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

Quantity Of Snuff Up Their Noses And Under Their Finger-

Nails.  The Ladies Did A Good Deal Of Shopping,  And We

Finished Off At The Flower Market By The Madeleine,  Where I, 

Through The Agency Of Mademoiselle Aglae,  Bought Plants For

'Maman.'  This Gave 'Maman' Un Plaisir Inoui,  And Me Too; For

The Dear Old Lady Always Presented Me With A Stick Of Barley-

Sugar In Return.  As I Never Possessed A Sou (Miss Aglae Kept

Account Of All My Expenses And Disbursements) I Was Strongly

In Favour Of Buying Plants For 'Maman.'

I Loved The Garden.  It Was Such A Beautiful Garden; So

Beautifully Kept By Monsieur Benoit,  And Withered Old Mere

Michele,  Who Did The Weeding And Helped Rose Once A Week In

The Laundry.  There Were Such Pretty Trellises,  Covered With 

Roses And Clematis; Such Masses Of Bright Flowers And Sweet

Mignonette; Such Tidy Gravel Walks And Clipped Box Edges;

Such Floods Of Sunshine; So Many Butterflies And Lizards

Basking In It; The Birds Singing With Excess Of Joy.  I Used

To Fancy They Sang In Gratitude To The Dear Old Marquise,  Who

Never Forgot Them In The Winter Snows.

What A Quaint But Charming Picture She Was Amidst This

Quietude,  - She Who Had Lived Through The Reign Of Terror: 

Her Mob Cap,  Garden Apron,  And Big Gloves; A Trowel In One

Hand,  A Watering-Pot In The Other; Potting And Unpotting; So

Busy,  Seemingly So Happy.  She Loved To Have Me With Her,  And

Let Me Do The Watering.  What A Pleasure That Was!  The

Scores Of Little Jets From The Perforated Rose,  The Gushing

Sound,  The Freshness And The Sparkle,  The Gratitude Of The

Plants,  To Say Nothing Of One's Own Wet Legs.  'Maman' Did

Not Approve Of My Watering My Own Legs.  But If The Watering-

Pot Was Too Big For Me How Could I Help It?  By And By A

Small One Painted Red Within And Green Outside Was Discovered

In Bourg-La-Reine,  And I Was Happy Ever Afterwards.

Much Of My Time Was Spent With The Children And Nurses Of The

Family Which Occupied The Chateau.  The Costume Of The Head

Nurse With Her High Normandy Cap (Would That I Had A Female

Pen For Details) Invariably Suggested To Me That She Would

Make Any English Showman's Fortune,  If He Could Only Exhibit

Her Stuffed.  At The Cottage They Called Her 'La Grosse

Normande.'  Not Knowing Her By Any Other Name,  I Always So

Addressed Her.  She Was Not Very Quick-Witted,  But I Think

She A Little Resented My Familiarity,  And Retaliated By

Comparisons Between Her Compatriots And Mine,  Always In A

Tone Derogatory To The Latter.  She Informed Me As A Matter

Of History,  Patent To All Nurses,  That The English Race Were

Notoriously Bow-Legged; And That This Was Due To The Vicious

Practice Of Allowing Children To Use Their Legs Before The

Gristle Had Become Bone.  Being Of An Inquiring Turn Of Mind, 

I Listened With Awe To This Physiological Revelation,  And

With Chastened And Depressed Spirits Made A Mental Note Of

Our National Calamity.  Privately I Fancied That The Mottled

And Spasmodic Legs Of Achille - Whom She Carried In Her Arms

- Or At Least So Much Of The Infant Pelides' Legs As Were Not

Enveloped In A Napkin,  Gave Every Promise Of Refuting Her

Generalisation.

One Of My Amusements Was To Set Brick Traps For Small Birds. 

At Holkham In The Winter Time,  By Baiting With A Few Grains

Of Corn,  I And My Brothers Used,  In This Way,  To Capture

Robins,  Hedge-Sparrows,  And Tits.  Not Far From The Chateau

Was A Large Osier Bed,  Resorted To By Flocks Of The Common

Sparrow.  Here I Set My Traps.  But It Being Summer Time,  And

(As I Complained When Twitted With Want Of Success) French

Birds Being Too Stupid To Know What The Traps Were For,  I

Never Caught A Feather.  Now This Osier Bed Was A Favourite

Game Covert For The Sportsmen Of The Chateau; And What Was My 

Delight And Astonishment When One Morning I Found A Dead Hare

With Its Head Under The Fallen Brick Of My Trap.  How

Triumphantly I Dragged It Home,  And Showed It To Rose And

Auguste,  - Who More Than The Rest Had 'Mocked Themselves' Of

My Traps,  And Then Carried It In My Arms,  All Bloody As It

Was (I Could Not Make Out How Both Its Hind Legs Were Broken)

Into The Salon To Show It To The Old Marquise.  Mademoiselle

Henriette,  Who Was There,  Gave A Little Scream (For Effect)

At Sight Of The Blood.  Everybody Was Pleased.  But When I

Overheard Rose's Sotto Voce To The Marquise:  'Comme Ils Sont

Gentils!' I Indignantly Retorted That 'It Wasn't Kind Of The

Hare At All:  It Was Entirely Due To My Skill In Setting The

Traps.  They Would Catch Anything That Put Its Head Into

Them.  Just You Try.'

