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

Pen As Valiantly As He Had His Sword.  When

Quite Bewildered,  Like Everybody Else,  I Ventured Mildly To

Ask,  'But Where Were You,  Lord Cardigan,  And Where Were Our

Men When It Came To This?'

 

'Where?  Where?  God Bless My Soul!  How Should I Know Where

Anybody Was?'  And This,  No Doubt,  Described The Situation To

A Nicety.

 

My Office Was In The Castle,  And The Next Room To Mine Was

That Of The Solicitor-General Keogh,  Afterwards Judge.  We

Became The Greatest Of Friends.  It Was One Of Horsman's

Peculiarities To Do Business Circuitously.  He Was Fond Of

Mysteries And Of Secrets,  Secrets That Were To Be Kept From

Everyone,  But Which Were Generally Known To The Office

Messengers.  When Keogh And I Met In The Morning He Would

Say,  With Admirable Imitation Of Horsman's Manner,  'Well,  It

Is All Settled; The Viceroy Has Considered The Question,  And

Has Decided To Act Upon My Advice.  Mind You Don't Tell

Anyone - It Is A Profound Secret,' Then,  Lowering His Voice

And Looking Round The Room,  'His Excellency Has Consented To

Score At The Next Cricket Match Between The Garrison And The

Civil Service.'  If It Were A Constabulary Appointment,  Or

Even A Village Post-Office,  The Attorney Or The Solicitor-

General Would Be Strictly Enjoined Not To Inform Me,  And I

Received Similar Injunctions Respecting Them.  In Spite Of

His Apparent Attention To Details,  Mr. Horsman Hunted Three

Days A Week,  And Stated In The House Of Commons That The

Office Of Chief Secretary Was A Farce,  Meaning When Excluded

From The Cabinet.  All I Know Is,  That His Private Secretary

Was Constantly At Work An Hour Before Breakfast By Candle-

Light,  And Never Got A Single Day's Holiday Throughout The

Winter.

 

Horsman Had Hired A Shooting - Balnaboth In Scotland; Here, 

Too,  I Had To Attend Upon Him In The Autumn,  Mainly For The 

Chapter 39 Pg 212

Purpose Of Copying Voluminous Private Correspondence About A

Sugar Estate He Owned At Singapore,  Then Producing A Large

Income,  But The Subsequent Failure Of Which Was His Ruin. 

One Year Sir Alexander Cockburn,  The Lord Chief Justice,  Came

To Stay With Him; And Excellent Company He Was.  Horsman Had

Sometimes Rather An Affected Way Of Talking; And Referring To

Some Piece Of Political News,  Asked Cockburn Whether He Had

Seen It In The 'Courier.'  This He Pronounced With An Accent

On The Last Syllable,  Like The French 'Courrier.'  Cockburn, 

With A Slight Twinkle In His Eye,  Answered In His Quiet Way, 

'No,  I Didn't See It In The "Courrier," Perhaps It Is In The

"Morning Post,"' Also Giving The French Pronunciation To The

Latter Word.

 

Sir Alexander Told Us An Amusing Story About Disraeli.  He

And Bernal Osborne Were Talking Together About Mrs. Disraeli, 

When Presently Osborne,  With Characteristic Effrontery, 

Exclaimed:  'My Dear Dizzy,  How Could You Marry Such A

Woman?'  The Answer Was; 'My Dear Bernal,  You Never Knew What

Gratitude Was,  Or You Would Not Ask The Question.'

 

The Answer Was A Gracious One,  And Doubtless Sincere.  But, 

Despite His Cynicism,  No One Could Be More Courteous Or Say

Prettier Things Than Disraeli.  Here Is A Little Story That

Was Told Me At The Time By My Sister-In-Law,  Who Was A Woman

Of The Bedchamber,  And Was Present On The Occasion.  When Her

Majesty Queen Alexandra Was Suffering From An Accident To Her

Knee,  And Had To Use Crutches,  Disraeli Said To Her:  'I Have

Heard Of A Devil On Two Sticks,  But Never Before Knew An

Angel To Use Them.'

 

Keogh,  Bourke,  And I,  Made Several Pleasant Little Excursions

To Such Places As Bray,  The Seven Churches,  Powerscourt,  &C., 

And,  With A Chosen Car-Driver,  The Wit And Fun Of The Three

Clever Irishmen Was No Small Treat.  The Last Time I Saw

Either Of My Two Friends Was At A Dinner-Party Which Bourke

Gave At The 'Windham.'  We Were Only Four,  To Make Up A Whist

Party; The Fourth Was Fred Clay,  The Composer.  It Is Sad To

Reflect That Two Of The Lot Came To Violent Ends - Keogh,  The

Cheeriest Of Men In Society,  By His Own Hands.  Bourke I Had

Often Spoken To Of The Danger He Ran In Crossing The Phoenix

Park Nightly On His Way Home,  On Foot And Unarmed.  He

Laughed At Me,  And Rather Indignantly - For He Was A Very

Vain Man,  Though One Of The Most Good-Natured Fellows In The

World.  In The First Place,  He Prided Himself On His Physique

- He Was A Tall,  Well-Built,  Handsome Man,  And A Good Boxer

And Fencer To Boot.  In The Next Place,  He Prided Himself

Above All Things On Being A Thorough-Bred Irishman,  With A

Sneaking Sympathy With Even Fenian Grievances.  'They All

Know Me,' He Would Say.  'The Rascals Know I'm The Best

Friend They Have.  I'm The Last Man In The World They'd Harm, 

For Political Reasons.  Anyway,  I Can Take Care Of Myself.' 

And So It Was He Fell.

