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

Simple-Minded As A Child,  Had A Profound Belief In The

Statemanship And Integrity Of That Renowned Orator.

As Far As Personality Goes,  The Burtons Were,  Perhaps,  The

Most Notable Of The Above-Named.  There Was A Mystery About

Burton Which Was In Itself A Fascination.  No One Knew What

He Had Done; Or Consequently What He Might Not Do.  He Never

Boasted,  Never Hinted That He Had Done,  Or Could Do,  Anything

Different From Other Men; And,  In Spite Of The Mystery,  One

Felt That He Was Transparently Honest And Sincere.  He Was

Always The Same,  Always True To Himself; But Then,  That

'Self' Was A Something Per Se,  Which Could Not Be

Categorically Classed - Precedent For Guidance Was Lacking. 

There Is Little Doubt Burton Had Gipsy Blood In His Veins;

There Was Something Oriental In His Temperament,  And Even In

His Skin.

One Summer's Day I Found Him Reading The Paper In The

Athenaeum.  He Was Dressed In A Complete Suit Of White -

White Trousers,  A White Linen Coat,  And A Very Shabby Old

White Hat.  People Would Have Stared At Him Anywhere.

'Hullo,  Burton!' I Exclaimed,  Touching His Linen Coat,  'Do

You Find It So Hot - Deja?'

Said He:  'I Don't Want To Be Mistaken For Other People.'

'There's Not Much Fear Of That,  Even Without Your Clothes,' I

Replied.

Such An Impromptu Answer As His Would,  From Any Other,  Have

Implied Vanity.  Yet No Man Could Have Been Less Vain,  Or

More Free From Affectation.  It Probably Concealed Regret At

Finding Himself Conspicuous.

After Dinner At The Birds' One Evening We Fell To Talking Of

Garrotters.  About This Time The Police Reports Were Full Of

Cases Of Garrotting.  The Victim Was Seized From Behind,  One

Man Gagged Or Burked Him,  While Another Picked His Pocket.

'What Should You Do,  Burton?' The Doctor Asked,  'If They

Tried To Garrotte You?'

'I'm Quite Ready For 'Em,' Was The Answer; And Turning Up His

Sleeve He Partially Pulled Out A Dagger,  And Shoved It Back

Again.

We Tried To Make Him Tell Us What Became Of The Arab Boy Who

Accompanied Him To Mecca,  And Whose Suspicions Threatened

Burton's Betrayal,  And,  Of Consequence,  His Life.  I Don't

Think Anyone Was Present Except Us Two,  Both Of Whom He Well

Knew To Be Quite Shock-Proof,  But He Held His Tongue.

'You Would Have Been Perfectly Justified In Saving Your Own

Life At Any Cost.  You Would Hardly Have Broken The Sixth

Commandment By Doing So In This Case,' I Suggested.

'No,' Said He Gravely,  'And As I Had Broken All The Ten

Before,  It Wouldn't Have So Much Mattered.'

The Doctor Roared.  It Should,  However,  Be Stated That Burton

Took No Less Delight In His Host's Boyish Simplicity,  Than

The Other In What He Deemed His Guest's Superb Candour.

'Come,  Tell Us,' Said Bird,  'How Many Men Have You Killed?'

'How Many Have You,  Doctor?' Was The Answer.

Richard Burton Was Probably The Most Extraordinary Linguist

Of His Day.  Lady Burton Mentions,  I Think,  In His Life,  The

Number Of Languages And Dialects Her Husband Knew.  That

Mahometans Should Seek Instruction From Him In The Koran, 

Speaks Of Itself For His Astonishing Mastery Of The Greatest

Linguistic Difficulties.  With Indian Languages And Their

Variations,  He Was As Completely At Home As Miss Youghal's

Sais; And,  One May Suppose,  Could Have Played The Role Of A

Fakir As Perfectly As He Did That Of A Mecca Pilgrim.  I

Asked Him What His Method Was In Learning A Fresh Language. 

