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Learn PostgreSQL
Second Edition
Luca Ferrari
Enrico Pirozzi
BIRMINGHAM—MUMBAI
Learn PostgreSQL
Second Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of the information
presented. However, the information contained in this book is sold without warranty, either express or
implied. Neither the authors, nor Packt Publishing or its dealers and distributors, will be held liable for any
damages caused or alleged to have been caused directly or indirectly by this book.
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mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals. However, Packt Publishing cannot guarantee
the accuracy of this information.
ISBN 978-1-83763-564-1
www.packt.com
To my beautiful wife, Emanuela; I love her like Santa loves his reindeer.
– Luca Ferrari
– Enrico Pirozzi
Contributors
Enrico Pirozzi has been passionate about computer science since he was a 13-year-old. His first
computer was a Commodore 64, and today he holds a master’s degree from the University of Bo-
logna. He has participated as a speaker at national and international conferences on PostgreSQL.
He first encountered PostgreSQL back in release 7.2, he was a co-founder of the first PostgreSQL
Italian mailing list and the first Italian PostgreSQL website, and he talks regularly at technical
conferences and events and delivers professional training. Right now, he is employed as a Post-
greSQL database administrator at Zucchetti Hospitality (Zucchetti Group S.p.a).
About the reviewers
Chris Mair holds a master’s degree from the University of Trento, Italy, and has been freelance
since 2003. His portfolio consists of contributions to over 25 companies, including consultancy
work on database programming, performance optimization, and seamless migrations. Chris has
expertise in system and network programming, data processing, ML, and more. He has a particular
affinity for PostgreSQL. He has taught over 200 courses on various IT topics and is passionate
about open-source software.
Silvio Trancanella is a software engineer with around 12 years of experience in backend devel-
opment, mainly using Java Enterprise and PostgreSQL. He has always been fascinated by database
management and was immediately drawn to PostgreSQL from the very beginning of his career.
He worked for about 10 years on tourism industry software, developing and maintaining critical
services that relied on the PostgreSQL DBMS.
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Table of Contents
Preface xxv
Index 697
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
CHAPTER XXX
ENDERBY CASTLE
There were two spacious open barouches and one large wagon.
“My lord ordered me, sir, if the weather should be fine, to bring the
barouches for the ladies, as they would be so much pleasanter,” the
man explained, touching his hat, as he held the door of the first
carriage open for Mrs. Force.
The travelers were soon seated—Mr. and Mrs. Force, Wynnette
and Elva in the first barouche, Le, Odalite and Rosemary in the
second, and the two servants, with the dog and the luggage, in the
wagon.
“Oh, how jolly!” exclaimed Wynnette, looking about her.
By this time it was light enough to see their surroundings—the
hoary cliffs and the picturesque fishing village on their right; the far-
spread rocky beach, with the fishing boats drawn up, on their left;
the expanse of ocean beyond, dotted at long distances with sails; and
right near them the only street of the hamlet that ran from the beach
up through a natural cleft in the rocks, and looked something like a
rude, broad staircase of flagstones, which were paved on edge to
afford a hold to horses’ feet in climbing up the steep ascent.
By this time, too, the denizens of the village were out before their
doors to stare at the unusual sight of three carriages and a large party
of visitors for Enderby Castle.
For, of course, as his lordship’s carriages and liveried servants
were there to meet the party of travelers, they must be visitors to the
castle.
The men took off their hats and the women courtesied as the open
carriages passed slowly up the steep street to the top of the cliff,
where it joined the road leading northward along the sea toward
Enderby Castle.
Now the travelers in the open carriages had a grand view of land
and water.
On the east, moorland rolling into hills in the mid distance and
rising into mountains on the far horizon. The newly risen sun shining
above them and tinting all their tops with the soft and varied hues of
the opal stone. Here and there at long distances could be seen the
ruined tower of some ancient stronghold, or the roof and chimneys
of some old farmstead. Everything looked old or ancient on this wild
coast of Cumberland.
