China will ban fast charging technology for phones, It is possible that these conditions will only apply to the Chinese market. But since China has produced almost all the innovations in this field, the ban is likely to be extended.

"...if it were a spin-off series, it'd practically write itself!"
THIS POST WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR EVERY ISSUE OF THE COMICS THAT HAS CURRENTLY BEEN RELEASED, PLUS INFORMATION THAT GREG WEISMAN HAS REVEALED THROUGHOUT THE YEARS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

• 1997: The Phoenix Gate appears in New York in front of Broadway, Angela and Brooklyn; when the latter tries to grab it, the Gate dissolves and releases the Phoenix, who takes Brooklyn away (The Gate).
• 997: Brooklyn helps Kenneth III and Maol Chalvim II win their civil war against the tyrant Constantine by convincing Demona and her second Clan to fight in the Battle of Rathveramoen; in the process, he acquires a sword from a Scottish guard. Moreover, he meets Mary and Finella and decides to help them protect the Grimorum from Constantine and Brother Valmont, even cutting the latter's right hand when he's briefly able to take hold of the book (The Gate/Tyrants/Phoenix).
• The late 1970s: The Phoenix takes Brooklyn, Mary and Finella to the United States, where they work from behind the scenes to set up the alliance between Xanatos and Demona; they also give Xanatos the Grimorum (Source 1, Source 2, Source 3).
• Either during or following their adventure in the '70s, Mary and Finella are separated from Brooklyn; they - or two women who look remarkably like them - next appear in 1996, during Xanatos' Halloween party at the Eyrie Building (Bash). Later, in 1997, Mary acts as Maggie the Cat's midwife and helps her deliver her son Michael (Idyll or Nightmare/Miracle Child).
• Brooklyn is taken to China - at a currently unknown point in time - and meets the Xanadu Clan, including the Gargoyle Beast Fu-Dog, who becomes his companion (Source).
• 210 BC: Brooklyn and Fu-Dog have an adventure involving terracotta warriors (Underwater); this may actually be their first adventure together.
• 2198: Brooklyn and Fu-Dog join the Resistance to free the Earth from the occupation of the alien Space-Spawn (Source); presumably, this is when Brooklyn starts dressing like his Future Tense counterpart and where he obtains his rifle and blaster.
• Brooklyn and Fu-Dog journey to Japan sometime during the feudal period; they meet the Ishimura Clan and Brooklyn falls in love with Katana, and her with him; they become mates and Katana joins the Dance (Katana's background was mentioned in A Little Crazy and New Rules); presumably, this is also where Brooklyn acquires his katana (the sword, not the dame).
• The TimeDancers go to France and meet the musketeers (New Rules).
• 2198: Brooklyn and Fu-Dog return to the future, this time with Katana in tow (Underwater); we don't know if this happened before or after their adventure with the musketeers.
• During Year 11 of the Dance, Katana lays the egg that will later hatch into Nashville (Gnash was 19 when the Dance ended - see below - and it takes ten years for a Gargoyle egg to hatch - see this other post of mine to learn how their insane breeding cycle works; 19+10=29, and 40-29=11).
• At some point either during or after his second stint in the future, but before the birth of Nashville (not necessarily before the laying of his egg, though), Brooklyn loses his left eye (Underwater).
• 1942: Brooklyn, Katana, Fu-Dog and Gnash's egg visit the U.S.S. Nashville (Underwater); presumably, this visit inspires Brooklyn and Katana in the naming of their firstborn.
• 1978: Nashville is born during Year 21 of the Dance (Source).
• The TimeDancers meet the pirate Blackbeard, who was actually a Gargoyle (Trick-Or-Treat).
• The TimeDancers once again return to the future (it's unclear how far into it), where Gnash learns that "history isn't kind to the Quarrymen"; presumably, it's at this time that he rides a flying saucer (Trick-Or-Treat).
• During Year 31 of the Dance, Katana lays Egwardo (Source); it's currently unknown in which order this and the previous two events actually happened.
• 1997: After 40 years of travels through time, the Phoenix finally takes Brooklyn, Fu-Dog, Katana, Nashville and Egwardo back to New York; from the perspective of Angela and Broadway, it's only been 40 seconds since Brooklyn's disappearance (Phoenix).

EXTRA NOTES

• In Everywhere, after learning what happened to the Phoenix Gate, Demona comments "Finally, the Gate has seemingly dissolved, releasing the Phoenix itself - and explaining many a mystery I've encountered across my long life." This seems to imply that she's had several other meetings with Brooklyn and the others during the Dance.
• "Brooklyn would have visited ancient Rome before the Spell of Humility was cast. He would definitely go as far back as the time of the dinosaurs." (Source)
• "I haven't fully decided if there's one over-riding villain. Caliban's a possibility. So's the Archmage-Plus, believe it or not. I have one story for him for sure. Then there's Constantine. And the Space-Spawn. Duval. Mab. Like I said, I haven't decided." (Source)
• The GargWiki page for TimeDancer also claims that Weisman intended for Brooklyn to meet Douglas Bader (the historical RAF pilot who briefly interacted with Goliath and Griff in M.I.A.), but I've been unable to find any source on Ask Greg for that.
• In Trick-Or-Treat, Nashville claims "I've been on a pirate ship and a flying saucer, but never a subway car." Therefore, if Weisman was ever to write a TimeDancer story where Gnash rides a subway car and is old enough to remember it, I feel like finding his car and burning it to the ground would be an appropriate response.

TLDR (not really): I still find the impact TimeDancer has had on the present day of Gargoyles fairly lacking.

