For the most part, what befell Israel during his forty years wanderings in the London deserts, surpassed the forty years in the natural wilderness1 of the outcast Hebrews under Moses.
In that London fog, went before him the ever-present cloud by day, but no pillar of fire by the night, except the cold column of the monument, two hundred feet beneath the mocking gilt2 flames on whose top, at the stone base, the shiverer, of midnight, often laid down.
But these experiences, both from their intensity3 and his solitude4, were necessarily squalid. Best not enlarge upon them. For just as extreme suffering, without hope, is intolerable to the victim, so, to others, is its depiction5 without some corresponding delusive6 mitigation. The gloomiest and truthfulest dramatist seldom chooses for his theme the calamities8, however extraordinary, of inferior and private persons; least of all, the pauper's; admonished9 by the fact, that to the craped palace of the king lying in state, thousands of starers shall throng10; but few feel enticed11 to the shanty12, where, like a pealed13 knuckle-bone, grins the unupholstered corpse14 of the beggar.
Why at one given stone in the flagging does man after man cross yonder street? What plebeian15 Lear or Oedipus, what Israel Potter, cowers16 there by the corner they shun17? From this turning point, then, we too cross over and skim events to the end; omitting the particulars of the starveling's wrangling18 with rats for prizes in the sewers20; or his crawling into an abandoned doorless house in St. Giles', where his hosts were three dead men, one pendant; into another of an alley21 nigh Houndsditch, where the crazy hovel, in phosphoric rottenness, fell sparkling on him one pitchy midnight, and he received that injury, which, excluding activity for no small part of the future, was an added cause of his prolongation of exile, besides not leaving his faculties22 unaffected by the concussion23 of one of the rafters on his brain.
But these were some of the incidents not belonging to the beginning of his career. On the contrary, a sort of humble25 prosperity attended him for a time; insomuch that once he was not without hopes of being able to buy his homeward passage so soon as the war should end. But, as stubborn fate would have it, being run over one day at Holborn Bars, and taken into a neighboring bakery, he was there treated with such kindliness26 by a Kentish lass, the shop-girl, that in the end he thought his debt of gratitude27 could only be repaid by love. In a word, the money saved up for his ocean voyage was lavished28 upon a rash embarkation29 in wedlock30.
Originally he had fled to the capital to avoid the dilemma31 of impressment or imprisonment32. In the absence of other motives33, the dread34 of those hardships would have fixed35 him there till the peace. But now, when hostilities36 were no more, so was his money. Some period elapsed ere the affairs of the two governments were put on such a footing as to support an American consul37 at London. Yet, when this came to pass, he could only embrace the facilities for a return here furnished, by deserting a wife and child, wedded38 and born in the enemy's land.
The peace immediately filled England, and more especially London, with hordes39 of disbanded soldiers; thousands of whom, rather than starve, or turn highwaymen (which no few of their comrades did, stopping coaches at times in the most public streets), would work for such a pittance40 as to bring down the wages of all the laboring41 classes. Neither was our adventurer the least among the sufferers. Driven out of his previous employ—a sort of porter in a river-side warehouse—by this sudden influx43 of rivals, destitute44, honest men like himself, with the ingenuity45 of his race, he turned his hand to the village art of chair-bottoming. An itinerant46, he paraded the streets with the cry of "Old chairs to mend!" furnishing a curious illustration of the contradictions of human life; that he who did little but trudge47, should be giving cosy48 seats to all the rest of the world. Meantime, according to another well-known Malthusian enigma49 in human affairs, his family increased. In all, eleven children were born to him in certain sixpenny garrets in Moorfields. One after the other, ten were buried.
When chair-bottoming would fail, resort was had to match-making. That business being overdone50 in turn, next came the cutting of old rags, bits of paper, nails, and broken glass. Nor was this the last step. From the gutter51 he slid to the sewer19. The slope was smooth. In poverty—"Facilis descensus Averni."
But many a poor soldier had sloped down there into the boggy52 canal of Avernus before him. Nay53, he had three corporals and a sergeant54 for company.
But his lot was relieved by two strange things, presently to appear. In 1793 war again broke out, the great French war. This lighted London of some of its superfluous55 hordes, and lost Israel the subterranean56 society of his friends, the corporals and sergeant, with whom wandering forlorn through the black kingdoms of mud, he used to spin yarns57 about sea prisoners in hulks, and listen to stories of the Black Hole of Calcutta; and often would meet other pairs of poor soldiers, perfect strangers, at the more public corners and intersections58 of sewers—the Charing-Crosses below; one soldier having the other by his remainder button, earnestly discussing the sad prospects59 of a rise in bread, or the tide; while through the grating of the gutters60 overhead, the rusty61 skylights of the realm, came the hoarse62 rumblings of bakers63' carts, with splashes of the flood whereby these unsuspected gnomes64 of the city lived.