On the west the ocean rolled out until lost to view in the mists of
the horizon.
Before them northward the road stretched for many a mile.
Far ahead they saw a mighty promontory stretching out to sea. At
its base the waves dashed, leaped, roared, tumbled like raging wild
beasts clawing at the rocks. On the extreme edge of its point arose a
mass of gray stone buildings scarcely to be distinguished from the
foundation on which they were built.
“How far is it to Enderby Castle?” inquired Mr. Force of the
coachman who drove his carriage.
“Ten miles from the station, sir,” replied the man, touching his hat.
“That is the castle,” said Mrs. Force, pointing to the pile of
buildings on the edge of the promontory, and handing the field glass
with which she had been taking a view of her birthplace and first
home.
“That! It is a fine, commanding situation, but it scarcely looks to be
more than five miles from here.”
“It is not, if we could take a bee line over land and sea, but the road
has to follow the bend of the estuary,” replied the lady.
All the occupants of both carriages, which had come to a standstill,
were now on their feet gazing at that hoary headland, capped with its
ancient stronghold.
The field glass was passed from one to another, while the carriages
paused long enough for all to take a view.
“So that was the home of my grandparents and of our forefathers
for—how long, dear mamma?” inquired Odalite.
“Eight centuries, my dear. The round tower that you see is the
oldest part of the edifice, and was built by Kedrik of Enderbee in the
year 950.”
“Lord, what a fine time the rats, mice, bats, owls, rooks and ghosts
must have in it!” remarked Wynnette.
“It is like a picture in a Christmas ghost story,” said Elva.
“It seems like Aunt Sukey was reading it all to me out of a novel by
the evening fire at Grove Hill,” mused Rosemary.
“Go on,” said Mr. Force.
And the carriages started again.
The road, still running along the top of the cliff, turned gradually
more and more to the left until its course verged from the north to
the northwest, and then to the west, as it entered upon the long, high
point of land upon which stood the castle. The road now began to
ascend another steep, paved with stones on edge to make a hold for
the horses’ feet in climbing, and at length entered a sort of alley
between huge stone walls that rose higher and higher on either side
as the road ascended, until it reached a heavy gateway flanked with
towers, between which, and over the gateway, hung the spiked and
rusting iron portcullis, looking as if it were ready, at the touch of a
spring, to fall and impale any audacious intruder who might pass
beneath it. But it was fast rusted into its place, where it had been
stationary for ages.
“I wonder who was the last warder that raised this portcullis?”
mused Wynnette.
“I cannot tell you, my dear. It has not been moved in the memory
of man,” replied Mrs. Force.
“I see ghosts again!” exclaimed Wynnette—“men-at-arms on
yonder battlements! Knights, squires and pursuivants in the
courtyard here! Oh, what a haunted hole is this!”
They entered a quadrangular courtyard paved with flagstones,
inclosed by stone buildings, and having at each of the four corners a
strong tower.
The front building, through which they had passed by the
ascending road, was the most ancient part of the castle and faced the
sea. But in the rear of that was the more recent structure, used as the
dwelling of the earl and his household. This modern building also
faced the sea, on the other side, but it could not be approached from
the cliff road except through the front. These buildings were not used
at all. They were given over to the denizens objected to by Wynnette
—to rats, mice, bats, owls and rooks, and—perhaps ghosts.
On either side the buildings were used as quarters for the servants
and offices for the household.
They drove through the courtyard, under an archway in the wall of
the modern building, and out to the front entrance, facing the open
sea.
Many steps led from the pavement up to the massive oaken doors,
flanked by huge pillars of stone, that gave admittance to the building.
The coachman left his box, went up these stairs and knocked.
The double doors swung open.
Mr. Force alighted and handed out his wife and two elder
daughters, while Le performed the same service for Elva and
Rosemary, and the party walked up the stairs to the open door.
