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Browsing named entities in William Hepworth Dixon, White Conquest: Volume 1.

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China (China) (search for this): chapter 3
they say, go out in each boat, according to the number of oars. Two watch; the others pull. On darting his harpoon into a whale, the leader pays out rope, and lets his victim writhe and plunge. The fight is often long, and sometimes fatal to the men. When hooked, the whale is towed to port, where he is sliced and boiled. You have no natives living in your port? No, Sefior, the natives are no good in a whaling craft. Noticing some foreign faces in the boats and near the fires, Chinese and even Sandwich Islanders, we ask the leading man whether he can employ such fellows in his trade. Not the Chinese, he answers; they are only good for catching cuttle-fish and drying aballones. Like the natives, they are skunks and cowards. The Sandwich Islanders are a better lot; but they are hard to teach, and scarcely worth their salt. We should be better off if we were left alone. Have you Portuguese wives and families with you? No, Sehor; we have to take such squaws a
Mexico (Mexico, Mexico) (search for this): chapter 3
ught they are always stolen, and the man is thought a decent wooer who comes with money in his pocket to an Indian lodge. No Rumsen or Tularenos ever gave away his squaw for love. He sold her as he sold a buffalo hide or catamount skin. Fray Junipero tried to stop this sale of girls, but his successors winked at customs which they had no means of putting down. Castro and Alvaredo hoped to crush this traffic, but their secular energies were worsted in the vain attempt. Neither Liberal Mexico nor Independent California was equal to the task of wrestling with this evil. Indians sold their children to Spanish dons and Mexican caballeros, just as Georgians and Circassians sold their girls to Greek skippers and Turkish pashas. Even under the Stars and Stripes, and in a region governed by American law, the trade goes on; less openly and briskly than in olden times; but still the Red man's daughters are bought and sold, even in the neighbourhood of American courts. It is a custom
Lisbon, Grafton County, New Hampshire (New Hampshire, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
such fellows in his trade. Not the Chinese, he answers; they are only good for catching cuttle-fish and drying aballones. Like the natives, they are skunks and cowards. The Sandwich Islanders are a better lot; but they are hard to teach, and scarcely worth their salt. We should be better off if we were left alone. Have you Portuguese wives and families with you? No, Sehor; we have to take such squaws as we can get. Our lasses live at home, in Cascaes Bay and other ports near Lisbon; but we cannot fetch them over half the globe. Santa Maria! what are men to do? We have to buy our wives. To buy their wives! Yes, buy their wives. It is a custom of the country. The habit of buying and selling young women has existed on this spot time out of mind. If young women are not bought they are always stolen, and the man is thought a decent wooer who comes with money in his pocket to an Indian lodge. No Rumsen or Tularenos ever gave away his squaw for love. He sold her
Don Carlos (search for this): chapter 4
ess sets you thinking of Seraglio Point, this cactus of the upper Nile, this prickly pear of Ramleh in the Sands. What artist would not like to sketch this mouldering wall and overhanging fruit? But while you make your sketch, the owner smokes and smirks, convinced that you admire his wall and fruit trees, not because they make a picture, but because they are his wall and fruit trees. A saintly and a regal city, says Don Mariano with a flush of pride; San Carlos is our patron saint, Don Carlos is our founder king. A regal name is Monterey; rey de los montes-king of the mountains. Dons and caballeros sneer at San Francisco as an upstart city, built by nobody, not even by a viceroy, and peopled by the scum of New York, Sydney, and Hong-Kong. At Monterey they have a line of governors, and a second line of bishops, with the ruins of a castle and a gaudy Mexican church, as visible evidence of their temporal and spiritual sway. At Monterey, too, a gentleman has rights; not only
French (search for this): chapter 4
ter's edge, and having placed this battery in charge of Don Jesus de Vallejo, waited the piratical attack. Next day, on Buchard laying one of his ships athwart the castle, Don Jesus opened fire and forced him to withdraw. Enraged by this repulse, Buchard lowered his boats, and sent his men ashore. Don Jesus left his guns, and bolted for the woods, firing a powder train, which blew the castle into dust. Buchard gave the town to pillage, and his crews, a riff-raff of all nations, Spanish, French, and Algerine, spared neither age nor sex. Fire swept the lanes and alleys, so that nothing but the church, an edifice of stone, remained to mark the site of royal Monterey. Five years elapsed before a soul returned. A Scot, named David Spence, a man dealing in skins and hides, came first. Then don and caballero ventured back, and raised their shanties from the dust. Poorer than ever, they built of sand and logs, but gave their sheds poetic names. A hut was called a house, a shed a ha
