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睡谷的传说：欧文奇幻短篇小说选

魔鬼和汤姆·沃克|The Devil and Tom Walker

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 阅读：[12194]
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在马萨诸塞州，距离波士顿几英里的地方，有一个深水湾，从查尔斯湾开始延伸，弯弯曲曲插入内陆长达数英里，断头处是一个密密麻麻长满了树的沼泽（或称泥地）。水湾的一侧有一片美丽的林子，林子里光线暗淡；在对面的一侧，临水矗立着一座陡峭的山岗，山岗上稀稀拉拉长着几棵高龄橡树，一棵棵像巨无霸似的。根据古老的传说，海盗基德把他的财宝埋在了其中一棵树下。该水湾便于航行，夜间用小船便可神不知鬼不觉地将钱财运抵山脚下。山岗地势高，可以从那儿观察周围的动静，而橡树高大，是很好的地标，回头寻找财宝时极为便当。此外，这个古老的传说中还提到：埋财宝事宜由魔鬼主持，之后亦由它负责看管。众所周知，埋藏财物的事情向来都是由魔鬼经管的，尤其不义之财更是如此。不过不管怎么样，基德却一直没有回来取他的宝藏，因为他在波士顿被抓住，不久之后便被送到英国，以海盗罪绞死了。

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大约是在一七二七年，新英格兰地震频仍，吓得许多不可一世的罪孽深重之人都跪了下来祈求宽恕。这儿附近住着一个窝窝囊囊的小气鬼，名叫汤姆·沃克。他妻子跟他一样也吝啬成性，因为两口子都是守财奴，甚至彼此反目，相互欺骗。这女人见什么都会拿走藏起来；母鸡下蛋，鸡蛋还没下出来，她就虎视眈眈地守在那儿准备抢走。她丈夫则总是东找西寻，想把她藏的东西找出来。对于哪些东西是公共财产，两口子没少吵架，一吵就吵得脸红脖子粗。他们住的房子气氛凄凉，孤零零的，像是饿鬼的住所。门外长着几棵萎靡不振的柏树，成了寒酸的标志。烟囱里不见冒炊烟，不见过路人留步于门前。他们家的地里到处是乱石，坑洼不平，地面上结了些青苔，薄得连石头都盖不住；一匹可怜兮兮的马儿在地里乱转，吃几口青苔，反而更加饥饿难耐；有时候，它会把头探出栅栏，可怜巴巴地望着从跟前经过的人，似乎在央求他们把它从这块闹饥荒的地里救出去。

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这栋房子与这户人家都臭名在外。汤姆之妻是个泼妇，人高马大、性情暴躁、粗喉咙大嗓门，胳膊力大无穷。她跟丈夫吵起嘴来，常常只听得到她的声音。有时候，丈夫的脸上会出现伤痕，证明他们之间的冲突已经不仅仅是语言的交锋了。然而，竟无人敢出面劝架。谁要是独自一人从这儿走过，见了这恶言恶语、拳脚相加的场面，一定会心生畏惧，一边斜着眼看着这个缺乏和谐的人家，一边加快步子匆匆而过；如果是个单身汉，那他会庆幸自己幸亏没有老婆。

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一天，汤姆·沃克到该地区一个比较远的地方去，返回时走的是沼泽地——他认为走那儿是条捷径。跟大多数捷径一样，凡是快捷之路，必不好走。沼泽地里密密匝匝到处是树，有松树也有铁杉树，那些树又高又大，阴森森的，有的足有九十英尺高，林中即便在正午时分也黑黢黢的，是附近一带猫头鹰的栖息之地。此处遍布水坑和泥潭，有些区域则杂草丛生、青苔铺地。绿色的地面常常会骗住行路人的眼睛，使得他会一脚踏入黑泥潭里窒息而亡。这儿还有许多黑乎乎的、污浊的池塘，成为蝌蚪、牛蛙以及水蛇的家园。松树和铁杉的树干半泡在水里，一半已腐烂，看上去就像睡在泥坑里的鳄鱼一样。

