by shore and sedge(沙滩和苔草旁)

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BY SHORE AND SEDGE

BY SHORE AND

SEDGE

BRET HARTE

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

AN APOSTLE OF THE TULES

On October 10, 1856, about four hundred people were camped in

Tasajara Valley, California. It could not have been for the prospect, since a

more barren, dreary, monotonous, and uninviting landscape never

stretched before human eye; it could not have been for convenience or

contiguity, as the nearest settlement was thirty miles away; it could not

have been for health or salubrity, as the breath of the ague-haunted tules in

the outlying Stockton marshes swept through the valley; it could not have

been for space or comfort, for, encamped on an unlimited plain, men and

women were huddled together as closely as in an urban tenement-house,

without the freedom or decency of rural isolation; it could not have been

for pleasant companionship, as dejection, mental anxiety, tears, and

lamentation were the dominant expression; it was not a hurried flight from

present or impending calamity, for the camp had been deliberately planned,

and for a week pioneer wagons had been slowly arriving; it was not an

irrevocable exodus, for some had already returned to their homes that

others might take their places. It was simply a religious revival of one or

two denominational sects, known as a "camp-meeting."

A large central tent served for the assembling of the principal

congregation; smaller tents served for prayer-meetings and class- rooms,

known to the few unbelievers as "side-shows"; while the actual dwellings

of the worshipers were rudely extemporized shanties of boards and canvas,

sometimes mere corrals or inclosures open to the cloudless sky, or more

often the unhitched covered wagon which had brought them there. The

singular resemblance to a circus, already profanely suggested, was carried

out by a straggling fringe of boys and half-grown men on the outskirts of

the encampment, acrimonious with disappointed curiosity, lazy without

the careless ease of vagrancy, and vicious without the excitement of

dissipation. For the coarse poverty and brutal economy of the larger

arrangements, the dreary panorama of unlovely and unwholesome

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

domestic details always before the eyes, were hardly exciting to the senses.

The circus might have been more dangerous, but scarcely more brutalizing.

The actors themselves, hard and aggressive through practical struggles,

often warped and twisted with chronic forms of smaller diseases, or

malformed and crippled through carelessness and neglect, and restless and

uneasy through some vague mental distress and inquietude that they had

added to their burdens, were scarcely amusing performers. The rheumatic

Parkinsons, from Green Springs; the ophthalmic Filgees, from Alder

Creek; the ague-stricken Harneys, from Martinez Bend; and the feeble-

limbed Steptons, from Sugar Mill, might, in their combined families, have

suggested a hospital, rather than any other social assemblage. Even their

companionship, which had little of cheerful fellowship in it, would have

been grotesque but for the pathetic instinct of some mutual vague appeal

from the hardness of their lives and the helplessness of their conditions

that had brought them together. Nor was this appeal to a Higher Power any

the less pathetic that it bore no reference whatever to their respective

needs or deficiencies, but was always an invocation for a light which,

when they believed they had found it, to unregenerate eyes scarcely

seemed to illumine the rugged path in which their feet were continually

stumbling. One might have smiled at the idea of the vendetta-following

Ferguses praying for "justification by Faith," but the actual spectacle of

old Simon Fergus, whose shot-gun was still in his wagon, offering up that

appeal with streaming eyes and agonized features was painful beyond a

doubt. To seek and obtain an exaltation of feeling vaguely known as "It,"

or less vaguely veiling a sacred name, was the burden of the general

appeal.

The large tent had been filled, and between the exhortations a certain

gloomy enthusiasm had been kept up by singing, which had the effect of

continuing in an easy, rhythmical, impersonal, and irresponsible way the

sympathies of the meeting. This was interrupted by a young man who rose

suddenly, with that spontaneity of impulse which characterized the

speakers, but unlike his predecessors, he remained for a moment mute,

trembling and irresolute. The fatal hesitation seemed to check the

unreasoning, monotonous flow of emotion, and to recall to some extent

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

the reason and even the criticism of the worshipers. He stammered a

prayer whose earnestness was undoubted, whose humility was but too

apparent, but his words fell on faculties already benumbed by repetition

and rhythm. A slight movement of curiosity in the rear benches, and a

whisper that it was the maiden effort of a new preacher, helped to prolong

the interruption. A heavy man of strong physical expression sprang to the

rescue with a hysterical cry of "Glory!" and a tumultuous fluency of

epithet and sacred adjuration. Still the meeting wavered. With one final

paroxysmal cry, the powerful man threw his arms around his nearest

neighbor and burst into silent tears. An anxious hush followed; the speaker

still continued to sob on his neighbor's shoulder. Almost before the fact

could be commented upon, it was noticed that the entire rank of

worshipers on the bench beside him were crying also; the second and third

rows were speedily dissolved in tears, until even the very youthful scoffers

in the last benches suddenly found their half-hysterical laughter turned to

sobs. The danger was averted, the reaction was complete; the singing

commenced, and in a few moments the hapless cause of the interruption

and the man who had retrieved the disaster stood together outside the tent.

