haps they thought I was lying in reserve, 
 only to watch them. Perhaps there might 
 have been a dearth of some matter of curio- 
 sity or complaint in the convent just then, 
 
258 MELMOTH : 
 
 — a very little serves for either. However it 
 was, they began to revive the old story of 
 my being deranged, and resolved to make 
 the most of it. They whispered in the refec- 
 tory, consulted in the garden, — shook their 
 heads, pointed at me in the cloister, and fi- 
 nally, I faithfully believe, worked themselves 
 into the conviction that what they wished 
 or imagined was actually true. Then they 
 all felt their consciences interested in the 
 investigation ; and a select party, headed 
 by an old monk of influence and reputa- 
 tion, waited on the Superior. They stat- 
 ed to him my abstraction, my mechanical 
 movements, my automaton figure, my 
 meanless words, my stupifled devotion, 
 my total alienation from the spirit of the 
 monastic life, while my scrupulous, wood- 
 en, jointless exactness in its forms w r as 
 only a mockery. The Superior heard 
 them with great indifference. He had 
 held secret intelligence with my family, 
 had communicated with the Director, and 
 pledged himself that I should be a monk, 
 
A TALE. 259 
 
 He had succeeded by dint of exertions, 
 (the result of which has been seen), and 
 now cared very little whether I was mad 
 or not. With a grave air he forbid their 
 further interference in the matter, and re- 
 served its future cognizance to himself. 
 They retired defeated, but not disappoint- 
 ed, and they all pledged themselves to 
 each other to watch me ; that is, to harass, 
 persecute, and torment me into being the 
 very character with which their malice, 
 their curiosity, or their mere industry of 
 idleness and wantonness of unoccupied in- 
 vention, had invested me already. From 
 that hour the whole convent was m & tu- 
 mult of conspiracy and combination. 
 Doors were clapped to wherever I was 
 heard to approach ; and three or four 
 would stand whispering near where I 
 walked, and clear their throats, and ex- 
 change signs, and pass audibly to the most 
 trifling topics in my hearing, as if to inti- 
 mate, while they affected to conceal it, 
 that their last topic had been me. I laugh- 
 
2160 MEI410TH : 
 
 ed at this internally. I said to myself, 
 " Poor perverted beings, with what affec- 
 tation of dramatic bustle and contrivance 
 you labour to diversify the misery of your 
 hopeless vacancy ; — you struggle, — I sub- 
 mit." Soon the toils they were preparing 
 began to tighten round me. They would 
 throw themselves in my way with an assi- 
 duity 1 could not avoid, and an appear- 
 ance of kindness I did not willingly repel. 
 They would say, in the blandest tones, 
 " My dear brother, you are melancholy,-^- 
 you are devoured with chagrin, — would 
 to God our fraternal efforts could banish 
 your regrets. But from what arises that 
 melancholy that appears to consume you ?" 
 At these words I could not help fixing on 
 them eyes full of reproaches, and I believe 
 of tears, — but I did not utter a word. 
 The state in which they saw me, was a 
 sufficient cause for the melancholy with 
 
 which I was reproached. 
 
 # # #• * 
 
 " This attack having failed, another me« 
 
A TALE. £61 
 
 thod was tried. They attempted to make 
 me a party in the parties of the convent. 
 They told me a thousand things of unjust 
 partialities, — of unjust punishments, daily 
 to be witnessed in the convent. They talked 
 of a sickly brother being compelled to at- 
 tend matins, while the physician pronounced 
 his attendance on them must be his death, 
 — and he died, — while a young favourite, 
 in the bloom of health, had a dispensation 
 from matins whenever he pleased to lie till 
 nihe in the morning ; — of complaints that 
 the confessional was not attended to as it 
 ought, — and this might have made some 
 impression on me, till another complainant 
 added, and the turning-box is not at- 
 tended to as it ought to be. This union of 
 dissonant sounds, — this startling transition 
 from a complaint of neglecting the myste- 
 ries of the soul in its profoundest commu- 
 nion with God, to the lowest details of the 
 abuses of conventual discipline, revolted 
 me at once. I had with difficulty conceal- 
 ed my disgust till tfe«n, and it was now so 
 
262 MELMOTH : 
 
 obvious, that the party gave up their at- 
 tempt for the moment, and beckoned to 
 an experienced monk to join me in my 
 solitary walk, as I broke from them. He 
 approached, " My brother, you are alone." 
 M I wish to be so." " But why ?" " I am 
 not obliged to announce my reasons." 
 " True, but you may confide them to me." 
 " I have nothing to confide." " I know 
 that, — I would not for the world intrude 
 on your confidence; reserve that for friends 
 more honoured." It struck me as rather 
 odd, that he should, in the same breath, 
 ask for my confidence, — declare that he 
 was conscious I had nothing to intrust to 
 him, — and, lastly, request a reserve of my 
 confidence for some more favoured friend. 
 I was silent, however, till he said, " But, 
 my brother, you are devoured with ennui." 
 I was silent still. " Would to God I could 
 find the means to dissipate it." I said, 
 looking on him calmly, " Are those means 
 to be found within the walls of a convent ?" 
 
A TALE. 26B 
 
 *f Yes, my dear brother, — yes, certainly, — 
 the debate in which the convent is now 
 engaged about the proper hour for matins, 
 which the Superior wants to have restored 
 to the original hour." " What is the dif- 
 ference ?" " Full jive minutes" " I con- 
 fess the importance of the question." " Oh ! 
 if you once begin to feel it, there wiH be 
 no end of your happiness in a convent. 
 There is something every moment to in- 
 quire, to be anxious about, and to con- 
 tend for. Interest yourself, my dear bro- 
 ther, in these questions, and you will not 
 have a moment's ennui to complain of." 
 At these words I fixed my eyes on him. 
 I said calmly, but I believe emphatically, 
 " I have, then, only to excite in my own 
 mind, spleen, malignity, curiosity, every 
 passion that your retreat should have afford- 
 ed me protection against, to render that re- 
 treat supportable. Pardon me, if I cannot, 
 like you, beg of God permission to take 
 his enemy into compact against the corrup- 
 tion which I promote, while I presume to 
 
264 MELMOTH : 
 
 pray against it." He was silent, lifted up 
 his hands, and crossed himself; and I said 
 to myself, " God forgive your hypocrisy," 
 as he went into another walk, and repeat- 
 ed to his companions, " He is mad, irre- 
 coverably mad." " But how, then ?" said 
 several voices. There was a stifled whis- 
 per. I saw several heads bent together. I 
 did not know what they were meditating, 
 nor did I care. I was walking alone, — it 
 was a delicious moon-light evening. I saw 
 the moon-beams through the trees, but the 
 trees all looked to me like walls. Their 
 trunks were as adamant, and the interlaced 
 branches seemed to twine themselves into 
 folds that said, " Beyond us there is no 
 passing." I sat down by the side of a foun- 
 tain, — there was a tall poplar over it, — I 
 remember their situation well. An elderly 
 priest (who, I did not see, was detached 
 by the party) sat down beside me. He 
 began some common-place observations on 
 the transiency of human existence. I 
 shook my head, and he understood, by a 
 
A TALE. 265 
 
 kind of tact not uncommon among Jesuits, 
 that it would not do. He shifted the sub- 
 ject, remarked on the beauty of the fo- 
 liage, and the limpid purity of the foun- 
 tain. I assented. He added, " Oh that 
 life were pure as that stream !" I sighed, 
 " Oh that life were verdant and fertile to 
 me as that tree !" " But, my son, may not 
 fountains be dried up, and trees be wither- 
 ed ?" u . Yes, my father, — yes, — the foun- 
 tain of my life has been dried up, and the 
 green branch of my life has been blasted 
 for ever." As I uttered these words, I 
 could not suppress some tears. The father 
 seized on what he called the moment when 
 God was breathing on my soul. Our con- 
 versation was very long, and I listened to 
 him with a kind of reluctant and stubborn 
 attention, because I had involuntarily been 
 compelled to observe, that he was the only 
 person in the whole community who had 
 never harassed me by the slightest impor- 
 tunity either before my profession or after ; 
 and when the worst things were said of me, 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
%66 MELMOTH i 
 
 never seemed to attend; and when the 
 worst things were predicted of me, shook 
 his head and said nothing. His charac- 
 ter was unimpeached, and his religious 
 performances as exemplary and punc- 
 tual as my own. With all this I felt no 
 confidence in him, or in any human be- 
 ing ; but I listened to him with patience, 
 and my patience must have had no trivial 
 trial, for, at the end of an hour, (I did 
 not perceive that our conference w T as per- 
 mitted quite beyond the usual hour of 
 retirement), he continued repeating, " My 
 dear son, you will become reconciled to 
 the conventual life." " My father, never, 
 never, — unless this fountain is dried up, 
 and this tree withered, by to-morrow." 
 " My son, God has often performed great- 
 er miracles for the salvation of a soul." 
 
