and protected.  Kings are the fathers of their people.  I have my own house.  You would have been whipped in the public street had you chanced to have been met, and quite right, too.  There must be order in an established city.  For my own part, I did wrong not to denounce you to the constable.  But I am such a fool!  I understand what is right and do what is wrong.  O the ruffian! to come here in such a state!  I did not see the snow upon them when they came in; it had melted, and here’s my whole house swamped.  I have an inundation in my home.  I shall have to burn an incredible amount of coals to dry up this lake—­coals at twelve farthings the miners’ standard!  How am I going to manage to fit three into this caravan?  Now it is over; I enter the nursery; I am going to have in my house the weaning of the future beggardom of England.  I shall have for employment, office, and function, to fashion the miscarried fortunes of that colossal prostitute, Misery, to bring to perfection future gallows’ birds, and to give young thieves the forms of philosophy.  The tongue of the wolf is the warning of God.  And to think that if I had not been eaten up by creatures of this kind for the last thirty years, I should be rich; Homo would be fat; I should have a medicine-chest full of rarities; as many surgical instruments as Doctor Linacre, surgeon to King Henry VIII.; divers animals of all kinds; Egyptian mummies, and similar curiosities; I should be a member of the College of Physicians, and have the right of using the library, built in 1652 by the celebrated Hervey, and of studying in the lantern of that dome, whence you can see the whole of London.  I could continue my observations of solar obfuscation, and prove that a caligenous vapour arises from the planet.  Such was the opinion of John Kepler, who was born the year before the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, and who was mathematician to the emperor.  The sun is a chimney which sometimes smokes; so does my stove.  My stove is no better than the sun.  Yes, I should have made my fortune; my part would have been a different one—­I should not be the insignificant fellow I am.  I should not degrade science in the highways, for the crowd is not worthy of the doctrine, the crowd being nothing better than a confused mixture of all sorts of ages, sexes, humours, and conditions, that wise men of all periods have not hesitated to despise, and whose extravagance and passion the most moderate men in their justice detest.  Oh, I am weary of existence!  After all, one does not live long!  The human life is soon done with.  But no—­it is long.  At intervals, that we should not become too discouraged, that we may have the stupidity to consent to bear our being, and not profit by the magnificent opportunities to hang ourselves which cords and nails afford, nature puts on an air of taking a little care of man—­not to-night, though.  The rogue causes the wheat to spring up, ripens the grape, gives her song to the nightingale.  From time to time a ray of morning or a glass of gin, and that is what we call happiness!  It is a narrow border of good round a huge winding-sheet of evil.  We have a destiny of which the devil has woven the stuff and God has sewn the hem.  In the meantime, you have eaten my supper, you thief!”