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

Have Received His Slippers From His Valet,  Or As He Did

Receive The Telegrams Which Were Handed To Him At The Rate Of

About One A Minute.

The King Of Kings Was In Difficulties With A Little Slip Of

Black Sticking-Plaster.  The Thought Of Gumpelino's 

Hyacinthos,  Alias Hirsch,  Flashed Upon Me.  Behold! The

Mighty Baron Nathan Come To Life Again; But Instead Of

Hyacinthos Paring His Mightiness's Huhneraugen,  He Himself, 

In Paring His Own Nails,  Had Contrived To Cut His Finger.

'Come To Buy Spanish?' He Asked,  With Eyes Intent Upon The

Sticking-Plaster.

'Oh No,' Said I,  'I've No Money To Gamble With.'

'Hasn't Lord Leicester Bought Spanish?' - Never Looking Off

The Sticking-Plaster,  Nor Taking The Smallest Notice Of The

Telegrams.

'Not That I Know Of.  Are They Good Things?'

'I Don't Know; Some People Think So.'

Here A Message Was Handed In,  And Something Was Whispered In

His Ear.

'Very Well,  Put It Down.'

'From Paris,' Said Sir Anthony,  Guessing Perhaps At Its

Contents.

But Not Until The Plaster Was Comfortably Adjusted Did Plutus

Read The Message.  He Smiled And Pushed It Over To Me.  It

Was The Terms Of Peace,  And The German Bill Of Costs.

'200,000,000 Pounds!' I Exclaimed.  'That's A Heavy

Reckoning.  Will France Ever Be Able To Pay It?'

'Pay It?  Yes.  If It Had Been Twice As Much!'  And Plutus

Returned To His Sticking-Plaster.  That Was Of Real

Importance.

Last Autumn - 1904,  The Literary World Was Not A Little

Gratified By An Announcement In The 'Times' That The British

Museum Had Obtained Possession Of The Original Manuscript Of

Keats's 'Hyperion.'  Let Me Tell The Story Of Its Discovery. 

During The Summer Of Last Year,  My Friend Miss Alice Bird, 

Who Was Paying Me A Visit At Longford,  Gave Me This Account

Of It.

When Leigh Hunt's Memoirs Were Being Edited By His Son

Thornton In 1861,  He Engaged The Services Of Three Intimate

Friends Of The Family To Read And Collate The Enormous Mass

Of His Father's Correspondence.  Miss Alice Bird Was One Of

The Chosen Three.  The Arduous Task Completed,  Thornton Hunt

Presented Each Of His Three Friends With A Number Of

Autographic Letters,  Which,  According To Miss Bird's

Description,  He Took Almost At Random From The Eliminated

Pile.  Amongst The Lot That Fell To Miss Bird's Share Was A 

Roll Of Stained Paper Tied Up With Tape.  This She Was Led To

Suppose - She Never Carefully Examined It - Might Be Either A

Copy Or A Draft Of Some Friend's Unpublished Poem.

The Unknown Treasure Was Put Away In A Drawer With The Rest. 

Here It Remained Undisturbed For Forty-Three Years.  Having

Now Occasion To Remove These Papers,  She Opened The Forgotten

Scroll,  And Was At Once Struck Both With The Words Of The

'Hyperion,' And With The Resemblance Of The Writing To

Keats's.

She Forthwith Consulted The Keepers Of The Manuscripts In The

British Museum,  With The Result That Her Trouvaille Was

Immediately Identified As The Poet's Own Draft Of The

'Hyperion.'  The Responsible Authorities Soon After,  Offered

The Fortunate Possessor Five Hundred Guineas For The

Manuscript,  But Courteously And Honestly Informed Her That, 

Were It Put Up To Auction,  Some American Collector Would Be

Almost Sure To Give A Much Larger Sum For It.

Miss Bird's Patriotism Prevailed Over Every Other

Consideration.  She Expressed Her Wish That The Poem Should

Be Retained In England; And Generously Accepted What Was

Indubitably Less Than Its Market Value.

A Man Whom I Had Known From My School-Days,  Frederick

Thistlethwayte,  Coming Into A Huge Fortune When A Subaltern

In A Marching Regiment,  Had Impulsively Married A Certain

Miss Laura Bell.  In Her Early Days,  When She Made Her First

Appearance In London And In Paris,  Laura Bell's Extraordinary

Beauty Was As Much Admired By Painters As By Men Of The

World.  Amongst Her Reputed Lovers Were Dhuleep Singh,  The

Famous Marquis Of Hertford,  And Prince Louis Napoleon.  She

Was The Daughter Of An Irish Constable,  And Began Life On The

Stage At Dublin.  Her Irish Wit And Sparkling Merriment,  Her

Cajolery,  Her Good Nature And Her Feminine Artifice,  Were

Attractions Which,  In The Eyes Of The Male Sex,  Fully Atoned

For Her Youthful Indiscretions.