A footman in the gray livery of Enderby bowed them in.
CHAPTER XXXI
MRS. FORCE’S BROTHER
Early the next morning Mr. Force, Leonidas and Wynnette, who
begged to make one of the party, left Enderby Castle for Lancashire.
The gray-haired coachman drove them in an open carriage to the
Nethermost Railway Station.
On this drive they retraced the road on the top of the cliffs which
they had traversed on the previous day.
They reached Nethermost just in time to jump on board the
“parliamentary,” a slow train—none but slow trains ever did stop at
this obscure and unfrequented station.
Mr. Force secured a first-class compartment for himself and party,
and they were soon comfortably seated and being whirled onward
toward Lancaster.
For some miles the road followed the line of the coast in a
southerly direction, and then diverged a little to the eastward until it
reached the ancient and picturesque town of Lancaster, perched
upon its own hill and crowned with its old castle, which dates back to
the time of John of Gaunt.
Here they left their train, and on consulting the local time-table in
the ticket office found that the next train on the branch line going to
the station nearest Angleton did not start until 3 P.M.
This, as it was now but 11 A.M., gave the party an opportunity of
seeing the town, as well as of getting a luncheon.
A chorus of voices offered cabs; but Mr. Force, waving them all
away, walked up the street of antiquated houses and brought his
party to the ancient inn of “The Royal Oak.”
Here he ordered luncheon, to be ready at two, and then set out
with his young people to walk through the town.
They climbed the hill and viewed the castle, now fallen from its
ancient glory of a royal fortress—not into ruin, but into deeper
degradation as the county jail. But the donjon keep, King John’s
Tower, and John of Gaunt’s Gate remain as of old.
They next visited the old parish church of St. Mary’s, where they
saw some wonderful stained glass windows, brass statuary, and oak
carvings of a date to which the memory of man reached not back.
They could only gaze upon the outside of the cotton and silk
factories and the iron foundries before the clock in the church tower
struck two, and they returned to the hotel for lunch.
At three o’clock they took the train for Angleton.
Their course now lay eastward through many a mile of the
manufacturing districts, and then entered a moorland, waste and
sparsely inhabited, stretching eastward to the range of mountains
known in local phraseology as “England’s Backbone.”
It was six o’clock on a warm June afternoon when the slow train
stopped at a little, lonely station, in the midst of a moor, where there
was not another house anywhere in sight.
Here our travelers left their compartment and came out upon the
platform, carpetbags in hand; and the train went on its way.
Our party paused on the platform, looking about them.
On their right hand stood the station, a small, strong building of
stone with two rooms and a ticket office. Behind that the moor
stretched out in unbroken solitude to the horizon.
On their left hand was the track of the railroad, and beyond that
the moor rolling into low hills, toward the distant range of
mountains.
There was not a vehicle of any sort in sight; and there were but two
human beings besides themselves on the spot—one was the ticket
agent and the other the railway porter.
Mr. Force spoke to the latter.
“Where can I get a carriage to take my party on to Angleton?”
The man, a red, shock-haired rustic, stared at the questioner a
minute before answering.
“Noa whurr, maister, leaf it be at t’ Whoit Coo.”
“And where is the White Cow?” inquired the gentleman.
The rustic stretched his arm out and pointed due east.
Mr. Force strained his eyes in that direction, but at first could see
nothing but the moor stretching out in the distance and rolling into
hills as it reached the range of mountains.
“Papa,” said Wynnette, who was straining her eyes also, “I think I
see the place. I know I see a curl of smoke and the top of a chimney,
and the peak of a gable-end roof. I think the rise of the ground
prevents our seeing more.”
“Oie, oie, yon’s t’ Whoit Coo,” assented the porter.
“How far is it from here?” inquired Mr. Force.
“Taw mulls, maister.”
