MY heart sinks within me—the instrument of death is before me—farewel! farewel!—My soul sighs to be freed from its confinement—Eternal Father! accept my spirit—Let the tears of sorrow blot out my guilt from the book of thy wrath. LETTER LXV. _Worthy_ to Mrs. _Holmes_. _Boston._ WE have surmounted the performance of the last scene of our tragedy, with less difficulty and distress than I imagined. Great numbers crowded to see the body of poor _Harrington_; they were impressed with various emotions, for their sympathizing sorrow could not be concealed—Indeed a man without sensibility exhibits no sign of a soul. I was struck with admiration at the observations of the populace, and the justness of the character they drew of the deceased, “Alas!” said one—“poor youth thou art gone. Thou wast of a promising genius, of violent passions, thou wast possessed of a too nice sensibility, and a dread of shame. It is only such an one who would take the trouble to kill himself. Ah! poor well natured, warm hearted, hot headed youth—how my heart bleeds for you! We consider thee as the dupe of _Nature_, and the sacrifice of Seduction.” The old father hears this, and becomes overwhelmed with shame and sorrow. THE jury which sat upon the body of our friend, after mature consideration, brought in their verdict Suicide. The rigour of the law was not executed—the body was privately taken away, and I saw it deposited by the side of his faithful _Harriot_. I SEND you inclosed a copy of the Monumental Inscription, as written by _Harrington_. I found it with many loose papers. It contains the story of our unfortunate friends, and a profitable moral is deduced from it. THOUGH a few weeks begin to spread calm over our passions, yet the recollection of our misfortunes will sometimes cause a momentary agitation, as the ocean retains its swell, after the storms subsides. Adieu! Monumental Inscription.