SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. "I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment; "I've been a writin'." "So I see," replied Mr. Weller. 'ooman, I hope, Sammy." "Not to any young "Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. "It's a walentine." "A what?" exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horrorstricken 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 was a moral lesson as no man could ever 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 the 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 o' life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked ven the farmer said he vos 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 deluded 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 o' these things; order in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter,-there !" 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." 666 'Lovely creetur','" repeated Sam. ""Taint in poetry, is it?" interposed the father. 'No, no," replied Sam. 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 you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Samimy." Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced and read as follows: Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned' "— 666 "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 wot this 'ere 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'rhaps," 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'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. "Go on, Sammy." "Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it." " "That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered. 66 "Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," 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 a angel, Sammy?" "Ah! what indeed?" replied Sam. "You might just as vell call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery vell known to be a col-lection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller. "Just as well," replied Sam. "Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as fol lows: his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particu larly edifying. "Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.'” "So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, paren thetically. "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 ray ther strong," said Sam, looking up. Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. 666 "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 woś took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel macheen (wich p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put 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."" "I am afeerd 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. 66 6 "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. "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 wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'." 66 Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; and I wish your Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?" "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 Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller; it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell." "The wery thing," said Sam. werse: what do you think?" "I could end with a "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 wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule." But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter, "Your love-sick Charles Dickens. THE LOVED AND LOST. "The loved and lost!" Why do we call them lost? They are not lost; they are within the door And God himself, their Lord, Judge, and King. And this we call a loss! O selfish sorrow Of selfish hearts! O we of little faith! Aye, look upon this dreary, desert path, The thorns and thistles wheresoe'er we turn; What trials and what tears, what wrongs and wrath, What struggles and what strife the journey hath! They have escaped from these; and lo! we mourn. Ask the poor sailor, when the wreck is done, Who, with his treasure, strove the shore to reach, While with the raging waves he battled on, Was it not joy, where every joy seemed gone, To see his loved ones landed on the beach? A poor wayfarer, leading by the hand A little child, had halted by the well To wash from off her feet the clinging sand, Where, this long journey past, they longed to dwell; When lo! the Lord, who many mansions had, Did she make answer, selfishly and wrong, We will do likewise; Death hath made no breach That greets us still, though mortal tongues be dust. |