c/technology

THE ADVENTURES OF A DONKEY. Poor little foal of an oppreſsed race! I love the languid patience of thy face: And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, And clap thy ragged coat and pat thy head. THE ADVENTURES OF A DONKEY. BY ARABELLA ARGUS, Author of “THE JUVENILE SPECTATOR.” LONDON: PRINTED BY AND FOR WILLIAM DARTON, JUN. 58, HOLBORN HILL. 1815. [Pg 1] THE ADVENTURES OF A DONKEY. “Poor little foal of an oppressed race! “I love the languid patience of thy face: “And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, “And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.” Coleridge. Prefatory Address. Though the services of my species are no longer of that character which distinguished them in former ages, I presume to think the biography of an Ass, may yet, be worthy of publication. Pride of ancestry, a usual weakness amongst Bipeds, will I trust, be forgiven in creatures doomed (even in their most fortunate estate) to bear the taunts and insults of the rational part of the creation. If we refer to antiquity, it must be allowed the record is every way consoling to our feelings as a class; and though the comparative happiness of any animal [Pg 2]at distinct periods is of little moment to his present content, it cannot be denied, that there is something satisfactory in reflecting on the respectability of our progenitors. Thus I, an Ass of the Eighteenth century obtrude my history on the public, and while I avoid the arrogance of claiming particular merit on the score of pedigree, I honestly confess, there have been moments in my life, when the memory of my descent, has proved highly congenial to my feelings. Naturalists, (as I believe those learned persons are called who describe the genus and character of animals,) have done us justice as a species. Mine, as a domestic sketch will bear none of those features of authorship which embrace deep research, and elaborate disquisitions. I present for your patronage, the life and adventures of a home-bred Donkey, and trusting to the liberality of an enlightened juvenile public, remain their respectful and obedient Servant Jemmy Donkey. [Pg 3] CHAP. I. “Sincerity,” is my motto, I am therefore compelled to begin, by declaring that the early seeds of vanity were sown in my breast by the praises of a doating mother. I was scarcely ten months old, when I overheard my mama repeating to my papa, all the handsome things farmer Howel had said of me. I now recollect her voice faultered as she closed her recital, and conclude she anticipated our certain separation. For myself, I was so elated with the words, “He is a remarkably handsome Donkey,” &c. &c. that I took no account of the price set upon my head, but gamboled from morn till night, and while my parents pursued their accustomed labours, remained a stranger to the cares inseparable from servitude. Description would fail me, were I to attempt to pourtray the attachment our mothers feel for their offspring. I well remember exciting the alarm of my mama one evening. I had pursued some Ducks into a barn and was enjoying the fright I occasioned, when her well-known voice echoed through the meadow. I fled at the summons, and to this day have not forgotten the tender chidings and affectionate caresses she bestowed upon me as her fears subsided. [Pg 4]Farmer Howel, though a humane man, was sedulously attentive to his own interest; thus, in the absence of my parents I found myself an object of some moment to his visitors. Modesty induces me to omit the flattering comments which occasionally reached my ears. Whether this organ in our species, from its size, is more exposed to the admission of vanity, I presume not to decide, it is sufficient to say, I listened with delight, and retained all I heard. Various opinions were passed upon my capacity. One thought it would be a pity, to harness me—another recommended taking me to Tunbridge, where there could be no doubt of my selling well—a third declared a private family where there were children, would be the most profitable plan. The farmer seemed pleased with this last suggestion, and I suppose believed he knew a likely purchaser, for I was released from further scrutiny and again scampered at liberty. I ought to blush while I add, that I buried these consultations in my own bosom, and if this concealment ultimately spared my parents some unnecessary pangs, it must be confessed my motives were highly reprehensible. Ambition however had pervaded my every feeling; I had thrust my head through an aperture in some old pailings one day, and was snuffing the air in listless vacancy, when a Donkey smartly caparisoned (and on which sat [Pg 5]a beautiful young lady) came trotting down the road. “O happy Ass,” sighed I, “Shall I ever be so blessed?” To add to my delight, a footman on horseback followed; “here” said I exultingly, “here is a triumph for us, the horse our imperious enemy, in attendance on an Ass!” Sleep fled my eyes that night—white leather bridles, stuffed saddles, and handsome young ladies haunted my imagination. I dare say I was very troublesome, for my father complained that I kicked the straw about and was remarkably restless. All that the farmer and his friends had said recurred to my memory, and though I could not decide which proposition best pleased me, the idea of change was in itself enchanting, and I longed for the moment that was to effect this wish of my heart. Alas! it arrived too soon, though I did not immediately discern my misfortune. My readers may have felt the inconvenience of a tight shoe, but they can have no conception of what we suffer under the hands of our shoemakers: suffice it to say, I was shoed according to the usage of our genus, and like other thoughtless animals, soon forgot my pain, in the novelty of these new appendages; I have since learned, that pride is in most instances attended with pain. I dare not contradict the remark, having some reason in my person for believing it true. Yet I know you will all smile at the little [Pg 6]whims I assumed on this important epoch in my life. In the