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Moreover, he seemed to observe but he may have been mistaken that, whatever rose he selected for his buttonhole, Sir John would take note of it and trump next day with a finer bloom. But these were trifles. Putting them aside, Mr. Molesworth felt that he could never like the man who to be short was less of a gentleman than a highly coloured and somewhat aggressive imitation of one.
Sir John, his head and shoulders well outside the carriage-window, did not answer. Probably he did not hear. As the train ran into M Station and came to a standstill, Mr. Molesworth caught a glimpse of the station-master, in his gold-braided cap, by the door of the booking-office. He wore a grave, almost a scared look.
The enemy kept up a sharp fire of musketry and cannon; during these movements, Major Molesworth, a gallant officer was here killed. The troops kept their position during the day, and in the night effected a lodgment within three hundred yards of the southernmost tower, and erected a battery of four guns, together with a mortar battery.
Muller a perpetual warning, leading him to pray that he might never thus depart from the Lord in his old age. After prayer by Mr. J. L. Stanley, Col. Molesworth gave out the hymn, "'Tis sweet to think of those at rest." And after another prayer by Mr. Stanley Arnot, the body was borne to its resting-place in Arno's Vale Cemetery, and buried beside the bodies of Mr.
During this period he was introduced to Molesworth, Austin, and J.S. Mill. On his summons, October 1st 1832, Mrs. Carlyle came up to Ampton Street, where he then resided, to see him safe through the rest of his London time.
Molesworth as Sir John paused and, apparently on the point of resuming his story, checked himself, tossed his cigar out of the window, and chose a fresh one from his pocket-case. "Well, and what happens in your dream?" Sir John struck a match, puffed his fresh cigar alight, deliberately examined the ignited end, and flung the match away. "Nothing happens. I told you it was just a scene, didn't I?"
I did not feel that there was any other radical writer or politician to whom I was bound to defer, further than consisted with my own opinions: and having the complete confidence of Molesworth, I resolved henceforth to give full scope to my own opinions and modes of thought, and to open the Review widely to all writers who were in sympathy with Progress as I understood it, even though I should lose by it the support of my former associates.
On the 24th of August 1684 Sir Thomas Lynch died in Jamaica, and Colonel Hender Molesworth, by virtue of his commission as lieutenant-governor, assumed the authority.
One may trace a descent towards separatism from Molesworth to Roebuck and Brougham. In Molesworth, the tendency was comparatively slight. No doubt in 1837, under the stress of the news of rebellion, he had proclaimed the end of the British dominion in America as his sincere desire. But he believed in a colonial empire, if England would only guarantee good government.
The absurdity of it chased away his terror, and he opened his eyes and looked about him with a short laugh. . . . The train still jolted heavily, but had begun to slow down, and Mr. Molesworth drew a long breath as a glance told him that they were past the viaduct. Sir John had risen, and was leaning out of the farther window. Something had gone amiss, then. But what? He put the question aloud.
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