Tracks of a Rolling Stone [34]
in which was stuck a dagger with a richly jew'lled sheath and handle.'
The only analogous instance of self-confidence that I can call to mind was Garibaldi's costume at a huge reception at Stafford House. The ELITE of society was there, in diamonds, ribbons, and stars, to meet him. Garibaldi's uppermost and outermost garment was a red flannel shirt, nothing more nor less.
The crowd jostled and swayed around him. To get out of the way of it, I retreated to the deserted picture gallery. The only person there was one who interested me more than the scarlet patriot, Bulwer-Lytton the First. He was sauntering to and fro with his hands behind his back, looking dingy in his black satin scarf, and dejected. Was he envying the Italian hero the obsequious reverence paid to his miner's shirt? (Nine tenths of the men, and still more of the women there, knew nothing of the wearer, or his cause, beyond that.) Was he thinking of similar honours which had been lavished upon himself when HIS star was in the zenith? Was he muttering to himself the usual consolation of the 'have- beens' - VANITAS VANITATUM? Or what new fiction, what old love, was flitting through that versatile and fantastic brain? Poor Bulwer! He had written the best novel, the best play, and had made the most eloquent parliamentary oration of any man of his day. But, like another celebrated statesman who has lately passed away, he strutted his hour and will soon be forgotten - 'Quand on broute sa gloire en herbe de son vivant, on ne la recolte pas en epis apres sa mort.' The 'Masses,' so courted by the one, however blatant, are not the arbiters of immortal fame.
To go back a few years before I met Lady Morgan: when my mother was living at 18 Arlington Street, Sydney Smith used to be a constant visitor there. One day he called just as we were going to lunch. He had been very ill, and would not eat anything. My mother suggested the wing of a chicken.
'My dear lady,' said he, 'it was only yesterday that my doctor positively refused my request for the wing of a butterfly.'
Another time when he was making a call I came to the door before it was opened. When the footman answered the bell, 'Is Lady Leicester at home?' he asked.
'No, sir,' was the answer.
'That's a good job,' he exclaimed, but with a heartiness that fairly took Jeames' breath away.
As Sydney's face was perfectly impassive, I never felt quite sure whether this was for the benefit of myself or of the astounded footman; or whether it was the genuine expression of an absent mind. He was a great friend of my mother's, and of Mr. Ellice's, but his fits of abstraction were notorious.
He himself records the fact. 'I knocked at a door in London, asked, "Is Mrs. B- at home?" "Yes, sir; pray what name shall I say?" I looked at the man's face astonished. What name? what name? aye, that is the question. What is my name? I had no more idea who I was than if I had never existed. I did not know whether I was a dissenter or a layman. I felt as dull as Sternhold and Hopkins. At last, to my great relief, it flashed across me that I was Sydney Smith.'
In the summer of the year 1848 Napier and I stayed a couple of nights with Captain Marryat at Langham, near Blakeney. He used constantly to come over to Holkham to watch our cricket matches. His house was a glorified cottage, very comfortable and prettily decorated. The dining and sitting-rooms were hung with the original water-colour drawings - mostly by Stanfield, I think - which illustrated his minor works. Trophies from all parts of the world garnished the walls. The only inmates beside us two were his son, a strange, but clever young man with considerable artistic abilities, and his talented daughter, Miss Florence, since so well known to novel readers.
Often as I had spoken to Marryat, I never could quite make him out. Now that I was his guest his habitual reserve disappeared, and despite his failing health he was geniality itself. Even this I did not
The only analogous instance of self-confidence that I can call to mind was Garibaldi's costume at a huge reception at Stafford House. The ELITE of society was there, in diamonds, ribbons, and stars, to meet him. Garibaldi's uppermost and outermost garment was a red flannel shirt, nothing more nor less.
The crowd jostled and swayed around him. To get out of the way of it, I retreated to the deserted picture gallery. The only person there was one who interested me more than the scarlet patriot, Bulwer-Lytton the First. He was sauntering to and fro with his hands behind his back, looking dingy in his black satin scarf, and dejected. Was he envying the Italian hero the obsequious reverence paid to his miner's shirt? (Nine tenths of the men, and still more of the women there, knew nothing of the wearer, or his cause, beyond that.) Was he thinking of similar honours which had been lavished upon himself when HIS star was in the zenith? Was he muttering to himself the usual consolation of the 'have- beens' - VANITAS VANITATUM? Or what new fiction, what old love, was flitting through that versatile and fantastic brain? Poor Bulwer! He had written the best novel, the best play, and had made the most eloquent parliamentary oration of any man of his day. But, like another celebrated statesman who has lately passed away, he strutted his hour and will soon be forgotten - 'Quand on broute sa gloire en herbe de son vivant, on ne la recolte pas en epis apres sa mort.' The 'Masses,' so courted by the one, however blatant, are not the arbiters of immortal fame.
To go back a few years before I met Lady Morgan: when my mother was living at 18 Arlington Street, Sydney Smith used to be a constant visitor there. One day he called just as we were going to lunch. He had been very ill, and would not eat anything. My mother suggested the wing of a chicken.
'My dear lady,' said he, 'it was only yesterday that my doctor positively refused my request for the wing of a butterfly.'
Another time when he was making a call I came to the door before it was opened. When the footman answered the bell, 'Is Lady Leicester at home?' he asked.
'No, sir,' was the answer.
'That's a good job,' he exclaimed, but with a heartiness that fairly took Jeames' breath away.
As Sydney's face was perfectly impassive, I never felt quite sure whether this was for the benefit of myself or of the astounded footman; or whether it was the genuine expression of an absent mind. He was a great friend of my mother's, and of Mr. Ellice's, but his fits of abstraction were notorious.
He himself records the fact. 'I knocked at a door in London, asked, "Is Mrs. B- at home?" "Yes, sir; pray what name shall I say?" I looked at the man's face astonished. What name? what name? aye, that is the question. What is my name? I had no more idea who I was than if I had never existed. I did not know whether I was a dissenter or a layman. I felt as dull as Sternhold and Hopkins. At last, to my great relief, it flashed across me that I was Sydney Smith.'
In the summer of the year 1848 Napier and I stayed a couple of nights with Captain Marryat at Langham, near Blakeney. He used constantly to come over to Holkham to watch our cricket matches. His house was a glorified cottage, very comfortable and prettily decorated. The dining and sitting-rooms were hung with the original water-colour drawings - mostly by Stanfield, I think - which illustrated his minor works. Trophies from all parts of the world garnished the walls. The only inmates beside us two were his son, a strange, but clever young man with considerable artistic abilities, and his talented daughter, Miss Florence, since so well known to novel readers.
Often as I had spoken to Marryat, I never could quite make him out. Now that I was his guest his habitual reserve disappeared, and despite his failing health he was geniality itself. Even this I did not