 " We parted, and I retired to my cell. 
 1 know not how he arid the others were 
 employed, but, before matins, there was 
 such a tumult in the convent, that one 
 would have thought Madrid was on fire. 
 Boarders, novices, and monks, ran about 
 
A TALE. 267 
 
 from cell to cell, up and down the stair- 
 ease, through all the corridors, unrestrain- 
 ed and unquestioned, — all order was at an 
 end. No bell was rung, no commands for 
 restoring tranquillity issued ; the voice of 
 authority seemed to have made peace for 
 ever with the shouts of uproar. From my 
 window I saw them running through the 
 garden in every direction, embracing each 
 other, ejaculating, praying, and counting 
 their beads with hands tremulous, and eyes 
 uplifted in extacy. The hilarity of a con- 
 vent has something in it uncouth, unna- 
 tural, and even alarming. I suspected 
 some mischief immediately, but I said to 
 myself, " The worst is over, they cannot 
 make me more than a monk." — I was not 
 long left in doubt. Many steps approach- 
 ed my cell, numerous voices were repeat- 
 ing, " Hasten, dear brother, hasten to the 
 garden." I was left no choice ; they sur- 
 rounded and almost bore me to the garden. 
 " The whole community were assem- 
 bled there, the Superior among them not 
 attempting to suppress the confusion, but 
 
268 MELMOTH : 
 
 rather encouraging it. There was a sufFu* 
 sion of joy in every countenance, and a 
 kind of artificial light in every eye, but 
 the whole performance struck me as hol- 
 low and hypocritical. I was led, or rather 
 hurried to the spot where I had sat and 
 conversed so long the preceding evening. 
 The fountain was dried up 9 and the tree 
 was withered. I stood speechless with as- 
 tonishment, while every voice around me 
 repeated, " A miracle ! a miracle ! — God 
 himself has sealed your vocation with his 
 own hand." The Superior made a signal 
 to them to stop. He said to me in a calm 
 voice, " My son, you are required only to 
 believe the evidence of your own eyes. 
 Will you make infidels of your very 
 senses, sooner than believe God ? Prostrate 
 yourself, I adjure you, before him this mo- 
 ment, and, by a public and solemn act of 
 faith, recognise that mercy that has not 
 scrupled a miracle to invite you to salva- 
 tion." 1 was amazed more than touched 
 by what I saw and heard, but I threw my- 
 self on my knees before them all, as I was 
 
A TALE. 269 
 
 directed. I clasped my bands, and said 
 aloud, " My God, if you have indeed 
 vouchsafed this miracle on my account, 
 you will also doubtless enrich and illumi- 
 nate me with grace to apprehend and ap - 
 preciate it. My mind is dark, but you 
 can illuminate it. My heart is hard, but 
 it is not beyond the power of omnipotence 
 to touch and subdue it. An impression 
 made on it this moment, a whisper sent to 
 its recesses, is not less worthy of your 
 mercy than an impression on inanimate 
 matter, which only confounds my senses." 
 The Superior interrupted me. He said, 
 " Hold, those are not the words you 
 should use. Your very faith is incredu- 
 lous, and your prayer an ironical insult on 
 the mercy it pretends to supplicate." " My 
 father, put what words you please in my 
 mouth, and I will repeat them, — if I am 
 not convinced, I am at least subdued." 
 " You must ask pardon of the community 
 for the offence your tacit repugnance to 
 the life of God has caused them." I did 
 
270 MELMOTR : 
 
 so. " You must express your gratitude to 
 the community for the joy they have tes- 
 tified at this miraculous evidence of the 
 truth of your vocation." I did so. " You 
 must also express your gratitude to God, 
 for a visible interposition of supernatural 
 power, not more to the vindication of his 
 grace, than to the eternal honour of this 
 house, which he has been pleased to irra- 
 diate and dignify by a miracle? I hesi- 
 tated a little. I said, u My father, may I 
 be permitted to utter this prayer internal- 
 ly?" The Superior hesitated too; he 
 thought it might not be well to push mat- 
 ters too far, and he said at length, " As you 
 please." I was still kneeling on the 
 ground, close to the tree and the fountain. 
 I now prostrated myself, with my face to 
 the earth, and prayed internally and in- 
 tensely, while they all stood around me ; 
 but the language of my prayer was very 
 different from what they flattered them- 
 selves 1 was uttering. On rising from my 
 knees, I was embraced by half the com- 
 
A TALE. 271 
 
 munity. Some of them actually shed 
 tears, the source of whose fountain was 
 surely not in their hearts. Hypocritical joy 
 insults only its dupe, but hypocritical grief 
 degrades the professor. That whole day 
 was passed in a kind of revelry. Exercises 
 were abridged, — the refections embellished 
 with confectionary, — every one had per- 
 mission to 20 from cell to cell, without an 
 order from the Superior. Presents of cho- 
 colate, snuff, iced water, liqueurs, and (what 
 was more acceptable and necessary than 
 any of them) napkins and towels of the 
 finest and whitest damask, circulated a- 
 mcng all the members. The Superior was 
 shut up half the day with two discreet 
 brethren, as they are called, (that is, men 
 who are elected to take part with the Su- 
 perior, on supposition of their utter, su- 
 perannuated incapacity, as Pope Sixtus 
 was elected for his (supposed) imbecillity), 
 preparing an authenticated account of the 
 miracle, to be dispatched to the principal 
 convents in Spain. There was no need to 
 
272 MELMOTH : 
 
 distribute the intelligence through Madrid, 
 — they were in possession of it an hour after 
 it happened, — the malicious say an hour 
 before. 
 
 " I must confess the agitating exhilara- 
 tion of this day, so unlike what I had 
 ever witnessed before in a convent, pro- 
 duced an effect on me I cannot describe. 
 I was caressed, — made the hero of the fete, 
 —(a conventual fete has always something 
 odd and unnatural in it), — almost deified. 
 I gave myself up to the intoxication of 
 the day, — I did verily believe myself the 
 favourite of the Deity for some hours. I 
 said to myself a thousand flattering things. 
 If this deception was criminal, I expiated 
 my crime very soon. The next day every 
 thine: was restored to its usual order, and 
 I found that the community could pass 
 from the extreme of disorder in a moment 
 to the rigidity of their usual habits. 
 
 " My conviction of this was certainly 
 not diminished within the few following 
 days. The oscillations of a convent vi- 
 
A TALE. 273 
 
 brate within a very short interval. One 
 day all is relaxation, another all is inexor- 
 able discipline. Some following days I re- 
 ceived a striking proof of that foundation 
 on which, in despite of a miracle, my re- 
 pugnance to a monastic life rested. Some 
 one, it was said, had committed a slight 
 breach of monastic duty. The slight 
 breach was fortunately committed by a 
 distant relation of the Archbishop of To- 
 ledo, and consisted merely in his en- 
 tering the church intoxicated, (a rare 
 vice in Spaniards), attempting to drag 
 the matin preacher from the pulpit, and 
 failing in that, getting astride as well as 
 he could on the altar, dashing down the 
 tapers, overturning the vases and the pix, 
 and trying to scratch out, as with the ta- 
 lons of a demon, the painting that hung 
 over the table, uttering all the while the 
 most horrible blasphemies, and even soli- 
 citing the portrait of the Virgin in lan- 
 guage not to be repeated. A consultation 
 was held. The community, as may be 
 
 m % 
 
274 MELMOTH : 
 
 guessed, was in an uproar while it lasted. 
 Every one but myself was anxious and 
 agitated. There was much talk of the in- 
 quisition, — the scandal was so atrocious, 
 — the outrage so unpardonable, — and a- 
 tonement so impracticable. Three days 
 afterwards the archbishop's mandate came 
 to stop all proceedings; and the fol- 
 lowing day the youth who had com- 
 mitted this sacrilegious outrage appear- 
 ed in the hall of the Jesuits, where the 
 Superior and a few monks were assem- 
 bled, read a short exercise which one of 
 them had written for him on the pithy 
 word " Ebrietas," and departed to take 
 possession of a large benefice in the dio- 
 cese of the archbishop his relative. The 
 very next day after this scandalous scene 
 of compromise, imposture, and profana- 
 tion, a monk was detected in the act of 
 going, after the permitted hour, to an ad- 
 jacent cell to return a book he had bor- 
 rowed. As a punishment for this offence, 
 he was compelled to sit for three days at 
 
A TALE. 275 
 
 refection, while we were dining, barefoot- 
 ed and his tunic reversed, on the stone 
 floor of the hall. He was compelled to 
 accuse himself aloud of every crime, and 
 of many not at all fit to be mentioned to 
 our ears, and exclaim at every interval, 
 " My God, my punishment is just." On 
 the second day, it was found that a mat 
 had been placed under him by some mer- 
 ciful hand. There was an immediate com- 
 motion in the hall. The poor wretch was 
 labouring under a complaint that made it 
 worse than death to him to be compelled 
 to sit or rather lie on a stone floor ; some 
 merciful being had surreptitiously convey- 
 ed to him this mat. An investigation was 
 immediately commenced. A youth whom 
 I had not noticed before, started from the 
 table, and kneeling to the Superior, con- 
 fessed his guilt. The Superior assumed 
 a stern look, retired with some old monks 
 to consult on this new crime of humanity, 
 and in a few moments the bell was rung, 
 to give every one notice to retire to their 
 
276 MELMOTH : 
 
 cells. We all retired trembling, and while 
 we prostrated ourselves respectively before 
 the crucifix in our cells, wondered who 
 would be the next victim, or what might 
 be his punishment. I saw that youth but 
 once again. He was the son of a wealthy 
 and powerful family, but even his wealth 
 was no balance against his contumacy, 
 in the opinion of the convent, that is, of 
 four monks of rigid principles, whom the 
 Superior consulted that very evening. 
 The Jesuits are fond of courting power, 
 but they are still fonder of keeping it, if 
 they can, to themselves. The result of 
 their debate was, that the offender should 
 undergo a severe humiliation and penance 
 in their presence. His sentence was an- 
 nounced to him, and he submitted to it. 
 He repeated every word of contrition they 
 dictated to him. He then bared his shoul- 
 ders, and applied the scourge till the blood 
 flowed, repeating between every stroke, 
 " My God, I ask pardon of thee for hav- 
 ing given the slightest comfort or relief to 
 
A TALE. 277 
 
 Fra Paolo, during his merited penance." 
 He performed all this, cherishing in the 
 bottom of his soul an intention still to 
 comfort and relieve Fra Paolo, whenever 
 he could find opportunity. He then 
 thought all was over. He was desired 
 to retire to his cell. He did so, but 
 the monks were not satisfied with this 
 examination. They had long suspected 
 Fra Paolo of irregularity, and imagin- 
 ed they might extort the confession 
 of it from this youth, whose humanity 
 increased their suspicion. The virtues of 
 nature are always deemed vices in a con- 
 vent. Accordingly, he had hardly been in 
 bed when they surrounded him. They told 
 him they came by command of the Superior 
 to enjoin him a further penance, unless he 
 disclosed the secret of the interest he felt 
 for Fra Paolo. It was in vain he exclaimed, 
 " I have no interest but that of humanity 
 and compassion." Those were words they 
 did not understand. It was in vain he 
 
278 MELMOTH : 
 
 urged, " I will inflict whatever penance 
 the Superior is pleased to order, but my 
 shoulders are bleeding still," — and he shew- 
 ed them. The executioners were pitiless. 
 They compelled him to quit his bed, and 
 applied the scourge with such outrageous 
 severity, that at last, mad with shame, 
 rage, and pain, he burst from them, and 
 ran through the corridor calling for assist- 
 ance or for mercy. The monks were in 
 their cells, none dared to stir, — they shud- 
 dered, and turned on their straw pallets. It 
 was the vigil of Saint John the Lesser, and 
 I had been commanded what is called in 
 convents an hour of recollection, which 
 was to be passed in the church. I had 
 obeyed the order, and remained with my 
 face and body prostrate on the marble 
 steps of the altar, till 1 was almost uncon- 
 scious, when I heard the clock strike 
 twelve. I reflected the hour had elapsed 
 without a single recollection on my part. 
 " And thus it is to be always," I exclaim- 
 ed, rising from my knees ; u they deprive 
 
