{"id":"01KG8AKG6A2VWVY9BH579ANXGP","cid":"bafkreidd5ro2lc3syl7z3h2hj3wv7r5szqtvmbwncsvlb3g4ifimxvvd5e","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":7356,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:05.594Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 5","source_file":"01KG89J1DKC9HHJRKY25JZBEXW","start_line":7307,"text":"insignificant share both of the glory and profit of the bloody battles\r\nthey claimed; while some of the genuine working heroes, too brave to\r\nbeg, too cut-up to work, and too poor to live, laid down quietly in\r\ncorners and died. And here it may be noted, as a fact nationally\r\ncharacteristic, that however desperately reduced at times, even to the\r\nsewers, Israel, the American, never sunk below the mud, to actual\r\nbeggary.\r\n\r\nThough henceforth elbowed out of many a chance threepenny job by the\r\nadded thousands who contended with him against starvation,\r\nnevertheless, somehow he continued to subsist, as those tough old oaks\r\nof the cliffs, which, though hacked at by hail-stones of tempests, and\r\neven wantonly maimed by the passing woodman, still, however cramped by\r\nrival trees and fettered by rocks, succeed, against all odds, in\r\nkeeping the vital nerve of the tap-root alive. And even towards the\r\nend, in his dismallest December, our veteran could still at intervals\r\nfeel a momentary warmth in his topmost boughs. In his Moorfields’\r\ngarret, over a handful of reignited cinders (which the night before\r\nmight have warmed some lord), cinders raked up from the streets, he\r\nwould drive away dolor, by talking with his one only surviving, and now\r\nmotherless child—the spared Benjamin of his old age—of the far Canaan\r\nbeyond the sea; rehearsing to the lad those well-remembered adventures\r\namong New England hills, and painting scenes of rustling happiness and\r\nplenty, in which the lowliest shared. And here, shadowy as it was, was\r\nthe second alleviation hinted of above.\r\n\r\nTo these tales of the Fortunate Isles of the Free, recounted by one who\r\nhad been there, the poor enslaved boy of Moorfields listened, night\r\nafter night, as to the stories of Sinbad the Sailor. When would his\r\nfather take him there? “Some day to come, my boy,” would be the hopeful\r\nresponse of an unhoping heart. And “Would God it were to-morrow!” would\r\nbe the impassioned reply.\r\n\r\nIn these talks Israel unconsciously sowed the seeds of his eventual\r\nreturn. For with added years, the boy felt added longing to escape his\r\nentailed misery, by compassing for his father and himself a voyage to\r\nthe Promised Land. By his persevering efforts he succeeded at last,\r\nagainst every obstacle, in gaining credit in the right quarter to his\r\nextraordinary statements. In short, charitably stretching a technical\r\npoint, the American Consul finally saw father and son embarked in the\r\nThames for Boston.\r\n\r\nIt was the year 1826; half a century since Israel, in early manhood,\r\nhad sailed a prisoner in the Tartar frigate from the same port to which\r\nhe now was bound. An octogenarian as he recrossed the brine, he showed\r\nlocks besnowed as its foam. White-haired old Ocean seemed as a brother.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 5"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJJRWNYCFCKFX5G6XWAGY","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1DKC9HHJRKY25JZBEXW","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKFKTJKZQSJZ83D76461H","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:06.346Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:18.860Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}