He
thought his sin unpardonable--at least, he would not pardon himself. He
was found one morning lying dead in his bed in a pool of blood. He had
severed the jugular-vein with a razor, which was still clutched in his
stiffened fingers. His handsome and classic face bore no trace of pain.
A sealed letter, lying on the table, contained his confession and his
farewell.
Among the lawyers in one of the largest mining towns of California was
H. B--. He was a native of Virginia, and an alumnus of its noble
University. He was a scholar, a fine lawyer, handsome and manly in
person and bearing, and had the gift of popularity. Though the youngest
lawyer in the town, he took a front place at the bar at once. Over the
heads of several older aspirants, he was elected county judge. There was
no ebb in the tide of his general popularity, and he had qualities that
won the warmest regard of his inner circle of special friends. But in
this case, as in many others, success had its danger. Hard drinking was
the rule in those days. Horace B--had been one of the rare exceptions.
There was a reason for this extra prudence. He had that peculiar
susceptibility to alcoholic excitement which has been the ruin of so
many gifted and noble men.
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