A horse was picketed near them.

The victor was still panting from his late exertions, and was more or

less diluvial in eye and nostril, but neither eye nor nostril bore the slightest

tremor of other expression. His face was stolid and perfectly in keeping

with his physique,--heavy, animal, and unintelligent.

"Ye oughter trusted in the Lord," he said to the young preacher.

"But I did," responded the young man, earnestly.

"That's it. Justifyin' yourself by works instead o' leanin' onto Him!

Find Him, sez you! Git Him, sez you! Works is vain. Glory! glory!" he

continued, with fluent vacuity and wandering, dull, observant eyes.

"But if I had a little more practice in class, Brother Silas, more

education?"

"The letter killeth," interrupted Brother Silas. Here his wandering eyes

took dull cognizance of two female faces peering through the opening of

the tent. "No, yer mishun, Brother Gideon, is to seek Him in the by-ways,

in the wilderness,--where the foxes hev holes and the ravens hev their

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

young,--but not in the Temples of the people. Wot sez Sister Parsons?"

One of the female faces detached itself from the tent flaps, which it

nearly resembled in color, and brought forward an angular figure clothed

in faded fustian that had taken the various shades and odors of household

service.

"Brother Silas speaks well," said Sister Parsons, with stridulous

fluency. "It's fore-ordained. Fore-ordinashun is better nor ordinashun, saith

the Lord. He shall go forth, turnin' neither to the right hand nor the left

hand, and seek Him among the lost tribes and the ungodly. He shall put

aside the temptashun of Mammon and the flesh." Her eyes and those of

Brother Silas here both sought the other female face, which was that of a

young girl of seventeen.

"Wot sez little Sister Meely,--wot sez Meely Parsons?" continued

Brother Silas, as if repeating an unctuous formula.

The young girl came hesitatingly forward, and with a nervous cry of

"Oh, Gideon!" threw herself on the breast of the young man.

For a moment they remained locked in each other's arms. In the

promiscuous and fraternal embracings which were a part of the devotional

exercises of the hour, the act passed without significance. The young man

gently raised her face. She was young and comely, albeit marked with a

half-frightened, half-vacant sorrow. "Amen," said Brother Gideon,

gravely.

He mounted his horse and turned to go. Brother Silas had clasped his

powerful arms around both women and was holding them in a ponderous

embrace.

"Go forth, young man, into the wilderness."

The young man bowed his head, and urged his horse forward in the

bleak and barren plain. In half an hour every vestige of the camp and its

unwholesome surroundings was lost in the distance. It was as if the strong

desiccating wind, which seemed to spring up at his horse's feet, had

cleanly erased the flimsy structures from the face of the plain, swept away

the lighter breath of praise and plaint, and dried up the easy-flowing tears.

The air was harsh but pure; the grim economy of form and shade and color

in the level plain was coarse but not vulgar; the sky above him was cold

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

and distant but not repellent; the moisture that had been denied his eyes at

the prayer-meeting overflowed them here; the words that had choked his

utterance an hour ago now rose to his lips. He threw himself from his

horse, and kneeling in the withered grass--a mere atom in the boundless

plain--lifted his pale face against the irresponsive blue and prayed.

He prayed that the unselfish dream of his bitter boyhood, his

disappointed youth, might come to pass. He prayed that he might in higher

hands become the humble instrument of good to his fellow- man. He

prayed that the deficiencies of his scant education, his self-taught learning,

his helpless isolation, and his inexperience might be overlooked or

reinforced by grace. He prayed that the Infinite Compassion might

enlighten his ignorance and solitude with a manifestation of the Spirit; in

his very weakness he prayed for some special revelation, some sign or

token, some visitation or gracious unbending from that coldly lifting sky.

The low sun burned the black edge of the distant tules with dull eating

fires as he prayed, lit the dwarfed hills with a brief but ineffectual radiance,

and then died out. The lingering trade winds fired a few volleys over its

grave and then lapsed into a chilly silence. The young man staggered to

his feet; it was quite dark now, but the coming night had advanced a few

starry vedettes so near the plain they looked like human watch-fires. For

an instant he could not remember where he was. Then a light trembled far

down at the entrance of the valley. Brother Gideon recognized it. It was in

the lonely farmhouse of the widow of the last Circuit preacher.