first place, the addition to my height seemed immense, I actually lowered my head as I entered or issued from our stable; my poor mother laughed at me sometimes and at others would sigh prophetically; but my chief pleasure consisted in kicking up the dust, and making all the noise I could with my shoes. The farmer and his wife were highly amused with my freaks. I had received two or three handsful of hay from them upon different occasions, and attributing these kindnesses to my powers of entertainment, I ventured to intrude on forbidden ground, scampered into the paved court, and finding a pail of warm milk standing invitingly in my way, had nearly drank the whole when the dairy maid approached. Conceive my amazement when this virago fell upon me, and not content with the stripes she inflicted with a clothes-prop, threw a large stone after me; fortunately I escaped from her cruelty, but not without adding to my crime by kicking over the pail in my flight. I hope I am not injudicious in expressing my gratitude for that texture of skin which makes us less susceptible to pain. I persuade myself, rational animals will not take advantage of a confession of this sort, nor indeed does my present experience lead me to question their knowledge of what we can bear. [Pg 7] But to proceed, whether the indignity I had suffered being the first of the kind, or as the spite of a female was more particularly wounding, I know not. I looked anxiously for the return of my parents, and no sooner did they arrive than I hastened to unburthen my grief. My mama listened dispassionately. “You did wrong Jemmy,” said she, “the milk was the property of our master, and intended for the use of his family.” “How was I to guess that?” said I. “Besides it looked so nice and tasted so sweet. And pray did not the farmer sell your milk? How many shillings have I seen paid for it? Nay I heard Mrs. Howel say her little boy’s life was saved by drinking Asses’ milk.” “All this may be true Jemmy,” replied my mother, “but it does not lessen your fault. In the first place, nature has kindly bestowed upon us a palate suited to our stations in life; delicacy of appetite would be a grievous misfortune to animals invariably left to provide for themselves. This freedom however, by no means authorizes indiscriminate depredations on our part; happiness consists in being contented with our lot; and while the Ass can browse in the fertile meadow, and slake her thirst from the neighbouring stream, rest assured she enjoys more real comforts than thousands of her species.” “Grass and water!” said I, tossing my head disdainfully. “Why every Donkey gets these; [Pg 8]why my dear mamma, I saw a beautiful Ass with a smart saddle and white leather bridle, the other day, do you think he lives upon such mean fare?” “Ah! Jemmy, Jemmy,” sighed my mother, “you are a stranger to the Donkey world,—that well-dressed beau who has excited your childish envy, would most probably claim our compassion did we know his private history. ‘All is not gold that glitters’ child, fine trappings dazzle the ignorant and inexperienced; I am afraid you will too soon be placed in a situation to judge for yourself; may honesty actuate you on all occasions; endeavour to please your employers, and recollect that docility is not only valuable in itself, but highly conducive to your happiness as an Ass.” There must be something intoxicating in the feelings of youth; though I listened to my mama with all possible deference, and thought her sentiments wise and just, it is certain they made no lasting impression on my mind. The very next day saw me guilty of a trespass. A can of ale was placed within a hedge for the farmer’s men, then getting in the hay; my quick scent drew me thither, I cannot say the smell was fragrant, but I thought there could be no hazard in tasting it,—I did so and shuddered, took a second taste and liked it better,—again I turned to the can and drank heartily, when a voice vociferated from a distance, and in the [Pg 9]next moment a stick was hurled at me. Less fortunate than formerly, I sustained an injury in my leg, and under the influence of pain began capering about. This agitation produced a confusion in my head, resembling as I should imagine the feelings of an intoxicated rational animal: if my conjecture is right, surely this vice is every way degrading, for I remember, I became an object of ridicule to the farmer’s men, who stood laughing at my antics, while two or three Donkeys of my acquaintance actually shunned me for some days. Nor dared I complain of my broken shin least my parents should interrogate me respecting the accident which had caused it. I am afraid I shall appear a very faulty Donkey in the eyes of my readers, an anticipation that would deeply wound my sensibility, did I not firmly believe, that many frolics of the enlightened and educated biped, which excite a smile during their “acting time,” if delineated fairly would appear equally unjustifiable. In truth I shall have occasion to contrast our errors ere I close my history. Months rolled on, during which I was doomed to hear myself reviled as a most mischievous animal, an arrant thief, &c. &c. I hung my head and looked silly at first; chance however initiated me into the art of expressing my indignation. Balaam a very sagacious old friend of my father’s, being compelled to resist the brutality of some boys one evening, I observed [Pg 10]that his countenance acquired considerable fierceness as he exhibited his teeth and brayed loudly. Thinks I to myself, “This shall be my plan, I will no longer bear insult tamely.” Alas! the presumption of ignorance! An opportunity soon presented itself—“Here comes thieving Jemmy,” said the dairy maid of farmer Howel, calling the carter to drive me into the meadow. I felt indignant, and facing them boldly, grinned (as I thought) most formidably, braying at the same time with all my might. Instead of alarming my enemies, my efforts excited their derision, calling forth peals of laughter at my expense. If all imitators were thus humbled in their first