Little Poems in Prose

XLIX DEATH TO THE POOR! FOR a fortnight I had shut myself up in my room, and had surrounded myself with the books that were fashionable at that time—I speak of sixteen or seventeen years ago; I mean the books in which is discussed the art of making everyone happy, wise, and rich, in twenty-four hours. I had then digested— swallowed, I suppose I should say—all the lu- cubrations of all these happiness-furnishers, both those who advise the poor to make them- selves slaves, and those who persuade them that they are all dethroned monarchs. You will then not find it surprising that I was in a state of mind approximating to giddiness or stupor. It seemed to me, only, that I felt, cooped up at the bottom of my intellect, the obscure germ of an idea superior to all the motherly formulas whose dictionary I had been skim- ming. But it was only the idea of an idea; a thing infinitely vague. So, feeling very thirsty I went out, for the passion for reading bad books begets a propor-