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.
HARRIOT is dead—and the world to me is a dreary desert—I prepare to leave it—the fatal pistol is charged—it lies on the table by me, ready to perform its duty—but that duty is delayed till I take my last farewel of the best of friends.