attempts, I am persuaded mimicry would cease to be a prevalent foible amongst Asses. Observe, I do not deny the propriety, the almost necessity that a Donkey like a man, should entertain a just sense of his prerogatives; it is the folly of assuming these privileges prematurely that I condemn. Politeness may induce some animals to overlook this precocity in their species; with us it is quite otherwise, the natural simplicity of our characters is such, that though man should omit to wound us, our own class are vigilant in reproving the most trivial affectation in the young. “Poor giddy thing,” said old Balaam as I retreated from the scene of my disgrace. “Come here child! So you were really so weak as to imagine you could frighten those people by your puerile braying!” [Pg 11] “Why,” said I poutingly, “I have seen you do the same.” “True, but I am of an age to claim respect,” replied Balaam, “added to which, my services entitle me to some consideration. You should endeavour to conciliate esteem; let me tell you Jemmy, you will lead a sad life, if you set out with these false notions of your own consequence; you must learn to bear and forbear, and above all things avoid the folly of aping your elders.” Though Balaam’s wisdom was proverbial in our family, there was a sternness in his manner which frightened rather than convinced his auditors; nay, I am tempted to add, that to his mistaken asperity on numberless occasions, I attribute some of my subsequent indiscretions. “What! if we are born to labour,” would I exclaim mentally, “I see men and women return from their daily toil cheerful and happy, and may not an Ass perform his appointed task and retain his natural vivacity? When I get a place, he shall see I know how to conduct myself.” As these soliloquies occurred, I always found my thoughts reverting to the smart saddle and bridle of a certain Donkey. “And when I am so dressed,” would I say, “Old Balaam shall see me, I will trot down the green lane and shew him my finery.” Now nothing could be more like an Ass, than [Pg 12]this resolution of mine, but I must not anticipate. I was surprised one morning, by farmer Howel’s presenting a sieve of corn for my acceptance, and hastening to avail myself of this luxurious treat, was for some minutes unconscious of the snare into which I had fallen. A rope, a common rope was passed round my neck, the sieve withdrawn, and in a few minutes I was led out of the meadow. It was in vain I brayed and called upon my mother, she was from home, and the carter my old enemy was little disposed to attend to my sorrow. I recollected my mother’s advice, “that docility was an amiable trait in a Donkey,” and endeavoured to accommodate my feelings to my situation. The journey seemed tedious to my companion, who frequently lashed me with the rope in order to quicken my pace. At length we stopped at a noble looking mansion; I was ushered into an extensive field of well-grown grass, and, released from my ignoble bondage, for a moment forgot I was far distant from my parents. CHAP. II. First Impressions. This memorable event took place in the [Pg 13]eighteenth month of my existence: the promptness with which my removal was accomplished, left me totally ignorant of my future destiny, yet ere the evening closed I experienced an attention which bore some promise of kindness. A fat red faced woman (whom my gratitude transformed into a goddess) threw an apron full of cabbage leaves before me, I ate a hearty supper, and fatigued with my journey looked around for a shelter for the night; a building almost equal to farmer Howel’s house, had already received two or three horses, I tried the door, it was locked, nor would my prejudices or courage have led me voluntarily to expose myself to insult and contempt, could I have found access. No! it was one of those efforts suggested by despair in which reason yields to circumstances, Old Balaam’s sombre warnings glanced across my mind. “Alas!” thought I, “to conciliate esteem where no consideration is awarded appears enigmatical to me;” and my eyes were suffused with tears as I recollected the half-tiled home of my parents. “They will think of their poor Jemmy to night, would I were again in their stable though I never more tasted a cabbage leaf.” It was not easy to my donkey capacity, to reconcile the contradiction of providing a good supper for an animal, and leaving it without a shelter for the night. The neglect of my owners roused me to exertion; forcing my way through a hedge, I wandered [Pg 14]near the house, till espying a door open I ventured in, it was a small building and by the light of the moon, I discovered it to be a brewhouse. Our olfactory nerves are very delicate; thus, though one of my senses was somewhat offended by the smell of the place, necessity compelled me to submit to the inconvenience. You may smile at the idea of a Donkey’s dream, and would perhaps call me a downright Ass if I related mine on the night in question; to avoid the imputation of weakness I desist, though I am convinced a two-legged author would mould my dream into a most interesting episode. Well, morning arrived, and with it a full sense of my situation. On first opening my eyes, I stood in profound amazement not exactly recollecting where I was: no sooner had memory recalled the incidents of the preceding day, than that sagacity which even Donkeys partially share, told me, I was not in my proper abode—to effect a retreat without discovery was desirable. I was rejoicing in my adroitness, when a gentleman in a scarlet jacket ran after me and before I could gain the field half a dozen pebbles were levelled at me. “Leave the Donkey alone Robert,” said the fat Lady, my cabbage-leaf friend. And advancing towards me she added, “poor Jemmy, did we forget to open the shed for you last night, poor fellow I’ll take care it shan’t happen again.” I brayed in my most melodious style hoping [Pg 15]it would be understood as an expression of gratitude, I dont know that Mrs. Bond penetrated my meaning, but her uniform kindness leads me to believe, there are persons