Bøger af Mayne Reid

A woman in a wood-encountered accidentally, and alone. 'Tis an encounter to challenge curiosity-even though she be but a gipsy, or a peasant girl gathering sticks. If a high-born dame, beautiful, -and, above all, bright-haired, -curiosity is no longer the word; but admiration, involuntary, unrestrained-bordering upon adoration. It is but the instinct of man's heart to worship the fairest object, upon which man's eye may rest; and this is a beautiful woman, with bright hair, met in the middle of a wood. Marion Wade possessed all the conditions to merit such exalted admiration. She was high-born, beautiful, and bright-haired. She was alone in a woo

Hendrik Von Bloom was a boor. My young English reader, do not suppose that I mean any disrespect to Mynheer Von Bloom, by calling him a "boor." In our good Cape colony a "boor" is a farmer. It is no reproach to be called a farmer. Von Bloom was one-a Dutch farmer of the Cape-a boor. The boors of the Cape colony have figured very considerably in modern history. Although naturally a people inclined to peace, they have been forced into various wars, both with native Africans and Europeans; and in these wars they have acquitted themselves admirably, and given proofs that a pacific people when need be can fight just as well as those who are continually exulting in the ruffian glory of the soldier. But the boors have been accused of cruelty in their wars-especially those carried on against the native races. In an abstract point of view the accusation might appear just. But when we come to consider the provocation, received at the hands of these savage enemies, we learn to look more leniently upon the conduct of the Cape Dutch. It is true they reduced the yellow Hottentots to a state of slavery; but at that same time, we, the English, were transporting ship-loads of black Guineamen across the Atlantic, while the Spaniards and Portuguese were binding the Red men of America in fetters as tight and hard.

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During one of many journeyings through the remote provinces of the Mexican republic, it was my fortune to encounter an old revolutionary officer, in the person of Captain Castaños. From time to time as we travelled together, he was good enough to give me an account of some of the more noted actions of the prolonged and sanguinary war of the Independence; and, among other narratives, one which especially interested me was the famed battle of the Puente de Calderon, where the Captain himself had fought during the whole length of a summer's day! Of all the leaders of the Mexican revolution, there was none in whose history I felt so much interest as in the priest-soldier, Morelos-or, as he is familiarly styled in Mexican annals, the "illustrious Morelos"-and yet there was none of whose private life I could obtain so few details. His public career having become historic, was, of course, known to every one who chose to read of him. But what I desired was a more personal and intimate knowledge of this remarkable man, who from being the humble curate of an obscure village in Oajaca, became in a few short months the victorious leader of a well-appointed army, and master of all the southern provinces of New Spain. "Can you give me any information regarding Morelos?" I asked of Captain Castaños, as we were journeying along the route between Tepic and Guadalaxara.

There is a great desert in the interior of North America. It is almost as large as the famous Saära of Africa. It is fifteen hundred miles long, and a thousand wide. Now, if it were of a regular shape-that is to say, a parallelogram-you could at once compute its area, by multiplying the length upon the breadth; and you would obtain one million and a half for the result-one million and a half of square miles. But its outlines are as yet very imperfectly known; and although it is fully fifteen hundred miles long, and in some places a thousand in breadth, its surface-extent is probably not over one million of square miles, or twenty-five times the size of England. Fancy a desert twenty-five times as big as all England! Do you not think that it has received a most appropriate name when it is called the Great American Desert?

La Puebla de los Angeles is peculiar, even among the cities of modern Mexico; peculiar in the fact, that two-thirds of its population are composed of priests, pelados, poblanas, pickpockets, and incarones of a bolder type. Perhaps I have been too liberal in allowing a third to the "gente de bueno," or respectable people. There are travellers who have altogether denied their existence; but this may be an exaggeration on the other side. Trusting to my own souvenirs, I think I can remember having met with honest men-and women too-in the City of the Angels. But I shall not be positive about their proportion to the rest of the population. It may be less than a third-certainly it is not more!

