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

Took A Genuine Pleasure In His Own Jokes.  Some Men Do.  One

Day I Dropped A Pot Of Marmalade On A New Carpet,  And Should

Certainly Have Been Reprimanded For Carelessness,  Had It Not

Occurred To Him To Exclaim:  'Jam Satis Terris!' And Then

Laugh Immoderately At His Wit.

That There Are As Good Fish In The Sea As Ever Came Out Of

It,  Was A Maxim He Acted Upon,  If He Never Heard It. Within A

Month Of The Above Incident He Proposed To Another Lady Upon

The Sole Grounds That,  When Playing A Game Of Chess,  An

Exchange Of Pieces Being Contemplated,  She Innocently,  But

Incautiously,  Observed,  'If You Take Me,  I Will Take You.' 

He Referred The Matter Next Day To My Ripe Judgment.  As I 

Had No Partiality For The Lady In Question,  I Strongly

Advised Him To Accept So Obvious A Challenge,  And Go Down On

His Knees To Her At Once.  I Laid Stress On The Knees,  As The

Accepted Form Of Declaration,  Both In Novels And On The

Stage.

In This Case The Beloved Object,  Who Was Not Embarrassed By

Excess Of Amiability,  Promptly Desired Him,  When He Urged His

Suit,  'Not To Make A Fool Of Himself.'

My Tutor's Peculiarities,  However,  Were Not Confined To His

Endeavours To Meet With A Lady Rectoress.  He Sometimes

Surprised His Hearers With The Originality Of His Abstruse

Theories.  One Morning He Called Me Into The Stable Yard To

Join In Consultation With His Gardener As To The Advisability

Of Killing A Pig.  There Were Two,  And It Was Not Easy To

Decide Which Was The Fitter For The Butcher.  The Rector

Selected One,  I The Other,  And The Gardener,  Who Had Nurtured

Both From Their Tenderest Age,  Pleaded That They Should Be

Allowed To 'Put On Another Score.'  The Point Was Warmly

Argued All Round.

'The Black Sow,' Said I (They Were Both Sows,  You Must Know)

- 'The Black Sow Had A Litter Of Ten Last Time,  And The White

One Only Six.  Ergo,  If History Repeats Itself,  As I Have

Heard You Say,  You Should Keep The Black,  And Sacrifice The

White.'

'But,' Objected The Rector,  'That Was The White's First

Litter,  And The Black's Second.  Why Shouldn't The White Do

As Well As The Black Next Time?'

'And Better,  Your Reverence,' Chimed In The Gardener.  'The

Number Don't Allays Depend On The Sow,  Do It?'

'That Is Neither Here Nor There,' Returned The Rector.

'Well,' Said The Gardener,  Who Stood To His Guns,  'If Your

Reverence Is Right,  As No Doubt You Will Be,  That'll Make

Just Twenty Little Pigs For The Butcher,  Come Michaelmas.'

'We Can't Kill 'Em Before They Are Born,' Said The Rector.

'That's True,  Your Reverence.  But It Comes To The Same

Thing.'

'Not To The Pigs,' Retorted The Rector.

'To Your Reverence,  I Means.'

'A Pig At The Butcher's,' I Suggested,  'Is Worth A Dozen

Unborn.'

'No One Can Deny It,' Said The Rector,  As He Fingered The

Small Change In His Breeches Pocket; And Pointing With The

Other Hand To The Broad Back Of The Black Sow,  Exclaimed, 

'This Is The One,  Duplex Agitur Per Lumbos Spina!  She's Got

A Back Like An Alderman's Chin.'

'Epicuri De Grege Porcus,' I Assented,  And The Fate Of The

Black Sow Was Sealed.

Next Day An Express Came From Holkham,  To Say That Lady

Leicester Had Given Birth To A Daughter.  My Tutor Jumped Out

Of His Chair To Hand Me The Note.  'Did I Not Anticipate The

Event'? He Cried.  'What A Wonderful World We Live In! 

Unconsciously I Made Room For The Infant By Sacrificing The

Life Of That Pig.'  As I Never Heard Him Allude To The

Doctrine Of Pythagoras,  As He Had No Leaning To Buddhism, 

And,  As I Am Sure He Knew Nothing Of The Correlation Of

Forces,  It Must Be Admitted That The Conception Was An

Original One.

Be This As It May,  Mr. Collyer Was An Upright And

Conscientious Man.  I Owe Him Much,  And Respect His Memory. 

He Died At An Advanced Age,  An Honorary Canon,  And - A

Bachelor.

Another Portrait Hangs Amongst The Many In My Memory's

Picture Gallery.  It Is That Of His Successor To The

Vicarage,  The Chaplaincy,  And The Librarianship,  At Holkham -

Mr. Alexander Napier - At This Time,  And Until His Death

Fifty Years Later,  One Of My Closest And Most Cherished

Friends.  Alexander Napier Was The Son Of Macvey Napier, 

First Editor Of The 'Edinburgh Review.'  Thus,  Associated

With Many Eminent Men Of Letters,  He Also Did Some Good

Literary Work Of His Own.  He Edited Isaac Barrow's Works For

The University Of Cambridge,  Also Boswell's 'Johnson,' And

Gave Various Other Proofs Of His Talents And His Scholarship. 

He Was The Most Delightful Of Companions; Liberal-Minded In

The Highest Degree; Full Of Quaint Humour And Quick Sympathy;

An Excellent Parish Priest,  - Looking Upon Christianity As A

Life And Not A Dogma; Beloved By All,  For He Had A Kind

Thought And A Kind Word For Every Needy Or Sick Being In His

Parish.

With Such Qualities,  The Man Always Predominated Over The

Priest.  Hence His Large-Hearted Charity And Indulgence For

The Faults - Nay,  Crimes - Of Others.  Yet,  If Taken Aback By

An Outrage,  Or An Act Of Gross Stupidity,  Which Even The

Perpetrator Himself Had To Suffer For,  He Would Momentarily

Lose His Patience,  And Rap Out An Objurgation That Would

Stagger The Straiter-Laced Gentlemen Of His Own Cloth,  Or An

Outsider Who Knew Less Of Him Than - The Recording Angel.

A Fellow Undergraduate Of Napier's Told Me A Characteristic

Anecdote Of His Impetuosity.  Both Were Trinity Men,  And Had

Been Keeping High Jinks At A Supper Party At Caius.  The 

Friend Suddenly Pointed To The Clock,  Reminding Napier They

Had But Five Minutes To Get Into College Before Trinity Gates

Were Closed.  'D-N The Clock!' Shouted Napier,  And Snatching

Up The Sugar Basin (It Was Not Eau Sucree They Were

Drinking),  Incontinently Flung It At The Face Of The

Offending Timepiece.

This Youthful Vivacity Did Not Desert Him In Later Years.  An

Old College Friend - Also A Scotchman - Had Become Bishop Of

Edinburgh.  Napier Paid Him A Visit (He Described It To Me

Himself).  They Talked Of Books,  They Talked Of Politics, 

They Talked Of English Bards And Scotch Reviewers,  Of

Brougham,  Horner,  Wilson,  Macaulay,  Jeffrey,  Of Carlyle's

Dealings With Napier's Father - 'Nosey,' As Carlyle Calls

Him.  They Chatted Into The Small Hours Of The Night,  As Boon

Companions,  And As What Bacon Calls 'Full' Men,  Are Wont. 

The Claret,  Once So Famous In The 'Land Of Cakes,' Had Given

Place To Toddy; Its Flow Was In Due Measure To The Flow Of

Soul.  But All That Ends Is Short - The Old Friends Had Spent

Their Last Evening Together.  Yes,  Their Last,  Perhaps.  It

Was Bed-Time,  And Quoth Napier To His Lordship,  'I Tell You

What It Is,  Bishop,  I Am Na Fou',  But I'll Be Hanged If I

Haven't Got Two Left Legs.'

'I See Something Odd About Them,' Says His Lordship.  'We'd

Better Go To Bed.'

Who The Bishop Was I Do Not Know,  But I'll Answer For It He

Was One Of The Right Sort.

In 1846 I Became An Undergraduate Of Trinity College, 

Cambridge.  I Do Not Envy The Man (Though,  Of Course,  One

Ought) Whose College Days Are Not The Happiest To Look Back

Upon.  One Should Hope That However Profitably A Young Man

Spends His Time At The University,  It Is But The Preparation

For Something Better.  But Happiness And Utility Are Not

Necessarily Concomitant; And Even When An Undergraduate's

Course Is Least Employed For Its Intended Purpose (As,  Alas!

Mine Was) - For Happiness,  Certainly Not Pure,  But Simple, 

Give Me Life At A University,

Heaven Forbid That Any Youth Should Be Corrupted By My

Confession!  But Surely There Are Some Pleasures Pertaining

To This Unique Epoch That Are Harmless In Themselves,  And Are

Certainly Not To Be Met With At Any Other.  These Are The

First Years Of Comparative Freedom,  Of Manhood,  Of

Responsibility.  The Novelty,  The Freshness Of Every

Pleasure,  The Unsatiated Appetite For Enjoyment,  The Animal

Vigour,  The Ignorance Of Care,  The Heedlessness Of,  Or

Rather,  The Implicit Faith In,  The Morrow,  The Absence Of

Mistrust Or Suspicion,  The Frank Surrender To Generous

Impulses,  The Readiness To Accept Appearances For Realities -

To Believe In Every Profession Or Exhibition Of Good Will,  To

Rush Into The Arms Of Every Friendship,  To Lay Bare One's 

Tenderest Secrets,  To Listen Eagerly To The Revelations Which

Make Us All Akin,  To Offer One's Time,  One's Energies,  One's

Purse,  One's Heart,  Without A Selfish Afterthought - These,  I

Say,  Are The Priceless Pleasures,  Never To Be Repeated,  Of

Healthful Average Youth.

What Has After-Success,  Honour,  Wealth,  Fame,  Or,  Power -

Burdened,  As They Always Are,  With Ambitions,  Blunders, 

Jealousies,  Cares,  Regrets,  And Failing Health - To Match

With This Enjoyment Of The Young,  The Bright,  The Bygone, 

Hour?  The Wisdom Of The Worldly Teacher - At Least,  The

Carpe Diem - Was Practised Here Before The Injunction Was

Ever Thought Of.  Du Bist So Schon Was The Unuttered

Invocation,  While The Verweile Doch Was Deemed Unneedful.

Little,  I Am Ashamed To Own,  Did I Add Either To My Small

Classical Or Mathematical Attainments.  But I Made

Friendships - Lifelong Friendships,  That I Would Not Barter

For The Best Of Academical Prizes.

Amongst My Associates Or Acquaintances,  Two Or Three Of Whom

Have Since Become Known - Were The Last Lord Derby,  Sir

William Harcourt,  The Late Lord Stanley Of Alderley,  Latimer

Neville,  Late Master Of Magdalen,  Lord Calthorpe,  Of Racing

Fame,  With Whom I Afterwards Crossed The Rocky Mountains,  The

Last Lord Durham,  My Cousin,  Sir Augustus Stephenson,  Ex-

Solicitor To The Treasury,  Julian Fane,  Whose Lyrics Were

Edited By Lord Lytton,  And My Life-Long Friend