The Bay of Monterey has been compared by no less a person than General Sherman to a bent1 fishing-hook; and the comparison, if less important than the march through Georgia, still shows the eye of a soldier for topography. Santa Cruz sits exposed at the shank; the mouth of the Salinas river is at the middle of the bend; and Monterey itself is cosily2 ensconced beside the barb3. Thus the ancient capital of California faces across the bay, while the Pacific Ocean, though hidden by low hills and forest, bombards her left flank and rear with never-dying surf. In front of the town, the long line of sea-beach trends north and north-west, and then westward4 to enclose the bay. The waves which lap so quietly about the jetties of Monterey grow louder and larger in the distance; you can see the breakers leaping high and white by day; at night, the outline of the shore is traced in transparent5 silver by the moonlight and the flying foam6; and from all round, even in quiet weather, the distant, thrilling roar of the Pacific hangs over the coast and the adjacent country like smoke above a battle.
These long beaches are enticing7 to the idle man. It would be hard to find a walk more solitary8 and at the same time more exciting to the mind. Crowds of ducks and sea-gulls hover9 over the sea. Sandpipers trot10 in and out by troops after the retiring waves, trilling together in a chorus of infinitesimal song. Strange sea-tangles, new to the European eye, the bones of whales, or sometimes a whole whale’s carcase, white with carrion-gulls and poisoning the wind, lie scattered11 here and there along the sands. The waves come in slowly, vast and green, curve their translucent12 necks, and burst with a surprising uproar13, that runs, waxing and waning14, up and down the long key-board of the beach. The foam of these great ruins mounts in an instant to the ridge15 of the sand glacis, swiftly fleets back again, and is met and buried by the next breaker. The interest is perpetually fresh. On no other coast that I know shall you enjoy, in calm, sunny weather, such a spectacle of Ocean’s greatness, such beauty of changing colour, or such degrees of thunder in the sound. The very air is more than usually salt by this Homeric deep.
Inshore, a tract16 of sand-hills borders on the beach. Here and there a lagoon17, more or less brackish18, attracts the birds and hunters. A rough, undergrowth partially20 conceals21 the sand. The crouching22, hardy23 live-oaks flourish singly or in thickets—the kind of wood for murderers to crawl among—and here and there the skirts of the forest extend downward from the hills with a floor of turf and long aisles25 of pine-trees hung with Spaniard’s Beard. Through this quaint26 desert the railway cars drew near to Monterey from the junction27 at Salinas City—though that and so many other things are now for ever altered—and it was from here that you had the first view of the old township lying in the sands, its white windmills bickering28 in the chill, perpetual wind, and the first fogs of the evening drawing drearily29 around it from the sea.
The one common note of all this country is the haunting presence of the ocean. A great faint sound of breakers follows you high up into the inland cañons; the roar of water dwells in the clean, empty rooms of Monterey as in a shell upon the chimney; go where you will, you have but to pause and listen to hear the voice of the Pacific. You pass out of the town to the south-west, and mount the hill among pine-woods. Glade30, thicket24, and grove31 surround you. You follow winding32 sandy tracks that lead nowhither. You see a deer; a multitude of quail33 arises. But the sound of the sea still follows you as you advance, like that of wind among the trees, only harsher and stranger to the ear; and when at length you gain the summit, out breaks on every hand and with freshened vigour34 that same unending, distant, whispering rumble35 of the ocean; for now you are on the top of Monterey peninsula, and the noise no longer only mounts to you from behind along the beach towards Santa Cruz, but from your right also, round by Chinatown and Pinos lighthouse, and from down before you to the mouth of the Carmello river. The whole woodland is begirt with thundering surges. The silence that immediately surrounds you where you stand is not so much broken as it is haunted by this distant, circling rumour36. It sets your senses upon edge; you strain your attention; you are clearly and unusually conscious of small sounds near at hand; you walk listening like an Indian hunter; and that voice of the Pacific is a sort of disquieting37 company to you in your walk.
