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Tracks of a Rolling Stone-Part44_Henry J.Coke(1827-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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for his children and for himself. His energy, his abilities,

his exceeding amiability, and remarkable social qualities,



gradually procured him a large practice and hosts of devoted

friends. He began looking for the season for sprats - the



cheapest of fish - to come in; by middle life he was

habitually and sumptuously entertaining the celebrities of



art and literature. With his accomplished sister, Miss Alice

Bird, to keep house for him, there were no pleasanter dinner



parties or receptions in London. His CLIENTELE was mainly

amongst the artistic world. He was a great friend of Miss



Ellen Terry's, Mr. Marcus Stone and his sisters were

frequenters of his house, so were Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Woolner



the sculptor - of whom I was not particularly fond - Horace

Wigan the actor, and his father, the Burtons, who were much



attached to him - Burton dedicated one volume of his 'Arabian

Nights' to him - Sir William Crookes, Mr. Justin Macarthy and



his talented son, and many others.

The good doctor was a Radical and Home Ruler, and attended



professionally the members of one or two labouring men's

clubs for fees which, as far as I could learn, were



rigorously nominal. His great delight was to get an order

for the House of Commons, especially on nights when Mr.



Gladstone spoke; and, being to the last day of his life as

simple-minded as a child, had a profoundbelief in the



statemanship and integrity of that renowned orator.

As far as personality goes, the Burtons were, perhaps, the



most notable of the above-named. There was a mystery about

Burton which was in itself a fascination. No one knew what



he had done; or consequently what he might not do. He never

boasted, never hinted that he had done, or could do, anything



different from other men; and, in spite of the mystery, one

felt that he was transparently honest and sincere. He was



always the same, always true to himself; but then, that

'self' was a something PER SE, which could not be



categorically classed - precedent for guidance was lacking.

There is little doubt Burton had gipsy blood in his veins;



there was something Oriental in his temperament, and even in

his skin.



One summer's day I found him reading the paper in the

Athenaeum. He was dressed in a complete suit of white -



white trousers, a white linen coat, and a very shabby old

white hat. People would have stared at him anywhere.



'Hullo, Burton!' I exclaimed, touching his linen coat, 'Do

you find it so hot - DEJA?'



Said he: 'I don't want to be mistaken for other people.'

'There's not much fear of that, even without your clothes,' I



replied.

Such an impromptu answer as his would, from any other, have



implied vanity. Yet no man could have been less vain, or

more free from affectation. It probably concealed regret at



finding himself conspicuous.

After dinner at the Birds' one evening we fell to talking of



garrotters. About this time the police reports were full of

cases of garrotting. The victim was seized from behind, one



man gagged or burked him, while another picked his pocket.

'What should you do, Burton?' the Doctor asked, 'if they



tried to garrotte you?'

'I'm quite ready for 'em,' was the answer; and turning up his



sleeve he partially pulled out a dagger, and shoved it back

again.



We tried to make him tell us what became of the Arab boy who

accompanied him to Mecca, and whose suspicions threatened



Burton's betrayal, and, of consequence, his life. I don't




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