A TALE. 279 
 
 of the power of thinking, and then they 
 bid me recollect." As I returned through 
 the corridor, I heard frightful cries— I 
 shuddered. Suddenly a phantom ap- 
 proached me — I dropt on my knees — I 
 cried, " Satana vade retro — apage Sa- 
 tana." A naked human being, covered with 
 blood, and uttering screams of rage and 
 torture, flashed by me ; four monks pur- 
 sued him — they had lights. I had shut 
 the door at the end of the gallery — I felt 
 they must return and pass me — I was still 
 on my knees, and trembling from head to 
 foot. The victim reached the door, found 
 it shut, and rallied. I turned, and saw a 
 groupe worthy of Murillo. A more per- 
 fect human form never existed than that 
 of this unfortunate youth. He stood in 
 an attitude of despair — he was streaming 
 with b ood. The monks, with their lights, 
 their scourges, and their dark habits, seem- 
 ed like a groupe of demons who had made 
 prey of a wandering angel, — the groupe 
 resembled the infernal furies pursuing 
 
£80 MELMOTH ! 
 
 a mad Orestes. And, indeed, no ancient 
 sculptor ever designed a figure more 
 exquisite and perfect than that they had 
 so barbarously mangled. Debilitated as 
 my mind was by the long slumber of all 
 its powers, this spectacle of horror and 
 cruelty woke them in a moment. I rush- 
 ed forward in his defence — I struggled 
 with the monks — I uttered some expres- 
 sions which, though I hardly was con- 
 scious of, they remembered and exagge- 
 rated with all the accuracy of malice. 
 
 " I have no recollection of what followed; 
 but the issue of the business was, that I 
 was confined to my cell for the following 
 week, for my daring interference in the 
 discipline of the convent. And the addi- 
 tional penance of the unfortunate novice, 
 for resisting that discipline, was inflicted 
 with such severity, that he became delirious 
 with shame and agony. He refused food, 
 he got no rest, and died the eighth night 
 after the scene I had witnessed. He was 
 
A TALE. 281 
 
 of a temper unusually mild and amiable — 
 he had a taste for literature, and even the 
 disguise of a convent could not conceal the 
 distinguished graces of his person and man- 
 ners. Had he lived in the world, how 
 these qualities would have embellished it ! 
 Perhaps the world would have abused 
 and perverted them — true ; but would 
 the abuses of the world ever have brought 
 them to so frightful and disastrous a con- 
 clusion ? — would he have been first lashed 
 into madness, and then lashed out of exist- 
 ence ? He was interred in the church of 
 the convent, and the Superior himself pro- 
 nounced his eulogium — the Superior! by 
 whose order, or else permission, or at least 
 connivance, he had been driven mad, in 
 order to obtain a trivial and imaginary se- 
 cret. 
 
 " During this exhibition, my disgust 
 arose to a degree incalculable. 1 had loath- 
 ed the conventual life — I now despised it ; 
 and every judge of human nature knows, 
 that it is harder to eradicate the latter sen- 
 
282 MELMOTH : 
 
 timent than the former. I was not long 
 without an occasion for the renewed exer- 
 cise of both feelings. The weather was 
 intensely hot that year — an epidemic com- 
 plaint broke out in the convent — every day 
 two or three were ordered to the infirma- 
 ry, and those who had merited slight pe- 
 nances were allowed, by way of commuta- 
 tion, to attend the sick. I was most 
 anxious to be of the number — I was even 
 resolved, by some slight deviation, to 
 tempt this punishment, which would have 
 been to me the highest gratification. Dare 
 I confess my motive to you, Sir ? 1 was 
 anxious to see those men, if possible, divest- 
 ed of the conventual disguise, and forced 
 to sincerity by the pangs of disease, and 
 the approach of death. I triumphed al- 
 ready in the idea of their dying confession, 
 of hearing them acknowledge the seduc- 
 tions employed to ensnare me, deplore the 
 miseries in which they had involved me, 
 and implore, with convulsed lips, my par- 
 don in — no — not in vain. 
 
A TALE. 283 
 
 " This wish, though vindictive, was not 
 without its palliations ; but 1 was soon sav- 
 ed the trouble of realizing it at my own 
 expence. That very evening the Superior 
 sent for me, and desired me to attend in 
 the infirmary, allowing me, at the same 
 time, remission from vespers. The first 
 bed I approached, I found Fra Paolo ex- 
 tended on. He had never recovered the 
 effects of the complaint he laboured undei? 
 at the time of his penance ; and the death 
 of the young novice so (fruitlessly incurred) 
 had been mortal to him. 
 
 * I offered him medicines— I attempted 
 to adjust him in his bed. He had been 
 greatly neglected. He repelled both offers, 
 and, feebly waving his hand, said, " Let 
 me, at least, die in peace." A few mo- 
 ments after, he unclosed his eyes, and re- 
 cognized me. A gleam of pleasure trem- 
 bled over his countenance, for he remem- 
 bered the interest 1 had shewn for his un- 
 fortunate friend. He said, in a voice 
 hardly intelligible, " It is you, then?'* 
 
284 MELMOTH : 
 
 " Yes, my brother, it is I — can I do any 
 thing for you ?" After a long pause, he 
 added, " Yes, you can." " Tell me then." 
 He lowered his voice, which was before al- 
 most inaudible, and whispered, " Let none 
 of them come near me in my dying mo- 
 ments — it will not give you much trouble 
 — those moments are approaching." I 
 pressed his hand in token of acquiescence. 
 But I felt there was something at once ter- 
 rifying and improper in this request from 
 a dying man. I said to him, " My dear 
 brother, you are then dying ? — would you 
 not wish an interest in the prayers of the 
 community? — would you not wish the be- 
 nefit of the last sacraments ?" He shook 
 his head, and I fear that I understood him 
 too well. I ceased any further importuni- 
 ty; and a few moments he uttered, in 
 tones I could hardly distinguish, " Let 
 them, let me die. — They have left me no 
 power to form another wish." His eyes 
 closed, — I sat beside his bed, holding his 
 hand in mine. At first, I could feel he at- 
 
A TALE. 285 
 
 tempted to press it — the attempt failed, 
 his hold relaxed. Fra Paolo was no more. 
 
 " I continued to sit holding the dead hand 
 in mine, till a groan from an adjacent bed 
 roused me. It was occupied by the old 
 monk with whom I had held a long con- 
 versation the night before the miracle, in 
 which I still believed most firmly. 
 
 " I have observed, that this man was of a 
 temper and manners remarkably mild and 
 attractive. Perhaps this is always con- 
 nected with great weakness of intellect, 
 and coldness of character in men. (It may 
 be different in women — but my own ex- 
 perience has never failed in the discovery, 
 that where there was a kind of feminine 
 softness and pliability in the male charac- 
 ter, there was also treachery, dissimulation, 
 and heartlessness.) At least, if there be 
 such an union, a conventual life is sure 
 to give it every advantage in its range 
 of internal debility, and external seduc- 
 tiveness. — That pretence of a wish to as- 
 sist, without the power, or even the wish, 
 
286 MELMOTH : 
 
 that is so flattering both to the weak minds 
 that exercise it, and the weaker on whom 
 it is exercised. This man had been al- 
 ways judged very weak, and yet very fas- 
 cinating. He had been always employed 
 to ensnare the young novices. He was 
 now dying — overcome by his situation, I 
 forgot every thing but its tremendous 
 claims, and offered him every assistance in 
 my power. " I want nothing but to die," 
 was his answer. His countenance was 
 perfectly calm, but its calmness was ra- 
 ther that of apathy than of resignation. 
 " You are, then, perfectly sure of your ap- 
 proach to blessedness ?" " I know no- 
 thing about it." " How, my brother, are 
 those words for a dying man to utter?" 
 " Yes, if he speaks the truth." " But a 
 monk? — a catholic?" " Those are but 
 names — I feel that truth, at least, now." 
 " You amaze me !" " I care not — I am 
 on the verge of a precipice — I must plunge 
 from it — and whether the by-standers utter 
 outcries or not, is a matter of little conse- 
 
A TALE. 287 
 
 quence to me." " And yet, you expressed 
 a willingness to die?" " Willingness! 
 Oh impatience ! — I am a clock that has 
 struck the same minutes and hours for 
 sixty years. Is it not time for the ma- 
 chine to long for its winding up ? The 
 monotony of my existence would make a 
 transition, even to pain, desirable. I am 
 weary, and would change — that is all* 
 " But to me, and to all the community, 
 you seemed to be resigned to the monas- 
 tic life." " I seemed a lie — I lived a lie — 
 I was a lie— I ask pardon of my last mo- 
 ments for speaking the truth — I presume 
 they neither can refuse me, or discredit my 
 words— I hated the monastic life. Inflict 
 pain on man, and his energies are roused — 
 condemn him to insanity, and he slumbers 
 like animals that have been found inclosed 
 in wood and stone, torpid and content; 
 but condemn him at once to pain and in- 
 anity, as they do in convents, and you 
 unite the sufferings of hell and of annihila- 
 tion. For sixty years I have cursed my 
 
288 MELMOTH : 
 
 existence. I never woke to hope, for I 
 had nothing to do or to expect. I never 
 lay down with consolation, for I had, at 
 the close of every day, only to number so 
 many deliberate mockeries of God, as ex- 
 ercises of devotion. The moment life is 
 put beyond the reach of your will, and 
 placed under the influence of mechanical 
 operations, it becomes, to thinking beings, 
 a torment insupportable. 
 