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穿过这座险恶的林子，汤姆小心翼翼地择路而行，走啊走，走了许久。深深的泥沼里有着一丛丛的灯芯草和树根可以充当落脚点，但这样的落脚点极其危险，他踏上去时总是提心吊胆。有时，他又会像猫似的，沿着倒下来的树干谨慎前行；时不时会有一只鸬鹚突然尖叫一声，或者一只野鸭呱呱一声长鸣，从荒凉的池塘里飞起，弄得他吃惊不小。最终，他总算踏上了一块结实的土地，此处像个半岛，深入沼泽的腹地。想当年，印第安人同第一批殖民者交战，这儿曾是他们的一个据点。在此，他们建起了一种堡垒，自以为几乎牢不可破，于是便将这儿作为他们妻儿老小的避难所。如今，印第安人的那座堡垒只剩下了几段残垣断壁，而这些残垣和断壁也在逐渐消失，变得跟周围的土地一样平，几处已长满了橡树和其他的树木——这些树木的枝叶跟沼泽里的那些阴森的松树及铁杉树形成了鲜明的对比。

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A few miles from Boston, in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet winding several miles into the interior of the country from Charles Bay, and terminating in a thickly wooded swamp, or morass. On one side of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove; on the opposite side the land rises abruptly from the water’s edge, into a high ridge on which grow a few scattered oaks of great age and immense size. Under one of these gigantic trees, according to old stories, there was a great amount of treasure Kidd the pirate. The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly and at night to the very foot of the hill. The elevation of the place permitted a good look out to be kept that no one was at hand, while the remarkable trees formed good landmarks by which the place might easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of the money, and took it under his guardianship; but this, it is well known, he always does with buried treasure, particularly when it has been ill gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never returned to recover his wealth; being shortly after seized at Boston, sent out to England, and there hanged for a pirate. About the year 1727, just at the time when earthquakes were prevalent in New England, and shook many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre miserly fellow of the name of Tom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as himself; they were so miserly that they even conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could lay hands on she hid away: a hen could not cackle but she was on the alert to secure the new laid egg. Her husband was continually prying about to detect her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what ought to have been common property. They lived in a forlorn looking house, that stood alone and had an air of starvation. A few straggling savin trees, emblems of sterility, grew near it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller stopped at its door. A miserable horse, whose ribs were as articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged beds of pudding stone, tantalized and balked his hunger; and sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, look piteously at the passer by, and seem to petition deliverance from this land of famine. The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom’s wife was a tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband; and his face sometimes showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words. No one ventured, however, to interfere between them; the lonely wayfarer shrank within himself at the horrid clamor and clapper clawing; eyed the den of discord askance, and hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy.

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One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the neighborhood, he took what he considered a short cut homewards through the swamp. Like most short cuts, it was an ill chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high; which made it dark at noon day, and a retreat for all the owls of the neighborhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses; where the green surface often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black smothering mud; there were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bull frog, and the water snake, where trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half drowned, half rotting, looking like alligators, sleeping in the mire.

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Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherous forest; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and roots which afforded precarious footholds among deep sloughs; or pacing carefully, like a cat, along the prostrate trunks of trees; startled now and then by the sudden screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck, rising on the wing from some solitary pool. At length he arrived at a piece of firm ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the old Indians during their wars with the first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of fort which they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained of the Indian fort but a few embankments gradually sinking to the level of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamp.

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It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom Walker reached the old fort, and he paused there for a while to rest himself. Any one but he would have felt unwilling to linger in this lonely melancholy place, for the common people had a bad opinion of it from the stories handed down from the time of the Indian wars; when it was asserted that the savages held incantations here and made sacrifices to the evil spirit. Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind.

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He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the tree toad, and delving with his walking staff into a mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death blow had been given. It was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold of the Indian warriors.

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“Humph!” said Tom Walker, as he gave the skull a kick to shake the dirt from it.

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“Let that skull alone!” said a gruff voice.

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Tom lifted up his eyes and beheld a great black man, seated directly Opposite him on the stump of a tree. He was exceedingly surprised, having neither seen nor heard any one approach, and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well as the gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither negro nor Indian. It is true, he was dressed in a rude, half Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his body, but his face was neither black nor copper color, but swarthy and dingy and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in all directions; and bore an axe on his shoulder.

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He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes.

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“What are you doing on my grounds?” said the black man, with a hoarse growling voice.

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“Your grounds?” said Tom, with a sneer; “no more your grounds than mine: they belong to Deacon Peabody.”

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“Deacon Peabody be d——d,” said the stranger, “as I flatter myself he will be, if he does not look more to his own sins and less to those of his neighbors. Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody is faring.”

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Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so that the first high wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of Deacon Peabody, an eminent man, who had waxed wealthy by driving shreud bargains with the Indians. He now looked round and found most of the tall trees marked with the name of some great man of the colony, and all more or less scored by the axe. The one on which he had been seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name of Crowninshield; and he recollected a mighty rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was whispered he had acquired by buccaneering.