in the world who appreciate and comprehend the feelings of a Donkey. How often have I listened to the praises bestowed upon horses and dogs! How many records of their sagacity have reached my long ears! Alas! my vanity does not help me to one anecdote, one incident, in which our talents natural or acquired are favourably exhibited; yet in attachment to our masters and that faithfulness of memory so highly prized in the animals I quote, in these essential qualifications I think we stand nearly equal. It cannot be, our rough exterior that places us beneath notice; for as far as I can judge, beauty is not the exclusive possession of any particular class of animals. But to proceed; I had sighed for a change in my mode of life, yet content was a stranger to my bosom. The voice of my parents no longer gladdened my heart, if my food was more sumptuous, there wanted that social intercourse, that lively chit-chat to which I had been accustomed. The days seemed grievously irksome, and though Mrs. Bond, had politely shewn me my lodging apartment, it was impossible for a Donkey of my disposition to avoid some portion of ennui in a seclusion so unbroken. I began to wish for some employment, now first [Pg 16]discovering old Balaam’s maxim to be just, “that idleness is fatiguing.” An unusual depression had seized my spirits one afternoon, when perceiving my good friend Mrs. Bond, I ran towards her. “Ah poor fellow,” said she, “I can’t stop to talk to you now, we are all in a pucker, and you will have enough to do when the pet comes.” “What does she mean?” said I to myself. “I never heard of such an animal.” While reflecting on the import of this speech, a travelling chaise with four horses turned into the court yard: a number of men-servants ran to and fro, and amongst others the man in the scarlet jacket, whom I now discovered to be a groom. Amused by the bustle I stood looking over a gate, when a shrill squeaking voice exclaimed, “Robert! Robert! shew me my Donkey, I say Robert I want my Donkey.” “He’s in the field Master Frederick,” replied the groom. “I can’t go with you now Sir, if you’ll wait till I’ve done in the stable I’ll give you a ride.” “But I wont wait, I will see him directly,” resumed the young gentleman, “leave the horses and come along with me.” “What leave my horses Sir after such a fag! No no Master Fredy, if you can’t wait I can’t help it, only take care, you don’t worry the Donkey, he’s a proper vicious one I promise you.” [Pg 17] I concluded from the sketch the groom had thought proper to give respecting me, that my young master would avoid my presence; deeply wounded that the prejudice of this man should so far mislead him, I assumed a cheerfulness foreign to my feelings, and displaying my figure to the greatest advantage, endeavoured to engage the notice of Master Frederick by a thousand graceful movements; my exertions were unheeded, the young gentleman retiring at the summons of a man-servant. “We are indeed an unfortunate race,” sighed I, “traduced by tongues that know us not, yet will be the chroniclers of our doings. I clearly perceive an Assinine existence is synonymous with misery.” These cogitations of your humble servant may with justice be traced to my early education. Balaam had impressed me with those gloomy anticipations which mar our present enjoyments. Ah! how different were the sentiments of my dear mother, but I cannot even at this distance of time speak of her without the liveliest emotion. I was regaling on some potatoe parings, and musing on my fate, when Robert introduced my young master into the field; resolved on refuting the representation of my enemy, I approached Master Frederick with the utmost deference; as I drew near he retreated, till with a terrific scream he hid himself behind Robert. What was my mortification to find I who had been called a handsome Donkey, was [Pg 18]an object of alarm to my owner! Now as you all know, looking-glasses make no part of our domestic furniture, but we supply this deficiency by never drinking but from the clearest water within our reach. It is therefore unnecessary to add, that like yourselves we regard our reflected likeness with some little degree of partiality; if we exceed the bounds of prudence in the indulgence, remember I am speaking of Asses, and that it would be unreasonable to expect in an Ass, more than belongs to him as an Ass. But I declare no stream in which I ever saw myself had impressed me with the belief; that my face or figure was calculated to frighten any person. Overcome by disappointment I continued to gaze mournfully upon my master. The groom who had laughed heartily at Frederick, now coaxed me, patted my sides, and persuaded the child to mount my back. “I wont I tell you,” exclaimed the child “he will throw me off, I know he will.” “Let me hold you on,” replied, Robert, throwing a rope round my neck. After many assurances the little gentleman was mounted. I cannot say I felt quite easy; his weight was trifling, but this was my debut as a beast of burden, and I somehow feared it would not prove auspicious. Two or three quiet walks across the field inspired my young Nimrod with courage. “Make him trot Robert,” said he. I instantly [Pg 19]fell into the most agile motion. O sad mischance; Robert missed his hold, and my rider fell to the ground! The screams of Frederick brought Mrs. Bond to his assistance. Robert declared the young gentleman was not hurt, and endeavoured to pacify him. “I will go and tell mama you laughed at me when I tumbled off that ugly Donkey,” said Frederick, pushing the groom with all his strength. “O! fie Master Fredy, why I thought you was more of a man, than to cry at a fall upon the grass,” said Mrs. Bond. “Get me a whip Robert, I will beat the Donkey,” resumed Frederick. “No, Sir, I shall do no such thing,” retorted Robert. “The Donkey carried you as well as possible, it was my fault in letting him slip from my hold.” “Then I wish I had the whip, I would give you a good lashing, that I would.” “Would you indeed,” laughed Robert, “I should like to try you.” Enraged at