Tracks Of A Rolling Stone - Henry J. Coke (novels in english .TXT) 📗
- Author: Henry J. Coke
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Way Of It, I Retreated To The Deserted Picture Gallery. The
Only Person There Was One Who Interested Me More Than The
Scarlet Patriot, Bulwer-Lytton The First. He Was Sauntering
To And Fro With His Hands Behind His Back, Looking Dingy In
His Black Satin Scarf, And Dejected. Was He Envying The
Italian Hero The Obsequious Reverence Paid To His Miner's
Shirt? (Nine Tenths Of The Men, And Still More Of The Women
There, Knew Nothing Of The Wearer, Or His Cause, Beyond
That.) Was He Thinking Of Similar Honours Which Had Been
Lavished Upon Himself When His Star Was In The Zenith? Was
He Muttering To Himself The Usual Consolation Of The 'Have
Chapter 11 Pg 64Beens' - Vanitas Vanitatum? Or What New Fiction, What Old
Love, Was Flitting Through That Versatile And Fantastic
Brain? Poor Bulwer! He Had Written The Best Novel, The Best
Play, And Had Made The Most Eloquent Parliamentary Oration Of
Any Man Of His Day. But, Like Another Celebrated Statesman
Who Has Lately Passed Away, He Strutted His Hour And Will
Soon Be Forgotten - 'Quand On Broute Sa Gloire En Herbe De
Son Vivant, On Ne La Recolte Pas En Epis Apres Sa Mort.' The
'Masses,' So Courted By The One, However Blatant, Are Not The
Arbiters Of Immortal Fame.
To Go Back A Few Years Before I Met Lady Morgan: When My
Mother Was Living At 18 Arlington Street, Sydney Smith Used
To Be A Constant Visitor There. One Day He Called Just As We
Were Going To Lunch. He Had Been Very Ill, And Would Not Eat
Anything. My Mother Suggested The Wing Of A Chicken.
'My Dear Lady,' Said He, 'It Was Only Yesterday That My
Doctor Positively Refused My Request For The Wing Of A
Butterfly.'
Another Time When He Was Making A Call I Came To The Door
Before It Was Opened. When The Footman Answered The Bell,
'Is Lady Leicester At Home?' He Asked.
'No, Sir,' Was The Answer.
'That's A Good Job,' He Exclaimed, But With A Heartiness That
Fairly Took Jeames' Breath Away.
As Sydney's Face Was Perfectly Impassive, I Never Felt Quite
Sure Whether This Was For The Benefit Of Myself Or Of The
Astounded Footman; Or Whether It Was The Genuine Expression
Of An Absent Mind. He Was A Great Friend Of My Mother's, And
Of Mr. Ellice's, But His Fits Of Abstraction Were Notorious.
He Himself Records The Fact. 'I Knocked At A Door In London,
Asked, "Is Mrs. B- At Home?" "Yes, Sir; Pray What Name Shall
I Say?" I Looked At The Man's Face Astonished. What Name?
What Name? Aye, That Is The Question. What Is My Name? I
Had No More Idea Who I Was Than If I Had Never Existed. I
Did Not Know Whether I Was A Dissenter Or A Layman. I Felt
As Dull As Sternhold And Hopkins. At Last, To My Great
Relief, It Flashed Across Me That I Was Sydney Smith.'
In The Summer Of The Year 1848 Napier And I Stayed A Couple
Of Nights With Captain Marryat At Langham, Near Blakeney. He
Used Constantly To Come Over To Holkham To Watch Our Cricket
Matches. His House Was A Glorified Cottage, Very Comfortable
And Prettily Decorated. The Dining And Sitting-Rooms Were
Hung With The Original Water-Colour Drawings - Mostly By
Stanfield, I Think - Which Illustrated His Minor Works.
Trophies From All Parts Of The World Garnished The Walls.
The Only Inmates Beside Us Two Were His Son, A Strange, But
Chapter 11 Pg 65Clever Young Man With Considerable Artistic Abilities, And
His Talented Daughter, Miss Florence, Since So Well Known To
Novel Readers.
Often As I Had Spoken To Marryat, I Never Could Quite Make
Him Out. Now That I Was His Guest His Habitual Reserve
Disappeared, And Despite His Failing Health He Was Geniality
Itself. Even This I Did Not Fully Understand At First. At
The Dinner-Table His Amusement Seemed, I Won't Say To Make A
'Butt' Of Me - His Banter Was Too Good-Natured For That - But
He Treated Me As Dr. Primrose Treated His Son After The
Bushel-Of-Green-Spectacles Bargain. He Invented The Most
Wonderful Stories, And Told Them With Imperturbable
Sedateness. Finding A Credulous Listener In Me, He Drew All
The More Freely Upon His Invention. When, However, He
Gravely Asserted That Jonas Was Not The Only Man Who Had
Spent Three Days And Three Nights In A Whale's Belly, But
That He Himself Had Caught A Whale With A Man Inside It Who
Had Lived There For More Than A Year On Blubber, Which, He
Declared, Was Better Than Turtle Soup, It Was Impossible To
Resist The Fooling, And Not Forget That One Was The Moses Of
The Extravaganza.