When once I was in these woods I found it difficult to turn homeward. All woods lure38 a rambler onward39; but in those of Monterey it was the surf that particularly invited me to prolong my walks. I would push straight for the shore where I thought it to be nearest. Indeed, there was scarce a direction that would not, sooner or later, have brought me forth40 on the Pacific. The emptiness of the woods gave me a sense of freedom and discovery in these excursions. I never in all my visits met but one man. He was a Mexican, very dark of hue41, but smiling and fat, and he carried an axe42, though his true business at that moment was to seek for straying cattle. I asked him what o’clock it was, but he seemed neither to know nor care; and when he in his turn asked me for news of his cattle, I showed myself equally indifferent. We stood and smiled upon each other for a few seconds, and then turned without a word and took our several ways across the forest.
One day—I shall never forget it—I had taken a trail that was new to me. After a while the woods began to open, the sea to sound nearer hand. I came upon a road, and, to my surprise, a stile. A step or two farther, and, without leaving the woods, I found myself among trim houses. I walked through street after street, parallel and at right angles, paved with sward and dotted with trees, but still undeniable streets, and each with its name posted at the corner, as in a real town. Facing down the main thoroughfare—“Central Avenue,” as it was ticketed—I saw an open-air temple, with benches and sounding-board, as though for an orchestra. The houses were all tightly shuttered; there was no smoke, no sound but of the waves, no moving thing. I have never been in any place that seemed so dreamlike. Pompeii is all in a bustle43 with visitors, and its antiquity44 and strangeness deceive the imagination; but this town had plainly not been built above a year or two, and perhaps had been deserted45 overnight. Indeed, it was not so much like a deserted town as like a scene upon the stage by daylight, and with no one on the boards. The barking of a dog led me at last to the only house still occupied, where a Scotch46 pastor47 and his wife pass the winter alone in this empty theatre. The place was “The Pacific Camp Grounds, the Christian48 Seaside Resort.” Thither49, in the warm season, crowds come to enjoy a life of teetotalism, religion, and flirtation50, which I am willing to think blameless and agreeable. The neighbourhood at least is well selected. The Pacific booms in front. Westward is Point Pinos, with the lighthouse in a wilderness51 of sand, where you will find the lightkeeper playing the piano, making models and bows and arrows, studying dawn and sunrise in amateur oil-painting, and with a dozen other elegant pursuits and interests to surprise his brave, old-country rivals. To the east, and still nearer, you will come upon a space of open down, a hamlet, a haven52 among rocks, a world of surge and screaming sea-gulls. Such scenes are very similar in different climates; they appear homely53 to the eyes of all; to me this was like a dozen spots in Scotland. And yet the boats that ride in the haven are of strange outlandish design; and, if you walk into the hamlet, you will behold54 costumes and faces and hear a tongue that are unfamiliar55 to the memory. The joss-stick burns, the opium56 pipe is smoked, the floors are strewn with slips of coloured paper—prayers, you would say, that had somehow missed their destination—and a man guiding his upright pencil from right to left across the sheet, writes home the news of Monterey to the Celestial57 Empire.
The woods and the Pacific rule between them the climate of this seaboard region. On the streets of Monterey, when the air does not smell salt from the one, it will be blowing perfumed from the resinous59 tree-tops of the other. For days together a hot, dry air will overhang the town, close as from an oven, yet healthful and aromatic60 in the nostrils61. The cause is not far to seek, for the woods are afire, and the hot wind is blowing from the hills. These fires are one of the great dangers of California. I have seen from Monterey as many as three at the same time, by day a cloud of smoke, by night a red coal of conflagration62 in the distance. A little thing will start them, and, if the wind be favourable63, they gallop64 over miles of country faster than a horse. The inhabitants must turn out and work like demons65, for it is not only the pleasant groves66 that are destroyed; the climate and the soil are equally at stake, and these fires prevent the rains of the next winter and dry up perennial67 fountains. California has been a land of promise in its time, like Palestine; but if the woods continue so swiftly to perish, it may become, like Palestine, a land of desolation.