 " I never ate with appetite, because I 
 knew, that with or without it, I must go 
 to the refectory when the bell rung. I 
 never lay down to rest in peace, because I 
 knew the bell was to summon me in de- 
 fiance of nature, whether it was disposed 
 to prolong or shorten my repose. I never 
 prayed, for my prayers were dictated to 
 me. I never hoped, for my hopes were 
 founded not on the truth of God, but on 
 the promises and threatenings of man. My 
 salvation hovered on the breath of a being 
 as weak as myself, whose weakness I was 
 nevertheless obliged to flatter, and struggle 
 
A TALE. 289 
 
 to obtain a gleam of the grace of God, 
 through the dark distorted medium of the 
 vices of man. It never reached me—Y 
 die without light, hope, faith, or consola- 
 tion." — He uttered these words with a 
 calmness that was more terrific than the 
 wildest convulsions of despair. I gasped 
 for breath — " But, my brother, you were 
 always punctual in your religious exer- 
 cises." " That was mechanism — will 
 you not believe a dying man ?" " But 
 you urged me, in a long conversation, to 
 embrace the monastic life ; and your im- 
 portunity must have been sincere, for it 
 was after my profession." " It is natural 
 for the miserable to wish for companions 
 in their misery. This is very selfish, very 
 misanthropic, you will say, but it is also 
 very natural. You have yourself seen the 
 cages suspended in the cells — are not the 
 tame birds always employed to allure the 
 wild ones? We were caged birds, can 
 you blame us for the deception ?" In these 
 w r ords I could not help recognizing that 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
290 MELMOTH : 
 
 simplicity of profound corruption % — that 
 frightful paralysis of the soul, which leaves 
 it incapable of receiving any impression 
 or making one, — that says to the accuser, 
 Approach, remonstrate, upbraid— I defy 
 you. My conscience is dead, and can nei- 
 ther hear, utter, or echo a reproach. I was 
 amazed — 1 struggled against my own con- 
 viction. I said, " But your regularity in 
 religious exercises — " " Did you never 
 hear a bell toll ?" " But your voice was 
 always the loudest and most distinct in the 
 choir." " Did you never hear an organ 
 
 played?" * * * 
 
 * # ^ # 
 
 I shuddered, yet I still went on with my 
 queries — I thought I could not know too 
 much. I said, " But, my brother, the re- 
 ligious exercises in which you were con* 
 stantly engaged, must have imperceptibly 
 instilled something of their spirit into you ? 
 — is it not so? You must have passed 
 
 * Vide Madame Genlis's "Julien Delmour." 
 
A TALE. 291 
 
 from the forms of religion into its spirit 
 ultimately? — is it not so, my brother? 
 Speak on the faith of a dying man. May 
 I have such a hope ! I would undergo any 
 thing — any thing, to obtain it." * There 
 is no such hope," said the dying man, " de- 
 ceive not yourself with it. The repetition 
 of religious duties, without the feeling or 
 spirit of religion, produces an incurable 
 callosity of heart. There are not more ir- 
 religious people to be found on earth than 
 those who are occupied always in its ex- 
 ternals. I verily believe half our lay-bro- 
 thers to be Atheists. 1 have heard and 
 read something of those whom we call he- 
 retics. They have people to open their 
 pews, (shocking profanation you will call 
 it, to sell seats in the house of God, and 
 you are right), they have people to ring 
 bells when their dead are to be interred ; 
 and these wretches have no other indica- 
 tion of religion to give, but watching du- 
 ring the whole time of service, (in which 
 their duties forbid them to partake), for 
 
292 MELMOTH : 
 
 the fees which they extort, and dropping 
 upon their knees, ejaculating the names of 
 Christ and God, amid the rattling of the 
 pew-doors, which always operates on their 
 associations, and makes them bound from 
 their knees to gape for a hundredth part 
 of the silver for which Judas sold his Sa- 
 viour and himself. Then their bell-ringers 
 —one would imagine death might human* 
 ize them. Oh ! no such thing — they extort 
 money in proportion to the depth of the 
 grave. And the bell-ringer, the sexton, 
 and the survivors, fight sometimes a ma- 
 nual battleover the senseless remains, whose 
 torpidity is the most potent and silent re- 
 proach to this unnatural conflict." I knew 
 nothing of this, but I grasped at his former 
 words, " You die, then, without hope or 
 confidence?" He was silent. " Yet you 
 urged me by eloquence almost divine, by 
 a miracle verified before my own eyes." 
 He laughed. There is something very 
 horrible in the laugh of a dying man : 
 Hovering on the verge of both worlds, he 
 
A TALE. 293 
 
 seems to give the lie to both, and proclaim 
 the enjoyments of one, and the hopes of 
 another, alike an imposture. " I perform- 
 ed that miracle myself," he said with all 
 the calmness, and, alas ! something of the 
 triumph of a deliberate impostor. " I 
 knew the reservoir by which the fountain 
 was supplied — by consent of the Superior 
 it was drawn off in the course of the night. 
 We worked hard at it, and laughed at your 
 credulity every pump we drew." " But 
 the tree — " " I was in possession of some 
 chemical secrets — I have not time to disclose 
 them now — I scattered a certain fluid over 
 the leaves of the poplar that night, and 
 they appeared withered by the morning — 
 go look at them a fortnight hence, and 
 you will see them as green as ever." " And 
 these are your dying words ?" " They are." 
 " And why did you deceive me thus ?" 
 He struggled a short time at this question, 
 and then rising almost upright in his bed, 
 exclaimed, " Because I was a monk, and 
 wished for victims of my imposture to gra- 
 
294 MELMOTH : 
 
 tify my pride ! and companions of my mi- 
 sery, to soothe its malignity!" He was 
 convulsed as he spoke, the natural mild- 
 ness and calmness of his physiognomy 
 were changed for something that I cannot 
 describe — something at once derisive, tri- 
 umphant, and diabolical. I forgave him 
 every thing in that horrible moment. I 
 snatched a crucifix that lay by his bed — I 
 offered it to his lips. He pushed it away. 
 u If I wanted to have this farce acted, I 
 should choose another actor. You know 
 I might have the Superior and half the 
 convent at my bed-side this moment if I 
 pleased, with their tapers, their holy water, 
 and their preparations for extreme unction, 
 and all the masquerade of death, by which 
 they try to dupe even the dying, and in- 
 sult God even on the threshold of his own 
 eternal mansion. I suffered you to sit be- 
 side me, because I thought, from your re- 
 pugnance to the monastic life, you might 
 be a willing hearer of its deceptions, and 
 its despair." 
 
A TALE. 295 
 
 * Deplorable as had been the image of 
 that life to me before, this representation 
 exceeded my imagination. I had viewed 
 it as excluding all the enjoyments of life, 
 and thought the prospect blasting; but 
 now the other world was weighed in the 
 balance, and found wanting. The genius 
 of monasticism seemed to wield a two- 
 edged sword, and to lift it between and 
 against time and eternity. The blade bore 
 a two-fold inscription— on the side next 
 the world was written the word " suffer," 
 — on that opposed to eternity, M despair." 
 In the utter hopelessness of my soul, I still 
 continued to question him for hope — him ! 
 while he was bereaving me of its very sha- 
 dow, by every word he uttered. " But, 
 must all be plunged in this abyss of dark- 
 ness ? Is there no light, no hope, no re- 
 fuge, for the sufferer ? May not some of 
 us become reconciled to our situation — first 
 patient of it, then attached to it ? Finally, 
 may we not (if our repugnance be invinci- 
 ble) make a merit of it with God, and offer 
 
296 iMELMOTH: 
 
 to him the sacrifice of our earthly hopes 
 and wishes, in the confidence of an ample 
 and glorious equivalent ? Even if we are 
 unable to offer this sacrifice with the unc- 
 tion which would ensure its acceptance, 
 still may we not hope it will not be wholly 
 neglected? — that we may become tran- 
 quil, if not happy — resigned, if not con- 
 tent. Speak, tell me if this may be?" 
 " And you wish to extort deception from 
 the lips of death—but you will fail. 
 Hear your doom — Those who are pos- 
 sessed of what may be called the reli- 
 gious character, that is, those who are 
 visionary, weak, morose, and ascetic, may 
 elevate themselves to a species of in- 
 toxication in the moments of devotion. 
 They may, while clasping the images, 
 work themselves into the delusion, that 
 the dead stone thrills to their touch ; that 
 the figures move, assent to their petitions, 
 and turn their lifeless eyes on them with 
 an expression of benignity. They may, 
 while kissing the crucifix, believe that they 
 
A TALE. 297 
 
 hear celestial voices pronouncing their par- 
 don ; that the Saviour of the world extends 
 his arms to them, to invite them to beati- 
 tude ; that all heaven is expanded to their 
 view, and the harmonies of paradise are 
 enriched to glorify their apotheosis. But 
 this is a mere inebriation that the most ig- 
 norant physician could produce in his pa- 
 tients by certain medicines. The secret 
 of this ecstatic swoon might be traced to 
 an apothecary's shop, or purchased at a 
 cheaper rate. The inhabitants of the north 
 of Europe procure this state of exaltation 
 by the use of liquid fire — the Turks by 
 opium — the Dervises by dancing — and 
 Christian monks by spiritual pride ope- 
 rating on the exhaustion of a macerated 
 frame. It is all intoxication, with this 
 difference only, that the intoxication of 
 men of this world produces always self- 
 complacency — that of men of the other 
 world, a complacency whose supposed 
 source is derived from God. The intoxi- 
 cation is, therefore, more profound, more 
 
 N 2 
 
298 MELMOTH : 
 
 delusive, and more dangerous. But na- 
 ture, violated by these excesses, exacts a 
 most usurious interest for this illicit indul- 
 gence. She makes them pay for moments 
 of rapture with hours of despair. Their 
 precipitation from extasy to horror is al- 
 most instantaneous. In the course of a 
 few moments, they pass from being the fa- 
 vourites of Heaven to becoming its out- 
 casts. They doubt the truth of their 
 raptures, — the truth of their vocation. 
 They doubt every thing — the sincerity 
 of their prayers, even the efficacy of the 
 Saviour's atonement, and the interces- 
 sion of the blessed Virgin. They plunge 
 from paradise to hell. They howl, they 
 scream, they blaspheme. From the bot- 
 tom of the infernal gulph in which they 
 imagine themselves plunged, they bellow 
 imprecations against their Creator — they 
 denounce themselves as damned from all 
 eternity for their sins, while their only sin 
 is their inability to support preternatural 
 excitement. The paroxysm ceases they 
 
A TALE. 299 
 
 become the elect of God again in their own 
 imaginations. And to those who interro- 
 gate them with regard to their late despair, 
 they answer, That Satan was permitted to 
 buffet them — that they were under the 
 hidings of God's face, &e. All saints, from 
 Mahomet down to Francis Xavier, were 
 only a compound of insanity, pride, and 
 self-imposition ; — the latter would have 
 been of less consequence, but that men 
 always revenge their imposition on them- 
 selves, by imposing to the utmost on 
 others." 
 
