| Author: | H. Rider Haggard | ISBN: | 1230000197772 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing | Publication: | November 19, 2013 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | H. Rider Haggard |
| ISBN: | 1230000197772 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication: | November 19, 2013 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
Surely Solomon foresaw these days when he set down that famous saying
as to the making of many books. The aphorism, I confess, is one which
strikes me through with shame whenever I chance to be called upon to
read it aloud in the parish church on Sunday. Indeed it suggests to me
a tale which has a moral--or a parallel. Some months ago I tarried at
Haifa, a place on the coast of Syria with an abominable port. It was
at or about the hour of midnight that a crowd of miserable travelers,
of whom I was one, might have been seen cowering in the wind and rain
at the gates of this harbor. There the judge and the officer bullied
and rent them, causing them to fumble with damp hands and discover
their /tezkerehs/ in inaccessible pockets, which they did that the
account given in those documents of their objects, occupations, past
history, and personal appearance might be verified by a drowsy Turk
seated in a box upon the quay. Not until he was satisfied on all these
points, indeed, would he allow them the privilege of risking death by
drowning in an attempt to reach a steamer which rolled outside the
harbour.
At length the ordeal was done with and we were informed that we might
embark. That is to say, we were graciously permitted to leap five feet
from an unlit pier--the steps of which had been washed away in the
gale of the previous night, but will, I am informed, be repaired next
season--trusting to Providence to cause us to fall into a dark object
beneath believed to be a boat. Another Turkish officer watched our
departure suspiciously, though what he imagined we could be carrying
out of his barren land is beyond my guessing.
"Cook, Cook, Cook!" we croaked in deprecatory tones as one by one we
crept past him cowed and cold, fearing that he might invent some
pretext to detain us. Therefore it was indeed that we hurried to bring
to his notice the only name which seems to have power in Syria; that
famous name of the hydra-headed, the indispensable, the world-wide
Cook.
"Cook, Cook, Cook!" we croaked.
"Oh! yes," answered the exasperated Turk in a tone not unlike that of
a sleepy pigeon, "Coook, Coook, Coook! oh yes, all right! Coook,
always Coook! Go to--Jericho--Coook!"
In the same way and with much the same feelings, thinking of the long
line of works before me, I mutter to the reader now, "Book, Book,
Book!"
Can he be so rude as to answer, after the example of the Haifa Turk--
"Oh! yes, all right! Boook, &c., &c." The thought is too painful: I
leave it.
Surely Solomon foresaw these days when he set down that famous saying
as to the making of many books. The aphorism, I confess, is one which
strikes me through with shame whenever I chance to be called upon to
read it aloud in the parish church on Sunday. Indeed it suggests to me
a tale which has a moral--or a parallel. Some months ago I tarried at
Haifa, a place on the coast of Syria with an abominable port. It was
at or about the hour of midnight that a crowd of miserable travelers,
of whom I was one, might have been seen cowering in the wind and rain
at the gates of this harbor. There the judge and the officer bullied
and rent them, causing them to fumble with damp hands and discover
their /tezkerehs/ in inaccessible pockets, which they did that the
account given in those documents of their objects, occupations, past
history, and personal appearance might be verified by a drowsy Turk
seated in a box upon the quay. Not until he was satisfied on all these
points, indeed, would he allow them the privilege of risking death by
drowning in an attempt to reach a steamer which rolled outside the
harbour.
At length the ordeal was done with and we were informed that we might
embark. That is to say, we were graciously permitted to leap five feet
from an unlit pier--the steps of which had been washed away in the
gale of the previous night, but will, I am informed, be repaired next
season--trusting to Providence to cause us to fall into a dark object
beneath believed to be a boat. Another Turkish officer watched our
departure suspiciously, though what he imagined we could be carrying
out of his barren land is beyond my guessing.
"Cook, Cook, Cook!" we croaked in deprecatory tones as one by one we
crept past him cowed and cold, fearing that he might invent some
pretext to detain us. Therefore it was indeed that we hurried to bring
to his notice the only name which seems to have power in Syria; that
famous name of the hydra-headed, the indispensable, the world-wide
Cook.
"Cook, Cook, Cook!" we croaked.
"Oh! yes," answered the exasperated Turk in a tone not unlike that of
a sleepy pigeon, "Coook, Coook, Coook! oh yes, all right! Coook,
always Coook! Go to--Jericho--Coook!"
In the same way and with much the same feelings, thinking of the long
line of works before me, I mutter to the reader now, "Book, Book,
Book!"
Can he be so rude as to answer, after the example of the Haifa Turk--
"Oh! yes, all right! Boook, &c., &c." The thought is too painful: I
leave it.