the mirth of the groom, the young gentleman made his escape. “Why he’s worse than ever,” said Mrs. Bond, “it is quite surprising to me, that such good people as my master and mistress are, should spoil their child so foolishly.” “A puny snivelling little pet,” rejoined Robert,[Pg 20] “I pity Jemmy; sure enough he’ll have a fine time of it.” “So then I am the servant of that animal called a pet,” thought I, and I reverted to all the creatures I had seen of the same size and genus. Farmer Howel had children, but to me they appeared quite a different description of animal. Neither pouting nor fretfulness had ever fallen under my observation. And as Master Frederick seemed to possess many comforts, I concluded the word pet to imply a discontented self-willed animal, and grieved to find myself the slave of such a tyrant. It was remarkable, that Robert who had hitherto taken pleasure in teazing me, from the moment of my master’s arrival adopted a distinct line of conduct. It seems to me, that mere thoughtlessness will at times propel a species of cruelty, void of malice. A good marksman (to shew his skill) will shy a stone at us with fatal accuracy. I can assure these hurlers, we do not doubt their capability, but protest against the honour of being used as targets. If I suffered individually at this period, I am willing to allow my situation afforded me views of life highly edifying to an inexperienced Donkey. I saw horses curried and dressed with the nicest care, and I beheld them lashed and beaten on the most trivial occasions. Though a stranger to corporeal suffering, my sympathy was powerfully awakened by these spectacles. “Ah! [Pg 21]what shall I be in the hands of an angry master!” thought I; nor could I exactly ascertain the foibles which subjected them to this treatment. Time has enlightened me on this subject, and I now boldly declare beasts of burden are as liable to suffer from the temper of their masters as their own fallibility. The parents of my young master deserved the elogium Mrs. Bond had bestowed upon them, they were in themselves amiable, and would frequently reprove the impatience of Frederick, but alas! this spoiled boy had been too long habituated to indulgences to submit to controul. His natural timidity increased my difficulties, if kept a walking pace, I was “a stupid brute,” if I ambled gaily, “a mischievous creature.” I bore his revilings calmly for some time, yet it was grievously humiliating that all my efforts should be so misconstrued; and in truth, my donkey pride was offended, that a saddle and bridle had not been provided for me. Under the impulse of this feeling, I one morning contrived to shift the green baize substitute for a saddle, and gently laid my master on his back; again Robert was my advocate, and by proposing the immediate purchase of the necessary trappings appeased the tears of Frederick. Mrs. Fenton assenting to the expenditure, I waited the hour of equipment with all the little anxieties of pride, and perhaps some of my readers will understand my disappointment, when [Pg 22]I declare, nothing could be more contrary to my expectations than the dress Robert purchased. A common saddle and dark leather bridle for a Donkey whose imagination had been inflated by a glimpse of the most elegant Ass in the kingdom! This disparagement was not to be borne, I looked contemptuously on the groom, and in my own mind wondered such a commission should have been left to his taste. It is impossible for an Ass to guess how bipeds are affected by the stupidity or bad taste of their dress-makers, &c. &c. I only know, I shrugged my shoulders with scorn, and would scarcely submit to be dressed. Robert conquered at last, and I was decorated in my new habiliments: what my sensations were at that time I cannot describe. In conforming to the fashions of the age, my readers enjoy a thousand advantages which a solitary Donkey must not hope to experience. I believe fashion would cease to be of consequence altogether did not emulation keep it alive. Now I (who had sighed to appear with all the splendour of a domesticated Ass) received these honours at a period when my talents and general character were totally obscured; thus the mere tinsel of ornament lost its most attractive charm, the power of exciting admiration, for that Master Frederick or any of the family would descern my merits or do justice to my personal beauties was what I dared not anticipate. [Pg 23] It must be allowed fortune jumbled an odd variety my juvenile path, but perhaps I err, and it is rather the singularity of my taste, which tempts me to lay these memoirs before the public, than any peculiar hardship in my fate. At all events I am a truth-telling Donkey, and writing from the heart rather than the head, I promise to be as succinct in my subsequent history as in these my first impressions. CHAP. III. A New Master. Two months of incessant drudgery had completely taught me to bear the restraint of a saddle, when Master Frederick on a sudden declined my services. I thought myself happy in losing his patronage, and was looking forward to a little ease, when Mrs. Fenton inquired if I could not be made serviceable, and proposed harnessing me to a donkey cart: Robert replying in the affirmative, I was accordingly appointed to the honour of drawing my mistress about the grounds. The change was agreeable, and though somewhat above my strength, I acquitted myself to the satisfaction of Mrs. Fenton. But it was in vain I looked for the delicate white [Pg 24]bridle, that object of m

Critical thinking is touted as the educational counterpoint to AI and algorithms, but our definitions of it need an update.

ADHD friendly journaling - Standard journaling doesn't always work for ADHD brains. The structure is too rigid. Prioritizing and assigning timelines is overwhelming. So I designed a new method: The Cursed Garden of Roses and Thorns. It is designed for anyone navigating ADHD or VAST - or feeling overwhelmed by stress and procrastination. It’s also for creative minds who feel they aren't meeting their own potential.

