You should know, I think, by this time, that I am devoted to thy interest, as completely so, as ever belted knight on plain of Palestine, to his ‘ladye love,’—that my feelings and sympathies go out to thee, as a bee to its bower, a bird to its forest-nest, or any other of the bright creatures of God to the home of their affections—(by the by, you may smile at this. Stop! I know you’re not my ‘ladye love,’ nor am I a bee, or a bird, or any such nonsense; but, by my ‘saying of this simile,’ as sweet Sir Philip hath it, I meant only to apprise thee of my extreme devotion. You understand?),—that I would do any thing, to witch from thee, the heart-ache, even to the disquiet of the pleasant comfortableness of one of my soft, selfish, afternoon reveries,—that I would spend the last drop of my—no! not my blood exactly, for much as I love you, I love myself better; but I mean, I would spend the last drop of my—_ink_, to please you; and that you know is much better—for the ink of a literary man, _id est_ a poetical one, is worth more than his blood and body together. But, though I have such a love for you, it would be sad, if, like the Paddy’s saddle-bags, it should all be found on one side; for I can no more prosper—and, if I must confess it, can no more love you without some remuneration, than a lover could kiss the turf on which his mistress had stepped, or make sonnets to her eye-brows, when she frowned on him. She is the sun of his existence, the centre, the cynosure of his passions, hopes, and dreams—to which, through the darkness that the world flings about him, he may send his longing eye, and his heart’s holiest aspirations. _You_ are the sun of _my_ being—the centre—cynosure—_et cetera, et cetera_; and it is equally impossible that I can make verses and stories for you, when every time I look up, I see that horrible scowl on your face—Pray, put it off. But I’ll not believe you hate me—and when you receive this fresh number, and open upon this page for the _morceau_ I have for you, I know ye’ll give me a pleasant smile, and, with the honest Scotchman, say, ‘Deil! but I winna gie ither than thanks to a daft callan like ye.’ But—to business. * * * * * Talking with my friend one day on the subject of dueling, he gave me the following story. THE DUEL.[2] ‘Men should wear softer hearts, And tremble at these licens’d butcheries, Even as other murders.’ _Bryant._