well-greaved Greeks. The one of a Saturday night counts up his shabby
gains and grumbles; the other on _his_ Saturday night sits down and
weeps for other worlds to conquer. The pence to Mr. Suddlechops are as
important as are the worlds to Alexander. Every condition of life has
its peculiar advantages, and wisdom points these out and is contented
with them. The varlet who sang--

"A king cannot swagger
Or get drunk like a beggar,
Nor be half so happy as I"--

had the soul of a philosopher in him. The harshness of the parlour is
revenged at night in the servants' hall. The coarse rich man rates his
domestic, but there is a thought in the domestic's brain, docile and
respectful as he looks, which makes the matter equal, which would
madden the rich man if he knew it--make him wince as with a shrewdest
twinge of hereditary gout. For insult and degradation are not without
their peculiar solaces. You may spit upon Shylock's gaberdine, but the
day comes when he demands his pound of flesh; every blow, every insult,
not without a certain satisfaction, he adds to the account running up
against you in the day-book and ledger of his hate--which at the proper
time he will ask you to discharge. Every way we look we see
even-handed nature administering her laws of compensation. Grandeur
has a heavy tax to pay. The usurper rolls along like a god, surrounded
by his guards. He dazzles the crowd--all very fine; but look beneath
his splendid trappings and you see a shirt of mail, and beneath _that_
a heart cowering in terror of an air-drawn dagger. Whom did the memory
of Austerlitz most keenly sting? The beaten emperor? or the mighty
Napoleon, dying like an untended watch-fire on St. Helena?