Review Film The Fall Guy - Film Penghormatan Kepada Para Pemain Peganti
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6 Rekomendasi Film Netflix yang Bisa Ditonton bersama Keluarga
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https://www.thedailybeast.com/squad-rep-jamaal-bowmans-youtube-page-is-a-bonkers-conspiracy-filled-trip
Squad Rep’s YouTube Page Is a Conspiracy Theorist’s Dream RUBE TUBE
Jamaal Bowman has insisted his days of engaging with fringe content are behind him. His active YouTube account shows otherwise.
William Bredderman Senior Researcher Published May 08, 2024 4:31AM EDT
Old (internet) habits die hard.
When The Daily Beast revealed in January that Rep. Jamaal Bowman had promoted 9/11 conspiracy theories on his blog while working as a public school principal, the New York Democrat maintained it was just a bygone phase, and that his days of marinating in the nether-swamps of online paranoia were long over. But his personal YouTube account, where he continued to follow new channels and create playlists as recently as last month, indicates his taste for fringe content has endured into his tenure on Capitol Hill.
Bowman’s page, which uses his longtime screen name “Inner Peace” and features his image and videos from the middle school he once led, subscribes to dozens of bewildering and bizarre accounts—including known Russian and Chinese disinfo peddlers, flat earthers, musings about UFOs and “signs you’re being prepared to cross to the new earth,” a U.S.-born Muslim influencer who killed a German citizen and provoked attacks on American businesses in Egypt, and many arcane online realms in between.
“This CIA Document Literally Explains Time Travel (practical steps included)," crows the title of one post on an account the congressman follows called Video Advice, which also frequently shares conspiracy content about the Illuminati and the Catholic Church. Another recording on the same page blares: “Kanye Exposes the Truth: ‘The Secret Codes They Don't Want You to Know.’”
“‘We use the RIGHT FREQUENCIES’ (hidden numerology used by the elite),” is the name of a video on another account called Be Inspired, which Bowman also follows.
“‘100% Alien Technology’ - Something Big Being Hidden From Us,” alleges a video on a page called Anonymous Official, another Bowman subscription, which frequently also pushes content by serial sex offender and Vladimir Putin-booster Scott Ritter, such as “What’s Coming is WORSE Than a WW3, Iran is Ready.”
These follows might seem unusual for a member of Congress—but less so for a man who published poetry The Daily Beast uncovered that promoted debunked conspiracies about the Sept. 11 attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon. Bowman’s verse, first published on his blog Relentless-Strongback.blogspot.com in 2011 when he was 35, also urged readers to watch the pseudo-documentaries ‘Loose Change’ and ‘Zeitgeist,’ both of which earned the endorsement of arch-paranoia-pusher Alex Jones. Bowman’s poem also included an explicit shout-out to William Cooper, an Arizona broadcaster whose anti-government rants made him a pivotal figure in the American militia movement.
Although the congressman has since disowned his old heroes as “cranks,” his YouTube subscriptions reflect a similar blending of right and left. Anonymous Official, for instance, uses the name and symbols of the anarchist hacker collective—but shares clips of conservative populist figures such as Tucker Carlson and Joe Rogan. Bowman also follows Stephen Gardner, a pro-Trump YouTube influencer who also promotes the idea that the federal government is hiding evidence of aliens, while critiquing U.S. foreign policy in Ukraine and the Middle East.
In fact, Ritter, Rogan, and Carlson recur across multiple channels Bowman subscribes to, as does former Greek Finance Minister Yanis Varoufakis, as well as claims about alleged government plots to conceal extraterrestrials, an imminent third world war emerging from American support of Ukraine and Israel, and content about inventor Nikola Tesla and his supposed knowledge of mysterious vibrations that pervade the universe and various parallel dimensions. Bowman also follows mainstream and apolitical accounts, such as National Geographic and ESPN, and musical artists like Busta Rhymes and Eminem.
Bowman’s campaign did not deny the Inner Peace account belonged to him, but supplied a statement from the lawmaker disclaiming even the faintest familiarity with the extreme and outlandish content he subscribed to. Bowman also downplayed the importance of his social media exposures in the face of what he characterized as domestic and international crises.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know these accounts, and I haven’t watched any of these videos. There is a war going on that has killed tens of thousands of innocents and people here can’t afford rent and groceries, I think people care more about that than some convoluted story about videos that I haven’t even watched.”
Further, Bowman has publicly identified himself in the past as a frequent YouTube user. At a panel discussion held at an Islamic center in the city of Yonkers in January, the Democrat described himself as “starstruck” to introduce the incendiary academic Norman Finkelstein, whom he said he knew from online videos.
“I watch them all the time on YouTube,” said Bowman, who subsequently had to denounce Finkelstein’s praise of Hamas’ bloody raid into Israeli territory on Oct. 7.
Sure enough, several of the pages Inner Peace follows—including DiEM25, Real News Network, Free Will, PoliticsJOE, TRT World—feature interviews with Finkelstein.
Moreover, a number of the accounts Bowman has subscribed to are of recent vintage: more recent, even, than his own ascent to power in 2020. For instance, one called Afripost—where recent video titles announce “Vatican Angry as PUTIN Declares Russia will Only Worship THE BLACK JESUS” and “African Historian Reveals hidden Secret: God did NOT CREATE WHITE: The Bible is all about BLACKS” (capitalization original)—was created in April of last year, just a few months after Bowman started his second term.
Afripost also frequently shares speeches by controversial Nation of Islam minister Louis Farrakhan, known for his antisemitic rhetoric. The most recent such video asserts, falsely, “BLACKS ARE THE TRUE J£WS [sic].”
Bowman also subscribes to an account called Thinkers Forum, created in late 2021, toward the end of his first year representing parts of the Bronx and Westchester County in the House. Thinkers Forum is a project of The China Academy, which bills itself as “one of China’s most influential current affairs and intellectual content outlet [sic],” and boasts ties to an array of Chinese state-backed institutions. Recent videos posted to the Thinkers Forum channel include “Why the West ‘takes pleasure’ in seeing the genocide in Palestine?” “Why NATO is collapsing like the Soviet Union, by the same mistake,” and “How the US Keeps Fighting China, Knowing It Won’t Win?”
Thinkers Forum also recently posted a translation of a Chinese state university professor’s evidence-free speculation that the terrorist attack at a Moscow concert hall was the work of Ukraine and Western intelligence services—even though a faction of the Islamic State took responsibility for the assault.
A few months earlier, in July 2021—six months into Bowman’s stint on the Hill—another channel was born called Middle Nation, which the congressman at some indeterminate point followed. Middle Nation belongs to Shahid Bolsen, a Colorado-born Muslim convert who used his prior social media accounts to urge Islamist militants to attack so-called “corporate crusaders” that had set up shop in Egypt. Bolsen, previously imprisoned on a manslaughter conviction in the United Arab Emirates for killing a German engineer, uses his new channel to rail against “The Loud, Hollow American Empire,” “The Prison of American Hegemony,” Western “materialism,” the U.S.’s supposedly “fake ceasefire” proposals to end the conflict in the Gaza Strip.
One of the loopiest pages Bowman follows also came into being that same year: Wired Mind, which exclusively promotes the ideas of late New Age icon Dolores Cannon, known for her advocacy of conspiracies about aliens, reincarnation, and the lost island of Atlantis. Wired Mind urges its viewers to prepare for an impending “shift” to a higher reality, and offers advice on such dilemmas as "Are You an Alien Among Us? Signs You Might Not Be from This World” and “Think You're Going Crazy? Surprise! You're Actually Awakening Your Spirit!"
Finally, Bowman also follows BreakThrough News, which established its YouTube presence in early 2020, while the Democrat was on the campaign warpath against then-incumbent Rep. Eliot Engel. As The Daily Beast reported last spring, BreakThrough News draws its staff from Russian state-owned media and cash from Neville “Roy” Singham, a U.S. tech mogul ensconced in Shanghai—and pushes the favorite propaganda narratives of Moscow and Beijing.

