"I mean this:--the way to enjoy life is to do all the good you can, by
working just enough to support yourself and your family, if you have
one; to assist in spreading the gospel, and to enable you to help a
friend in need; and to alleviate the condition of the poor, the sick,
and the destitute. To work for more than this is to be greedy; to work
for less is to be reprehensibly lazy. This amount of work being done,
men ought to mingle with their fellow-creatures, and wander abroad as
much as may be among the beautiful works of their Creator."
"A very pretty theory, doubtless," replied Tom; "but, pray, in what
manner will your proposed ramble advance the interests of religion, or
enable you to do the extra ordinary amount of good you speak of?"
"There you go again, Tom; you ask me the abstract question, `What do you
mean by enjoying life?' and when I reply, you object to the answer as
not being applicable to the present case. Of course, it is not. I did
not intend it to be. The good I mean to do in my present ramble is
chiefly, if not solely, to my own body and mind--"
"Stop, my dear fellow," interrupted Tom, "don't become energetic! I
accept your answer to the general question; but how many people, think
you, can afford to put your theory in practice?"
"Very, very few," replied Ned, earnestly; "but that does not affect the
truth of my theory. Men _will_ toil night and day to accumulate gold,
until their bodies and souls are incapable of enjoying the good things
which gold can purchase, and they are infatuated enough to plume
themselves on this account, as being diligent men of business; while
others, alas! are compelled thus to toil in order to procure the bare
necessaries of life; but these melancholy facts do not prove the
principle of `grind-and-toil' to be a right one; much less do they
constitute a reason for my refusing to enjoy life in the right way when
I have the power."
Tom made no reply, but the vigorous puffs from his cigar seemed to
indicate that he pondered these things deeply. A few minutes
afterwards, Ned's expected sitter entered. He was a tall burly
Irishman, with a red-flannel shirt, open at the neck, a pair of huge
long boots, and a wide-awake.
"The top o' the mornin' to yees," said the man, pulling off his hat as
he entered.
"Good-morning, friend," said Ned, as Tom Collins rose, shouldered his
pick and shovel, and left the hut. "You are punctual, and deserve
credit for so good a quality. Pray, sit down."
"Faix, then, I don't know what a `quality' is, but av it's a good thing
I've no objection," replied the man, taking a seat on the edge of the
bed which Tom had just vacated. "I wos wantin' to ax ye, sir, av ye
could put in me pick and shovel in the lan'scape."
"In the landscape, Pat!" exclaimed Ned, addressing his visitor by the
generic name of the species; "I thought you wanted a portrait."
"Troth, then, I don't know which it is ye call it; but I wants a pictur'
o' meself all over, from the top o' me hat to the sole o' me boots.
Isn't that a lan'scape?"
"No, it's a portrait."
"Then it's a porthraite I wants; an' if ye'll put in the pick and
shovel, I'll give ye two dollars a pace for them."
"I'll put them in, Pat, for nothing," replied Ned, smiling, as he
commenced his sketch. "I suppose you intend to send this to some fair
one in old Ireland?"
Pat did not reply at once. "Sure," said he, slowly, "I niver thought of
her in that way before, but maybe she was fair wance, though she's been
a'most as black as bog-oak for half-a-cintury. It's for me grandmother
I want it."
"Your grandmother! that's curious, now; the last man I painted meant to
send the likeness to his mother."
"Not so cur'ous neither," replied the man, with some feeling; "it's my
opinion, the further a man goes from the owld country, and the rougher
he becomes wi' scrapin' up and down through the world, the more tinder
his heart gits when he thinks o' his mother. Me own mother died whin I
wos a bit spalpeen, an' I lived wi' me grandmother, bliss her heart,
ever since,--at laste till I took to wanderin', which was tin years
past."
"So long! Pat, you must have wandered far in that time. Have you ever
been away far into the interior of this country, among the mountains, in
the course of your wanderings!"
"Among the mountains, is it? Indeed I have, just; an' a most
tree-mendous beautiful sight it is. Wos ye goin' there?"
"I've been thinking about it. Is the shooting good?"
"Shootin', ah! av ye'd bin wi' me an' Bill Simmons, two summers ago,
ye'd have had more nor enough o' shootin'. The grizzlies are thick as
paes, and the buffaloes swarm in the valleys like muskaitoes, not to
mintion wolves, and beavers, and badgers, and deer, an' sich like--forby
the red Injuns; we shot six o' them critters about the legs an' arms in
self defence, an' they shot us too--they put an arrow dane through the
pint o' Bill's nose, an' wan ripped up me left arm, it did." (Pat bared
the brawny limb, and exhibited the wound as he spoke.) "Shootin', is it?
faix there's the hoith o' shootin' there, an' no end o' sainery."
