Tracks of a Rolling Stone [139]
not get to Vitznau till late at night, but luckily found a steamer just starting for Lucerne. The cabin was crammed with German students, each one smoking his pipe and roaring choruses to alternate singers. All of a sudden, those who were on their legs were knocked off them. The panic was instantaneous, for every one of us knew it was a collision. But the immediate peril was in the rush for the deck. Violent with terror, rough by nature, and full of beer, these wild young savages were formidable to themselves and others. Having arrived late, I had not got further than the cabin door, and was up the companion ladder at a bound. It was pitch dark, and piteous screams came up from the surrounding waters. At first it was impossible to guess what had happened. Were we rammed, or were we rammers? I pulled off my coats ready for a swim. But it soon became apparent that we had run into and sunk another boat.
The next morning the doctor and I went on to England. A week after I took up the 'Illustrated News.' There was an account of the accident, with an illustration of the cabin of the sunken boat. The bodies of passengers were depicted as the divers had found them.
On the very day the peace was signed I chanced to call on Sir Anthony Rothschild in New Court. He took me across the court to see his brother Lionel, the head of the firm. Sir Anthony bowed before him as though the great man were Plutus himself. He sat at a table alone, not in his own room, but in the immense counting-room, surrounded by a brigade of clerks. This was my first introduction to him. He took no notice of his brother, but received me as Napoleon received the emperors and kings at Erfurt - in other words, as he would 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
The next morning the doctor and I went on to England. A week after I took up the 'Illustrated News.' There was an account of the accident, with an illustration of the cabin of the sunken boat. The bodies of passengers were depicted as the divers had found them.
On the very day the peace was signed I chanced to call on Sir Anthony Rothschild in New Court. He took me across the court to see his brother Lionel, the head of the firm. Sir Anthony bowed before him as though the great man were Plutus himself. He sat at a table alone, not in his own room, but in the immense counting-room, surrounded by a brigade of clerks. This was my first introduction to him. He took no notice of his brother, but received me as Napoleon received the emperors and kings at Erfurt - in other words, as he would 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