"Before committing the act which, rightly or wrongly, I have resolved
on and appearing before my Maker for judgment, I, James R. Colston,
deem it my duty as a journalist to make a statement to the public. My
name is, I believe, tolerably well known to the people as a writer of
tragic tales, but the somberest imagination never conceived anything
so tragic as my own life and history. Not in incident: my life has
been destitute of adventure and action. But my mental career has been
lurid with experiences such as kill and damn. I shall not recount them
here--some of them are written and ready for publication elsewhere.
The object of these lines is to explain to whomsoever may be
interested that my death is voluntary--my own act. I shall die at
twelve o'clock on the night of the 15th of July--a significant
anniversary to me, for it was on that day, and at that hour, that my
friend in time and eternity, Charles Breede, performed his vow to me
by the same act which his fidelity to our pledge now entails upon me.
He took his life in his little house in the Copeton woods. There was
the customary verdict of 'temporary insanity.' Had I testified at that
inquest--had I told all I knew, they would have called _me_ mad!"
Here followed an evidently long passage which the man reading read to
himself only. The rest he read aloud.
"I have still a week of life in which to arrange my worldly affairs
and prepare for the great change. It is enough, for I have but few
affairs and it is now four years since death became an imperative
obligation.
"I shall bear this writing on my body; the finder will please hand it
to the coroner.
"JAMES R. COLSTON.
"P.S.--Willard Marsh, on this the fatal fifteenth day of July I hand
you this manuscript, to be opened and read under the conditions agreed
upon, and at the place which I designated. I forego my intention to
keep it on my body to explain the manner of my death, which is not
important. It will serve to explain the manner of yours. I am to call
for you during the night to receive assurance that you have read the
manuscript. You know me well enough to expect me. But, my friend, it
_will be after twelve o'clock._ May God have mercy on our souls!
"J.R.C."
Before the man who was reading this manuscript had finished, the candle
had been picked up and lighted. When the reader had done, he quietly
thrust the paper against the flame and despite the protestations of the
others held it until it was burnt to ashes. The man who did this, and
who afterward placidly endured a severe reprimand from the coroner, was
a son-in-law of the late Charles Breede. At the inquest nothing could
elicit an intelligent account of what the paper had contained.