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

Was Lord Lynedoch.  My Earliest Recollections Of Him Owe

Their Vividness To Three Accidents - In The Logical Sense Of

The Term:  His Silky Milk-White Locks,  His Spanish Servant

Who Wore Earrings - And Whom,  By The Way,  I Used To Confound

With Courvoisier,  Often There At The Same Time With His

Master Lord William Russell,  For The Murder Of Whom He Was

Hanged,  As All The World Knows - And His Fox Terrier Nettle, 

Which,  As A Special Favour,  I Was Allowed To Feed With

Abernethy Biscuits.

He Was At Longford,  My Present Home,  On A Visit To My Father

In 1835,  When,  One Evening After Dinner,  The Two Old

Gentlemen - No One Else Being Present But Myself - Sitting In

Armchairs Over The Fire,  Finishing Their Bottle Of Port,  Lord

Lynedoch Told The Wonderful Story Of His Adventures During

The Siege Of Mantua By The French,  In 1796.  For Brevity's

Sake,  It Were Better Perhaps To Give The Outline In The Words

Of Alison.  'It Was High Time The Imperialists Should Advance

To The Relief Of This Fortress,  Which Was Now Reduced To The

Last Extremity From Want Of Provisions.  At A Council Of War

Held In The End Of December,  It Was Decided That It Was

Indispensable That Instant Intelligence Should Be Sent To

Alvinzi Of Their Desperate Situation.  An English Officer, 

Attached To The Garrison,  Volunteered To Perform The Perilous

Mission,  Which He Executed With Equal Courage And Success. 

He Set Out,  Disguised As A Peasant,  From Mantua On December

29,  At Nightfall In The Midst Of A Deep Fall Of Snow,  Eluded

The Vigilance Of The French Patrols,  And,  After Surmounting A

Thousand Hardships And Dangers,  Arrived At The Headquarters

Of Alvinzi,  At Bassano,  On January 4,  The Day After The

Conferences At Vicenza Were Broken Up.

'Great Destinies Awaited This Enterprising Officer.  He Was

Colonel Graham,  Afterwards Victor At Barrosa,  And The First

British General Who Planted The English Standard On The Soil

Of France.'

This Bare Skeleton Of The Event Was Endued 'With Sense And

Soul' By The Narrator.  The 'Hardships And Dangers' Thrilled

One's Young Nerves.  Their Two Salient Features Were Ice

Perils,  And The No Less Imminent One Of Being Captured And

Shot As A Spy.  The Crossing Of The Rivers Stands Out

Prominently In My Recollection.  All The Bridges Were Of

Course Guarded,  And He Had Two At Least Within The Enemy's

Lines To Get Over - Those Of The Mincio And Of The Adige. 

Probably The Lagunes Surrounding The Invested Fortress Would

Be His Worst Difficulty.  The Adige He Described As Beset

With A Two-Fold Risk - The Avoidance Of The Bridges,  Which

Courted Suspicion,  And The Thin Ice And Only Partially Frozen 

River,  Which Had To Be Traversed In The Dark.  The Vigour, 

The Zest With Which The Wiry Veteran 'Shoulder'd His Crutch

And Show'd How Fields Were Won' Was Not A Thing To Be

Forgotten.

Lord Lynedoch Lived To A Great Age,  And It Was From His House

At Cardington,  In Bedfordshire,  That My Brother Leicester

Married His First Wife,  Miss Whitbread,  In 1843.  That Was

The Last Time I Saw Him.

Perhaps The Following Is Not Out Of Place Here,  Although It

Is Connected With More Serious Thoughts:

Though Neither My Father Nor My Mother Were More Pious Than

Their Neighbours,  We Children Were Brought Up Religiously. 

From Infancy We Were Taught To Repeat Night And Morning The

Lord's Prayer,  And Invoke Blessings On Our Parents.  It Was

Instilled Into Us By Constant Repetition That God Did Not

Love Naughty Children - Our Naughtiness Being For The Most

Part The Original Sin Of Disobedience,  Rooted In The Love Of

Forbidden Fruit In All Its Forms Of Allurement.  Moses

Himself Could Not Have Believed More Faithfully In The Direct

And Immediate Intervention Of An Avenging God.  The Pain In

One's Stomach Incident To Unripe Gooseberries,  No Less Than

The Consequent Black Dose,  Or The Personal Chastisement Of A

Responsible And Apprehensive Nurse,  Were But The Just

Visitations Of An Offended Deity.

Whether My Religious Proclivities Were More Pronounced Than

Those Of Other Children I Cannot Say,  But Certainly,  As A

Child,  I Was In The Habit Of Appealing To Omnipotence To

Gratify Every Ardent Desire.

There Were Peacocks In The Pleasure Grounds At Holkham,  And I

Had An Aesthetic Love For Their Gorgeous Plumes.  As I Hunted

Under And Amongst The Shrubs,  I Secretly Prayed That My

Search Might Be Rewarded.  Nor Had I A Doubt,  When

Successful,  That My Prayer Had Been Granted By A Beneficent

Providence.

