"Surely," you say to yourself, "He is mentally deranged, for what author
in his right mind would encourage his readers to disperse, what writer
does not thrive on the digestion of his words by an eager audience?"

Here I must make a revelation to you: if my manuscript has indeed been
found, then I have long since been dead; and I assure you that in
whatever form my existence takes in the present, I have little desire
for your intrigue or goodwill. Do you think Melville is consoled in
death of his miserable life by the vainglorious praises of the living?
Or do you think that Poe is comforted by such avid attentions in his
present abode? In truth, Melville's only rivalry is now within, and
Poe's only raven that daunting memory of those truths which had escaped
him in life, but which now are opened to you.

More importantly, if this manuscript has been found, it proves that what
is contained herein is the unerring truth. I do not write this to
exonerate myself, however let me say here that I am more the Andre' than
the Arnold, for I was but the emissary of history, not the traitor to
humanity, and if not me then some other would have filled the void. Let
it be remembered that it was Andre' who gave his life for his deeds, and
yet it is Andre' who is recollected with a sweet sorrow, and though
Arnold lived, he had no peace. Yet while history is vivid and
encyclopedic, in itself a living organism, it can speak only through the
mouths of men, who often misrepresent it for their own partisan and
prejudiced plans. It is strong and steadfast, though, and in time is
always victorious over its menial opposition, for what is history but
the past tense of truth, and it is justly said that veritas numquam
perit, truth never dies.