Encouraged by the exodus65 of the lost tribes of soldiers, Israel returned to chair-bottoming. And it was in frequenting Covent-Garden market, at early morning, for the purchase of his flags, that he experienced one of the strange alleviations hinted of above. That chatting with the ruddy, aproned, hucksterwomen, on whose moist cheeks yet trickled67 the dew of the dawn on the meadows; that being surrounded by bales of hay, as the raker by cocks and ricks in the field; those glimpses of garden produce, the blood-beets, with the damp earth still tufting the roots; that mere68 handling of his flags, and bethinking him of whence they must have come, the green hedges through which the wagon69 that brought them had passed; that trudging70 home with them as a gleaner71 with his sheaf of wheat;—all this was inexpressibly grateful. In want and bitterness, pent in, perforce, between dingy72 walls, he had rural returns of his boyhood's sweeter days among them; and the hardest stones of his solitary73 heart (made hard by bare endurance alone) would feel the stir of tender but quenchless74 memories, like the grass of deserted75 flagging, upsprouting through its closest seams. Sometimes, when incited76 by some little incident, however trivial in itself, thoughts of home would—either by gradually working and working upon him, or else by an impetuous rush of recollection—overpower him for a time to a sort of hallucination.
Thus was it:—One fair half-day in the July of 1800, by good luck, he was employed, partly out of charity, by one of the keepers, to trim the sward in an oval enclosure within St. James' Park, a little green but a three-minutes' walk along the gravelled way from the brick-besmoked and grimy Old Brewery77 of the palace which gives its ancient name to the public resort on whose borders it stands. It was a little oval, fenced in with iron pailings, between whose bars the imprisoned78 verdure peered forth79, as some wild captive creature of the woods from its cage. And alien Israel there—at times staring dreamily about him—seemed like some amazed runaway80 steer81, or trespassing82 Pequod Indian, impounded on the shores of Narraganset Bay, long ago; and back to New England our exile was called in his soul. For still working, and thinking of home; and thinking of home, and working amid the verdant83 quietude of this little oasis84, one rapt thought begat another, till at last his mind settled intensely, and yet half humorously, upon the image of Old Huckleberry, his mother's favorite old pillion horse; and, ere long, hearing a sudden scraping noise (some hob-shoe without, against the iron pailing), he insanely took it to be Old Huckleberry in his stall, hailing him (Israel) with his shod fore-foot clattering85 against the planks—his customary trick when hungry—and so, down goes Israel's hook, and with a tuft of white clover, impulsively86 snatched, he hurries away a few paces in obedience87 to the imaginary summons. But soon stopping midway, and forlornly gazing round at the enclosure, he bethought him that a far different oval, the great oval of the ocean, must be crossed ere his crazy errand could be done; and even then, Old Huckleberry would be found long surfeited88 with clover, since, doubtless, being dead many a summer, he must be buried beneath it. And many years after, in a far different part of the town, and in far less winsome89 weather too, passing with his bundle of flags through Red-Cross street, towards Barbican, in a fog so dense90 that the dimmed and massed blocks of houses, exaggerated by the loom7, seemed shadowy ranges on ranges of midnight hills, he heard a confused pastoral sort of sounds—tramplings, lowings, halloos—and was suddenly called to by a voice to head off certain cattle, bound to Smithfield, bewildered and unruly in the fog. Next instant he saw the white face—white as an orange-blossom—of a black-bodied steer, in advance of the drove, gleaming ghost-like through the vapors91; and presently, forgetting his limp, with rapid shout and gesture, he was more eager, even than the troubled farmers, their owners, in driving the riotous92 cattle back into Barbican. Monomaniac reminiscences were in him—"To the right, to the right!" he shouted, as, arrived at the street corner, the farmers beat the drove to the left, towards Smithfield: "To the right! you are driving them back to the pastures—to the right! that way lies the barn-yard!" "Barn-yard?" cried a voice; "you are dreaming, old man." And so, Israel, now an old man, was bewitched by the mirage93 of vapors; he had dreamed himself home into the mists of the Housatonic mountains; ruddy boy on the upland pastures again. But how different the flat, apathetic94, dead, London fog now seemed from those agile95 mists which, goat-like, climbed the purple peaks, or in routed armies of phantoms96, broke down, pell-mell, dispersed97 in flight upon the plain, leaving the cattle-boy loftily alone, clear-cut as a balloon against the sky.
