imagined　a　scene　so　horrible　as　his　last　hours　presented。　　He
  cursed　and　blasphemed　about　three　halfpence；　missing；　as　he　said；
  some　weeks　before；　in　an　account　of　change　with　his　groom；　about
  hay　to　a　starved　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
  not　mind　that；　if　I　could　save　my　soul。〃　　And；　raving；　he　added；
  〃Indeed；　Doctor；　I　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　everyone　I　was　poor；　but
  the　more　I　told　them　so；　the　less　they　believed　me。〃
  John；　greatly　shocked；　retired　from　the　bedside；　and　sat　down　in　a
  distant　corner　of　the　room。　　The　women　were　again　in　the　room；
  which　was　very　dark。　　Melmoth　was　silent　from　exhaustion；　and　there
  was　a　deathlike　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　deliberately　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　breath
  felt　stopped。　　He　was　then　rising　to　pursue　the　figure；　but　a
  moment's　reflection　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　likeness　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　somewhat　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　housekeeper。　　The　poor　woman；　anxious　for
  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
  exclaiming　feebly；　〃They　are　robbing　me；robbing　me　in　my　last
  moments；robbing　a　dying　man。　　John；　won't　you　assist　me；I　shall
  die　a　beggar；　they　are　taking　my　last　shirt；I　shall　die　a
  beggar。〃And　the　miser　died。
  。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。
  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　considerable。
  As　the　attorney　who　read　the　will　concluded；　he　added；　〃There　are
  some　words　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　handwriting　of　the
  deceased。〃　　As　he　spoke　he　showed　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　without　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　improvement　of　Ireland；　and　such
  stuff；　he　will　distinguish　it　by　its　being　tied　round　with　a　black
  tape；　and　the　paper　being　very　moldy　and　discolored。　　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　memorandum；　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。
  。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。
  He　resolutely　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　strongly　remembered。　　The
  manuscript；　old；　tattered；　and　discolored；　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。　　Melmoth　looked　wistfully　at　the　candles；
  snuffed　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　sank　for　a　few　moments　into　a　fit　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
  inanimate　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　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；
  wishedwhat　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　midnight；　and　there　was　not　a　human　being
  awake　but　himself　within　ten　miles　when　he　began　to　read。
  。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。
  The　manuscript　was　discolored；　obliterated；　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　Stanton；　who　had　traveled　abroad
  shortly　after　the　Restoration。　　Traveling　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　Corvat；　though　they
  had　the　modesty；　on　their　return；　to　entitle　the　result　of　their
  multiplied　observations　and　labors　only　〃crudities。〃
  Stanton；　about　the　year　1676；　was　in　Spain；　he　was；　like　most　of
  the　travelers　of　that　age；　a　man　of　literature；　intelligence；　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　theology　was　Catholic；　and　the
  metaphysics　Aristotelian；　Stanton　sometimes　wished　himself　at　the
  miserable　Posada　from　whose　filth　and　famine　he　had　been　fighting
  his　escape；　but　though　his　reverend　antagonists　always　denounced
  his　creed；　and　comforted　themselves；　even　in　defeat；　with　the
  assurance　that　he　must　be　damned；　on　the　double　score　of　his　being
  a　heretic　and　an　Englishman；　they　were　obliged　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　Valencia；　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　delight　as　Englishmen
  generally　do；　silently。
  The　magnificent　remains　of　two　dynasties　that　had　passed　away；　the
  ruins　of　Roman　palaces；　and　of　Moorish　fortresses；　were　around　and
  above　him；the　dark　and　heavy　thunde