Bøger af Henry Rider Haggard

The Wanderer's Necklace is a novel by H Rider Haggard. Olaf, a Norseman in the eighth century A.D., flees his homeland after challenging the Norse god Odin's right to a human sacrifice, travels to Constantinople (Istanbul, Turkey) to protect the Empress Irene Augusta from her son Constantine the Fifth and other enemies of the Eastern Roman Empire.

Child of Storm is a 1913 novel by H. Rider Haggard featuring Allan Quatermain. The plot is set in 1854-56 and concerns Quatermain hunting in Zululand and getting involved with Mameema, a beautiful African girl who causes great turmoil in the Zulu kingdom. The novel is the second in a trilogy by Haggard involving the collapse of the Zulu kingdom and featuring the dwarf Zikali. The first book is Marie, and the third, Finished.

Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, the king Strong to Aid, Sovereign of the East, sat at night in his palace at Damascus and brooded on the wonderful ways of God, by Whom he had been lifted to his high estate. He remembered how, when he was but small in the eyes of men, Nour-ed-din, king of Syria, forced him to accompany his uncle, Shirkuh, to Egypt, whither he went, "like one driven to his death," and how, against his own will, there he rose to greatness. He thought of his father, the wise Ayoub, and the brethren with whom he was brought up, all of them dead now save one; and of his sisters, whom he had cherished. Most of all did he think of her, Zobeide, who had been stolen away by the knight whom she loved even to the loss of her own soul-yes, by the English friend of his youth, his father's prisoner, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, who, led astray by passion, had done him and his house this grievous wrong. He had sworn, he remembered, that he would bring her back even from England, and already had planned to kill her husband and capture her when he learned her death. She had left a child, or so his spies told him, who, if she still lived, must be a woman now-his own niece, though half of noble English blood. Then his mind wandered from this old, half-forgotten story to the woe and blood in which his days were set, and to the last great struggle between the followers of the prophets Jesus and Mahomet, that Jihad [Holy War] for which he made ready-and he sighed. For he was a merciful man, who loved not slaughter, although his fierce faith drove him from war to war.

More than thirty years ago two atoms of the eternal Energy sped forth from the heart of it which we call God, and incarnated themselves in the human shapes that were destined to hold them for a while, as vases hold perfumes, or goblets wine, or as sparks of everlasting radium inhabit the bowels of the rock. Perhaps these two atoms, or essences, or monads indestructible, did but repeat an adventure, or many, many adventures. Perhaps again and again they had proceeded from that Home august and imperishable on certain mornings of the days of Time, to return thither at noon or nightfall, laden with the fruits of gained experience. So at least one of them seemed to tell the other before all was done and that other came to believe. If so, over what fields did they roam throughout the æons, they who having no end, could have no beginning? Not those of this world only, we may be sure. It is so small and there are so many others, millions upon millions of them, and such an infinite variety of knowledge is needed to shape the soul of man, even though it remain as yet imperfect and but a shadow of what it shall be.

One day-it was about a week after Allan Quatermain told me his story of the "Three Lions," and of the moving death of Jim-Jim-he and I were walking home together on the termination of a day's shooting. He owned about two thousand acres of shooting round the place he had bought in Yorkshire, over a hundred of which were wood. It was the second year of his occupation of the estate, and already he had reared a very fair head of pheasants, for he was an all-round sportsman, and as fond of shooting with a shot-gun as with an eight-bore rifle. We were three guns that day, Sir Henry Curtis, Old Quatermain, and myself; but Sir Henry was obliged to leave in the middle of the afternoon in order to meet his agent, and inspect an outlying farm where a new shed was wanted. However, he was coming back to dinner, and going to bring Captain Good with him, for Brayley Hall was not more than two miles from the Grange. We had met with very fair sport, considering that we were only going through outlying cover for cocks. I think that we had killed twenty-seven, a woodcock and a leash of partridges which we secured out of a driven covey. On our way home there lay a long narrow spinney, which was a very favourite "lie" for woodcocks, and generally held a pheasant or two as well. "Well, what do you say?" said old Quatermain, "shall we beat through this for a finish?"

