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Brian Beach
Steven Armentrout
Rodney Bozo
Emmanuel Tsouris
Pro PowerShell for Amazon Web Services
Brian Beach Steven Armentrout
Raleigh, NC, USA Mountlake Terrace, WA, USA
Rodney Bozo Emmanuel Tsouris
Sterling, VA, USA North Bend, WA, USA
Copyright © 2019 by Brian Beach, Steven Armentrout, Rodney Bozo, Emmanuel Tsouris
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Table of Contents
About the Authors����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xv
Acknowledgments��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xix
Introduction������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xxi
iii
Table of Contents
Persisting Defaults���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 18
Using Stored Credentials������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 19
Using Key Pairs��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 20
Using IAM Roles�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 21
Summary������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 24
iv
Table of Contents
v
Table of Contents
vi
Table of Contents
vii
Table of Contents
Tagging������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 290
Miscellaneous S3 Options��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 291
Pagination���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 292
Encryption��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 292
Logging�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 292
Content Type������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 293
Summary���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 299
viii
Table of Contents
ix
Table of Contents
x
Table of Contents
xi
Table of Contents
xii
Table of Contents
Index��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 513
xiii
About the Authors
Brian Beach has over 20 years of experience as a Developer
and Architect and has spent the past 4 years focusing on
Amazon Web Services. He holds a Computer Engineering
degree from NYU-Poly and an MBA from Rutgers Business
School. He published Pro PowerShell for Amazon Web
Services in 2014. He is a regular author and has spoken at
a number of events around the world. Brian lives in North
Carolina with his wife and three kids.
xv
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of his execution. I regret that my engagements and duties were such
that I could not then and there accept his invitation, for I could not
doubt the sincerity with which it was given, or fail to see the value of
compliance. Mr. Hunter not only congratulated me upon my speech,
but at parting, gave me a friendly grip, and added that if Robert E.
Lee were alive and present, he knew he would give me his hand
also.
This man’s presence added much to the interest of the occasion
by his frequent interruptions, approving, and condemning my
sentiments as they were uttered. I only regret that he did not
undertake a formal reply to my speech, but this, though invited, he
declined to do. It would have given me an opportunity of fortifying
certain positions in my address which were perhaps insufficiently
defended. Upon the whole, taking the visit to Capt. Auld, to Easton
with its old jail, to the home of my old master at Col. Lloyd’s, and this
visit to Harper’s Ferry, with all their associations, they fulfill the
expectation created at the beginning of this chapter.
CHAPTER XVII.
INCIDENTS AND EVENTS.
IN escaping from the South, the reader will have observed that I did
not escape from its wide-spread influence in the North. That
influence met me almost everywhere outside of pronounced anti-
slavery circles, and sometimes even within them. It was in the air,
and men breathed it and were permeated by it, often when they were
quite unconscious of its presence.
I might recount many occasions when I have encountered this
feeling, some painful and melancholy, some ridiculous and amusing.
It has been a part of my mission to expose the absurdity of this spirit
of caste and in some measure help to emancipate men from its
control.
Invited to accompany Hon. Gerrit Smith to dine with Mr. E. C.
Delevan, at Albany many years ago, I expressed to Mr. Smith, my
awkwardness and embarrassment in the society I was likely to meet
there. “Ah!” said that good man, “you must go, Douglass, it is your
mission to break down the walls of separation between the two
races.” I went with Mr. Smith, and was soon made at ease by Mr.
Delevan and the ladies and gentlemen there. They were among the
most refined and brilliant people I had ever met. I felt somewhat
surprised that I could be so much at ease in such company, but I
found it then, as I have since, that the higher the gradation in
intelligence and refinement, the farther removed are all artificial
distinctions, and restraints of mere caste or color.
In one of my anti-slavery campaigns in New York, five and thirty
years ago, I had an appointment at Victor, a town in Ontario County.