China will ban fast charging technology for phones, It is possible that these conditions will only apply to the Chinese market. But since China has produced almost all the innovations in this field, the ban is likely to be extended.

I’m traveling to China in a month and after learning about a thing called “gutter oil”, I’m now paranoid about eating there. Please tell me this only happens in very rural areas and not big cities.

So I was recently thinking about China’s issue with “gutter oil” in which oil from the sewers is used in cooking. Ick factor notwithstanding, is this an actual health hazard? I was under the understanding that given adequate heat, you could kill any food borne pathogens. Is the problem just with the pathogens or could it also be with the chemicals they leave behind?

China will ban fast charging technology for phones, It is possible that these conditions will only apply to the Chinese market. But since China has produced almost all the innovations in this field, the ban is likely to be extended.

Please recommend any novels, manga, manhua, webtoons, films, etc. you recommend and what culture it's inspired by!
Personally, I feel like the whole discourse of Tian Xia focuses too much on historical accuracy and is missing the "fantasy" element. Very few, if any, people are playing DnD/Pathfinder as a historical re-enactment or simulator, we want to play a fantasy game based on fantasy media we enjoy.
"Appendix N" is the list of books that inspired Gary Gygax when creating Dungeons and Dragons. DnD was immensely influenced by J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings series and others. Here is the list discussed on Goodman Games
James Jacob stated the "Appendix 3: Inspiring Reading" printed in pf1e remains the same if there was one for pf2e. Here's the list It is a huge shame that it was not included in neither the 2019 Core Rulebook nor the 2023 PlayeGM Core
Here's my list of inspirational reading/watching for Tian Xia or any setting inspired by regions in the Asian continent.
Novels

• Romance of the Three Kingdoms (1522) by Luo Guanzhong [China]
  
• Musashi (1935) by Yoshikawa Eiji [Japan]
  
• The Kouga Ninja Scrolls (1959) by Yamada Futaro (adapted in an 2004 anime) [Japan]
  
• Shogun (1975) by James Clavell [Japan]
  
• Moribito (1996) series by Nahoko Uehashi [Japan]
  
• The Windup Girl (2009) by Paolo Bacigalupi [Thailand]
  
• The Ghost Bride (2013) by Yangsze Choo [Malaysia]
  
• Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation (Mo Dao Zu Shi) (2015) by Mo Xiang Tong Xiu [China]
  
• The Dandelion Dynasty (2015) series by Ken Liu [China]
  
• Dominion of the Fallen (2015) series by Aliette de Bodard [Vietnam]
  
• Heaven’s Official Blessing (Tian Guan Ci Fu) (2017) by Mo Xiang Tong Xiu [China]
  
• In the Vanisher's Palace (2018) by Aliette De Bodard [Vietnam]
  
• Girls of Paper and Fire (2018) by Natasha Ngan [China]
  
• The Poppy War (2018) trilogy series by R.F. Kuang [China]
  
• The Wolf of Oren-Yaro (2018) by K.S. Villoso [Philippines]
  
• Sword of Kaigen (2019) by M.L. Wang [Japan]
  
• The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water by Zen Cho [Malaysia]
  
• The Celestial Kingdom (2022) series by Sue Lynn Tan [China]
  

Anime/Manga

• Dororo (1967) by Tezuka Osamu, has a 2019 adaptation
  
• Blade of the Immortal (1993) by Samura Hiroaki
  
• Ninja Scroll (1993) by Kawajiri Yoshiaki
  
• Rurouni Kenshin (1994) by Watsuki Nobuhiro
  
• Princess Mononoke (1997) by Miyazaki Hayao
  
• Afro Samurai (1998) by Okazaki Takashi
  
• Vagabond (1998) by Inoue Takashi
  
• Naruto (1999) by Kishimoto Masashi
  
• Peacemaker Kurogane (1999) by Chrono Nanae
  
• Spirited Away (2002) by Miyazaki Hayao
  
• Gintama (2003) by Sorachi Hideaki
  
• Basilisk: The Koga Ninja Scrolls (2003) by Segawa Masaki
  
• Samurai Champloo (2004) by Watanabe Shinichiro (based on the 1959 novel)
  
• Kingdom (2006) Hara Yasuhisa [China]
  
• Demon Slayer (2016) by Gotouge Koyoharu
  
• Hell’s Paradise (2018) by Kaku Yuji
  
• Yasuke (2021) by LeSean Thomas
  

Video Games

• Nioh (2017) by Team Ninja
  
• Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (2019) by From Software
  
• Ghosts of Tsushima (2020) by Sucker Punch
  

Films

• Directed by Akira Kurosawa
  
• Rashoumon (1950)
  
• Seven Samurai (1954)
  
• The Hidden Fortress (1958)
  
• Yojimbo (1961)
  
• Ran (1985)
  

Campaign Settings

• The Islands of Sina Una published for 5e by Hit Point Press [Philippines]