To visit the woods while they are languidly burning is a strange piece of experience. The fire passes through the underbrush at a run. Every here and there a tree flares68 up instantaneously from root to summit, scattering69 tufts of flame, and is quenched70, it seems, as quickly. But this last is only in semblance71. For after this first squib-like conflagration of the dry moss72 and twigs73, there remains74 behind a deep-rooted and consuming fire in the very entrails of the tree. The resin58 of the pitch-pine is principally condensed at the base of the bole and in the spreading roots. Thus, after the light, showy, skirmishing flames, which are only as the match to the explosion, have already scampered75 down the wind into the distance, the true harm is but beginning for this giant of the woods. You may approach the tree from one side, and see it scorched76 indeed from top to bottom, but apparently77 survivor78 of the peril79. Make the circuit, and there, on the other side of the column, is a clear mass of living coal, spreading like an ulcer80; while underground, to their most extended fibre, the roots are being eaten out by fire, and the smoke is rising through the fissures81 to the surface. A little while, and, without a nod of warning, the huge pine-tree snaps off short across the ground and falls prostrate82 with a crash. Meanwhile the fire continues its silent business; the roots are reduced to a fine ash; and long afterwards, if you pass by, you will find the earth pierced with radiating galleries, and preserving the design of all these subterranean83 spurs, as though it were the mould for a new tree instead of the print of an old one. These pitch-pines of Monterey are, with the single exception of the Monterey cypress84, the most fantastic of forest trees. No words can give an idea of the contortion85 of their growth; they might figure without change in a circle of the nether86 hell as Dante pictured it; and at the rate at which trees grow, and at which forest fires spring up and gallop through the hills of California, we may look forward to a time when there will not be one of them left standing87 in that land of their nativity. At least they have not so much to fear from the axe, but perish by what may be called a natural although a violent death; while it is man in his short-sighted greed that robs the country of the nobler redwood. Yet a little while and perhaps all the hills of seaboard California may be as bald as Tamalpais.
I have an interest of my own in these forest fires, for I came so near to lynching on one occasion, that a braver man might have retained a thrill from the experience. I wished to be certain whether it was the moss, that quaint funereal88 ornament89 of Californian forests, which blazed up so rapidly when the flame first touched the tree. I suppose I must have been under the influence of Satan, for instead of plucking off a piece for my experiment what should I do but walk up to a great pine-tree in a portion of the wood which had escaped so much as scorching90, strike a match, and apply the flame gingerly to one of the tassels91. The tree went off simply like a rocket; in three seconds it was a roaring pillar of fire. Close by I could hear the shouts of those who were at work combating the original conflagration. I could see the waggon92 that had brought them tied to a live oak in a piece of open; I could even catch the flash of an axe as it swung up through the underwood into the sunlight. Had any one observed the result of my experiment my neck was literally93 not worth a pinch of snuff; after a few minutes of passionate94 expostulation I should have been run up to convenient bough95.
But to be hanged for nonsense is the devil.
I have run repeatedly, but never as I ran that day. At night I went out of town, and there was my own particular fire, quite distinct from the other, and burning as I thought with even greater vigour.
But it is the Pacific that exercises the most direct and obvious power upon the climate. At sunset, for months together, vast, wet, melancholy97 fogs arise and come shoreward from the ocean. From the hill-top above Monterey the scene is often noble, although it is always sad. The upper air is still bright with sunlight; a glow still rests upon the Gabelano Peak; but the fogs are in possession of the lower levels; they crawl in scarves among the sandhills; they float, a little higher, in clouds of a gigantic size and often of a wild configuration98; to the south, where they have struck the seaward shoulder of the mountains of Santa Lucia, they double back and spire99 up skyward like smoke. Where their shadow touches, colour dies out of the world. The air grows chill and deadly as they advance. The trade-wind freshens, the trees begin to sigh, and all the windmills in Monterey are whirling and creaking and filling their cisterns100 with the brackish water of the sands. It takes but a little while till the invasion is complete. The sea, in its lighter101 order, has submerged the earth. Monterey is curtained in for the night in thick, wet, salt, and frigid102 clouds, so to remain till day returns; and before the sun’s rays they slowly disperse103 and retreat in broken squadrons to the bosom104 of the sea. And yet often when the fog is thickest and most chill, a few steps out of the town and up the slope, the night will be dry and warm and full of inland perfume.
Mexicans, Americans, and Indians
The history of Monterey has yet to be written. Founded by Catholic missionaries105, a place of wise beneficence to Indians, a place of arms, a Mexican capital continually wrested106 by one faction from another, an American capital when the first House of Representatives held its deliberations, and then falling lower and lower from the capital of the State to the capital of a county, and from that again, by the loss of its charter and town lands, to a mere107 bankrupt village, its rise and decline is typical of that of all Mexican institutions and even Mexican families in California.
