O! MY friend, when we find nothing we desire in this world, it is time to depart. To live is a disgrace—to die is a duty. Farewel. LETTER LXIII. _Worthy_ to Mrs. _Holmes_. _Boston._ I ARRIVED in town last evening—you desire 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 consequences 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 desist 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 the 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 presentiment 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 wheltering in his blood—few 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 desire of _Myra_. IT is impossible to describe the distress of the family and connexions—I shall leave it to your imagination. A LETTER that he had written for me, laid unsealed upon the table, and _The Sorrows of Werter_ was found lying by his side. I send you the letter—it appears to have been written at intervals, and expresses the disorder and agitation of his mind. Adieu! LETTER LXIV. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_.