THE SAJUR.
It rained in the Syrian March of 1908 when it did not snow, and wet or
fair it blew a gale. We came to Aleppo in a deluge, wallowed in mud at
Mumbij, found Euphrates swinging in full flood round his mighty curves,
crossed him before a wet gale, recrossed and rode all the way to Aintab
head down to the same laden blast. Sleet and snow, rain and hail spent
themselves in turn on that highland town during four miserable days.
But on the fifth morning the sky was clear. The tracks had hardened
in one fair night, and bush and tree were eager for spring. When we
wheeled on the crest of a low pass for a last look into the sunlit
valley, a far-away frame of dazzling peaks had risen where clouds were
hanging yesterday. Life was sweet once more, and the world seemed good.
The hope of hunters beckoned us ahead. A fortnight ago, while we lay in
camp by Carchemish, a friendly Syrian had promised two things, first,
“black written stones” near a village two hours to the north; second,
“writing like nails,” to be seen on the farther bank of Euphrates over
against the outfall of the Sajur. The first promise had been fulfilled,
and the black stones of Kellekli were put to our credit. The second
promise we were now on our way to prove. A mound called Tell Ahmar
was marked on our maps opposite the mouth of the Sajur, and there we
would look for the Syrian’s “nail-like” writing, which could hardly
mean other than the wedge-shaped script of the Assyrians. Cuneiform
records would be worth the finding on the frontier of the Hatti land.
[Illustration: EUPHRATES FROM THE MOUND OF CARCHEMISH.]
Moreover, there might be quarry on the road. On this first night we
should camp under Tell Bashar, known to historians of the Crusades as
a great mound by the Sajur, whither the Frank lords of Edessa betook
themselves when driven back across Euphrates. When I passed through
Aintab for the first time, fifteen years ago, I found in its bazars
and khans sundry Hittite seals and trinkets, which were said by their
vendors to have been found, one and all, on Tell Bashar. I doubted
their story then, knowing how natives will combine to say that small
antiquities come from the most notable ruin in their district, whatever
its age; but with wider knowledge of Syria I began to believe. Few or
no mounds so large as this was reported to be, have ever been built up
from the level by Franks. Rather as at Aleppo and Hamah and a score of
other places the Crusaders, like the Moslems before and after them,
set their towers on old mounds of the Hittites. It was worth while,
at least, to spend a night in some hamlet near the Tell, and enquire
diligently if such trinkets had indeed been found there by husbandmen
and shepherds, or were hanging yet on the neck-strings of their wives.
I had met with no record of any antiquary’s visit to Tell Bashar, and
the place was reported to us in Birejik and Aintab to be a spot where
a stranger would not be well received. The nearest village was a home
of outlaws with whom the Pasha meant to deal faithfully, _bukra_,
to-morrow, or may be next day, or may be next year. But the outlaw in
Turkey is more often a friend than a foe to wandering sahibs who may
make his peace for him some day, and we rode on. Many laden camels
were in the road--we were still on the bridle path which leads to
Aleppo--and their drivers greeted us in friendly fashion, as glad as we
of the unaccustomed sunlight and new-washed air: but each man carried
his ready gun. Presently our way parted from the main track, and bore
south by east over a deep hill-girt plain to the banks of a little
canal, unwonted sight in Turkey of Asia. Here at least men live who
take thought for the morrow, and in a land of ancient violence, hold
something better than to rob and kill. We sighted a few women, bent
over the wet earth in their daily quest for liquorice root, but no near
villages; and when we halted at noon by a double spring, no one came
near us except two curious herd-boys. The traveller in Turkey, who must
eat most of his bread at noon and night amid the odours of villages and
under the unflinching regard of scornful eyes, remembers with blessing
his rare meals by wayside fountains. There he has no questions to
answer and none to ask. The sunshine is his, and his the best of the
shade. Lolling at his western ease, with no eastern punctilio to bear
in mind, he forgets for a moment those twin spoilsports of the Levant,
suspicion and bakshish.
We had remounted and ridden forward for less than an hour, when the
low eastern range ran out into a second plain and a great mound sprang
out of the flats ahead. Needless to ask if it were Tell Bashar.