Nothing is stranger in that strange State than the rapidity with which the soil has changed-hands. The Mexicans, you may say, are all poor and landless, like their former capital; and yet both it and they hold themselves apart and preserve their ancient customs and something of their ancient air.
The town, when I was there, was a place of two or three streets, economically paved with sea-sand, and two or three lanes, which were watercourses in the rainy season, and were, at all times, rent up by fissures four or five feet deep. There were no street lights. Short sections of wooden sidewalk only added to the dangers of the night, for they were often high above the level of the roadway, and no one could tell where they would be likely to begin or end. The houses were, for the most part, built of unbaked adobe108 brick, many of them old for so new a country, some of very elegant proportions, with low, spacious109, shapely rooms, and walls so thick that the heat of summer never dried them to the heart. At the approach of the rainy season a deathly chill and a graveyard110 smell began to hang about the lower floors; and diseases of the chest are common and fatal among house-keeping people of either sex.
There was no activity but in and around the saloons, where people sat almost all day long playing cards. The smallest excursion was made on horseback. You would scarcely ever see the main street without a horse or two tied to posts, and making a fine figure with their Mexican housings. It struck me oddly to come across some of the Cornhill illustrations to Mr. Blackmore’s Erema, and see all the characters astride on English saddles. As a matter of fact, an English saddle is a rarity even in San Francisco, and, you may say, a thing unknown in all the rest of California. In a place so exclusively Mexican as Monterey, you saw not only Mexican saddles but true Vaquero riding—men always at the hand-gallop up hill and down dale, and round the sharpest corner, urging their horses with cries and gesticulations and cruel rotatory spurs, checking them dead with a touch, or wheeling them right-about-face in a square yard. The type of face and character of bearing are surprisingly un-American. The first ranged from something like the pure Spanish, to something, in its sad fixity, not unlike the pure Indian, although I do not suppose there was one pure blood of either race in all the country. As for the second, it was a matter of perpetual surprise to find, in that world of absolutely mannerless Americans, a people full of deportment, solemnly courteous111, and doing all things with grace and decorum. In dress they ran to colour and bright sashes. Not even the most Americanised could always resist the temptation to stick a red rose into his hat-band. Not even the most Americanised would descend112 to wear the vile113 dress hat of civilisation114. Spanish was the language of the streets. It was difficult to get along without a word or two of that language for an occasion. The only communications in which the population joined were with a view to amusement. A weekly public ball took place with great etiquette115, in addition to the numerous fandangoes in private houses. There was a really fair amateur brass117 band. Night after night serenaders would be going about the street, sometimes in a company and with several instruments and voice together, sometimes severally, each guitar before a different window. It was a strange thing to lie awake in nineteenth-century America, and hear the guitar accompany, and one of these old, heart-breaking Spanish love-songs mount into the night air, perhaps in a deep baritone, perhaps in that high-pitched, pathetic, womanish alto which is so common among Mexican men, and which strikes on the unaccustomed ear as something not entirely118 human but altogether sad.
The town, then, was essentially119 and wholly Mexican; and yet almost all the land in the neighbourhood was held by Americans, and it was from the same class, numerically so small, that the principal officials were selected. This Mexican and that Mexican would describe to you his old family estates, not one rood of which remained to him. You would ask him how that came about, and elicit120 some tangled121 story back-foremost, from which you gathered that the Americans had been greedy like designing men, and the Mexicans greedy like children, but no other certain fact. Their merits and their faults contributed alike to the ruin of the former landholders. It is true they were improvident123, and easily dazzled with the sight of ready money; but they were gentlefolk besides, and that in a way which curiously124 unfitted them to combat Yankee craft. Suppose they have a paper to sign, they would think it a reflection on the other party to examine the terms with any great minuteness; nay125, suppose them to observe some doubtful clause, it is ten to one they would refuse from delicacy126 to object to it. I know I am speaking within the mark, for I have seen such a case occur, and the Mexican, in spite of the advice of his lawyer, has signed the imperfect paper like a lamb. To have spoken in the matter, he said, above all to have let the other party guess that he had seen a lawyer, would have “been like doubting his word.” The scruple128 sounds oddly to one of ourselves, who have been brought up to understand all business as a competition in fraud, and honesty itself to be a virtue129 which regards the carrying out but not the creation of agreements. This single unworldly trait will account for much of that revolution of which we are speaking. The Mexicans have the name of being great swindlers, but certainly the accusation130 cuts both ways. In a contest of this sort, the entire booty would scarcely have passed into the hands of the more scupulous race.
