One may objeck to an immense deal of your writings, which, betwigst you and me, contain more sham scentiment, sham morallaty, sham poatry, than you'd like to own; but, in spite of this, there's the STUFF in you: you've a kind and loyal heart in you, Barnet--a trifle deboshed, perhaps; a kean i, igspecially for what's comic (as for your tradgady, it's mighty flatchulent), and a ready plesnt pen.

The man who says you are an As is an As himself.

Don't believe him, Barnet! not that I suppose you wil,--for, if I've formed a correck apinion of you from your wucks, you think your small-beear as good as most men's: every man does,--and why not?
We brew, and we love our own tap--amen; but the pint betwigst us, is this stewpid, absudd way of crying out, because the public don't like it too.

Why shood they, my dear Barnet?
You may vow that they are fools; or that the critix are your enemies; or that the wuld should judge your poams by your critticle rules, and not their own: you may beat your breast, and vow you are a marter, and you won't mend the matter.

Take heart, man! you're not so misrabble after all: your spirits need not be so VERY cast down; you are not so VERY badly paid.