Next in my list of trying to use AI to further my PhD research is Scenario Tests. A unit testing framework for distributed protocols. For a given protocol implementation, I use AI to write Scenario Tests automatically from the protocol specification. The first work in my PhD was Netrix, a domain specific language for testing distributed protocol implementations. Essentially, I was trying to answer the question - What is the equivalent of a unit test for distributed protocols? The answer is Scenario tests. Distributed protocols are notoriously hard to implement correctly, and even harder to find bugs in. However, it is relatively easy to present new protocols and theoretically prove their correctness. The proofs typically follow some form of scenario reasoning. If this invariant is violated, then we get into a scenario which can never happen. Understanding the reasoning and believing in the correctness of the proof is a first step in implementing the protocol. Therefore, it is also very natural for the developer implementing the protocol to write the tests as scenarios. To write a Scenario Test, a developer writes a sequence of filter rules. They filter events to track a runtime monitor, and also guide the execution of the distributed protocol. Let's look at a simple example for Raft. The test states a simple property and enforces a specific scenario in the execution of the distributed system - one where votes and their responses are never delivered and hence, no leader is ever elected. The test has two components, (1) The state machine, and (2) the filters. The state machine tracks the state of the test, derived either from messages sent or from the local state of the nodes in the distributed system. The filters decide which messages are delivered, dropped, duplicated, manipulated, or just observed. Together, they create a scenario and describe a property that needs to be satisfied. Underneath, the test is driven by a stream of events. Events are created when messages are sent, received, or other internal steps are taken by the nodes (e.g. becoming a leader). The events are passed through the filters one by one, and the corresponding action is taken if any of the filters match. If none match, the default action is to deliver a message. Lots of interesting questions come up with scenario tests. How does the test decide the order of messages observed (since there is no single true order in distributed systems)? In the original paper, we allow users to plug in their own strategy for exploration, but the default is random order. The second question which I use the help of AI to answer is - Who writes the test? How do you know which tests are needed or sufficient? For the original paper, I manually wrote all the tests and we come up with a methodology to derive tests from the protocol specification. Now with the advent of AI, I give the LLM the spec of a distributed protocol, the DSL syntax and semantics, and instruct it to write as many tests as it can with the goal of being exhaustive. As expected, we got a lot of meaningful and interesting tests that I'd missed when I manually wrote them. But since etcd/raft is such a robust implementation, I did not find any bugs. All the tests including the framework can be accessed here - zeu5/raft You can find the paper (published in NETYS 2024) and all the detailed experiments here - arXiv (2303.05893)

When Flathub banned AI-coded app submissions last month, some critics warned the platform was denying the future by dismissing a new wave of

Categories ‘Three workers digging in a field outside the data center,’ by Dinnis van Dijken 20 May, 2026 door Sign This text is a documentation of the performance that happened on the 15th of May at Westpoort, Groningen, near the upcoming Google’s datacenter. The idea to record the performance in the form of text was only made possible by the dedication and help from the writer of this text, Dinnis van Dijken. Three workers digging in a field outside the data center by Dinnis van Dijken We were too early. A hare flew past the field before us as we checked our location on Google Maps. The tarmac was still damp from the rain of the night before. Enzy had warned me to wear a warm jacket, long pants and practical shoes as the field was going to be wet. My army boots were a good choice. We waited on a pile of concrete slabs. It was 08:45 and there was nothing before us except a power grid and some industrial buildings. The harsh cackling of a pheasant interrupted the otherwise silent field. We hadn’t expected to cycle this fast. The weather had been good. Little wind, sunshine and no one on the road. At 08:55 a yellow van took a turn towards the field and crawled into an off ramp across from us. It took a few moments before people emerged and started hauling equipment out of the van and putting on jackets. Their mute and anonymous arrival gave the illusion of a dodgy deal that was about to take place. Then Enzy laughed and waved from afar and the feeling lifted. She had a white hard hat and a clipboard ready in her arm. I wouldn’t have questioned their presence in the field if I had just been passing by. There are always people standing around industrial terrain with hard hats and clipboards. As we walked towards the group, traffic cones, shovels, a crate, a stack of stools and a large Albert Heijn bag came out of the back of the van. Hector was carrying a tripod and other gear. Enzy pointed towards the field. It had a small black plastic barrier around it, the kind meant to hold back excess water or very small animals. She said that recently she had been far into the field, but that today we would stay somewhat closer to the road. We grabbed whatever was at our feet and walked in. Hector paused at a small sign near the barrier that said something about danger to life and high voltage. He seemed hesitant about stepping over it, but I wasn’t sure if he was serious. A rabbit scurried past us about ten meters away. It seemed safe enough. The field was lush with ankle high thistles, rye grass and other weeds that had taken the recent mixture of rain and sunshine well. I recognized the wet grey clay soil as my own. My allotment was the same. I kicked it a little. It was wet but workable. Heavy and saturated with water and roots, but friendly. Two weeks ago the soil would not have yielded to any tool after the dry spell we’d had. It would have been hard as a brick. I have broken many shovels against soil like that and lost. Today was the best situation we could have had. The weather really seemed to support Enzy’s work. The sun sat behind a milky cloud. Not too harsh a light for the videographers and not too cold. Enzy and I moved traffic cones into the field, marking the boundaries for the workers to dig in. They hadn’t arrived yet. I wasn’t sure if the cones should be in frame or out of it. Enzy didn’t say. She went to speak to Hector and I stood in the field holding a traffic cone. It was somewhat dirty and broken and only two out of four cones were similar to each other. I looked up and saw a hare looking back at me. We were both not sure what was going on. Three men arrived, as did Marie-Jeanne and Ron. They all seemed elated. The tallest appeared to be in charge of the other two. He did the most talking and wore the same white hard hat as Enzy. The other two were smiling and stayed more in the background. They put yellow neon high vis vests over the orange high vis coats they were already wearing. Enzy had made these to obscure the logos of the company they normally work for. It also provided