Christian fiction; Wingfold, Thomas (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
“I do not know what I might have taken to had I been made like other
people, or what plans my mother cherished for me. But it soon became
evident, as time passed and I grew no taller but more mis-shapen, that
to bring me up to a profession would be but to render my deformity the
more painful to myself. I spent, therefore, the first three years
after I left school at home, keeping out of my father’s way as much as
possible, and cleaving fast to my mother. When she died, she left her
little property between me and my brother. He had been brought up to my
father’s profession--that of an engineer. My father could not touch
the principal of this money, but neither, while he lived, could we the
interest. I hardly know how I lived for the next three or four years--it
must have been almost on charity, I think. My father was never at home,
and but for the old woman who had been our only attendant all my life,
I think very likely I should have starved. I spent my time mostly in
reading--whatever I could lay my hands upon--and that not carelessly,
but with such reflection as I was capable of. One thing I may
mention, as showing how I was still carried in the same direction as
before--that, without any natural turn for handicraft, I constructed
for myself a secret place of carpenter’s work in a corner of the garret,
small indeed, but big enough for a couch on which I could lie, and a
table as long as the couch. That was all the furniture. The walls were
lined from top to bottom with books, mostly gathered from those lying
about the house. Cunningly was the entrance to this nest contrived: I
doubt if anyone may have found it yet. If some imaginative, dreamy boy
has come upon it, what a find it must have been to him! I could envy him
the pleasure. There I always went to say my prayers and read my bible.
But sometimes The Arabian Nights, or some other book of entrancing human
invention, would come between, and make me neglect both, and then I
would feel bad and forsaken;--for as yet I knew little of the heart to
which I cried for shelter and warmth and defence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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