 " There is no more horrible state of 
 mind than that in which we are forced by 
 conviction to listen on, wishing every 
 word to be false, and knowing every word 
 to be true. Such was mine, but I tried 
 to palliate it by saying, " It was never my 
 ambition to be a saint ; but is the lot of all, 
 then, so deplorable ?" The monk, who 
 appeared to rejoice in this opportunity to 
 discharge the concentrated malignity of 
 sixty years of suffering and hypocrisy, 
 
300 MELMOTH : 
 
 collected his dying voice to answer. He 
 seemed as if he never could inflict enough, 
 for what had been inflicted on himself. 
 " Those who possess strong sensibility, 
 without the religious character, are of all 
 others the most unhappy, but their mise- 
 ries are soonest terminated. They are 
 harassed by trivial constraints, stupified 
 by monotonous devotion, exasperated by 
 dull insolence and bloated superiority. 
 They struggle, they resist. Penance and 
 punishment are applied. Their own vio- 
 lence justifies increased violence of treat- 
 ment ; and, at all events, it would be ap- 
 plied without this justification, for there is 
 nothing that delights the pride of power, 
 more than a victorious strife with the pride 
 of intellect. The remainder is easily to 
 be conceived by you, who have witnessed 
 it. You saw \he unfortunate youth who 
 interfered about Paolo. He was lashed 
 to madness. Tortured first to phrenzy, 
 then to stupefaction, — he died ! I was the 
 secret, unsuspected adviser of the whole 
 
A TALE. 301 
 
 proceeding." " Monster !" I exclaimed, 
 for truth had made us equal now, and even 
 precluded the language that humanity 
 would dictate when uttered to a dying 
 man. — " But why ?" — said he, with that 
 calmness which had once attracted, and 
 now revolted me, but which had at all 
 times undisputed possession of his phy- 
 siognomy ; — " his sufferings were shorter, 
 do you blame me for diminishing their du- 
 ration ?" — There was something cold, iro- 
 nical, and jeering, even in the suavity of 
 this man, that gave a certain force to his 
 simplest observations. It seemed as if he 
 had reserved the truth all his life, to utter 
 it at his dying hour. " Such is the fate of 
 those who possess strong sensibility ; those 
 who have less languish away in an imper- 
 ceptible decline. They spend their time 
 in watching a few flowers, in tending 
 birds. They are punctual in their reli- 
 gious exercises, they receive neither blame 
 or praise, — they melt away in torpor and 
 ennui. They wish for death, as the prepa- 
 
302 MELMOTH : 
 
 ration it might put the convent to might 
 produce a short excitement, but they are 
 disappointed, for their state forbids excite- 
 ment, and they die as they have lived, — 
 unexcited, unawakened. The tapers are 
 lit, they do not see them, — the unction is 
 applied, they do not feel it, — prayers are 
 uttered, they cannot partake in them ; — in 
 fact, the whole drama is acted, but the 
 principal performer is absent, — is gone. 
 Others indulge themselves in perpetual re- 
 verie. They walk alone in the cloister, — 
 in the garden. They feed themselves with 
 the poison of delicious, innutritive illu- 
 sion. They dream that an earthquake 
 will shake the walls to atoms, that a vol- 
 cano will burst forth in the centre of the 
 garden. They imagine a revolution of 
 government, — an attack of banditti, — any 
 thing, however improbable. Then they 
 take refuge in the possibility of a fire, (if 
 a fire bursts out in a convent, the doors 
 are thrown open, and " Sauve qui peut," 
 is the word). At this thought they con- 
 
A TALE. 303 
 
 ceive the most ardent hope, — they could 
 rush out, — they could precipitate them- 
 selves into the streets, into the coun- 
 try, — in fact, they would fly any where 
 to escape. Then these hopes fail,— -they 
 begin to get nervous, morbid, restless. 
 If they have interest, they are indulg- 
 ed with remission from their duties, and 
 they remain in their cells, relaxed, — tor- 
 pid, — idiotical ; if they have not interest, 
 they are forced to the punctual perfor- 
 mance of their duties, and then idiotism 
 comes on much sooner, as diseased horses, 
 employed in a mill, become blind sooner 
 than those who are suffered to wear out 
 existence in ordinary labour. Some of 
 them take refuge in religion, as they call 
 it. They call for relief on the Superior, 
 but what can the Superior do? He is but 
 human too, and perhaps feels the despair 
 that is devouring the wretches who sup- 
 plicate him to deliver them from it. Then 
 they prostrate themselves before the images 
 of the saints, — they invoke, they some- 
 
304 MELMOTH : 
 
 times revile them. They call for their in- 
 tercession, deplore its inefficacy, and fly to 
 some other, whose merits they imagine 
 are higher in the sight of God. They 
 supplicate for an interest in the interces- 
 sion of Christ and the Virgin, as their last 
 resort. That resort fails them too, — the 
 Virgin herself is inexorable, though they 
 wear out her pedestal with their knees, 
 and her feet with their kisses. Then they 
 go about the galleries at night, they rouse 
 the sleepers, they knock at every door, — 
 they cry, " Brother Saint Jerome, pray for 
 me, — Brother Saint Augustine, pray for 
 me." Then the placard is seen fastened to 
 the rails of the altar, " Dear brothers, pray 
 for the wandering soul of a monk." The 
 next day the placard bears this inscription, 
 " The prayers of the community are im- 
 plored for a monk who is in despair." 
 Then they find human intercession as un- 
 availing as divine, to procure them a re- 
 mission of the sufferings which, while 
 their profession continues to inflict on 
 
A TALE. 305 
 
 them, no power can reverse or mitigate. 
 They crawl to their cells, — in a few days 
 the toll of the bell is heard, and the 
 brethren exclaim, " He died in the odour of 
 sanctity," and hasten to spread their snares 
 for another victim." " And is this, then, 
 monastic life ?" " It is, — there are but two 
 exceptions, that of those who can every day 
 renew, by the aid of imagination, the hope 
 of escape, and who cherish that hope even 
 on their dying bed ; and those who, like 
 me, diminish their misery by dividing it, 
 and, like the spider, feel relieved of the 
 poison that swells, and would burst them, 
 by instilling a drop of it into every insect 
 that toils, agonizes, and perishes in their 
 net, — like you'' At these last words, a 
 glare of malignity flashed on the features 
 of the dying wretch, that appalled me. I 
 retreated from his bed for a moment. I 
 returned, I looked at him, — his eyes were 
 closed, — his hands extended. I touched 
 him, — raised him, — he was dead, — those 
 were his last words, The expression of 
 
306 MELMOTH : 
 
 his features was the physiognomy of his 
 soul, — they were calm and pale, but still a 
 cold expression of derision lingered about 
 the curve of his lips. 
 
 " I rushed from the infirmary. I was 
 at that time indulged, like all the other 
 visitants of the sick, to go to the garden 
 beyond the allotted hours, perhaps to di- 
 minish the chance of infection. I was but 
 too ready to avail myself of this permis- 
 sion. The garden, with its calm moon- 
 light beauty, its innocence of heaven, its 
 theology of the stars, was at once a re- 
 proach and a consolation to me. I tried 
 to reflect, to feel, — both efforts failed ; and 
 perhaps it is in this silence of the soul, this 
 suspension of all the clamorous voices of the 
 passions, that we are most ready to hear 
 the voice of God. My imagination sudden- 
 ly represented to me the august and ample 
 vault above me as a church, — the images of 
 the saints grew dim in my eyes as I gazed 
 on the stars, and even the altar, over which 
 the crucifixion of the Saviour of the world 
 
A TALE. 307 
 
 was represented, turned pale to the eye 
 of the soul, as I gazed on the moon 
 " walking in her brightness." I fell on 
 my knees. I knew not to whom I was 
 about to pray, but I never felt so dispos- 
 ed to pray. I felt my habit touched at 
 this moment. I at first trembled, from 
 the idea of being detected in a forbidden 
 act. I started up. A dark figure stood 
 beside me, who said in indistinct and 
 faultering tones, " Read this," and he 
 thrust a paper into my hand ; w I have 
 worn it sewed into my habit for four days. 
 I have watched you night and day. 1 had 
 no opportunity but this, — you were in 
 your cell, in the choir, or in the infirmary. 
 Tear it in pieces, throw the fragments in- 
 to the fountain, or swallow them, the 
 moment you have read it. — Adieu. I 
 have risked every thing for you," and he 
 glided away. I recognized his figure as 
 he departed ; it was the porter of the con- 
 vent. I well understood the risk he must 
 have run in delivering this paper, for it 
 
308 MELMOTH : 
 
 was the regulation of the convent, that all 
 letters, whether addressed to or written by 
 boarders, novices, or monks, were first to 
 be read by the Superior, and I never knew 
 an instance of its infringement. The 
 moon gave me sufficient light. 1 began 
 to read, while a vague hope, that had 
 neither object or basis, trembled at the 
 bottom of my heart. The paper contain- 
 ed these words : 
 
 " My dearest brother, (my God ! how I 
 started !) 1 see you revolt at the first lines 
 which I address to you, — I implore you, 
 for both our sakes, to read them with calm- 
 ness and attention. We have been both 
 the victims of parental and priestly impo- 
 sition; the former we must forgive, for 
 our parents are the victims of it too. The 
 Director has their consciences in his hand, 
 and their destiny and ours at his feet. 
 Oh, my brother, what a tale have I to 
 disclose to you ! I was brought up, by the 
 Director's orders, whose influence over the 
 domestics is as unbounded as it is over 
 
A TALE. 309 
 
 their unhappy master, in complete hostili- 
 ty against you, as one who was depriving 
 me of my natural rights, and degrading 
 the family by your illegitimate intrusion. 
 May not this palliate, in some degree, my 
 unnatural repulsiveness when we first met ? 
 I was taught from my cradle to hate and 
 fear you, — to hate you as an enemy, and 
 fear you as an impostor. This was the 
 Director's plan. He thought the hold he 
 had over my father and mother too slight 
 to gratify his ambition of domes tie power, 
 or realize his hopes of professional distinc- 
 tion. The basis of all ecclesiastical power 
 rests upon fear. A crime must be dis- 
 covered or invented. The vague reports 
 circulated in the family, my mother's con- 
 stant dejection, my father's occasional agi- 
 tation, offered him a clue, which he fol- 
 lowed with incessant industry through all 
 its windings of doubt, mystery, and dis- 
 appointment, till, in a moment of peni- 
 tence, my mother, terrified by his constant 
 denunciations if she concealed any secret 
 
310 MELMOTH i 
 
 of her heart or life from him, disclosed the 
 truth. 
 