protection in case of trouble. Regardless, the workers seemed comfortable in the field but slightly unsure about the whole event. I didn’t blame them. When the workers spoke I recognized their accents as local to the North. Coffee and suikerbrood were passed around. At 09:34 the workers walked decisively towards the area marked with the traffic cones. I wasn’t sure when the cones had found their rightful position. Enzy directed the workers, pointing and making shovel-like movements with her arms. The wind carried some of her words over. She told them not to look at the cameras when they passed by. Two workers were far out and the tall hard hat man was nearest. He was wearing blue gloves. The others weren’t. They faced the power grid and the data center at the far end of the field. The power grid seemed impressive. The data center was a low grey rectangle that looked like nothing in particular. I knew enough to know it mattered more than it looked. Enzy raised her arms like a windmill. She looked like one of the towers in the power grid. A y shape. She said that she would clap and then they would start. She clapped her hands above her head and everyone went silent at 09:36. The guy furthest away was using shovels while the tall man used a spade. The shovels were not meant for heavy clay soil, more for lighter soils such as sand or gravel, but they had long handles that allowed the workers to stay quite upright. The worker with the spade cut into the soil more easily. It was the better tool for it. The thuds of the steel carried further than I expected. The sky was a milky grey that didn’t look like it had rain in it, but clearly didn’t want to show us any blue sky either. Everything was evenly lit and saturated with barely any shadows. The wildlife around us seemed relieved at our collective silence and started talking amongst themselves. Insects I didn’t know the names of made loud noises and the pheasants continued their cackling. Somewhere behind me the hare circled through the grass. The two workers with shovels raised their arms high and brought the steel straight down into the clay with the handles at awkward angles. Some patches needed repeated blows before the shovel or spade could sink in deep enough to move a clump. The worker with the spade moved slower but deeper, cutting clean vertical lines into the wet soil. The worker on the far left, wearing a baseball cap, moved faster despite using a shovel instead of a spade. He worked in quick succession, repeatedly driving the steel down with his boot before levering the clay loose. The third worker, dressed entirely in neon orange, apart from Enzy’s neon yellow vest, kept a steady rhythm somewhere between the two. In the silence the thuds seemed solemn and muffled. The movements were targeted and precise, with a practised patience that knows materials will exhaust you if you force them. The clay with all its wetness and vegetation wasn’t easy to move regardless of the tool. The workers bent over their own patches, not looking at each other, not talking. Their neon orange and yellow clothing formed a sharp contrast against the grey sky and bright green weeds around their boots. Even compared to a background of heavy industry the colors looked strangely unnatural. Dark wet soil surfaced beneath the lighter vegetation. It looked like they were digging small canals, or trying to uncover cables, or systematically looking for something. The cuts they made through the field were neat and straight. The result of the digging didn’t seem to really matter, as none of the men seemed to look at the other to gauge where they were going. What mattered was that they were doing this work in this particular field. Hector circled them in a camouflage coat with an old handheld analogue camera. It seemed like a peculiar choice. Shuhan, who had shown up while we had been setting up, circled from the other side with a more conventional one. The workers ignored both of them as instructed and kept digging. The weeds obscured my view of the ground around their feet. At 09:41 heads turned towards the van. A car marked security had stopped nearby. A man in black stood next to it on the phone, gesturing towards us. Marie-Jeanne and Klaas walked over to him. Enzy followed a little later. Behind me the digging continued uninterrupted. I took a picture. The workers kept digging. The worker on the far left had nearly caught up with the guy in full neon, while the tall man with the spade continued with a seeming focus on consistent depth. Occasionally one of them stopped to wipe sweat from his face before continuing again. The silence made everything seem meditative despite the fact that something had begun to become unsettled. More cars appeared on the road behind us. People stood beside them on their phones, watching the field. I waved once. No one waved back. The workers kept on working undisturbed. It was a little patch of quiet while around them everything was starting to stir. They had barely lifted their heads toward any of the hushed commotion beyond the field. I started walking towards the van. Halfway across the field I met Enzy coming back. She said Klaas had told her not to get involved. I looked over at Klaas and Marie-Jeanne with the security and the police. They looked calm, like they had done this before. I walked back with Enzy to the performance and she went to check the duct taped camera. I stood and thought about repercussions. The policeman left. Klaas walked towards our group and I met him midway. He told me it was the best way it could have gone, with the policeman showing up first. Tell them it was just an art piece about workers. Be nice when you meet the police and collaborate. Take a fine if you have to, but don’t kick a fuss. It was always best to just do the performance and not ask for permission first. I made a note. The security guard eventually approached and he told us we were trespassing on the private terrain of “Google Drive”. The name sounded wrong and I wasn’t sure he knew the correct name of the company, just that it had something to do with Google and datacenters. By then the workers had stopped digging at 09:54 and together with Marie-Jeanne began covering up some of the trenches they had made. Enzy walked towards the workers but the guard stopped her. We all made our way to the van in little groups and duos, each carrying whatever we could carry. The guard followed us with most of the soil still left dug up. He said his supervisors were very sensitive about the building in the background and that all footage had to be deleted. Hector lifted the analogue camera to the guard, showing nothing but footage of the workers’ hands and explained he could not delete analogue film. The guard told him to tape over it later. Marie-Jeanne got on her bike and I followed together with the two other writers. At a nearby roundabout she told us we would meet the workers further along for coffee and payment. We found them outside the Aldi distribution center next to the yellow van. They were smiling and talking to everyone. Enzy came out with the clipboard while Ron transferred money to each of the workers using the bonnet of the tall man’s bright blue car. Trucks left the Aldi distribution center as Enzy handed out small packages, a sweet and salty rice cookie wrapped in cellophane with a note stapled to it. She explained to the workers that it was a small thank you and that the cookies were typical of where she was from. Trucks kept leaving the distribution center. Unlike the field, no one seemed to care about our presence.