“Can you go there and bring us a carriage of some sort? I will pay
you well for your trouble,” said Mr. Force.
“Naw, maister. Oi’ mawn’t leave t’ stution.”
“Uncle!” exclaimed Le, “I can go and bring you a carriage in no
time. You take Wynnette into the house and wait for me.”
And without more ado Le ran across the track and strode off across
the moor.
Mr. Force took Wynnette into the waiting room of the little
wayside station, where they sat down.
There was no carpet on the floor, no paper on the walls, no shades
at the windows, but against the walls were rows of wooden benches,
and on them large posters of railway and steamboat routes, hotels,
watering places, and so forth, and one picture of the winner of the
last Derby.
They had scarcely time to get tired of waiting before Le came back
with the most wretched-looking turnout that ever tried to be a useful
conveyance.
It was a long cart covered with faded and torn black leather, and
furnished with wooden seats without cushions. Its harness was worn
and patched. But there was one comfort in the whole equipage—the
horse was in very good condition. It was a strong draught horse.
“I shall not have to cry for cruelty to animals, at any rate,” said
Wynnette, as her father helped her up into a seat.
“How far is it to Angleton?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver.
“Sux mulls, surr,” answered the man. “Sux mulls, if yur tek it cross
t’ moor, but tun, ’round b’ t’ rood.”
“Is it very rough across the moor?” inquired Mr. Force.
“Muddlin’, maister,” replied the man.
“Go across the moor,” said the gentleman, as he stepped up into
the carriage.
Le followed him. The horse started and trudged on, jolting them
over the irons on the railway track and striking into the very worst
country road they had ever known.
Yes. It was rough riding across that moor, sitting on hard benches,
in a cart without springs, and drawn by a strong, hard-trotting horse.
Our travelers were jolted until their bones were sore before they
reached the first stopping place.
This was “‘The White Cow,” an old-fashioned inn, in a dip of the
moor, where the ground began to roll in hills and hollows toward the
distant mountains.
The house fronted east, and, as it lay basking in the late afternoon
summer sun, was very picturesque. Its steep, gable roof was of red
tiles, with tall, twisted chimneys, and projecting dormer windows; its
walls were of some dark, gray stone, with broad windows and doors,
and a great archway leading into the stable yard. A staff, with a
swinging sign, stood before the door.
The declining sun threw the shadow of the house in front of it; and
in this shade a pair of country laborers sat on a bench, with a table
before them. They were smoking short pipes and drinking beer,
which stood in pewter pots on the board.
This was the only sign of life and business about the still place.
As the cart drew up Mr. Force got out of it and helped his daughter
to alight.
Le followed them.
“I think we will go in the house and rest a while, and see if we can
get a decent cup of tea, my dear. We have had nothing since we left
Lancaster, at three o’clock, and it is now half-past seven. You must be
both tired and hungry,” said the squire, leading her in.
“‘I’m killed, sire,’”
responded Wynnette, misapplying a line from Browning, as she
limped along on her father’s arm.
The man who had driven them from the railway station, and whom
after developments proved to be waiter, hostler, groom and
bootblack rolled into one for the guests of the White Cow, left his
horse and cart standing and ran before Mr. Force to show the
travelers into the house.
It was needless; but he did it.
They entered a broad hall paved with flagstones.
On the left of this an open door revealed the taproom, half full of
rustic workingmen, who were smoking, drinking, laughing and
talking, and whose forms loomed indistinctly through the thick
smoke, tinted in one corner like a golden mist by the horizontal rays
of the setting sun that streamed obliquely through the end window.
On the right another open door revealed a large low-ceiled parlor,
with whitewashed walls and sanded floor, a broad window in front
filled with flowering plants in pots, and a broad fireplace at the back
filled with evergreen boughs and cut paper flowers. On the walls
were cheap colored pictures, purporting to be portraits of the queen
and members of the royal family. Against the walls were ranged
Windsor chairs. On the mantelpiece stood an eight-day clock,
flanked by a pair of sperm candles, in brass candlesticks.
