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Updated: May 1, 2025
Then, the host was bowing to a short, energetic-looking man with large moustaches, and saying in a low voice: 'Herr Professor, darf ich vorstellen-' The Herr Professor was prompt and energetic. He bowed low to the English people, smiling, and began to be a comrade at once.
In the evening he was called aft to the captain, who was standing with the boatswain at his elbow. He was a spare, energetic-looking man, of about forty years of age, with thick black whiskers, marked features, and rather hollow cheeks, and with carefully dressed, glossy hair.
The first house we came upon was derelict all battered and despoiled, the people in the neighbourhood here, as elsewhere, regarding such houses as free spoil, and carrying off from time to time whatever they happen to fancy. Near this house we met an emergency man, named Bolton, an alert, energetic-looking native of Wicklow.
He was sitting up, being less strictly manacled than his more youthful and energetic-looking companion; and his comical countenance wore a most desponding expression, as, in reply to the question put to him, he shook his head slowly from side to side, at the same time gravely stroking his beard.
He took my hand, and turning me round, examined my countenance with critical minuteness, neither moved by my childish indignation nor my tears. "A strong-limbed straight-made fellow, this. I did not think that Edward could be the father of such an energetic-looking boy. He's like his grandfather, and if I mistake not, will be just as obstinate and self-sustained."
There were two or three whose profiles I could never get to feel at home with, even if I had been born with one of them; but the majority were brave, energetic, oh! terribly energetic-looking men, as indeed they would need to be, if they were really to accomplish all the things they promised, not only for you but for the hundreds of thousands of other people who might be inclined to put them to the test.
A brown boy with a William Penn style of countenance sat beside him, firmly embracing a bust of Socrates. Behind them was an energetic-looking woman, with a benevolent brow, satirical mouth, and eyes brimful of hope and courage. A baby reposed upon her lap, a mirror leaned against her knee, and a basket of provisions danced about at her feet, as she struggled with a large, unruly umbrella.
The third murmured in somewhat broken English. "Victoria Victrix, Beata Beatrix," whereby I recognised him to be a poet, if not a painter. But the fourth an energetic-looking man with a somewhat arrogant manner said briskly: "Perchance the ass is right; these pine needles are becoming monotonous, and I have seventeen million four hundred and sixty-two thousand five hundred and eleven more to do.
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