按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
Some years after this； I published a book called 'Creeds of the Day。' My purpose was to show； in a popular form； the bearings of science and speculative thought upon the religious creeds of the time。 I sent Owen a copy of the work。 He wrote me one of the most interesting letters I ever received。 He had bought the book； and had read it。 But the important content of the letter was the confession of his own faith。 I have purposely excluded all correspondence from these Memoirs； but had it not been that a forgotten collector of autographs had captured it； I should have been tempted to make an exception in its favour。 The tone was agnostic； but timidly agnostic。 He had never freed himself from the shackles of early prepossessions。 He had not the necessary daring to clear up his doubts。 Sometimes I fancy that it was this difference in the two men that lay at the bottom of the unfortunate antagonism between Owen and Huxley。 There is in Owen's writing； where he is not purely scientific； a touch of the apologist。 He cannot quite make up his mind to follow evolution to its logical conclusions。 Where he is forced to do so； it is to him like signing the death warrant of his dearest friend。 It must not be forgotten that Owen was born more than twenty years before Huxley； and great as was the offence of free…thinking in Huxley's youth； it was nothing short of anathema in Owen's。 When I met him at Holkham； the 'Origin of Species' had not been published； and Napier and I did all we could to get Owen to express some opinion on Lamarck's theory； for he and I used to talk confidentially on this fearful heresy even then。 But Owen was ever on his guard。 He evaded our questions and changed the subject。
Whenever I pass near the South Kensington Museum I step aside to look at the noble statues of the two illustrious men。 A mere glance at them； and we appreciate at once their respective characters。 In the one we see passive wisdom； in the other militant force。
CHAPTER XLI
BEFORE I went to America； I made the acquaintance of Dr。 George Bird； he continued to be one of my most intimate friends till his death； fifty years afterwards。 When I first knew him； Bird was the medical adviser and friend of Leigh Hunt； whose family I used often to meet at his house。 He had been dependent entirely upon his own exertions； had married young； and had had a pretty hard fight at starting to provide 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 profound belief 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 think anyone was present except us two； both of whom he well knew to be quite shock…proof； but he held his tongue。
'You would have been perfectly justified in saving your own life at any cost。 You would hardly have broken the sixth commandment by doing so in this case；' I suggested。
'No；' said he gravely； 'and as I had broken all the ten before； it wouldn't have so much mattered。'
The Doctor roared。 It should； however； be stated that Burton took no less delight in his host's boyish simplicity； than the other in what he deemed his guest's superb candour。
'Come； tell us；' said Bird； 'how many men have you killed？'
'How many have you； Doctor？' was the answer。
Richard Burton was probably the most extraordinary linguist of his day。 Lady Burton mentions； I think； in his Life； the number of languages and dialects her husband knew。 That Mahometans should seek instruction from him in the Koran； speaks of itself for his astonishing mastery of the greatest linguistic difficulties。 With Indian languages and their variations； he was as completely at home as Miss Youghal's Sais； and； one may suppose； could have played the ROLE of a fakir as perfectly as he did that of a Mecca pilgrim。 I asked him what his method was in learning a