XII 
  
CROWDS 
  
  
IT  is not given to everybody to bathe in the 
man-ocean; to enjoy the crow is an art; and he 
only can revel in their vitality at the expense of 
the human race in whom, while he lies in his 
cradle, a fairy has breathed the taste for trav-
esty and masquerade, the hatred of home and 
the passion of travel. 
Multitude—Solitude: 
these 
terms 
are 
equivalent, and are convertible by the active 
and fertile poet. He who does not understand 
how to people his solitude is equally ignorant 
of the art of being alone in a crowd. 
The poet enjoys this incomparable privilege, 
that he can be at his pleasure himself or an-
other. Like those wandering souls which seek 
for an embodiment, he enters where he will 
into the personality of each. For him alone all 
houses are to let: and if certain places seem to 
be closed to him it is because in his eyes they 
are not worth the trouble of being visited. 
The solitary and pensive stroller draws a 
singular intoxication from this universal com-