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“He’s just ready for burning!” said the black man, with a growl of triumph. “You see I am likely to have a good stock of firewood for winter.”

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“But what right have you,” said Tom, “to cut down Deacon Peabody’s timber?”

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“The right of prior claim,” said the other. “This woodland belonged to me long before one of your white faced race put foot upon the soil.”

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“And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?” said Tom. “Oh, I go by various names. I am the Wild Huntsman in some countries; the Black Miner in others. In this neighborhood I am known by the name of the Black Woodsman. I am he to whom the red men consecrated this spot, and in honour of whom they now and then roasted a white man by way of sweet smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been exterminated by you white savages, I amuse myself by presiding at the persecutions of quakers and anabaptists; I am the great patron and prompter of slave dealers, and the grand master of the Salem witches.” “The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not,” said Tom, sturdily, “you are he commonly called Old Scratch.”

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“The same at your service!” replied the black man, with a half civil nod.

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Such was the opening of this interview, according to the old story, though it has almost too familiar an air to be credited. One would think that to meet with such a singular personage in this wild lonely place, would have shaken any man’s nerves: but Tom was a hard minded fellow, not easily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant wife, that he did not even fear the devil.

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It is said that after this commencement, they had a long and earnest conversation together, as Tom returned homewards. The black man told him of great sums of money buried by Kidd the pirate, under the oak trees on the high ridge not far from the morass. All these were under his command and protected by his power, so that none could find them but such as propitiated his favor. These he offered to place within Tom Walker’s reach, having conceived an especial kindness for him: but they were to be had only on certain conditions. What these conditions were, may easily be surmised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly. They must have been very hard, for he required time to think of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles where money was in view. When they had reached the edge of the swamp the stranger paused.

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“What proof have I that all you have been telling me is true?” said Tom.

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“There is my signature,” said the black man, pressing his finger on Tom’s forehead. So saying, he turned off among the thickets of the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on until he totally disappeared.

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When Tom reached home he found the black print of a finger burnt, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate.

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The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden death of Absalom Crowninshield the rich buccaneer. It was announced in the papers with the usual flourish, that “a great man had fallen in Israel.”

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Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, and which was ready for burning. “Let the freebooter roast,” said Tom, “who cares!” He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion.

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He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence; but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with her. All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black man’s terms and secure what would make them wealthy for life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife; so he flatly refused out of the mere spirit of contradiction. Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject, but the more she talked the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her. At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all the gain to herself.

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Being of the same fearless temper as her husband, she set off for the old Indian fort towards the close of a summer’s day. She was many hours absent. When she came back she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She spoke something of a black man whom she had met about twilight, hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, and would not come to terms; she was to go again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was she forbore to say.

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The next evening she set off again for the swamp, with her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, but in vain: midnight came, but she did not make her appearance; morning, noon, night returned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew uneasy for her safety; especially as he found she had carried off in her apron the silver teapot and spoons and every portable article of value. Another night elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word, she was never heard of more.

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What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of so many pretending to know. It is one of those facts which have become confounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost her way among the tangled mazes of the swamp and sank into some pit or slough; others, more uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household booty, and made off to some other province; while others assert that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire on top of which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this, it was said a great black man with an axe on his shoulder was seen late that very evening coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in a check apron, with an air of surly triumph. The most current and probable story, however, observes that Tom Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property that he set out at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. During a long summer’s afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was no where to be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he flew screaming by; or the bull frog croaked dolefully from a neighboring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owls began to hoot and the bats to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor of carrion crows hovering about a cypress tree. He looked up and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron and hanging in the branches of the tree; with a great vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy, for he recognized his wife’s apron, and supposed it to contain the household valuables.

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“Let us get hold of the property,” said he, consolingly to himself, “and we will endeavor to do without the woman.”

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As he scrambled up the tree the vulture spread its wide wings, and sailed off screaming into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized the check apron, but, woful sight! found nothing but a heart and liver tied up in it.

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Such, according to the most authentic old story, was all that was to be found of Tom’s wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the black man as she had been accustomed to deal with her husband; but though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this instance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must have died game however: for it is said Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and found handsful of hair, that looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of the woodsman. Tom knew his wife’s prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the signs of a fierce clapper clawing. “Egad,” said he to himself, “Old Scratch must have had a tough time of it!”

