Tracks Of A Rolling Stone by Henry J. Coke (top ten books of all time .TXT) 📕

The First Edition Of This Book Was Written,  From Beginning To

End,  In The Short Space Of Five Months,  Without The Aid Of

Diary Or Notes,  Beyond Those Cited As Such From A Former

Work.

The Author,  Having No Expectation That His Reminiscences

Would Be Received With The Kind Indulgence Of Which This 

Second Edition Is The Proof,  With Diffidence Ventured To Tell

So Many Tales Connected With His Own Unimportant Life As He

Has Done.  Emboldened By The Reception His 'Tracks' Have Met

With,  He Now Adds A Few Stories Which He Trusts May Further

Amuse Its Readers.

June 1905.

We Know More Of The Early Days Of The Pyramids Or Of Ancient

Babylon Than We Do Of Our Own.  The Stone Age,  The Dragons Of

The Prime,  Are Not More Remote From Us Than Is Our Earliest

Childhood.  It Is Not So Long Ago For Any Of Us; And Yet,  Our

Memories Of It Are But Veiled Spectres Wandering In The Mazes

Of Some Foregone Existence.

Are We Really Trailing Clouds Of Glory From Afar?  Or Are Our

'Forgettings' Of The Outer Eden Only?  Or,  Setting Poetry

Aside,  Are They Perhaps The Quickening Germs Of All Past

Heredity - An Epitome Of Our Race And Its Descent?  At Any

Rate Then,  If Ever,  Our Lives Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are

Made Of.  There Is No Connected Story Of Events,  Thoughts, 

Acts,  Or Feelings.  We Try In Vain To Re-Collect; But The

Secrets Of The Grave Are Not More Inviolable,  - For The

Beginnings,  Like The Endings,  Of Life Are Lost In Darkness.

It Is Very Difficult To Affix A Date To Any Relic Of That Dim

Past.  We May Have A Distinct Remembrance Of Some Pleasure, 

Some Pain,  Some Fright,  Some Accident,  But The Vivid Does Not

Help Us To Chronicle With Accuracy.  A Year Or Two Makes A

Vast Difference In Our Ability.  We Can Remember Well Enough

When We Donned The 'Cauda Virilis,' But Not When We Left Off

Petticoats.

The First Remembrance To Which I Can Correctly Tack A Date Is

The Death Of George Iv.  I Was Between Three And Four Years

Old.  My Recollection Of The Fact Is Perfectly Distinct -

Distinct By Its Association With Other Facts,  Then Far More

Weighty To Me Than The Death Of A King.

I Was Watching With Rapture,  For The First Time,  The Spinning

Of A Peg-Top By One Of The Grooms In The Stable Yard,  When 

The Coachman,  Who Had Just Driven My Mother Home,  Announced

The Historic News.  In A Few Minutes Four Or Five Servants -

Maids And Men - Came Running To The Stables To Learn

Particulars,  And The Peg-Top,  To My Sorrow,  Had To Be

Abandoned For Gossip And Flirtation.  We Were A Long Way From

Street Criers - Indeed,  Quite Out Of Town.  My Father's House

Was In Kensington,  A Little Further West Than The Present

Museum.  It Was Completely Surrounded By Fields And Hedges. 

I Mention The Fact Merely To Show To What Age Definite Memory

Can Be Authentically Assigned.  Doubtless We Have Much

Earlier Remembrances,  Though We Must Reckon These By Days,  Or

By Months At The Outside.  The Relativity Of The Reckoning

Would Seem To Make Time Indeed A 'Form Of Thought.'

Two Or Three Reminiscences Of My Childhood Have Stuck To Me;

Some Of Them On Account Of Their Comicality.  I Was Taken To

A Children's Ball At St. James's Palace.  In My Mind's Eye I

Have But One Distinct Vision Of It.  I Cannot See The Crowd -

There Was Nothing To Distinguish That From What I Have So

Often Seen Since; Nor The Court Dresses,  Nor The Soldiers

Even,  Who Always Attract A Child's Attention In The Streets;

But I See A Raised Dais On Which Were Two Thrones.  William

Iv. Sat On One,  Queen Adelaide On The Other.  I Cannot Say

Whether We Were Marched Past In Turn,  Or How I Came There. 

But I Remember The Look Of The King In His Naval Uniform.  I

Remember His White Kerseymere Breeches,  And Pink Silk

Stockings,  And Buckled Shoes.  He Took Me Between His Knees, 

And Asked,  'Well,  What Are You Going To Be,  My Little Man?'

'A Sailor,' Said I,  With Brazen Simplicity.

'Going To Avenge The Death Of Nelson - Eh?  Fond O' Sugar-

Plums?'

