“How it ever come to that ’ere pass,” resumed the parent Weller, “I can’t say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is alvays looked up to⁠—adored I may say⁠—by ev’ry young ’ooman in ev’ry town he vurks through, I don’t know. I only know that so it is. It’s a regulation of natur⁠—a dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law used to say.”

“A dispensation,” said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.

“Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,” returned Mr. Weller; “ I call it a dispensary, and it’s always writ up so, at the places vere they gives you physic for nothin’ in your own bottles; that’s all.”