This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1867 edition. Excerpt: ...low, with never a roof over his head, and his very flesh, metaphorically speaking--ay, and literally, too--burnt to the bone! Christian and I saw the first outbreak of the fire; were within a hundred yards of it; yet here we stand, under the same roof, with scarcely a timber scorched, while the flames have ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1867 edition. Excerpt: ...low, with never a roof over his head, and his very flesh, metaphorically speaking--ay, and literally, too--burnt to the bone! Christian and I saw the first outbreak of the fire; were within a hundred yards of it; yet here we stand, under the same roof, with scarcely a timber scorched, while the flames have been running before us, over acres of ground, for almost a week. Donner and Dqria! I would rather my little barrack had been blown to the stars, and the Enchanted Island sunk to the bottom of the Deich, if only half the rest could have been saved thereby." " "Well, you did your best," modestly interposed Jacob, " to save the lives and property of others; and it was not quite without avail." "We all did our best," Rostock pursued, a little petulantly, " and what did all our striving amount to? You should have stood with me, Herr Rudiger," turning to the worthy Saxon, " on the Lombard's bridge yonder, across the Alster, this morning. You should have been born and bred in the city, as I have been; you should have lived in it almost all your life, as I have done; and then, looking as I did across the water, you wouldn't have recognised your own birth-place, or your own home-city, any more than if you had been born a Kalmuck or a Turk. The Alster, that used to be as bright as a mountain lake, the white swans curling their beautiful necks as they sailed proudly over its surface; the trim boats and gay craft darting and sweeping through its waves; was as thick and sluggish as the bottom of a sluice. Nothing floating on its muddy waters, but broken canoes; some keel uppermost, and even those that were righted, rolling about without oars or owners; charred timbers, and the indescribable bits and chips, flaps and tags of what had once been goodly...
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