Little Poems in Prose

decrepit, a ruin of a man, leaning against one of the posts of his cabin: a cabin more wretched than that of the most brutish savage, and whose two candle-ends, guttering and smoking, yet lighted only too well his distress. Everywhere joy, money-making, debauch; everywhere the certainty of to-morrow’s bread; everywhere the frenzied explosion of vitality. Here only, absolute wretchedness; wretchedness dressed, to crown its horror, in comic rags, where necessity, far more than art, had introduced the contrast. He did not laugh, poor wretch! He neither leapt nor danced, nor gesticulated nor cried. He sang no song, either merry or sad; he made no supplication. He was dumb and motionless. He had given up the game; he had abdicated: his fate was come upon him. But what a gaze (how profound, how unfor- gettable!) he cast upon the crowds and the lights, whose moving flood stopped a few paces from his repulsive wretchedness. I felt my throat caught by the terrible hand of hys- teria, and it seemed to me that my gaze was dimmed by these rebellious tears—which would not fall. What could I do? What good would it be to ask of that unfortunate one what curiosity what wonder he had to show within his stink-