Longer, broader, and higher than the acropolis of Carchemish, it had
the same abrupt flat-topped form, and even at our distance could be
seen to rise between the horns of a low crescent of mounds, which kept
the line of some city’s buried wall. We rode over the Sajur by the
high-pitched bridge of Sarambol which has carried the mule-track from
Aleppo to Birejik for centuries; and, having cut across an elbow of the
meandering stream, we recrossed to the village of Bashar, and chose a
camping ground on sodden grass beyond its huts. The sheikh called us
to his upper chamber, and we took coffee amid a gathering throng of
peasants who seemed willing enough to further our desires, but could
muster only a defaced coin or two after a two-hour sitting, and tell us
nothing of Hittite seals. Our hopes sank low. But the evening and the
morning, when shepherds and women are home from the fields, often bring
forth that which the afternoon knows not; and we thought it well to
leave the village to talk us over, while we went on to the site.
Huge the Tell loomed near at hand, as we rode through a green gap
in the outer crescent of mounds, and the climb to its flat summit
proved very steep. All that was to be seen thereon was work of the
Franks--foundation lines of their halls and ramparts, choked cisterns
of their making, and two fragments of towers that had kept their main
entrance on the south side--with nothing of an earlier day unless it
were certain black blocks of basalt, worked here and there into their
masonry. From this height the outer mounds could be seen to enclose
west, south and east a site larger than Carchemish, but alas! ploughed
from end to end, and cleared of all stones, modern or ancient. On
the north the ground falls steeply from the foot of the mound and
stretches flat a hundred yards to the Sajur, whose sinuous reaches
gleamed in the sinking sunlight. The river passes Tell Bashar in
loops and counter-loops, fetching a wide compass to the east before
finding its southward way again, and probably it has shifted its course
continually in the soft, stoneless plain. The little fall of the land
at the northern foot of Tell Bashar may well, therefore, be a forgotten
bank, and the mound have risen, like other early fortresses, from the
water’s very edge.
It was an hour after sunset when the first-fruits of the harvest we
sought appeared at our tent-door. They were two seals of steatite,
gable-shaped and engraved, which had been strung on a woman’s necklace
in the company of modern charms to avert the ‘eye.’ No price was asked,
but what we chose to give. We paid well, and had not time to finish
supper before spoil of the Hittites--their cylinders, their beads,
their seals, gable-shaped, conical, scarabaeoid--flowed in from all
sides, and the source of the Aintab objects was beyond all doubt. So
thick became the throng of vendors at last that the sheikh, attended
by armed satellites, came up to close the market. He was nervous, and
begged we would not sleep. His village, he protested, was bad, and some
months before had fought a pitched battle for its lands, and killed
some Aintablis. The Pasha’s police had come to arrest the slayers, but
been driven off, and the ringleaders, yet at large, had nothing to lose
by an attack on our camp. He, the sheikh, would suffer if a hair of our
heads was touched. We promised to be wary, and he went off, leaving his
guards by the tents.
[Illustration: THE SAJUR VALLEY AT SUNSET FROM TELL BASHAR.]
The night was bitterly cold. The north wind, which had so cheered
our morning hours, did not die at sunset as is its wont, but blew
on through the dark in token that the weather was not yet firm, and
the sodden grass grew crisp under its breath. It was too chill for
stripping, and almost too chill for sleep, and had robbers come at
any hour of that night they would have found one or the other of us
awake. But they came not, and I doubt if any had ever a mind to come.
The peasants shewed us, first and last, as good hospitality as their
poverty allowed, offering again and again their little cups of bitter
coffee half filled in the Arab fashion, and at sunrise they came to the
tents once more asking no higher prices than overnight. Collecting was
too easy a business here to be a sport at all; but the bag consoled us.
When we rode off to the south we had gathered in nearly sixty Hittite
things. Few women in that little village had not hung a cylinder or
a seal on their necklaces to win ease in childbed, and make the milk
sweet in their breasts, and I trust they have found others of equal
virtue to replace those for which two Franks were so ready to pay their
silver.
