Weller, ringing the bell. 'A double glass o' the
inwariable, my dear.'
'Very well, Sir,' replied the girl; who with great quickness
appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.
'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 his father.
'No, no,' replied Sam.
'Wery glad to hear it,' said Mr. Weller. 'Poetry's unnat'ral; no
man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin'-day, or Warren's
blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some of them low fellows; never
you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.'
Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam
once more commenced, and read as follows:
'"Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned--"'
'That ain't proper,' said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.
'No; it ain't "damned,"' observed Sam, holding the letter up
to the light, 'it's "shamed," there's a blot there--"I feel myself
ashamed."'
'Wery good,' said Mr. Weller. 'Go on.'
'"Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir--' I forget what
this here word is,' said Sam, scratching his head with the pen,
in vain attempts to remember.
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