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

His Courage Seems To Have Been Due Almost As Much To Absence

Of Sympathy Or Kinship With His Fellow-Creatures,  And To His

Contempt Of Their Opinions,  As From His Dispassionate Love Of

Truth,  Or His Sometimes Passionate Defence Of His Own Tenets.

My Friend Napier Told Me An Amusing Little Story About John

Mill When He Was In The East India Company's Administration. 

Mr. Macvey Napier,  My Friend's Elder Brother,  Was The Senior 

Clerk.  On John Mill's Retirement,  His Co-Officials

Subscribed To Present Him With A Silver Standish.  Such Was

The General Sense Of Mill's Modest Estimate Of His Own

Deserts,  And Of His Aversion To All Acknowledgment Of Them, 

That Mr. Napier,  Though It Fell To His Lot,  Begged Others To

Join In The Ceremony Of Presentation.  All Declined; The

Inkstand Was Left Upon Mill's Table When He Himself Was Out

Of The Room.

Years After The Time Of Which I Am Writing,  When Mill Stood

For Westminster,  I Had The Good Fortune To Be On The Platform

At St. James's Hall,  Next But One To Him,  When He Made His

First Speech To The Electors.  He Was Completely Unknown To

The Public,  And,  Though I Worshipped The Man,  I Had Never

Seen Him,  Nor Had An Idea What He Looked Like.  To Satisfy My

Curiosity I Tried To Get A Portrait Of Him At The

Photographic Shop In Regent Street.

'I Want A Photograph Of Mr. Mill.'

'Mill?  Mill?' Repeated The Shopman,  'Oh Yes,  Sir,  I Know - A

Great Sporting Gent,' And He Produced The Portrait Of A

Sportsman In Top Boots And A Hunting Cap.

Very Different From This Was The Figure I Then Saw.  The Hall

And The Platform Were Crowded.  Where Was The Principal

Personage?  Presently,  Quite Alone,  Up The Side Steps,  And

Unobserved,  Came A Thin But Tallish Man In Black,  With A Tail

Coat,  And,  Almost Unrecognised,  Took The Vacant Front Seat. 

He Might Have Been,  So Far As Dress Went,  A Clerk In A

Counting-House,  Or An Undertaker.  But The Face Was No

Ordinary One.  The Wide Brow,  The Sharp Nose Of The Burke

Type,  The Compressed Lips And Strong Chin,  Were Suggestive Of

Intellect And Of Suppressed Emotion.  There Was No Applause, 

For Nothing Was Known To The Crowd,  Even Of His Opinions, 

Beyond The Fact That He Was The Liberal Candidate For

Westminster.  He Spoke With Perfect Ease To Himself,  Never

Faltering For The Right Word,  Which Seemed To Be Always At

His Command.  If Interrupted By Questions,  As He Constantly

Was,  His Answers Could Not Have Been Amended Had He Written

Them.  His Voice Was Not Strong,  And There Were Frequent

Calls From The Far End To 'Speak Up,  Speak Up; We Can't Hear

You.'  He Did Not Raise His Pitch A Note.  They Might As Well

Have Tried To Bully An Automaton.  He Was Doing His Best,  And

He Could Do No More.  Then,  When,  Instead Of The Usual

Adulations,  Instead Of Declamatory Appeals To The Passions Of

A Large And A Mixed Assembly,  He Gave Them To Understand,  In

Very Plain Language,  That Even Socialists Are Not Infallible, 

- That Extreme And Violent Opinions,  Begotten Of Ignorance, 

Do Not Constitute The Highest Political Wisdom; Then There

Were Murmurs Of Dissent And Disapproval.  But If The Ignorant

And The Violent Could Have Stoned Him,  His Calm Manner Would

Still Have Said,  'Strike,  But Hear Me.'

Mr. Robert Grosvenor - The Present Lord Ebury - Then The

Other Liberal Member For Westminster,  Wrote To Ask Me To Take

The Chair At Mill's First Introduction To The Pimlico

Electors.  Such,  However,  Was My Admiration Of Mill,  I Did

Not Feel Sure That I Might Not Say Too Much In His Favour;

And Mindful Of The Standish Incident,  I Knew,  That If I Did

So,  It Would Embarrass And Annoy Him.

Under These Circumstances I Declined The Honour.

When Owen Was Delivering A Course Of Lectures At Norwich,  My

Brother Invited Him To Holkham.  I Was There,  And We Took

Several Long Walks Together.  Nothing Seemed To Escape His

Observation.  My Brother Had Just Completed The Recovery Of

Many Hundred Acres Of Tidal Marsh By Embankments.  Owen,  Who

Was Greatly Interested,  Explained What Would Be The Effect

Upon The Sandiest Portion Of This,  In Years To Come; What The

Chemical Action Of The Rain Would Be,  How The Sand Would

Eventually Become Soil,  How Vegetation Would Cover It,  And

How Manure Render It Cultivable.  The Splendid Crops Now

Grown There Bear Testimony To His Foresight.  He Had Always

Something Instructive To Impart,  Stopping To Contemplate

Trifles Which Only A Zadig Would Have Noticed.

