There is no country in our fallen world, however debased and morally barren, in which there does not exist a few green spots where human tenderness and sympathy are found to grow. The atmosphere of the gold-regions of California was, indeed, clouded to a fearful extent with the soul-destroying vapours of worldliness, selfishness, and ungodliness, which the terrors of Lynch law alone restrained from breaking forth2 in all their devastating3 strength.
And this is not to be wondered at, for Europe and America naturally poured the flood of their worst inhabitants over the land, in eager search for that gold, the love of which, we are told in Sacred Writ4, “is the root of all evil.” True, there were many hundreds of estimable men who, failing, from adverse5 circumstances, to make a livelihood6 in their native lands, sought to better their fortunes in the far west; but, in too many cases, the gold-fever which raged there soon smote7 them down; and men who once regarded gold as the means to an end, came at last to esteem8 gold to be the end, and used every means, fair and foul9, to obtain it. Others there were, whose constitutions were proof against the national disease; whose hearts deemed love to be the highest bliss10 of man, and doing good his greatest happiness.
But stilling and destructive though the air of the gold-mines was, there were a few hardy11 plants of moral goodness which defied it—and some of these bloomed in the colony of Little Creek12.
The Sabbath morning dawned on Ned Sinton and his friends—the first Sabbath since they had begun to dig for gold. On that day the miners rested from their work. Shovel13 and pick lay quiet in the innumerable pits that had been dug throughout the valley; no cradle was rocked, no pan of golden earth was washed. Even reckless men had come to know from experience, that the Almighty14 in His goodness had created the Sabbath for the special benefit of man’s body as well as his soul, and that they wrought15 better during the six days of the week when they rested on the seventh.
Unfortunately they believed only what experience taught them; they kept the Sabbath according to the letter, not according to the spirit; and although they did not work, they did not refrain from “thinking their own thoughts and finding their own pleasure,” on God’s holy day. Early in the morning they began to wander idly about from hut to hut, visited frequently the grog-shops, and devoted16 themselves to gambling17, which occupation materially marred18 even the physical rest they might otherwise have enjoyed.
“Comrades,” said Ned Sinton, as the party sat inside their tent, round the napkin on which breakfast was spread, “it is long since we have made any difference between Saturday and Sunday, and I think it would be good for us all if we were to begin now. Since quitting San Francisco, the necessity of pushing forward on our journey has prevented our doing so hitherto. How far we were right in regarding rapid travelling as being necessary, I won’t stop to inquire; but I think it would be well if we should do a little more than merely rest from work on the Sabbath. I propose that, besides doing this, we should read a chapter of the Bible together as a family, morning and evening on Sundays. What say you?”
There was a pause. It was evident that conflicting feelings were at work among the party.
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Maxton; “I confess that I have troubled myself very little about religion since I came out here, but my conscience has often reproached me for it.”
“Don’t you think, messmates,” said Captain Bunting, lighting19 his pipe, “that if it gets wind the whole colony will be laughin’ at us?”
“Sure they may laugh,” said Larry O’Neil, “an’ after that they may cry, av it’ll do them good. Wot’s the differ to us?”
“I don’t agree with you, Ned,” said Tom Collins, somewhat testily20; “for my part I like to see men straightforward21, all fair and above-board, as the captain would say. Hypocrisy22 is an abominable23 vice24, whether it is well meaning or ill meaning, and I don’t see the use of pretending to be religious when we are not.”
“Tom,” replied Ned, in an earnest voice, “don’t talk lightly of serious things. I don’t pretend to be religious, but I do desire to be so: and I think it would be good for all of us to read a portion of God’s Word on His own day, both for the purpose of obeying and honouring Him, and of getting our minds filled, for a short time at least, with other thoughts than those of gold-hunting. In doing this there is no hypocrisy.”
“Well, well,” rejoined Tom, “I’ll not object if the rest are agreed.”
“Agreed,” was the unanimous reply. So Ned rose, and, opening his portmanteau, drew forth the little Bible that had been presented to him by old Mr Shirley on the day of his departure from home.
