d it
into his heart, thus adding the crime of suicide to the two atrocious
murders which he had just committed.

Scarcely had this crowning point of the fearful tragedy been enacted,
when a crowd of people, half-dressed and excited, rushed into the room.
Among them was the beautiful widow, Mrs. Raymond. On seeing the bleeding
corpse of Romaine stretched upon the floor, she gave utterance to a
piercing scream and fell down insensible.

In the horror and confusion that prevailed, I was unnoticed. I
determined to leave the house, never to return, for I dreaded being
brought before the public, as a witness, being a great hater of
notoriety in any shape. (The reader may smile at this last remark; but I
assure him, or her, that my frequent appearance before the public as a
writer, has been the result of necessity--not of inclination.)

Accordingly, I left the house unobserved, and took lodgings for the
remainder of the night at a hotel. But sleep visited me not, for my mind
was too deeply engrossed with the bloody scenes which I had witnessed,
to suffer the approach of "tired nature's sweet restorer." In the
morning I arose early, and investigated the condition of my finances.
The result of this examination was highly satisfactory, for I found that
I was the possessor of a considerable sum of money.

I walked about the city until noon, uncertain how to act. I felt a
strong disposition to travel, and see the world;--but I could not make
up my mind in what direction to go. After a sumptuous dinner at Sandy
Welch's "Terrapin Lunch,"--one of the most famous _restaurants_ of the
day--I indulged in a contemplative walk up Broadway. Such thoughts as
these ran through my mind:--"I cannot help contrasting my present
situation with the position I was in, three years ago. Then I was almost
penniless, and gladly breakfasted on dry bread at a street pump; now I
have three hundred dollars in my pocket, and have just dined like an
epicurean prince. Then I was clad in garments that were coarse and
cheap; now I am dressed in the finest raiment that money could procure.
Then I had no trade; now I have a profession which will be to me an
unfailing means of support. But, alas! then I was comparatively
innocent, and ignorant of the wicked ways of the world; now, although
only fifteen years of age, I am too thoroughly posted up on all the
mysteries of city follies and vices. No matter: there's nothing like
experience, after all."

Comforting