CHAPTER I
The Judge's House
Thirty years ago, an elderly man, to whom I paid quarterly a small annuity charged on some property of mine, came on the quarter-day to receive it. He was a dry, sad, quiet man, who had known better days, and had always maintained an unexceptionable character. No better authority could be imagined for a ghost story.
He told me one, though with a manifest reluctance; he was drawn into the narration by his choosing to explain what I should not have remarked, that he had called two days earlier than that week after the strict day of payment, which he had usually allowed to elapse. His reason was a sudden determination to change his lodgings, and the consequent necessity of paying his rent a little before it was due.
He lodged in a dark street in Westminster, in a spacious old house, very warm, being wainscoted from top to bottom, and furnished with no undue abundance of windows, and those fitted with thick sashes and small panes.
This house was, as the bills upon the windows testified, offered to be sold or let. But no one seemed to care to look at it.
A thin matron, in rusty black silk, very taciturn, with large, steady, alarmed eyes, that seemed to look in your face, to read what you might have seen in the dark rooms and passages through which you had passed, was in charge of it, with a solitary "maid-of-all-work" under her command. My poor friend had taken lodgings in this house, on account of their extraordinary cheapness. He had occupied them for nearly a year without the slightest disturbance, and was the only tenant, under rent, in the house. He had two rooms; a sitting-room and a bed-room with a closet opening from it, in which he kept his books and papers locked up. He had gone to his bed, having also locked the outer door. Unable to sleep, he had lighted a candle, and after having read for a time, had laid the book beside him. He heard the old clock at the stairhead strike one; and very shortly after, to his alarm, he saw the closet-door, which he thought he had locked, open stealthily, and a slight dark man, particularly sinister, and somewhere about fifty, dressed in mourning of a very antique fashion, such a suit as we see in Hogarth, entered the room on tip-toe. He was followed by an elder man, stout, and blotched with scurvy, and whose features, fixed as a corpse's, were stamped with dreadful force with a character of sensuality and villany.
This old man wore a flowered silk dressing-gown and ruffles, and he remarked a gold ring on his finger, and on his head a cap of velvet, such as, in the days of perukes, gentlemen wore in undress.
This direful old man carried in his ringed and ruffled hand a coil of rope; and these two figures crossed the floor diagonally, passing the foot of his bed, from the closet door at the farther end of the room, at the left, near the window, to the door opening upon the lobby, close to the bed's head, at his right.
These Two Figures Crossed the Floor Diagonally, Passing The Foot of the Bed. "These Two Figures Crossed the Floor Diagonally, Passing The Foot of the Bed." He did not attempt to describe his sensations as these figures passed so near him. He merely said, that so far from sleeping in that room again, no consideration the world could offer would induce him so much as to enter it again alone, even in the daylight. He found both doors, that of the closet, and that of the room opening upon the lobby, in the morning fast locked as he had left them before going to bed.
In answer to a question of mine, he said that neither appeared the least conscious of his presence. They did not seem to glide, but walked as living men do, but without any sound, and he felt a vibration on the floor as they crossed it. He so obviously suffered from speaking about the apparitions, that I asked him no more questions.
There were in his description, however, certain coincidences so very singular, as to induce me, by that very post, to write to a friend much my senior, then living in a remote part of England, for the information which I knew he could give me. He had himself more than once pointed out that old house to my attention, and told me, though very briefly, the strange story which I now asked him to give me in greater detail.
His answer satisfied me; and the following pages convey its substance.
Your letter (he wrote) tells me you desire some particulars about the closing years of the life of Mr. Justice Harbottle, one of the judges of the Court of Common Pleas. You refer, of course, to the extraordinary occurrences that made that period of his life long after a theme for "winter tales" and metaphysical speculation. I happen to know perhaps more than any other man living of those mysterious particulars.
The old family mansion, when I revisited London, more than thirty years ago, I examined for the last time. During the years that have passed since then, I hear that improvement, with its preliminary demolitions, has been doing wonders for the quarter of Westminster in which it stood. If I were quite certain that the house had been taken down, I should have no difficulty about naming the street in which it stood. As what I have to tell, however, is not likely to improve its letting value, and as I should not care to get into trouble, I prefer being silent on that particular point.
How old the house was, I can't tell. People said it was built by Roger Harbottle, a Turkey merchant, in the reign of King James I. I am not a good opinion upon such questions; but having been in it, though in its forlorn and deserted state, I can tell you in a general way what it was like. It was built of dark-red brick, and the door and windows were faced with stone that had turned yellow by time. It receded some feet from the line of the other houses in the street; and it had a florid and fanciful rail of iron about the broad steps that invited your ascent to the hall-door, in which were fixed, under a file of lamps among scrolls and twisted leaves, two immense "extinguishers," like the conical caps of fairies, into which, in old times, the footmen used to thrust their flambeaux when their chairs or coaches had set down their great people, in the hall or at the steps, as the case might be. That hall is panelled up to the ceiling, and has a large fire-place. Two or three stately old rooms open from it at each side. The windows of these are tall, with many small panes. Passing through the arch at the back of the hall, you come upon the wide and heavy well-staircase. There is a back staircase also. The mansion is large, and has not as much light, by any means, in proportion to its extent, as modern houses enjoy. When I saw it, it had long been untenanted, and had the gloomy reputation beside of a haunted house. Cobwebs floated from the ceilings or spanned the corners of the cornices, and dust lay thick over everything. The windows were stained with the dust and rain of fifty years, and darkness had thus grown darker.
When I made it my first visit, it was in company with my father, when I was still a boy, in the year 1808. I was about twelve years old, and my imagination impressible, as it always is at that age. I looked about me with great awe. I was here in the very centre and scene of those occurrences which I had heard recounted at the fireside at home, with so delightful a horror.
My father was an old bachelor of nearly sixty when he married. He had, when a child, seen Judge Harbottle on the bench in his robes and wig a dozen times at least before his death, which took place in 1748, and his appearance made a powerful and unpleasant impression, not only on his imagination, but upon his nerves.
The Judge was at that time a man of some sixty-seven years. He had a great mulberry-coloured face, a big, carbuncled nose, fierce eyes, and a grim and brutal mouth. My father, who was young at the time, thought it the most formidable face he had ever seen; for there were evidences of intellectual power in the formation and lines of the forehead. His voice was loud and harsh, and gave effect to the sarcasm which was his habitual weapon on the bench.
