Westward Ho! Or, The Voyages and Adventures of Sir Amyas Leigh, Knight, of Burrough, in the County of Devon, in the Reign of Her Most Glorious Majesty Queen Elizabeth
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Charles Kingsley. Westward Ho! Or, The Voyages and Adventures of Sir Amyas Leigh, Knight, of Burrough, in the County of Devon, in the Reign of Her Most Glorious Majesty Queen Elizabeth
CHAPTER I. HOW MR. OXENHAM SAW THE WHITE BIRD
CHAPTER II. HOW AMYAS CAME HOME THE FIRST TIME
CHAPTER III. OF TWO GENTLEMEN OF WALES, AND HOW THEY HUNTED WITH THE HOUNDS, AND YET RAN WITH THE DEER
CHAPTER IV. THE TWO WAYS OF BEING CROST IN LOVE
CHAPTER V. CLOVELLY COURT IN THE OLDEN TIME
CHAPTER VI. THE COMBES OF THE FAR WEST
CHAPTER VII. THE TRUE AND TRAGICAL HISTORY OF MR. JOHN OXENHAM OF PLYMOUTH
CHAPTER VIII. HOW THE NOBLE BROTHERHOOD OF THE ROSE WAS FOUNDED
CHAPTER IX. HOW AMYAS KEPT HIS CHRISTMAS DAY
CHAPTER X. HOW THE MAYOR OF BIDEFORD BAITED HIS HOOK WITH HIS OWN FLESH
CHAPTER XI. HOW EUSTACE LEIGH MET THE POPE’S LEGATE
CHAPTER XII. HOW BIDEFORD BRIDGE DINED AT ANNERY HOUSE
CHAPTER XIII. HOW THE GOLDEN HIND CAME HOME AGAIN
CHAPTER XIV. HOW SALVATION YEO SLEW THE KING OF THE GUBBINGS
CHAPTER XV. HOW MR. JOHN BRIMBLECOMBE UNDERSTOOD THE NATURE OF AN OATH
CHAPTER XVI. THE MOST CHIVALROUS ADVENTURE OF THE GOOD SHIP ROSE
CHAPTER XVII. HOW THEY CAME TO BARBADOS, AND FOUND NO MEN THEREIN
CHAPTER XVIII. HOW THEY TOOK THE PEARLS AT MARGARITA
CHAPTER XIX. WHAT BEFELL AT LA GUAYRA
CHAPTER XX. SPANISH BLOODHOUNDS AND ENGLISH MASTIFFS
CHAPTER XXI. HOW THEY TOOK THE COMMUNION UNDER THE TREE AT HIGUEROTE
CHAPTER XXII. THE INQUISITION IN THE INDIES
CHAPTER XXIII. THE BANKS OF THE META
CHAPTER XXIV. HOW AMYAS WAS TEMPTED OF THE DEVIL
CHAPTER XXV. HOW THEY TOOK THE GOLD-TRAIN
CHAPTER XXVI. HOW THEY TOOK THE GREAT GALLEON
CHAPTER XXVII. HOW SALVATION YEO FOUND HIS LITTLE MAID AGAIN
CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW AMYAS CAME HOME THE THIRD TIME
CHAPTER XXIX. HOW THE VIRGINIA FLEET WAS STOPPED BY THE QUEEN’S COMMAND
CHAPTER XXX. HOW THE ADMIRAL JOHN HAWKINS TESTIFIED AGAINST CROAKERS
CHAPTER XXXI. THE GREAT ARMADA
CHAPTER XXXII. HOW AMYAS THREW HIS SWORD INTO THE SEA
CHAPTER XXXIII. HOW AMYAS LET THE APPLE FALL
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All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of North Devon must needs know the little white town of Bideford, which slopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and many-arched old bridge where salmon wait for autumn floods, toward the pleasant upland on the west. Above the town the hills close in, cushioned with deep oak woods, through which juts here and there a crag of fern-fringed slate; below they lower, and open more and more in softly rounded knolls, and fertile squares of red and green, till they sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats, rich salt-marshes, and rolling sand-hills, where Torridge joins her sister Taw, and both together flow quietly toward the broad surges of the bar, and the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell. Pleasantly the old town stands there, beneath its soft Italian sky, fanned day and night by the fresh ocean breeze, which forbids alike the keen winter frosts, and the fierce thunder heats of the midland; and pleasantly it has stood there for now, perhaps, eight hundred years since the first Grenville, cousin of the Conqueror, returning from the conquest of South Wales, drew round him trusty Saxon serfs, and free Norse rovers with their golden curls, and dark Silurian Britons from the Swansea shore, and all the mingled blood which still gives to the seaward folk of the next county their strength and intellect, and, even in these levelling days, their peculiar beauty of face and form.
But at the time whereof I write, Bideford was not merely a pleasant country town, whose quay was haunted by a few coasting craft. It was one of the chief ports of England; it furnished seven ships to fight the Armada: even more than a century afterwards, say the chroniclers, “it sent more vessels to the northern trade than any port in England, saving (strange juxtaposition!) London and Topsham,” and was the centre of a local civilization and enterprise, small perhaps compared with the vast efforts of the present day: but who dare despise the day of small things, if it has proved to be the dawn of mighty ones? And it is to the sea-life and labor of Bideford, and Dartmouth, and Topsham, and Plymouth (then a petty place), and many another little western town, that England owes the foundation of her naval and commercial glory. It was the men of Devon, the Drakes and Hawkins’, Gilberts and Raleighs, Grenvilles and Oxenhams, and a host more of “forgotten worthies,” whom we shall learn one day to honor as they deserve, to whom she owes her commerce, her colonies, her very existence. For had they not first crippled, by their West Indian raids, the ill-gotten resources of the Spaniard, and then crushed his last huge effort in Britain’s Salamis, the glorious fight of 1588, what had we been by now but a popish appanage of a world-tyranny as cruel as heathen Rome itself, and far more devilish?
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And on they came, headed by a giant of buckram and pasteboard armor, forth of whose stomach looked, like a clock-face in a steeple, a human visage, to be greeted, as was the fashion then, by a volley of quips and puns from high and low.
Young Mr. William Cary, of Clovelly, who was the wit of those parts, opened the fire by asking him whether he were Goliath, Gogmagog, or Grantorto in the romance; for giants’ names always began with a G. To which the giant’s stomach answered pretty surlily—
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