But it would be a sad thing
for _me_ to find myself hanged; and for what, I beseech you? for
murdering a sham, that was either nobody at all, or oneself repeated once
too often. But if you show to Wordsworth a man as great as himself, still
that great man will not be much _like_ Wordsworth--the great man will
not be Wordsworth's _doppelganger_. If not _impar_ (as you say) he will be
_dispar_; and why, then, should Wordsworth be jealous of him, unless he is
jealous of the sun, and of Abd el Kader, and of Mr. Waghorn--all of whom
carry off a great deal of any spare admiration which Europe has to dispose
of. But suddenly it strikes me that we are all proud, every man of us; and
I daresay with some reason for it, 'be the same more or less.' For I never
came to know any man in my whole life intimately, who could not do
something or other better than anybody else. The only man amongst us that
is thoroughly free from pride, that you may at all seasons rely on as a
pattern of humility, is the pickpocket. That man is so admirable in his
temper, and so used to pocketing anything whatever which Providence sends
in his way, that he will even pocket a kicking, or anything in that line
of favors which you are pleased to bestow. The smallest donations are by
him thankfully received, provided only that you, whilst half-blind with
anger in kicking him round a figure of eight, like a dexterous skater,
will but allow _him_ (which is no more than fair) to have a second 'shy'
at your pretty Indian pocket-handkerchief, so as to convince you, on
cooler reflection, that he does not _always_ miss.
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