In 1817 he once more endured extremity98; this second peace again drifting its discharged soldiers on London, so that all kinds of labor42 were overstocked. Beggars, too, lighted on the walks like locusts99. Timber-toed cripples stilted100 along, numerous as French peasants in sabots. And, as thirty years before, on all sides, the exile had heard the supplicatory101 cry, not addressed to him, "An honorable scar, your honor, received at Bunker Hill, or Saratoga, or Trenton, fighting for his most gracious Majesty102, King George!" so now, in presence of the still surviving Israel, our Wandering Jew, the amended103 cry was anew taken up, by a succeeding generation of unfortunates, "An honorable scar, your honor, received at Corunna, or at Waterloo, or at Trafalgar!" Yet not a few of these petitioners104 had never been outside of the London smoke; a sort of crafty105 aristocracy in their way, who, without having endangered their own persons much if anything, reaped no insignificant106 share both of the glory and profit of the bloody107 battles they claimed; while some of the genuine working heroes, too brave to beg, too cut-up to work, and too poor to live, laid down quietly in corners and died. And here it may be noted108, as a fact nationally characteristic, that however desperately109 reduced at times, even to the sewers, Israel, the American, never sunk below the mud, to actual beggary.
Though henceforth elbowed out of many a chance threepenny job by the added thousands who contended with him against starvation, nevertheless, somehow he continued to subsist110, as those tough old oaks of the cliffs, which, though hacked111 at by hail-stones of tempests, and even wantonly maimed by the passing woodman, still, however cramped112 by rival trees and fettered113 by rocks, succeed, against all odds114, in keeping the vital nerve of the tap-root alive. And even towards the end, in his dismallest December, our veteran could still at intervals115 feel a momentary116 warmth in his topmost boughs117. In his Moorfields' garret, over a handful of reignited cinders118 (which the night before might have warmed some lord), cinders raked up from the streets, he would drive away dolor, by talking with his one only surviving, and now motherless child—the spared Benjamin of his old age—of the far Canaan beyond the sea; rehearsing to the lad those well-remembered adventures among New England hills, and painting scenes of rustling119 happiness and plenty, in which the lowliest shared. And here, shadowy as it was, was the second alleviation66 hinted of above.
To these tales of the Fortunate Isles120 of the Free, recounted by one who had been there, the poor enslaved boy of Moorfields listened, night after night, as to the stories of Sinbad the Sailor. When would his father take him there? "Some day to come, my boy," would be the hopeful response of an unhoping heart. And "Would God it were to-morrow!" would be the impassioned reply.
In these talks Israel unconsciously sowed the seeds of his eventual121 return. For with added years, the boy felt added longing24 to escape his entailed122 misery123, by compassing for his father and himself a voyage to the Promised Land. By his persevering124 efforts he succeeded at last, against every obstacle, in gaining credit in the right quarter to his extraordinary statements. In short, charitably stretching a technical point, the American Consul finally saw father and son embarked125 in the Thames for Boston.
It was the year 1826; half a century since Israel, in early manhood, had sailed a prisoner in the Tartar frigate126 from the same port to which he now was bound. An octogenarian as he recrossed the brine, he showed locks besnowed as its foam127. White-haired old Ocean seemed as a brother.
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1
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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3
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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4
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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depiction
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| n.描述 | |
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6
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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9
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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10
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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13
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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15
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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cowers
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的第三人称单数 ) | |
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17
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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18
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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24
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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26
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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30
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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31
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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33
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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41
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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42
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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43
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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44
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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45
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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48
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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49
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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50
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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51
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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52
boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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53
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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54
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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55
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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56
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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57
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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58
intersections
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| n.横断( intersection的名词复数 )；交叉；交叉点；交集 | |
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59
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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60
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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61
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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64
gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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65
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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66
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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67
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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69
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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70
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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71
gleaner
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| n.拾穗的人；割捆机 | |
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72
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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73
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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74
quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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85
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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supplicatory
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| adj.恳求的，祈愿的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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petitioners
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| n.请求人，请愿人( petitioner的名词复数 )；离婚案原告 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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hacked
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| 生气 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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113
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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121
eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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122
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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123
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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124
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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125
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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126
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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127
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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