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Updated: May 8, 2025
Now, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of Long John in Squire Trelawney's letter I had taken a fear in my mind that he might prove to be the very one-legged sailor whom I had watched for so long at the old Benbow. But one look at the man before me was enough.
We can count, I take it, on your own home servants, Mr. Trelawney?" "As upon myself," declared the squire. "Three," reckoned the captain; "ourselves make seven, counting Hawkins here. Now, about the honest hands?" "Most likely Trelawney's own men," said the doctor; "those he picked up for himself before he lit on Silver." "Nay," replied the squire, "Hands was one of mine."
As we are indebted to Hogg for the best pen-pictures of the boy Shelley, so we are indebted to Trelawney for the best description of the closing scene. So we shall follow Trelawney's account in the main. Trelawney was in Leghorn and intended to accompany his friends out of the harbor in a separate boat, but owing to the refusal of the health officer of the harbor he was not allowed to go.
On arriving at Dublin, he was overwhelmed with petitions from the inhabitants, as to the shameful conduct of the troops left in garrison there, especially those of Trelawney's, Schomberg's, and some other regiments of horse, who, the people complained, treated them, although Protestants, far worse than James's Catholic soldiers had done.
We can count, I take it, on your own home servants, Mr. Trelawney?" "As upon myself," declared the squire. "Three," reckoned the captain, "ourselves make seven, counting Hawkins, here. Now, about the honest hands?" "Most likely Trelawney's own men," said the doctor; "those he had picked up for himself, before he lit on Silver." "Nay," replied the squire, "Hands was one of mine."
When such was my mood he remained silent, and if I announced that something diverting had happened to me he laughed before I told him what it was. He turned the twinkle in his eye off or on at my bidding as readily as if it was the gas. To my "Sure to be wet to-morrow," he would reply, "Yes, sir;" and to Trelawney's "It doesn't look like rain," two minutes afterward, he would reply, "No, sir."
He believes his wife a second Penelope; he shall keep that belief. There is a trench you called it very properly a grave. In that trench Knightley will not hear though all Tangier scream its gossip in his ears. I mean to give him his chance of death." "No, Major," cried Scrope. "Or listen! Give me an equal chance." "Trelawney's Regiment is not called out.
Sneath's Wordsworth, Poet of Nature and Poet of Man. Trelawney's Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron. Francis Thompson's Shelley. Clutton-Brock's Shelley: The Man and the Poet. Angeli's Shelley and his Friends in Italy. Miller's Leigh Hunt's Relations with Byron, Shelley, and Keats. Masson's Life of De Quincey. Blake.
"He'd look remarkably well from a yardarm, sir," returned the captain. "But this is talk; this don't lead to anything. I see three or four points, and with Mr. Trelawney's permission I'll name them." "You, sir, are the captain. It is for you to speak," said Mr. Trelawney, grandly. "First point," began Mr. Smollett, "we must go on because we can't turn back.
In the upper room of the Main-Guard he found Major Shackleton of the Tangier Foot taking a hand at bassette with Lieutenant Scrope of Trelawney's Regiment and young Captain Tessin of the King's Battalion. There were three other officers in the room, and to them Surgeon Wyley began to talk in a prosy, medical strain.
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