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Updated: May 19, 2025
"Have you read the dispatches which the Directory sent me yesterday through their spy, M. Botot?" asked the general, abruptly. "I have, general!" "They are unreasonable fools," exclaimed Bonaparte, angrily, "they want to direct our war from their comfortable sofas in the Luxembourg, and believe their ink-stained hands could hold the general's baton as well as the pen.
There are several unfinished manuscripts which you can easily finish yourself, Dexie, and who knows but the beginning of your fame and fortune may be lying there waiting for you in the old ink-stained desk. There, do not cry, Dexie! It grieves me to see you fretting. You would not like to have your poor father lying here suffering much longer, surely!
To me he appears the ideal English schoolboy, and the ideal British officer; but if I had blurted this out at the beginning of my story you might perhaps have flung the book into an ink-stained corner, thinking you were in for a dull lecture.
The dirty, untidy, ink-stained, and chemical-stained little boy grew up into a tall, lank, slovenly-dressed man, who kept entirely to himself, not because he cherished any dislike or disdain for his fellow-creatures, but because he seemed to be entirely absorbed in his own thoughts and isolated from the world by a barrier of dreams.
It was the history of Daredevil Dick and his congeners whose surprising adventures, second-hand, in ink-stained sheets, were bartered to him for buttons, which shows the advantages of not having a soul above such.
And thus, still whistling "My country, 'tis of thee," and with blank pink face over his shoulder, he proceeded until he was out of sight. "Who was that boy?" the new neighbor then inquired. "It's Freddie," said Jane, placidly. "He's in our Sunday-school. He's in love of me." Again the outraged and ink-stained countenance glared down from the window. "What you want?" Jane asked.
Not that Will Shakespeare can put it into words he only knows that when the smell of the warm, newly turned earth comes in at the schoolroom window and the hum of a wandering bee rises above the droning of the lesson, he lolls on the hacked and ink-stained desk and gazes out at the white clouds flecking the blue, and all the truant blood in his sturdy frame pulls against his promises.
His middle name was Henry, but following that peculiar penchant of the ink-stained fraternity to play flimflam with their names, he changed the Henry to Hengist; so we now see it writ thus: R. Hengist Horne. He found a market for Miss Barrett's wares. More properly, he insisted that she should write certain things to fit certain publications in which he was interested.
He went back to his room and to the volume of Spencer's "Sociology" lying open on the bed. But he could not read. Love tormented him and overrode his will, so that, despite all determination, he found himself at the little ink-stained table. The sonnet he composed that night was the first of a love-cycle of fifty sonnets which was completed within two months.
The act, with its daring, tinted everything with new, strange hues; affecting the individual with a sort of bruised feeling just below the pit of the stomach, that was intensified whenever his thoughts flew back to the ink-stained, smelly schoolroom.
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