no, said I, shaking my head sideways—Would Monsieur choose to sell it? rejoined the undertaker.—With all my soul, said I—the iron work is worth forty livres—and the glasses worth forty more—and the leather you may take to live on.
What a mine of wealth, quoth I, as he counted me the money, has this post-chaise brought me in? And this is my usual method of bookkeeping, at least with the disasters of life—making a penny of every one of ’em as they happen to me⸺
⸺Do, my dear Jenny , tell the world for me, how I behaved under one, the most oppressive of its kind, which could befall me as a man, proud as he ought to be of his manhood⸺
’Tis enough, saidst thou, coming close up to me, as I stood with my garters in my hand, reflecting upon what had not pass’d⸺’Tis enough, Tristram , and I am satisfied, saidst thou, whispering these words in my ear, * ** *** *;— ** ⸺any other man would have sunk down to the center⸺
⸺Everything is good for something, quoth I.
⸺I’ll go into Wales for six weeks, and drink goat’s whey—and I’ll gain seven years longer life for the accident. For which reason I think myself inexcusable, for blaming fortune so often as I have done, for pelting me all my life long, like an ungracious duchess, as I call’d her, with so many small evils: surely, if I have any cause to be angry with her, ’tis that she has not sent me great ones—a score of good cursed, bouncing losses, would have been as good as a pension to me.
⸺One of a hundred a year, or so, is all I wish—I would not be at the plague of paying land-tax for a larger.