Records of Shalmaneser II. mention a notable fenced place, situated
on the river _Sagura_ and taken once and again by the Great King on
his forays across Euphrates. He names it, in his long-winded Ninevite
way, Ashur-utir-asbat; but, he says, “the Hatti call it Pitru.” By the
latter name the Pharaohs of the Eighteenth Dynasty also knew a strong
city of northern Syria, which lay on their way to Carchemish. The site
of Pitru on the Sagura has never been fixed; but no one before us with
Pitru in his mind had seen Tell Bashar, which is by far the largest
ancient site on the Sajur. If Til-Barsip, where Shalmaneser crossed
Euphrates, was indeed at modern Birejik, as Assyriologists believe,
be it noted that Tell Bashar lies on the straightest road from this
point to Halman, or Aleppo, whither the King marched from Pitru in the
year before Christ, 854. That diggers will prove some day that Pitru
and Bashar are one, I make small doubt; but I feel less sure that, as
some of those who study the geography of the old Hebrew world think,
Pitru was also the same town as that Pethor “in Aram in the mountains
of the east”; whence Balak the Moabite called Balaam to curse Israel.
Pethor is said elsewhere to have been of Aram Naharaim, or Mesopotamia;
but the Hebrew scribes were not scientific geographers, and I will
leave another dark saying of theirs concerning Pethor, that it was
“by the river of the land of the children of Balak’s people,” to the
Higher Critics. Nevertheless, if ever there be a plan afoot to dig Tell
Bashar, one might invoke reasonably enough the name of the son of Beor
to open purses which are usually closed to diggers unashamed to beg.
Our second day by the Sajur passed cloudless as the first, and the
land still kept the festival of yesterday. The ride over the treeless
rolling downs would be dreary enough in mirky weather; but on that day
the shallow dales rejoiced in the sun, the brooks laughed as we forded
them, the sheep flecked emerald slopes, and wherever there was tilth,
the young wheat showed an even brighter green. So crystal clear was the
air that the freshly powdered peaks of Amánus stood up boldly in the
west as though ten, instead of sixty miles away, and from every higher
swell of the downs we got a backward view to yet more distant snows on
Taurus. The very packhorses, sorry jades that they were, felt the spur
of spring: they hinnied, squealed, headed off the track to gallantry
and combat, till at last they broke into a frenzy of kicking and
galloping which brought their packs about their heels and their panting
drivers’ fists about their heads. A packhorse, who fancies himself
Pegasus, is the most laughable beast on earth till he begins to scatter
your bedding, your instruments, your garments and your food over a mile
of rock or bog.
Low bluffs of basalt ran for a long distance on our left, in which
quarries of the Hittites will be found some day; for tooled blocks of
their black stone were scattered over both a small mound passed on the
way, and a much larger acropolis which we spied at noon in the trough
of a tributary valley. Tell Khalid is the second site on the Sajur for
size, and must survive from some town known to Assyrian history. In a
hamlet on the farther bank of the stream, which was reached by plunging
through almost too swollen a flood, we were bidden rest and eat by
the Bey, a friendly Mussulman, rich in beautiful brood mares, which
were browsing unshackled with their young on lawn-like pastures; and
during this short stay, the peasants had time to bethink them of three
or four trifles picked up at one time or another on their mound--of a
scarabaeus in paste, two engraved seals, some haematite beads, and,
more welcome than these, a terra-cotta figurine of the Goddess of
Syria, pressing her breasts in the manner of Ishtar.
Well pleased we rode on in the early afternoon to the bridge of the
Sajur at Akjé, where rumour had it we might lodge in a khan. But the
khan proved ruinous, like the bridge, and empty of all but dung and
fleas, since the waggons bound from Aleppo to Mesopotamia have ceased
to pass this way; and we had no choice but to keep on, parted by the
stream from a chain of villages on the left bank, each built on or by
an ancient mound. After an hour and a half we reached a spot marked
on the maps a hamlet, Kubbeh, but in reality a large farmstead with
attendant hovels and a water-mill, owned by a wealthy Aleppine who
lives away till the summer-time. His bailiff, a grave, black-bearded
man, bade us welcome with respectful eyes, and abased himself even to
draw off our shoes. We lay comfortably in the Bey’s chamber, and on the
morrow went our way his debtors. The old feudal families may be extinct
or reduced to shadows in Turkey; but the spirit of feudal dependence
is as strong as ever in the country folk. Instinctively the peasants
gather about a rich man’s dwelling, be he only a tax-farmer--as indeed
were most of the “Deré Beys”; and they would rather be his vassals than
small proprietors on their own lands. Traditions of ancient lawlessness
and present fear of strong men, armed by the law, do something to
keep this habit alive: but its roots lie deeper--deep down in that
immemorial respect of persons which goes in the East with a fixed
belief that they are respected by the Most High.