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Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property with the loss of his wife; for he was a man of fortitude. He even felt something like gratitude towards the black woodsman, who he considered had done him a kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate a further acquaintance with him, but for some time without success; the old black legs played shy, for whatever people may think, he is not always to be had for calling for; he knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his game. At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom’s eagerness to the quick, and prepared him to agree to any thing rather than not gain the promised treasure, he met the black man one evening in his usual woodman dress, with his axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the edge of the swamp, and humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom’s advance with great indifference, made brief replies, and went on humming his tune.

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By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and they began to haggle about the terms on which the former was to have the pirate’s treasure. There was one condition which need not be mentioned, being generally understood in all cases where the devil grants favors; but there were others about which, though of less importance, he was inflexibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through his means should be employed in his service. He proposed, therefore, that Tom should employ it in the black traffick; that is to say, that he should fit out a slave ship. This, however, Tom resolutely refused; he was bad enough in all conscience; but the devil himself could not tempt him to turn slave dealer.

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Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but proposed instead that he should turn usurer; the devil being extremely anxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them as his peculiar people.

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To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom’s taste.

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“You shall open a broker’s shop in Boston next month,” said the black man.

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“I’ll do it tomorrow, if you wish,” said Tom Walker.

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“You shall lend money at two percent. a month.”

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“Egad, I’ll charge four!” replied Tom Walker. “You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchant to bankruptcy—”

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“I’ll drive him to the d—l,” cried Tom Walker, eagerly. “You are the usurer for my money!” said the black legs, with delight. “When will you want the rhino?”

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“This very night.”

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“Done!” said the devil.

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“Done!” said Tom Walker.—So they shook hands, and struck a bargain. A few days’ time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a counting house in Boston. His reputation for a ready moneyed man, who would lend money out for a good consideration, soon spread abroad. Every body remembers the days of Governor Belcher, when money was particularly scarce. It was a time of paper credit. The country had been deluged with government bills; the famous Land Bank had been established; there had been a rage for speculating; the people had run mad with schemes for new settlements; for building cities in the wilderness; land jobbers went about with maps of grants, and townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where, but which every body was ready to purchase. In a word, the great speculating fever which breaks out every now and then in the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and every body was dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual the fever had subsided; the dream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients were left in doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the consequent cry of “hard times.” At this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as a usurer in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers. The needy and the adventurous; the gambling speculator; the dreaming land jobber; the thriftless tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short, every one driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker.

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Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and he acted like a “friend in need;” that is to say, he always exacted good pay and good security. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages; gradually squeezed his customers closer and closer; and sent them at length, dry as a sponge from his door.

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In this way he made money hand over hand; became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon change. He built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of ostentation; but left the greater part of it unfinished and unfurnished out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in the fullness of his vain glory, though he nearly starved the horses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on the axle trees, you would have thought you heard the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing.

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As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the good things of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with regret on the bargain he had made with his black friend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. He became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church goer. He prayed loudly and strenuously as if heaven were to be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during the week, by the clamor of his Sunday devotion. The quiet Christians who had been modestly and steadfastly travelling Zionward, were struck with self reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in their career by this new made convert. Tom was as rigid in religious, as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbors, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the persecution of quakers and anabaptists. In a word, Tom’s zeal became as notorious as his riches.

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Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a small bible in his coat pocket. He had also a great folio bible on his counting house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business; on such occasions he would lay his green spectacles in the book, to mark the place, while he turned round to drive some usurious bargain.

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Some say that Tom grew a little crack brained in his old days, and that fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled and bridled, and buried with his feet uppermost; because he supposed that at the last day the world would be turned upside down; in which case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was determined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wives’ fable. If he really did take such a precaution it was totally superfluous; at least so says the authentic old legend which closes his story in the following manner.

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One hot afternoon in the dog days, just as a terrible black thundergust was coming up, Tom sat in his counting house in his white linen cap and India silk morning gown. He was on the point of foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of an unlucky land speculator for whom he had professed the greatest friendship. The poor land jobber begged him to grant a few months’ indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated and refused another day.

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“My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish,” said the land jobber. “Charity begins at home,” replied Tom, “I must take care of myself in these hard times.”

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“You have made so much money out of me,” said the speculator.

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Tom lost his patience and his piety—“The devil take me,” said he, “if I have made a farthing!”

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Just then there were three loud knocks at the street door. He stepped out to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse which neighed and stamped with impatience.

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“Tom, you’re come for!” said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrunk back, but too late. He had left his little bible at the bottom of his coat pocket, and his big bible on the desk buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked him like a child into the saddle, gave the horse a lash, and away he galloped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of a thunder storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the street; his white cap bobbing up and down; his morning gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the black man he had disappeared.