Aquidnec-"Isle of Peace!" Oh, Coddington, and ye Assistants of the General Court! what craze possessed you to change this fair title of the red aboriginal for the petty appellation of "Rhodes?" Out upon your taste-your classic affectation! Out upon your ignorance-to mistake the "Roodt" of the old Dutch navigator for that name appertaining to the country of the Colossus! In the title bestowed by Block there was at least appropriateness-even something of poetry. Sailing around Sachuest Point, he beheld the grand woods, red in the golden sun-glow of autumn. Flashed upon his delighted eyes the crimson masses of tree foliage, and the festoonery of scarlet creepers. Before his face were bright ochreous rocks cropping out from the cliff. Down in his log-book went the "Red Island!" Oh, worthy Coddington, why did you reject the appellation of the Indian? Or why decree such clumsy transformation to that of the daring Dutchman? I shall cling to the old title-"Isle of Peace"; though in later times less apt than when the Warapanoag bathed his bronzed limbs in the tranquil waters of the Narraganset, and paddled his light canoe around its rock-girt shores. Since then, Aquidnec! too often hast thou felt the sore scathing of war. Where now thy virgin woods that rejoiced the eyes of Verrazano, fresh from Tuscan scenes? Where thy grand oaks elms, and maples? Thy green pines and red cedars? Thy birches that gave bark, thy chestnuts affording food; thy sassafras laurel, restorer of health and life?

Hail to thee, Wye-famed river of Siluria! Well deserving fame, worthy of warmest salutation! From thy fountain-head on Plinlimmon's far slope, where thou leapest forth, gay as a girl on her skip-rope, through the rugged rocks of Brecon and Radnor, that like rude men would detain thee, snatching but a kiss for their pains-on, as woman grown, with statelier step, amid the wooded hills of Herefordshire, which treat thee with more courtly consideration-still on, and once more rudely assailed by the bold ramparts of Monmouth-through all thou makest way-in despite all, preserving thy purity! If defiled before espousing the ocean, the fault is not thine, but Sabrina's-sister born of thy birth, she too cradled on Plinlimmon's breast, but since childhood's days separated from thee, and straying through other shrines-perchance leading a less reputable life. No blame to thee, beautiful Vaga-from source to Severn pure as the spring that begets thee-fair to the eye, and full of interest to reflect on. Scarce a reach of thy channel, or curve of thy course, but is redolent of romance, and rich in the lore of history.

The Forest Exiles is a classic adventure novel written by Mayne Reid and first published in 1881. The story follows the Peruvian family of Don Pablo Arellano, who are forced to flee their home after a political uprising. They embark on a dangerous journey through the wilds of the Amazon rainforest, facing treacherous terrain, dangerous animals, and hostile indigenous tribes. Along the way, they encounter a group of British explorers and join forces with them to survive the perils of the jungle. The Forest Exiles is a thrilling tale of survival, adventure, and the resilience of the human spirit. It offers a vivid portrayal of the Amazon rainforest and the challenges faced by those who venture into its depths. The book is a classic of adventure literature and a must-read for fans of the genre.This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the old original and may contain some imperfections such as library marks and notations. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions, that are true to their original work.

Boy reader, you have heard of the Hudson's Bay Company? Ten to one, you have worn a piece of fur, which it has provided for you; if not, your pretty little sister has-in her muff, or her boa, or as a trimming for her winter dress. Would you like to know something of the country whence come these furs?-of the animals whose backs have been stripped to obtain them? As I feel certain that you and I are old friends, I make bold to answer for you-yes. Come, then! let us journey together to the "Fur Countries;" let us cross them from south to north. A vast journey it will be. It will cost us many thousand miles of travel. We shall find neither railway-train, nor steamboat, nor stage-coach, to carry us on our way. We shall not even have the help of a horse. For us no hotel shall spread its luxurious board; no road-side inn shall hang out its inviting sign and "clean beds;" no roof of any kind shall offer us its hospitable shelter. Our table shall be a rock, a log, or the earth itself; our lodging a tent; and our bed the skin of a wild beast. Such are the best accommodations we can expect upon our journey. Are you still ready to undertake it? Does the prospect not deter you?