Physically131 the Americans have triumphed; but it is not entirely seen how far they have themselves been morally conquered. This is, of course, but a part of a part of an extraordinary problem now in the course of being solved in the various States of the American union. I am reminded of an anecdote132. Some years ago, at a great sale of wine, all the odd lots were purchased by a grocer in a small way in the old town of Edinburgh. The agent had the curiosity to visit him some time after and inquire what possible use he could have for such material. He was shown, by way of answer, a huge vat116 where all the liquors, from humble133 Gladstone to imperial Tokay, were fermenting134 together. “And what,” he asked, “do you propose to call this?” “I’m no very sure,” replied the grocer, “but I think it’s going to turn out port.” In the older Eastern States, I think we may say that this hotch-potch of races in going to turn out English, or thereabout. But the problem is indefinitely varied135 in other zones. The elements are differently mingled136 in the south, in what we may call the Territorial137 belt and in the group of States on the Pacific coast. Above all, in these last, we may look to see some monstrous138 hybrid—Whether good or evil, who shall forecast? but certainly original and all their own. In my little restaurant at Monterey, we have sat down to table day after day, a Frenchman, two Portuguese139, an Italian, a Mexican, and a Scotchman: we had for common visitors an American from Illinois, a nearly pure blood Indian woman, and a naturalised Chinese; and from time to time a Switzer and a German came down from country ranches140 for the night. No wonder that the Pacific coast is a foreign land to visitors from the Eastern States, for each race contributes something of its own. Even the despised Chinese have taught the youth of California, none indeed of their virtues141, but the debasing use of opium. And chief among these influences is that of the Mexicans.
The Mexicans although in the State are out of it. They still preserve a sort of international independence, and keep their affairs snug142 to themselves. Only four or five years ago Vasquez, the bandit, his troops being dispersed143 and the hunt too hot for him in other parts of California, returned to his native Monterey, and was seen publicly in her streets and saloons, fearing no man. The year that I was there, there occurred two reputed murders. As the Montereyans are exceptionally vile speakers of each other and of every one behind his back, it is not possible for me to judge how much truth there may have been in these reports; but in the one case every one believed, and in the other some suspected, that there had been foul144 play; and nobody dreamed for an instant of taking the authorities into their counsel. Now this is, of course, characteristic enough of the Mexicans; but it is a noteworthy feature that all the Americans in Monterey acquiesced145 without a word in this inaction. Even when I spoke127 to them upon the subject, they seemed not to understand my surprise; they had forgotten the traditions of their own race and upbringing, and become, in a word, wholly Mexicanised.
Again, the Mexicans, having no ready money to speak of, rely almost entirely in their business transactions upon each other’s worthless paper. Pedro the penniless pays you with an I O U from the equally penniless Miguel. It is a sort of local currency by courtesy. Credit in these parts has passed into a superstition146. I have seen a strong, violent man struggling for months to recover a debt, and getting nothing but an exchange of waste paper. The very storekeepers are averse147 to asking for cash payments, and are more surprised than pleased when they are offered. They fear there must be something under it, and that you mean to withdraw your custom from them. I have seen the enterprising chemist and stationer begging me with fervour to let my account run on, although I had my purse open in my hand; and partly from the commonness of the case, partly from some remains of that generous old Mexican tradition which made all men welcome to their tables, a person may be notoriously both unwilling148 and unable to pay, and still find credit for the necessaries of life in the stores of Monterey. Now this villainous habit of living upon “tick” has grown into Californian nature. I do not mean that the American and European storekeepers of Monterey are as lax as Mexicans; I mean that American farmers in many parts of the State expect unlimited149 credit, and profit by it in the meanwhile, without a thought for consequences. Jew storekeepers have already learned the advantage to be gained from this; they lead on the farmer into irretrievable indebtedness, and keep him ever after as their bond-slave hopelessly grinding in the mill. So the whirligig of time brings in its revenges, and except that the Jew knows better than to foreclose, you may see Americans bound in the same chains with which they themselves had formerly150 bound the Mexican. It seems as if certain sorts of follies151, like certain sorts of grain, were natural to the soil rather than to the race that holds and tills it for the moment.