From that day forward, every Sabbath morning and evening, Ned Sinton read a portion of the Word of God to his companions, as long as they were together; and each of the party afterwards, at different times, confessed that, from the time the reading of the Bible was begun, he felt happier than he did before.
After breakfast they broke up, and went out to stroll for an hour or two upon the wooded slopes of the mountains. Ned and Tom Collins went off by themselves, the others, with the exception of Larry, walked out together.
That morning Larry O’Neil felt less sociable25 than was his wont26, so he sallied forth alone. For some time he sauntered about with his hands in his pockets, his black pipe in his mouth, a thick oak cudgel, of his own making, under his arm, and his hat set jauntily27 on one side of his head. He went along with an easy swagger, and looked particularly reckless, but no man ever belied28 his looks more thoroughly29. The swagger was unintentional, and the recklessness did not exist. On the contrary, the reading of the Bible had brought back to his mind a flood of home memories, which forced more than one tear from his susceptible30 heart into his light-blue eye, as he wandered in memory over the green hills of Erin.
But the scenes that passed before him as he roamed about among the huts and tents of the miners soon drew his thoughts to subjects less agreeable to contemplate31. On week-days the village, if we may thus designate the scattered32 groups of huts and tents, was comparatively quiet, but on Sundays it became a scene of riot and confusion. Not only was it filled with its own idle population of diggers, but miners from all the country round, within a circuit of eight or ten miles, flocked into it for the purpose of buying provisions for the week, as well as for the purpose of gambling and drinking, this being the only day in all the week in which they indulged in what they termed “a spree.”
Consequently the gamblers and store-keepers did more business on Sunday than on any other day. The place was crowded with men in their rough, though picturesque33, bandit-like costumes, rambling34 about from store to store, drinking and inviting35 friends to drink, or losing in the gaming-saloons all the earnings36 of a week of hard, steady toil—toil more severe than is that of navvies or coal-heavers. There seemed to be an irresistible37 attraction in these gambling-houses. Some men seemed unable to withstand the temptation, and they seldom escaped being fleeced. Yet they returned, week after week, to waste in these dens38 of iniquity39 the golden treasure gathered with so much labour during their six working days.
Larry O’Neil looked through the doorway40 of one of the gambling-houses as he passed, and saw men standing41 and sitting round the tables, watching with eager faces the progress of the play, while ever and anon one of them would reel out, more than half-drunk with excitement and brandy. Passing on through the crowded part of the village, which looked as if a fair were being held there, he entered the narrow footpath42 that led towards the deeper recesses43 at the head of the valley. O’Neil had not yet, since his arrival, found time to wander far from his own tent. It was therefore with a feeling of great delight that he left the scene of riot behind him, and, turning into a bypath that led up one of the narrow ravines, opening into the larger valley, strolled several miles into deep solitudes44 that were in harmony with his feelings.
The sun streamed through the entrance to this ravine, bathing with a flood of light crags and caves and bush-encompassed hollows, that at other times were shrouded45 in gloom. As the Irishman stood gazing in awe46 and admiration47 at the wild, beautiful scene, beyond which were seen the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada, he observed a small solitary48 tent pitched on a level patch of earth at the brow of a low cliff. Curiosity prompted him to advance and ascertain49 what unsociable creature dwelt in it. A few minutes sufficed to bring him close upon it, and he was about to step forward, when the sound of a female voice arrested him. It was soft and low, and the accents fell upon his ear with the power of an old familiar song. Being at the back of the tent, he could not see who spoke50, but, from the monotonous51 regularity52 of the tone, he knew that the woman was reading. He passed noiselessly round to the front, and peeping over the tops of bushes, obtained a view of the interior.
The reader was a young woman, whose face, which was partially53 concealed54 by a mass of light-brown hair as she bent55 over her book, seemed emaciated56 and pale. Looking up just as Larry’s eye fell upon her, she turned towards a man whose gaunt, attenuated57 form lay motionless on a pile of brushwood beside her, and said, tenderly:
“Are ye tired, Patrick, dear, or would you like me to go on?”
Larry’s heart gave his ribs58 such a thump59 at that moment that he felt surprised the girl did not hear it. But he could not approach; he was rooted to the earth as firmly, though not as permanently60, as the bush behind which he stood. An Irish voice, and an Irish girl, heard and seen so unexpectedly, quite took away his breath.
