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

Train Ended This Last Of The Greatest Prize-Fights.

 

We Two Took It Easily,  And As The Mob Were Scuttling Away

From The Police,  We Saw Sayers With His Backers,  Who Were

Helping Him To Dress.  His Arm Seemed To Hurt Him A Little, 

But Otherwise,  For All The Damage He Had Received,  He Might

Have Been Playing At Football Or Lawn Tennis.

 

We Were Quietly Getting Into A First-Class Carriage,  When I

Was Seized By The Shoulder And Roughly Spun Out Of The Way. 

Turning To Resent The Rudeness,  I Found Myself Face To Face

With Heenan.  One Of His Seconds Had Pushed Me On One Side To

Let The Gladiator Get In.  So Completely Blind Was He,  That

The Friend Had To Place His Foot Upon The Step.  And Yet

Neither Man Had Won The Fight.

 

We Still Think - Profess To Think - The Barbarism Of The

'Iliad' The Highest Flight Of Epic Poetry; If Homer Had Sung

This Great Battle,  How Glorious We Should Have Thought It! 

Beyond A Doubt,  Man 'Yet Partially Retains The

Characteristics That Adapted Him To An Antecedent State.'

 

 

 

Chapter 43 Pg 229

 

Through The Cayley Family,  I Became Very Intimate With Their

Near Relatives The Worsleys Of Hovingham,  Near York. 

Hovingham Has Now Become Known To The Musical World Through

Its Festivals,  Annually Held At The Hall Under The Patronage

Of Its Late Owner,  Sir William Worsley.  It Was In His

Father's Time That This Fine Place,  With Its Delightful

Family,  Was For Many Years A Home To Me.  Here I Met The

Alisons,  And At The Kind Invitation Of Sir Archibald,  Paid

The Great Historian A Visit At Possil,  His Seat In Scotland. 

As Men Who Had Achieved Scientific Or Literary Distinction

Inspired Me With Far Greater Awe Than Those Of The Highest

Rank - Of Whom From My Childhood I Had Seen Abundance -

Alison's Celebrity,  His Courteous Manner,  His Oracular

Speech,  His Voluminous Works,  And His Voluminous Dimensions,  

Chapter 43 Pg 230

Filled Me With Too Much Diffidence And Respect To Admit Of

Any Freedom Of Approach.  One Listened To Him,  As He Held

Forth Of An Evening When Surrounded By His Family,  With

Reverential Silence.  He Had A Strong Scotch Accent; And,  If

A Wee Bit Prosy At Times,  It Was Sententious And Polished

Prose That He Talked; He Talked Invariably Like A Book.  His

Family Were Devoted To Him; And I Felt That No One Who Knew

Him Could Help Liking Him.

 

When Thackeray Was Giving Readings From 'The Four Georges,' I

Dined With Lady Grey And Landseer,  And We Three Went To Hear

Him.  I Had Heard Dickens Read 'The Trial Of Bardell Against

Pickwick,' And It Was Curious To Compare The Style Of The Two

Great Novelists.  With Thackeray,  There Was An Entire Absence

Of Either Tone Or Colour.  Of Course The Historical Nature Of

His Subject Precluded The Dramatic Suggestion To Be Looked

For In The Pickwick Trial,  Thus Rendering Comparison

Inapposite.  Nevertheless One Was Bound To Contrast Them. 

Thackeray's Features Were Impassive,  And His Voice Knew No

Inflection.  But His Elocution In Other Respects Was Perfect, 

Admirably Distinct And Impressive From Its Complete

Obliteration Of The Reader.

 

The Selection Was From The Reign Of George The Third; And No

Part Of It Was More Attentively Listened To Than His Passing

Allusion To Himself.  'I Came,' He Says,  'From India As A

Child,  And Our Ship Touched At An Island On The Way Home, 

Where My Black Servant Took Me A Long Walk Over Rocks And

Hills Until We Reached A Garden,  Where We Saw A Man Walking. 

"That Is He," Said The Black Man,  "That Is Bonaparte!  He

Eats Three Sheep Every Day,  And All The Little Children He

Can Lay Hands On!"'  One Went To Hear Thackeray,  To See

Thackeray; And The Child And The Black Man And The Ogre Were

There On The Stage Before One.  But So Well Did The Lecturer

Perform His Part,  That Ten Minutes Later One Had Forgotten

Him,  And Saw Only George Selwyn And His Friend Horace

Walpole,  And Horace's Friend,  Miss Berry - Whom By The Way I

Too Knew And Remember.  One Saw The 'Poor Society Ghastly In

Its Pleasures,  Its Loves,  Its Revelries,' And The Redeeming

Vision Of 'Her Father's Darling,  The Princess Amelia, 

Pathetic For Her Beauty,  Her Sweetness,  Her Early Death,  And

For The Extreme Passionate Tenderness With Which Her Father

Loved Her.'  The Story Told,  As Thackeray Told It,  Was As

Delightful To Listen To As To Read.

 

Not So With Dickens.  He Disappointed Me.  He Made No Attempt

To Represent The Different Characters By Varied Utterance;

But Whenever Something Unusually Comic Was Said,  Or About To

Be Said,  He Had A Habit Of Turning His Eyes Up To The

Ceiling; So That,  Knowing What Was Coming,  One Nervously

Anticipated The Upcast Look,  And For The Moment Lost The

Illusion.  In Both Entertainments,  The Reader Was Naturally

The Central Point Of Interest.  But In The Case Of Dickens, 

When Curiosity Was Satisfied,  He Alone Possessed One; 

Chapter 43 Pg 231

Pickwick And Mrs. Bardell Were Put Out Of Court.

