CHAPTER XXI.
CHARLES AT MADRAS.
LUCKILY enough for all mankind in general, and our lovers in particular, Charles's last letter was very unlike some that had preceded it; for instead of the usual "Oh, my love"'s, "sweet, sweet eyes," "darling"'s, and all manner of such chicken-hearted nonsense, it was positively sensible, rational, not to say utilitarian: though I must acknowledge that here and there it degenerates into the affectionate, or Stromboli-vein of letter-writing, at opening especially; and really now and then I shall take leave to indicate omitted inflammations by a *.
"DEAREST, DEAREST EMMY, * * * * * [and so forth, a very galaxy of stars to the bottom of this page; enough to put the compositor out of his terrestrial senses.] "You see I have recovered my spirits, dearest, and am not now afraid to tell you how I love you.

Oh, that detestable Captain Forbes! let him not cross my path, gossiping blockhead! on pain of carrying about 'til deth,' in the middle of his face, a nose two inches longer.

I heartily wish I had never listened for an instant to such vile insinuations; and when I look at this red right hand of mine, that dared to pen the trash in that black postscript, I look at it as Cranmer did, and (but that it is yours, Emmy, not mine), could wish it burnt.

But no fears now, my girl, huzza, huzza! I believe every one about me thinks me daft; and so I am for very joyfulness; notwithstanding, let me be didactic, or you will say so too.

I really will endeavour to rein in, and go along in the regular hackney trot, that you may partly comprehend me.