y breast through and through.
Oh, Anna! _you_ to be torn from me. What a thought! I cannot, even now,
understand how it was that I did not go mad on the spot and commit some
terrible deed. But I fled the face of man, overpowered with rage at my
deadly destiny, after dinner--without the game of billiards which I
generally play--out into the woods, where I wrung my hands, and called
on your name a thousand times. It came on a tremendously heavy rain,
and I had on a new cap, red velvet, with a splendid gold tassel
(everybody says I never had anything so becoming). The rain was
spoiling it, and it was brand-new. But what are caps, what are velvet
and gold, to a despairing lover? I strode up and down till I was wet to
the skin and chilled to the bone, and had a terrible pain in my
stomach. This drove me into a restaurant near, where I got them to make
me some excellent mulled wine, and had a pipe of your heavenly Virginia
tobacco. I soon felt myself elevated on the wings of a celestial
inspiration, took out my pocket-book, and, oh!--wondrous gift of
poetry--the love-despair and the stomach-ache both disappeared at once.
I shall content myself with writing out for you only the last of these
poems; it will inspire you with heavenly hope, as it did myself.

"Wrapped in darkest sorrow--
In my heart, extinguished,
No love-tapers burning--
Joy hath no to-morrow.

"Ha! the Muse approaches,
Words and rhymes inspiring,
Little verse inscribing,
Joy returns apace.

"New love-tapers blazing,
All the heart inspiring,
Fare thee well, my sorrow,
Joy thy place doth borrow.

"Ay, my sweet Anna, soon shall I, thy champion, hasten to rescue you
from the miscreant who would carry you off from me. So, once more take
comfort, sweetest maid. Bear me ever in thy heart. He comes; he rescues
you; he clasps you to his bosom, which heaves in tumultuous emotion.

"Your ever faithful
"AMANDUS VON NEBELSTERN.

"P.S.--It would be quite impossible for me to call Herr von
Cordovanspitz out. For, oh Anna! every drop of blood drawn from your
Amandus by the weapon of a presumptuous adversary were glorious poet's
blood--ichor of the gods--which never ought to be shed. The world ver