Bones and I : $b or, the skeleton at home — John Shaqi
Bones and I : $b or, the skeleton at homeWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Philosophy
Bones and I : $b or, the skeleton at home
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
English fiction -- 19th century; Paranormal fiction, English
“Death never seems to come for those who wish it—though perhaps if the
Great Liberator felt bound to appear every time he was invoked, the cry
might not be raised quite so often. Who is there that has not bowed his
head in misery, and wondered whether he could be so wretched anywhere
else as here, in the mocking sunlight, with his Gourd withered before
his face? It is gone—gone. See! There is the very spot on which it
stood but yesterday, so green, so fresh, so full of life, so rich in
promise! And to-day—a blank! It seems impossible! Ay, that is perhaps
the worst of the suffering—that numbed, stupefied state, which refuses
for a time to grasp the extent of its affliction—that perverse and
cowardly instinct which clings to a thread that it yet knows is wholly
severed—which turns even Hope to a curse, because it makes her a bar to
resignation. Few of us can boast more courage than Jonah when the Gourd
is fairly withered away.
“For one it has been riches, perhaps, comprising luxury, position,
variety—all the advantages that spring from an abundance of worldly
goods. Some fine morning, Fortune, ‘_ludem insolentem ludere
pertinax_,’ gives her wings a shake, spreads them, and flits away;
leaving in her place haggard Want, gaunt Ruin, bailiffs in the
drawing-room, furniture ticketed for sale up-stairs. The children’s
rocking-horse, the wife’s pianoforte, all the well-known trifles of
daily use and ornament, must be cast into the chasm, as the Romans
threw their effects into that awkward rent in the Forum. And the
master of the household is fortunate if he be not compelled, like
Curtius, to leap in after his goods. His friends are astonished, and
bless themselves. His relations had predicted the catastrophe long
ago. These, of course, turn their backs on him, incontinently, from
motives of self-respect, no doubt, but a few of the former, such as had
professed to love him least, lend a helping hand. Nevertheless, the
Gourd is withered, and the man, faint and sick unto death, only wishes
his hour was come and he might lie down to be at rest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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