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Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman who lived on the borders of the swamp, reported that in the height of the thunder gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling along the road, and running to the window caught sight of a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, over the hills and down into the black hemlock swamp towards the old Indian fort; and that shortly after a thunderbolt falling in that direction seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze.

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The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins and tricks of the devil in all kinds of shapes from the first settlement of the colony, that they were not so much horror struck as might have been expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom’s effects. There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching his coffers all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to cinders. In place of gold and silver his iron chest was filled with chips and shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half starved horses, and the very next day his great house took fire and was burnt to the ground.

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Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all griping money brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted. The very hole under the oak trees, whence he dug Kidd’s money, is to be seen to this day; and the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort are often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in a morning gown and white cap, which is doubtless the troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying, prevalent throughout New England, of “The Devil and Tom Walker.”

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Such, as nearly as I can recollect, was the purport of the tale told by the Cape Cod whaler. There were divers trivial particulars which I have omitted, and which whiled away the morning very pleasantly, until the time of tide favorable for fishing being passed, it was proposed to land, and refresh ourselves under the trees, until the noontide heat should have abated.

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We accordingly landed on a delectable part of the island of Mannahatta, in that shady and embowered tract formerly under dominion of the ancient family of the Hardenbrooks. It was a spot well known to me in the course of the aquatic expeditions of my boyhood. Not far from where we landed, was an old Dutch family vault, constructed in the side of a bank, which had been an object of great awe and fable among my school boy associates. We had peeped into it during one of our coasting voyages, and been startled by the sight of mouldering coffins and musty borres within; but what had given it the most fearful interest in our eyes, was its being in some away connected with the pirate wreck which lay rotting among the rocks of Hell Gate. There were also stories of smuggling connected with it, particularly relating to a time when this retired spot was owned by a noted burgher called Ready Money Prevost; a man of whom it was whispered that he had many and mysterious dealings with parts beyond seas. All these things, however, had been jumbled together in our minds in that vague way in which such themes are mingled up in the tales of boyhood.

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While I was pondering upon these matters my companions had spread a repast, from the contents of our well stored pannier, under a broad chesnut, on the green sward which swept down to the water’s edge. Here we solaced ourselves on the cool grassy carpet during the warm sunny hours of midday. While lolling on the grass indulging in that kind of musing reverie of which I am fond, I summoned up the dusky recollections of my boyhood respecting this place, and repeated them like the imperfectly remembered traces of a dream, for the amusement of my companions. When I had finished a worthy old burgher, John Josse Vandermoere, the same who once related to me the adventures of Dolph Heyliger, broke silence and observed, that he recollected a story of money digging which occurred in this very neighborhood. and might account for some of the readitions which I had heard in my boyhood. As we knew him to be one of the most authentic narrators in the province we begged him to let us have the particulars, and accordingly, while we solaced ourselves with a clean long pipe of Blase Moore’s best tobacco, the authentic John Josse Vandermoere related the following tale.

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

inlet

['ɪnlet]

n.入口

terminate

['tɜːmɪneɪt]

v.结束;终止;满期;达到终点

swamp

[swɒmp]

n.沼泽;湿地;困境

elevation

[ˌelɪ'veɪʃn]

n.提升

preside

[prɪ'zaɪd]

v.主持;任主席;统辖

sinner

['sɪnə(r)]

n.罪人;流氓

Walker

['wɔːkə(r)]

n.步行者;行人;助步车

conspire

[kən'spaɪə(r)]

v.阴谋;协力;共谋，串通一气

continual

[kən'tɪnjuəl]

adj.不断的;频繁的;连续的

pry

[praɪ]

v.打听;窥探;用杠杆撬开

hoard

[hɔːd]

n.贮藏

sterility

[stə'rɪləti]

n.不生育;贫瘠

curl

[kɜːl]

n.卷曲;卷发;年轮;漩涡;【足】曲线球

traveller

[ˈtrævlə]

n.旅客;旅行家

miserable

['mɪzrəbl]

adj.痛苦的;悲惨的;贫乏的;狼狈的

moss

[mɒs]

n.苔藓;泥沼

scarcely

['skeəsli]

adv.几乎不;简直不;刚刚;决不

rag

[ræɡ]

n.破布;碎布;破衣服;(低劣的)报纸

pudding

['pʊdɪŋ]

n.布丁;甜食;血肠

balk

[bɔːk]

