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

Of Marshy Place With Canals And Osier Beds,  Now,  I Suppose, 

Ebury Street,  And Here It Was That I Was Permitted To Go And

Try My Hand At Snipe-Shooting,  A Special Privilege Given To

The Son Of The Freeholder.

'The Successful Fox-Hunt Terminating In Either Bedford Or

Russell Square Is Very Strange,  But Quite Appropriate, 

Commemorated,  I Suppose,  By The Statue There Erected.

Yours Affectionately,

'E.'

The Successful 'Fox-Hunt ' Was An Event Of Which I Told Lord

Ebury As Even More Remarkable Than His Snipe-Shooting In

Belgravia.  As It Is Still More Indicative Of The Growth Of

London In Recent Times It May Be Here Recorded.

In Connection With Mr. Gladstone's Forecasts,  I Had Written

To The Last Lord Digby,  Who Was A Grandson Of My Father's, 

Stating That I Had Heard - Whether From My Father Or Not I

Could Not Say - That He Had Killed A Fox Where Now Is Bedford

Square,  With His Own Hounds.

Lord Digby Replied:

'Minterne,  Dorset:  January 7,  1883.

'My Dear Henry,  - My Grandfather Killed A Fox With His Hounds

Either In Bedford Or Russell Square.  Old Jones,  The

Huntsman,  Who Died At Holkham When You Were A Child,  Was My

Informant.  I Asked My Grandfather If It Was Correct.  He

Said "Yes" - He Had Kennels At Epping Place,  And Hunted The

Roodings Of Essex,  Which,  He Said,  Was The Best Scenting-

Ground In England.

'Yours Affectionately,

'Digby.'

(My Father Was Born In 1754.)

Mr. W. S. Gilbert Had Been A Much Valued Friend Of Ours

Before We Lived At Rickmansworth.  We Had Been His Guests For

The 'First Night' Of Almost Every One Of His Plays - Plays

That May Have A Thousand Imitators,  But The Speciality Of

Whose Excellence Will Remain Unrivalled And Inimitable.  His

Visits To Us Introduced Him,  I Think,  To The Picturesque

Country Which He Has Now Made His Home.  When Mr. Gilbert

Built His House In Harrington Gardens He Easily Persuaded Us

To Build Next Door To Him.  This Led To My Acquaintance With

His Neighbour On The Other Side,  Mr. Walter Cassels,  Now Well

Known As The Author Of 'Supernatural Religion.'

When First Published In 1874,  This Learned Work,  Summarising

And Elaborately Examining The Higher Criticism Of The Four

Gospels Up To Date,  Created A Sensation Throughout The

Theological World,  Which Was Not A Little Intensified By The

Anonymity Of Its Author.  The Virulence With Which It Was

Attacked By Dr. Lightfoot,  The Most Erudite Bishop On The

Bench,  At Once Demonstrated Its Weighty Significance And Its

Destructive Force; While Mr. Morley's High Commendation Of

Its Literary Merits And The Scrupulous Equity Of Its Tone, 

Placed It Far Above The Level Of Controversial Diatribes.

In My 'Creeds Of The Day' I Had Made Frequent References To

The Anonymous Book; And Soon After My Introduction To Mr.

Cassels Spoke To Him Of Its Importance,  And Asked Him Whether

He Had Read It.  He Hesitated For A Moment,  Then Said:

'We Are Very Much Of The Same Way Of Thinking On These

Subjects.  I Will Tell You A Secret Which I Kept For Some

Time Even From My Publishers - I Am The Author Of

"Supernatural Religion."'

From That Time Forth,  We Became The Closest Of Allies.  I

Know No Man Whose Tastes And Opinions And Interests Are More

Completely In Accord With My Own Than Those Of Mr. Walter

Cassels.  It Is One Of My Greatest Pleasures To Meet Him

Every Summer At The Beautiful Place Of Our Mutual And

Sympathetic Friend,  Mrs. Robertson,  On The Skirts Of The

Ashtead Forest,  In Surrey.

The Winter Of 1888 I Spent At Cairo Under The Roof Of General

Sir Frederick Stephenson,  Then Commanding The English Forces

In Egypt.  I Had Known Sir Frederick As An Ensign In The

Guards.  He Was Adjutant Of His Regiment At The Alma,  And At

Inkerman.  He Is Now Colonel Of The Coldstreams And Governor

Of The Tower.  He Has Often Been Given A Still Higher Title, 

That Of 'The Most Popular Man In The Army.'

Everybody In These Days Has Seen The Pyramids,  And Has Been 

Up The Nile.  There Is Only One Name I Have To Mention Here, 

And That Is One Of The Best-Known In The World.  Mr. Thomas

Cook Was The Son Of The Original Inventor Of The 'Globe-

Trotter.'  But It Was The Extraordinary Energy And Powers Of

Organisation Of The Son That Enabled Him To Develop To Its

Present Efficiency The Initial Scheme Of The Father.

Shortly Before The General's Term Expired,  He Invited Mr.

Cook To Dinner.  The Nile Share Of The Gordon Relief

Expedition Had Been Handed Over To Cook.  The Boats,  The

Provisioning Of Them,  And The River Transport Service Up To

Wady Halfa,  Were Contracted For And Undertaken By Cook.

