Tracks Of A Rolling Stone by Henry J. Coke (free e reader txt) 📖
- Author: Henry J. Coke
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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
Chapter 1 Pg 7River, 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
Chapter 1 Pg 8Possibility 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?
Chapter 2 Pg 9
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.
Chapter 2 Pg 10The 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
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