 " We were both infants then. He a- 
 dopted immediately the plan he has sinee 
 realized at the expence of all but himself. 
 I am convinced he had not, from the first 
 hour of his machinations, the least malig- 
 nity against you. The aggrandizement of 
 his interest, which ecclesiastics always in- 
 dividualize with that of the church, was 
 his only object. To dictate, to tyrannize, 
 to manage a whole family, and that of 
 rank, by his knowledge of the frailty of 
 one of its members, was all he looked to. 
 Those who by their vows are excluded 
 from the interest which natural affections 
 give us in life, must seek for it in the arti- 
 ficial ones of pride and domination, and 
 the Director found it there. All thence- 
 forth was conducted and inspired by him. 
 It was he who caused us to be kept asun- 
 der from our infancy, fearful that nature 
 might frustrate his plans, — it was he who 
 reared me in sentiments of implacable ani- 
 
A TALE. 311 
 
 mosity against you. When my mother 
 fluctuated, he reminded her of her vow, 
 with which she had rashly intrusted him. 
 When my father murmured, the shame of 
 my mother's frailty, the bitter feuds of 
 domestic discussion, the tremendous sounds 
 of imposture, perjury, sacrilege, and the 
 resentment of the church, were thundered 
 in his ears. You may conceive there is 
 nothing this - man would shrink at, when, 
 almost in my childhood, he disclosed to 
 me my mother's frailty, to insure my 
 early and zealous participation in his 
 views. Heaven blast the wretch who 
 could thus contaminate the ears, and 
 wither the heart of a child, with the tale 
 of a parent's shame, to secure a partizan 
 for the church ! This was not all. From 
 the first hour I was able to hear and com- 
 prehend him, he poisoned my heart by 
 every channel he could approach. He 
 exaggerated my mother's partiality for 
 you, which he assured me often con- 
 tended vainly with her conscience. He 
 
312 MELMOTH : 
 
 represented my father as weak and dissi- 
 pated, but affectionate ; and, with the na- 
 tural pride of a boy-father, immoveably 
 attached to his eldest offspring. He said, 
 " My son, prepare yourself to struggle 
 with a host of prejudices, — the interests 
 of God, as well as of society, demand it. 
 Assume a high tone with your parents , — 
 you are in possession of the secret that 
 corrodes their consciences, make your own 
 use of it." Judge the effect of these words 
 on a temper naturally violent, — words, too, 
 uttered by one whom I was taught to re- 
 gard as the agent of the Divinity. 
 
 " All this time, as I have since been in- 
 formed, he was debating in his own mind 
 whether he would not adopt your part in- 
 stead of mine, or at least vacillate be- 
 tween both, so as to augment his influence 
 over our parents, by the additional fea- 
 ture of suspicion. Whatever influenced 
 his determination, the effect of his lessons 
 on me may be easily calculated. I became 
 restless, jealous, and vindictive; — insolent 
 
A TALE. 313 
 
 to my parents, and suspicious of all around 
 me. Before I was eleven years of age I 
 reviled my father for his partiality to you, 
 — 1 insulted my mother with her crime, — 
 I tyrannized over the domestics, — I was 
 the dread and the torment of the whole 
 household ; and the wretch who had made 
 me thus a premature demon, had out- 
 raged nature, and compelled me to trample 
 on every tie he should have taught me to 
 hallow and cherish, consoled himself with 
 the thought that he was obeying the calls 
 of his function, and strengthening the 
 hands of the church. 
 
 " Scire volunt secreta domus et inde timeri." 
 
 " On the day preceding our first meet- 
 ing, (which had not been intended before), 
 the Director went to my father ; he said, 
 " Senhor, I think it best the brothers 
 should meet. Perhaps God may touch 
 their hearts, and by his merciful influence 
 over them, enable you to reverse the de- 
 
 vol. i. o 
 
314 MELMOTH : 
 
 cree that threatens one of them with se- 
 clusion, and both with a cruel and final 
 separation." My father assented with 
 tears of delight. Those tears did not melt 
 the heart of the Director ; he hastened to 
 my apartment, and said, " My child, sum- 
 mon all your resolution, your artful, cruel, 
 partial parents, are preparing a scene for 
 you, — they are determined on introducing 
 you to your spurious brother." " I will 
 spurn him before their faces, if they dare 
 to do so," said I, with the pride of prema- 
 ture tyranny. " No, my child, that will 
 not do, you must appear to comply with 
 their wishes, but you must not be their 
 victim, — promise me that, my dear child, 
 — promise me resolution and dissimula- 
 tion." " I promise you resolution, keep 
 the dissimulation for yourself." " Well, I 
 will do so, since your interests require it." 
 He hurried back to my father. " Senhor, 
 1 have employed all the eloquence of hea- 
 ven and nature with your younger son. 
 He is softened, — he melts already, — he 
 
A TALE. 315 
 
 longs to precipitate himself into the frater- 
 nal embrace, and hear your benediction 
 poured over the united hearts and bodies 
 of your two children, — they are both your 
 children. You must banish all prejudices, 
 
 and " " I have no prejudices !" said 
 
 my poor father ; " let me but see my chil- 
 dren embrace, and if Heaven summoned 
 me at that moment, I should obey it 
 by dying of joy." — The Director reproved 
 him for the expressions which gushed from 
 his heart, and, wholly unmoved by them, 
 hurried back to me, full of his commission. 
 " My child, I have warned you of the 
 conspiracy formed against you by your 
 own family. You will receive a proof of 
 it to-morrow, — your brother is to be intro- 
 duced, — you will be required to embrace 
 him, — your consent is reckoned on, but at 
 the moment you do so, your father is re- 
 solved to interpret this as the signal, on 
 your part, of the resignation of all your 
 natural rights. Comply with your hypo- 
 critical parents, embrace this brother, but 
 
316 MELMOTH : 
 
 give an air of repugnance to the action 
 that will justify your conscience, while it 
 deceives those who would deceive you. 
 Watch the signal- word, my dear child ; 
 embrace him as you would a serpent, — his 
 art is not less, and his poison as deadly. 
 Remember that your resolution will de- 
 cide the event of this meeting. Assume 
 the appearance of affection, but remember 
 you hold your deadliest enemy in your 
 arms." At these words, unnatural as I 
 was, I shuddered. I said, " My brother !" 
 " Never mind," said the Director, " he is 
 the enemy of God, — an illegitimate im- 
 postor. Now, my child, are you prepar- 
 ed ?" and I answered, " I am prepared." 
 That night, however, I was very restless. 
 I required the Director to be summoned. 
 I said in my pride, " But how is this poor 
 wretch (meaning you) to be disposed of?" 
 " Let him embrace the monastic life," said 
 the Director. At these words I felt an 
 interest on your account I had never re- 
 cognized before. I said decidedly, for he 
 
A TALE. 317 
 
 had taught me to assume a tone of deci- 
 sion, " He shall never be a monk." The 
 Director appeared staggered, yet he trem- 
 bled before the spirit he had himself rais- 
 ed. " Let him go into the army," I said ; 
 " let him inlist as a common soldier, I can 
 supply him with the means of promotion ; 
 — let him engage in the meanest profes- 
 sion, I shall not blush to acknowledge 
 him, but, father, he shall never be a 
 monk." " But, my dear child, on what 
 foundation does this extraordinary objec- 
 tion rest ? It is the only means to restore 
 peace to the family, and procure it for the 
 unfortunate being for whom you are so 
 much interested." " My father, have 
 done with this language. Promise me, 
 as the condition of my obedience to your 
 wishes to-morrow, that my brother shall 
 never be compelled to be a monk." " Com- 
 pelled, my dear child ! there can be no 
 compulsion in a holy vocation." " I am 
 not certain of that ; but I demand from 
 you the promise I have mentioned." The 
 
318 MELMOTH : 
 
 Director hesitated, at last he said, " I pro- 
 mise." And he hastened to tell my father 
 there was no longer any opposition to our 
 meeting, and that I was delighted with 
 the determination which had been an- 
 nounced to me of my brother eagerly em- 
 bracing the monastic life. Thus was our 
 first meeting arranged. When, at the 
 command of my father, our arms were en- 
 twined, I swear to you, my brother, I felt 
 them thrill with affection. But the in- 
 stinct of nature was soon superseded by 
 the force of habit, and I recoiled, collect- 
 ed all the forces of nature and passion in 
 the terrible expression that I dared to di- 
 rect towards our parents, while the Direc- 
 tor stood behind them smiling, and en- 
 couraging me by gestures. I thought I 
 had acted my part with applause, at least 
 I gave myself enough, and retired from 
 the scene with as proud a step as if I had 
 trampled on a prostrate world, — I had only 
 trampled on nature and my own heart. 
 .A few days after I was sent to a convent. 
 
A TALE. 319 
 
 The Director was alarmed at the dogma- 
 tizing tone he himself had taught me to 
 assume, and he urged the necessity of my 
 education being attended to. My parents 
 complied with every thing he required. 
 I, for a wonder, consented ; but, as the 
 carriage conveyed me to the convent, I 
 repeated to the Director, " Remember, 
 mv brother is not to be a monk." 
 