June 3rd, 1770 AD (search for this): chapter 4
ken only by the snapping of an unseen dog. A line of surf breaks white and fresh along the rocks of Santa Cruz, but on this stretch of amber sands the waters lap and lie, gently as the fancies float about the eyelids of a sleeping child. Like waiting in a Syrian road, is waiting at a Mexican port. Who cares for time? Beyond the rickety old Mexican pier, a tiny creek winds in between two grassy banks, with uplands clothed in oak and cypress. In the hollow you can see a wooden cross: June 3, 1770. That cross is Fray Junipero's cross; that ancient oak beside it, is the tree under which Don Jose Rivera massed his troops. Right of the gully, on a bare hill-top, stand the ruins of Rivera's castle; left of it, under a fringe of pines, and in the midst of fig-trees and peach gardens, rise the sheds and water-wheels of Monterey. We land — the town is won. Received by Don Mariano de Vallejo, one of the great men in the Lost Capital, we are guests in every house. Priests salute us
Don Jose Rivera (search for this): chapter 4
a tiny creek winds in between two grassy banks, with uplands clothed in oak and cypress. In the hollow you can see a wooden cross: June 3, 1770. That cross is Fray Junipero's cross; that ancient oak beside it, is the tree under which Don Jose Rivera massed his troops. Right of the gully, on a bare hill-top, stand the ruins of Rivera's castle; left of it, under a fringe of pines, and in the midst of fig-trees and peach gardens, rise the sheds and water-wheels of Monterey. We land — tRivera's castle; left of it, under a fringe of pines, and in the midst of fig-trees and peach gardens, rise the sheds and water-wheels of Monterey. We land — the town is won. Received by Don Mariano de Vallejo, one of the great men in the Lost Capital, we are guests in every house. Priests salute us in their walks; barbers and bakers doff their caps; and billiard-players offer us their cues. Seioras beg for visiting cards. The dogs which doze in every gutter seem to know that we are persons not to be annoyed by snap and snarl. Monterey, a town all gables, walls, and balustrades — in which everyone owns a corner lotis peopled by folk as quaint an<
Junipero (search for this): chapter 4
en dog. A line of surf breaks white and fresh along the rocks of Santa Cruz, but on this stretch of amber sands the waters lap and lie, gently as the fancies float about the eyelids of a sleeping child. Like waiting in a Syrian road, is waiting at a Mexican port. Who cares for time? Beyond the rickety old Mexican pier, a tiny creek winds in between two grassy banks, with uplands clothed in oak and cypress. In the hollow you can see a wooden cross: June 3, 1770. That cross is Fray Junipero's cross; that ancient oak beside it, is the tree under which Don Jose Rivera massed his troops. Right of the gully, on a bare hill-top, stand the ruins of Rivera's castle; left of it, under a fringe of pines, and in the midst of fig-trees and peach gardens, rise the sheds and water-wheels of Monterey. We land — the town is won. Received by Don Mariano de Vallejo, one of the great men in the Lost Capital, we are guests in every house. Priests salute us in their walks; barbers and bakers
Mariano Vallejo (search for this): chapter 4
y banks, with uplands clothed in oak and cypress. In the hollow you can see a wooden cross: June 3, 1770. That cross is Fray Junipero's cross; that ancient oak beside it, is the tree under which Don Jose Rivera massed his troops. Right of the gully, on a bare hill-top, stand the ruins of Rivera's castle; left of it, under a fringe of pines, and in the midst of fig-trees and peach gardens, rise the sheds and water-wheels of Monterey. We land — the town is won. Received by Don Mariano de Vallejo, one of the great men in the Lost Capital, we are guests in every house. Priests salute us in their walks; barbers and bakers doff their caps; and billiard-players offer us their cues. Seioras beg for visiting cards. The dogs which doze in every gutter seem to know that we are persons not to be annoyed by snap and snarl. Monterey, a town all gables, walls, and balustrades — in which everyone owns a corner lotis peopled by folk as quaint and singular as the streets and sheds. A n
Don Mariano (search for this): chapter 4
n be called a street, winds in and out among a group of villas, dancing-booths, barbers' shops and billiard rooms. No side walk interferes with man and horse. An open sewer runs through the town, a cesspool poisons every yard. Two nieces of Don Mariano live in a villa with an open drain in front. Nobody dreams of covering up that drain. The plaza is as shapeless as the street; a scatter of white houses, built of earth and plank, mostly one story high; these people living in a constant feanging fruit? But while you make your sketch, the owner smokes and smirks, convinced that you admire his wall and fruit trees, not because they make a picture, but because they are his wall and fruit trees. A saintly and a regal city, says Don Mariano with a flush of pride; San Carlos is our patron saint, Don Carlos is our founder king. A regal name is Monterey; rey de los montes-king of the mountains. Dons and caballeros sneer at San Francisco as an upstart city, built by nobody, not
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