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We then set out on our luvly drive, me on the box-seat of one of the Carridges, and the other pore fellers cramped up hinside.
This riled the excellent feamale, and she said: "Git out! You never was a infank yourself, I spose! Oh no! You was too good to be a infank, you was! You slid into the world all ready grow'd, didn't you? Git out!" "No, Madam," I replied, "I too was once a infant! I was a luvly child.
The Sloshers crowded round me, and said I was welcome. "What a beautiful brest-pin you've got," said one of 'em. "Permit me," and he took it out of my neckercher. "Isn't it luvly," he said, parsin it to another, who parsed it to another. It was given me by my Aunt, on my promisin her I'd never swear profanely; and I never have, except on very special occasions.
On our way back to Slough they all got out to see Stoke Pogies Church, where some great Poet was buried long long ago, who had wrote a most lovely Poem there, all about what could be seen from the Churchyard of an evening, and one of the party said, that the sperrit of the bewtifool seen and of the luvly Poem was so strong upon him, that, if they woud stand round the Toom, he woud try to recite some of its sweetest lines, and he did so, and I heard one on 'em say, as we was a driving back, that more than one among them had his eyes filled with plessant tears as he lissened.
Banks are bustin every day, goin up higher nor any balloon of which we hav any record. These western bankers air a sweet & luvly set of men. I wish I owned as good a house as some of 'em would break into! Virtoo is its own reward. A. Ward. It is with no ordernary feelins of Shagrin & indignashun that I rite you these here lines.
Bill Shakspeer had made a grate hit with old Bob Ridley, and Ben Jonson was delitin the peple with his trooly grate ax of hossmanship without saddul or bridal. Thay was rehersin Dixey's Land & expected it would knock the peple. Sez I, "William, my luvly friend, can you pay me that 13 dollars you owe me?" He sed no with one of the most tremenjis knox I ever experiunsed. The Sircle sed he had gone.
My story opens in the classic presinks of Bostin. In the parler of a bloated aristocratic mansion on Bacon street sits a luvly young lady, whose hair is cuvered ore with the frosts of between 17 Summers. She has just sot down to the piany, and is warblin the popler ballad called "Smells of the Notion," in which she tells how, with pensiv thought, she wandered by a C beat shore.
There was a plant o' goldie-cups growin' out o' the stone just above 'er'ead. An' when I come to luke at 'er face, 'twas luvly, butiful, so calm's a baby's wonderful butiful et was. When the doctor saw 'er, 'e said: 'Er culdn' never a-done it in that little bit o' watter ef' er 'adn't a-been in an extarsy. Ah! an' judgin' from 'er face, that was just 'ow she was.
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