The sick man made some reply which was not audible, and the girl, shutting the book, looked up for a few moments, as if in silent prayer, then she clasped her hands upon her knees, and laying her head upon them, remained for some time motionless. The hands were painfully thin, as was her whole frame. The face was what might have been pretty at one time, although it was haggard enough now, but the expression was peculiarly sorrowful.
In a few minutes she looked up again, and spread the ragged61 blanket more carefully over the shoulders of the sick man, and Larry, feeling that he was at that time in the questionable62 position of an eavesdropper63, left his place of concealment64, and stood before the tent.
The sick man saw him instantly, and, raising himself slightly, exclaimed, “Who goes there? Sure I can’t git lave to die in pace!”
The familiar tones of a countryman’s voice fell pleasantly on Larry’s ear as he sprang into the tent, and, seizing the sick man’s hand, cried, “A blissin’ on the mouth that said that same. O Pat, darlint! I’m glad to mate with ye. What’s the matter with ye? Tell me now, an’ don’t be lookin’ as if ye’d seen a ghost.”
“Kape back,” said the girl, pushing Larry aside, with a half-pleased, half-angry expression. “Don’t ye see that ye’ve a’most made him faint? He’s too wake intirely to be—”
“Ah! then, cushla, forgive me; I wint and forgot meself. Blissin’s on yer pale face! sure yer Irish too.”
Before the girl could reply to this speech, which was uttered in a tone of the deepest sympathy, the sick man recovered sufficiently65 to say—
“Sit down, friend. How comed ye to larn me name? I guess I never saw ye before.”
“Sure, didn’t I hear yer wife say it as I come for’ard to the tint,” answered Larry, somewhat staggered at the un-Irish word “guess.”
“He is my brother,” remarked the girl.
“Troth, ye’ve got a dash o’ the Yankee brogue,” said Larry, with a puzzled look; “did ye not come from the owld country?”
“Our father and mother were Irish, and left their own country to sittle in America. We have never seen Ireland, my brother nor I, but we think of it as almost our own land. Havin’ been brought up in the woods, and seein’ a’most no one but father and mother for days an’ weeks at a time, we’ve got a good deal o’ the Irish tone.”
“Ah! thin, ye have reason to be thankful for that same,” remarked Larry, who was a little disappointed that his new friends were not altogether Irish; but, after a few minutes’ consideration, he came to the conclusion, that people whose father and mother were natives of the Emerald Isle67 could no more be Americans, simply because they happened to be born in America, than they could be fish if they chanced to be born at sea. Having settled this point to his satisfaction, he proceeded to question the girl as to their past history and the cause of their present sad condition, and gradually obtained from her the information that their father and mother were dead, and that, having heard of the mines of California, her brother had sold off his farm in the backwoods, and proceeded by the overland route to the new land of gold, in company with many other western hunters and farmers. They reached it, after the most inconceivable sufferings, in the beginning of winter, and took up their abode68 at Little Creek.
The rush of emigration from the western states to California, by the overland route, that took place at this time, was attended with the most appalling69 sufferings and loss of life. Men sold off their snug70 farms, packed their heavy waggons71 with the necessaries for a journey, with their wives and little ones, over a wilderness73 more than two thousand miles in extent, and set off by scores over the prairies towards the Ultima Thule of the far west. The first part of their journey was prosperous enough, but the weight of their waggons rendered the pace slow, and it was late in the season ere they reached the great barrier of the Rocky Mountains. But severe although the sufferings of those first emigrants74 were, they were as nothing compared with the dire75 calamities that befell those who started from home later in the season. All along the route the herbage was cropped bare by those who had gone before; their oxen broke down; burning sandy deserts presented themselves when the wretched travellers were well-nigh exhausted; and when at length they succeeded in reaching the great mountain-chain, its dark passes were filled with the ice and snow of early winter.
Hundreds of men, women, and children, fell down and died on the burning plain, or clambered up the rugged76 heights to pillow their dying heads at last on wreaths of snow. To add to the unheard-of miseries77 of these poor people, scurvy78 in its worst forms attacked them; and the air of many of their camping places was heavy with the stench arising from the dead bodies of men and animals that had perished by the way.
