Tracks Of A Rolling Stone by Henry J. Coke (free e reader txt) 📖

Put The Crowd In The Best Of Humours;

They Roared With Laughter,  And After That We Got On Capitally

Together.

 

A Still More Inopportune Accident Happened To Me Later In The

Day,  When Speaking At Shrivenham.  A Large Yard Enclosed By

Buildings Was Chosen For The Meeting.  The Difficulty Was To

Elevate The Speaker Above The Heads Of The Assembly.  In One

Corner Of The Yard Was A Water-Butt.  An Ingenious Elector

Got A Board,  Placed It On The Top Of The Butt - Which Was

Full Of Water - And Persuaded Me To Make This My Rostrum. 

Here,  Again,  In The Midst Of My Harangue - Perhaps I Stamped

To Emphasize My Horror Of Small Loaves And Other Tory

Abominations - The Board Gave Way; And I Narrowly Escaped A

Ducking By Leaping Into The Arms Of A 'Supporter.'

 

The End Of It All Was That My Agent At The Last Moment Threw

Up The Sponge.  The Farmers Formed A Serried Phalanx Against

Free Trade; It Was Useless To Incur The Expense Of A Poll. 

Then Came The Bill.  It Was A Heavy One; For In Addition To

My London Agent - A Professional Electioneering Functionary - 

Chapter 35 Pg 189

Were The Local Agents At Towns Like Malmesbury,  Wootton

Bassett,  Shrivenham,  &C.,  &C.  My Eldest Brother,  Who Was A

Soberer-Minded Politician Than I,  Although Very Liberal To Me

In Other Ways,  Declined To Support My Political Opinions.  I

Myself Was Quite Unable To Pay The Costs.  Knowing This,  Lord

Radnor Called Me Into His Study As I Was Leaving Coleshill, 

And Expressed Himself Warmly With Respect To My Labours;

Regretting The Victory Of The Other Side,  He Declared That, 

As The Question Of Protection Would Be Disposed Of,  One Of

The Two Seats Would Be Safe Upon A Future Contest.

 

'And Who,' Asked The Old Gentleman,  With A Benevolent Grin On

His Face,  'Who Is Going To Pay Your Expenses?'

 

'Goodness Knows,  Sir,' Said I; 'I Hope They Won't Come Down

Upon Me.  I Haven't A Thousand Pounds In The World,  Unless I

Tap My Fortune.'

 

'Well,' Said His Lordship,  With A Chuckle,  'I Haven't Paid My

Subscription To Brooks's Yet,  So I'll Hand It Over To You,'

And He Gave Me A Cheque For 500 Pounds.

 

The Balance Was Obtained Through Mr. Ellice From The

Patronage Secretary To The Treasury.  At The Next Election, 

As Lord Radnor Predicted,  Lord Ashley,  Lord Shaftesbury's

Eldest Son,  Won One Of The Two Seats For The Liberals With

The Greatest Ease.

 

As Coleshill Was An Open House To Me From That Time As Long

As Lord Radnor Lived,  I Cannot Take Leave Of The Dear Old Man

Without An Affectionate Word At Parting.  Creevey Has An Ill-

Natured Fling At Him,  As He Has At Everybody Else,  But A

Kinder-Hearted And More Perfect Gentleman Would Be Difficult

To Meet With.  His Personality Was A Marked One.  He Was A

Little Man,  With Very Plain Features,  A Punch-Like Nose,  An

Extensive Mouth,  And Hardly A Hair On His Head.  But In Spite

Of These Peculiarities,  His Face Was Pleasant To Look At,  For

It Was Invariably Animated By A Sweet Smile,  A Touch Of

Humour,  And A Decided Air Of Dignity.  Born In 1779,  He

Dressed After The Orthodox Whig Fashion Of His Youth,  In Buff

And Blue,  His Long-Tailed Coat Reaching Almost To His Heels. 

