"Oh, God!. . . Let me write—write—while I can! Let me yet hold fast the thread which fastens me to earth,—give me time—time before I drift out, lost in yonder blackness and flame! Let me write for others the awful Truth, as I see it,—there is No death! None—none! I cannot die!. . . Let me write on,—write on with this dead fleshly hand, . . . one moment more time, dread God! . . . one moment more to write the truth,—the terrible truth of Death whose darkest secret, Life, is unknown to men!. . . To my despair and terror,—to my remorse and agony, I live!—oh, the unspeakable misery of this new life! And worst of all,—God whom I doubted, God whom I was taught to deny, this wronged, blasphemed and outraged God EXISTS! And I could have found Him had I chosen,—this knowledge is forced upon me as I am torn from hence,—it is shouted at me by a thousand wailing voices! . . . too late!—too late!—the scarlet wings beat me downward,—these strange half-shapeless forms close round and drive me onward . . . to a further darkness, . . . amid wind and fire!. . . Serve me, dead hand, once more ere I depart, . . . my tortured spirit must seize and compel you to write down this thing unnamable, that earthly eyes may read, and earthly souls take timely warning!. . . I know at last WHOM I have loved!—whom I have chosen, whom I have worshiped!. . . Oh, God, have mercy!. . . I know who claims my worship now, and drags me into yonder rolling world of flame! . . . his name is "
Here the manuscript ends,—incomplete and
broken off abruptly,—and there is a blot on the last
sentence as though the pen had been violently