阻碍

piteous

['pɪtiəs]

adj.哀怨的;可怜的;凄惨的

petition

[pə'tɪʃn]

n.请愿书;祈求;申请

famine

['fæmɪn]

n.饥荒;极度缺乏

warfare

['wɔːfeə(r)]

n.战争;冲突

gloomy

['ɡluːmi]

adj.阴暗的;忧闷的;前景黯淡的

hemlock

['hemlɒk]

n.铁杉;毒芹;从毒芹提炼的毒药;毒汁

owl

[aʊl]

n.猫头鹰

smother

['smʌðə(r)]

v.窒息;闷死;用沙等闷住火;忍住;厚厚地或大面积地覆盖

stagnant

['stæɡnənt]

adj.不流动的;停滞的;不景气的

rot

[rɒt]

n.腐烂;腐蚀;败坏;胡话

alligator

['ælɪɡeɪtə(r)]

n.短吻鳄

pick

[pɪkt]

采摘，挑选；

slough

[slaʊ]

n.泥坑;沼泽;沮丧的情况;(蛇等)蜕皮

grind

[ɡraɪnd]

v.磨;压迫;碾碎;磨得吱吱响;逐渐停顿

peninsula

[pə'nɪnsjələ]

n.半岛

bosom

['bʊzəm]

n.胸部;胸怀;内部;内心

stronghold

['strɒŋhəʊld]

n.要塞;堡垒;中心地

colonist

['kɒlənɪst]

n.殖民地居民;殖民者

fort

[fɔːt]

n.堡垒;要塞

embankment

[ɪm'bæŋkmənt]

n.堤防;筑堤

gradual

['ɡrædʒuəl]

adj.逐渐的;逐步的;平缓的

dusk

[dʌsk]

n.黄昏;薄暮;幽暗

felted

['feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

unwilling

[ʌn'wɪlɪŋ]

adj.不愿意的

melancholy

['melənkəli]

n.忧郁;忧愁;悲伤

savage

['sævɪdʒ]

a. 野蛮的，未开化的;

incantation

[ˌɪnkæn'teɪʃn]

n.咒语;魔法

repose

[rɪ'pəʊz]

n.休息或睡眠;安宁

mound

[maʊnd]

n.土墩;小丘;一堆

mould

[məʊld]

n.发霉;模具

rake

[reɪk]

n.耙子;耙状物

cleave

[kliːv]

v.裂开;分开(尤指沿天然纹理);使分开;穿过;依恋或忠实;粘着

rust

[rʌst]

n.铁锈;锈菌;赤褐色

elapse

[ɪ'læps]

v.逝去;过去

gruff

[ɡrʌf]

adj.粗鲁的;生硬的;粗糙的;粗哑的

liftable

[lɪftəbl]

a.1. 可以举起的

behold

[bɪ'həʊld]

vt.看到;注视;领悟

stump

[stʌmp]

n.残株;烟蒂;讲演台

perplex

[pə'pleks]

v.使困惑;使糊涂;使复杂化

rude

[ruːd]

adj.粗鲁无礼的;原始的;未加工的;粗糙的;猛烈的

sash

[sæʃ]

n.饰带;肩带;腰带;窗框

swathe

[sweɪð]

n.一长片;绷带;包布;束带

soot

[sʊt]

n.煤烟;烟尘

forge

[fɔːdʒ]

vt.锻造;伪造;建立

coarse

[kɔːs]

adj.粗糙的;粗俗的

scowl

[skaʊl]

n.愁容;皱眉

growl

[ɡraʊl]

n.吠声;咆哮声

Deacon

['diːkən]

n.(教会的)执事;助祭;受训准备做牧师者

flatter

['flætə(r)]

v.奉承;恭维;取悦;显得好看

hew

[hjuː]

vt. 劈，砍;

bark

[bɑːk]

v.(狗)吠;咆哮

eminent

['emɪnənt]

adj.著名的;卓越的

wax

[wæks]

n.蜡;蜂蜡

recollect

[ˌrekə'lekt]

v.回忆;回想;记起

vulgar

['vʌlɡə(r)]

adj.通俗的;粗俗的;乡土的

firewood

['faɪəwʊd]

n.柴火;木柴

woodland

[ˈwʊdlənd]