'I Observe,' Said He One Day,  'That Your Prevailing Wind Here

Is North-West.'

'How Do You Know?' I Asked.

'Look At The Roots Of All These Trees; The Large Roots Are

Invariably On The North-West Side.  This Means That The

Strain Comes On This Side.  The Roots Which Have To Bear It

Loosen The Soil,  And The Loosened Soil Favours The Extension

And The Growth Of The Roots.  Nature Is Beautifully

Scientific.'

Some Years After This,  I Published A Book Called 'Creeds Of

The Day.'  My Purpose Was To Show,  In A Popular Form,  The

Bearings Of Science And Speculative Thought Upon The

Religious Creeds Of The Time.  I Sent Owen A Copy Of The

Work.  He Wrote Me One Of The Most Interesting Letters I Ever

Received.  He Had Bought The Book,  And Had Read It.  But The

Important Content Of The Letter Was The Confession Of His Own

Faith.  I Have Purposely Excluded All Correspondence From

These Memoirs,  But Had It Not Been That A Forgotten Collector

Of Autographs Had Captured It,  I Should Have Been Tempted To

Make An Exception In Its Favour.  The Tone Was Agnostic; But

Timidly Agnostic.  He Had Never Freed Himself From The

Shackles Of Early Prepossessions.  He Had Not The Necessary

Daring To Clear Up His Doubts.  Sometimes I Fancy That It Was

This Difference In The Two Men That Lay At The Bottom Of The

Unfortunate Antagonism Between Owen And Huxley.  There Is In

Owen's Writing,  Where He Is Not Purely Scientific,  A Touch Of

The Apologist.  He Cannot Quite Make Up His Mind To Follow 

Evolution To Its Logical Conclusions.  Where He Is Forced To

Do So,  It Is To Him Like Signing The Death Warrant Of His

Dearest Friend.  It Must Not Be Forgotten That Owen Was Born

More Than Twenty Years Before Huxley; And Great As Was The

Offence Of Free-Thinking In Huxley's Youth,  It Was Nothing

Short Of Anathema In Owen's.  When I Met Him At Holkham,  The

'Origin Of Species' Had Not Been Published; And Napier And I

Did All We Could To Get Owen To Express Some Opinion On

Lamarck's Theory,  For He And I Used To Talk Confidentially On

This Fearful Heresy Even Then.  But Owen Was Ever On His

Guard.  He Evaded Our Questions And Changed The Subject.

Whenever I Pass Near The South Kensington Museum I Step Aside

To Look At The Noble Statues Of The Two Illustrious Men.  A

Mere Glance At Them,  And We Appreciate At Once Their

Respective Characters.  In The One We See Passive Wisdom,  In

The Other Militant Force.

Before I Went To America,  I Made The Acquaintance Of Dr.

George Bird; He Continued To Be One Of My Most Intimate

Friends Till His Death,  Fifty Years Afterwards.  When I First

Knew Him,  Bird Was The Medical Adviser And Friend Of Leigh

Hunt,  Whose Family I Used Often To Meet At His House.  He Had

Been Dependent Entirely Upon His Own Exertions; Had Married

Young; And Had Had A Pretty Hard Fight At Starting To Provide

For His Children And For Himself.  His Energy,  His Abilities, 

His Exceeding Amiability,  And Remarkable Social Qualities, 

Gradually Procured Him A Large Practice And Hosts Of Devoted

Friends.  He Began Looking For The Season For Sprats - The

Cheapest Of Fish - To Come In; By Middle Life He Was

Habitually And Sumptuously Entertaining The Celebrities Of

Art And Literature.  With His Accomplished Sister,  Miss Alice

Bird,  To Keep House For Him,  There Were No Pleasanter Dinner

Parties Or Receptions In London.  His Clientele Was Mainly

Amongst The Artistic World.  He Was A Great Friend Of Miss

Ellen Terry's,  Mr. Marcus Stone And His Sisters Were

Frequenters Of His House,  So Were Mr. Swinburne,  Mr. Woolner

The Sculptor - Of Whom I Was Not Particularly Fond - Horace

Wigan The Actor,  And His Father,  The Burtons,  Who Were Much

Attached To Him - Burton Dedicated One Volume Of His 'Arabian

Nights' To Him - Sir William Crookes,  Mr. Justin Macarthy And

His Talented Son,  And Many Others.

The Good Doctor Was A Radical And Home Ruler,  And Attended

Professionally The Members Of One Or Two Labouring Men's

Clubs For Fees Which,  As Far As I Could Learn,  Were

Rigorously Nominal.  His Great Delight Was To Get An Order

For The House Of Commons,  Especially On Nights When Mr.

Gladstone Spoke; And,  Being To The