The last golden gleams of the setting sun sparkled across the translucent waters of Tampa Bay. This fading light fell upon shores fringed with groves of oak and magnolia, whose evergreen leaves became gradually darkened by the purple twilight. A profound silence, broken by the occasional notes of a tree-frog, or the flapping of the night-hawk's wings, was but the prelude to that wonderful concert of animated nature heard only in the tropical forest. A few moments, and the golden lines of trembling light had disappeared, while darkness almost palpable overshadowed the scene. Then broke forth in full chorus the nocturnal voices of the forest. The mocking-bird, the whip-poor-will, the bittern, the bell-frog, grasshoppers, wolves, and alligators, all joined in the harmony incident to the hour of night, causing a din startling to the ear of a stranger.

This scarce antiquarian book is a selection from Kessinger Publishing's Legacy Reprint Series. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment to protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature. Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone!

Twenty years ago, not twenty miles from the Land's End, there lived a Cornish gentleman named Trevannion. Just twenty years ago he died, leaving to lament him a brace of noble boys, whose mother all three had mourned, with like profound sorrow, but a short while before.

A sugar estate, and one of the finest in the "land of springs," is that of "Mount Welcome." It is situated about ten miles from Montego Bay, in a broad valley, between two rounded ridges. These ridges, after running parallel for more than a mile, and gradually increasing in elevation, at length converge with an inward sweep-at their point of convergence, rising abruptly into a stupendous hill, that fairly merits the name which it bears upon the estate-the "mountain." Both the ridges are wooded almost down to their bases; the woods, which consist of shining pimento trees, ending on each side in groves and island copses, pleasantly interspersed over a park-like greensward. The "great house" or "buff" of the estate stands under the foot of the mountain, just at the point of union between the two ridges-where a natural table or platform, elevated several feet above the level of the valley, had offered a tempting site to the builder. In architectural style it is not very different from other houses of its kind, the well-known planter's dwelling of the West Indies. One storey-the lower one, of course-is of strong stone mason-work; the second and only other being simply a wooden "frame" roofed with "shingles."

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: ++++ White Chief: A Legend Of North Mexico Mayne Reid Carleton, 1875

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.

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: ++++ Onward, Part 1 Mayne Reid G.W. Carleton, 1869 Fiction; Action & Adventure; Fiction / Action & Adventure; Language Arts & Disciplines / Publishing; Reference / General; Youths' periodicals

The Historical Novel has ever maintained a high rank-perhaps the highest-among works of fiction, for the reason that while it enchants the senses, it improves the mind, conveying, under a most pleasing form, much information which, perhaps, the reader would never have sought for amid the dry records of the purely historic narrative. This fact being conceded, it needs but little argument to prove that those works are most interesting which treat of the facts and incidents pertaining to our own history, and of a date which is yet fresh in the memory of the reader. To this class of books pre-eminently belongs the volume which is here submitted to the American reader, from the pen of a writer who has proved himself unsurpassed in the field which he has, by his various works, made peculiarly his own. The brief but heroic struggle of the celebrated Chief, Osceola, forms the groundwork of a narrative which is equal, if not superior, to any of Mr Reid's former productions; and while the reader's patriotism cannot fail to be gratified at the result, his sympathy is, at the same time, awakened for the manly struggles and untimely fate of the gallant spirit, who fought so nobly for the freedom of his red brethren and the preservation of their cherished hunting-grounds.

On the banks of the Neva, near the great city of Saint Petersburg, stands a splendid palace, known as the Palace Grodonoff. It is the property of a Russian nobleman of that name, as it is also his place of residence. Were you to drive up to the front gate of this grand palace, you would see a coat-of-arms sculptured in granite over the entrance. In this piece of sculpture, the principal and most striking figure is a bear, with the blade of a knife buried in his breast, the haft being clutched by a human hand! Open the gate, and enter the spacious courtyard. Inside, on the right and left, you will observe two live bears-both of chestnut-brown colour, and each of them as big as a buffalo.

