Tracks of a Rolling Stone | Page 6

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?

CHAPTER II

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