 " (After these lines several were unintel- 
 ligible to me, apparently from the agitation 
 under which they were written ; — the pre- 
 cipitancy and fiery ardor of my brother's 
 character communicated itself to his writ- 
 ings. After many a defaced page I could 
 trace the following words.) * * 
 
 " It was singular enough that you, who 
 were the object of my inveterate hatred 
 before my residence in the convent, be- 
 came the object of my interest from that 
 moment. I had adopted your cause from 
 pride, I now upheld it from experience. 
 Compassion, instinct, whatever it was, be- 
 
320 MELMOTH : 
 
 gan to assume the character of a duty. 
 When I saw the indignity with which the 
 lower classes were treated, I said to my- 
 self, " No, he shall never suffer that, — he 
 is my brother." When 1 succeeded in my 
 exercises, and was applauded, I said, " This 
 is applause in which he never can share." 
 When I was punished, and that was much 
 more frequently, I said, " He shall never 
 feel this mortification." My imagination 
 expanded. I believed myself your future 
 patron, I conceived myself redeeming the 
 injustice of nature, aiding and aggrandiz- 
 ing you, forcing you to confess that you 
 owed more to me than to your parents, 
 and throwing myself, with a disarmed and 
 naked heart, on your gratitude alone for 
 affection. I heard you call me brother, — 
 I bid you stop, and call me benefactor. 
 My nature, proud, generous, and fiery, 
 had not yet quite emancipated itself from 
 the influence of the Director, but every 
 effort it made pointed, by an indescribable 
 impulse, towards you. Perhaps the secret 
 
A TALE. 321 
 
 of this is to be found in the elements of 
 my character, which always struggled a- 
 gainst dictation, and loved to teach itself 
 all it wished to know, and inspire itself 
 with the object of its own attachments. 
 It is certain that I wished for your friend- 
 ship, at the moment I was instructed to 
 hate you. Your mild eyes and affec- 
 tionate looks haunted me perpetually in 
 the convent. To the professions of friend- 
 ship repeatedly made me by the boarders, 
 I answered, " I want a brother." My con- 
 duct was eccentric and violent,— -no won- 
 der, for my conscience had begun to ope- 
 rate against my habits. Sometimes I 
 would apply with an eagerness that made 
 them tremble for my health ; at others, no 
 punishment, however severe, could make 
 me submit to the ordinary discipline of the 
 house. The community grew weary of 
 rny obstinacy, violence, and irregularities. 
 They wrote to the Director to have me 
 removed, but before this could be accom- 
 plished I was seized with a fever. They 
 
 o 2 
 
322 MELMOTH : 
 
 paid me unremitting attention, but there 
 was something on my mind no cares of 
 theirs could remove. When they brought 
 me medicine with the most scrupulous 
 punctuality, I said, " Let my brother 
 fetch it, and if it be poison I will drink it 
 from his hand ; I have injured him much." 
 When the bell tolled for matins and ves- 
 pers, I said, " Are they going to make 
 my brother a monk ? The Director pro- 
 mised me differently, but you are all de- 
 ceivers." At length they muffled the 
 bell. I heard its stifled sound, and I 
 exclaimed, " You are tolling for his fune- 
 ral, but I, — I am his murderer!" The 
 community became terrified at these ex- 
 clamations so often repeated, and with the 
 meaning of which they could not accuse 
 themselves. I was removed in a state of 
 delirium to my father's palace in Madrid. 
 A figure like yours sat beside me in the 
 carriage, alighted when we stopped, accom- 
 panied me where I remained, assisted me 
 when I was placed again in the carriage. 
 
A TALE. 323 
 
 So vivid was the impression, that I was 
 accustomed to say to the attendants, " Stop, 
 my brother is assisting me." When they 
 asked me in the morning how I had rest- 
 ed ? I answered, " Very well, — Alonzo has 
 been all night at my bed-side." I in- 
 vited this visionary companion to con- 
 tinue his attentions ; and when the pil- 
 lows were arranged to my satisfaction, 
 I would say, " How kind my brother is, 
 — how useful, — but why will he not 
 speak V At one stage I absolutely re- 
 fused nourishment, because the phantom 
 appeared to decline it. I said, " Do not 
 urge me, my brother, you see, will not ac- 
 cept of it. Oh, I entreat his pardon, it is 
 a day of abstinence, — that is his reason, 
 you see how he points to his habit, — that 
 is enough." It is very singular that the 
 food at this house happened to be poison- 
 ed, and that two of my attendants died 
 of partaking of it before they could reach 
 Madrid. I mention these circumstances, 
 merely to prove the rivetted hold you had 
 
324) MELMOTH : 
 
 taken both of my imagination and my af- 
 fections. On the recovery of my intel- 
 lect, my first inquiry was for you. This 
 had been foreseen, and my father and mo- 
 ther, shunning the discussion, and even 
 trembling for the event, as they knew the 
 violence of my temper, intrusted the whole 
 business to the Director. He undertook 
 it, — how he executed it is yet to be seen. 
 On our first meeting he approached me 
 with congratulations on my convalescence, 
 with regrets for the constraints I must 
 have suffered in the convent, with assur- 
 ances that my parents would make my 
 home a paradise. When he had gone on 
 for some time, I said, " What have you 
 done with my brother?" «' He is in the 
 bosom of God," said the Director, crossing 
 himself. I understood him in a moment, 
 — I rushed past him before he had finished. 
 " Where are you going, my son ?" " To 
 my parents." " Your parents, — it is im- 
 possible that you can see them now." 
 " But it is certain that I will see them. 
 
A TALE. 325 
 
 Dictate to me no longer, — degrade your- 
 self not by this prostituted humiliation," 
 for he was putting himself in a posture of 
 in treaty, — " I will see my parents. Pro- 
 cure for me an introduction to them this 
 moment, or tremble for the continuance 
 of your influence in the family." At these 
 words he trembled. He did not indeed 
 dread my influence, but he dreaded my 
 passions. His own lessons were bitterly 
 retaliated on him that moment. He had 
 made me fierce and impetuous, because 
 that suited his purpose, but he had neither 
 calculated on, or prepared himself for, this 
 extraordinary direction which my feelings 
 had taken, so opposite to that which he had 
 laboured to give them. He thought, in 
 exciting my passions, he could ascertain 
 their direction. Woe be to those, who, 
 in teaching the elephant to direct his 
 trunk against their foes, forget that by a 
 sudden convolution of that trunk, he may 
 rend the driver from his back, and trample 
 him under his feet into the mire. Such 
 
326 MELMOTH: 
 
 was the Director's situation and mine, I 
 insisted on going instantly to my father's 
 presence. He interposed, he supplicated ; 
 at last, as a hopeless resource, he reminded 
 me of his continual indulgence, his flat- 
 tery of my passions. My answer was 
 brief, but Oh that it might sink into the 
 souls of such tutors and such priests ! 
 " And that has made me what I am. 
 Lead the way to my father's apartment, or 
 I will spurn you before me to the door of 
 it." At this threat, which he saw I was 
 able to execute, (for you know my frame 
 is athletic, and my stature twice that of 
 his), he trembled ; and I confess this indi- 
 cation of both physical and mental debili- 
 ty completed my contempt for him. He 
 crawled before me to the apartment where 
 my father and mother were seated, in a 
 balcony that overlooked the garden. They 
 had imagined all was settled, and were asto- 
 nished to see me rush in, followed by the 
 Director, with an aspect that left them 
 no reason to hope for an auspicious result 
 
A TALE. 327 
 
 of our conference. The Director gave 
 them a sign which I did not observe, and 
 which they had not time to profit by, — 
 and as I stood before them livid from my 
 fever, on fire with passion, and trembling 
 with inarticulate expressions, they shudder- 
 ed. Some looks of reproach were levelled 
 by them at the Director, which he returned, 
 as usual, by signs. I did not understand 
 tke7n, but I made them understand me in 
 a moment. I said to my father, " Senhor, 
 is it true you have made my brother a 
 monk ?" My father hesitated ; at last he 
 said, " I thought the Director had been 
 commissioned to speak to you on that sub- 
 ject." " Father, what has a Director to 
 do in the concerns of a parent and child ? 
 That man never can be a parent, — never 
 can have a child, how then can he be a 
 judge in a case like this ?" " You forget 
 yourself, — you forget the respect due to a 
 minister of the church." " My father, I 
 am but just raised from a death-bed, my 
 mother and you trembled for my life, — 
 
528 MELMOTH : 
 
 that life still depends on your words. I 
 promised submission to this wretch, on a 
 condition which he has violated, which — " 
 " Command yourself, Sir," said my father, 
 in a tone of authority which ill suited the 
 trembling lips it issued from, " or quit the 
 apartment." " Senhor," interposed the 
 Director, in a softened tone, " let not me 
 be the cause of dissension in a family 
 whose happiness and honour have been al- 
 ways my object, next to the interests of 
 the church. Let him go on, the remem- 
 brance of my crucified Master will sustain 
 me under his insults," and he crossed him- 
 self. u Wretch !" I cried, grasping his 
 habit, " you are a hypocrite, a deceiver !" 
 and 1 know not of what violence I might 
 have been guilty, but my father interpos- 
 ed. My mother shrieked with terror, 
 and a scene of confusion followed, in 
 which I recollect nothing but the hypo- 
 critical exclamations of the Director, ap- 
 pearing to struggle between my father 
 and me, while he mediated with God for 
 
A TALE. 329 
 
 both. He repeated incessantly, " Senhor, 
 do not interpose, every indignity I suffer 
 I make a sacrifice to Heaven ; it will qua- 
 lify me to be an intercessor for my tra- 
 ducer with God;" and, crossing himself, 
 he called on the most sacred names, and 
 exclaimed, " Let insults, calumnies, and 
 blows, be added to that preponderance of 
 merit which is already weighed in the 
 scales of heaven against my offences," and 
 he dared to mix the claims of the inter- 
 cession of the saints, the purity of the im- 
 maculate Virgin, and even the blood and 
 agony of Jesus Christ, with the vile sub- 
 missions of his own hypocrisy. The room 
 was by this time filled with attendants. 
 My mother was conveyed away, still 
 shrieking with terror. My father, who 
 loved her, was driven by this spectacle, 
 and by my outrageous conduct, to a pitch 
 of fury, — he drew his sword. I burst in- 
 to a laugh, that froze his blood as he ap- 
 proached me. I expanded my arms, and 
 presented my breast, exclaiming, " Strike ! 
 
