The Monk

by Matthew Gregory Lewis

The real turn-on is the knowledge that modesty itself is imbued with sex because it so rigorously excludes it.

Dreams, magic terrors, spells of mighty power, Witches, and ghosts who rove at midnight hour.

By few approved, and few approving; Extreme in hating and in loving;

Lovely Maid, with tears I leave you! Let not my prediction grieve you; Rather with submission bending Calmly wait distress impending,

And expect eternal bliss In a better world than this.

Humility’s semblance combated with the reality of pride.

What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will arrive! Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when you feel that Man is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look back upon your crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! in that fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Think upon Agnes, and despair of pardon!’

Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to the World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it.

No longer sustained by the violence of his passions, He feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his heart becomes the prey of Ennui* and weariness. He looks round, and finds himself alone in the Universe: The love of society revives in his bosom, and He pants to return to that world which He has abandoned. Nature loses all her charms in his eyes: No one is near him to point out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and variety.

He felt a secret pleasure in reflecting that a young and seemingly lovely Woman had for his sake abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion to that which He had inspired:

‘Ah! Though young I fall, believe me, Death would never claim a sigh; ‘Tis to lose thee, ‘tis to leave thee, Makes me think it hard to die!

The warmest of Friends, the most inveterate of Enemies, such was the Baroness Lindenberg.

What we are losing, ever seems to us the most precious:

He no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, or dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven. His only fear was, lest Death should rob him of enjoyments, for which his long Fast had only given a keener edge to his appetite.

The fact was, that the different sentiments, with which Education and Nature had inspired him, were combating in his bosom: It remained for his passions which as yet no opportunity had called into play, to decide the victory. Unfortunately his passions were the very worst Judges, to whom He could possibly have applied.

Are you not planning the destruction of innocence, the ruin of a Creature, whom He formed in the mould of Angels? If not of Dæmons, whose aid would you invoke to forward this laudable design?

‘Tis not the crime which holds your hand, but the punishment; ‘Tis not respect for God which restrains you, but the terror of his vengeance! Fain would you offend him in secret, but you tremble to profess yourself his Foe. Now shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage either to be a firm Friend, or open Enemy!’

a sanctified exterior does not always hide a virtuous heart.