The conversation was interrupted at this point by the door being burst
violently open, and several men rushing into the hut. They grasped the
Irishman by the arms, and attempted to drag him out, but Pat seized hold
of the plank, on the edge of which he sat, and refused to move at first.
"Come along, boy," cried one, boisterously; "we're goin' to lynch a
doctor, an' we want you to swear to him."
"Ay, an' to swear _at_ him too, if ye like; he's a rig'lar cheat; bin
killin' us off by the dozen, as cool as ye like, and pretendin' to be an
M.D. all the time."
"There's more than wan," cried another man, seizing Pat again by the
arm; "won't ye come, man?"
"Och! av coorse I will; av it's to do any good to the public, I'm yer
man. Hooray! for the people, an' down wi' the aristock-racy."
This sentiment was received with a shout of delight, and several
exclamations of "Bah!" as the party hurried in a body from the studio.
Ned, having thus nothing to do, rose, and followed them towards the
centre of the settlement, where a large crowd was collecting to try the
unhappy doctors above referred to.
There were six of them, all disreputable-looking rascals, who had set up
for doctors, and had carried on a thriving business among the sick
miners,--of whom there were many at that time,--until a genuine doctor
arrived at the place, and discovered and exposed them. The miners were
fortunately not bloodthirsty at this time, so the six self-dubbed M.D.s,
instead of being hanged, were banished for ever from the settlement.
Half-an-hour later the miners were busy in their respective claims, and
Ned Sinton was again seated before his "lan'scape" of the Irishman.
Just as he was completing the sketch, the door opened slowly, and a very
remarkable man swaggered into the room, and spat on the centre of the
floor. He was dressed in the extreme of the fashion then prevalent in
the Eastern States. A superfine black coat, silk vest, superfine black
trousers, patent-leather boots, kid gloves, and a black silk hat! A
more unnatural apparition at the diggings could not well be imagined.
Ned Sinton could hardly credit his eyes, but no rubbing of them would
dispel the vision. There he stood, a regular Broadway swell, whose love
of change had induced him to seek his fortune in the gold-regions of
California, and whose vanity had induced him to retain his drawing-room
costume.
This man, besides being possessed of a superabundance of supercilious
impudence, also possessed a set of digging tools, the handles of which
were made of polished oak and walnut, with bright brass ferrules. With
these he proposed to dig his fortune in a leisurely way; meanwhile,
finding the weather rather hot, he had made up his mind to have his
portrait done.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, this gentleman shut the door with
his heel, turned his back to the fire-place--from the mere force of
habit, for there was no fire--and again spat upon the floor, after which
he said:
"I say, stranger, what's your charge for a likeness?"
"You will excuse me, sir," answered Ned, "if, before replying to that
question, I beg of you not to spit on my floor."
The Yankee uttered an exclamation of surprise, and asked, "Why not,
stranger?"
"Because I don't like it."
"You wouldn't have me spit in my hat, would you?" inquired the dandy.
"Certainly not."
"Where then?"
Ned pointed to a large wooden box which stood close to the fire-place,
and said, "There--I have provided a box for the accommodation of those
sitters who indulge in that disagreeable practice. If you can't avoid
spitting, do it there."
"Wall, now, you Britishers are strange critters. But you haven't told
me your price for a portrait."
"I fear that I cannot paint you at any price," replied Ned, without
looking up from his paper, while Pat listened to the conversation with a
comical leer on his broad countenance.
"Why not, stranger?" asked the dandy, in surprise.
"Because I'm giving up business, and don't wish to take any more
orders."
"Then I'll set here, I guess, an' look at ye while ye knock off that
one," said the man, sitting down close to Ned's elbow, and again
spitting on the floor. Whether he did so intentionally or not we cannot
tell, probably not, but the effect upon Ned was so strong that he rose
deliberately, opened the door, and pointed to the passage thus set free,
without uttering a word. His look, however, was quite sufficient. The
dandy rose abruptly, and walked out in silence, leaving Ned to shut the
door quietly behind him and return to his work, while the Irishman
rolled in convulsions of laughter on Tom Collins's bed.
Ned's sitters, as we have hinted, were numerous and extremely various.
Sometimes he was visited by sentimental and home-sick miners, and
occasionally by dandy miners, such as we have described, but his chief
customers were the rough, hearty men from "old England," "owld Ireland,"
and from the Western States; with all of whom he had many a pleasant and
profitable hour's conversation, and from many of whom, especially the
latter, he obtained valuable and interesting information in reference to
the wild regions of the interior which he longed so much to see.