This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it.This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. To ensure a quality reading experience, this work has been proofread and republished using a format that seamlessly blends the original graphical elements with text in an easy-to-read typeface.We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.

The Boy Tar: Or A Voyage In The Dark is a classic adventure novel written by Mayne Reid and published in 1885. The story follows the journey of a young boy named Jack Tierney, who runs away from his abusive stepfather and joins a ship as a cabin boy. Jack quickly adapts to life at sea and becomes known as the ""boy tar"" for his skill in handling the ship's rigging.As the ship sets sail for South America, Jack finds himself caught up in a series of thrilling adventures. He battles pirates, survives a shipwreck, and explores the jungles of Brazil. Along the way, he forms close bonds with his fellow crew members and learns valuable lessons about courage, loyalty, and perseverance.Reid's vivid descriptions of life at sea and the exotic landscapes of South America make The Boy Tar a captivating read for both young and old. The novel also explores themes of social injustice, family dynamics, and the power of friendship. With its fast-paced action and memorable characters, The Boy Tar remains a beloved classic of adventure literature.This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the old original and may contain some imperfections such as library marks and notations. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions, that are true to their original work.

Plain, treeless, shrubless, smooth as a sleeping sea. Grass upon it; this so short, that the smallest quadruped could not cross over without being seen. Even the crawling reptile would not be concealed among its tufts. Objects are upon it-sufficiently visible to be distinguished at some distance. They are of a character scarce deserving a glance from the passing traveller. He would deem it little worth while to turn his eyes towards a pack of prairie wolves, much less go in chase of them. With vultures soaring above, he might be more disposed to hesitate, and reflect. The foul birds and filthy beasts seen consorting together, would be proof of prey-that some quarry had fallen upon the plain. Perhaps, a stricken stag, a prong-horn antelope, or a wild horse crippled by some mischance due to his headlong nature? Believing it any of these, the traveller would reloosen his rein, and ride onward, -leaving the beasts and birds to their banquet. There is no traveller passing over the prairie in question-no human being upon it. Nothing like life, save the coyotes grouped over the ground, and the buzzards swooping above. They are not unseen by human eye. There is one sees-one who has reason to fear them. Their eager excited movements tell them to be anticipating a repast; at the same time, that they have not yet commenced it. Something appears in their midst. At intervals they approach it: the birds swoopingly from heaven, the beasts crouchingly along the earth. Both go close, almost to touching it; then suddenly withdraw, starting back as in affright

The Wild Huntress V2 is an adventure novel written by Mayne Reid. The story follows the main character, a young woman named Helen, who is determined to clear her father's name after he is falsely accused of a crime. Helen sets out on a journey through the American wilderness, encountering various dangers and obstacles along the way. She must use her wit and strength to survive and ultimately prove her father's innocence. The novel is filled with action, suspense, and vivid descriptions of the untamed wilderness. It is the second book in the Wild Huntress series and is sure to captivate readers with its thrilling storyline and strong female protagonist.This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the old original and may contain some imperfections such as library marks and notations. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions, that are true to their original work.

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 Finger Of Fate: A Romance, Volume 2; The Finger Of Fate: A Romance; Mayne Reid Mayne Reid Chapman and Hall, 1872

On the western bank of the Mississippi, twelve miles below the embouchure of the Missouri, stands the large town of Saint Louis, poetically known as the "Mound City." Although there are many other large towns throughout the Mississippi Valley, Saint Louis is the true metropolis of the "far west"-of that semi-civilised, ever-changing belt of territory known as the "Frontier." Saint Louis is one of those American cities in the history of which there is something of peculiar interest. It is one of the oldest of North-American settlements, having been a French trading port at an early period.

This collection of literature attempts to compile many of the classic works that have stood the test of time and offer them at a reduced, affordable price, in an attractive volume so that everyone can enjoy them.

