Allan Quatermain. H. Rider Haggard

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Allan Quatermain - H. Rider Haggard


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       H. Rider Haggard

      Allan Quatermain

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664183842

       I inscribe this book of adventure to my son ARTHUR JOHN RIDER HAGGARD

       INTRODUCTION

       CHAPTER I THE CONSUL’S YARN

       CHAPTER II THE BLACK HAND

       CHAPTER III THE MISSION STATION

       CHAPTER IV ALPHONSE AND HIS ANNETTE

       CHAPTER V UMSLOPOGAAS MAKES A PROMISE

       CHAPTER VI THE NIGHT WEARS ON

       CHAPTER VII A SLAUGHTER GRIM AND GREAT

       CHAPTER VIII ALPHONSE EXPLAINS

       CHAPTER IX INTO THE UNKNOWN

       CHAPTER X THE ROSE OF FIRE

       CHAPTER XI THE FROWNING CITY

       CHAPTER XII THE SISTER QUEENS

       CHAPTER XIII ABOUT THE ZU-VENDI PEOPLE

       CHAPTER XIV THE FLOWER TEMPLE

       CHAPTER XV SORAIS’ SONG

       CHAPTER XVI BEFORE THE STATUE

       CHAPTER XVII THE STORM BREAKS

       CHAPTER XVIII WAR! RED WAR!

       CHAPTER XIX A STRANGE WEDDING

       CHAPTER XX THE BATTLE OF THE PASS

       CHAPTER XXI AWAY! AWAY!

       CHAPTER XXII HOW UMSLOPOGAAS HELD THE STAIR

       CHAPTER XXIII I HAVE SPOKEN

       CHAPTER XXIV BY ANOTHER HAND

       NOTE BY GEORGE CURTIS, Esq.

       AUTHORITIES

       ARTHUR JOHN RIDER HAGGARD

       Table of Contents

      in the hope that in days to come he, and many other boys whom I shall never know, may, in the acts and thoughts of Allan Quatermain and his companions, as herein recorded, find something to help him and them to reach to what, with Sir Henry Curtis, I hold to be the highest rank whereto we can attain—the state and dignity of English gentlemen.

       Table of Contents

      December 23

      ‘I have just buried my boy, my poor handsome boy of whom I was so proud, and my heart is broken. It is very hard having only one son to lose him thus, but God’s will be done. Who am I that I should complain? The great wheel of Fate rolls on like a Juggernaut, and crushes us all in turn, some soon, some late—it does not matter when, in the end, it crushes us all. We do not prostrate ourselves before it like the poor Indians; we fly hither and thither—we cry for mercy; but it is of no use, the black Fate thunders on and in its season reduces us to powder.

      ‘Poor Harry to go so soon! just when his life was opening to him. He was doing so well at the hospital, he had passed his last examination with honours, and I was proud of them, much prouder than he was, I think. And then he must needs go to that smallpox hospital. He wrote to me that he was not afraid of smallpox and wanted to gain the experience; and now the disease has killed him, and I, old and grey and withered, am left to mourn over him, without a chick or child to comfort me. I might have saved him, too—I have money enough for both of us, and much more than enough—King Solomon’s Mines provided me with that; but I said, “No, let the boy earn his living, let him labour that he may enjoy rest.” But the rest has come to him before the labour. Oh, my boy, my boy!

      ‘I am like the man in the Bible who laid up much goods and builded barns—goods for my boy and barns for him to store them in; and now his soul has been required of him, and I am left desolate. I would that it had been my soul and not my boy’s!

      ‘We buried him this afternoon under the shadow of the grey and ancient tower of the church of this village where my house is. It was a dreary December afternoon, and the sky was heavy with snow, but not much was falling. The coffin was put down by the grave, and a few big flakes lit upon it. They looked very white upon the black cloth! There was a little hitch about getting the coffin down into the grave—the necessary ropes had been forgotten: so we drew back from it, and waited in silence watching the big flakes fall gently one by one like heavenly benedictions, and melt in tears on Harry’s pall. But that was not all. A robin redbreast came as bold as could be and lit upon the coffin and began to sing. And then I am afraid that I broke down, and so did Sir Henry Curtis, strong man though he is; and as for Captain Good, I saw him turn away too; even in my own distress I could not help noticing it.’

      The above, signed ‘Allan Quatermain’, is an extract from my diary written two years and more ago. I copy it down here because it seems to me that it is the fittest beginning to the


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