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Updated: June 1, 2025
But now I go alone to find the body of my dear lord, and if I may, I will see my lady, Queen Gwenevere. And do ye all go back into your country, for now we have no place in this. Thus Sir Lancelot fared forth, and would suffer none to go with him. First he went to Amesbury, and in the convent there he saw Queen Gwenevere. Few but very sad were the words they spake.
Saltonstall, riding up to him, asked him if he did expect Haverhill folks to pay him forty shillings for killing that Amesbury wolf? "How you know Amesbury wolf?" asked the Indian. "Oh," said Mr. Saltonstall, "you can't cheat us again, Simon. You must be honest, and tell no more lies, or we will have you whipped for your tricks."
Amesbury, a busy manufacturing town, pleasantly situated on the Merrimac, impressed me at first as hardly retired enough for a poet's home; for fresh in my recollection were Longfellow's historic house, guarded by stately poplars, standing back from the quiet Cambridge street, and Lowell's old mansion, completely buried in its noble elms; and each of these had quite realized my ideal of the home of a poet.
You will find that Oliver Goldsmith lived in Salisbury, and there wrote the novel "The Vicar of Wakefield," and that Gay wrote the "Beggar's Opera," at Amesbury, the village that lies a few miles east of Stonehenge.
And there, in the dim light, she told her whole story, the story of vaulting ambition and timely temptation, of action in haste and repentance at weary leisure. "So that was it," Miss Amesbury exclaimed involuntarily, as Agony finished. "It seemed to me that you had something on your mind; it puzzled me a great deal. How you must have suffered in conscience, poor child!"
The Winnebagos scurried off toward the Alley, in high spirits at the success of their little plan. Migwan actually trembled with joy. At last she had been invited up on Miss Amesbury's fascinating little balcony. True, the invitation had been a general one to all the Winnebagos, but nevertheless, it was a beginning. "Miss Amesbury must have been very tired tonight," she confided to Hinpoha.
You are setting your face now in the direction in which you are going to travel. Every worthy action you perform now will open the way for more worthy actions in the future, and the same is true of unworthy ones." Agony sat very still. "It is the thing we stand for ourselves that makes us an influence for evil or good," continued Miss Amesbury, "not the thing that we preach.
Lupin and Mark Tapley, immortalized by Charles Dickens, though some claim Amesbury to be the original of this scene. It is difficult to say that any particular village could be in the novelist's mind if, as seems probable, he had not seen Wiltshire when Martin Chuzzlewit was written. St. Mary's Grange, on the Salisbury road, is suggested as the original of Mr. Pecksniff's residence.
Unfriendly to Gothic, he lifted both hands to his nose, and declared that old Em'ly was buried there. He lay in the mud. His horse trotted back towards Amesbury, Stephen had twisted him out of the saddle. "I've done him!" he yelled, though no one was there to hear. He rose up in his stirrups and shouted with joy. He flung his arms round Aeneas's neck.
"I have arrived at last," she whispered triumphantly to herself as she went to bed that night, and lay awake a long time in the darkness, thinking of the cheers that had rocked the Craft House and of the flattering attention with which Miss Amesbury had regarded her all evening. Agony awoke the next morning to find herself famous beyond her fondest dreams.
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