534 SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. '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 aint that," said Sam: "circumscribed,' that's it." "That aint 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. "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! wot 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 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. "But now," continued Sam, "now I find wot 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. SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 535 "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 wos 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. 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'." "Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; and I vish your Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?" name. "That's the difficulty," said Sam; "I don't know what to sign it." Sign it-Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that "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. "I could end with a werse: what do you think?" "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 Pickwick." GOD. 537 Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and the retreating troops: What was done,-what to do,-a glance told him both, And striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; Were beating like prisoners assaulting their By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet, the road play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I've brought you Sheridan all-the way, From Winchester down to save the day." Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! Against infinity! What am I then? Naught! Naught! But the effluence of Thy light Divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom. too; Yes, in my spirit doth Thy Spirit shine, Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high Even to the throne of Thy Divinity, I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! Thou art! directing, guiding all! Thou art Direct my understanding then to Thee. Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realm where angels have their Lives surely through some higher energy; Even to its source-to Thee-its author there. O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! |