A Most Entertaining Account He Gave Of The Whole Affair.  He

Told Us How The Mudir Of Dongola,  Who Was By Way Of Rendering

Every Possible Assistance,  Had Offered Him An Enormous Bribe

To Wreck The Most Valuable Cargoes On Their Passage Through

The Cataracts.

Before Mr. Cook Took Leave Of The General,  He Expressed The

Regret Felt By The British Residents In Cairo At The

Termination Of Sir Frederick's Command; And Wound Up A Pretty

Little Speech By A Sincere Request That He Might Be Allowed

To Furnish Sir Frederick Gratis With All The Means At His

Disposal For A Tour Through The Holy Land.  The Liberal And

Highly Complimentary Offer Was Gratefully Acknowledged,  But

At Once Emphatically Declined.  The Old Soldier,  (At Least, 

This Was My Guess,) Brave In All Else,  Had Not The Courage To

Face The Tourists' Profanation Of Such Sacred Scenes.

Dr. Bird Told Me A Nice Story,  A Pendant To This,  Of Mr.

Thomas Cook's Liberality.  One Day,  Before The Gordon

Expedition,  Which Was Then In The Air,  Dr. Bird Was Smoking

His Cigarette On The Terrace In Front Of Shepherd's Hotel,  In

Company With Four Or Five Other Men,  Strangers To Him And To

One Another.  A Discussion Arose As To The Best Means Of

Relieving Gordon.  Each Had His Own Favourite General. 

Presently The Doctor Exclaimed:  'Why Don't They Put The

Thing Into The Hands Of Cook?  I'll Be Bound To Say He Would

Undertake It,  And Do The Job Better Than Anyone Else.'

'Do You Know Cook,  Sir?' Asked One Of The Smokers Who Had

Hitherto Been Silent.

'No,  I Never Saw Him,  But Everybody Knows He Has A Genius For

Organisation; And I Don't Believe There Is A General In The

British Army To Match Him.'

When The Company Broke Up,  The Silent Stranger Asked The

Doctor His Name And Address,  And Introduced Himself As Thomas

Cook.  The Following Winter Dr. Bird Received A Letter

Enclosing Tickets For Himself And Miss Bird For A Trip To

Egypt And Back,  Free Of Expense,  'In Return For His Good

Opinion And Good Wishes.'

After My General's Departure,  And A Month Up The Nile,  I -

Already Disillusioned,  Alas! - Rode Through Syria,  Following

The Beaten Track From Jerusalem To Damascus.  On My Way From

Alexandria To Jaffa I Had The Good Fortune To Make The

Acquaintance Of An Agreeable Fellow-Traveller,  Mr. Henry

Lopes,  Afterwards Member For Northampton,  Also Bound For

Palestine.  We Went To Constantinople And To The Crimea

Together,  Then Through Greece,  And Only Parted At Charing

Cross.

It Was Easy To Understand Sir Frederick Stephenson's

(Supposed) Unwillingness To Visit Jerusalem.  It Was Probably

Far From Being What It Is Now,  Or Even What It Was When

Pierre Loti Saw It,  For There Was No Railway From Jaffa In

Our Time.  Still,  What Loti Pathetically Describes As 'Une

Banalite De Banlieue Parisienne,' Was Even Then Too Painfully

Casting Its Vulgar Shadows Before It.  And It Was Rather With

The Forlorn Eyes Of The Sentimental Frenchman Than With The

Veneration Of Dean Stanley,  That We Wandered About The Ever-

Sacred Aceldama Of Mortally Wounded And Dying Christianity.

One Dares Not,  One Could Never,  Speak Irreverently Of

Jerusalem.  One Cannot Think Heartlessly Of A Disappointed

Love.  One Cannot Tear Out Creeds Interwoven With The

Tenderest Fibres Of One's Heart.  It Is Better To Be Silent. 

Yet Is It A Place For Unwept Tears,  For The Deep Sadness And

Hard Resignation Borne In Upon Us By The Eternal Loss Of

Something Dearer Once Than Life.  All We Who Are Weary And

Heavy Laden,  In Whom Now Shall We Seek The Rest Which Is Not

Nothingness?

My Story Is Told,  But I Fain Would Take My Leave With Words

Less Sorrowful.  If A Man Has No Better Legacy To Bequeath

Than Bid His Fellow-Beings Despair,  He Had Better Take It

With Him To His Grave.

We Know All This,  We Know!

But It Is In What We Do Not Know That Our Hope And Our

Religion Lies.  Thrice Blessed Are We In The Certainty That

Here Our Range Is Infinite.  This Infinite That Makes Our

Brains Reel,  That Begets The Feeling That Makes Us 'Shrink,'

Is Perhaps The Most Portentous Argument In The Logic Of The

Sceptic.  Since The Days Of Laplace,  We Have Been Haunted In

Some Form Or Other With The Ghost Of The Mecanique Celeste.  

Take One Or Two Commonplaces From The Text-Books Of

Astronomy:

Every Half-Hour We Are About Ten Thousand Miles Nearer To The

Constellation Of Lyra.  'The Sun And His System Must Travel

At His Present Rate For Far More Than A Million Years (Divide

This Into Half-Hours) Before We