leeting tribute to self�interest。 Yet who would not feel now？ Oh； it were as reckless a task to endeavour to annihilate perception while sense existed； as to blunt the sixth sense to such impressions as these！—Forgive me； dearest friend？ I pour out my whole soul to you。 I write by fleeting intervals： my pen runs away with my senses。 The impassionateness of my sensations grows upon me。 Your letter； too； has much affected me。 Never； with my consent； shall that intercourse cease which has been the day�dawn of my existence； the sun which has shed warmth on the cold drear length of the anticipated prospect of life。 Prejudice might demand the sacrifice； but she is an idol to whom we bow not。 The world might demand it； its opinion might require； but the cloud which flees over yon mountain were as important to our happiness； to our usefulness。 This must never be； never whilst this existence continues； and when Time has enrolled us in the list of the departed； surely this friendship will survive to bear our identity to heaven。 What is love； or friendship？ Is it something material—a ball； an apple； a plaything—which must be taken from one to be given to another？ Is it capable of no extension； no munication？ Lord Kaimes defines love to be a particularization of the general passion。 But this is the love of sensation； of sentiment—the absurdest of absurd vanities。 It is the love of pleasure； not the love of �centered； self�devoted； self�interested。 It desires its own interest； it is the p