, with a mournful smile--

"Ah! with all your knowledge of the world, you know not how a woman
feels when she has been suddenly deprived of her beauty. The miser who
loses his wealth--the fond mother from whom death snatches away her
darling child; these bereaved ones do not feel their losses more acutely
than does a once lovely woman feel the loss of her charms. Do not talk
to me of philosophy, for such language is mockery."

I visited my unfortunate and no longer fair friend very often, but all
my attempts to cheer her up signally failed. She persisted in declaring
that she was not long for this world; and I began to believe so myself,
for she failed rapidly. I saw that she was provided with every comfort;
but alas! happiness was beyond her reach forever.

One evening I set out to pay her a visit. On my arrival at the house in
which she had taken apartments, the landlady informed me that she had
not seen Mrs. Raymond during the whole of that day.

"It is very singular," remarked the woman, "I knocked five or six times
at the door of her chamber, but she gave me no answer, although I know
she has not gone out."

These words caused a dreadful misgiving to seize me. Fearing that
something terrible had happened, I rushed up stairs, and knocked loudly
upon the door of Mrs. Raymond's chamber. No answer being returned, I
burst open the door, and my worst fears were realized, for there, upon
the floor lay the lifeless form of that most unfortunate woman. She had
committed suicide by taking arsenic.

This dreadful event afflicted me more deeply than any other occurrence
of my life. I had become attached to Mrs. Raymond on account of a
certain congeniality of disposition between us. We had travelled far
together, and shared great dangers. That was another link to bind us
together. Besides I admired her for her talent, and more particularly
for her heroic resolution. She was, altogether, a most extraordinary
woman, and, under the circumstances, it was no wonder that her tragical
end should have caused within me a feeling of the most profound sorrow.

Having followed her remains to their last resting-place, I did something
that I was very accustomed to do--I sat down to indulge in a little
serious reflection, the result of which was that I determined to go to
Boston, for New York had become wearisome to me. Besides, I knew that
Boston was the grand storehouse of American literature--the "Athens of
America," and I doubted n