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Tracks of a Rolling Stone-Part45_Henry J.Coke(1827-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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eyes to the ceiling, 'to wash an omnibus, bedad.' Mr.



Donovan, though he never refused Mr. Wigan's hospitality,

balanced the account by vilipending his friend's extravagant



habits. While Mr. Wigan, probably giving him full credit for

his gratitude, always spoke of him as 'Poor old Paddy



Donovan.'

With Alfred Wigan, the eldest son, I was on very friendly



terms. Nothing could be more unlike his father. His manner

in his own house was exactly what it was on the stage.



Albany Fonblanque, whose experiences began nearly forty years

before mine, and who was not given to waste his praise, told



me he considered Alfred Wigan the best 'gentleman' he had

ever seen on the stage. I think this impression was due in a



great measure to Wigan's entire absence of affectation, and

to his persistentappeal to the 'judicious' but never to the



'groundlings.' Mrs. Alfred Wigan was also a consummate

artiste.



CHAPTER XLII

THROUGH George Bird I made the acquaintance of the leading



surgeons and physicians of the North London Hospital, where I

frequently attended the operations of Erichsen, John



Marshall, and Sir Henry Thompson, following them afterwards

in their clinical rounds. Amongst the physicians, Professor



Sydney Ringer remains one of my oldest friends. Both surgery

and therapeutics interested me deeply. With regard to the



first, curiosity was supplemented by the incidental desire to

overcome the natural repugnance we all feel to the mere sight



of blood.

Chemistry I studied in the laboratory of a professional



friend of Dr. Bird's. After a while my teacher would leave

me to carry out small commissions of a simple character which



had been put into his hands, such as the analysis of water,

bread, or other food-stuffs. He himself often had



engagements elsewhere, and would leave me in possession of

the laboratory, with a small urchin whom he had taught to be



useful. This boy was of the meekest and mildest disposition.

Whether his master had frightened him or not I do not know.



He always spoke in a whisper, and with downcast eyes. He

handled everything as if it was about to annihilate him, or



he it, and looked as if he wouldn't bite - even a tartlet.

One day when I had finished my task, and we were alone, I



bethought me of making some laughing gas, and trying the

effect of it on the gentle youth. I offered him a shilling



for the experiment, which, however, proved more expensive

than I had bargained for. I filled a bladder with the gas,



and putting a bit of broken pipe-stem in its neck for a

mouthpiece, gave it to the boy to suck - and suck he did. In



a few seconds his eyes dilated, his face became lividly

white, and I had some trouble to tear the intoxicating



bladder from his clutches. The moment I had done so, the

true nature of the gutter-snipe exhibited itself. He began



by cutting flip-flaps and turning windmills all round the

room; then, before I could stop him, swept an armful of



valuable apparatus from the tables, till the whole floor was

strewn with wreck and poisonous solutions. The dismay of the



chemist when he returned may be more easily imagined than

described.



Some years ago, there was a well-known band of amateur

musicians called the 'Wandering Minstrels.' This band



originated in my rooms in Dean's Yard. Its nucleus was

composed of the following members: Seymour Egerton,



afterwards Lord Wilton, Sir Archibald Macdonald my brother-

in-law, Fred Clay, Bertie Mitford (the present Lord Redesdale



- perhaps the finest amateur cornet and trumpetplayer of the

day), and Lord Gerald Fitzgerald. Our concerts were given in



the Hanover Square Rooms, and we played for charities all

over the country.



To turn from the musical art to the art - or science is it

called? - of self-defence, once so patronised by the highest






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