He Said He Wrote Down As Many New Words As He Could Learn And

Remember Each Day; And Learnt The Construction Of The

Language Colloquially,  Before He Looked At A Grammar.

Lady Burton Was Hardly Less Abnormal In Her Way Than Sir

Richard.  She Had Shared His Wanderings,  And Was Intimate,  As

No One Else Was,  With The Eccentricities Of His Thoughts And

Deeds.  Whatever These Might Happen To Be,  She Worshipped Her

Husband Notwithstanding.  For Her He Was The Standard Of

Excellence; All Other Men Were Departures From It.  And The

Singularity Is,  Her Religious Faith Was Never For An Instant

Shaken - She Remained As Strict A Roman Catholic As When He

Married Her From A Convent.  Her Enthusiasm And

Cosmopolitanism,  Her Naivete And The Sweetness Of Her

Disposition Made Her The Best Of Company.  She Had Lived So

Much The Life Of A Bedouin,  That Her Dress And Her Habits Had

An Eastern Glow.  When Staying With The Birds,  She Was

Attended By An Arab Girl,  One Of Whose Duties It Was To

Prepare Her Mistress' Chibouk,  Which Was Regularly Brought In

With The Coffee.  On One Occasion,  When Several Other Ladies

Were Dining There,  Some Of Them Yielded To Lady Burton's

Persuasion To Satisfy Their Curiosity.  The Arab Girl Soon

Provided The Means; And It Was Not Long Before There Were 

Four Or Five Faces As White As Mrs. Alfred Wigan's,  Under

Similar Circumstances,  In The 'Nabob.'

Alfred Wigan's Father Was An Unforgettable Man.  To Describe

Him In A Word,  He Was Falstag Redivivus.  In Bulk And

Stature,  In Age,  In Wit And Humour,  And Morality,  He Was

Falstaff.  He Knew It And Gloried In It.  He Would Complain

With Zest Of 'Larding The Lean Earth' As He Walked Along.  He

Was As Partial To Whisky As His Prototype To Sack.  He Would

Exhaust A Johnsonian Vocabulary In Describing His Ailments;

And Would Appeal Pathetically To Miss Bird,  As Though At His

Last Gasp,  For 'Just A Tea-Spoonful' Of The Grateful

Stimulant.  She Served Him With A Liberal Hand,  Till He Cried

'Stop!'  But If She Then Stayed,  He Would Softly Insinuate 'I

Didn't Mean It,  My Dear.'  Yet He Was No Costigan.  His Brain

Was Stronger Than Casks Of Whisky.  And His Powers Of

Digestion Were In Keeping.  Indeed,  To Borrow The Well-Known

Words Applied To A Great Man Whom We All Love,  'He Tore His

Dinner Like A Famished Wolf,  With The Veins Swelling In His

Forehead,  And The Perspiration Running Down His Cheeks.'  The

Trend Of His Thoughts,  Though He Was Eminently A Man Of

Intellect,  Followed The Dictates Of His Senses.  Walk With

Him In The Fields And,  From The Full Stores Of A Prodigious

Memory,  He Would Pour Forth Pages Of The Choicest Poetry. 

But If You Paused To Watch The Lambs Play,  Or Disturbed A

Young Calf In Your Path,  He Would Almost Involuntarily

Exclaim:  'How Deliciously You Smell Of Mint,  My Pet!' Or

'Bless Your Innocent Face!  What Sweetbreads You Will

Provide!'

James Wigan Had Kept A School Once.  The Late Serjeant

Ballantine,  Who Was One Of His Pupils,  Mentions Him In His

Autobiography.  He Was A Good Scholar,  And When I First Knew

Him,  Used To Teach Elocution.  Many Actors Went To Him,  And

Not A Few Members Of Both Houses Of Parliament.  He Could

Recite Nearly The Whole Of Several Of Shakespeare's Plays;

And,  With A Dramatic Art I Have Never Known Equalled By Any

Public Reader.

