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

I Had My Own Double-Barrelled Rifle; But Besides This,  A Man

With A Rack On His Back Bearing Three Rifles Of The Prince's, 

A Loader,  And A Forster,  With A Hunting Knife Or Short Sword

To Despatch The Wounded Quarry.  Out Of The First Rush Of

Pigs That Went By I Knocked Over Two; And,  In My Keenness, 

Jumped Out Of The Stand With The Forster Who Ran To Finish

Them Off.  I Was Immediately Collared And Brought Back; And

As Far As I Could Make Out,  Was Taken For A Lunatic,  Or At

Least For A 'Duffer,' For My Rash Attempt To Approach Unarmed

A Wounded Tusker.  When We All Met At The End Of The Day,  The

Bag Of The Five Guns Was Forty-Five Wild Boars.  The Biggest

- And He Was A Monster - Fell To The Rifle Of The Prince,  As

Was Of Course Intended.

The Old Man Took Me Home In His Carriage.  It Was A Beautiful

Drive.  One's Idea Of An English Park - Even Such A Park As

Windsor's - Dwindled Into That Of A Pleasure Ground,  When

Compared With The Boundless Territory We Drove Through.  To

Be Sure,  It Was No More A Park Than Is The New Forest; But It

Had All The Character Of The Best English Scenery - Miles Of

Fine Turf,  Dotted With Clumps Of Splendid Trees,  And Gigantic

Oaks Standing Alone In Their Majesty.  Now And Then A Herd Of

Red Deer Were Startled In Some Sequestered Glade; But No

Cattle,  No Sheep,  No Sign Of Domestic Care.  Struck With The

Charm Of This Primeval Wilderness,  I Made Some Remark About

The Richness Of The Pasture,  And Wondered There Were No Sheep

To Be Seen.  'There,' Said The Old Man,  With A Touch Of

Pride,  As He Pointed To The Blue Range Of The Carpathians;

'That Is My Farm.  I Will Tell You.  All The Celebrities Of

The Day Who Were Interested In Farming Used To Meet At

Holkham For What Was Called The Sheep-Shearing.  I Once Told

Your Father I Had More Shepherds On My Farm Than There Were 

Sheep On His.'

It Was With A Sorry Heart That I Bade Farewell To My Vienna

Friends,  My Musical Comrades,  The Legation Hospitalities,  And

My Faithful Little Israelite.  But The Colt Frisks Over The

Pasture From Sheer Superfluity Of Energy; And Between One's

Second And Third Decades Instinctive Restlessness -

Spontaneous Movement - Is The Law Of One's Being.  'Tis Then

That 'Hope Builds As Fast As Knowledge Can Destroy.'  The

Enjoyment We Abandon Is Never So Sweet As That We Seek. 

'Pleasure Never Is At Home.'  Happiness Means Action For Its

Own Sake,  Change,  Incessant Change.

I Sought And Found It In Bavaria,  Bohemia,  Russia,  All Over

Germany,  And Dropped Anchor One Day In Cracow; A Week

Afterwards In Warsaw.  These Were Out-Of-The-Way Places Then;

There Were No Tourists In Those Days; I Did Not Meet A Single

Compatriot Either In The Polish Or Russian Town.

At Warsaw I Had An Adventure Not Unlike That Which Befell Me

At Vienna.  The Whole Of Europe,  Remember,  Was In A State Of

Political Ferment.  Poland Was At Least As Ready To Rise

Against Its Oppressor Then As Now; And The Police Was

Proportionately Strict And Arbitrary.  An Army Corps Was

Encamped On The Right Bank Of The Vistula,  Ready For Expected

Emergencies.  Under These Circumstances,  Passports,  As May Be

Supposed,  Were Carefully Inspected; Except In Those Of

British Subjects,  The Person Of The Bearer Was Described -

His Height,  The Colour Of His Hair (If He Had Any),  Or Any

Mark That Distinguished Him.

In My Passport,  After My Name,  Was Added 'Et Son Domestique.' 

The Inspector Who Examined It At The Frontier Pointed To

This,  And,  In Indifferent German,  Asked Me Where That

Individual Was.  I Replied That I Had Sent Him With My

Baggage To Dresden,  To Await My Arrival There.  A

Consultation Thereupon Took Place With Another Official,  In A

Language I Did Not Understand; And To My Dismay I Was

Informed That I Was - In Custody.  The Small Portmanteau I

Had With Me,  Together With My Despatch-Box,  Was Seized; The

Latter Contained A Quantity Of Letters And My Journal.  Money

Only Was I Permitted To Retain.

Quite By The Way,  But Adding Greatly To My Discomfort,  Was

The Fact That Since Leaving Prague,  Where I Had Relinquished

Everything I Could Dispense With,  I Had Had Much Night

Travelling Amongst Native Passengers,  Who So Valued

Cleanliness That They Economised It With Religious Care.  By

The Time I Reached Warsaw,  I May Say,  Without Metonymy,  That

I Was Itching (All Over) For A Bath And A Change Of Linen. 

My Irritation,  Indeed,  Was At Its Height.  But There Was No

Appeal; And On My Arrival I Was Haled Before The Authorities.

