Erema; Or, My Father's SinBlackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
History
Erema; Or, My Father's Sin
Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
California -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Fathers and daughters -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
This was not their fault at all, but all my own, for being unable to
keep my secret about the great nugget. The Major had told me not to
speak of this, according to wise experience; and I had not the smallest
intention of doing an atom of mischief in that way; but somehow or other
it came out one night when I was being pitied for my desolation. And all
the charges against me began to be doubled from that moment.
If this had been all, I should not have cared so much, being quite
content that my money should go as fast as it came in to me. But there
was another thing here which cost me as much as my board and lodgings
and all the rest of my expenses. And that was the iron pump in European
Square. For this pump stood in the very centre of a huddled district
of famine, filth, and fever. When once I had seen from the leads of
our house the quag of reeking life around, the stubs and snags of
chimney-pots, the gashes among them entitled streets, and the broken
blains called houses, I was quite ashamed of paying any thing to become
a Christian.
Betsy, who stood by me, said that it was better than it used to be,
and that all these people lived in comfort of their own ideas, fiercely
resented all interference, and were good to one another in their own
rough way. It was more than three years since there had been a single
murder among them, and even then the man who was killed confessed that
he deserved it. She told me, also, that in some mining district of
Wales, well known to her, things were a great deal worse than here,
although the people were not half so poor. And finally, looking at a
ruby ring which I had begged her to wear always, for the sake of her
truth to me, she begged me to be wiser than to fret about things that I
could not change. “All these people, whose hovels I saw, had the means
of grace before them, and if they would not stretch forth their hands,
it was only because they were vessels of wrath. Her pity was rather
for our poor black brethren who had never enjoyed no opportunities, and
therefore must be castaways.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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