 

Was It Not Charles Lamb,  Or Was It Hazlitt,  That Could Not

Bear To See Shakespeare Upon The Stage?  I Agree With Him.  I

Have Never Seen A Falstaff That Did Not Make Me Miserable. 

He Is Even More Impossible To Impersonate Than Hamlet.  A

Player Will Spoil You The Character Of Hamlet,  But He Cannot

Spoil His Thoughts.  Depend Upon It,  We Are Fortunate Not To

Have Seen Shakespeare In His Ghost Of Royal Denmark.

 

In 1861 I Married Lady Katharine Egerton,  Second Daughter Of

Lord Wilton,  And We Took Up Our Abode In Warwick Square, 

Which,  By The Way,  I Had Seen A Few Years Before As A Turnip

Field.  My Wife Was An Accomplished Pianiste,  So We Had A

Great Deal Of Music,  And Saw Much Of The Artist World.  I May

Mention One Artistic Dinner Amongst Our Early Efforts At

Housekeeping,  Which Nearly Ended With A Catastrophe.

 

Millais And Dicky Doyle Were Of The Party; Music Was

Represented By Joachim,  Piatti,  And Halle.  The Late Lord And

Lady De Ros Were Also Of The Number.  Lady De Ros,  Who Was A

Daughter Of The Duke Of Richmond,  Had Danced At The Ball

Given By Her Father At Brussels The Night Before Waterloo. 

As Lord De Ros Was Then Governor Of The Tower,  It Will Be

Understood That He Was A Veteran Of Some Standing.  The Great

Musical Trio Were Enchanting All Ears With Their Faultless

Performance,  When The Sweet And Soul-Stirring Notes Of The

Adagio Were Suddenly Interrupted By A Loud Crash And A

Shriek.  Old Lord De Ros Was Listening To The Music On A Sofa

At The Further End Of The Room.  Over His Head Was A Large

Picture In A Heavy Frame.  What Vibrations,  What Careless

Hanging,  What Mischievous Ate Or Discord Was At The Bottom Of

It,  Who Knows?  Down Came The Picture On The Top Of The Poor

Old General's Head,  And Knocked Him Senseless On The Floor. 

He Had To Be Carried Upstairs And Laid Upon A Bed.  Happily

He Recovered Without Serious Injury.  There Were Many

Exclamations Of Regret,  But The Only One I Remember Was

Millais'.  All He Said Was:  'And It Is A Good Picture Too.'

 

Sir Arthur Sullivan Was One Of Our Musical Favourites.  My

Wife Had Known Him As A Chorister Boy In The Chapel Royal;

And To The End Of His Days We Were On Terms Of The Closest

Intimacy And Friendship.  Through Him We Made The

Acquaintance Of The Scott Russells.  Mr. Scott Russell Was

The Builder Of The Crystal Palace.  He Had A Delightful

Residence At Sydenham,  The Grounds Of Which Adjoined Those Of

The Crystal Palace,  And Were Beautifully Laid Out By His

Friend Sir Joseph Paxton.  One Of The Daughters,  Miss Rachel

Russell,  Was A Pupil Of Arthur Sullivan's.  She Had Great

Musical Talent,  She Was Remarkably Handsome,  Exceedingly

Clever And Well-Informed,  And Altogether Exceptionally

Fascinating.  Quite Apart From Sullivan's Genius,  He Was In

Every Way A Charming Fellow.  The Teacher Fell In Love With

The Pupil; And,  As Naturally,  His Love Was Returned.  

Chapter 43 Pg 232

Sullivan Was But A Youth,  A Poor And Struggling Music-Master. 

And,  Very Naturally Again,  Mrs. Scott Russell,  Who Could Not

Be Expected To Know What Magic Baton The Young Maestro

Carried In His Knapsack,  Thought Her Brilliant Daughter Might

Do Better.  The Music Lessons Were Put A Stop To,  And

Correspondence Between The Lovers Was Prohibited.

 

Once A Week Or So,  Either The Young Lady Or The Young

Gentleman Would,  Quite Unexpectedly,  Pay Us A Visit About Tea

Or Luncheon Time.  And,  By The Strangest Coincidence,  The

Other Would Be Sure To Drop In While The One Was There.  This

Went On For A Year Or Two.  But Destiny Forbade The Banns. 

In Spite Of The Large Fortune Acquired By Mr. Scott Russell -

He Was The Builder Of The 'Great Eastern' As Well As The

Crystal Palace - Ill-Advised Or Unsuccessful Ventures Robbed

Him Of His Well-Earned Wealth.  His Beautiful Place At

Sydenham Had To Be Sold; And The Marriage Of Miss Rachel With

Young Arthur Sullivan Was Abandoned.  She Ultimately Married

An Indian Official.

 

Her Story May Here Be Told To The End.  Some Years Later She

Returned To England To Bring Her Two Children Home For Their

Education,  Going Back To India Without Them,  As Indian

Mothers Have To Do.  The Day Before She Sailed,  She Called To

Take Leave Of Us In London.  She Was Terribly Depressed,  But

Fought Bravely With Her Trial.  She Never Broke Down,  But

Shunted The Subject,  Talking And Laughing With Flashes Of Her

Old Vivacity,  About Music,  Books,  Friends,  And 'Dear Old

Dirty London,' As She Called It.  When She Left,  I Opened The

Street-Door For Her,  And With Both Her Hands In Mine,  Bade

Her 'Farewell.'  Then The