330 MELMOTH : 
 
 — this is the consummation of monastic 
 power, — it begun by violating nature, and 
 ends in filicide. Strike ! give a glorious 
 triumph to the influence of the church, 
 and add to the merits of the holy Direc- 
 tor. You have sacrificed your Esau, your 
 first-born, already, let Jacob be your next 
 victim." My father retreated from me, 
 and* revolted by the disfigurement which 
 the violence of my agitation had caused, 
 almost to convulsion, he exclaimed, " De- 
 mon !" and stood at a distance viewing, 
 and shuddering at me. " And who has 
 made me so ? He who fostered my evil 
 passions for his own purposes ; and, be- 
 cause one generous impulse breaks out on 
 the side of nature, would represent or 
 drive me mad, to effectuate his purposes. 
 My father, I see the whole power and sys- 
 tem of nature reversed, by the arts of a 
 corrupt ecclesiastic. By his means my 
 brother has been imprisoned for life ; — by 
 his means our birth has been made a curse 
 to my mother and to you. What have 
 
A TALE. 331 
 
 we had in the family since his influence 
 was fatally established in it, but dissension 
 and misery ? Your sword was pointed a- 
 gainst my heart this moment ; was it na- 
 ture or a monk that armed a parent against 
 his child, whose crime was — interceding for 
 his brother? Dismiss this man, whose 
 presence eclipses our hearts, and let us 
 confer together for a moment as father and 
 son, and if I do not humiliate myself be- 
 fore you, spurn me for ever. My father, 
 for God's sake examine the difference be- 
 tween this man and me, as we stand be- 
 fore you. We are together at the bar of 
 your heart, judge between us. A dry and 
 featureless image of selfish power, conse- 
 crated by the name of the church, oocu^ 
 pies his whole soul, — I plead to you by 
 the interests of nature, that must be sin- 
 cere, because they are contrary to my own. 
 He only wishes to wither your soul, — I 
 seek to touch it. Is his heart in what he 
 says ? does he shed a tear ? does he em- 
 ploy one impassioned expression ? he calls 
 
332 MELMOTH : 
 
 on God, — while I call only on you. The 
 very violence which you justly condemn, 
 is not only my vindication but my eulogy. 
 They who prefer their cause to themselves, 
 need no proof of their advocacy being sin- 
 cere." " You aggravate your crime, by 
 laying it on another; you have always 
 been violent, obstinate, and rebellious." 
 " But who has made me so? Ask himself, 
 — ask this shameful scene, in which his du- 
 plicity has driven me to act such a part." 
 "If you wish to show submission, give 
 me the first proof of it, by promising never 
 to torture me by renewing the mention of 
 this subject. Your brother's fate is decid- 
 ed, — promise not to utter his name again, 
 and " " Never, — never," I exclaim- 
 ed, " never will 1 violate my conscience 
 by such a vow ; and his who could pro- 
 pose it must be seared beyond the power 
 of Heaven to touch it." Yet, in utter- 
 ing these words, I knelt to my father, 
 but he turned from me. I turned in 
 despair to the Director. I said, " If 
 
A TALE. 338 
 
 you are the minister of Heaven, prove 
 the truth of your commission, — make 
 peace in a distracted family, reconcile my 
 father to both his children. You can ef- 
 fect this by a word, you know you can, 
 yet you will not utter it. My unfortunate 
 brother was not so inflexible to your ap- 
 peals, and yet were they inspired by a 
 feeling as justifiable as mine." I had of- 
 fended the Director beyond all forgive- 
 ness. I knew this, and spoke indeed ra- 
 ther to expose than to persuade him: I 
 did not expect an answer from him, and I 
 was not disappointed, — he did not utter a 
 word. 1 knelt in the middle of the floor 
 between them. I cried, " Deserted by my 
 father and by you, I yet appeal to Heaven. 
 I call on it to witness my vow never to a- 
 bandon my persecuted brother, whom I 
 have been made a tool to betray. I know 
 you have power, — 1 defy it. I know every 
 art of circumvention, of imposture, of ma- 
 lignant industry, — every resource of earth 
 and hell, will be set at work against me. 
 
334 MELMOTH : 
 
 I take Heaven to witness against you, and 
 demand only its aid to insure my victory." 
 My father had lost all patience ; he desired 
 the attendants to raise and remove me by 
 force. This mention of force, so repug- 
 nant to my habits of imperious indulgence, 
 operated fatally on intellects scarcely re- 
 covering from delirium, and too strongly 
 tried in the late struggle. I relapsed into 
 partial insanity. I said wildly, " My fa- 
 ther, you know not how mild, generous, 
 and forgiving is the being you thus perse- 
 cute, — I owe my life to him. Ask your 
 domestics if he did not attend me, step by 
 step, during my journey f If he did not 
 administer my food, my medicines, and 
 smoothe the pillows on which I was sup- 
 ported?" " You rave," cried my father, as 
 he heard this wild speech, but he cast a 
 look of fearful inquiry on the attendants. 
 The trembling servants swore, one and all, 
 as well they might, that not a human be- 
 ing but themselves had been suffered to 
 approach me since I quitted the convent, 
 
A TALE. 325 
 
 till my arrival at Madrid. The small re- 
 mains of reason forsook me completely at 
 this delaration, which was however true 
 every word of it. I gave the lie to the 
 last speaker with the utmost fury, — I 
 struck those who were next me. My fa- 
 ther, astonished at my violence, suddenly 
 exclaimed, " He is mad." The Director, 
 who had till then been silent, instantly 
 caught the word, and repeated, u He is 
 mad." The servants, half in terror, half 
 in conviction, re-echoed the cry. 
 
 " I was seized, dragged away ; and this 
 violence, which always excited correspond- 
 ing violence in me, realized all my father 
 feared, and the Director wished for. I 
 behaved just as a boy, scarce out of a fever, 
 and still totally delirious, might be sup- 
 posed to behave. In my apartment I tore 
 down the hangings, and there was not a 
 porcelain vase in the room that I did not 
 dash at their heads. When they seized 
 me, I bit their hands ; when at length 
 they were compelled to bind me, I gnaw r - 
 
336 MELMOTH : 
 
 ed the strings, and finally snapt them by a 
 violent effort. In fact, I completely 
 realized all the hopes of the Director. I 
 was confined to my apartment for several 
 days. During this time, I recovered the 
 only powers that usually revive in a state 
 of isolation, — those of inflexible resolution 
 and profound dissimulation. I had soon 
 exercise enough for both of them. On 
 the twelfth day of my confinement, a ser- 
 vant appeared at the door of my apart- 
 ment, and, bowing profoundly, announced, 
 that if my health was recovered, my fa- 
 ther wished to see me. I bowed in com- 
 plete imitation of his mechanical move- 
 ments, and followed him with the steps of 
 a statue. I found my father, armed with 
 the Director at his side. He advanced, 
 and addressed me with an abruptness 
 which proved that he forced himself to 
 speak. He hurried over a few expressions 
 of pleasure at my recovery, and then said, 
 " Have you reflected on the subject of our 
 last conversation ?" "I have reflected on 
 
A TALE. 337 
 
 i/."— " / had time to do so" — " And you 
 have employed that time well ?" — " I hope 
 so." — " Then the result will be favourable 
 to the hopes of your family, and the in- 
 terests of the church." The last words 
 chilled me a little, but I answered as I 
 ought. In a few moments after the Di- 
 rector joined me, He spoke amicably, 
 and turned the conversation on neutral 
 topics. I answered him, — what an effort 
 did it cost me ! — yet I answered him in all 
 the bitterness of extorted politeness. All 
 went on well, however. The family ap- 
 peared gratified by my renovation. My 
 father, harassed out, was content to pro- 
 cure peace on any terms. My mother, 
 still weaker, from the struggles between 
 her conscience and the suggestions of 
 the Director, wept, and said she was hap- 
 py. A month has now elapsed in pro- 
 found but treacherous peace on all sides. 
 
 They think me subdued, but # 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " In fact, the efforts of the Director's 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
338 MELMOTH : 
 
 power in the family would alone be suffi- 
 cient to precipitate my determinations. He 
 has placed you in a convent, but that is 
 not enough for the persevering prosely- 
 tism of the church. The palace of the 
 Duke de Mo^ada is, under his influence, 
 turned into a convent itself. My mother 
 is almost a nun, her whole life is exhaust- 
 ed in imploring forgiveness for a crime for 
 which the Director, to secure his own in- 
 fluence, orders her a new penance every 
 hour. My father rushes from libertinism 
 to austerity, — he vacillates between this 
 world and the next ; — in the bitterness of 
 exasperated feeling, sometimes reproaches 
 my mother, and then joins her in the se- 
 verest penance. Must there not be some- 
 thing very wrong in the religion which 
 thus substitutes external severities for in- 
 ternal amendment ? I feel I am of an in- 
 quiring spirit, and if I could obtain a 
 book they call the Bible, (which, though 
 they say it contains the words of Jesus 
 Christ, they never permit us to see) 1 think 
 
A TALE. 339 
 
 but no matter. The very domestics 
 
 have assumed the in ordine ad spiritualia 
 character already. They converse in whis- 
 pers — they cross themselves when the clock 
 strikes — they dare to talk, even in my hear- 
 ing, of the glory which will redound to 
 God and the church, by the sacrifice my 
 father may yet be induced to make of his 
 family to its interests. 
 
 * * * * . 
 
 " My fever has abated — I have not lost 
 a moment in consulting your interests — I 
 have heard that there is a possibility of 
 your reclaiming your vows — that is, as I 
 have been told, of declaring they were ex- 
 torted under impressions of fraud and ter- 
 ror. Observe me, Alonzo, I would rather 
 see you rot in a convent, than behold you 
 stand forth as a living witness of our mo- 
 ther's shame. But I am instructed that 
 this reclamation of your vows may be car- 
 ried on in a civil court : If this be practi- 
 cable, you may yet be free, and I shall be 
 happy. Do not hesitate for resources, I 
 
340 MELMOTH : 
 
 am able to supply them. If you do not 
 fail in resolution, I have no doubt of our 
 ultimate success. — Ours I term it, for I 
 shall not know a moment's peace till you 
 are emancipated. With the half of my 
 yearly allowance I have bribed one of the 
 domestics, who is brother to the porter of 
 the convent, to convey these lines to you. 
 Answer me by the same channel, it is secret 
 and secure. You must, I understand, fur- 
 nish a memorial, to be put into the hands 
 of an advocate. It must be strongly word- 
 ed, — but remember, not a word of our un- 
 fortunate mother ; — I blush to say this to 
 her son. Procure paper by some means. 
 If you find any difficulty, I will furnish 
 you ; but, to avoid suspicion, and too fre- 
 quent recurrences to the porter, try to do 
 it yourself. Your conventual duties will 
 furnish you with a pretext of writing out 
 your confession, — I will undertake for its 
 safe delivery. I commend you to the 
 holy keeping of God, —not the God of 
 monks and directors, but the God of na- 
 
A TALE. 341 
 
 ture and mercy. 1 am your affectionate 
 
 brother, 
 
 Juan di M0N9ADA." 
 
 " Such were the contents of the papers 
 which I received in fragments, and from 
 time to time, by the hands of the porter. 
 I swallowed the first the moment I had 
 read it, and the rest I found means to de- 
 stroy unperceived as I received them, — my 
 attendance on the infirmary entitling me 
 to great indulgences." 
 
 At this part of the narrative, the Spa- 
 niard became so much agitated, though 
 apparently more from emotion than fatigue, 
 that Melmoth intreated him to suspend it 
 for some days, and the exhausted narrator 
 willingly complied. 
 
 END OF FIRST VOLUME.