"My Dear Madam,—Looking at my sad case with what eyes I may, I find that I cannot be allowed to exist another day as an honourable man. I am a traitor to my king, and in so being have committed a crime against my own soul. Whatever his Majesty in his clemency may think fit to do, this is a fault I cannot pardon in myself. My dear madam, I must beg you to believe that I do not advertise this to you that I may wound your delicacies or give you one solitary pang; but in the interests of my weak brethren I implore you, as an old friend, not to employ those marvellous advantages Nature has given you for the advancement of your private purposes. It is not just, nor is it worthy of the innate humanity of your character. But I will do you at least the kindness to admit that even in this melancholy case of mine my death this morning will add yet another lustre to your terrible, triumphant name. And now, my dear madam, permit me to give you a simple but cordial farewell; my comedy is played.
J. G.
"Post Scriptum.—This paper is delivered into the care of your lover, who, by the way, is so proper a youth that I pray you to deal gently with him.
J. G."
I read this subtly-phrased epistle with a burning
face, and then read it for the second time, perhaps to
discover some mitigation in the severity of the
harsh indictment. But no; his death was at my
door, and something of a cold fear crept into my
soul.