I was compelled to stop at the hotel. It was the custom at that time,
to seat the guests at a long table running the length of the dining
room. When I entered I was shown a little table off in a corner. I
knew what it meant, but took my dinner all the same. When I went to
the desk to pay my bill, I said, “Now, Landlord, be good enough to
tell me just why you gave me my dinner at the little table in the
corner by myself?” He was equal to the occasion, and quickly
replied: “Because you see, I wished to give you something better
than the others.” The cool reply staggered me, and I gathered up my
change, muttering only that I did not want to be treated better than
other people, and bade him good morning.
On an anti-slavery tour through the West, in company with H.
Ford Douglas, a young colored man of fine intellect and much
promise, and my old friend John Jones, (both now deceased,) we
stopped at a Hotel in Janesville, and were seated by ourselves to
take our meals, where all the bar-room loafers of the town could
stare us. Thus seated I took occasion to say, loud enough for the
crowd to hear me, that I had just been out to the stable and had
made a great discovery. Asked by Mr. Jones what my discovery was,
I said that I saw there, black horses and white horses eating together
from the same trough in peace, from which I inferred that the horses
of Janesville were more civilized than its people. The crowd saw the
hit, and broke out into a good-natured laugh. We were afterwards
entertained at the same table with other guests.
Many years ago, on my way from Cleveland to Buffalo, on one of
the Lake Steamers, the gong sounded for supper. There was a
rough element on board, such as at that time might be found
anywhere between Buffalo and Chicago. It was not to be trifled with
especially when hungry. At the first sound of the gong there was a
furious rush for the table. From prudence, more than from lack of
appetite, I waited for the second table, as did several others. At this
second table I took a seat far apart from the few gentlemen scattered
along its side, but directly opposite a well dressed, finely-featured
man, of the fairest complexion, high forehead, golden hair and light
beard. His whole appearance told me he was somebody. I had been
seated but a minute or two, when the steward came to me, and
roughly ordered me away. I paid no attention to him, but proceeded
to take my supper, determined not to leave, unless compelled to do
so by superior force, and being young and strong I was not entirely
unwilling to risk the consequences of such a contest. A few moments
passed, when on each side of my chair, there appeared a stalwart of
my own race. I glanced at the gentleman opposite. His brow was
knit, his color changed from white to scarlet, and his eyes were full of
fire. I saw the lightning flash, but I could not tell where it would strike.
Before my sable brethren could execute their captain’s order, and
just as they were about to lay violent hands upon me, a voice from
that man of golden hair and fiery eyes resounded like a clap of
summer thunder. “Let the gentleman alone! I am not ashamed to
take my tea with Mr. Douglass.” His was a voice to be obeyed, and
my right to my seat and my supper was no more disputed.
I bowed my acknowledgments to the gentleman, and thanked
him for his chivalrous interference; and as modestly as I could,
asked him his name. “I am Edward Marshall of Kentucky, now of
California,” he said. “Sir, I am very glad to know you, I have just been
reading your speech in Congress,” I said. Supper over, we passed
several hours in conversation with each other, during which he told
me of his political career in California, of his election to Congress,
and that he was a Democrat, but had no prejudice against color. He
was then just coming from Kentucky where he had been in part to
see his black mammy, for, said he, “I nursed at the breasts of a
colored mother.”
I asked him if he knew my old friend John A. Collins in California.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, “he is a smart fellow; he ran against me for
Congress. I charged him with being an abolitionist, but he denied it,
so I sent off and got the evidence of his having been general agent
of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, and that settled him.”
During the passage, Mr. Marshall invited me into the bar-room to
take a drink. I excused myself from drinking, but went down with him.
