Tracks Of A Rolling Stone, Henry J. Coke [kiss me liar novel english txt] 📗

When We

Look Into It,  Is Of More Importance Than The Renown Of An Ex-

Prime Minister.  If These Pages Are Ever Read,  What Follows

Will Be As Distasteful To Some Of My Own Friends As The Above

Remarks To Mr. Gladstone's.

 

Pardon A Word About The Writer Himself - It Is Needed To

Emphasise And Justify These Obiter Dicta.  I Was Brought Up

As A Sportsman:  I Cannot Remember The Days When I Began To

Shoot.  I Had A Passion For All Kinds Of Sport,  And Have Had

Opportunities Of Gratifying It Such As Fall To The Lot Of

Few.  After The Shootings Of Glenquoich And Invergarry Were

Lost To Me Through The Death Of Mr. Ellice,  I Became Almost

The Sole Guest Of Mr. Thistlethwayte For Twelve Years At His

Highland Shooting Of Kinlochmohr,  Not Very Far From Fort

William.  He Rented The Splendid Deer Forest Of Mamore, 

Extensive Grouse Moors,  And A Salmon River Within Ten

Minutes' Walk Of The Lodge.  His Marriage And His

Eccentricities Of Mind And Temper Led Him To Shun All 

Chapter 47 Pg 255

Society.  We Often Lived In Bothies At Opposite Ends Of The

Forest,  Returning To The Lodge On Saturday Till Monday

Morning.  For A Sportsman,  No Life Could Be More Enjoyable. 

I Was My Own Stalker,  Taking A Couple Of Gillies For The

Ponies,  But Finding The Deer For Myself - Always The Most

Difficult Part Of The Sport - And Stalking Them For Myself.

 

I May Here Observe That,  Not Very Long After I Married, 

Qualms Of Conscience Smote Me As To The Justifiability Of

Killing,  And Wounding,  Animals For Amusement's Sake.  The

More I Thought Of It,  The Less It Bore Thinking About. 

Finally I Gave It Up Altogether.  But I Went On Several Years

After This With The Deer-Stalking; The True Explanation Of

This Inconsistency Would,  I Fear,  Be That I Had Had Enough Of

The One,  But Would Never Have Enough Of The Other - One's

Conscience Adapts Itself Without Much Difficulty To One's

Inclinations.

 

Between My Host And Myself,  There Was A Certain Amount Of

Rivalry; And As The Head Forester Was His Stalker,  The

Rivalry Between Our Men Aroused Rancorous Jealousy.  I Think

The Gillies On Either Side Would Have Spoilt The Others'

Sport,  Could They Have Done So With Impunity.  For Two

Seasons,  A Very Big Stag Used Occasionally To Find Its Way

Into Our Forest From The Black Mount,  Where It Was Also

Known.  Thistlethwayte Had Had A Chance,  And Missed It; Then

My Turn Came.  I Got A Long Snap-Shot End On At The Galloping

Stag.  It Was An Unsportsmanlike Thing To Do,  But Considering

The Rivalry And Other Temptations I Fired,  And Hit The Beast

In The Haunch.  It Was Late In The Day,  And The Wounded

Animal Escaped.

 

Nine Days Later I Spied The 'Big Stag' Again.  He Was Nearly

In The Middle Of A Herd Of About Twenty,  Mostly Hinds,  On The

Look-Out.  They Were On A Large Open Moss At The Bottom Of A

Corrie,  Whence They Could See A Moving Object On Every Side

Of Them.  A Stalk Where They Were Was Out Of The Question.  I

Made Up My Mind To Wait And Watch.

 

Now Comes The Moral Of My Story.  For Hours I Watched That

Stag.  Though Three Hundred Yards Or So Away From Me,  I Could

Through My Glass See Almost The Expression Of His Face.  Not

Once Did He Rise Or Attempt To Feed,  But Lay Restlessly

Beating His Head Upon The Ground For Hour After Hour.  I Knew

Well Enough What That Meant.  I Could Not Hear His Groans. 

His Plaints Could Not Reach My Ears,  But They Reached My

Heart.  The Refrain Varied Little:  'How Long Shall I Cry And

Thou Wilt Not Hear?' - That Was The Monotonous Burden Of The

Moans,  Though Sometimes I Fancied It Changed To:  'Lord How

Long Shall The Wicked,  How Long Shall The Wicked Triumph?'

 

The Evening Came,  And Then,  As Is Their Habit,  The Deer Began

To Feed Up Wind.  The Wounded Stag Seemed Loth To Stir.  By

Degrees The Last Watchful Hind Fed Quietly Out Of Sight.  

Chapter 47 Pg 256

With Throbbing Pulse And With The Instincts Of A Fox - Or

Prehistoric Man,  'Tis All The Same - I Crawled And Dragged

Myself Through The Peat Bog And The Pools Of Water.  But

Nearer Than Two Hundred Yards It Was Impossible To Get; Even

To Raise My Head Or Find A Tussock Whereon To Rest The Rifle

Would Have Started Any Deer But This One.  From The Hollow I

Was In,  The Most I Could See Of Him Was The Outline Of His

Back And His Head And Neck.  I Put Up The 200 Yards Sight And

Killed Him.

