I'd lay a wager that you make, with one thing or another--plays, novvles, pamphlicks, and little odd jobbs here and there--your three thowsnd a year.

There's many a man, dear Bullwig that works for less, and lives content.

Why shouldn't you?
Three thowsnd a year is no such bad thing,--let alone the barnetcy: it must be a great comfort to have that bloody hand in your skitching.
But don't you sea, that in a wuld naturally envius, wickid, and fond of a joak, this very barnetcy, these very cumplaints,--this ceaseless groning, and moning, and wining of yours, is igsackly the thing which makes people laff and snear more?
If you were ever at a great school, you must recklect who was the boy most bullid, and buffited, and purshewd--he who minded it most.

He who could take a basting got but few; he who rord and wep because the knotty boys called him nicknames, was nicknamed wuss and wuss.

I recklect there was at our school, in Smithfield, a chap of this milksop, spoony sort, who appeared among the romping, ragged fellers in a fine flanning dressing-gownd, that his mama had given him.