“‘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.