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no Indian or Inquisitorial tortures could have been more fearful.
It is like visiting the houses at Pompeii, to enter the strange little black warehouses which cover some of our smaller wharves.
They are so old and so small it seems as if some race of pygmies must have built them.
Though they are two or three stories high, with steep gambrel-roofs, and heavily timbered, their rooms are yet so low that a man six feet high can hardly stand upright beneath the great cross-beams.
There is a row of these structures, for instance, described on a map of 1762 as “the old buildings on Lopeza Wharf,” and to these another century has probably brought very little change.
Lopez was a Portuguese Jew, who came to this place, with several hundred others, after the Lisbon earthquake of 1755.
He is said to have owned eighty square-rigged vessels in this port, from which not one such craft now sails.
His little counting-room is in the second story of the building; its wall-timbers are of oak, and are still sound; the few remaining planks are grained to resemble rosewood and mahogany; the fragments of wall-paper are of English make.
In the crossbeam,
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