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The Isle of Unrest
Excerpt from The Isle of Unrest
"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it."
The afternoon sun was lowering toward a heavy bank of clouds hanging still and sullen, over the Mediterranean. A mistral was blowing. The last yellow rays shone fiercely upon the towering coast of Corsica, and the windows of the village of Olmeta glittered like gold.
There are two Olmetas in Corsica, both in the north, both on the west coast, both perched high like an eagles nest, both looking down upon those lashed waters of the Mediterranean, which are not the waters that poets sing of, for they are as often white as they are blue; they are seldom glassy except in the height of summer, and sailors tell that they are as treacherous as any waters of the earth.
About the Publisher
Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com
This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it."
The afternoon sun was lowering toward a heavy bank of clouds hanging still and sullen, over the Mediterranean. A mistral was blowing. The last yellow rays shone fiercely upon the towering coast of Corsica, and the windows of the village of Olmeta glittered like gold.
There are two Olmetas in Corsica, both in the north, both on the west coast, both perched high like an eagles nest, both looking down upon those lashed waters of the Mediterranean, which are not the waters that poets sing of, for they are as often white as they are blue; they are seldom glassy except in the height of summer, and sailors tell that they are as treacherous as any waters of the earth.
About the Publisher
Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com
This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
376 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1900
3 people are currently reading
8 people want to read
About the author
Henry Seton Merriman
118 books2 followersHugh Stowell Scott was an English novelist (under the pseudonym of Henry Seton Merriman).
Born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne in 1862, he became an underwriter at Lloyd's of London, but then devoted himself to travel and to writing novels, many of which had great popularity. Scott visited India as a tourist in 1877-8 and set his novel Flotsam (1896) there. He was an enthusiastic traveller, many of his journeys being undertaken with his friend and fellow author Stanley J. Weyman. He was unusually modest and retiring in character. He died of appendicitis at the age of about forty at Melton, Suffolk.
Born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne in 1862, he became an underwriter at Lloyd's of London, but then devoted himself to travel and to writing novels, many of which had great popularity. Scott visited India as a tourist in 1877-8 and set his novel Flotsam (1896) there. He was an enthusiastic traveller, many of his journeys being undertaken with his friend and fellow author Stanley J. Weyman. He was unusually modest and retiring in character. He died of appendicitis at the age of about forty at Melton, Suffolk.
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