Allan Quatermain is the protagonist of H. Rider Haggard's 1885 novel King Solomon's Mines and its sequels. Allan Quatermain was also the title of a book in this sequence.

First published in 1910, this novel by best-selling author Sir H. Rider Haggard tells the story of the Egypt's queen Neter-Tua, daughter of the God Amen-Ra, The Morning Star. The Novel follows the queen from her birth to her eventual maturation. A solid plot, good character development, and wonderful detail of ancient Egypt...

Marie is a 1912 novel by H. Rider Haggard featuring Allan Quatermain. The plot concerns Quatermain as a young man and involves his first marriage, to the Boer farm girl, Marie Marais. Their romance is opposed by Marie's anti-English father, and her villainous cousin Hernan Pereira, who desires Marie. They are Voortrekkers who take part in the Great Trek whom Quatermain has to rescue. The novel describes Quatermain's involvement in the Sixth Xhosa War of 1835 and Weenen massacre.

Another tale of Africa and its past values including magic, ghosts, and beliefs of a time long gone. It is Quatermain's story about his marriage to Stella. It is typical of Haggard's engrossing narrative style, but in a more intimate simple story.

I say every one advisedly, for although the public which studies such works is usually select, that which will take an interest in them, if the character of a learned and pugnacious personage is concerned, is very wide indeed. Not to mince matters, I may as well explain what I mean at once.

The Ghost Kings is a 1908 mystery-adventure novel by H Rider Haggard, set on the borders of Zululand in Africa. In this story Mr. Rider Haggard returns to the manner of his earlier romances to such good purpose that, despite its length and somewhat episodic character, interest is kept up from beginning to end.

This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. This book may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide. We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book. ++++ The below data was compiled from various identification fields in the bibliographic record of this title. This data is provided as an additional tool in helping to ensure edition identification: ++++ The Way Of The Spirit, Volumes 1-2; Volume 3883 Of Collection Of British And American Authors; The Way Of The Spirit; Henry Rider Haggard Henry Rider Haggard Bernard Tauchnitz, 1906 Fiction; Action & Adventure; English fiction; Fiction / Action & Adventure

Fair Margaret is a 1907 novel by H. Rider Haggard set in the time of Henry VII.

Ditchingham, May 27, 1911. My dear Jehu: For five long but not unhappy years, seated or journeying side by side, we have striven as Royal Commissioners to find a means whereby our coasts may be protected from "the outrageous flowing surges of the sea" (I quote the jurists of centuries ago), the idle swamps turned to fertility and the barren hills clothed with forest; also, with small success, how "foreshore" may be best defined! What will result from all these labours I do not know, nor whether grave geologists ever read romance save that which the pen of Time inscribes upon the rocks.

Sir Henry Rider Haggard, 22 June 1856 - 14 May 1925) - known as H. Rider Haggard - was an English writer of adventure novels set in exotic locations, predominantly Africa, and a pioneer of the Lost World literary genre. He was also involved in agricultural reform throughout the British Empire. His stories, situated at the lighter end of Victorian literature, continue to be popular and influential.

Lysbeth: A Tale of the Dutch is a 1901 novel by H. Rider Haggard.

In this thrilling tale of danger and adventure, young Harry joins his father, the famous Alan Quatermain, on a hunt for lions deep in Africa. This publication from Boomer Books is specially designed and typeset for comfortable reading.

The Yellow God: An Idol of Africa is a 1908 novel by H Rider Haggard.

She and Allan is a novel by H. Rider Haggard, first published in 1921. It brought together his two most popular characters, Ayesha from She to which it serves as a prequel, and Allan Quatermain from King Solomon's Mines. Umslopogaas from Nada the Lily also appears in the novel as a major character. Along with the other three novels in the series, She and Allan was adapted into the 1935 film She.