In the meantime, however, the Americans rule in Monterey County. The new county seat, Salinas City, in the bald, corn-bearing plain under the Gabelano Peak, is a town of a purely152 American character. The land is held, for the most part, in those enormous tracts19 which are another legacy153 of Mexican days, and form the present chief danger and disgrace of California; and the holders122 are mostly of American or British birth. We have here in England no idea of the troubles and inconveniences which flow from the existence of these large landholders—land-thieves, land-sharks, or land-grabbers, they are more commonly and plainly called. Thus the townlands of Monterey are all in the hands of a single man. How they came there is an obscure, vexatious question, and, rightly or wrongly, the man is hated with a great hatred154. His life has been repeatedly in danger. Not very long ago, I was told, the stage was stopped and examined three evenings in succession by disguised horsemen thirsting for his blood. A certain house on the Salinas road, they say, he always passes in his buggy at full speed, for the squatter155 sent him warning long ago. But a year since he was publicly pointed156 out for death by no less a man than Mr. Dennis Kearney. Kearney is a man too well known in California, but a word of explanation is required for English readers. Originally an Irish dray-man, he rose, by his command of bad language, to almost dictatorial157 authority in the State; throned it there for six months or so, his mouth full of oaths, gallowses, and conflagrations158; was first snuffed out last winter by Mr. Coleman, backed by his San Francisco Vigilantes and three gatling guns; completed his own ruin by throwing in his lot with the grotesque159 Green-backer party; and had at last to be rescued by his old enemies, the police, out of the hands of his rebellious160 followers161. It was while he was at the top of his fortune that Kearney visited Monterey with his battle-cry against Chinese labour, the railroad monopolists, and the land-thieves; and his one articulate counsel to the Montereyans was to “hang David Jacks162.” Had the town been American, in my private opinion, this would have been done years ago. Land is a subject on which there is no jesting in the West, and I have seen my friend the lawyer drive out of Monterey to adjust a competition of titles with the face of a captain going into battle and his Smith-and-Wesson convenient to his hand.
On the ranche of another of these landholders you may find our old friend, the truck system, in full operation. Men live there, year in year out, to cut timber for a nominal163 wage, which is all consumed in supplies. The longer they remain in this desirable service the deeper they will fall in debt—a burlesque164 injustice165 in a new country, where labour should be precious, and one of those typical instances which explains the prevailing166 discontent and the success of the demagogue Kearney.
In a comparison between what was and what is in California, the praisers of times past will fix upon the Indians of Carmel. The valley drained by the river so named is a true Californian valley, bare, dotted with chaparal, overlooked by quaint, unfinished hills. The Carmel runs by many pleasant farms, a clear and shallow river, loved by wading167 kine; and at last, as it is falling towards a quicksand and the great Pacific, passes a ruined mission on a hill. From the mission church the eye embraces a great field of ocean, and the ear is filled with a continuous sound of distant breakers on the shore. But the day of the Jesuit has gone by, the day of the Yankee has succeeded, and there is no one left to care for the converted savage168. The church is roofless and ruinous, sea-breezes and sea-fogs, and the alternation of the rain and sunshine, daily widening the breaches169 and casting the crockets from the wall. As an antiquity in this new land, a quaint specimen170 of missionary171 architecture, and a memorial of good deeds, it had a triple claim to preservation172 from all thinking people; but neglect and abuse have been its portion. There is no sign of American interference, save where a headboard has been torn from a grave to be a mark for pistol bullets. So it is with the Indians for whom it was erected173. Their lands, I was told, are being yearly encroached upon by the neighbouring American proprietor174, and with that exception no man troubles his head for the Indians of Carmel. Only one day in the year, the day before our Guy Fawkes, the padre drives over the hill from Monterey; the little sacristy, which is the only covered portion of the church, is filled with seats and decorated for the service; the Indians troop together, their bright dresses contrasting with their dark and melancholy faces; and there, among a crowd of somewhat unsympathetic holiday-makers, you may hear God served with perhaps more touching175 circumstances than in any other temple under heaven. An Indian, stone-blind and about eighty years of age, conducts the singing; other Indians compose the choir176; yet they have the Gregorian music at their finger ends, and pronounce the Latin so correctly that I could follow the meaning as they sang. The pronunciation was odd and nasal, the singing hurried and staccato. “In sæcula sæculoho-horum,” they went, with a vigorous aspirate to every additional syllable177. I have never seen faces more vividly178 lit up with joy than the faces of these Indian singers. It was to them not only the worship of God, nor an act by which they recalled and commemorated179 better days, but was besides an exercise of culture, where all they knew of art and letters was united and expressed. And it made a man’s heart sorry for the good fathers of yore who had taught them to dig and to reap, to read and to sing, who had given them European mass-books which they still preserve and study in their cottages, and who had now passed away from all authority and influence in that land—to be succeeded by greedy land-thieves and sacrilegious pistol-shots. So ugly a thing may our Anglo-Saxon Protestantism appear beside the doings of the Society of Jesus.