There were a number of thirsty looking individuals standing around,
to whom Mr. Marshall said, “Come, boys, take a drink.” When the
drinking was over, he threw down upon the counter a twenty dollar
gold piece, at which the bar-keeper made large eyes, and said he
could not change it. “Well, keep it,” said the gallant Marshall, “it will
all be gone before morning.” After this, we naturally fell apart, and he
was monopolized by other company; but I shall never fail to bear
willing testimony to the generous and manly qualities of this brother
of the gifted and eloquent Thomas Marshall of Kentucky.
In 1842 I was sent by the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society to
hold a Sunday meeting in Pittsfield, N. H., and was given the name
of Mr. Hilles, a subscriber to the Liberator. It was supposed that any
man who had the courage to take and read the Liberator, edited by
Wm. Lloyd Garrison, or the Herald of Freedom, edited by Nathaniel
P. Rodgers, would gladly receive and give food and shelter to any
colored brother laboring in the cause of the slave. As a general rule
this was very true.
There were no railroads in New Hampshire in those days, so I
reached Pittsfield by stage, glad to be permitted to ride upon the top
thereof, for no colored person could be allowed inside. This was
many years before the days of civil rights bills, black Congressmen,
colored United States Marshals, and such like.
Arriving at Pittsfield, I was asked by the driver where I would
stop. I gave him the name of my subscriber to the Liberator. “That is
two miles beyond,” he said. So after landing his other passengers,
he took me on to the house of Mr. Hilles.
I confess I did not seem a very desirable visitor. The day had
been warm, and the road dusty. I was covered with dust, and then I
was not of the color fashionable in that neighborhood, for colored
people were scarce in that part of the old Granite State. I saw in an
instant, that though the weather was warm, I was to have a cool
reception; but cool or warm, there was no alternative left me but to
stay and take what I could get.
Mr. Hilles scarcely spoke to me, and from the moment he saw
me jump down from the top of the stage, carpet-bag in hand, his face
wore a troubled look. His good wife took the matter more
philosophically, and evidently thought my presence there for a day or
two could do the family no especial harm; but her manner was
restrained, silent, and formal, wholly unlike that of anti-slavery ladies
I had met in Massachusetts and Rhode Island.
When tea time came, I found that Mr. Hilles had lost his appetite,
and could not come to the table. I suspected his trouble was
colorphobia, and though I regretted his malady, I knew his case was
not necessarily dangerous; and I was not without some confidence in
my skill and ability in healing diseases of that type. I was, however,
so affected by his condition that I could not eat much of the pie and
cake before me, and felt so little in harmony with things about me
that I was, for me, remarkably reticent during the evening, both
before and after the family worship, for Mr. Hilles was a pious man.
Sunday morning came, and in due season the hour for meeting.
I had arranged a good supply of work for the day. I was to speak four
times: at ten o’clock A. M., at one P. M., at five, and again at half-
past seven in the evening.
When meeting time came, Mr. Hilles brought his fine phaeton to
the door, assisted his wife in, and, although there were two vacant
seats in his carriage, there was no room in it for me. On driving off
from his door, he merely said, addressing me, “You can find your
way to the town hall, I suppose?” “I suppose I can,” I replied, and
started along behind his carriage on the dusty road toward the
village. I found the hall, and was very glad to see in my small
audience the face of good Mrs. Hilles. Her husband was not there,
but had gone to his church. There was no one to introduce me, and I
proceeded with my discourse without introduction. I held my
audience till twelve o’clock—noon—and then took the usual recess
of Sunday meetings in country towns, to allow the people to take
their lunch. No one invited me to lunch, so I remained in the town
hall till the audience assembled again, when I spoke till nearly three
o’clock, when the people again dispersed and left me as before. By
this time I began to be hungry, and seeing a small hotel near, I went
into it, and offered to buy a meal; but I was told “they did not
entertain niggers there.” I went back to the old town hall hungry and
chilled, for an infant “New England northeaster” was beginning to
chill the air, and a drizzling rain to fall. I saw that my movements
were being observed, from the comfortable homes around, with
apparently something of the feeling that children might experience in
seeing a bear prowling about town. There was a grave-yard near the
town hall, and attracted thither, I felt some relief in contemplating the
resting places of the dead, where there was an end to all distinctions
between rich and poor, white and colored, high and low.