His Later Years Were Passed At Sevenoaks,  Where He Kept An

Establishment For Imbeciles,  Or Weak-Minded Youths.  I Often

Stayed With Him (Not As A Patient),  And A Very Comfortable

And Pretty Place It Was.  Now And Then He Would Call On Me In

London; And,  With A Face Full Of Theatrical Woe,  Tell Me, 

With Elaborate Circumlocution,  How The Earl Of This,  Or The

Marquis Of That,  Had Implored Him To Take Charge Of Young

Lord So-And-So,  His Son; Who,  As All The World Knew,  Had -

Well,  Had 'No Guts In His Brains.'  Was There Ever Such A

Chance?  Just Consider What It Must Lead To!  Everybody Knew

- No,  Nobody Knew - The Enormous Number Of Idiots There Were

In Noble Families.  And,  Such A Case As That Of Young Lord

Dash - Though Of Course His Residence At Sevenoaks Would Be A

Profound Secret,  Would Be Patent To The Whole Peerage; And, 

My Dear Sir,  A Fortune To Your Humble Servant,  If - Ah! If He 

Could Only Secure It!'

'But I Thought You Said You Had Been Implored To Take Him?'

'I Did Say So.  I Repeat It.  His Lordship's Father Came To

Me With Tears In His Eyes.  "My Dear Wigan," Were That

Nobleman's Words,  "Do Me This One Favour And Trust Me,  You

Will Never Regret It!"  But - ' He Paused To Remove The

Dramatic Tear,  'But,  I Hardly Dare Go On.  Yes - Yes,  I Know

Your Kindness' (Seizing My Hand) 'I Know How Ready You Are To

Help Me' - (I Hadn't Said A Word) - 'But - '

'How Much Is It This Time? And What Is It For?'

'For?  I Have Told You What It Is For.  The Merest Trifle

Will Suffice.  I Have The Room - A Beautiful Room,  The Best

Aspect In The House.  It Is Now Occupied By Young Rumagee

Bumagee The Great Bombay Millionaire's Son.  Of Course He Can

Be Moved.  But A Bed - There Positively Is Not A Spare Bed In

The House.  This Is All I Want - A Bed,  And Perhaps A

Tuppenny Ha'penny Strip Of Carpet,  A Couple Of Chairs,  A -

Let Me See; If You Give Me A Slip Of Paper I Can Make Out In

A Minute What It Will Come To.'

'Never Mind That.  Will A Ten-Pound Note Serve Your

Purposes?'

'Dear Boy!  Dear Boy!  But On One Condition,  On One Condition

Only,  Can I Accept It - This Is A Loan,  A Loan Mind! And Not

A Gift.  No,  No - It Is Useless To Protest; My Pride,  My

Sense Of Honour,  Forbids My Acceptance Upon Any Other Terms.'

A Day Or Two Afterwards I Would Learn From George Bird That

He And Miss Alice Had Accepted An Invitation To Meet Me At

Sevenoaks.  Mr. Donovan,  The Famous Phrenologist,  Was To Be

Of The Party; The Rector Of Sevenoaks,  And One Or Two Local

Magnates,  Had Also Been Invited To Dine.  We Londoners Were

To Occupy The Spare Rooms,  For This Was In The Coaching Days.

We All Knew What We Had To Expect - A Most Enjoyable Banquet

Of Conviviality.  Young Mrs. Wigan,  His Second Wife,  Was An

Admirable Housekeeper,  And Nothing Could Have Been Better

Done.  The Turbot And The Haunch Of Venison Were The Pick Of

Grove's Shop,  The Champagne Was Iced To Perfection,  And There

Was Enough Of It,  As Mr. Donovan Whispered To Me,  Casting His

Eyes To The Ceiling,  'To Wash An Omnibus,  Bedad.'  Mr.

Donovan,  Though He Never Refused Mr. Wigan's Hospitality, 

Balanced The Account By Vilipending His Friend's Extravagant

Habits.  While Mr. Wigan,  Probably Giving Him Full Credit For

His Gratitude,  Always Spoke Of