But revolution in this world succeeds to revolution. All that I say in this paper is in a paulo-past tense. The Monterey of last year exists no longer. A huge hotel has sprung up in the desert by the railway. Three sets of diners sit down successively to table. Invaluable180 toilettes figure along the beach and between the live oaks; and Monterey is advertised in the newspapers, and posted in the waiting-rooms at railway stations, as a resort for wealth and fashion. Alas181 for the little town! it is not strong enough to resist the influence of the flaunting182 caravanserai, and the poor, quaint, penniless native gentlemen of Monterey must perish, like a lower race, before the millionaire vulgarians of the Big Bonanza183.
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bent
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cosily
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barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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westward
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transparent
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foam
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enticing
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solitary
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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10
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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11
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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12
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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13
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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14
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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15
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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16
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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17
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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18
brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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19
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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20
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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21
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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22
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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23
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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24
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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25
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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26
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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27
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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28
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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29
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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30
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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31
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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32
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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33
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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34
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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35
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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36
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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37
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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38
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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39
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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40
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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41
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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42
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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43
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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44
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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45
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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46
scotch
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|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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47
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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48
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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49
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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50
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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51
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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52
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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53
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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54
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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55
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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56
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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57
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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58
resin
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| n.树脂，松香，树脂制品；vt.涂树脂 | |
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59
resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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60
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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61
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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62
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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63
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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64
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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65
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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66
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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67
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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68
flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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69
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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70
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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71
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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72
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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73
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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74
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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75
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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77
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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78
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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79
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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80
ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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81
fissures
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|
| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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83
subterranean
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|
| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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84
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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85
contortion
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| n.扭弯，扭歪，曲解 | |
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86
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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87
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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88
funereal
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|
| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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89
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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90
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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91
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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92
waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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93
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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94
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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95
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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96
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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97
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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98
configuration
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| n.结构，布局，形态，(计算机)配置 | |
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99
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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100
cisterns
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| n.蓄水池，储水箱( cistern的名词复数 )；地下储水池 | |
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101
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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102
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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103
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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104
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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105
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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106
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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107
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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108
adobe
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| n.泥砖，土坯，美国Adobe公司 | |
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109
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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110
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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111
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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112
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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113
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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114
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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115
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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116
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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117
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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118
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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119
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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120
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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121
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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122
holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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123
improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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124
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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125
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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126
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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127
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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128
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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129
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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130
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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131
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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132
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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133
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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134
fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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135
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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136
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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137
territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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138
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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139
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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140
ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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141
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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142
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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143
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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144
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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145
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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147
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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148
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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149
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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150
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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151
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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152
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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153
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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154
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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155
squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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156
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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157
dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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158
conflagrations
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| n.大火（灾）( conflagration的名词复数 ) | |
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159
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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160
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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161
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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162
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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163
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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164
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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165
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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166
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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167
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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168
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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169
breaches
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| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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170
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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171
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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172
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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173
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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174
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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175
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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176
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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177
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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178
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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179
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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181
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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182
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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183
bonanza
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| n.富矿带，幸运，带来好运的事 | |
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