While thus meditating on the vanities of the world and my own
loneliness and destitution, and recalling the sublime pathos of the
saying of Jesus, “The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have
nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His head,” I was
approached rather hesitatingly by a gentleman, who inquired my
name. “My name is Douglass,” I replied. “You do not seem to have
any place to stay while in town?” I told him I had not. “Well,” said he,
“I am no abolitionist, but if you will go with me I will take care of you.”
I thanked him, and turned with him towards his fine residence. On
the way I asked him his name. “Moses Norris,” he said. “What! Hon.
Moses Norris?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered. I did not for a moment
know what to do, for I had read that this same man had literally
dragged the Reverend George Storrs from the pulpit, for preaching
abolitionism. I, however, walked along with him and was invited into
his house, when I heard the children running and screaming “Mother,
mother, there is a nigger in the house, there’s a nigger in the house”;
and it was with some difficulty that Mr. Norris succeeded in quieting
the tumult. I saw that Mrs. Norris, too, was much disturbed by my
presence, and I thought for a moment of beating a retreat, but the
kind assurances of Mr. Norris decided me to stay. When quiet was
restored, I ventured the experiment of asking Mrs. Norris to do me a
kindness. I said, “Mrs. Norris, I have taken cold, and am hoarse from
speaking, and I have found that nothing relieves me so readily as a
little loaf sugar and cold water.” The lady’s manner changed, and
with her own hands she brought me the water and sugar. I thanked
her with genuine earnestness, and from that moment I could see that
her prejudices were more than half gone, and that I was more than
half welcome at the fireside of this Democratic Senator. I spoke
again in the evening, and at the close of the meeting there was quite
a contest between Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Hilles, as to which I should
go home with. I considered Mrs. Hilles’ kindness to me, though her
manner had been formal; I knew the cause, and I thought, especially
as my carpet-bag was there, I would go with her. So giving Mr. and
Mrs. Norris many thanks, I bade them good-bye, and went home
with Mr. and Mrs. Hilles, where I found the atmosphere wondrously
and most agreeably changed. Next day, Mr. Hilles took me in the
same carriage in which I did not ride on Sunday, to my next
appointment, and on the way told me he felt more honored by having
me in it, than he would be if he had the President of the United
States. This compliment would have been a little more flattering to
my self-esteem, had not John Tyler then occupied the Presidential
chair.
In those unhappy days of the Republic, when all presumptions
were in favor of slavery, and a colored man as a slave met less
resistance in the use of public conveyances than a colored man as a
freeman, I happened to be in Philadelphia, and was afforded an
opportunity to witness this preference. I took a seat in a street car by
the side of my friend Mrs. Amy Post, of Rochester, New York, who,
like myself, had come to Philadelphia to attend an anti-slavery
meeting. I had no sooner seated myself when the conductor
hastened to remove me from the car. My friend remonstrated, and
the amazed conductor said, “Lady, does he belong to you?” “He
does,” said Mrs. Post, and there the matter ended. I was allowed to
ride in peace, not because I was a man, and had paid my fare, but
because I belonged to somebody? My color was no longer offensive
when it was supposed that I was not a person, but a piece of
property.
Another time, in the same city, I took a seat, unobserved, far up
in the street car, among the white passengers. All at once I heard the
conductor, in an angry tone, order another colored man, who was
modestly standing on the platform of the rear end of the car, to get
off, and actually stopped the car to push him off, when I, from within,
with all the emphasis I could throw into my voice, in imitation of my
chivalrous friend Marshall of Kentucky, sung out, “Go on! let the
gentleman alone; no one here objects to his riding!” Unhappily the
fellow saw where the voice came from, and turned his wrathful
attention to me, and said, “You shall get out also!” I told him I would
do no such thing, and if he attempted to remove me by force he
would do it at his peril. Whether the young man was afraid to tackle
me, or did not wish to disturb the passengers, I do not know. At any
rate he did not attempt to execute his threat, and I rode on in peace
till I reached Chestnut street, when I got off and went about my
business.