His Manner Was A Model Of Courtesy And Simplicity.  He Used

Antiquated Expressions:  Called London 'Lunnun,' Rome 'Room,'

A Balcony A 'Balcony'; He Always Spoke Of The Clergyman As

The 'Pearson,' And Called His Daughter Lady Mary,  'Meary.' 

Instead Of Saying 'This Day Week' He Would Say This Day

Sen'nit' (For Sen'night).

 

The Independence Of His Character Was Very Noticeable.  As An

Instance:  A Party Of Twenty People,  Say,  Would Be Invited

For A Given Day.  Abundance Of Carriages Would Be Sent To

Meet The Trains,  So That All The Guests Would Arrive In Ample

Time For Dinner.  It Generally Happened That Some Of Them, 

Not Knowing The Habits Of The House,  Or Some Duchess Or Great 

Chapter 35 Pg 190

Lady Who Might Assume That Clocks Were Made For Her And Not

She For Clocks,  Would Not Appear In The Drawing-Room Till A

Quarter Of An Hour After The Dinner Gong Had Sounded.  If

Anyone Did So,  He Or She Would Find That Everybody Else Had

Got Through Soup And Fish.  If No One But Lady Mary Had Been

Down When Dinner Was Announced,  His Lordship Would Have

Offered His Arm To His Daughter,  And Have Taken His Seat At

The Table Alone.  After The First Night,  No One Was Ever

Late.  In The Morning He Read Prayers To The Household Before

Breakfast With The Same Precise Punctuality.

 

Lady Mary Bouverie,  His Unmarried Daughter,  Was The Very Best

Of Hostesses.  The House Under Her Management Was The

Perfection Of Comfort.  She Married An Old And Dear Friend Of

Mine,  Sir James Wilde,  Afterwards The Judge,  Lord Penzance. 

I Was His 'Best Man.'

 

My 'Ride Over The Rocky Mountains' Was Now Published; And,  As

The Field Was A New One,  The Writer Was Rewarded,  For A Few

Weeks,  With Invitations To Dinner,  And The Usual Tickets For

'Drums' And Dances.  To My Astonishment,  Or Rather To My

Alarm,  I Received A Letter From The Secretary Of The Royal

Geographical Society (Charles Fox,  Or Perhaps Sir George

Simpson Had,  I Think,  Proposed Me - I Never Knew),  To Say

That I Had Been Elected A Member.  Nothing Was Further From

My Ambition.  The Very Thought Shrivelled Me With A Sense Of

Ignorance And Insignificance.  I Pictured To Myself An

Assembly Of Old Fogies Crammed With All The 'Ologies.  I

Broke Into A Cold Perspiration When I Fancied Myself Called

Upon To Deliver A Lecture On The Comparative Sea-Bottomy Of

The Oceanic Globe,  Or Give My Theory Of The Simultaneous

Sighting By 'Little Billee' Of ' Madagascar,  And North,  And

South Amerikee.'  Honestly,  I Had Not The Courage To Accept;

And,  Young Jackanapes As I Was,  Left The Secretary's Letter

Unanswered.

 

But A Still Greater Honour - Perhaps The Greatest Compliment

I Ever Had Paid Me - Was To Come.  I Had Lodgings At This

Time In An Old House,  Long Since Pulled Down,  In York Street. 

One Day,  When I Was Practising The Fiddle,  Who Should Walk

Into My Den But Rogers The Poet!  He Had Never Seen Me In His

Life.  He Was In His Ninetieth Year,  And He Had Climbed The

Stairs To The First Floor To Ask Me To One Of His Breakfast

Parties.  To Say Nothing Of Rogers' Fame,  His Wealth,  His

Position In Society,  Those Who Know What His Cynicism And His

Worldliness Were,  Will Understand What Such An Effort, 

Physical And Moral,  Must Have Cost Him.  He Always Looked

Like A Death's Head,  But His Ghastly Pallor,  After That

Alpine Ascent,  Made Me Feel As If He Had Come - To Stay.