How Severe Are The Shocks Of Early Disillusionment!  It Was

Not Until Long After The Hare Was Skinned,  Roasted,  Served As

Civet And As Puree That I Discovered The Truth.  I Was Not At

All Grateful To The Gentlemen Of The Chateau Whose Dupe I Had

Been; Was Even Wrath With My Dear Old 'Maman' For Treating

Them With Extra Courtesy For Their Kindness To Her Petit

Cheri.

That Was A Happy Summer.  After It Was Ended,  And It Was Time

For Me To Return To England And Begin My Education For The

Navy I Never Again Set Eyes On Larue,  Or That Charming Nest

Of Old Ladies Who Had Done Their Utmost To Spoil Me.  Many

And Many A Time Have I Been To Paris,  But Nothing Could Tempt

Me To Visit Larue.  So It Is With Me.  Often Have I

Questioned The Truth Of The Nessun Maggior Dolore Than The

Memory Of Happy Times In The Midst Of Sorry Ones.  The

Thought Of Happiness,  It Would Seem,  Should Surely Make Us

Happier,  And Yet - Not Of Happiness For Ever Lost.  And Are

Not The Deepening Shades Of Our Declining Sun Deepened By

Youth's Contrast?  Whatever Our Sweetest Songs May Tell Us

Of,  We Are The Sadder For Our Sweetest Memories.  The Grass

Can Never Be As Green Again To Eyes Grown Watery.  The Lambs

That Skipped When We Did Were Long Since Served As Mutton. 

And If

Die Fusse Tragen Mich So Muthig Nicht Empor

Die Hohen Stufen Die Ich Kindisch Ubersprang,

Why,  I Will Take The Fact For Granted.  My Youth Is Fled,  My

Friends Are Dead.  The Daisies And The Snows Whiten By Turns

The Grave Of Him Or Her - The Dearest I Have Loved.  Shall I 

Make A Pilgrimage To That Sepulchre?  Drop Futile Tears Upon

It?  Will They Warm What Is No More?  I For One Have Not The

Heart For That.  Happily Life Has Something Else For Us To

Do.  Happily 'Tis Best To Do It.

The Passage From The Romantic To The Realistic,  From The

Chimerical To The Actual,  From The Child's Poetic

Interpretation Of Life To Life's Practical Version Of Itself, 

Is Too Gradual To Be Noticed While The Process Is Going On. 

It Is Only In The Retrospect We See The Change.  There Is

Still,  For Yet Another Stage,  The Same And Even Greater

Receptivity,  - Delight In New Experiences,  In Gratified

Curiosity,  In Sensuous Enjoyment,  In The Exercise Of Growing

Faculties.  But The Belief In The Impossible And The Bliss Of

Ignorance Are Seen,  When Looking Back,  To Have Assumed Almost

Abruptly A Cruder State Of Maturer Dulness.  Between The

Public Schoolboy And The Child There Is An Essential

Difference; And This In A Boy's Case Is Largely Due,  I Fancy, 

To The Diminished Influence Of Woman,  And The Increased

Influence Of Men.

With Me,  Certainly,  The Rough Usage I Was Ere Long To Undergo

Materially Modified My View Of Things In General.  In 1838, 

When I Was Eleven Years Old,  My Uncle,  Henry Keppel,  The

Future Admiral Of The Fleet,  But Then A Dashing Young

Commander,  Took Me (As He Mentions In His Autobiography) To

The Naval Academy At Gosport.  The Very Afternoon Of My

Admittance - As An Illustration Of The Above Remarks - I Had

Three Fights With Three Different Boys.  After That The 'New

Boy' Was Left To His Own Devices,  - Qua 'New Boy,' That Is;

As An Ordinary Small Boy,  I Had My Share.  I Have Spoken Of

The Starvation At Dr. Pinkney's; Here It Was The Terrible

Bullying That Left Its Impress On Me - Literally Its Mark, 

For I Still Bear The Scar Upon My Hand.

Most Boys,  I Presume,  Know The Toy Called A Whirligig,  Made

By Stringing A Button On A Loop Of Thread,  The Twisting And

Untwisting Of Which By Approaching And Separating The Hands

Causes The Button To Revolve.  Upon This Design,  And By

Substituting A Jagged Disk Of Slate For The Button,  The

Senior 'Bull-Dogs' (We Were All Called 'Burney's Bull-Dogs')

Constructed A Very Simple Instrument Of Torture.  One Big Boy