My Intimacy With Both Mr. And Mrs. Thistlethwayte Extended

Over Many Years; And It Is But Justice To Her Memory To Aver

That,  To The Best Of My Belief,  No Wife Was Ever More 

Faithful To Her Husband.  I Speak Of The Thistlethwaytes Here

For Two Reasons - Absolutely Unconnected In Themselves,  Yet

Both Interesting In Their Own Way.  The First Is,  That At My

Friend's House In Grosvenor Square I Used Frequently To Meet

Mr. Gladstone,  Sometimes Alone,  Sometimes At Dinner.  As May

Be Supposed,  The Dinner Parties Were Of Men,  But Mostly Of

Men Eminent In Public Life.  The Last Time I Met Mr.

Gladstone There The Duke Of Devonshire And Sir W. Harcourt

Were Both Present.  I Once Dined With Mrs. Thistlethwayte In

The Absence Of Her Husband,  When The Only Others Were Munro

Of Novar - The Friend Of Turner,  And The Envied Possessor Of

A Splendid Gallery Of His Pictures - And The Duke Of

Newcastle - Then A Cabinet Minister.  Such Were The

Notabilities Whom The Famous Beauty Gathered About Her.

But It Is Of Mr. Gladstone That I Would Say A Word.  The

Fascination Which He Exercised Over Most Of Those Who Came

Into Contact With Him Is Incontestable; And Everyone Is

Entitled To His Own Opinion,  Even Though Unable To Account

For It.  This,  At Least,  Must Be My Plea,  For To Me,  Mr.

Gladstone Was More Or Less A Dr. Fell.  Neither In His Public

Nor In His Private Capacity Had I Any Liking For Him.  Nobody

Cares A Button For What A 'Man In The Street' Like Me Says Or

Thinks On Subject Matters Upon Which They Have Made Up Their

Minds.  I Should Not Venture,  Even As One Of The Crowd,  To

Deprecate A Popularity Which I Believe To Be Fast Passing

Away,  Were It Not That Better Judges And Wiser Men Think As I

Do,  And Have Represented Opinions Which I Sincerely Share. 

'He Was Born,' Says Huxley,  'To Be A Leader Of Men,  And He

Has Debased Himself To Be A Follower Of The Masses.  If

Working Men Were To-Day To Vote By A Majority That Two And

Two Made Five,  To-Morrow Gladstone Would Believe It,  And Find

Them Reasons For It Which They Had Never Dreamt Of.'  Could

Any Words Be Truer?  Yes; He Was Not Born To Be A Leader Of

Men.  He Was Born To Be,  What He Was - A Misleader Of Men. 

Huxley Says He Could Be Made To Believe That Two And Two Made

Five.  He Would Try To Make Others Believe It; But Would He

Himself Believe It?  His Friends Will Plead,  'He Might

Deceive Himself By The Excessive Subtlety Of His Mind.'  This

Is The Charitable View To Take.  But Some Who Knew Him Long

And Well Put Another Construction Upon This Facile Self-

Deception.  There Were,  And Are,  Honourable Men Of The

Highest Standing Who Failed To Ascribe Disinterested Motives

To The Man Who Suddenly And Secretly Betrayed His Colleagues, 

His Party,  And His Closest Friends,  And Tried To Break Up The

Empire To Satisfy An Inordinate Ambition,  And An Insatiable

Craving For Power.  'He Might Have Been Mistaken,  But He

Acted For The Best'?   Was He Acting Conscientiously For The

Best In Persuading The 'Masses' To Look Upon The 'Classes' -

The War Cries Are Of His Coining - As Their Natural Enemies, 

And Worthy Only Of Their Envy And Hatred?  Is This The Part

Of A Statesman,  Of A Patriot?

And For What Else Shall We Admire Mr. Gladstone?  Walter 

Bagehot,  Alluding To His Egotism,  Wrote Of Him In His

Lifetime,  'He Longs To Pour Forth His Own Belief; He Cannot

Rest Till He Has Contradicted Everyone Else.'  And What Was

That Belief Worth?  'He Has Scarcely,' Says The Same Writer, 

'Given Us A Sentence That Lives In The Memory.'

Even His Eloquent Advocate,  Mr. Morley,  Confesses Surprise At

His Indifference To The Teaching Of Evolution; In Other

Words,  His Ignorance Of,  And Disbelief In,  A Scientific

Theory Of Nature Which Has Modified The Theological And Moral

Creeds Of The Civilised World More Profoundly Than Did The

Copernican System Of The Universe.

The Truth Is,  Mr. Gladstone Was Half A Century Behind The Age

In Everything That Most Deeply Concerned The Destiny Of Man. 

He Was A Politician,  And Nothing But A Politician; And Had It

Not Been For His Extraordinary Gift Of Speech,  We Should

Never Have Heard Of Him Save As A Writer Of Scholia,  Or As A

College Don,  Perhaps.  Not For Such Is The Temple Of Fame.

Fama Di Loro Il Mondo Esser Non Lassa.

Whatever May Be Thought Now,  Mr. Gladstone Is Not The Man

Whom Posterity Will Ennoble With The Title Of Either 'Great'

Or 'Good.'

My Second Reason For Mentioning Frederick Thistlethwayte Was

One Which At First Sight May Seem Trivial,  And Yet,