His cheek bruised in the
grog-shop fight. His lip swollen with evil indulgences. Look out what
you say to him. For a trifle he will take your life. Lower down and
lower down, until, outcast of God and man, he lies in the alms-house,
a blotch of loathsomeness and pain. Sometimes he calls out for God;
and then for more drink. Now he prays; now curses. Now laughs as
fiends laugh. Then bites his nails to the quick. Then runs both hands
through the shock of hair that hangs about his head--like the mane
of a wild beast. Then shivers--until the cot shakes--with unutterable
terror. Then, with uplifted fist, fights back the devils, or clutches
the serpents that seem winding him in their coil. Then asks for water,
which is instantly consumed by his cracked lips. Going his round some
morning, the surgeon finds him dead.
Straighten the limbs. You need not try to comb out or shove back the
matted locks. Wrap him in a sheet. Put him in a box. Two men will
carry it down to the wagon at the door. With chalk, write on the top
of the box the name of the exhausted libertine.
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