etter 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. Well, then,
here goes; try your paces, Dobbin.

"On the morning of Sunday, April 11th, 1842, the good ship
Elphinston--(that's the way to begin, I suppose, as per ledger,
log-book, and midshipman's epistles to mamma)--in fact, dear, we cast
anchor just outside a furious wall of surf, which makes Madras a very
formidable place for landing; and every one who dares to do so certain
of a watering. There lay the city, most invitingly to storm-tost tars,
with its white palaces, green groves, and yellow belt of sand, blue
hills in the distance, and all else _coleur de rose_. But--but, Emmy,
there was no getting at this paradise, except by struggling through a
couple of miles of raging foam, that would have made mince-meat of the
Spanish Armada, and have smashed Sir William Elphinston to pieces. How,
then, did we manage to survive it? for, thank God always, here I am to
tell the tale. Listen, Emmy dear, and I will try not to be tedious.

"We were bun