Let No One Smile At This Infantine Credulity,  For Is It Not

The Basis Of That Religious Trust Which Helps So Many Of Us

To Support The Sorrows To Which Our Stoicism Is Unequal?  Who

That Might Be Tempted Thoughtlessly To Laugh At The Child

Does Not Sometimes Sustain The Hope Of Finding His 'Plumes'

By Appeals Akin To Those Of His Childhood?  Which Of Us Could

Not Quote A Hundred Instances Of Such A Soothing Delusion -

If Delusion It Be?  I Speak Not Of Saints,  But Of Sinners: 

Of The Countless Hosts Who Aspire To This World's Happiness;

Of The Dying Who Would Live,  Of The Suffering Who Would Die, 

Of The Poor Who Would Be Rich,  Of The Aggrieved Who Seek

Vengeance,  Of The Ugly Who Would Be Beautiful,  Of The Old Who

Would Appear Young,  Of The Guilty Who Would Not Be Found Out, 

And Of The Lover Who Would Possess.  Ah! The Lover.  Here 

Possibility Is A Negligible Element.  Consequences Are Of No

Consequence.  Passion Must Be Served.  When Could A Miracle

Be More Pertinent?

It Is Just Fifty Years Ago Now; It Was During The Indian

Mutiny.  A Lady Friend Of Mine Did Me The Honour To Make Me

Her Confidant.  She Paid The Same Compliment To Many - Most

Of Her Friends; And The Friends (As Is Their Wont) Confided

In One Another.  Poor Thing! Her Case Was A Sad One.  Whose

Case Is Not?  She Was,  By Her Own Account,  In The Forty-

Second Year Of Her Virginity; And It May Be Added, 

Parenthetically,  An Honest Fourteen Stone In Weight.

She Was In Love With A Hero Of Lucknow.  It Cannot Be Said

That She Knew Him Only By His Well-Earned Fame.  She Had Seen

Him,  Had Even Sat By Him At Dinner.  He Was Young,  He Was

Handsome.  It Was Love At Sight,  Accentuated By Much

Meditation - 'Obsessions [Peradventure] Des Images

Genetiques.'  She Told Me (And Her Other Confidants,  Of

Course) That She Prayed Day And Night That This Distinguished

Officer,  This Handsome Officer,  Might Return Her Passion. 

And Her Letters To Me (And To Other Confidants) Invariably

Ended With The Entreaty That I (And Her Other,  &C.) Would

Offer Up A Similar Prayer On Her Behalf.  Alas! Poor Soul, 

Poor Body!  I Should Say,  The Distinguished Officer,  Together

With The Invoked Providence,  Remained Equally Insensible To

Her Supplications.  The Lady Rests In Peace.  The Soldier, 

Though A Veteran,  Still Exults In War.

But Why Do I Cite This Single Instance?  Are There Not

Millions Of Such Entreaties Addressed To Heaven On This,  And

On Every Day?  What Difference Is There,  In Spirit,  Between

Them And The Child's Prayer For His Feather?  Is There

Anything Great Or Small In The Eye Of Omniscience?  Or Is It

Not Our Thinking Only That Makes It So?

Soon After I Was Seven Years Old,  I Went To What Was Then, 

And Is Still,  One Of The Most Favoured Of Preparatory Schools

- Temple Grove - At East Sheen,  Then Kept By Dr. Pinkney.  I

Was Taken Thither From Holkham By A Great Friend Of My

Father's,  General Sir Ronald Ferguson,  Whose Statue Now

Adorns One Of The Niches In The Facade Of Wellington College.  

The School Contained About 120 Boys; But I Cannot Name Any

One Of The Lot Who Afterwards Achieved Distinction.  There

Were Three Macaulays There,  Nephews Of The Historian - Aulay, 

Kenneth,  And Hector.  But I Have Lost Sight Of All.

Temple Grove Was A Typical Private School Of That Period. 

The Type Is Familiar To Everyone In Its Photograph As

Dotheboys Hall.  The Progress Of The Last Century In Many

Directions Is Great Indeed; But In Few Is It Greater Than In

The Comfort And The Cleanliness Of Our Modern Schools.  The

Luxury Enjoyed By The Present Boy Is A Constant Source Of

Astonishment To Us Grandfathers.  We Were Half Starved,  We

Were Exceedingly Dirty,  We Were Systematically Bullied,  And

We Were Flogged And Caned As Though The Master's Pleasure Was

In Inverse Ratio To Ours.  The Inscription On The Threshold

Should Have Been 'Cave Canem.'

We Began Our Day As At Dotheboys Hall With Two Large

Spoonfuls Of Sulphur And Treacle.  After An Hour's Lessons We

Breakfasted On One Bowl Of Milk - 'Skyblue' We Called It -

And One Hunch Of Buttered Bread,  Unbuttered At Discretion. 

Our Dinner Began With Pudding - Generally Rice - To Save The

Butcher's Bill.  Then Mutton - Which Was Quite Capable Of

Taking Care Of Itself.  Our Only Other Meal Was A Basin Of

'Skyblue' And Bread As Before.

As To Cleanliness,  I Never Had A Bath,  Never Bathed (At The

School) During The Two Years I Was There.  On Saturday

Nights,  Before Bed,  Our Feet Were Washed By The Housemaids, 

In Tubs Round Which Half A Dozen Of Us Sat At A Time.  Woe To

The Last Comers! For The Water Was Never Changed.  How We

Survived The Food,  Or Rather The Want Of It,  Is A Marvel. 

Fortunately For Me,  I Used To Discover,  When I Got Into Bed, 

A Thickly Buttered Crust Under My Pillow.  I Believed,  I

Never Quite Made Sure,  (For The Act Was Not Admissible),  That

My Good Fairy Was A Fiery-Haired Lassie (We Called Her

'Carrots,' Though I Had My Doubts As To This Being