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- 7827
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.842Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
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- 7768
- text
- of striking a judge on the bench, as to lay violent hand upon their
holy hides.
It is wonderful what loads their majesties will condescend to draw. The
truck is a large square platform, on four low wheels; and upon this the
lumpers pile bale after bale of cotton, as if they were filling a large
warehouse, and yet a procession of three of these horses will
tranquilly walk away with the whole.
The truckmen themselves are almost as singular a race as their animals.
Like the Judiciary in England, they wear gowns,—not of the same cut and
color though,—which reach below their knees; and from the racket they
make on the pavements with their hob-nailed brogans, you would think
they patronized the same shoemaker with their horses. I never could get
any thing out of these truckmen. They are a reserved, sober-sided set,
who, with all possible solemnity, march at the head of their animals;
now and then gently advising them to sheer to the right or the left, in
order to avoid some passing vehicle. Then spending so much of their
lives in the high-bred company of their horses, seems to have mended
their manners and improved their taste, besides imparting to them
something of the dignity of their animals; but it has also given to
them a sort of refined and uncomplaining aversion to human society.
There are many strange stories told of the truck-horse. Among others is
the following: There was a parrot, that from having long been suspended
in its cage from a low window fronting a dock, had learned to converse
pretty fluently in the language of the stevedores and truckmen. One day
a truckman left his vehicle standing on the quay, with its back to the
water. It was noon, when an interval of silence falls upon the docks;
and Poll, seeing herself face to face with the horse, and having a mind
for a chat, cried out to him, _“Back! back! back!”_
Backward went the horse, precipitating himself and truck into the
water.
Brunswick Dock, to the west of Prince’s, is one of the most interesting
to be seen. Here lie the various black steamers (so unlike the American
boats, since they have to navigate the boisterous Narrow Seas) plying
to all parts of the three kingdoms. Here you see vast quantities of
produce, imported from starving Ireland; here you see the decks turned
into pens for oxen and sheep; and often, side by side with these
inclosures, Irish deck-passengers, thick as they can stand, seemingly
penned in just like the cattle. It was the beginning of July when the
Highlander arrived in port; and the Irish laborers were daily coming
over by thousands, to help harvest the English crops.
One morning, going into the town, I heard a tramp, as of a drove of
buffaloes, behind me; and turning round, beheld the entire middle of
the street filled by a great crowd of these men, who had just emerged
from Brunswick Dock gates, arrayed in long-tailed coats of hoddin-gray,
corduroy knee-breeches, and shod with shoes that raised a mighty dust.
Flourishing their Donnybrook shillelahs, they looked like an irruption
of barbarians. They were marching straight out of town into the
country; and perhaps out of consideration for the finances of the
corporation, took the middle of the street, to save the side-walks.
“Sing _Langolee, and the Lakes of Killarney,”_ cried one fellow,
tossing his stick into the air, as he danced in his brogans at the head
of the rabble. And so they went! capering on, merry as pipers.
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