LETTER LXIII.
WORTHY to Mrs. HOLMES.
I ARRIVED in town last evening—you
desired me to write you a statement
of affairs as I should find them here—
and of my marriage with the amiable Myra
—I promised to obey—but how little do we
know of the termination or consequence of
the most probable event!
I SAW my beloved—her eyes were yet
heavy and smarting with weeping for the
death of Harriot—and this, once the house of
joy and cheerfulness, is turned into the house
of mourning. My unfortunate friend had
just then fallen into a calm sleep, and it was
impossible to see him—it was what I very
much desired—but it was the wish of the
family that I should desisst for the present—
he had not slept the evening before—he had
been heard walking across his chamber all
the night, with little intermission, oftentimes
talking to himself in a passionate tone of voice.
THIS melancholy account deeply affected
me—and I parted from my beloved, praying
Heaven to give her consolation, and to be
the support of my disordered friend.
IT is with difficulty I bring myself to the
serious and painful employment of being
the informer of unwelcome tidings—my
heart feels the wound—vainly it tells me my
friend is no more—my hand reluctantly
traces—my friend—my Harrington is no
more.
EARLY this morning I was surprised with
a visit from a gentleman, whom I had
formerly seen at Myra's—it was the same
neighbour who informed Harrington of his
affinity to Harriot—he found a difficulty in
his utterance—he told me, with trembling
lips, my young friend Harrington was dead—
“He has killed himself,” said I—he asked
me if I had heard the news—I told him my
heart presaged it.
WHEN any uncommon event happens to
us, we often have a prefentiment of it—The
circumstances of his death are these:—At
midnight the gentleman heard the report of
the pistol, and went into the house—he found
the unhappy youth weltering in his blood—
ew signs of life remained—the ball had entered
his brain—the surgeon came, but in a
few hours he was cold. A few friends were
requested to attend—and this gentleman
had called upon me, by defire of Myra.
IT is not possible to describe the distrefs of
the family and connexions—I shall leave it
to your imagination.
A LETTER that he had written for me,
laid unfealed upon the table, and The Sorrows
of Werter was found lying by its side,
I send you the letter---it appears to have
been written at intervals, and expresses the
disorder and agitation of his mind.
Adieu!
