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〃