On my way down the Hudson river, from Albany to New York, at
one time, on the steamer Alida, in company with some English ladies
who had seen me in their own country, received and treated me as a
gentleman, I ventured, like any other passenger, to go, at the call of
the dinner bell, into the cabin and take a seat at the table; but I was
forcibly taken from it and compelled to leave the cabin. My friends,
who wished to enjoy a day’s trip on the beautiful Hudson, left the
table with me, and went to New York hungry and not a little indignant
and disgusted at such barbarism. There were influential persons on
board the Alida, on this occasion, a word from whom might have
spared me this indignity; but there was no Edward Marshall among
them to defend the weak and rebuke the strong.
When Miss Sarah Jane Clark, one of America’s brilliant literary
ladies, known to the world under the nom de plume of Grace
Greenwood, was young, and as brave as she was beautiful, I
encountered a similar experience to that on the Alida on one of the
Ohio river steamers; and that lady, being on board, arose from her
seat at the table, expressed her disapprobation, and moved
majestically away with her sister to the upper deck. Her conduct
seemed to amaze the lookers on, but it filled me with grateful
admiration.
When on my way to attend the great Free Soil Convention at
Pittsburg, in 1852, which nominated John P. Hale for President, and
George W. Julian for Vice-President, the train stopped for dinner at
Alliance, Ohio, and I attempted to enter the hotel with the other
delegates, but was rudely repulsed, when many of them, learning of
it, rose from the table, and denounced the outrage, and refused to
finish their dinners.
In anticipation of our return, at the close of the Convention, Mr.
Sam. Beck, the proprietor of the hotel, prepared dinner for three
hundred guests, but when the train arrived, not one of the large
company went into his place, and his dinner was left to spoil.
A dozen years ago, or more, on one of the frostiest and coldest
nights I ever experienced, I delivered a lecture in the town of
Elmwood, Illinois, twenty miles distant from Peoria. It was one of
those bleak and flinty nights, when prairie winds pierce like needles,
and a step on the snow sounds like a file on the steel teeth of a saw.
My next appointment after Elmwood was on Monday night, and in
order to reach it in time, it was necessary to go to Peoria the night
previous, so as to take an early morning train, and I could only
accomplish this by leaving Elmwood after my lecture at midnight, for
there was no Sunday train. So a little before the hour at which my
train was expected at Elmwood, I started for the station with my
friend Mr. Brown, the gentleman who had kindly entertained me
during my stay. On the way I said to him, “I am going to Peoria with
something like a real dread of the place. I expect to be compelled to
walk the streets of that city all night to keep from freezing.” I told him
“that the last time I was there I could obtain no shelter at any hotel,
and that I feared I should meet a similar exclusion to-night.” Mr.
Brown was visibly affected by the statement, and for some time was
silent. At last, as if suddenly discovering a way out of a painful
situation, he said, “I know a man in Peoria, should the hotels be
closed against you there, who would gladly open his doors to you—a
man who will receive you at any hour of the night, and in any
weather, and that man is Robert J. Ingersoll.” “Why,” said I, “it would
not do to disturb a family at such a time as I shall arrive there, on a
night so cold as this.” “No matter about the hour,” he said; “neither he
nor his family would be happy if they thought you were shelterless on
such a night. I know Mr. Ingersoll, and that he will be glad to
welcome you at midnight or at cock-crow.” I became much interested
by this description of Mr. Ingersoll. Fortunately I had no occasion for
disturbing him or his family. I found quarters at the best hotel in the
city for the night. In the morning I resolved to know more of this now
famous and noted “infidel.” I gave him an early call, for I was not so
abundant in cash as to refuse hospitality in a strange city when on a
mission of “good will to men.” The experiment worked admirably. Mr.
