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Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley 8 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley. You can also browse the collection for Tom Davies or search for Tom Davies in all documents.

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Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley, part 1.4, chapter 1.5 (search)
were censorious without cause, and most ungentle. They asked for God's forgiveness for their trespasses, but were relentless in their condemnation of the smallest fault we committed. When I came to think of that beast Will Thomas, and that imp Davies, and that tale-bearer and mischief-maker Williams, my gorge rose against them, and I felt that the circumstances of Enoch's life were not like mine. However, I made a grand effort to free myself from my vanity and pride. I compelled myself for a season to make the sacrifices demanded of me. I championed ugly Will against his oppressors, and suppressed my scorn of Davies. I strove to like Williams, though I feared he was incorrigible. I sought to surprise each of them with good offices, and in the process endured much contumely, because human beings are so prone to misconstrue one's actions. I rose at midnight to wrestle in secret with my wicked self, and, while my school-fellows sweetly reposed, I was on my knees, laying my heart
Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley, part 1.4, chapter 1.6 (search)
ing the last hours of the working week; and David and rosy-cheeked Jane and myself had to trot briskly in the service of supplying these mighty topers with foaming ale. The first quart made them sociable, the second made them noisily merry. Tom Davies, the long-limbed tailor, would then be called for a song, and, after a deal of persuasion, he would condescend, in spite of his hoarseness, to give us Rule Britannia, or the March of the men of Harlech, the chorus of which would be of such stupthem the French would have had a bad time of it. Then another singer would treat us to The maid of Llan-gollen, which soothed the ardent tempers heated by the late valorous thoughts; or John Jones, the butcher, envious of the applause won by Tom Davies, would rise and ring out the strain, To the West, where the mighty Mizzourah, which gave us the vision of a wide and free land awaiting the emigrant, and an enormous river flowing between silent shores to the sea. More beer would be called for