'Ye-Es,' Said I,  Taking A Mental Inventory Of Stars And

Anchor Buttons.

Upon This,  He Fetched From The Depths Of His Waistcoat Pocket

A Capacious Gold Box,  And Opened It With A Tap,  As Though He

Were About To Offer Me A Pinch Of Snuff.  'There's For You,'

Said He.

I Helped Myself,  Unawed By The Situation,  And With My Small

Fist Clutching The Bonbons,  Was Passed On To Queen Adelaide. 

She Gave Me A Kiss,  For Form's Sake,  I Thought; And I

Scuttled Back To My Mother.

But Here Followed The Shocking Part Of The Enfant Terrible's

Adventure.  Not Quite Sure Of Her Majesty's Identity - I Had

Never Heard There Was A Queen - I Naively Asked My Mother,  In

A Very Audible Stage-Whisper,  'Who Is The Old Lady With - ?' 

My Mother Dragged Me Off The Instant She Had Made Her

Curtsey.  She Had A Quick Sense Of Humour; And,  Judging From

Her Laughter,  When She Told Her Story To Another Lady In The 

Supper Room,  I Fancied I Had Said Or Done Something Very

Funny.  I Was Rather Disconcerted At Being Seriously

Admonished,  And Told I Must Never Again Comment Upon The

Breath Of Ladies Who Condescended To Kiss,  Or To Speak To, 

Me.

While We Lived At Kensington,  Lord Anglesey Used Often To Pay

My Mother A Visit.  She Had Told Me The Story Of The Battle

Of Waterloo,  In Which My Uncle George - 6th Lord Albemarle -

Had Taken Part; And Related How Lord Anglesey Had Lost A Leg

There,  And How One Of His Legs Was Made Of Cork.  Lord

Anglesey Was A Great Dandy.  The Cut Of The Paget Hat Was An

Heirloom For The Next Generation Or Two,  And The Gallant

Marquis' Boots And Tightly-Strapped Trousers Were Patterns Of

Polish And Precision.  The Limp Was Perceptible; But Of Which

Leg,  Was,  In Spite Of Careful Investigation,  Beyond My

Diagnosis.  His Presence Provoked My Curiosity,  Till One Fine

Day It Became Too Strong For Resistance.  While He Was Busily

Engaged In Conversation With My Mother,  I,  Watching For The

Chance,  Sidled Up To His Chair,  And As Soon As He Looked

Away,  Rammed My Heel On To His Toes.  They Were His Toes. 

And Considering The Jump And The Oath Which Instantly

Responded To My Test,  I Am Persuaded They Were Abnormally

Tender Ones.  They Might Have Been Made Of Corns,  Certainly

Not Of Cork.

Another Discovery I Made About This Period Was,  For Me At

Least,  A 'Record':  It Happened At Quidenham - My Grandfather

The 4th Lord Albemarle's Place.

Some Excursion Was Afoot,  Which Needed An Early Breakfast. 

When This Was Half Over,  One Married Couple Were Missing.  My

Grandfather Called Me To Him (I Was Playing With Another

Small Boy In One Of The Window Bays).  'Go And Tell Lady

Maria,  With My Love,' Said He,  'That We Shall Start In Half

An Hour.  Stop,  Stop A Minute.  Be Sure You Knock At The

Door.'  I Obeyed Orders - I Knocked At The Door,  But Failed

To Wait For An Answer.  I Entered Without It.  And What Did I

Behold?  Lady Maria Was Still In Bed; And By The Side Of Lady

M. Was,  Very Naturally,  Lady M.'S Husband,  Also In Bed And

Fast Asleep.  At First I Could Hardly Believe My Senses.  It

Was Within The Range Of My Experience That Boys Of My Age

Occasionally Slept In The Same Bed.  But That A Grown Up Man

Should Sleep In The Same Bed With His Wife Was Quite Beyond

My Notion Of The Fitness Of Things.  I Was So Staggered,  So

Long In Taking In This Astounding Novelty,  That I Could Not

At First Deliver My Grandfathers Message.  The Moment I Had

Done So,  I Rushed Back To The Breakfast Room,  And In A Loud

Voice Proclaimed To The Company What I Had Seen.  My Tale

Produced All The Effect I Had Anticipated,  But Mainly In The

Shape Of Amusement.  One Wag - My Uncle Henry Keppel - Asked

For Details,  Gravely Declaring He Could Hardly Credit My

Statement.  Every One,  However,  Seemed Convinced By The

Circumstantial Nature Of My Evidence When I Positively 

Asserted That Their Heads Were Not Even At Opposite Ends Of

The Bed,  But Side By Side Upon The Same Pillow.

A Still Greater Soldier Than Lord Anglesey Used To Come To

Holkham Every Year,  A Great Favourite Of My Father's;