The abode of the late Reverend Marvin Hiler remained in the

disorganized condition he had left it when removed from his sphere of

earthly uselessness and continuous accident. The straggling fence that only

half inclosed the house and barn had stopped at that point where the two

deacons who had each volunteered to do a day's work on it had completed

their allotted time. The building of the barn had been arrested when the

half load of timber contributed by Sugar Mill brethren was exhausted, and

three windows given by "Christian Seekers" at Martinez painfully

accented the boarded spaces for the other three that "Unknown Friends" in

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

Tasajara had promised but not yet supplied. In the clearing some trees that

had been felled but not taken away added to the general incompleteness.

Something of this unfinished character clung to the Widow Hiler and

asserted itself in her three children, one of whom was consistently

posthumous. Prematurely old and prematurely disappointed, she had all

the inexperience of girlhood with the cares of maternity, and kept in her

family circle the freshness of an old maid's misogynistic antipathies with a

certain guilty and remorseful consciousness of widowhood. She supported

the meagre household to which her husband had contributed only the extra

mouths to feed with reproachful astonishment and weary incapacity. She

had long since grown tired of trying to make both ends meet, of which she

declared "the Lord had taken one." During her two years' widowhood she

had waited on Providence, who by a pleasing local fiction had been made

responsible for the disused and cast-off furniture and clothing which,

accompanied with scriptural texts, found their way mysteriously into her

few habitable rooms. The providential manna was not always fresh; the

ravens who fed her and her little ones with flour from the Sugar Mills did

not always select the best quality. Small wonder that, sitting by her lonely

hearthstone,--a borrowed stove that supplemented the unfinished

fireplace,-- surrounded by her mismatched furniture and clad in misfitting

garments, she had contracted a habit of sniffling during her dreary watches.

In her weaker moments she attributed it to grief; in her stronger intervals

she knew that it sprang from damp and draught.

In her apathy the sound of horses' hoofs at her unprotected door even

at that hour neither surprised nor alarmed her. She lifted her head as the

door opened and the pale face of Gideon Deane looked into the room. She

moved aside the cradle she was rocking, and, taking a saucepan and tea-

cup from a chair beside her, absently dusted it with her apron, and pointing

to the vacant seat said, "Take a chair," as quietly as if he had stepped from

the next room instead of the outer darkness.

"I'll put up my horse first," said Gideon gently.

"So do," responded the widow briefly.

Gideon led his horse across the inclosure, stumbling over the heaps of

rubbish, dried chips, and weather-beaten shavings with which it was

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

strewn, until he reached the unfinished barn, where he temporarily

bestowed his beast. Then taking a rusty axe, by the faint light of the stars,

he attacked one of the fallen trees with such energy that at the end of ten

minutes he reappeared at the door with an armful of cut boughs and chips,

which he quietly deposited behind the stove. Observing that he was still

standing as if looking for something, the widow lifted her eyes and said,

"Ef it's the bucket, I reckon ye'll find it at the spring, where one of them

foolish Filgee boys left it. I've been that tuckered out sens sundown, I ain't

had the ambition to go and tote it back." Without a word Gideon repaired

to the spring, filled the missing bucket, replaced the hoop on the loosened

staves of another he found lying useless beside it, and again returned to the

house. The widow once more pointed to the chair, and Gideon sat down.

"It's quite a spell sens you wos here," said the Widow Hiler, returning her

foot to the cradle-rocker; "not sens yer was ordained. Be'n practicin', I

reckon, at the meetin'."

A slight color came into his cheek. "My place is not there, Sister

Hiler," he said gently; "it's for those with the gift o' tongues. I go forth

only a common laborer in the vineyard." He stopped and hesitated; he

might have said more, but the widow, who was familiar with that kind of

humility as the ordinary perfunctory expression of her class, suggested no

sympathetic interest in his mission.

"Thar's a deal o' talk over there," she said dryly, "and thar's folks ez

thinks thar's a deal o' money spent in picnicking the Gospel that might be

given to them ez wish to spread it, or to their widows and children. But

that don't consarn you, Brother Gideon. Sister Parsons hez money enough

to settle her darter Meely comfortably on her own land; and I've heard tell

that you and Meely was only waitin' till you was ordained to be jined

together. You'll hev an easier time of it, Brother Gideon, than poor Marvin

Hiler had," she continued, suppressing her tears with a certain astringency

that took the place of her lost pride; "but the Lord wills that some should

be tried and some not."

"But I am not going to marry Meely Parsons," said Gideon quietly.

The widow took her foot from the rocker. "Not marry Meely!" she

repeated vaguely. But relapsing into her despondent mood she continued:

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

"Then I reckon it's true what other folks sez of Brother Silas Braggley

makin' up to her and his powerful exhortin' influence over her ma. Folks

sez ez Sister Parsons hez just resigned her soul inter his keepin'."