 

A Vivid Description Of The Body Is Not Desirable.  It Was

Almost Fleshless,  Wasted Away,  Except His Wounded Haunch. 

That Was Nearly Twice Its Normal Size; About One Half Of It

Was Maggots.  The Stench Drove Us All Away.  This I Had Done, 

And I Had Done It For My Pleasure!

 

After That Year I Went No More To Scotland.  I Blame No One

For His Pursuit Of Sport.  But I Submit That He Must Follow

It,  If At All,  With Reason's Eyes Shut.  Happily,  Your True

Sportsman Does Not Violate His Conscience.  As A Friend Of

Mine Said To Me The Other Day,  'Unless You Give A Man Of That

Kind Something To Kill,  His Own Life Is Not Worth Having.' 

This,  To Be Sure,  Is All He Has To Think About.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 48 Pg 257

 

 

For Eight Or Nine Years,  While My Sons Were At School,  I

Lived At Rickmansworth.  Unfortunately The Leweses Had Just

Left It.  Moor Park Belonged To Lord Ebury,  My Wife's Uncle, 

And The Beauties Of Its Magnificent Park And The Amenities Of

Its Charming House Were At All Times Open To Us,  And Freely

Taken Advantage Of.  During Those Nine Years I Lived The Life

Of A Student,  And Wrote And Published The Book I Have

Elsewhere Spoken Of,  The 'Creeds Of The Day.'

 

Of The Visitors Of Note Whose Acquaintance I Made While I Was

Staying At Moor Park,  By Far The Most Illustrious Was Froude. 

He Was Too Reserved A Man To Lavish His Intimacy When Taken

Unawares; And If He Suspected,  As He Might Have Done By My

Probing,  That One Wanted To Draw Him Out,  He Was Much Too

Shrewd To Commit Himself To Definite Expressions Of Any Kind

Until He Knew Something Of His Interviewer.  Reticence Of

This Kind,  On The Part Of Such A Man,  Is Both Prudent And

Commendable.  But Is Not This Habit Of Cautiousness Sometimes 

Chapter 48 Pg 258

Carried To The Extent Of Ambiguity In His 'Short Studies On

Great Subjects'?  The Careful Reader Is Left In No Sort Of

Doubt As To Froude's Own Views Upon Biblical Criticism,  As To

His Theological Dogmas,  Or His Speculative Opinions.  But The

Conviction Is Only Reached By Comparing Him With Himself In

Different Moods,  By Collating Essay With Essay,  And One Part

Of An Essay With Another Part Of The Same Essay.  Sometimes

We Have An Astute Defence Of Doctrines Worthy At Least Of A

Temperate Apologist,  And A Few Pages Further On We Wonder

Whether The Writer Was Not Masking His Disdain For The

Credulity Which He Now Exposes And Laughs At.  Neither

Excessive Caution Nor Timidity Are Implied By His Editing Of

The Carlyle Papers; And He May Have Failed - Who That Has

Done So Much Has Not? - In Keeping His Balance On The Swaying

Slack-Rope Between The Judicious And The Injudicious.  In His

Own Line,  However,  He Is,  To My Taste,  The Most Scholarly, 

The Most Refined,  And The Most Suggestive,  Of Our Recent

Essayists.  The Man Himself In Manner And In Appearance Was

In Perfect Keeping With These Attractive Qualities.

 

While Speaking Of Moor Park And Its Kind Owner I May Avail

Myself Of This Opportunity To Mention An Early Reminiscence

Of Lord Ebury's Concerning The Grosvenor Estate In London.

 

Mr. Gladstone Was Wont To Amuse Himself With Speculations As

To The Future Dimensions Of London; What Had Been Its Growth

Within His Memory; What Causes Might Arise To Cheek Its

Increase.  After Listening To His Remarks On The Subject One

Day At Dinner,  I Observed That I Had Heard Lord Ebury Talk Of

Shooting Over Ground Which Is Now Eaton Square.  Mr.

Gladstone Of Course Did Not Doubt It; But Some Of The Young

Men Smiled Incredulously.  I Afterwards Wrote To Lord Ebury

To Make Sure That I Had Not Erred.  Here Is His Reply:

 

 

 

 

 

'Moor Park,  Rickmansworth:  January 9,  1883.

 

'My Dear Henry,  - What You Said I Had Told You About Snipe-

Shooting Is Quite True,  Though I Think I Ought To Have

Mentioned A Space Rather Nearer The River Than Eaton Square. 

In The Year 1815,  When The Battle Of Waterloo Was Fought, 

There Was Nothing Behind Grosvenor Place But The (-?) Fields

- So Called,  A Place Something Like The Scrubbs,  Where The

Household Troops Drilled.  That Part Of Grosvenor Place Where

The Grosvenor Place Houses Now Stand Was Occupied By The Lock

Hospital And Chapel,  And It Ended Where The Small Houses Are

Now To Be Found.  A Little Farther,  A Somewhat Tortuous Lane

Called The King's Road Led To Chelsea,  And,  I Think,  Where

Now St. Peter's,  Pimlico,  Was Afterwards Built.  I Remember

Going To A Breakfast At A Villa Belonging To Lady

Buckinghamshire.  The Chelsea Waterworks Company Had A Sort