Alone and desolate, within hearing of the thunder of the waters of the North Sea, but not upon them, stand the ruins of Ramborough Abbey. Once there was a city at their feet, now the city has gone; nothing is left of its greatness save the stone skeleton of the fabric of the Abbey above and the skeletons of the men who built it mouldering in the earth below. To the east, across a waste of uncultivated heath, lies the wide ocean; and, following the trend of the coast northward, the eye falls upon the red roofs of the fishing village of Bradmouth. When Ramborough was a town, this village was a great port; but the sea, advancing remorselessly, has choked its harbour and swallowed up the ancient borough which to-day lies beneath the waters. With that of Ramborough the glory of Bradmouth is departed, and of its priory and churches there remains but one lovely and dilapidated fane, the largest perhaps in the east of England-that of Yarmouth alone excepted-and, as many think, the most beautiful. At the back of Bradmouth church, which, standing upon a knoll at some distance from the cliff, has escaped the fate of the city that once nestled beneath it, stretch rich marsh meadows, ribbed with raised lines of roadway. But these do not make up all the landscape, for between Bradmouth and the ruins of Ramborough, following the indentations of the sea coast and set back in a fold or depression of the ground, lie a chain of small and melancholy meres, whose brackish waters, devoid of sparkle even on the brightest day, are surrounded by coarse and worthless grass land, the haunt of the shore-shooter, and a favourite feeding-place of curlews, gulls, coots and other wild-fowl. Beyond these meres the ground rises rapidly, and is clothed in gorse and bracken, interspersed with patches of heather, till it culminates in the crest of a bank that marks doubtless the boundary of some primeval fiord or lake, where, standing in a ragged line, are groups of wind-torn Scotch fir trees, surrounding a grey and solitary house known as Moor Farm. The dwellers in these parts-that is, those of them who are alive to such matters-think that there are few more beautiful spots than this slope of barren land pitted with sullen meres and bordered by the sea. Indeed, it has attractions in every season: even in winter, when the snow lies in drifts upon the dead fern, and the frost-browned gorse shivers in the east wind leaping on it from the ocean. It is always beautiful, and yet there is truth in the old doggerel verse that is written in a quaint Elizabethan hand upon the fly-lead of one of the Bradmouth parish registers- "Of Rambro', north and west and south, Man's eyes can never see enough; Yet winter's gloom or summer's light, Wide England hath no sadder sight.

The Wizard is a novel by Henry Rider Haggard, first published by Longmans, Green, and Co., in 1896. The Wizard is one of the many examples of imperialist literature. According to Rebecca Stott, author of the article "The Dark Continent: Africa as Female Body in Haggard's Adventure Fiction," Haggard's fiction is still popular today and attempts to expose a "cultural and historical definition of white masculinity at its most rugged and its most terrified."

Henry Rider Haggard was born at Bradenham, Norfolk, to Sir William Meybohm Rider Haggard, a barrister, and Ella Doveton, an author and poet. He was the eighth of ten children. He was initially sent to Garsington Rectory in Oxfordshire to study under the Reverend H.J. Graham but, unlike his older brothers who graduated from various Public Schools, he ended up attending Ipswich Grammar School.

The Saga of Eric Brighteyes is the title of an epic viking novel by H. Rider Haggard, and concerns the adventures of its eponymous principal character in 10th century Iceland. The novel was first published in 1890 by Longmans, Green & Company. It was illustrated by Lancelot Speed.

Cleopatra is one of the most successful books of H. Rider Haggard, a historical novel bathed in that poetic and fantastic tone that gave to his other works. Undoubtedly, the embryonic idea of the story came from a trip to Egypt, which he returned enthusiastically: "... my head is full of Cleopatra, for which I have thought a good argument." In this fascinating story, Haggard relates the story of the legendary queen through the eyes of Harmaquis, a young priest destined to be Pharaoh and his nefarious loves with the Greek usurper Cleopatra. A novel full of exoticism that relates the love triangle between Harmaquis, Cleopatra and Charmion, a young Egyptian servant and counselor to the queen, who with her jealousy unleashes the personal tragedy within the great national tragedy that was the confrontation between the powerful Rome and The then weak Egypt, into Greek hands.