In the middle of the floor stood a square table, covered with a
damask cloth as white as new fallen snow, and so smooth and glossy,
with such sharp lines where it had been folded, that proved it to have
been just taken from the linen press and spread upon the table.
The house might be old-fashioned and somewhat dilapidated, not
to say tumble-down, as to its outward appearance; but this large,
low-ceiled room was clean, neat, fresh and fragrant as it was possible
for a room to be.
“This is pleasant, isn’t it, papa?” said Wynnette, as she stood by the
flowery window, threw off her brown straw hat, pulled off her gloves,
drew off her duster, put them all upon one chair and dropped herself
into another.
“Yes. If the tea proves as good as the room, we shall be content,”
replied Mr. Force.
The man-of-all-work, who had slipped out and put on a clean
apron, and taken up a clean towel, with magical expedition, now
reappeared to take orders.
“What would you please to have, sir?”
“Tea for the party, and anything else you have in the house that is
good to eat with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
And the waiter pulled the white tablecloth this way and that and
smoothed it with the palms of his hands, apparently for no other
reason than to prove his zeal, for he did not improve the cloth.
Mr. Force and Le walked out “to look around,” they said.
CHAPTER XXXIII
A CLEW
The one maid-of-all-work came in and asked the young lady if she
would not like to go to a room and wash her face and hands.
Wynnette decidedly would like it, and said so.
The girl was a fresh, wholesome-looking English lass, with rosy
cheeks and rippling red hair. She wore a dark blue dress of some
cheap woolen material, with a white apron and white collar.
She led the young lady out into the hall again, and up a flight of
broad stone steps to an upper hall, and thence into a front bed
chamber, immediately over the parlor.
Here again were the whitewashed walls, clean bare floor, the
broad, white-shaded window, the open fireplace filled with
evergreens, the polished wooden chairs, ranged along the walls, and
all the dainty neatness of the room below. There were, besides, a
white-curtained bed, with a strip of carpet on each side of it; a white-
draped dressing table with an oval glass, and a white-covered
washstand, with white china basin and ewer. In a word, it was a pure,
fresh, dainty, and fragrant white room.
“Oh, what a nice place! Oh, how I should like to stay here to-night,
instead of going further!” exclaimed Wynnette, appreciatively.
The girl made no reply, but began to lay out towels on the
washstand, and to pour water from the ewer into the basin.
“This is a very lonesome country, though, isn’t it?” inquired
Wynnette, who was bound to talk.
“There’s not a many gentry, ma’am. There be mill hands and
pitmen mostly about here,” said the girl.
“Mill hands and pitmen! I saw no mills nor mines, either, as we
drove along.”
“No, ma’am; but they beant far off. The hills do hide them just
about here; but you might seen the high chimneys—I mean the tops
of ’em and the smoke.”
“Are they pitmen down there in the barroom?”
“In the taproom? Yes, ma’am. Mill hands, and farm hands, too.
They do come in at this hour for their beer and ’bacco.”
“Do you have many more customers besides these men?”
“Not ivery day, ma’am; but we hev the farmers on their way to
Middlemoor market stop here; and—and the gentry coming and
going betwixt the station and Fell Hall, or Middlemoor Court, or
Anglewood Manor, ma’am.”
“How far is Anglewood Manor from this?”
“About five miles, ma’am.”
“‘Five!’ Why, I thought it wasn’t more than four. The coachman
told us it was only six from the station and we have come two.”
“That was Anglewood village, I reckon, ma’am. That is only four
miles from here; but Anglewood Manor is a short mile beyant that.”
“Ah! Who keeps this inn? There is no name on the sign.”
“No, ma’am. It’s ‘T’ Whoit Coo.’ It allers hev been ‘T’ Whoit Coo,’
ma’am.”