“It was late in the season,” said Kate Morgan, as Larry’s new friend was named, “when me brother Patrick an’ I set off with our waggon72 and oxen, an’ my little sister Nelly, who was just able to run about, with her curly yellow hair streamin’ over her purty shoulders, an’ her laughin’ blue eyes, almost spakin’ when they looked at ye.”
The poor girl spoke with deep pathos79 as she mentioned Nelly’s name, while Larry O’Neil sat with his hands clasped, gazing at her with an expression of the deepest commiseration80.
“We got pretty well on at first,” she continued, after a pause, “because our waggon was lighter81 than most o’ the others; but it was near winter before we got to the mountains, an’ then our troubles begood. First of all, one o’ the oxen fell, and broke its leg. Then darlin’ Nelly fell sick, and Patrick had to carry her on his back up the mountains, for I had got so weak meself that I wasn’t fit to take her up. All the way over I was troubled with one o’ the emigrants that kep’ us company—there was thirty o’ us altogether—he was a very bad man, and none o’ us liked him. He took a fancy to me, an’ asked me to be his wife so often that I had to make Patrick order him to kape away from us altogether. He wint off in a black rage, swearin’ he’d be revenged,—an’ oh!” continued Kate, wringing82 her hands, “he kept his word. One day there was a dispute between our leaders which way we should go, for we had got to two passes in the mountains; so one party went one way, and we went another. Through the night, my—my lover came into our camp to wish me good-bye, he said, for the last time, as he was goin’ with the other party. After he was gone, I missed Nelly, and went out to seek for her among the tents o’ my neighbours, but she was nowhere to be found. At once I guessed he had taken her away, for well did he know I would sooner have lost my life than my own darlin’ Nell.”
Again the girl paused a few moments; then she resumed, in a low voice—
“We never saw him or Nelly again. It is said the whole party perished, an’ I believe it, for they were far spent, and the road they took, I’ve been towld, is worse than the one we took. It was dead winter when we arrived, and Patrick and me came to live here. We made a good deal at first by diggin’, but we both fell sick o’ the ague, and we’ve been scarce able to kape us alive till now. But it won’t last long. Dear Patrick is broken down entirely83, as ye see, and I haven’t strength a’most to go down to the diggin’s for food. I haven’t been there for a month, for it’s four miles away, as I dare say ye know. We’ll both be at rest soon.”
“Ah! now, don’t say that again, avic,” cried Larry, smiting84 his thigh85 with energy; “ye’ll be nothin’ o’ the sort, that ye won’t; sure yer brother Pat is slaipin’ now like an infant, he is, an’ I’ll go down meself to the stores and git ye medicines an’ a doctor, an’ what not. Cheer up, now—”
Larry’s enthusiastic efforts to console his new friend were interrupted by the sick man, who awoke at the moment, and whispered the word “food.”
His sister rose, and taking up a small tin pan that simmered on the fire in front of the tent, poured some of its contents into a dish.
“What is it ye give him?” inquired Larry, taking the dish from the girl’s hands and putting it to his lips. He instantly spat86 out the mouthful, for it was soup made of rancid pork, without vegetables of any kind.
“’Tis all I’ve got left,” said the girl. “Even if I was able to go down for more, he wouldn’t let me; but I couldn’t, for I’ve tried more than once, and near died on the road. Besides, I haven’t a grain o’ goold in the tent.”
“O morther! Tare87 an’ ages!” cried Larry, staring first at the girl and then at her brother, while he slapped his thighs88 and twisted his fingers together as if he wished to wrench89 them out of joint90.
“Howld on, faix I’ll do it. Don’t give it him, plaze; howld on, do!”
Larry O’Neil turned round as he spoke, seized his cudgel, sprang right over the bushes in front of the tent, and in two minutes more was seen far down the ravine, spurning91 the ground beneath him as if life and death depended on the race.
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1
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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44
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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51
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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tare
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| n.皮重；v.量皮重 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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spurning
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的现在分词 ) | |
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