The third morning broke grey, with a chill wind off the Mesopotamian
desert and a threat of rain; but the weather held fair till we halted
in the village of Dadat at noon. We had kept to the more mountainous
right bank, though, for more than one long stretch, we found no beaten
way. Most villages were seen, to-day as yesterday, on the farther side,
and it would have been easier to have crossed the stream and journeyed
on their linking paths. But the map showed an earlier traveller’s track
on the left bank, while it left the right blank, both of roads and
villages (although we lighted on two as considerable as the largest of
those opposite), and it seemed better to strike out a new route. The
river kept us company, tumbling down a long and gently inclined ladder
of rock, with short reaches of stiller water, in which herons waded,
careless of our passing by: but beyond Dadat we saw it bear away to
north, hugging the hills, and were warned that sheer bluffs would bar
any farther riding by its bank.
It had begun to rain when we struck off over the downs, in hopes to
reach shelter at the village of Chat ere the storm should become
heavy. Two Turkman camps lay on our way, and the elders of the tents,
as soon as persuaded we were no robbers, gave us guidance through a
maze of tortuous sheep-tracks. Cold looked the black booths flapping
in the searching easter, colder the rolling treeless down on which
the wanderers’ lives were led, coldest the scudding wrack in the sky.
All joy of yesterday had forsaken the world, and we hailed the hovels
of Chat as a sailor hails a port. But Chat did not hail us. We were
many men and more horses, and the best shelter was already over-full
of wives and children and cattle, among whom a narrow space was not
very willingly cleared for us. While he burned an armful of thorns in
the chimney, the Headman pointed to the thinning clouds, and protested
another village lay just beyond the hill.
Ready to be persuaded, we went farther to fare worse. Once on the downs
again we met the full fury of the soaking, freezing gale. There was no
pretence of a path, and the dusty hillsides were already become bog and
slime. A horse slid, plunged, and broke his girths, then another and
another; and the dusk came down so fast that only the very last of
the light served us into Avshariyeh, as mean a knot of cabins as one
may see even in Syria. The one guest-house was packed with travellers,
Circassian, Arab and Turk, who had been ferried over Euphrates in
the afternoon; and no man had so much as an empty stable to offer.
It was idle, however, to plead there would be better lodging in some
farther village, for, less than a mile ahead, the Great River barred
our way in the night; and there was but one course open--boldly to
enter the sheikh’s dwelling and occupy till he came in the sacred name
of hospitality, and the more potent name of the Frank. It was a large
stone-built barn, three parts stable, with a small living space raised
and railed, which we took for ourselves without more ado. The women
and children scurried into the dark of the stable end: their old lord
followed us, and accepting the inevitable, began forthwith, Arabwise,
to revolve in his slow mind how the chance might be turned to profit.
He too, it appeared, was a stranger in the land, going in fear of the
Circassian farmers on the royal estate of Mumbij, and he had a likely
son. Here were _Ingliz_ by his hearth, _Ingliz_ who, their escort said,
stood very near to the great Consul in Aleppo. If they spoke for his
boy, would he not be made _kavass_, and, by the custom of generations,
a rock of defence for all his kin in evil-doing as in well?
[Illustration: TELL AHMAR ACROSS EUPHRATES.]
The old man said nothing of this till the morning; but, as his purpose
grew, he waxed more kind, sending one for firewood and another for
milk, and a third to find lodging for our beasts. The air was pungent
with wood-smoke, and so laden with the ammoniac reek of the Augean
stable, that the fumes from the drying garments of a dozen unwashed
men could scarcely offend. A sudden blaze from a fresh tuft of waxy
thorn would light up the depths of the lower barn, and show us for a
moment our room-mates, a steaming throng of buffaloes, oxen, sheep and
goats: but it was not till we wished to sleep in the small hours that
we began to hear the intermittent ruckling of a camel. In the dawn
there he loomed, nearest of all the menagerie, chawing and blowing
forth his froth. Poor prisoned beast! We looked at the single low door.
Nothing of stature within many inches of his could pass that way. How
had he got in, and how could he go out? The old sheikh threw no light
on a problem which he seemed unable to appreciate, and we were left
to suppose his camel had led a cloistered existence ever since he was
found on some fine morning to have grown in the night the little more
that would mean so much.