"Brother Silas hez a heavenly gift," said the young man, with gentle

enthusiasm; "and perhaps it may be so. If it is, it is the Lord's will. But I

do not marry Meely because my life and my ways henceforth must lie far

beyond her sphere of strength. I oughtn't to drag a young inexperienced

soul with me to battle and struggle in the thorny paths that I must tread."

"I reckon you know your own mind," said Sister Hiler grimly. "But

thar's folks ez might allow that Meely Parsons ain't any better than others,

that she shouldn't have her share o' trials and keers and crosses. Riches and

bringin' up don't exempt folks from the shadder. I married Marvin Hiler

outer a house ez good ez Sister Parsons', and at a time when old Cyrus

Parsons hadn't a roof to his head but the cover of the emigrant wagon he

kem across the plains in. I might say ez Marvin knowed pretty well wot it

was to have a helpmeet in his ministration, if it wasn't vanity of sperit to

say it now. But the flesh is weak, Brother Gideon." Her influenza here

resolved itself into unmistakable tears, which she wiped away with the

first article that was accessible in the work-bag before her. As it chanced to

be a black silk neckerchief of the deceased Hiler, the result was funereal,

suggestive, but practically ineffective.

"You were a good wife to Brother Hiler," said the young man gently.

"Everybody knows that."

"It's suthin' to think of since he's gone," continued the widow, bringing

her work nearer to her eyes to adjust it to their tear- dimmed focus. "It's

suthin' to lay to heart in the lonely days and nights when thar's no man

round to fetch water and wood and lend a hand to doin' chores; it's suthin'

to remember, with his three children to feed, and little Selby, the eldest,

that vain and useless that he can't even tote the baby round while I do the

work of a hired man."

"It's a hard trial, Sister Hiler," said Gideon, "but the Lord has His

appointed time."

Familiar as consolation by vague quotation was to Sister Hiler, there

was an occult sympathy in the tone in which this was offered that lifted

BY SHORE AND SEDGE

her for an instant out of her narrower self. She raised her eyes to his. The

personal abstraction of the devotee had no place in the deep dark eyes that

were lifted from the cradle to hers with a sad, discriminating, and almost

womanly sympathy. Surprised out of her selfish preoccupation, she was

reminded of her apparent callousness to what might be his present

disappointment. Perhaps it seemed strange to her, too, that those tender

eyes should go a-begging.

"Yer takin' a Christian view of yer own disappointment, Brother

Gideon," she said, with less astringency of manner; "but every heart

knoweth its own sorrer. I'll be gettin' supper now that the baby's sleepin'

sound, and ye'll sit by and eat."

"If you let me help you, Sister Hiler," said the young man with a

cheerfulness that belied any overwhelming heart affection, and awakened

in the widow a feminine curiosity as to his real feelings to Meely. But her

further questioning was met with a frank, amiable, and simple brevity that

was as puzzling as the most artful periphrase of tact. Accustomed as she

was to the loquacity of grief and the confiding prolixity of disappointed

lovers, she could not understand her guest's quiescent attitude. Her

curiosity, however, soon gave way to the habitual contemplation of her

own sorrows, and she could not forego the opportune presence of a

sympathizing auditor to whom she could relieve her feelings. The

preparations for the evening meal were therefore accompanied by a dreary

monotone of lamentation. She bewailed her lost youth, her brief courtship,

the struggles of her early married life, her premature widowhood, her

penurious and helpless existence, the disruption of all her present ties, the

hopelessness of the future. She rehearsed the unending plaint of those long

evenings, set to the music of the restless wind around her bleak dwelling,

with something of its stridulous reiteration. The young man listened, and

replied with softly assenting eyes, but without pausing in the material aid

that he was quietly giving her. He had removed the cradle of the sleeping

child to the bedroom, quieted the sudden wakefulness of "Pinkey,"

rearranged the straggling furniture of the sitting-room with much order

and tidiness, repaired the hinges of a rebellious shutter and the lock of an

unyielding door, and yet had apparently retained an unabated interest in

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摘要：

BYSHOREANDSEDGE1BYSHOREANDSEDGEBRETHARTEBYSHOREANDSEDGE2ANAPOSTLEOFTHETULESIOnOctober10,1856,aboutfourhundredpeoplewerecampedinTasajaraValley,California.Itcouldnothavebeenfortheprospect,sinceamorebarren,dreary,monotonous,anduninvitinglandscapeneverstretchedbeforehumaneye;itcouldnothavebeenforconveni...

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by shore and sedge(沙滩和苔草旁)

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