Again,  Their Head Was A General Officer,  Though Not The Least

Like My Portly Friend At Vienna.  His Business Was To Sit In

Judgment Upon Delinquents Such As I.  He Was A Spare,  Austere

Man,  Surrounded By A Sharp-Looking Aide-De-Camp,  Several

Clerks In Uniform,  And Two Or Three Men In Mufti,  Whom I Took

To Be Detectives.  The Inspector Who Arrested Me Was Present

With My Open Despatch-Box And Journal.  The Journal He Handed

To The Aide,  Who Began At Once To Look It Through While His

Chief Was Disposing Of Another Case.

To Be Suspected And Dragged Before This Tribunal Was,  For The

Time Being (As I Afterwards Learnt) Almost Tantamount To

Condemnation.  As Soon As The General Had Sentenced My

Predecessor,  I Was Accosted As A Self-Convicted Criminal. 

Fortunately He Spoke French Like A Frenchman; And,  As It

Presently Appeared,  A Few Words Of English.

'What Country Do You Belong To?' He Asked,  As If The Question

Was But A Matter Of Form,  Put For Decency's Sake - A Mere

Prelude To Committal.

'England,  Of Course; You Can See That By My Passport.'  I Was

Determined To Fence Him With His Own Weapons.  Indeed,  In

Those Innocent Days Of My Youth,  I Enjoyed A Genuine British

Contempt For Foreigners - In The Lump - Which,  After All,  Is

About As Impartial A Sentiment As Its Converse,  That One's

Own Country Is Always In The Wrong.

'Where Did You Get It?' (With A Face Of Stone).

Prisoner (Naively): 'Where Did I Get It?  I Do Not Follow

You.'  (Don't Forget,  Please,  That Said Prisoner's Apparel

Was Unvaleted,  His Hands Unwashed,  His Linen Unchanged,  His

Hair Unkempt,  And His Face Unshaven).

General (Stonily): '"Where Did You Get It?" Was My Question.'

Prisoner (Quietly): 'From Lord Palmerston.'

General (Glancing At That Minister's Signature): 'It Says

Here,  "Et Son Domestique" - You Have No Domestique.'

Prisoner (Calmly): 'Pardon Me,  I Have A Domestic.'

General (With Severity),  'Where Is He?'

Prisoner: 'At Dresden By This Time,  I Hope.'

General (Receiving Journal From Aide-De-Camp,  Who Points To A

Certain Page): 'You State Here You Were Caught By The

Austrians In A Pretended Escape From The Viennese Insurgents;

And Add,  "They Evidently Took Me For A Spy" [Returning

Journal To Aide].  What Is Your Explanation Of This?'

Prisoner (Shrugging Shoulders Disdainfully): 'In The First

Place,  The Word "Pretended" Is Not In My Journal.  In The

Second,  Although Of Course It Does Not Follow,  If One Takes

Another Person For A Man Of Sagacity Or A Gentleman - It Does

Not Follow That He Is Either - Still,  When - '

General (With Signs Of Impatience): 'I Have Here A

Passierschein,  Found Amongst Your Papers And Signed By The

Rebels.  They Would Not Have Given You This,  Had You Not Been

On Friendly Terms With Them.  You Will Be Detained Until I

Have Further Particulars.'

Prisoner (Angrily): 'I Will Assist You,  Through Her Britannic

Majesty's Consul,  With Whom I Claim The Right To Communicate. 

I Beg To Inform You That I Am Neither A Spy Nor A Socialist, 

But The Son Of An English Peer' (Heaven Help The Relevancy!). 

'An Englishman Has Yet To Learn That Lord Palmerston's

Signature Is To Be Set At Naught And Treated With Contumacy.'

The General Beckoned To The Inspector To Put An End To The

Proceedings.  But The Aide,  Who Had Been Studying The

Journal,  Again Placed It In His Chief's Hands.  A Colloquy

Ensued,  In Which I Overheard The Name Of Lord Ponsonby.  The

Enemy Seemed To Waver,  So I Charged With A Renewed Request To

See The English Consul.  A Pause; Then Some Remarks In

Russian From The Aide; Then The General (In Suaver Tones):

'The English Consul,  I Find,  Is Absent On A Month's Leave. 

If What You State Is True,  You Acted Unadvisedly In Not

Having Your Passport Altered And Revise When You Parted With

Your Servant.  How Long Do You Wish To Remain Here?'

Said I,  'Vous Avez Bien Raison,  Monsieur.  Je Suis Evidemment

Dans Mon Tort.  Ma Visite A Varsovie Etait Une Aberration. 

As To My Stay,  Je Suis Deja Tout Ce Qu'il Y A De Plus Ennuye. 

I Have Seen Enough Of Warsaw To Last For The Rest Of My

Days.'

Eventually My Portmanteau And Despatch-Box Were Restored To

Me; And I Took Up My Quarters In The Filthiest Inn (There Was

No Better,  I Believe) That It Was Ever My Misfortune To Lodge

At.  It Was Ancient,  Dark,  Dirty,  And Dismal.  My Sitting-

Room (I Had A Cupboard Besides To Sleep In) Had But One

Window,  Looking Into A Gloomy Courtyard.  The Furniture