森林地, 林地

consecrate

['kɒnsɪkreɪt]

v.供神用;奉献;使神圣

honour

[ˈɒnə]

n.光荣;

exterminate

[ɪk'stɜːmɪneɪt]

vt.消灭;扑灭;根绝

Quaker

['kweɪkə(r)]

n.教友派信徒

singular

['sɪŋɡjələ(r)]

a. 非凡的；卓越的;

commencement

[kə'mensmənt]

n.开始;毕业典礼

conversation

[ˌkɒnvə'seɪʃn]

n.谈话;会话

surmise

[sə'maɪz]

n.推测

thicket

['θɪkɪt]

n.繁茂处;丛林;草丛

obliterate

[ə'blɪtəreɪt]

v.涂去;擦去;删除;盖销(邮票等)

buccaneer

[ˌbʌkə'nɪə(r)]

n.海盗;不择手段的投机者

prone

[prəʊn]

adj.易于 ... 的;有 ... 倾向的;俯卧的

uneasy

[ʌn'iːzi]

adj.不自在的 ；心神不安的 ；不稳定的;不舒服的

oblige

[ə'blaɪdʒ]

vt.迫使;责成;使感激;施恩于;帮 ... 的忙;使…成为必要

fearless

['fɪələs]

adj.无畏的;大胆的;勇敢的

twilight

['twaɪlaɪt]

n.黄昏;微光;含糊不清;衰落时期

forbear

[fɔː'beə(r)]

v.忍耐;阻止;克制

apron

['eɪprən]

n.围裙;停机坪;台口;遮挡板

lade

[leɪd]

v.装载;装货;汲取

confound

[kən'faʊnd]

vt.使困惑;混淆;挫败;诅咒

tangle

['tæŋɡl]

n. (头发、线、树枝等的)缠结，纠缠;

maze

[meɪz]

n.迷宫;曲径;迷惑

bundle

['bʌndl]

n.捆;束

croak

[krəʊk]

v.嗄嗄叫;发牢骚;死

console

[kən'səʊl]

vt.安慰;慰藉

endeavor

[ɪn'devə]

n.尽力;努力

authentic

[ɔː'θentɪk]

adj.真正的;真实的;可信的;可靠的

stamp

[stæmp]

【1】 n.邮票; 图章【2】v.盖邮戳,盖印章

pluck

[plʌk]

v.摘;猛拉;拔;拨弹(乐器)

whet

[wet]

n.磨;磨利之物;开胃物

eagerness

['iːgənɪs]

n.渴望;热心

hum

[hʌm]

vi. (蜜蜂等)作嗡嗡声;

indifference

[ɪn'dɪfrəns]

n.不重视;无兴趣;漠不关心

inflexible

[ɪn'fleksəbl]

adj.不可弯曲的;僵硬的;顽固的;不可改变的;不容变更的

resolute

['rezəluːt]

adj.坚决的;果断的

usurer

['juːʒərə(r)]

n.高利贷;贷款人

percent

[pə'sent]

n.百分比

scarce

[skeəs]

adj.缺乏的;不足的;稀少的;罕见的

Deluge

['deljuːdʒ]

n.大洪水;暴雨;泛滥

jobber

['dʒɒbə(r)]

n.做零活者;批发商;股票经纪人

township

['taʊnʃɪp]

n.镇区

subside

[səb'saɪd]

vi.沉没;平息;下陷

imaginary

[ɪ'mædʒɪnəri]

adj.想象的;虚构的

resound

[rɪ'zaʊnd]

v.(使)回响;鸣响;驰名

distress

[dɪ'stres]

n.不幸;危难;苦恼;痛苦

throng

[θrɒŋ]

n.人群;一大群;大量

needy

['niːdi]

adj.贫穷的;缺乏的

applicant

['æplɪkənt]

n.申请人

hardness

[hɑːdnəs]

n.坚硬;困难;严厉

sponge

[spʌndʒ]

n.海绵

exalt

[ɪɡ'zɔːlt]

v.赞扬;提升;加强

cock

[kɒk]

n.公鸡

unfinished

[ʌn'fɪnɪʃt]

adj.未完成的;未经最后加工的

carriage

['kærɪdʒ]

n.四轮马车

fullness

['fʊlnəs]

n.丰满;充分;完整丰富;适时

starve

[stɑːv]

vi.挨饿;受饿;极度匮乏

groan

[ɡrəʊn]

v.呻吟;抱怨;发嘎吱声;受重压

axle

['æksl]

n.轮轴;车轴

debtor

['detə(r)]

n.借方;债务人

thoughtful

['θɔːtfl]

adj.深思的;体贴的

wit

[wɪt]

n.智力;才智;机智;风趣

devotion

[dɪ'vəʊʃn]

n.虔诚;献身;奉献;热爱

steadfast

['stedfɑːst]

adj.坚定的;毫不动摇的

outstrip

[ˌaʊt'strɪp]