The morning broke fair, if not fine. Our host, who had opened his heart
at last, took shadowy promises and solid silver with equal zest, and
sent his blessing with us as we rode towards a white bluff honeycombed
with ancient tombs, beyond whose butt a great water gleamed. Hollow
echoes awoke in the cliff, half a dozen eagles flapped from their
eyries, and we beheld Euphrates once more. Three or four mounds broke
the eastern line of horizon, of which the nearest, rising from the
river’s edge, was that Tell Ahmar, where we were to seek the “writing
like nails.”
Euphrates is not passed, however, in one hour or in two. For all our
shouting and firing of guns the two ferry boats lay motionless specks
under the farther bank till almost noonday, and we had ample time to
gaze at the promised land from far. Gradually a little company formed
about us, made up in part of Aleppine passengers, who had come down
in two waggons to the ferry, in part of roamers from the neighbouring
hills, who spied unfamiliar tents. A swarthy Bedawi sauntered up,
seated himself, saluted and said, “I have nothing. With two hundred
piastres I shall buy cattle.” “God give you!” I remarked, “why say you
so to me?” “You have them, and I have not,” he replied simply. He gave
place to the strange figure of a very old man, almost blind, who wore
a silken coat of polychrome patchwork and a green turban, and had the
delicate face and soft beard that one often sees among dervishes. The
company murmured he was mad, but received him reverently, and one who
was sick bowed while the thin lips muttered a prayer or charm over
his head. This patriarch, also, wanted piastres. Allah had shown him
in sleep the hiding-place of a great treasure, and for a little money
the rich _pashas_ might share the secret. Two days later we passed him
digging beside a great boulder a mile down stream, but we had bought no
right to share the gold he should find.
At last we descried twin high-pooped arks crawling upstream under the
farther bank, each towed by a dozen straining men. In an hour they
would cast off, and by grace of bare poles, unwieldy rudders, currents
and eddies, cunningly used, hit our point on the shore or miss it by
a hundred yards, by a quarter of a mile, by more or by less, as Allah
should will. Eight times I have crossed Euphrates in flood, and eight
times failed to see earthly cause why the ferry-boat should ever attain
the farther shore. Once cast off, I have lost all sense of headway, and
seemed to slide down a boiling race, which had the boat at its mercy,
keeping pace at its sides; and thus I have drifted into mid-stream.
Then suddenly there is great shouting and working of the huge tiller
to and fro, and behold the shore itself, rushing to the rescue, crashes
on the keel and the boat heels over with a groan. When I find my feet
again in the swaying bilge, I perceive, amazed, that I have crossed
Euphrates.
[Illustration: A EUPHRATEAN FERRY.]
We landed at the foot of the Tell itself, and climbed it forthwith.
Its flat top proved small and bare of ancient stones; but a few basalt
blocks lay pell-mell at the bottom of a deep cut in its flank, and
on the plain below a faintly outlined horseshoe of walls could be
descried, whose horns touched the river some distance to west and east
of the Tell. Within the western horn lay a few struggling huts, among
which we entered the ferry-master’s, to eat bread and learn what we
might: but for a long while we learned nothing. Those who sat gravely
round the low divan were, in the main, wayfarers like ourselves, come
to take the ferry to-night or to-morrow, and the two or three natives,
who came and went in the house, professed ignorance of all written or
sculptured stones. At last I sent our Syrian servant outside to talk,
for it was plain the peasants would not know what we wanted till they
knew who we were. He went no farther, I believe, than the shady side
of the hut, but in half an hour he re-entered with a man who would
show a stone. We rose and followed scarcely twenty paces, and there,
full in the open, lay a black slab, worn and polished by use as a
seat or stand, but still faintly relieved by two sculptured figures
shod with the peculiar Hittite boot. Bakshish changed hands; whispers
passed round; and the guide remembered another stone, which he said was
“written.”
