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tim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital,” replied Mr. Weller. “It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy."

“Nonsense,” said Sam. “I ain't a goin' to get married, don't you fret yourself about that ; I know you're a judge of these things. Order in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter—there."


1. We can not distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the pipe, or the consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in the family and couldn't be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller's feelings, and caused his grief to subside. We should be rather disposed to say that the result was attained by combining the two sources of consolation, for he repeated the second in a low tone, very frequently; ringing the bell meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat; and lighting the pipe and placing himself in front of the fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its full heat, and recline against the mantel-piece at the same time, turned towards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening influence of tobacco, requested him to “fire away.”

2. Sam dipped his pen into the ink, to be ready for any corrections, and began with a very theatrical air


“Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. “A double glass o’the invariable, my dear.”

“Very well, Sir,” replied the girl ; who with great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

3. “ They seem to know your ways here,” observed Sam.

“Yes,” replied his father, “ I've been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy."

“Lovely creetur'," repeated Sam. “ 'Tain't in poetry, is it?" interposed the father. “No, no," replied Sam. 4. “Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. “Poetry's

unnat'ral ; no man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some o'them low fellows; never let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy."

5. Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and read as follows.

“Lovely creetur I feel myself a charmed- '"

“That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.

“No; it ain't charmed,” observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, “it's 'shained, there's a blot there—'I feel myself ashamed.'”

“Wery good,” said Mr. Weller. “Go on."

6. “Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir—'I forget wot this here word is,” said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember.

“Why don't you look at it, then?” inquired Mr. Weller.

“ So I am a lookin' at it,” replied Sam, “but there's another blot; here's a 'c,' and a'i' and a'd'."

7. Circumwented, p'raps," suggested Mr. Weller.
“No, it ain't that,” said Sam, “circumscribed, that's it."

“That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, gravely.

“ Think not?” said Sam.
“Nothin' like it," replied his father.
“But don't you think it means more ? " inquired Sam.

“Vell, p'raps it is a more tenderer word,” said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. “Go on, Sammy."

8. “Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressing of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.

“That's a werry pretty sentiment,” said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

“Yes, I think it is rayther good,” observed Sam, highly flattered.

9. “Wot I like in that 'ere style of writing,” said the elder Mr. Weller, “ is, that there ain't no callin' names in it, -no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind : wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or an angel, Sammy ?” • “Ah! what, indeed ? ” replied Sam.

“ You might jist as vell call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery vell known to be a collection o’ fabulous animals,” added Mr. Weller.

“Just as well,” replied Sam.
10. “Drive on, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows : his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying.

“Afore I see you I thought all women was alike.""

“So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.

11. “. But now,'” continued Sam, “now I find what a reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red’lous turnip I must ha' been for there ain't nobody like you though I like you better than nothin' at all. I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

12. “So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear -as the gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my heart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (which, p'r’aps, you may have heerd on, Mary my dear,) altho’ it does finish a portrait and puts the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by and all in two minutes and a quarter.'”.

13. “I am afeered that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously.

“No, it don't,” replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the point.

“Except of me, Mary, my dear, as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary, I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam.

14. “That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller.

“Not a bit on it,” said Sam, "she'll vish there vos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'."

“Well," said Mr. Weller, “there's somethin' in that; and I wish your mother-in-law 'd only conduct her conwersa

tion on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it ?”

15. “That's the difficulty," said Sam; “I don't know what to sign it.”

“Sign it-Veller,” said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

“Won't do,said Sam. “Never sign a walentine with your own name."

“Sign it-Pickwick, then," said Mr. Weller ; “it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell.”.

“ The wery thing,” said Sam. “I could end with a werse; what do you think?"

16. “I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. “I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he was hung for a highway robbery, and he was only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule.”

17. But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter

“ Your love-sick


And having folded it in a very intricate manner, squeezed a down-hill direction in one corner; “To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkin's, Mayor's, Ipswich, Suffolk ;” and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the General Post.


1. A supercilious nabob of the East

Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich
A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which-
Had in his family a humble youth,

Who went from England in his patron's suite,
An unassuming boy, and in truth

A lad of decent parts and good repute,

2. This youth hath sense and spirit;

But yet, with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.

3. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,

His honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

4. “Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade

Did your good father gain a livelihood ?"“He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,

“And in his time was reckoned good.”

5. “A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek,

Instead of teaching you to sew ! Pray, why did not your father make

A saddler, sir, of you?

6. Each parasite then, as in duty bound,

The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.

At length Modestus, bowing low,
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),

“Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade.”

7. “My father's trade! Come, come, sir ! that's too bad !

My father's trade! Why, blockhead, are you mad?
My father, sir, did never stoop so low-
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know.”

8. “Excuse the liberty I take,"

Modestus said, with archness on his brow, “Pray, why did not your father make

A gentleman of you ? "

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