In The Evening He Proposed That His Son And Daughter And I
Should Act A Charade. Napier Was The Audience, And Marryat
Himself The Orchestra - That Is, He Played On His Fiddle Such
Tunes As A Ship's Fiddler Or Piper Plays To The Heaving Of
The Anchor, Or For Hoisting In Cargo. Everyone Was In
Romping Spirits, And Notwithstanding The Cheery Captain's
Signs Of Fatigue And Worn Looks, Which He Evidently Strove To
Conceal, The Evening Had All The Freshness And Spirit Of An
Impromptu Pleasure.
When I Left, Marryat Gave Me His Violin, With Some Sad Words
About His Not Being Likely To Play Upon It More. Perhaps He
Knew Better Than We How Prophetically He Was Speaking.
Barely Three Weeks Afterwards I Learnt That The Humorous
Creator Of 'Midshipman Easy' Would Never Make Us Laugh Again.
In 1846 Lord John Russell Succeeded Sir Robert Peel As
Premier. At The General Election, A Brother Of Mine Was The
Liberal Candidate For The Seat In East Norfolk. He Was
Returned; But Was Threatened With Defeat Through An
Occurrence In Which I Was Innocently Involved.
The Largest Landowner In This Division Of The County, Next To
My Brother Leicester, Was Lord Hastings - Great-Grandfather
Of The Present Lord. On The Occasion I Am Referring To, He
Was A Guest At Holkham, Where A Large Party Was Then
Assembled. Leicester Was Particularly Anxious To Be Civil To
His Powerful Neighbour; And Desired The Members Of His Family
To Show Him Every Attention. The Little Lord Was An
Exceedingly Punctilious Man: As Scrupulously Dapper In
Manner As He Was In Dress. Nothing Could Be More Courteous,
Chapter 11 Pg 66More Smiling, Than His Habitual Demeanour; But His Bite Was
Worse Than His Bark, And Nobody Knew Which Candidate His
Agents Had Instructions To Support In The Coming Contest. It
Was Quite On The Cards That The Secret Order Would Turn The
Scales.
One Evening After Dinner, When The Ladies Had Left Us, The
Men Were Drawn Together And Settled Down To Their Wine. It
Was Before The Days Of Cigarettes, And Claret Was Plentifully
Imbibed. I Happened To Be Seated Next To Lord Hastings On
His Left; On The Other Side Of Him Was Spencer Lyttelton,
Uncle Of Our Colonial Secretary. Spencer Lyttelton Was A
Notable Character. He Had Much Of The Talents And Amiability
Of His Distinguished Family; But He Was Eccentric,
Exceedingly Comic, And Dangerously Addicted To Practical
Jokes. One Of These He Now Played Upon The Spruce And
Vigilant Little Potentate Whom It Was Our Special Aim To Win.
As The Decanters Circulated From Right To Left, Spencer
Filled Himself A Bumper, And Passed The Bottles On. Lord
Hastings Followed Suit. I, Unfortunately, Was Speaking To
Lyttelton Behind Lord Hastings's Back, And As He Turned And
Pushed The Wine To Me, The Incorrigible Joker, Catching Sight
Of The Handkerchief Sticking Out Of My Lord's Coat-Tail,
Quick As Thought Drew It Open And Emptied His Full Glass Into
The Gaping Pocket. A Few Minutes Later Lord Hastings, Who
Took Snuff, Discovered What Had Happened. He Held The
Dripping Cloth Up For Inspection, And With Perfect Urbanity
Deposited It On His Dessert Plate.
Leicester Looked Furious, But Said Nothing Till We Joined The
Ladies. He First Spoke To Hastings, And Then To Me. What
Passed Between The Two I Do Not Know. To Me, He Said:
'Hastings Tells Me It Was You Who Poured The Claret Into His
Pocket. This Will Lose The Election. After To-Morrow, I
Shall Want Your Room.' Of Course, The Culprit Confessed; And
My Brother Got The Support We Hoped For. Thus It Was That
The Political Interests Of Several Thousands Of Electors
Depended On A Glass Of Wine.
Chapter 12 Pg 67
I Had Completed My Second Year At The University, When, In
October 1848, Just As I Was About To Return To Cambridge
Chapter 12 Pg 68After The Long Vacation, An Old Friend - William Grey, The
Youngest Of The Ex-Prime-Minister's Sons - Called On Me At My
London Lodgings. He Was Attached To The Vienna Embassy,
Where His Uncle, Lord Ponsonby, Was Then Ambassador. Shortly
Before This There Had Been Serious Insurrections Both In
Paris, Vienna, And Berlin.
Many May Still Be Living Who Remember How Louis Philippe Fled
To England; How The Infection Spread Over This Country; How
25,000 Chartists Met
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