having been carried into the little parlour, and the young lady having carefully flattened down the coals to prevent their blazing, and carried away the poker to preclude the possibility of the fire being stirred, without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to write.
To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves practically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very easy task; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, and to form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition, retard in some degree the progress of the writer; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new ones which required going over often to render them visible through the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent.
“Vell, Sammy,” said the father.
“Vell, my Prooshan Blue,” responded the son, laying down his pen. “What’s the last bulletin about mother-in-law?”
“‘Mrs. Weller passed a very good night, but is uncommon perwerse and unpleasant this mornin’. Signed upon oath, S. Veller, Esquire, Senior.’ That’s the last vun as was issued, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.
“No better yet?” inquired Sam.
“All the symptoms aggerawated,” replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head. “But wot’s that, you’re a doin’ of? Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy?”
“I’ve done now,” said Sam, with slight embarrassment; “I’ve been a writin’.”
“So I see,” replied Mr. Weller. “Not to any young ’ooman, I hope, Sammy?”
“Why it’s no use a sayin’ it ain’t,” replied Sam. “It’s a walentine.”
“A what!” exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word.
“A walentine,” replied Sam.
“Samivel, Samivel,” said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, “I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it. Arter the warnin’ you’ve had o’ your father’s wicious propensities; arter all I’ve said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein’ and bein’ in the company o’ your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha’ thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha’ forgotten to his dyin’ day! I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it, Sammy, I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it!” These reflections were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam’s tumbler to his lips and drank off its contents.
“Wot’s the matter now?” said Sam.
“Nev’r mind, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, “it’ll be a wery agonizin’ trial to me at my time of life, but I’m pretty tough, that’s vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked ven the farmer said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market.”
“Wot’ll be a trial?” inquired Sam.
“To see you married, Sammy – to see you a dilluded wictim, 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!”
We cannot 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 mantelpiece at the same time, turned towards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening influence of tobacco, requested him to “fire away.”
Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began with a very theatrical air:
“‘Lovely – ’”
“Stop,” said Mr. 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 o’ 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.
“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.’”
“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.
