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Updated: May 31, 2025
Frere's favourite poet "a summer isle of Eden lying in dark purple sphere of sea". Sophocles has the same idea in the Philoctetes, but I can't quote it.
To Mr. T. Longman C. O., January 31st. I have read Rudd's translation of Aristophanes with a good deal of interest. It is as good as it can possibly be without the slightest gleam of fun or genius. Frere's translations are blazing with both, and that constitutes their charm. Rudd is evidently a worthy, dull man, who administers the Aristophanic champagne as if it were mere brown stout.
On getting this command not without some wry faces on the part of the owner resident in Hobart Town Blunt had taken the temperance pledge for the space of twelve months, and was a miserable dog in consequence. He was, however, a faithful henchman, for he hoped by Frere's means to get some "Government billet" the grand object of all colonial sea captains of that epoch.
I'm hearty enough, thank God; for, barring a drop of rum now and then, I've no vices to speak of. However, I ain't in a hurry, Captain, for a month or so; only I thought I'd jog your memory a bit, d ye see." "Oh, you're not in a hurry; where are you going then?" "Well," said Blunt, shifting on his seat, uneasy under Frere's convict-disciplined eye, "I've got a job on hand." "Glad of it, I'm sure.
"Major Pratt promised me a removal," said he. "I expected it would come to this." I asked him why Dawes defended him; and after some trouble he told me, exacting from me a promise that I would not acquaint the Commandant. It seems that one morning last week, Hankey had gone up to Captain Frere's house with a return from Troke, and coming back through the garden had plucked a flower.
But I did not like to leave her behind, and endeavoured to teach her myself." "Hum! There was a-ha-governess, or something, was there not?" said Frere, staring into his tea-cup. "That maid, you know what was her name?" "Miss Purfoy," said Mrs. Vickers, a little gravely. "Yes, poor thing! A sad story, Mr. Frere." Frere's eye twinkled. "Indeed!
Rejecting Bates's offer of a pea-jacket and Frere's vague tenders of assistance, the poor woman withdrew behind a rock that faced the sea, and, with her daughter in her arms, resigned herself to her torturing thoughts. Sylvia, recovered from her terror, was almost content, and, curled in her mother's shawl, slept.
His fugitive lyrics and arabesque romances, half sardonic and half sentimental, published with Hookham Frere's "Whistlecraft" and Macaulay's Roundhead Ballads, in Knight's Quarterly Magazine, and after the suspension of that work, for the most part in the annual souvenirs, are altogether unequaled in the class of compositions described as vers de societie.
You men never do know anything until the mischief's done. You want me here for a month or so. I'd teach you your duty! Don't know with things like this lying about? I wonder the whole yard isn't loose and dining with the Governor." "This" was a fragment of delft pottery which Frere's quick eye had detected among the broken metal.
It is from one to three miles broad, and never can be reached at any point, or at any time of the year. Two western drains, the Lufira, or Bartle Frere's River, flow into it at Lake Kamolondo. Then the great River Lomame flows through Lake Lincoln into it too, and seems to form the western arm of the Nile, on which Petherick traded.
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