her flashing eyes, and how fragrantly the orange-blossoms clustered in
her rich brown hair; let him speak lengthily, whose province it may be
to spin three volumes out of one: for me, I always wish to recollect
that readers possess, on the average, at least as much imagination as
writers. And why should you not exercise it now? Is not Emmy in her
bridal-dress a theme well worth a revery?

For a similar reason, I must clearly disappoint feminine expectation, by
forbearing to descant upon Charles's slight but manly form, and his
Grecian beauty, &c., all the better for the tropics, and the trials and
the troubles he had passed.

When Captain Forbes, just sitting down to his soup in the Jamaica
Coffee-house, read in the _Morning Post_, the marriage of Charles Tracy
with Amy Stuart, he delivered himself mentally as follows:

"There now! Poets talk of 'love,' and I stick to 'human nature.' When
that fine young fellow sailed with me, hardly a year ago, in the Sir
William Elphinston, he was over head and heels in love with old Jack
Tracy's pretty girl, Emily Warren: but I knew it wouldn't last long: I
don't believe in constancy for longer than a week. It does one's heart
good to see how right one is; here's what I call proof. My sentimental
spark kisses Emily Warren, and marries Amy Stuart." The captain, happier
than before, called complacently for Cayenne pepper, and relished his
mock-turtle with a higher gusto.

It is worth recording, that the same change of name mystified slanderous
friends in the Presidency of Madras.

And now, kind-eyed reader, this story of '_The Twins_' must leave off