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

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

Beens' - 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 

Clever 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,  

More 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.

I Had Completed My Second Year At The University,  When,  In

October 1848,  Just As I Was About To Return To Cambridge 

After 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