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Updated: May 8, 2025
Hood himself was the first to leap into the canoe and incite the men to follow him, and shoot the rapid to save the lives of their companions. DR. RICHARDSON'S Journal. The loss of this man's services, and the necessity of procuring a guide, determined us to wait for the arrival of the North-West Company's people from Fort Chipewyan, and we encamped accordingly.
Get, an eel into court. There is only one man in town who can hold an eel, and he isn't on the jury. Mr. Price will talk plentifully, in his nasal way; but he won't tell you anything. Mr. Price has been nominated to fill Deacon Lysander Richardson's shoes in the following manner: One day in the late autumn a man in a coonskin cap stops beside Mr. Price's woodpile, where Mr.
Richardson's residence at Ghât is copied from a summary in his journal, with occasional insertions from his despatches to Government. It is very brief and imperfect; but the traveller was so fully occupied by various kinds of business during his stay, that he was not able to write, and only threw upon paper a rough memorandum after he had started on his way to Aheer.
Lenox asked, a queer vibration in his voice: for it seemed that not till this moment had he understood the strength of the link that bound him to the simple-hearted man who was his friend. "For God's sake don't plague a chap with questions when he's hard hit. The thing's done; and . ." Richardson's voice trailed off inaudible, "it's better this way . . for her."
Caldwell dropped into a chair, and sat gazing at Beth as if she had never seen anything like her before, as indeed she never had. "Who is this pupil of Mr. Richardson's?" she asked at last, "and how did you make his acquaintance?" "His name is Alfred Cayley Pounce," Beth answered. "We were caught by the tide and nearly drowned together on the sands, and I've known him ever since."
In the drizzle I had passed French's Creek, and after dark ran upon a stony beach, where, high and dry upon the bank, was a shanty-boat, which had been converted into a landing-house, and was occupied by two men who received the freight left there by passing steamers. The locality was six miles below Brandenburg, Kentucky, and was known as "Richardson's Landing."
Richardson's Brigade at once turns down the latter road and halts about a mile beyond Centreville, at a point convenient to some springs of water.
Perhaps an impressionist novel, like Dorothy Richardson's. Only they were getting common; they were too easy. One could hardly help writing like that, unless one tried not to, if one had lately read any of them. Most contemporary novels Jane found very bad, not worth writing. Those solemn and childish novels about public schools, for instance, written by young men.
But what most strongly confirmed him in his love of the art was Richardson's Treatise on Painting, the perusal of which so delighted and inflamed his mind, that Raphael appeared to him superior to the most illustrious names of ancient or modern times a notion which he loved to indulge all the rest of his life.
We have seen him leave his heart in the Highlands at three years old; we have now to follow his passionate pilgrimages to Skiddaw and Snowdon, to the Jungfrau and Mont Blanc. They had planned a great tour through the Lakes and the North two years before, but were stopped at Plymouth by the news of Mrs. Richardson's death. At last the plan was carried out.
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