"To the pump with him! And see that he has a double dose of it!" The words were spoken in a tone of command, earnest and angry. They were addressed to the overseer of a cotton-plantation not far from Vicksburg, in the State of Mississippi, the speaker being Blount Blackadder, a youth aged eighteen, and son to Squire Blackadder, the owner of the plantation. Who was to receive the double douche? Near by stood a personage to whom the words evidently pointed. He was also a youth, not very different either in age or size from him who had given the order; though his tawny skin and short crisped hair bespoke him of a different race-in short, a mulatto. And the time-for it is a tale of twenty years ago-along with other attendant circumstances, proclaimed him a slave of the plantation.

In a wood, within ten miles of Windsor, two youths are seen, gun in hand, in pursuit of game. A brace of thoroughbred setters, guarding the cover in front, and a well-equipped keeper, walking obsequiously in the rear, precludes any suspicion of poaching; though the personal appearance of the young sportsmen needs no such testimony. The wood is only an extensive pheasant-cover, and their father is its owner. They are the sons of General Harding, an old Indian officer, who, with a hundred thousand pounds, garnered during twenty years' active service in the East, has purchased an estate in the pleasant shire of Bucks, in the hope of restoring health to a constitution impaired upon the hot plains of Hindostan. A fine old Elizabethan mansion, of red brick, now and then visible through the openings of the cover, tells that the General has laid out his lacs with considerable taste, while five hundred acres of finely timbered park, a "home farm," and half-a-dozen others rented out-to say nothing of the wood-covers and cottage tenements-prove that the ci-devant soldier has not carefully collected a hundred thousand pounds in India to be carelessly squandered in England.

Land of Ethiope! whose burning centre seems unapproachable as the frozen Pole! Land of the unicorn and the lion, of the crouching panther and the stately elephant, of the camel, the camel-leopard, and the camel-bird! Land of the antelopes, of the wild gemsbok, and the gentle gazelle, land of the gigantic crocodile and huge river-horse, land teeming with animal life, and, last in the list of my apostrophic appellations-last, and that which must grieve the heart to pronounce it, land of the slave! Ah; little do men think, while thus hailing thee, how near may be the dread doom to their own hearths and homes! Little dream they, while expressing their sympathy-alas! too often, as of late shown in England, a hypocritical utterance-little do they suspect, while glibly commiserating the lot of thy sable-skinned children, that hundreds, ay thousands, of their own colour and kindred are held within thy confines, subject to a lot even lowlier than these-a fate far more fearful. Alas! it is even so. While I write, the proud Caucasian, despite his boasted superiority of intellect, despite the whiteness of his skin, may be found by hundreds in the unknown interior, wretchedly toiling, the slave not only of thy oppressors, but the slave of thy slaves!

I was just sixteen when I ran away to sea. I did not do so because I had been treated unkindly at home. On the contrary, I left behind me a fond and indulgent father, a kind and gentle mother, sisters and brothers who loved me, and who lamented for me long after I was gone. But no one had more cause to regret this act of filial disobedience than I myself. I soon repented of what I had done, and often, in after life, did it give me pain, when I reflected upon the pain I had caused to my kindred and friends. From my earliest years I had a longing for the sea-perhaps not so much to be a sailor, as to travel over the great ocean, and behold its wonders. This longing seemed to be part of my nature, for my parents gave no encouragement to such a disposition. On the contrary, they did all in their power to beget within me a dislike for a sea life, as my father had designed for me a far different profession. But the counsels of my father, and the entreaties of my mother all proved unavailing. Indeed-and I feel shame in acknowledging it-they produced an effect directly opposite to that which was intended; and, instead of lessening my inclination to wander abroad, they only rendered me more eager to carry out that design! It is often so with obstinate natures, and I fear that, when a boy, mine was too much of this character. Most to desire that which is most forbidden, is a common failing of mankind; and in doing this, I was perhaps not so unlike others. Certain it is, that the thing which my parents least desired me to feel an interest in-the great salt sea-was the very object upon which my mind constantly dwelt-the object of all my longings and aspirations.