Читать книгу Dealings with the Dead (Vol. 1&2) - Lucius M. Sargent - Страница 36

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The cholera seems to be forgotten—but without reason—for the yellowest and most malignant of all yellow fevers is down upon us, proving fatal to the peace of many families, and sweeping away our citizens, by hundreds. The distemper appears to have originated in California, and to have been brought hither, in letters from Governor Mason and others. It is deeply to be deplored, that these letters, which are producing all this mischief, had not been subjected to the process of smoking and sprinkling with vinegar; for the disease is highly contagious. This fever differs entirely from the febris flava—the typhus icteroides of Sauvages. The symptoms are somewhat peculiar. The pulse is quick and fluttering—the head hot—the patient neglects his business, bolts his food, and wanders about—sometimes apparently delirious, and, during the paroxysms, calls furiously for a pickaxe and a tin pan. But the most certain indication, that the disease has entered into the system, is, not that the patient himself becomes yellow, but that everything, upon which he turns his eyes, assumes the yellow appearance of gold. The nature of this distemper will, however, be much better understood, by the presentation of a few cases of actual occurrence.

I. Jeduthan Smink—a carpenter, having a wife and two children, residing at No. 9 Loafer’s Lane. This is a strongly marked case. Mr. Smink, who is about five and twenty years of age, has always entertained the opinion, that work did him harm, and that drink did him good—labors—the only way in which he will labor—under the delusion, that all is gold that glistens—packed up his warming pan and brass kettle, to send them to the mint.

II. Laban Larkin, a farmer—caught the fever of a barber, while being shaved—persuaded that the unusual yellowness of his squashes and carrots can only be accounted for, by the presence of gold dust—turned a field of winter rye topsy turvy, in search of it—believes finally, in the sliding qualities of subterraneous treasure—thinks his gold has slipped over into his neighbor’s field of winter rye—offers to dig it all up, at the halves—excited and abusive, because his neighbor declines the offer—told him he was a superannuated ass, and behind the times.

III. Molly Murphy resides, when at home, which is seldom, in Shelaly Court, near the corner, easily found by any one, who will follow his nose; has a husband and one child, a dutiful boy, who vends matches and penny papers, on week days, and steals, on Sundays, for the support of the family. Molly can read; has read what Gov. Mason writes about pigs rooting up gold, by mistake, for groundnuts—her brain much disturbed—has an impression, that gold may be found almost anywhere—with a tin pan, and no other assistance but her son, Tooley Murphy, she has actually dug over and washed a pile of filth, in front of her dwelling, which the city scavengers have never been able materially to diminish—urges her husband to be “aff wid the family for Killyfarny, where the very wheelbarries is made out of goold.” Dreams of nothing but gold dust, and firmly believes it to be the very dust we shall all return to—while asleep, seized her husband by the ears, and could scarcely be sufficiently awakened, to comprehend that she had not captured the golden calf.

Let us be grave. I shall not inquire, if Bishop Archelaus was right in the opinion, that the original golden calf was made, not by the Israelites, but by Egyptians, who were the companions of their flight; nor if the modern idol be a descendant in the right line. It is somewhat likely, that the golden calf of 1848, will grow up to be a terrible bull, for some of the adventurers.

That there is gold in California, no one doubts. Governor Mason’s standard of quantity is rather alarming—there is gold enough, says he, in the country, drained by the Sacramento and Joaquin rivers, and more than enough, “to pay the cost of the present war with Mexico, a hundred times over.” This is encouraging, and may lead us to look upon the prospect of another, with more complacency; though the whole of this treasure will not buy back a single slaughtered victim—not one husband to the widow—nor one parent to an orphan child—nor one stay and staff, the joy and the pride of her life, to the lone mother. N’importe—we have gold and glory! “The people,” says Mr. Mason, “before engaged in cultivating their small patches of ground, and guarding their herds of cattle and horses, have all gone to the mines. Laborers of every trade have left their work benches, and tradesmen their shops. Sailors desert their ships, as fast as they arrive on the coast.”

