I shall never forget the shock with which I read in the “Scotsman,” under “Angling,” the following paragraph: 

“Tweed.—­Strange Death of an Angler.—­An unfortunate event has cast a gloom over fishers in this district.  As Mr. K—–­, the keeper on the B—–­ water, was busy angling yesterday, his attention was caught by some object floating on the stream.  He cast his flies over it, and landed a soft felt hat, the ribbon stuck full of salmon-flies.  Mr. K—–­ at once hurried up-stream, filled with the most lively apprehensions.  These were soon justified.  In a shallow, below the narrow, deep and dangerous rapids called ‘The Trows,’ Mr. K—–­ saw a salmon leaping in a very curious manner.  On a closer examination, he found that the fish was attached to a line.  About seventy yards higher he found, in shallow water, the body of a man, the hand still grasping in death the butt of the rod, to which the salmon was fast, all the line being run out.  Mr. K—–­ at once rushed into the stream, and dragged out the body, in which he recognised with horror the Hon. Houghton Grannom, to whom the water was lately let.  Life had been for some minutes extinct, and though Mr. K—–­ instantly hurried for Dr. —–­, that gentleman could only attest the melancholy fact.  The wading in ‘The Trows’ is extremely dangerous and difficult, and Mr. Grannom, who was fond of fishing without an attendant, must have lost his balance, slipped, and been dragged down by the weight of his waders.  The recent breaking off of the hon. gentleman’s contemplated marriage on the very wedding-day will be fresh in the memory of our readers.”

This was the story which I read in the newspaper during breakfast one morning in November.  I was deeply grieved, rather than astonished, for I have often remonstrated with poor Grannom on the recklessness of his wading.  It was with some surprise that I received, in the course of the day, a letter from him, in which he spoke only of indifferent matters, of the fishing which he had taken, and so forth.  The letter was accompanied, however, by a parcel.  Tearing off the outer cover, I found a sealed document addressed to me, with the superscription, “Not to be opened until after my father’s decease.”  This injunction, of course, I have scrupulously obeyed.  The death of Lord Whitchurch, the last of the Grannoms, now gives me liberty to publish my friend’s Apologia pro morte et vita sua.

“Dear Smith” (the document begins), “Before you read this—­long before, I hope—­I shall have solved the great mystery—­if, indeed, we solve it.  If the water runs down to-morrow, and there is every prospect that it will do so, I must have the opportunity of making such an end as even malignity cannot suspect of being voluntary.  There are plenty of fish in the water; if I hook one in ‘The Trows,’ I shall let myself go whither the current takes me.  Life has for weeks been odious to me; for what is life without honour, without love, and coupled with shame and remorse?  Repentance I cannot call the emotion which gnaws me at the heart, for in similar circumstances (unlikely as these are to occur) I feel that I would do the same thing again.