I, andrew bayliss harrison, being of sound mind and possessed of all my faculties; and being near to death, and desiring to depart this life at peace with all and with my conscience, do make oath and depose as here followeth:

I was indebted to Walter Brewster in the sum of five thousand dollars, representing four thousand dollars, borrowed money and two and a half years' interest at ten per cent. In his house on the 27th of October I handed him the money in bank bills and received back my promissory note, which fluttered from my hand, I being old and feeble and my hands unsteady, and fell upon the fire and was burnt before it could be rescued. He said it was no matter, there was now no longer any evidence of debt against me. But I said I would rather have another note, canceled, to keep with my [begin page 569] papers. He said very well, perhaps it would be best, and sat down and took up his pen, and just then his slave-woman Liza came and whispered to him and he said he must go, but would send me the canceled note—would that do? I said yes, perfectly; and went away.

But it did not come, that day, nor the next, nor the next. I was not troubled; but now I heard it reported that he was beginning to drink again, and this made me uneasy, and I went to his house on the 1st of November and again on the second, but on both occasions he was reported out. The next day, the 3d, he sent for me. He received me coldly, and asked me sternly when I was going to pay that money. I was astonished, and said he well knew I paid it six days ago. He affected to be angry and said he would have none of this trifling; that he had trusted me, mistaking me for an honest man, and had returned my note to me upon my assurance that I had the money ready and would fetch it; and said that before sunset he must have a new note payable at one day's notice and secured by a mortgage on the mill. I was in great trouble, and did not know what to do; for all these days I had kept my dilemma from my son George, being ashamed to tell him of my carelessness and of my perhaps unnecessary uneasiness. But I was astonished and outraged, now, and said I would expose this base trick to George and to all the world. He said I was a fool; who would believe such a fantastic story? I said all would; for my family had never been liars; I might be weak and foolishly trustful, being used to deal with honorable men, but the community had never known one of us to speak an untruth—a reputation which would stand me in good stead now. That seemed to strike him; he reflected; then began to threaten—to kill me, to kill George, if I did not comply with his demand. He had been drinking; I was at his mercy; I must promise, he said, or I should not leave his house alive. I promised. I gave the note, and went away, to have the mortgage drawn and executed; I sent it to him, according to my promise; for I had never broken a promise, and could not begin now, in my old age. But toward nine that night I was at his house again—sent for by him. He received me in his bedroom up stairs, and his manner was pleasant and friendly. He asked if I had told George or any one. I [begin page 570] said no, I was too ashamed. Banish the shame, he said, a little hilariously—his bottle and hot water were on the table: “Tom and Helen have made it up again,” he said, “the two families are one, now; here are the papers, canceled and no longer harmful; I will give them to Helen as a betrothal present. Are you satisfied?” “Perfectly,” I said. He mixed toddies, and said we must celebrate. This we did, and continued it, I being full of joy over this happy turn in our fortunes and nothing loath. About eleven, it being very still, we heard a slight noise down stairs. “A burglar,” he said, and took up his cane, and started, on tip-toe. I said “Don't go in the dark,” and took up the candle. “What?” said he, “carry a light and be a target?—leave it.” I left it, and followed, tip-toeing after him. Below, the room was open; in the middle of it a man stooping, with his back to us, and a candle near, on a chair. We could not see what he was doing. He turned—it was Jake Bleeker. Brewster strode toward him in a fury, with his cane raised. Jake shouted in fright—words I did not understand—and dropped on his knees and put up his hands, begging for his life, and said he was only playing a little joke—a trick. Brewster said, “I will kill you!” “Don't!” I begged; but the cane was descending—there was a wild shriek—it struck. I fled—the back way, and down the fields. I was able to enter my house and reach my bedroom unobserved. I wished to keep my secret from all; the two families were one, now, and the marriage would make us prosperous. I was the only witness, and without my testimony no harm would befal Brewster. It was a wicked thought, a wicked and selfish purpose, and God has justly called me to account for it. And how quickly! I am dying. I am making such reparation as I can; I repent me of my folly and sin; I beg the community to forgive me, remembering that in my long life this is the only deep fault that stains my good name, and that humbly and willingly I am paying for it the costliest price a man can pay. I throw myself upon the mercy of God, and leave my fate as a warning to any who would barter his soul's purity for the frail vanities of a perishable world.