Ingersoll was at home, and if I have ever met a man with real living
human sunshine in his face, and honest, manly kindness in his
voice, I met one who possessed these qualities that morning. I
received a welcome from Mr. Ingersoll and his family which would
have been a cordial to the bruised heart of any proscribed and
storm-beaten stranger, and one which I can never forget or fail to
appreciate. Perhaps there were Christian ministers and Christian
families in Peoria at that time by whom I might have been received in
the same gracious manner. In charity I am bound to say there
probably were such ministers and such families, but I am equally
bound to say that in my former visits to this place I had failed to find
them. Incidents of this character have greatly tended to liberalize my
views as to the value of creeds in estimating the character of men.
They have brought me to the conclusion that genuine goodness is
the same, whether found inside or outside the church, and that to be
an “infidel” no more proves a man to be selfish, mean, and wicked,
than to be evangelical proves him to be honest, just, and humane.
It may possibly be inferred from what I have said of the
prevalence of prejudice, and the practice of proscription, that I have
had a very miserable sort of life, or that I must be remarkably
insensible to public aversion. Neither inference is true. I have neither
been miserable because of the ill-feeling of those about me, nor
indifferent to popular approval; and I think, upon the whole, I have
passed a tolerably cheerful and even joyful life. I have never felt
myself isolated since I entered the field to plead the cause of the
slave, and demand equal rights for all. In every town and city where
it has been my lot to speak, there have been raised up for me friends
of both colors to cheer and strengthen me in my work. I have always
felt, too, that I had on my side all the invisible forces of the moral
government of the universe. Happily for me I have had the wit to
distinguish between what is merely artificial and transient and what is
fundamental and permanent; and resting on the latter, I could
cheerfully encounter the former. “How do you feel,” said a friend to
me, “when you are hooted and jeered on the street on account of
your color?” “I feel as if an ass had kicked but had hit nobody,” was
my answer.
I have been greatly helped to bear up under unfriendly
conditions, too, by a constitutional tendency to see the funny sides of
things which has enabled me to laugh at follies that others would
soberly resent. Besides, there were compensations as well as
drawbacks in my relations to the white race. A passenger on the
deck of a Hudson River steamer, covered with a shawl, well-worn
and dingy, I was addressed by a remarkably-religiously-missionary-
looking man in black coat and white cravat, who took me for one of
the noble red men of the far West, with “From away back?” I was
silent, and he added, “Indian, Indian?” “No, no,” I said; “I am a
negro.” The dear man seemed to have no missionary work with me,
and retreated with evident marks of disgust.
On another occasion, traveling by a night train on the New York
Central railroad, when the cars were crowded and seats were
scarce, and I was occupying a whole seat, the only luxury my color
afforded me in traveling, I had laid down with my head partly
covered, thinking myself secure in my possession, when a well
dressed man approached and wished to share the seat with me.
Slightly rising, I said, “Don’t sit down here, my friend, I am a nigger.”
“I don’t care who the devil you are,” he said, “I mean to sit with you.”
“Well, if it must be so,” I said, “I can stand it if you can,” and we at
once fell into a very pleasant conversation, and passed the hours on
the road very happily together. These two incidents illustrate my
career in respect of popular prejudice. If I have had kicks, I have also
had kindness. If cast down, I have been exalted; and the latter
experience has, after all, far exceeded the former.
During a quarter of a century I resided in the city of Rochester,
N. Y. When I removed from there, my friends caused a marble bust
to be made from me, and have since honored it with a place in
Sibley Hall, of Rochester University. Less in a spirit of vanity than
that of gratitude, I copy here the remarks of the Rochester Democrat
and Chronicle on the occasion, and on my letter of thanks for the
honor done me by my friends and fellow-citizens of that beautiful
city: