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

Barrington,  Private Secretary To Lord Palmerston And To Lord

John Russell.

But The Most Intimate Of Them Was George Cayley,  Son Of The

Member For The East Riding Of Yorkshire.  Cayley Was A Young

Man Of Much Promise.  In His Second Year He Won The

University Prize Poem With His 'Balder,' And Soon After

Published Some Other Poems,  And A Novel,  Which Met With

Merited Oblivion.  But It Was As A Talker That He Shone.  His

Quick Intelligence,  His Ready Wit,  His Command Of Language, 

Made His Conversation Always Lively,  And Sometimes Brilliant. 

For Several Years After I Left Cambridge I Lived With Him In

His Father's House In Dean's Yard,  And Thus Made The

Acquaintance Of Some Celebrities Whom His Fascinating And

Versatile Talents Attracted Thither.  As I Shall Return To

This Later On,  I Will Merely Mention Here The Names Of Such

Men As Thackeray,  Tennyson,  Frederick Locker,  Stirling Of

Keir,  Tom Taylor The Dramatist,  Millais,  Leighton,  And Others

Of Lesser Note.  Cayley Was A Member Of,  And Regular

Attendant At,  The Cosmopolitan Club; Where He Met Dickens, 

Foster,  Shirley Brooks,  John Leech,  Dicky Doyle,  And The Wits

Of The Day; Many Of Whom Occasionally Formed Part Of Our

Charming Coterie In The House I Shared With His Father.

Speaking Of Tom Taylor Reminds Me Of A Good Turn He Once Did

Me In My College Examination At Cambridge.  Whewell Was Then 

Master Of Trinity.  One Of The Subjects I Had To Take Up Was

Either The 'Amicitia' Or The 'Senectute' (I Forget Which). 

Whewell,  More Formidable And Alarming Than Ever,  Opened The

Book At Hazard,  And Set Me On To Construe.  I Broke Down.  He

Turned Over The Page; Again I Stuck Fast.  The Truth Is,  I

Had Hardly Looked At My Lesson,  - Trusting To My Recollection

Of Parts Of It To Carry Me Through,  If Lucky,  With The Whole.

'What's Your Name,  Sir?' Was The Master's Gruff Inquiry.  He

Did Not Catch It.  But Tom Taylor - Also An Examiner -

Sitting Next To Him,  Repeated My Reply,  With The Addition, 

'Just Returned From China,  Where He Served As A Midshipman In

The Late War.'  He Then Took The Book Out Of Whewell's Hands, 

And Giving It To Me Closed,  Said Good-Naturedly:  'Let Us

Have Another Try,  Mr. Coke.'  The Chance Was Not Thrown Away;

I Turned To A Part I Knew,  And Rattled Off As If My First

Examiner Had Been To Blame,  Not I.

Before Dropping The Curtain On My College Days I Must Relate

A Little Adventure Which Is Amusing As An Illustration Of My

Reverend Friend Napier's Enthusiastic Spontaneity.  My Own

Share In The Farce Is A Subordinate Matter.

During The Christmas Party At Holkham I Had 'Fallen In Love,'

As The Phrase Goes,  With A Young Lady Whose Uncle (She Had

Neither Father Nor Mother) Had Rented A Place In The

Neighbourhood.  At The End Of His Visit He Invited Me To

Shoot There The Following Week.  For What Else Had I Paid Him

Assiduous Attention,  And Listened Like An Angel To The

Interminable History Of His Gout?  I Went; And Before I Left, 

Proposed To,  And Was Accepted By,  The Young Lady.  I Was

Still At Cambridge,  Not Of Age,  And Had But Moderate Means. 

As For The Maiden,  'My Face Is My Fortune' She Might Have

Said.  The Aunt,  Therefore,  Very Properly Pooh-Poohed The

Whole Affair,  And Declined To Entertain The Possibility Of An

Engagement; The Elderly Gentleman Got A Bad Attack Of Gout;

And Every Wire Of Communication Being Cut,  Not An Obstacle

Was Wanting To Render Persistence The Sweetest Of Miseries.

Napier Was My Confessor,  And Became As Keen To Circumvent The

'Old She-Dragon,' So He Called Her,  As I Was.  Frequent And

Long Were Our Consultations,  But They Generally Ended In 

Suggestions And Schemes So Preposterous,  That The Only Result

Was An Immoderate Fit Of Laughter On Both Sides.  At Length

It Came To This (The Proposition Was Not Mine):  We Were To

Hire A Post Chaise And Drive To The Inn At G-.  I Was To

Write A Note To The Young Lady Requesting Her To Meet Me At

Some Trysting Place.  The Note Was To State That A Clergyman

Would Accompany Me,  Who Was Ready And Willing To Unite Us

There And Then In Holy Matrimony; That I Would Bring The

Licence In My Pocket; That After The Marriage We Could Confer

As To Ways And Means; And That - She Could Leave The Rest To

Me.

No Enterprise Was Ever More Merrily Conceived,  Or More

Seriously Undertaken.  (Please To Remember That My Friend Was

Not So Very Much Older Than I; And,  In Other Respects,  Was

Quite As Juvenile.)

Whatever Was To Come Of It,  The Drive Was Worth The Venture. 

The Number Of Possible And Impossible Contingencies Provided

For Kept Us Occupied By The Hour.  Furnished With A Well-

Filled Luncheon Basket,  We Regaled Ourselves And Fortified

Our Courage; While Our Hilarity Increased As We Neared,  Or

Imagined That We Neared,  The Climax.  Unanimously We Repeated

Dr. Johnson's Exclamation In A Post Chaise:  'Life Has Not

Many Things Better Than This.'

But Where Were We?  Our Watches Told Us That We Had Been Two

Hours Covering A Distance Of Eleven Miles.

'Hi!  Hullo!  Stop!' Shouted Napier.  In Those Days Post

Horses Were Ridden,  Not Driven; And About All We Could See Of

The Post Boy Was What Mistress Tabitha Bramble Saw Of

Humphrey Clinker.  'Where The Dickens Have We Got To Now?'

'Don't Know,  I'm Sure,  Sir,' Says The Boy; 'Never Was In

These 'Ere Parts Afore.'

'Why,' Shouts The Vicar,  After A Survey Of The Landscape,  'If

I Can See A Church By Daylight,  That's Blakeney Steeple; And

We Are Only Three Miles From Where We Started.'

Sure Enough It Was So.  There Was Nothing For It But To Stop

At The Nearest House,  Give The Horses A Rest And A Feed,  And

Make A Fresh Start,  - Better Informed As To Our Topography.

It Was Past Four On That Summer Afternoon When We Reached Our

Destination.  The Plan Of Campaign Was Cut And Dried.  I

Called For Writing Materials,  And Indicted My Epistle As

Agreed Upon.

'To Whom Are You Telling Her To Address The Answer?' Asked My

Accomplice.  'We're Incog. You Know.  It Won't Do For Either

Of Us To Be Known.'

'Certainly Not,' Said I.  'What Shall It Be?  White? Black?

Brown? Or Green?'

'Try Browne With An E,' Said He.  'The E Gives An

Aristocratic Flavour.  We Can't Afford To Risk Our

Respectability.'

The Note Sealed,  I Rang The Bell For The Landlord,  Desired

Him To Send It Up To The Hall And Tell The Messenger To Wait

For An Answer.

As Our Host Was Leaving The Room He Turned Round,  With His

Hand On The Door,  And Said:

'Beggin' Your Pardon,  Mr. Cook,  Would You And Mr. Napeer

Please To Take Dinner Here?  I've Soom Beatiful Lamb Chops, 

And You Could Have A Ducklin' And Some Nice Young Peas To

Your Second Course.  The Post-Boy Says The 'Osses Is Pretty

Nigh Done Up; But By The Time - '

'How Did You Know Our Names?' Asked My Companion.

'Law Sir!  The Post-Boy,  He Told Me.  But,  Beggin' Your

Pardon,  Mr. Napeer,  My Daughter,  She Lives In Holkham

Willage; And I've Heard You Preach Afore Now.'

'Let's Have The Dinner By All Means,' Said I.

'If The Bishop Sequesters My Living,' Cried Napier,  With

Solemnity,  'I'll Summon The Landlord For Defamation Of

Character.  But Time's Up.  You Must Make For The Boat-House, 

Which Is On The Other Side Of The Park.  I'll Go With You To

The Head Of The Lake.'

We Had Not Gone Far,  When We Heard The Sound Of An

Approaching Vehicle.  What Did We See But An Open Carriage, 

With Two Ladies In It,  Not A Hundred Yards Behind Us.

'The Aunt! By All That's - !'

What -  I Never Heard; For,  Before The Sentence Was

Completed,  The Speaker's Long Legs Were Scampering Out Of

Sight In The Direction Of A Clump Of Trees,  I Following As

Hard As I Could Go.

As The Carriage Drove Past,  My Friar Lawrence Was Lying In A

Ditch,  While I Was Behind An Oak.  We Were Near Enough To

Discern The Niece,  And Consequently We Feared To Be

Recognised.  The Situation Was Neither Dignified Nor

Romantic.  My Friend Was Sanguine,  Though Big Ardour Was

Slightly Damped By The Ditch Water.  I Doubted The Expediency

Of Trying The Boat-House,  But He Urged The Risk Of Her

Disappointment,  Which Made The Attempt Imperative.

The Padre Returned To The Inn To Dry Himself,  And,  In Due

Course,  I Rejoined Him.  He Met Me With The Answer To My

Note.  'The Boat-House,' It Declared,  'Was Out Of The

Question.  But So,  Of Course,  Was The Possibility Of Change. 

We Must Put Our Trust In Providence.  Time Could Make No

Difference In Our Case,  Whatever It Might Do With Others. 

She,  At Any Rate,  Could Wait For Years.'  Upon The Whole The

Result