He led us north-westward out of the village, towards a gap in the long
low mounds which hide the silted ruin of the city wall, and went on
for a hundred yards more to the crown of a low rise. There he stayed,
and, coming up with him, we saw half a dozen fragments of black basalt,
which bore raised Hittite pictographs, and some part of a sculptured
scene in which figured a great gross bull. The finders had broken the
stone, the guide said, but found no gold within. There used to be
another fragment, but where it might be now he knew not. We saw that
the well-preserved pictographs were in the fine style of Carchemish,
and more in number than on any one Hittite monument yet discovered,
and knew that we had not come in vain to Tell Ahmar. To get due record
of the monument, however, would be the work of hours. The sun was
westering, and idlers, who had followed our tracks, spoke of yet other
stones, and especially of “lions, written not thus, but otherwise--like
nailmarks.” To-morrow the camp could come over, but we must see those
lions to-night.
[Illustration: HITTITE INSCRIPTION AT TELL AHMAR.]
The men led us back by the corner of the hamlet, and stopped near the
river bank at a heavy block, on whose upturned face were carved two
winged horses supporting the sacred palm-tree. We did what we could
with camera and pencil, and then followed the guides inland across the
ancient site towards a conspicuous gap in the northern wall-mounds.
Through this, we were told, passed the waggon-track to Urfa, and a
group of tumbled stones half seen beyond the gate raised our hopes.
Nor were they to be disappointed. There lay two great winged lions of
heavy Assyrian style, each inscribed with a long cuneiform text on his
inner flank. The one was complete in all his parts but broken in
two, the other was in one piece, but without his head: when erect, each
had stood nearly ten feet high from claw to crest, looking up the road
towards Nineveh. Their inscriptions are of Shalmaneser the Second,
the Great King of the ninth century B.C. who crossed Euphrates from
Til-Barsip to Carchemish and Pitru.
[Illustration: FALLEN LION OF SHALMANESER II. AT TELL AHMAR.]
Yet another monument was shown to us that evening--a broken _stela_,
representing a king or god, some nine feet high, accepting the homage
of a puny adorer; and three more, beside a score of little objects,
cylinders and seals, both Hittite and Assyrian, we were to see on the
morrow.
We tramped a mile up stream, and were poled across Euphrates again
under the sunset, prize-winners in the lottery of antiquarian
discovery. For we had lighted on no mean city, forgotten by Euphrates.
Though passed seventy years ago by the British navigators of the river,
it had been visited by no western scholar till our lucky star led us
down the Sajur. What city it was and how named, its own cuneiform
inscriptions do not say. Was it that Til Barsip, chief stronghold of
“Ahuni, son of Adini,” which Shalmaneser renamed Kar-Shalman-asharid,
and made a royal residence for himself? Or, if this be placed rightly
by scholars at Birejik, was one of Ahuni’s lesser cities built at Tell
Ahmar? This much is sure--that in Shalmaneser’s day there was a city of
Mesopotamia, facing the Sajur mouth, larger in area than Carchemish,
where both the Hittite and the cuneiform characters were known and
used; and that diggers will search there some day for the bilingual
text which shall unlock the last secrets of the Hittite script.
Dark fell starlit and still by the river. The curious loungers of the
daytime withdrew presently to their caves and huts on the western
hills, and left us to solitary vigil. Even our muleteers, fearful
for their beasts, returned at nightfall to the doubtful shelter of
Avshariyeh, and the heavy silence about us was broken by nothing but
the thunderous splashes, which told of Euphrates at his age-long
Sisyphean task, taking from that bank to add to this. I lay uneasy with
a slight fever caught yesternight, and the strong murmur of the river
troubled my dreams. I seemed to drift helpless by shores that came no
nearer, in a strange company of mitred men with square, curled beards,
and stunt, long-nosed folk with tiptilted shoes. Then, without landing,
I would find myself ashore between winged lions scanning elusive
shifting symbols; but ever, before I read them, I was spirited back
to the stream, and struggling among trousered bowmen to reach a bank
piled with battlements and high, square towers. Suddenly the waters
shrank below the boat, and the archer host rushed past me; and through
a confused noise of battle and stamping hoofs, there rang in my ears
a cry, “And the sixth angel poured out his vial upon the great river
Euphrates; and the water thereof was dried up that the way of the Kings
of the East might be prepared.” Whereupon I woke to find our mules
trampling about the tents in the dawn, while their drivers bandied loud
words with a knot of Turcomans, who were claiming the grass by the
river bank; and the sun rose on the mean mud walls of Tell Ahmar out of
an empty stream.
GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO.
LTD.
Transcriber’s Notes
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