I am gratefully sensible of the honourable distinction implied in the determination of the Delegates of the Clarendon Press to have my History of Botany translated into the world-wide language of the British Empire. Fourteen years have elapsed since the first appearance of the work in Germany, from fifteen to eighteen years since it was composed,—a period of time usually long enough in our age of rapid progress for a scientific work to become obsolete. But if the preparation of an English translation shows that competent judges do not regard the book as obsolete, I should be inclined to refer this to two causes. First of all, no other work of a similar kind has appeared, as far as I know, since 1875, so that mine may still be considered to be, in spite of its age, the latest history of Botany; secondly, it has been my endeavour to ascertain the historical facts by careful and critical study of the older botanical literature in the original works, at the cost indeed of some years of working-power and of considerable detriment to my health, and facts never lose their value,—a truth which England especially has always recognised.


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“For some unknown reason,” continued Lord Estair, “the Premier’s car left the main road. The police car, unaware of the deviation, continued to keep to the high road. At a short distance down the unfrequented lane, the Prime Minister’s car was suddenly held up by a band of masked men. The chauffeur——”

It has broken at his coming

When he bade us good-night he said to me: "You will be the youngest boy in the College, and you have a face worthy of your holy name, John; but I shall call you Little John, Giovannini." And by that name it was that I went all the time I was in Rome.

“The worst of old gossips,” he said, desperately sucking his cane, with a gloomy brow. “I don’t know an old woman so bad. No quarter there—that is the word. Fan, the mother is a trump. Nothing is so bad when she is mixed up in it. Was Nelly much cut up, or was she in one of her wild fits? Poor girl! You must not think badly of Nelly. She has had hard lines. She never had a chance: an old brute, used up, that no woman could take to. But she has done her duty by him, Fan.”

"That would have been a mistake," said Retief. "The Aga Kagans are tough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment. They've been building up for this push for the last five years. A show of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be an invitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it."

“Delia” ses she, “Ive had elivin girls in since you left” ses she.

He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The two exchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked his head and withdrew to the rear.

Thus on a morning in late April Whitefoot wandered away and neglected to return. His mate was forced to forage for herself and for Ruff. But the task was easy in this new time of food lushness. She did not seem to miss her recreant spouse.

There have been a number of efforts made in recent years to divert a portion of this

Votbinnik had Jandorf practically in Zugzwang (his pieces all tied up, Bill explained) and the Argentinian would be busted shortly. Through the glasses Sandra could see Jandorf's thick chest rise and fall as he glared murderously at the board in front of him. By contrast Votbinnik looked like a man lost in reverie.

All this was to be learned as the summer progressed, and fall coming on found the problem far from solved.

1.looked down and began aimlessly to smooth the carpet with his foot. He felt utterly humiliated and miserable. Without a word of reproach she had exposed the weakness and unworthiness of him; and he could only acknowledge that she was right.

2.Zopyrus turned to survey the landscape which lay all green and gold about him. The familiarity of the scene at this point came to him as a shock. There to the right lay the olive-grove and there, he could mistake it not, was the same tree beneath whose gnarled branches he had laid his precious burden on that day which would live forever in his memory. Again he seemed to feel the weight of her unconscious body; again he observed the beauty, winning seriousness and refinement of her features and yet once again he imagined he heard her ask if he were not a disguised Greek soldier! It was with an effort that he forced these memories from him. A year had passed and he would probably never see her again. She must have perished during the months that followed the battle of Salamis as many Greeks had. It was folly, he resolved, to waste one’s life in vain regrets. He was about to take as his wife a chaste girl of excellent parentage, whose love was wholly his, and he would do his best to make her happy! As they passed the path to the southward where he and the maiden had turned to view the battle from the promontory, he turned his eyes resolutely to the anxious countenance of Eumetis and smiled, seeking to forget that which would force itself uppermost in his consciousness. He partially succeeded, for the eyes of the maiden, so full of loving regard, gave him a promise of undying affection. He placed his hand over hers as it lay on the side of the carriage, then suddenly he stopped as if struck by an arrow.


Walter Joyce found himself in a long low room, with a truckle bed in one corner, bookshelves ranged round three sides, and in the middle, over which the curtains were now drawn, a large square table, with an array of knives and scissors upon it, a heap of wool in one corner, and an open case of needles of various kinds, polished bright and shining. On one end of the mantelpiece stood a glass case containing a short-horned white owl, stuffed, and looking wonderfully sagacious; on the other a cock, with full crop and beady eye, and open bill, with one leg advanced, full of self-sufficiency and conceit. Over the mantlepiece, in a long low case, was an admirably carried out bit of Byrne's art, representing the death-struggles of a heron struck by a hawk. Both birds were stuffed, of course, but the characteristics of each had been excellently preserved; the delicate heron lay completely at the mercy of his active little antagonist, whose "pounce" had evidently just been made, and who with beak and talons was settling his prey.


Jorgenson and Ganti swung their slings together. The jailer-Thrid turned just in time to see what was happening to them. It was final.




"Never mind. Well, let us skip that part and proceed. What happened next?"



It was odd he could not explain it; but his thoughts ran more upon her than upon himself. He found himself picturing her as the squire's lady, taking up her position in society, seated at the head of her table, receiving her guests, at church in the pew which he recollected so well. He recollected the back of her head, and the kneeling figure as he had noticed it Sunday after Sunday when he sat amongst the boys in the school pew immediately behind her, recollected the little grave bow she would give him as she passed to her seat, and the warm hand-pressure with which she always met him after morning service. His love had lived on that warm hand-pressure for days; hers, it seems, was not so easily nourished. He wondered at himself for the way in which he found himself thinking of her. Had the mere notion of such treatment ever entered his mind, he should have been raving; now when the actual fact had occurred, he was quiet. He ran through the whole matter in his mind again, pointed out to himself the deception that she had practised on him, the gross breach of faith of which she had been guilty, showed himself plainly how her desertion of him had sprung from the basest motives, not from lack of love for him, not from overweening fancy for another--those were human motives and might be pardoned her--but from mere avarice and mammon-worship. And, after cogitating over all this, he felt that he pitied rather than hated her, and that as to himself he had not the remotest care what became of him.

. . .