There is a marvellous fascination in all this, no doubt; and as fast and as far as the knowledge radiates, thousands upon thousands will be rushing to the spot. The shilling here, however, which procures a given amount of meat, fire and clothes, is equal to the sum, whatever it may be, which, there procures the same amount and quality. Loafers and the lovers of ease and indolence, who are tobacco chewers, to a man, are desirous of flying to this El Dorado. Let them have a care: an ounce of gold dust, valued at $12 there, though worth $18 here, is said to have been paid, for a plug of tobacco. A traveller in Caffraria, having paid five cowries, (shells, the money of the country) for some article, complained, that forty were demanded, for a like article, in a village, not far off; and inquired if the article was scarce; “no,” was the reply, “but cowries are very plenty.”

Our adventurers intend to remain, perhaps, only till they obtain a competency. Even that is not the work of a day; and will be longer, or shorter, in the ratio of the consumption of means, for daily support, during the operation. There will, doubtless, be some difference also, as to the meaning of the word competency. An intelligent merchant, of this city, once defined it to mean a little more, in every individual’s opinion, than he hath. Like the lock of hay, which Miss Edgeworth says is attached to the extremity of the pole, and which is ever just so far in advance of the hungry horses, in an Irish jaunting car, so competency seems to be forever leading us onward, yet is never fairly within our grasp.

John Graunt, of whom a good account may be found in Bayle, says, that, if the art of making gold were known, and put extensively in practice, it would raise the value of silver. Of course it would, and of everything else, so far as the quantity of gold, given in exchange for any article, is the representative of value. As gold becomes plenty, it will be employed for other uses, sauce-pans perhaps, as well as for the increase of the circulating medium. The amount of gold, which has passed through the British mint, from the accession of Elizabeth, 1558, to 1840, is, according to Professor Farraday, 3,353,561 pounds weight troy; and nearly one half of this was coined during the reign of George III.

Gold is a good thing, in charitable fingers; but it too frequently constructs for itself a chancel in our hearts. It then becomes the golden calf, and man an idolater. How dearly we get to love the chink and the glitter of our gold! How much like death it does seem, to go off ’change, before the last watch!

Three score years and ten, devoted to the turning of pennies! How many of us, after we have had our three warnings, still hobble up and down, day after day, infinitely more anxious about pennies, than we were, fifty years ago, about pounds! An angel, the spirit, for example, of Michael de Montaigne, perched upon the City Hall—the eastern end of the ridge pole—must be tempted to laugh heartily. Without any angelic pretensions, I have done so myself, when, upon certain emergencies, the kegs, boxes, and bags of gold and silver, hand-carted and hand borne, have gone from bank to bank, backward and forward, often, in a morning, like the slipper, in the jeu de pantoufle! What an interest is upon the faces of the crowd, who gaze upon the very kegs and boxes; feasting upon the bald idea—the unprofitable consciousness—that gold and silver are within; and reminding one of old George Herbert’s lines—

“Wise men with pity do behold

Fools worship mules, that carry gold.”

“Verily,” saith an ancient writer, “traffickers and the getters of gain, upon the mart, are like unto pismires, each struggling to bear off the largest mouthful.”

I am glad to see that the moderns are collecting the remains of good old George Herbert, and giving them an elegant surtout. His address to money is a jewel, and none the worse for its antique setting:

“Money! Thou bane of bliss, and source of wo!

Whence com’st thou, that thou art so fresh and fine?

I know thy parentage is base and low;

Man found thee, poor and dirty, in a mine.

“Surely thou didst so little contribute

To this great kingdom, which thou now hast got,

That he was fain, when thou wert destitute,

To dig thee out of thy dark cave and grot.

“Then, forcing thee by fire, he made thee bright;

Nay, thou hast got the face of man, for we

Have, with our stamp and seal, transferred our right;

Thou art the man, and we but dross to thee!

“Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich,

And, while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.”

The mere selfish getters of gain, who dispense it not, are, civiliter et humaniter mortui—dead as a door nail—dead dogs in the manger! I come not to bury them, at present; but, if possible, to awaken some of them with my penny trumpet; otherwise they may die in good earnest in their sins; their last breath giving evidence of their ruling passion—muttering not the tête d’armée of Napoleon, but the last words of that accomplished Israelite, who caused his gold to be counted out, before his failing eyes—per shent.