 

Chapter 39 Pg 213

The End Of Horsman's Secretaryship Is Soon Told.  A Bishopric

Became Vacant,  And Almost As Much Intrigue Was Set Agoing As

We Read Of In The Wonderful Story Of 'L'anneau D'amethyste.' 

Horsman,  At All Times A Profuse Letter-Writer,  Wrote Folios

To Lord Palmerston On The Subject,  Each Letter More

Exuberant,  More Urgent Than The Last.  But No Answer Came. 

Finally,  The Whole Irish Vote,  According To The Chief

Secretary,  Being At Stake - Not To Mention The Far More

Important Matter Of Personal And Official Dignity - Horsman

Flew Off To London,  Boiling Over With Impatience And

Indignation.  He Rushed To 10 Downing Street.  His Lordship

Was At The Foreign Office,  But Was Expected Every Minute;

Would Mr. Horsman Wait?  Mr. Horsman Was Shown Into His

Lordship's Room.  Piles Of Letters,  Opened And Unopened,  Were

Lying Upon The Table.  The Chief Secretary Recognised His Own

Signatures On The Envelopes Of A Large Bundle,  All Amongst

The 'Un's.' The Premier Came In,  An Explanation Extremement

Vive Followed; On His Return To Dublin Mr. Horsman Resigned

His Post,  And From That Moment Became One Of Lord

Palmerston's Bitterest Opponents.

 

 

Chapter 40 Pg 214

 

 

The Lectures At The Royal Institution Were Of Some Help To

Me.  I Attended Courses By Owen,  Tyndall,  Huxley,  And Bain. 

Of These,  Huxley Was Facile Princeps,  Though Both Owen And

Tyndall Were Second To No Other.  Bain Was Disappointing.  I

Was A Careful Student Of His Books,  And Always Admired The

Logical Lucidity Of His Writing.  But To The Mixed Audience

He Had To Lecture To - Fashionable Young Ladies In Their

Teens,  And Drowsy Matrons In Charge Of Them,  He Discreetly

Kept Clear Of Transcendentals.  In Illustration Perhaps Of

Some Theory Of The Relation Of The Senses To The Intellect, 

He Would Tell An Amusing Anecdote Of A Dog That Had Had An

Injured Leg Dressed At A Certain House,  After Which The

Recovered Dog Brought A Canine Friend To The Same House To

Have His Leg - Or Tail - Repaired.  Out Would Come All The

Tablets And Pretty Pencil Cases,  And Every Young Lady Would

Be Busy For The Rest Of The Lecture In Recording The

Marvellous History.  If The Dog's Name Had Been 'Spot' Or

'Bob,' The Important Psychological Fact Would Have Been

Faithfully Registered.  As To The Theme Of The Discourse, 

That Had Nothing To Do With - Millinery.  And Mr. Bain

Doubtless Did Not Overlook The Fact.

Chapter 40 Pg 215

 

Owen Was An Accomplished Lecturer; But One's Attention To Him

Depended On Two Things - A Primary Interest In The Subject, 

And Some Elementary Acquaintance With It.  If,  For Example, 

His Subject Were The Comparative Anatomy Of The Cycloid And

Ganoid Fishes,  The Difference In Their Scales Was Scarcely Of

Vital Importance To One's General Culture.  But If He Were

Lecturing On Fish,  He Would Stick To Fish; It Would Be

Essentially A Jour Maigre.

 

With Huxley,  The Suggestion Was Worth More Than The Thing

Said.  One Thought Of It Afterwards,  And Wondered Whether His

Words Implied All They Seemed To Imply.  One Knew That The

Scientist Was Also A Philosopher; And One Longed To Get At

Him,  At The Man Himself,  And Listen To The Lessons Which His

Work Had Taught Him.  At One Of These Lectures I Had The

Honour Of Being Introduced To Him By A Great Friend Of Mine, 

John Marshall,  Then President Of The College Of Surgeons.  In

Later Years I Used To Meet Him Constantly At The Athenaeum.

 

Looking Back To The Days Of One's Plasticity,  Two Men Are

Pre-Eminent Among My Dii Majores.  To John Stuart Mill And To

Thomas Huxley I Owe More,  Educationally,  Than To Any Other

Teachers.  Mill's Logic Was Simply A Revelation To Me.  For

What Kant Calls 'Discipline,' I Still Know No Book,  Unless It

Be The 'Critique' Itself,  Equal To It.  But Perhaps It Is The

Men Themselves,  Their Earnestness,  Their Splendid Courage, 

Their Noble Simplicity,  That Most Inspired One With

Reverence.  It Was Huxley's Aim To Enlighten The Many,  And He

Enlightened Them.  It Was Mill's Lot To Help Thinkers,  And He

Helped Them.  Sapere Aude Was The Motto Of Both.  How Few

There Are Who Dare To Adopt It!  To Love Truth Is Valiantly

Professed By All; But To Pursue It At All Costs,  To 'Dare To

Be Wise' Needs Daring Of The Highest Order.

 

Mill Had The Enormous Advantage,  To Start With,  Of An

Education Unbiassed By Any Theological Creed; And He Brought

Exceptional Powers Of Abstract Reasoning To Bear Upon Matters

Of Permanent And Supreme Importance To All Men.  Yet,  In

Spite Of His Ruthless Impartiality,  I Should Not Hesitate To

Call Him A Religious Man.  This Very Tendency Which No

Imaginative Mind,  No Man Or Woman With Any Strain Of Poetical

Feeling,  Can Be Without,  Invests Mill's Character With A

Clash Of Humanity Which Entitles Him To A Place In Our

Affections.  It Is In This Respect That He So Widely Differs

From Mr. Herbert Spencer.  Courageous