Haggard wrote the book in 1885, primarily in his chambers where he was working as a barrister. King Solomon's Mines had been an enormous success but Haggard says he had been "somewhat piqued by the frequent descriptions of myself as 'a mere writer of romances and boys' books' ". The book is named after Jess, one of the two orphaned nieces of a farmer in the Transvaal.

What is more, he went, starting from his Essex home the next day without leaving any address. As it transpired afterwards, long afterwards, had he waited till the post came in he would have received a letter that might have changed his plans. But they were high- spirited young people, both of them, and played the fool after the fashion of those in love. Well, Charles Scroope turned up in Durban, which was but a poor place then, and there we met in the bar of the Royal Hotel. "If you want to kill big game," I heard some one say, who it was I really forget, "there's the man to show you how to do it-Hunter Quatermain; the best shot in Africa and one of the finest fellows, too." I sat still, smoking my pipe and pretending to hear nothing. It is awkward to listen to oneself being praised, and I was always a shy man. Then after a whispered colloquy Mr. Scroope was brought forward and introduced to me. I bowed as nicely as I could and ran my eye over him. He was a tall young man with dark eyes and a rather romantic aspect (that was due to his love affair), but I came to the conclusion that I liked the cut of his jib. When he spoke, that conclusion was affirmed.

Henry Rider Haggard was born at Bradenham, Norfolk, to Sir William Meybohm Rider Haggard, a barrister, and Ella Doveton, an author and poet. He was the eighth of ten children. He was initially sent to Garsington Rectory in Oxfordshire to study under the Reverend H.J. Graham but, unlike his older brothers who graduated from various Public Schools, he ended up attending Ipswich Grammar School.

The autumn afternoon was fading into evening. It had been cloudy weather, but the clouds had softened and broken up. Now they were lost in slowly darkening blue. The sea was perfectly and utterly still. It seemed to sleep, but in its sleep it still waxed with the rising tide. The eye could not mark its slow increase, but Beatrice, standing upon the farthest point of the Dog Rocks, idly noted that the long brown weeds which clung about their sides began to lift as the water took their weight, till at last the delicate pattern floated out and lay like a woman's hair upon the green depth of sea. Meanwhile a mist was growing dense and soft upon the quiet waters. It was not blown up from the west, it simply grew like the twilight, making the silence yet more silent and blotting away the outlines of the land. Beatrice gave up studying the seaweed and watched the gathering of these fleecy hosts. "What a curious evening," she said aloud to herself, speaking in a low full voice. "I have not seen one like it since mother died, and that is seven years ago. I've grown since then, grown every way," and she laughed somewhat sadly, and looked at her own reflection in the quiet water. She could not have looked at anything more charming, for it would have been hard to find a girl of nobler mien than Beatrice Granger as on this her twenty-second birthday, she stood and gazed into that misty sea.

Some months since the leaders of the Government dismayed their supporters and astonished the world by a sudden surrender to the clamour of the anti-vaccinationists. In the space of a single evening, with a marvellous versatility, they threw to the agitators the ascertained results of generations of the medical faculty, the report of a Royal Commission, what are understood to be their own convictions, and the President of the Local Government Board. After one ineffectual fight the House of Lords answered to the whip, and, under the guise of a "graceful concession," the health of the country was given without appeal into the hand of the "Conscientious Objector.

It is a strange thing that I, an old Boer vrouw, should even think of beginning to write a book when there are such numbers already in the world, most of them worthless, and many of the rest a scandal and offence in the face of the Lord. Notably is this so in the case of those called novels, which are stiff as mealie-pap with lies that fill the heads of silly girls with vain imaginings, causing them to neglect their household duties and to look out of the corners of their eyes at young men of whom their elders do not approve. In truth, my mother and those whom I knew in my youth, fifty years ago, when women were good and worthy and never had a thought beyond their husbands and their children, would laugh aloud could any whisper in their dead ears that Suzanne Naudé was about to write a book.