“But who keeps it?” persisted inquisitive Wynnette.
“Oo! Me mawther keeps it, iver sin’ feyther deed, ma’am. Mawther
tends bar hersen, and Jonah waits and waters horses, and cleans
boots, and does odd jobs, and I be chambermaid.”
“Ah! and who is Jonah?”
“Me brawther.”
“Ah! And so your mother, your brother, and yourself do all the
work and run the hotel?”
“Yes, ma’am. It would no pay us else,” replied the “Maid of the
Inn,” who seemed to be as much inclined to be communicative as
Wynnette was to be inquisitive.
“Oh, well, it is lucky that you are all able to do so. But you have not
told me your name yet.”
“Mine be Hetty Kirby, ma’am. Brawther Jonah’s be Jonah, and
mawther’s be the Widow Kirby,” definitely replied the girl.
“‘Kirby!’ Oh—why——Tell me, did you have a relation named John
Kirby go to America once upon a time?”
“Yes, ma’am, a long time ago, before I can remember, me Oncle
John Kirby, me feyther’s yo’ngest brawther, went there and never
come back.”
“Oh! And—is your grandfather living?”
The “Maid of the Inn” stared. What was all this to the young lady?
Wynnette interpreted her look and explained:
“Because, if he is living, I have got a letter and a bundle for him
from his son in New York.”
“Oh, Law! hev you, though, ma’am? Look at thet, noo! What
wonders in this world. The grandfeyther is living, ma’am, but not in
Moorton. He be lately coom to dwell wi’ ‘is son Job, me Oncle Job,
who be sexton at Anglewood church.”
“Sexton at Anglewood church! Is your uncle sexton at Anglewood
church? And does your grandfather, old Mr. Kirby, live with him?”
The maid of the inn stared again. Why should this strange young
lady take so much interest in the Kirbys?
Again Wynnette interpreted her look, and explained:
“Because if your grandfather does live there, it will save us a
journey to Moorton, as we are going to Anglewood, and can give him
the letter and parcel without turning out of our way,” she said; but
she was also thinking that if this old Kirby, to whom she was bringing
letters and presents from his son in America, was the father of the
sexton at Anglewood church, an inmate of his cottage, and probably
assistant in his work, these circumstances might greatly facilitate
their admission into vaults and mausoleums which the party had
come to see, but which might otherwise have been closed to them.
“Oh, ma’am,” said Hetty, “would you mind letting mawther see the
letter and parcel?”
“No, certainly not; but I have no right to let her open either of
them, you know.”
“She shawnt, ma’am; but it wull do the mawther good to see the
outside ’n ’em. And o’ Sunday, when she goes to church, she can see
the grandfeyther, and get to read t’ letter. And there be t’ bell, ma’am.
And we mun goo doon to tea.”
Wynnette was ready, and went downstairs, attended by the girl.
A dainty and delicious repast was spread upon the table. Tea,
whose rich aroma filled the room and proved its excellence, muffins,
sally-lunns, biscuits, buttered toast, rich milk, cream and butter,
fried chicken, poached eggs, sliced tongue and ham, radishes, pepper
grass, cheese, marmalade, jelly, pound cake and plum cake.
Wynnette’s eyes danced as she saw the feast.
“It is as good as a St. Mary’s county spread! And I couldn’t say
more for it if I were to talk all day!” she exclaimed, as she took her
place at the head of the table to pour out the tea.
Mr. Force asked a blessing, just as he would have done if he had
been at home, and then the three hungry travelers “fell to.”
“Father,” said Wynnette, when she had poured out the tea, which
Hetty began to hand around, “do you know the Widow Kirby who
keeps this hotel——”
“Inn, my dear—inn,” amended the squire. “I am so happy to find
myself in an old-fashioned inn that I protest against its being
insulted with the name of hotel.”
“All right, squire,” said Wynnette.
“‘A sweet by any other smell would name as rose,’