This old gentleman had the reputation of being about the wickedest man in England. Even on the bench he now and then showed his scorn of opinion. He had carried cases his own way, it was said, in spite of counsel, authorities, and even of juries, by a sort of cajolery, violence, and bamboozling, that somehow confused and overpowered resistance. He had never actually committed himself; he was too cunning to do that. He had the character of being, however, a dangerous and unscrupulous judge; but his character did not trouble him. The associates he chose for his hours of relaxation cared as little as he did about it.
CHAPTER II
Mr. Peters
One night during the session of 1746 this old Judge went down in his chair to wait in one of the rooms of the House of Lords for the result of a division in which he and his order were interested.
This over, he was about to return to his house close by, in his chair; but the night had become so soft and fine that he changed his mind, sent it home empty, and with two footmen, each with a flambeau, set out on foot in preference. Gout had made him rather a slow pedestrian. It took him some time to get through the two or three streets he had to pass before reaching his house.
In one of those narrow streets of tall houses, perfectly silent at that hour, he overtook, slowly as he was walking, a very singular-looking old gentleman.
He had a bottle-green coat on, with a cape to it, and large stone buttons, a broad-leafed low-crowned hat, from under which a big powdered wig escaped; he stooped very much, and supported his bending knees with the aid of a crutch-handled cane, and so shuffled and tottered along painfully.
"I ask your pardon, sir," said this old man, in a very quavering voice, as the burly Judge came up with him, and he extended his hand feebly towards his arm.
Mr. Justice Harbottle saw that the man was by no means poorly dressed, and his manner that of a gentleman.
The Judge stopped short, and said, in his harsh peremptory tones, "Well, sir, how can I serve you?"
"Can you direct me to Judge Harbottle's house? I have some intelligence of the very last importance to communicate to him."
"Can you tell it before witnesses?" asked the Judge.
"By no means; it must reach his ear only," quavered the old man earnestly.
"If that be so, sir, you have only to accompany me a few steps farther to reach my house, and obtain a private audience; for I am Judge Harbottle."
With this invitation the infirm gentleman in the white wig complied very readily; and in another minute the stranger stood in what was then termed the front parlour of the Judge's house, tête-à-tête with that shrewd and dangerous functionary.
He had to sit down, being very much exhausted, and unable for a little time to speak; and then he had a fit of coughing, and after that a fit of gasping; and thus two or three minutes passed, during which the Judge dropped his roquelaure on an arm-chair, and threw his cocked-hat over that.
The venerable pedestrian in the white wig quickly recovered his voice. With closed doors they remained together for some time.
There were guests waiting in the drawing-rooms, and the sound of men's voices laughing, and then of a female voice singing to a harpsichord, were heard distinctly in the hall over the stairs; for old Judge Harbottle had arranged one of his dubious jollifications, such as might well make the hair of godly men's heads stand upright for that night.
This old gentleman in the powdered white wig, that rested on his stooped shoulders, must have had something to say that interested the Judge very much; for he would not have parted on easy terms with the ten minutes and upwards which that conference filched from the sort of revelry in which he most delighted, and in which he was the roaring king, and in some sort the tyrant also, of his company.
The footman who showed the aged gentleman out observed that the Judge's mulberry-coloured face, pimples and all, were bleached to a dingy yellow, and there was the abstraction of agitated thought in his manner, as he bid the stranger good-night. The servant saw that the conversation had been of serious import, and that the Judge was frightened.
Instead of stumping upstairs forthwith to his scandalous hilarities, his profane company, and his great china bowl of punch—the identical bowl from which a bygone Bishop of London, good easy man, had baptised this Judge's grandfather, now clinking round the rim with silver ladles, and hung with scrolls of lemon-peel—instead, I say, of stumping and clambering up the great staircase to the cavern of his Circean enchantment, he stood with his big nose flattened against the window-pane, watching the progress of the feeble old man, who clung stiffly to the iron rail as he got down, step by step, to the pavement.
The hall-door had hardly closed, when the old Judge was in the hall bawling hasty orders, with such stimulating expletives as old colonels under excitement sometimes indulge in now-a-days, with a stamp or two of his big foot, and a waving of his clenched fist in the air. He commanded the footman to overtake the old gentleman in the white wig, to offer him his protection on his way home, and in no case to show his face again without having ascertained where he lodged, and who he was, and all about him.
"By ——, sirrah! if you fail me in this, you doff my livery to-night!"
Forth bounced the stalwart footman, with his heavy cane under his arm, and skipped down the steps, and looked up and down the street after the singular figure, so easy to recognize.
What were his adventures I shall not tell you just now.
The old man, in the conference to which he had been admitted in that stately panelled room, had just told the Judge a very strange story. He might be himself a conspirator; he might possibly be crazed; or possibly his whole story was straight and true.
The aged gentleman in the bottle-green coat, in finding himself alone with Mr. Justice Harbottle, had become agitated. He said,
"There is, perhaps you are not aware, my lord, a prisoner in Shrewsbury jail, charged with having forged a bill of exchange for a hundred and twenty pounds, and his name is Lewis Pyneweck, a grocer of that town."
"Is there?" says the Judge, who knew well that there was.
"Yes, my lord," says the old man.
"Then you had better say nothing to affect this case. If you do, by ——, I'll commit you! for I'm to try it," says the judge, with his terrible look and tone.
"I am not going to do anything of the kind, my lord; of him or his case I know nothing, and care nothing. But a fact has come to my knowledge which it behoves you to well consider."
"And what may that fact be?" inquired the Judge; "I'm in haste, sir, and beg you will use dispatch."
"It has come to my knowledge, my lord, that a secret tribunal is in process of formation, the object of which is to take cognisance of the conduct of the judges; and first, of your conduct, my lord; it is a wicked conspiracy."
"Who are of it?" demands the Judge.
"I know not a single name as yet. I know but the fact, my lord; it is most certainly true."
"I'll have you before the Privy Council, sir," says the Judge.
"That is what I most desire; but not for a day or two, my lord."
"And why so?"
"I have not as yet a single name, as I told your lordship; but I expect to have a list of the most forward men in it, and some other papers connected with the plot, in two or three days."
"You said one or two just now."
"About that time, my lord."
"Is this a Jacobite plot?"
"In the main I think it is, my lord."
"Why, then, it is political. I have tried no State prisoners, nor am like to try any such. How, then, doth it concern me?"
"From what I can gather, my lord, there are those in it who desire private revenges upon certain judges."
"What do they call their cabal?"
"The High Court of Appeal, my lord."
"Who are you, sir? What is your name?"
"Hugh Peters, my lord."
"That should be a Whig name?"
"It is, my lord." "Where do you lodge, Mr. Peters?"
"In Thames Street, my lord, over against the sign of the 'Three Kings.'"
"'Three Kings?' Take care one be not too many for you, Mr. Peters! How come you, an honest Whig, as you say, to be privy to a Jacobite plot? Answer me that."
"My lord, a person in whom I take an interest has been seduced to take a part in it; and being frightened at the unexpected wickedness of their plans, he is resolved to become an informer for the Crown."
"He resolves like a wise man, sir. What does he say of the persons? Who are in the plot? Doth he know them?"
"Only two, my lord; but he will be introduced to the club in a few days, and he will then have a list, and more exact information of their plans, and above all of their oaths, and their hours and places of meeting, with which he wishes to be acquainted before they can have any suspicions of his intentions. And being so informed, to whom, think you, my lord, had he best go then?"
"To the king's attorney-general straight. But you say this concerns me, sir, in particular? How about this prisoner, Lewis Pyneweck? Is he one of them?"
"I can't tell, my lord; but for some reason, it is thought your lordship will be well advised if you try him not. For if you do, it is feared 'twill shorten your days."
"So far as I can learn, Mr. Peters, this business smells pretty strong of blood and treason. The king's attorney-general will know how to deal with it. When shall I see you again, sir?"
"If you give me leave, my lord, either before your lordship's court sits, or after it rises, to-morrow. I should like to come and tell your lordship what has passed."
"Do so, Mr. Peters, at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. And see you play me no trick, sir, in this matter; if you do, by ——, sir, I'll lay you by the heels!"
"You need fear no trick from me, my lord; had I not wished to serve you, and acquit my own conscience, I never would have come all this way to talk with your lordship."
"I'm willing to believe you, Mr. Peters; I'm willing to believe you, sir."
And upon this they parted.
"He has either painted his face, or he is consumedly sick," thought the old Judge.
The light had shown more effectually upon his features as he turned to leave the room with a low bow, and they looked, he fancied, unnaturally chalky.
"D—— him!" said the Judge ungraciously, as he began to scale the stairs: "he has half-spoiled my supper."
But if he had, no one but the Judge himself perceived it, and the evidence was all, as any one might perceive, the other way. CHAPTER III
Lewis Pyneweck
In the meantime the footman dispatched in pursuit of Mr. Peters speedily overtook that feeble gentleman. The old man stopped when he heard the sound of pursuing steps, but any alarms that may have crossed his mind seemed to disappear on his recognizing the livery. He very gratefully accepted the proffered assistance, and placed his tremulous arm within the servant's for support. They had not gone far, however, when the old man stopped suddenly, saying,
"Dear me! as I live, I have dropped it. You heard it fall. My eyes, I fear, won't serve me, and I'm unable to stoop low enough; but if you will look, you shall have half the find. It is a guinea; I carried it in my glove."
The street was silent and deserted. The footman had hardly descended to what he termed his "hunkers," and begun to search the pavement about the spot which the old man indicated, when Mr. Peters, who seemed very much exhausted, and breathed with difficulty, struck him a violent blow, from above, over the back of the head with a heavy instrument, and then another; and leaving him bleeding and senseless in the gutter, ran like a lamplighter down a lane to the right, and was gone.
When an hour later, the watchman brought the man in livery home, still stupid and covered with blood, Judge Harbottle cursed his servant roundly, swore he was drunk, threatened him with an indictment for taking bribes to betray his master, and cheered him with a perspective of the broad street leading from the Old Bailey to Tyburn, the cart's tail, and the hangman's lash.
Notwithstanding this demonstration, the Judge was pleased. It was a disguised "affidavit man," or footpad, no doubt, who had been employed to frighten him. The trick had fallen through.
A "court of appeal," such as the false Hugh Peters had indicated, with assassination for its sanction, would be an uncomfortable institution for a "hanging judge" like the Honourable Justice Harbottle. That sarcastic and ferocious administrator of the criminal code of England, at that time a rather pharisaical, bloody and heinous system of justice, had reasons of his own for choosing to try that very Lewis Pyneweck, on whose behalf this audacious trick was devised. Try him he would. No man living should take that morsel out of his mouth.
Of Lewis Pyneweck, of course, so far as the outer world could see, he knew nothing. He would try him after his fashion, without fear, favour, or affection.
But did he not remember a certain thin man, dressed in mourning, in whose house, in Shrewsbury, the Judge's lodgings used to be, until a scandal of ill-treating his wife came suddenly to light? A grocer with a demure look, a soft step, and a lean face as dark as mahogany, with a nose sharp and long, standing ever so little awry, and a pair of dark steady brown eyes under thinly-traced black brows—a man whose thin lips wore always a faint unpleasant smile.
Had not that scoundrel an account to settle with the Judge? had he not been troublesome lately? and was not his name Lewis Pyneweck, some time grocer in Shrewsbury, and now prisoner in the jail of that town?
The reader may take it, if he pleases, as a sign that Judge Harbottle was a good Christian, that he suffered nothing ever from remorse. That was undoubtedly true. He had, nevertheless, done this grocer, forger, what you will, some five or six years before, a grievous wrong; but it was not that, but a possible scandal, and possible complications, that troubled the learned Judge now.
Did he not, as a lawyer, know, that to bring a man from his shop to the dock, the chances must be at least ninety-nine out of a hundred that he is guilty?
A weak man like his learned brother Withershins was not a judge to keep the high-roads safe, and make crime tremble. Old Judge Harbottle was the man to make the evil-disposed quiver, and to refresh the world with showers of wicked blood, and thus save the innocent, to the refrain of the ancient saw he loved to quote:
Foolish pity Ruins a city. In hanging that fellow he could not be wrong. The eye of a man accustomed to look upon the dock could not fail to read "villain" written sharp and clear in his plotting face. Of course he would try him, and no one else should.
A saucy-looking woman, still handsome, in a mob-cap gay with blue ribbons, in a saque of flowered silk, with lace and rings on, much too fine for the Judge's housekeeper, which nevertheless she was, peeped into his study next morning, and, seeing the Judge alone, stepped in.
"Here's another letter from him, come by the post this morning. Can't you do nothing for him?" she said wheedlingly, with her arm over his neck, and her delicate finger and thumb fiddling with the lobe of his purple ear.
"I'll try," said Judge Harbottle, not raising his eyes from the paper he was reading.
"I knew you'd do what I asked you," she said.
The Judge clapt his gouty claw over his heart, and made her an ironical bow.
"What," she asked, "will you do?"
"Hang him," said the Judge with a chuckle.
"You don't mean to; no, you don't, my little man," said she, surveying herself in a mirror on the wall.
"I'm d——d but I think you're falling in love with your husband at last!" said Judge Harbottle.
"I'm blest but I think you're growing jealous of him," replied the lady with a laugh. "But no; he was always a bad one to me; I've done with him long ago."
"And he with you, by George! When he took your fortune, and your spoons, and your ear-rings, he had all he wanted of you. He drove you from his house; and when he discovered you had made yourself comfortable, and found a good situation, he'd have taken your guineas, and your silver, and your ear-rings over again, and then allowed you half-a-dozen years more to make a new harvest for his mill. You don't wish him good; if you say you do, you lie."
She laughed a wicked, saucy laugh, and gave the terrible Rhadamanthus a playful tap on the chops.
"He wants me to send him money to fee a counsellor," she said, while her eyes wandered over the pictures on the wall, and back again to the looking-glass; and certainly she did not look as if his jeopardy troubled her very much.
"Confound his impudence, the scoundrel!" thundered the old Judge, throwing himself back in his chair, as he used to do in furore on the bench, and the lines of his mouth looked brutal, and his eyes ready to leap from their sockets. "If you answer his letter from my house to please yourself, you'll write your next from somebody else's to please me. You understand, my pretty witch, I'll not be pestered. Come, no pouting; whimpering won't do. You don't care a brass farthing for the villain, body or soul. You came here but to make a row. You are one of Mother Carey's chickens; and where you come, the storm is up. Get you gone, baggage! get you gone!" he repeated, with a stamp; for a knock at the hall-door made her instantaneous disappearance indispensable.
I need hardly say that the venerable Hugh Peters did not appear again. The Judge never mentioned him. But oddly enough, considering how he laughed to scorn the weak invention which he had blown into dust at the very first puff, his white-wigged visitor and the conference in the dark front parlour were often in his memory.
His shrewd eye told him that allowing for change of tints and such disguises as the playhouse affords every night, the features of this false old man, who had turned out too hard for his tall footman, were identical with those of Lewis Pyneweck.
Judge Harbottle made his registrar call upon the crown solicitor, and tell him that there was a man in town who bore a wonderful resemblance to a prisoner in Shrewsbury jail named Lewis Pyneweck, and to make inquiry through the post forthwith whether any one was personating Pyneweck in prison and whether he had thus or otherwise made his escape.
The prisoner was safe, however, and no question as to his identity.
CHAPTER IV
Interruption in Court
In due time Judge Harbottle went circuit; and in due time the judges were in Shrewsbury. News travelled slowly in those days, and newspapers, like the wagons and stage coaches, took matters easily. Mrs. Pyneweck, in the Judge's house, with a diminished household—the greater part of the Judge's servants having gone with him, for he had given up riding circuit, and travelled in his coach in state—kept house rather solitarily at home.
In spite of quarrels, in spite of mutual injuries—some of them, inflicted by herself, enormous—in spite of a married life of spited bickerings—a life in which there seemed no love or liking or forbearance, for years—now that Pyneweck stood in near danger of death, something like remorse came suddenly upon her. She knew that in Shrewsbury were transacting the scenes which were to determine his fate. She knew she did not love him; but she could not have supposed, even a fortnight before, that the hour of suspense could have affected her so powerfully.
She knew the day on which the trial was expected to take place. She could not get it out of her head for a minute; she felt faint as it drew towards evening.
Two or three days passed; and then she knew that the trial must be over by this time. There were floods between London and Shrewsbury, and news was long delayed. She wished the floods would last forever. It was dreadful waiting to hear; dreadful to know that the event was over, and that she could not hear till self-willed rivers subsided; dreadful to know that they must subside and the news come at last.
She had some vague trust in the Judge's good nature, and much in the resources of chance and accident. She had contrived to send the money he wanted. He would not be without legal advice and energetic and skilled support.
At last the news did come—a long arrear all in a gush: a letter from a female friend in Shrewsbury; a return of the sentences, sent up for the Judge; and most important, because most easily got at, being told with great aplomb and brevity, the long-deferred intelligence of the Shrewsbury Assizes in the Morning Advertiser. Like an impatient reader of a novel, who reads the last page first, she read with dizzy eyes the list of the executions.
Two were respited, seven were hanged; and in that capital catalogue was this line:
"Lewis Pyneweck—forgery."
She had to read it a half-a-dozen times over before she was sure she understood it. Here was the paragraph:
Sentence, Death—7.
Executed accordingly, on Friday the 13th instant, to wit: Thomas Primer, alias Duck—highway robbery. Flora Guy—stealing to the value of 11s. 6d. Arthur Pounden—burglary. Matilda Mummery—riot. Lewis Pyneweck—forgery, bill of exchange.
And when she reached this, she read it over and over, feeling very cold and sick.
This buxom housekeeper was known in the house as Mrs. Carwell—Carwell being her maiden name, which she had resumed.
No one in the house except its master knew her history. Her introduction had been managed craftily. No one suspected that it had been concerted between her and the old reprobate in scarlet and ermine.
Flora Carwell ran up the stairs now, and snatched her little girl, hardly seven years of age, whom she met on the lobby, hurriedly up in her arms, and carried her into her bedroom, without well knowing what she was doing, and sat down, placing the child before her. She was not able to speak. She held the child before her, and looked in the little girl's wondering face, and burst into tears of horror.
She thought the Judge could have saved him. I daresay he could. For a time she was furious with him, and hugged and kissed her bewildered little girl, who returned her gaze with large round eyes.
That little girl had lost her father, and knew nothing of the matter. She had always been told that her father was dead long ago.
A woman, coarse, uneducated, vain, and violent, does not reason, or even feel, very distinctly; but in these tears of consternation were mingling a self-upbraiding. She felt afraid of that little child.
But Mrs. Carwell was a person who lived not upon sentiment, but upon beef and pudding; she consoled herself with punch; she did not trouble herself long even with resentments; she was a gross and material person, and could not mourn over the irrevocable for more than a limited number of hours, even if she would.
Judge Harbottle was soon in London again. Except the gout, this savage old epicurean never knew a day's sickness. He laughed, and coaxed, and bullied away the young woman's faint upbraidings, and in a little time Lewis Pyneweck troubled her no more; and the Judge secretly chuckled over the perfectly fair removal of a bore, who might have grown little by little into something very like a tyrant.
It was the lot of the Judge whose adventures I am now recounting to try criminal cases at the Old Bailey shortly after his return. He had commenced his charge to the jury in a case of forgery, and was, after his wont, thundering dead against the prisoner, with many a hard aggravation and cynical gibe, when suddenly all died away in silence, and, instead of looking at the jury, the eloquent Judge was gaping at some person in the body of the court.
Among the persons of small importance who stand and listen at the sides was one tall enough to show with a little prominence; a slight mean figure, dressed in seedy black, lean and dark of visage. He had just handed a letter to the crier, before he caught the Judge's eye.
That Judge descried, to his amazement, the features of Lewis Pyneweck. He had the usual faint thin-lipped smile; and with his blue chin raised in air, and as it seemed quite unconscious of the distinguished notice he has attracted, he was stretching his low cravat with his crooked fingers, while he slowly turned his head from side to side—a process which enabled the Judge to see distinctly a stripe of swollen blue round his neck, which indicated, he thought, the grip of the rope.
This man, with a few others, had got a footing on a step, from which he could better see the court. He now stepped down, and the Judge lost sight of him.
His lordship signed energetically with his hand in the direction in which this man had vanished. He turned to the tipstaff. His first effort to speak ended in a gasp. He cleared his throat, and told the astounded official to arrest that man who had interrupted the court.
"He's but this moment gone down there. Bring him in custody before me, within ten minutes' time, or I'll strip your gown from your shoulders and fine the sheriff!" he thundered, while his eyes flashed round the court in search of the functionary.
Attorneys, counsellors, idle spectators, gazed in the direction in which Mr. Justice Harbottle had shaken his gnarled old hand. They compared notes. Not one had seen any one making a disturbance. They asked one another if the Judge was losing his head.
Nothing came of the search. His lordship concluded his charge a great deal more tamely; and when the jury retired, he stared round the court with a wandering mind, and looked as if he would not have given sixpence to see the prisoner hanged. CHAPTER V
Caleb Searcher
The Judge had received the letter; had he known from whom it came, he would no doubt have read it instantaneously. As it was he simply read the direction:
To the Honourable The Lord Justice Elijah Harbottle, One of his Majesty's Justices of the Honourable Court of Common Pleas.
It remained forgotten in his pocket till he reached home.
When he pulled out that and others from the capacious pocket of his coat, it had its turn, as he sat in his library in his thick silk dressing-gown; and then he found its contents to be a closely-written letter, in a clerk's hand, and an enclosure in "secretary hand," as I believe the angular scrivinary of law-writings in those days was termed, engrossed on a bit of parchment about the size of this page. The letter said:
MR. JUSTICE HARBOTTLE,—MY LORD,
I am ordered by the High Court of Appeal to acquaint your lordship, in order to your better preparing yourself for your trial, that a true bill hath been sent down, and the indictment lieth against your lordship for the murder of one Lewis Pyneweck of Shrewsbury, citizen, wrongfully executed for the forgery of a bill of exchange, on the ——th day of —— last, by reason of the wilful perversion of the evidence, and the undue pressure put upon the jury, together with the illegal admission of evidence by your lordship, well knowing the same to be illegal, by all which the promoter of the prosecution of the said indictment, before the High Court of Appeal, hath lost his life.
And the trial of the said indictment, I am farther ordered to acquaint your lordship, is fixed for the both day of —— next ensuing, by the right honourable the Lord Chief Justice Twofold, of the court aforesaid, to wit, the High Court of Appeal, on which day it will most certainly take place. And I am farther to acquaint your lordship, to prevent any surprise or miscarriage, that your case stands first for the said day, and that the said High Court of Appeal sits day and night, and never rises; and herewith, by order of the said court, I furnish your lordship with a copy (extract) of the record in this case, except of the indictment, whereof, notwithstanding, the substance and effect is supplied to your lordship in this Notice. And farther I am to inform you, that in case the jury then to try your lordship should find you guilty, the right honourable the Lord Chief Justice will, in passing sentence of death upon you, fix the day of execution for the 10th day of ——, being one calendar month from the day of your trial.
It was signed by
CALEB SEARCHER, Officer of the Crown Solicitor in the Kingdom of Life and Death.
The Judge glanced through the parchment.
"'Sblood! Do they think a man like me is to be bamboozled by their buffoonery?"
The Judge's coarse features were wrung into one of his sneers; but he was pale. Possibly, after all, there was a conspiracy on foot. It was queer. Did they mean to pistol him in his carriage? or did they only aim at frightening him?
Judge Harbottle had more than enough of animal courage. He was not afraid of highwaymen, and he had fought more than his share of duels, being a foul-mouthed advocate while he held briefs at the bar. No one questioned his fighting qualities. But with respect to this particular case of Pyneweck, he lived in a house of glass. Was there not his pretty, dark-eyed, over-dressed housekeeper, Mrs. Flora Carwell? Very easy for people who knew Shrewsbury to identify Mrs. Pyneweck, if once put upon the scent; and had he not stormed and worked hard in that case? Had he not made it hard sailing for the prisoner? Did he not know very well what the bar thought of it? It would be the worst scandal that ever blasted Judge.
So much there was intimidating in the matter but nothing more. The Judge was a little bit gloomy for a day or two after, and more testy with every one than usual.
He locked up the papers; and about a week after he asked his housekeeper, one day, in the library:
"Had your husband never a brother?"
Mrs. Carwell squalled on this sudden introduction of the funereal topic, and cried exemplary "piggins full," as the Judge used pleasantly to say. But he was in no mood for trifling now, and he said sternly:
"Come, madam! this wearies me. Do it another time; and give me an answer to my question." So she did.
Pyneweck had no brother living. He once had one; but he died in Jamaica.
"How do you know he is dead?" asked the Judge.
"Because he told me so."
"Not the dead man."
"Pyneweck told me so."
"Is that all?" sneered the Judge.
He pondered this matter; and time went on. The Judge was growing a little morose, and less enjoying. The subject struck nearer to his thoughts than he fancied it could have done. But so it is with most undivulged vexations, and there was no one to whom he could tell this one.
It was now the ninth; and Mr Justice Harbottle was glad. He knew nothing would come of it. Still it bothered him; and to-morrow would see it well over.
[What of the paper I have cited? No one saw it during his life; no one, after his death. He spoke of it to Dr. Hedstone; and what purported to be "a copy," in the old Judge's handwriting, was found. The original was nowhere. Was it a copy of an illusion, incident to brain disease? Such is my belief.]

US and Philippines kick-off large scale exercise amid growing Asia-Pacific tensions
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Balikatan, an annual joint drill between US and the Philippines, has rung the alarm from China. What’s different about it this year?

World military expenditure reaches all-time high of $2,443 Bln in 2023
Global military expenditure increased by 6.8% in 2023 year-over-year and reached a new record high of $2,443 billion, with the three largest spenders being the US, China and Russia, according to new data published on Monday by the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI).

Yet another vital area is made vulnerable by a government wanting to bow down to China. Also, if someone does not understand how China controls their businesses, this article explains that.
https://redneckthinker.blogspot.com/2024/04/american-ports-are-another-area-that.html