A gentleman called Cato once
took it, with considerable aplomb. The means are to my hand. In my
drawer lies the revolver with which the excellent Colonel Bunnion (long
since departed from Mustapha Superieur) armed me against the banditti of
Algiers, and which I forgot to return to him. I could empty one or more
of the six chambers into my person and that would be the end. But I
don't think history records the suicide of any humorist, however dismal.
He knows too well the tricks of the Arch-Jester's game. Very likely I
should merely blow away half my head, and Destiny would give my good
doctor another chance of achieving immortal fame by glueing it on again.
No, I cannot think seriously of suicide by violent means. Of course, I
might follow the example of one Antonios Polemon, a later Greek sophist,
who suffered so dreadfully from gout that he buried himself alive in the
tomb of his ancestors and starved to death. We have a family vault in
Highgate Cemetery, of which I possess the key. . . . No, I should be
bored and cold, and the coffins would get on my nerves; and besides,
there is something suggestive of smug villadom in the idea of going to
die at Highgate.
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