Retriever researches every name on the attendee lists, directories, and searches you're logged into — profiles, work emails, ICP scores, outreach sent — at $2.50 per 1,000 records.

Today's episode is about remote work. Well, sort of. I found someone with a different perspective on remote work and a fantastic story to share, Paul Lutus. I think that he might be the original remote software developer. He left California behind for a lower cost of living in Oregon. And from Oregon, he developed software for Apple. But the kind of surprising thing is he did this in the 1970s! And he did it so well he became rich and even briefly quite famous.

This is the fourth part (I, IIa, IIb, III) of our honestly-who-knows-how-many part series laying out some general guidelines for how pre-modern armies are organized. We’ve talked about how ar…

Regressive JPEGs: 2026-07-17 One of the cool features of JPEG files is that there's the option to save low frequency components first. This means that a partially downloaded image will be displayed at low resolution instead of being cut off. In the file, this works by breaking up the compressed data into multiple "scans", each prefixed with a header. Here's the first scan of a representive image: FF DA - "start of scan" marker 00 0C - Big endian length field (12 bytes) Includes itself 03 - Number of channels in scan (3) 01 - Global id of first included channel 00 - Huffman table index #1 (DC: 0, AC: 0) 02 - Global id of second included channel 10 - Huffman table index #2 (DC: 1, AC: 0) 03 - Global id of third included channel 10 - Huffman table index #2 (DC: 0, AC: 0) 00 - Starting DCT bin (DC) 00 - Ending DCT bin (also DC) 01 - Precision: half, no pre-existing data. f8ad 512d d3f1 cd96 - Huffman coded DCT coefficients bcb0 58df 53d5 5d97 [...and a lot more] ... this one includes the lowest (DC) Fourier bin for all three color channels. The three color channels are YCbCr instead of the usual RGB. The luminance (Y) seperated because it must be high quality, but the color can be fudged quite a bit while looking fine. Very roughly: Y = G, Cb = B - G, Cr = R - G After it, the file contains eight more scans to fill in the rest of the data: Scan numberChannelsDCT bin rangePrecision 0Y Cb Cr0 - 0Half (-1 bit) 1Y1 - 5Quarter (-2 bits) 2Cb1 - 63Half 3Cr1 - 63Half 4Y6 - 63Quarter 5Y1 - 63Half 6Y Cr Cb0 - 0Full 7Cr1 - 63Full 8Cb1 - 63Full 9Y1 - 63Full Scan #0 contains a very low resolution preview of the image. Scan #1 adds some details to the luminance. Scans number two through five contain full low precision data. Scan 4 has an unusual spectral range because it's filling in the gap left by #1. That way, number 5 has full quarter precision data to build on. Scans six through nine add the final missing bit to bring the image to full quality. Given what I said about color being less important, it might seem weird that my example has the color data first: This works because the the chrominance is saved at half resolution (quarter pixel count). As a result, full chrominance data (Cr + Cb) only weighs half as much as luminance. Since each scan explicitly sets its spectral range, it should be possible to construct a JPEG file where future scans overwrite already rendered image data. Actually, it's very easy to do this: Concatenate multiple images with the same resolution and filter out the start-of-image, start-of-frame and end-of-image markers. This can be done in a hex editor, but I used a quick and dirty C program. When served over a slow network, this concatenated file will switch between multiple images: Click to open in new tab But, most decoders will give up after some number of scans: I think this is done to avoid a zip bomb style problem... but it prevents this from working on more than 9 frames, which is not enough for a proper animation. To do that, I'd have to minimize the number of scans in each frame. The simplest idea is to start with baseline JPEGs that only have a single scan. ... but it doesn't work: In progressive mode, a scan can't contain both AC (bins above 0) and DC (bin 0) data at the same time. This limitation doesn't exist for baseline mode, but the baseline decoder stops after the first scan. Since AC data must follow DC data, the smallest possible "progressive" JPEG contains a single DC-only scan. Because the DCT runs on 16x16 blocks, such an image won't a solid color: it'll be 1/16th of the original resolution. Scan numberChannelsDCT binsPrecision 0Y Cb Cr0 - 0Full Doing this, I can get Chrome to render around 90 frames before giving up. Other browsers like Firefox have more patience, but a 90 scan image seems to work almost everywhere. As a bonus, this avoids the ghosting of the naive attempt: that happened because AC scans are supposed to refine old data. Normally, this allows images to include multiple precision levels without inflating file size... but doesn't play nicely with my tricks. If the file only includes DC scans with no actual progression, this isn't a problem. Since a "DC-only" frame is a standards-compliant images, creating them doesn't require anything special: cat > frame.scans

Register domains across 800+ extensions with free WHOIS privacy, free DNS and email forwarding on every domain. Search, transfer in, and manage everything in one place.