I proceeded to the coffee-house, where, as I expected, I met Captain Nelson. I gave him this detail; and he thought no more of it, I believe, for he was surrounded by busy faces; and he told me, that he should be with Charles soon, and would meet me at Mr. Gilpin’s before sunset.

I dined with my friend; and we were quietly conversing, when Captain Nelson bursting into the room, said with agony, “it is all over with him! nothing can now save him!” I waited not for more intelligence, but seizing my hat, hastily made my way to the sick man, Nelson following me. It was, indeed, “all over with him;” all our care and attention availed nothing! For in a few hours he died. Poor Nelson, during this scene of painful suspense, lamented, in terms of the bitterest grief, that he had caused the relapse. He said, that he had found him quiet and apparently easy. “The nurse said George was sound asleep, and mentioned your orders,” added the captain. “I asked Charles what were his connexions with Mr. Flamall;” he calmly replied, that he had known him in his youth. “And was that all?” asked I; “come, be open with me, you have had George in your head, I dare say, and fancying to make a friend for the poor lad; but give yourself no concern about him. Let the worst come to the worst, he will never want a father whilst I have a guinea; so try and be a man again, and the brother of one who loves you as a brother.” He grasped my hand with convulsive strength. “My God!” said he aloud, “I thank thee, and die satisfied that thou art a God, merciful and gracious!” “The blood again gushed from his mouth; and I flew to Gilpin’s.”

I will pass over the sorrow of his poor George, in order to hasten to the next still more serious and shocking event. Mr. Sinclair, the brother of my patient, Mrs. Flint, brought me a summons to “Upland,” the residence of the family, prepared to expect hourly the lady’s want of my assistance. I accompanied her brother home; but found Mrs. Flint, though in her own apartment, with her female friends, perfectly contented with my being within the house. The interval was devoted to my friend Philip’s amusement, whose anxiety for the safety of his wife was apparent. We were rallying him on this subject; and drinking to the health of his expected blessing, when Mr. Sinclair was called from the table. I will pass over the detail. Juba, an old and freed slave of the late Mr. Cowley’s, but who has from his master’s death remained in his post of superintendent at the Creek house, was the bearer of the intelligence which follows; and which you will conceive produced the most dreadful sensations of horror and surprise. “Mr. Flamall was dead, and by his own hand!” Sinclair and myself lost no time, in returning with Juba, leaving Mr. Flint to the care of Mr. Lindsey, and Mr. Montrose, his friends, and inmates.

On the road Juba gave us the following particulars. On the preceding morning, he it was, who saw George, who enquired of him for Mr. Flamall, saying, he had a letter to deliver to him, which he was ordered to give to no other person. “I asked the lad from whom he had received his commission,” continued the faithful Juba, and he replied, from Captain Nelson’s steward. Knowing that we had many bales in his ship, I immediately concluded, that the letter referred to business, relative to these goods; and I was on the point of telling the young man, that I would be answerable for the safety of the letter; but at that moment, Mr. Flamall appeared, and took it himself. I shall be at Kingston to day, said he, holding the letter carelessly in his hand, and shall speak to your captain. The lad bowed, and was retreating; when Mr. Flamall asked him to rest, and take some refreshment. He declined the offer, replying that his father would want him. I entered the house; and he departed. Mr. Flamall was not long, I believe, before he went to his apartment. He saw no one for some hours; at length he rang his bell, and ordered his horse to be prepared. We have lately observed him as a man struggling with something wrong in his mind. He has been very odd at times; and his groom said, he was in one of his silent fits; and chose to go by himself. He did not return home, till a late hour in the evening. The horse appeared heated and fatigued. He went to his bed room, saying, that he wanted nothing then, and should ring in the morning, when he did. Hour succeeded hour. We heard him pacing in the library; and we began to fear that all was not right with him. “His servant was curious, as well as uneasy; he stopped me on the staircase, to tell me, that he had peeped through the key hole, that his master was in his wrapping gown and night cap, and was writing, and with a countenance that made him tremble: another servant was going to make his observations by the same means,” continued poor Juba, “when the report of a pistol checked him, and appalled us all. We burst into the room. It was too late! you will see such a corpse! I lost not, however, my presence of mind; one look at the shattered mangled head of the poor wretch was enough for me! But whilst others were gazing on the scene of horror, I secured the written papers on his desk; which I will now give you.”

Juba drew the rumpled sheets of paper from his bosom, and presented them to Mr. Sinclair. It is needless for me to add, that the horrid explosion, had done its work. The aim was sure!

Herewith, you have the copies of the two letters above mentioned. Mr. Sinclair recommends caution to you in respect to their mysterious contents.

I shall have perhaps time to add something more to this letter; but lest I be mistaken, receive, Sir, the unfeigned regard, and sympathy of your very humble servant,

Thomas Paget.

LETTER LXVI.

(Enclosed in Mr. Paget’s.)