Chains
were nothing compared to the fearful want of occupation. Suppose
we had kept a daily diary, the entries would have been generally
as follows:--"Took a bath (a painful operation, as the chains,
unsupported by the bandages, hurt fearfully); small boy helps to
pass my trousers between the chains. To-day, being dry, we crawled
up and down our fifteen yards' walk. Breakfast; felt happier that
task over. Sick came for medicine. As I am doctor and apothecary,
prescribed and made the medicine myself. Samuel, or some trusty
native friend who knows that my tej is ripe, came for a glass or
two. Go now and smoke a pipe with Cameron. Lay down and read
McCulloch's _Commercial Dictionary_; very interesting book,
but sends me to sleep. Afternoon, lay down and got up again; tried
once more the _Commercial Dictionary_. Dinner (I wonder what
age the cock we ate had reached); crawled about for, an hour between
the huts; lay down, took Gadby's _Appendix_; but as I knew it
by heart, even his curious descriptions have no more attraction.
Small boy lighted the fire; the wood was green, the smoke fearful.
Had a game of whist with Rassam and Prideaux. I do not suppose they
would play with our dirty cards in a guard-room. Lost twenty points.
Small boy took off the trousers. The guards were cursing us because
they had to sleep outside in the rain.
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