Cornelius Neale Dalton
1 Published Story
Cornelius Neale Dalton's Book and Story
The Real Captain Kidd
Adventure It is to be feared that honest and well-meaning men have not infrequently incurred the odium of posterity, not so much by reason of any enormities of which they have themselves been guilty, as because it has been their misfortune to be set to impossible tasks by employers or comrades, to whom they have been only too faithful. Few, if any, of such men have less deserved their fate than Captain Kidd, one of the unluckiest men that ever lived, who left this world on Friday the 23d of May, 1701, after woeful experiences at sea of the doings of an unruly crew, and on shore of the schemings of unscrupulous politicians and[4] lawyers at Boston, Newgate, the Old Bailey, and the Execution Dock at Wapping. You might like
Gold-Seeking on the Dalton Trail
Arthur R. Thompson Among my first passions was that for exploration. The Unknown—that region of mysteries lying upon the outskirts of commonplace environment—drew me with a mighty attraction. My earliest recollections are of wanderings into the domains of the neighbors, and of excursions—not infrequently in direct contravention to parental warnings—over fences, stone-walls, and roofs, and into cobwebbed attics, fragrant hay-lofts, and swaying tree-tops. Of my favorite tree, a sugar maple, I remember that, so thoroughly did I come to know every one of its branches, I could climb up or down unhesitatingly with eyes shut. At that advanced stage of acquaintance, however, it followed naturally that the mysteriousness, and hence the subtle attractiveness, of my friend the maple was considerably lessened. The Sacred Fount
Henry James It was an occasion, I felt — the prospect of a large party — to look out at the station for others, possible friends and even possible enemies, who might be going. Such premonitions, it was true, bred fears when they failed to breed hopes, though it was to be added that there were sometimes, in the case, rather happy ambiguities. One was glowered at, in the compartment, by people who on the morrow, after breakfast, were to prove charming; one was spoken to first by people whose sociability was subsequently to show as bleak; and one built with confidence on others who were never to reappear at all — who were only going to Birmingham. As soon as I saw Gilbert Long, some way up the platform, however, I knew him as an element.