As I
abominated the man's trade, so I had expected to detest
the man himself; and behold, I liked him. Poor devil!
he was essentially a man on wires, all sensibility and
tremor, brimful of a cheap poetry, not without parts,
quite without courage. His boldness was despair; the
gulf behind him thrust him on; he was one of those who
might commit a murder rather than confess the theft of
a postage-stamp. I was sure that his coming interview
with Carthew rode his imagination like a nightmare;
when the thought crossed his mind, I used to think I
knew of it, and that the qualm appeared in his face
visibly. Yet he would never flinch--necessity stalking
at his back, famine (his old pursuer) talking in his
ear; and I used to wonder whether I more admired or
more despised this quivering heroism for evil. The
image that occurred to me after his visit was just; I
had been butted by a lamb, and the phase of life that I
was now studying might be called the Revolt of a Sheep.
It could be said of him that he had learned in sorrow
what he taught in song--or wrong; and his life was that
of one of his victims.
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