v.超过;跑过

rigid

['rɪdʒɪd]

adj.坚硬的;严格的;固执的

stern

[stɜːn]

adj.严厉的;严峻的;苛刻的;坚决的

censure

['senʃə(r)]

n.责难;非难

riches

['rɪtʃɪz]

n.财富;富有

lurk

[lɜːk]

v.潜藏;潜伏;埋伏

spectacle

['spektəkl]

n.景象;场面;奇观;壮观;公开展示;表相，假相

fancy

['fænsi]

n. 【C】设想；幻想；空想;

saddle

['sædl]

n.鞍;车座;山脊;当权

bridle

['braɪdl]

n.马笼头，缰绳;约束，约束物

linen

['lɪnɪn]

n.亚麻布;亚麻线;亚麻制品

gown

[ɡaʊn]

n.长袍;长外衣

foreclose

[fɔː'kləʊz]

v.取消抵押品的赎回权;排除

profess

[prə'fes]

v. 声称; 冒称; 以 ... 为业; 正式接受入教; 表明信仰

speculator

['spekjuleɪtə(r)]

n.投机者;投机商人;思索家

farthing

['fɑːðɪŋ]

n.法新(英国旧时铜币;相当于四分之一便士);一点儿

neigh

[neɪ]

v.马嘶叫

whisk

[wɪsk]

n.拂;扫帚;毛掸子;搅拌器

lash

[læʃ]

n.鞭子;鞭打;睫毛;讽刺

gallop

['ɡæləp]

n.疾驰;飞奔

bob

[bɒb]

vi. 上下动荡；浮动；摇摆;

pavement

['peɪvmənt]

n.人行道

clatter

['klætə(r)]

n. (马蹄)得得声；(刀叉、碗碟等碰撞的)铿锵声；(机器的)卡嗒声;

hoof

[huːf]

n. 蹄; 人的脚

howl

[haʊl]

n.长嚎;高声叫喊;啸鸣

blaze

[bleɪz]

n. 火；火焰;

witch

[wɪtʃ]

n.女巫;巫婆

trustee

[trʌ'stiː]

n.受托人;理事

coffer

['kɒfə(r)]

n. 【复】资产，财源；国库；金库;

cinder

['sɪndə(r)]

n.煤渣;灰烬

haunt

[hɔːnt]

vt. 常去，常到(某地);

Cape

[keɪp]

n.岬;海角

diver

['daɪvə(r)]

n.跳水者;潜水员

trivial

['trɪviəl]

adj.不重要的;琐碎的

abate

[ə'beɪt]

v.缓和;减弱;消除

tract

[trækt]

n.大片土地;器官系统

aquatic

[ə'kwætɪk]

adj.水生的;水中的;水上的

peep

[piːp]

n.瞥见;偷看;初现

startle

['stɑːtl]

v.(使)吃惊;(使)惊愕

fearful

['fɪəfl]

adj.担心的;可怕的;非常的

smuggle

['smʌɡl]

v.走私;偷运;偷带

jumble

['dʒʌmbl]

vi.掺杂;混杂

mingle

['mɪŋɡl]

vt.使混合;使结合

ponder

['pɒndə(r)]

v.沉思;考虑

solace

['sɒləs]

n.安慰;慰藉

loll

[lɒl]

v.懒洋洋地呆着、坐或站着(常指倚着某物);懒散地闲逛;伸出舌头

Muse

[mjuːz]

v.沉思;冥想

imperfect

[ɪm'pɜːfɪkt]

adj.不完美的;有缺点的;未完善的

amusement

[ə'mjuːzmənt]

n.乐趣，娱乐;消遣

narrator

[nə'reɪtə(r)]

n.叙述者;讲解员

repast

[rɪ'pɑːst]

n.就餐;设宴

pannier

['pæniə(r)]

n.(自行车或摩托车后轮两侧的)挂篮;(马或驴两侧的)驮篮.

sward

[swɔːd]

n.草地;草皮

grassy

['ɡrɑːsi]

adj.长满草的;草绿色的;像草的

midday

[ˌmɪd'deɪ]

n.正午;中午

reverie

['revəri]

n.幻想;白日梦

dusky

['dʌski]

adj.微黑的;带黑的;昏暗的

boyhood

['bɔɪhʊd]

n.少年时代

burgher

['bɜːɡə(r)]

n.市民;公民;中产阶级的公民

Blase

['blɑːzeɪ]

adj.对享乐感到厌倦的;无动于衷的;非常世故的

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