 

These Breakfasts Were Entertainments Of No Ordinary

Distinction.  The Host Himself Was Of Greater Interest Than

The Most Eminent Of His Guests.  All But He,  Were More Or

Less One's Contemporaries:  Rogers,  If Not Quite As Dead As 

Chapter 35 Pg 191

He Looked,  Was Ancient History.  He Was Old Enough To Have

Been The Father Of Byron,  Of Shelley,  Of Keats,  And Of Moore. 

He Was Several Years Older Than Scott,  Or Wordsworth,  Or

Coleridge,  And Only Four Years Younger Than Pitt.  He Had

Known All These Men,  And Could,  And Did,  Talk As No Other

Could Talk,  Of All Of Them.  Amongst Those Whom I Met At

These Breakfasts Were Cornewall Lewis,  Delane,  The Grotes, 

Macaulay,  Mrs. Norton,  Monckton Milnes,  William Harcourt (The

Only One Younger Than Myself),  But Just Beginning To Be

Known,  And Others Of Scarcely Less Note.

 

During The Breakfast Itself,  Rogers,  Though Seated At Table

In An Armchair,  Took No Part Either In The Repast Or In The

Conversation; He Seemed To Sleep Until The Meal Was Over. 

His Servant Would Then Place A Cup Of Coffee Before Him,  And, 

Like A Laputian Flapper,  Touch Him Gently On The Shoulder. 

He Would At Once Begin To Talk,  While Others Listened.  The

First Time I Witnessed This Curious Resurrection,  I Whispered

Something To My Neighbour,  At Which He Laughed.  The Old

Man's Eye Was Too Sharp For Us.

 

'You Are Laughing At Me,' Said He; 'I Dare Say You Young

Gentlemen Think Me An Old Fellow; But There Are Younger Than

I Who Are Older.  You Should See Tommy Moore.  I Asked Him To

Breakfast,  But He's Too Weak - Weak Here,  Sir,' And He Tapped

His Forehead.  'I'm Not That.'  (This Was The Year That Moore

Died.)  He Certainly Was Not; But His Whole Discourse Was Of

The Past.  It Was As Though He Would Not Condescend To

Discuss Events Or Men Of The Day.  What Were Either To The

Days And Men That He Had Known - French Revolutions,  Battles

Of Trafalgar And Waterloo,  A Nelson And A Buonaparte,  A Pitt, 

A Burke,  A Fox,  A Johnson,  A Gibbon,  A Sheridan,  And All The

Men Of Letters And All The Poets Of A Century Gone By?  Even

Macaulay Had For Once To Hold His Tongue; And Could Only

Smile Impatiently At What Perhaps He Thought An Old Man's

Astonishing Garrulity.  But If A Young And Pretty Woman

Talked To Him,  It Was Not His Great Age That He Vaunted,  Nor

Yet The 'Pleasures Of Memory' - One Envied The Adroitness Of

His Flattery,  And The Gracefulness Of His Repartee.

 

My Friend George Cayley Had A Couple Of Dingy Little Rooms

Between Parliament Street And The River.  Much Of My Time Was

Spent There With Him.  One Night After Dinner,  Quite Late,  We

Were Building Castles Amidst Tobacco Clouds,  When,  Following

A 'May I Come In?' Tennyson Made His Appearance.  This Was

The First Time I Had Ever Met Him.  We Gave Him The Only

Armchair In The Room; And Pulling Out His Dudeen And Placing

Afoot On Each Side Of The Hob Of The Old-Fashioned Little

Grate,  He Made Himself Comfortable Before He Said Another

Word.  He Then Began To Talk Of Pipes And Tobacco.  And

Never,  I Should Say,  Did This Important Topic Afford So Much

Ingenious Conversation Before.  We Discussed The Relative

Merits Of All The Tobaccos In The World - Of Moist Tobacco

And Dry Tobacco,  Of Old Tobacco And New Tobacco,  Of Clay