Look, I beseech
you, brother, at the cross that is suspended against this wall,” and
the Inquisitor pointed to the large black crucifix at the back of the
chair where he sat; “one drop of the blood shed there can purify you
from all the sin you have ever committed; but all that blood, combined
with the intercession of the Queen of Heaven, and the merits of all
its martyrs, nay, even the absolution of the Pope, cannot deliver you
from the curse of dying in unrepented sin.”--“What sin, then, have I
committed?” “The greatest of all possible sins; you refuse answering
the questions put to you at the tribunal of the most holy and merciful
Inquisition;--you will not tell us what you know concerning the death
of Father Olavida.”--“I have told you that I believe he perished in
consequence of his ignorance and presumption.” “What proof can you
produce of that?”--“He sought the knowledge of a secret withheld from
man.” “What was that?”--“The secret of discovering the presence or
agency of the evil power.” “Do you possess that secret?”--After much
agitation on the part of the prisoner, he said distinctly, but very
faintly, “My master forbids me to disclose it.” “If your master were
Jesus Christ, he would not forbid you to obey the commands, or answer
the questions of the Inquisition.”--“I am not sure of that.” There was
a general outcry of horror at these words. The examination then went
on. “If you believed Olavida to be guilty of any pursuits or studies
condemned by our mother the church, why did you not denounce him to
the Inquisition?”--“Because I believed him not likely to be injured
by such pursuits; his mind was too weak,--he died in the struggle,”
said the prisoner with great emphasis. “You believe, then, it requires
strength of mind to keep those abominable secrets, when examined as to
their nature and tendency?”--“No, I rather imagine strength of body.”
“We shall try that presently,” said an Inquisitor, giving a signal for
the torture. * * * * * * * * * * * The prisoner underwent the first and
second applications with unshrinking courage, but on the infliction of
the water-torture, which is indeed insupportable to humanity, either
to suffer or relate, he exclaimed in the gasping interval, he would
disclose every thing. He was released, refreshed, restored, and the
following day uttered the following remarkable confession * * * * * * *
* * * *

The old Spanish woman further confessed to Stanton, that * * * * * * * *
* and that the Englishman certainly had been seen in the neighbourhood
since;--seen, as she had heard, that very night. “Great G--d!” exclaimed
Stanton, as he recollected the stranger whose demoniac laugh had so
appalled him, while gazing on the lifeless bodies of the lovers, whom
the lightning had struck and blasted. *       *       *       *       *

As the manuscript, after a few blotted and illegible pages, became more
distinct, Melmoth read on, perplexed and unsatisfied, not knowing what
connexion this Spanish story could have with his ancestor, whom,
however, he recognised under the title of _the Englishman_; and
wondering how Stanton could have thought it worth his while to follow
him to Ireland, write a long manuscript about an event that occurred in
Spain, and leave it in the hands of his family, to “verify untrue
things,” in the language of Dogberry,--his wonder was diminished, though
his curiosity was still more inflamed, by the perusal of the next lines,
which he made out with some difficulty. It seems Stanton was now in
England. * * * * * * * * * * *

About the year 1677, Stanton was in London, his mind still full of his
mysterious countryman. This constant subject of his contemplations had
produced a visible change in his exterior,--his walk was what Sallust
tells us of Catiline’s,--his were, too, the “_fœdi oculi_.” He said to
himself every moment, “If I could but trace that being, I will not call
him man,”--and the next moment he said, “and what if I could?” In this
state of mind, it is singular enough that he mixed constantly in public
amusements, but it is true. When one fierce passion is devouring the
soul, we feel more than ever the necessity of external excitement; and
our dependence on the world for temporary relief increases in direct
proportion to our contempt of the world and all its works. He went
frequently to the theatres, _then_ fashionable, when

    “The fair sat panting at a 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 progressive deterioration of
morals,--foolish even from the pen of Juvenal, and still more so from
the lips of a modern Puritan. Vice is always nearly on an average: The
only difference in life worth tracing, is that of manners, and there we
have manifestly the advantage of our ancestors. Hypocrisy is said to be
the homage that vice pays to virtue,--decorum is the outward expression
of that homage; and if this be so, we must acknowledge that vice has
latterly grown very humble indeed. There was, however, something
splendid, ostentatious, and obtrusive, in the vices of Charles the
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), surrounding the sedan of a popular actress(1), whom they were
to carry off _vi et armis_, as she entered it at the end of the play. At
the other side waited the _glass coach_ of a woman of fashion, who
waited to take Kynaston (the Adonis of the day), in his female dress, to
the park after the play was over, and exhibit him in all the luxurious
splendour of effeminate beauty, (heightened by theatrical dress), for
which he was so distinguished. (1) Mrs Marshall, the original Roxana in Lee’s Alexander, 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. Plays being then performed at four o’clock, allowed ample time for the
evening drive, and the midnight assignation, when the parties met by
torch-light, masked, 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 Grammont, might
save modern puritanism many a vituperative groan and affected
reminiscence.