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exercises are intense； vivid； and eloquent； his nightly blasphemies
are outrageous and horrible。Hark！ Now he believes himself a
demon； listen to his diabolical eloquence of horror！〃
Stanton listened； and shuddered 。 。
。 。 。 。 。
〃Escapeescape for your life；〃 cried the tempter； 〃break forth
into life； liberty； and sanity。 Your social happiness； your
intellectual powers； your immortal interests； perhaps； depend on
the choice of this moment。There is the door； and the key is in my
hand。Choosechoose！〃〃And how comes the key in your hand？ and
what is the condition of my liberation？〃 said Stanton。
。 。 。 。 。
The explanation occupied several pages； which； to the torture of
young Melmoth； were wholly illegible。 It seemed； however； to have
been rejected by Stanton with the utmost rage and horror； for
Melmoth at last made out；〃Begone； monster； demon！begone to your
native place。 Even this mansion of horror trembles to contain you；
its walls sweat； and its floors quiver； while you tread them。〃
。 。 。 。 。
The conclusion of this extraordinary manuscript was in such a
state； that； in fifteen moldy and crumbling pages； Melmoth could
hardly make out that number of lines。 No antiquarian； unfolding
with trembling hand the calcined leaves of an Herculaneum
manuscript； and hoping to discover some lost lines of the Aeneis in
Virgil's own autograph； or at least some unutterable abomination of
Petronius or Martial； happily elucidatory of the mysteries of the
Spintriae； or the orgies of the Phallic worshipers； ever pored with
more luckless diligence； or shook a head of more hopeless
despondency over his task。 He could but just make out what tended
rather to excite than assuage that feverish thirst of curiosity
which was consuming his inmost soul。 The manuscript told no more
of Melmoth； but mentioned that Stanton was finally liberated from
his confinement；that his pursuit of Melmoth was incessant and
indefatigable；that he himself allowed it to be a species of
insanity；that while he acknowledged it to be the master passion；
he also felt it the master torment of his life。 He again visited
the Continent； returned to England；pursued； inquired； traced；
bribed； but in vain。 The being whom he had met thrice； under
circumstances so extraordinary； he was fated never to encounter
again IN HIS LIFETIME。 At length； discovering that he had been
born in Ireland； he resolved to go there；went； and found his
pursuit again fruitless； and his inquiries unanswered。 The family
knew nothing of him； or at least what they knew or imagined； they
prudently refused to disclose to a stranger； and Stanton departed
unsatisfied。 It is remarkable； that he too； as appeared from many
half…obliterated pages of the manuscript； never disclosed to mortal
the particulars of their conversation in the madhouse； and the
slightest allusion to it threw him into fits of rage and gloom
equally singular and alarming。 He left the manuscript； however； in
the hands of the family； possibly deeming； from their incuriosity；
their apparent indifference to their relative； or their obvious
unacquaintance with reading of any kind； manuscript or books； his
deposit would be safe。 He seems； in fact； to have acted like men；
who； in distress at sea； intrust their letters and dispatches to a
bottle sealed； and commit it to the waves。 The last lines of the
manuscript that were legible； were sufficiently extraordinary。 。 。
。
。 。 。 。 。
〃I have sought him everywhere。The desire of meeting him once more
is become as a burning fire within me；it is the necessary
condition of my existence。 I have vainly sought him at last in
Ireland； of which I find he is a native。Perhaps our final meeting
will be in。 。 。 。
。 。 。 。 。
Such was the conclusion of the manuscript which Melmoth found in
his 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 receive an explanation from its lips。
He gazed on it in return；all was silent in the house；they were
alone together。 The illusion subsided at length： and as the mind
rapidly passes to opposite extremes； he remembered the injunction
of his uncle to destroy the portrait。 He seized it；his hand
shook at first； but the moldering canvas appeared to assist him in
the effort。 He tore it from the frame with a cry half terrific；
half triumphant；it fell at his feet； and he shuddered as it fell。
He expected to hear some fearful sounds； some unimaginable
breathings of prophetic horror； follow this act of sacrilege； for
such he felt it； to tear the portrait of his ancestor from his
native walls。 He paused and listened：〃There was no voice； nor
any that answered；〃but as the wrinkled and torn canvas fell to
the floor； its undulations gave the portrait the appearance of
smiling。 Melmoth felt horror indescribable at this transient and
imaginary resuscitation of the figure。 He caught it up； rushed
into the next room； tore； cut； and hacked it in every direction；
and eagerly watched the fragments that burned like tinder in the
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； but his slumber was not so sound as he had
hoped for。 The sullen light of the turf fire； burning but never
blazing； disturbed him every moment。 He turned and turned； but
still there was the same red light glaring on； but not
illuminating； the dusky furniture of the apartment。 The wind was
high that night； and as the creaking door swung on its hinges；
every noise seemed like the sound of a hand struggling with the
lock； or of a foot pausing on the threshold。 But （for Melmoth
never could decide） was it in a dream or not； that he saw the
figure of his ancestor appear at the door？hesitatingly as he saw
him at first on the night of his 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 started； sprung from his bed；it was broad
daylight。 He looked round；there was no human being in the room
but himself。 He felt a slight pain in the wrist of his right arm。
He looked at it； it was black and blue； as from the recent gripe of
a strong hand。
Balzac's tale； Melmoth Reconciled； in Vol。 IV。； furnishes a
solution to the terrible problem which Maturin has stated in this
story。EDITOR'S NOTE。
Introduction to 〃A Mystery with a Moral〃
The next Mystery Story is like no other in these volumes。 The
editor's defense lies in the plea that Laurence Sterne is not like
other writers of English。 He is certainly one of the very
greatest。 Yet nowadays he is generally unknown。 His rollicking
frankness； his audacious unconventionality； are enough to account
for the neglect。 Even the easy mannered England of 1760 opened its
eyes in horror when 〃Tristram Shandy〃 appeared。 〃A most unclerical
clergyman；〃 the public pronounced the rector of Sutton and
prebendary of York。
Besides； his style was rambling to the last degree。 Plot concerned
him least of all authors of fiction。
For instance； it is more than doubtful that the whimsical parson
really INTENDED a moral to be read into the adventures of his
〃Sentimental Journey〃 that follow in these pages。 He used to
declare that he never intended anythinghe never knew whither his
pen was leadingthe rash implement； once in hand； was likely to
fly with him from Yorkshire to Italyor to Parisor across the
road to Uncle Toby's； and what could the helpless author do but
improve each occasion？
So here is one such 〃occasion〃 thus 〃improved〃 by disjointed
sequelsheedless； one would say； and yet glittering with the
unreturnable thrust of subtle wit； or softening with simple
emotion； like a thousand immortal passages of this random
philosopher。
Even the slightest turns of Sterne's pen bear inspiration。 No less
a critic than the severe Hazlitt was satisfied that 〃his works
consist only of brilliant passages。〃
And because the editors of the present volumes found added to 〃The
Mystery〃 not only a 〃Solution〃