[Illustration:
“ALL’S
NOT GOLD
_That_
Glitters”
D. APPLETON & CO.
New York.]
“All’s not Gold that Glitters;”
OR
THE YOUNG CALIFORNIAN.
BY
COUSIN ALICE,
AUTHOR OF “NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL;” “CONTENTMENT BETTER
THAN WEALTH,” ETC. ETC.
NEW-YORK:
D. APPLETON & COMPANY,
346 & 348 BROADWAY.
M.DCCC.LIX.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
D. APPLETON & COMPANY,
In the Clerk’s office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New-York.
THE FOURTH HOME BOOK.
In her last note of introduction to the Home circle, Cousin Alice partly
promised to tell a story of Virginia life when she came to them again.
She has to confess that she has not redeemed this now, though she is sure
the trials and adventures of the young Californian will prove not less
interesting, and there are other days to come when her little Southern
friends shall be introduced.
American boys, perhaps more than those growing up in any other country,
are thinking of money-getting before they are fairly out of school; but
the history of King Midas, which most of them read there, teaches that
the possession of gold is not happiness, and they will find it out, as
our young hero did, when they come to earn it for themselves. There is
another lesson shadowed forth in the title,—all fair promises are not to
be trusted, though we know there is _one hope_ that never fails, ONE
FRIEND that never deceives.
Cousin Alice has no more earnest wish than that this hope, and this
friend, may be theirs through life.
CONTENTS.
Page.
BAD MANAGEMENT 9
A NEW PLAN 22
THE MOTHER AND SON 36
GOING TO CALIFORNIA 47
SETTING SAIL 62
THE STORM 77
THE FIRST LETTER 89
SAN FRANCISCO 104
THE PLAINS 118
A GLIMPSE AT THE MINES 128
THE FATHER AND SON 141
“AS WE FORGIVE MEN THEIR TRESPASSES” 156
FIRE! 167
NEW PROSPECT 180
THANKSGIVING DAY 196
“ALL’S NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS,”
The Young Californian.
CHAPTER I.
BAD MANAGEMENT.
“Ain’t the stage rather late, Squire? I’ve been waiting round a
considerable while now.”
The “Squire” had just driven up to the Post Office, which was at one end
of the village tavern, and a man hanging to a post that upheld the piazza
addressed him.
“Perhaps it may be, I’m rather late myself; but I drove the long road
past Deacon Chase’s. Do you expect any body, Gilman?”
“Well—I can’t say I do, Squire; but I like to see the newspapers, and
hear what’s going on in the world, as well as most people, specially
since the Californy gold’s turned up. I wouldn’t mind finding a big lump
or so myself.”
Gilman chuckled as he said this, and set a dilapidated hat a little more
over his eyes, to shade them from the strong light of the declining sun.
No wonder they needed it; for they were weak and bleared, and told the
same tale that could be read in every line of a once expressive face.
The tavern bar had seen as much of him as the piazza. He knew by long
experience the taste of all those fiery liquids, contained in the rows of
decanters, and worse still, of many a cask of New England rum, dispensed
by the landlord of “Mooney’s Tavern.”
“I’ve heard your wife’s father say there was gold buried on every farm in
New Hampshire, if people only knew where to find it,” the Squire answered
pleasantly, fastening his horse to the much used tying-up post; “there
ought to be on what’s left of his, by this time—there’s been enough
buried there.”
[Illustration: WAITING FOR THE STAGE.
Page 9.]
The man, dull as his once clear mind had become, seemed to understand
the allusion and the reproof it conveyed, for his face flushed even
through deep unhealthy redness, as he walked off to a knot of idlers
like himself. They stood with their hands in their pockets, and coats
buttoned up to the chin—discussing the wonderful news that was then the
only topic of conversation through the whole Atlantic coast, and even far
in the backwoods, where much less of the great world’s doings came—the
gold discovery in California.
At first it had been scarcely credited—many who were afterwards ready to
stake life itself in gaining it, declared the whole thing a hoax, and
ridiculed those who believed in it. But as month after month brought
fresh arrivals, and more marvellous intelligence from the new-found El
Dorado, even the endless discussion of politics was given up for this
fascinating theme. So far, no one had gone from Merrill’s Corner, the
name of this retired New England village; but many from neighboring towns
were now on their way to “make their fortunes,” or lose their lives in
“the diggings.”
The door of the post office had scarcely closed upon Squire Merrill,
when the jingling of sleigh-bells and the quick tread of horses was
heard coming up the hill. It was the stage-sleigh, that passed through
from Concord every afternoon, bringing the eagerly expected mail and
a few travellers, farmer-looking men, who were glad to spring out, and
stamp their benumbed feet, the moment it drew up. One of them threw a
morning paper into the knot of questioners, telling them rather abruptly
to “look for themselves,” as they asked the invariable question, “what’s
the news?” and Gilman, who was so fortunate as to seize it, was instantly
surrounded as he unfolded the sheet.
The expected arrival was announced, in huge letters, at the top of the
paper:—
ONE MONTH LATER FROM CALIFORNIA!!
ARRIVAL OF THE CRESCENT CITY.
HALF A MILLION IN GOLD DUST!!!
NEW DISCOVERIES MADE DAILY.
PROSPECTS OF THE MINERS CONSTANTLY IMPROVING!
And with a voice trembling with eagerness, the wonderful particulars
were read aloud, interrupted only by exclamations of astonishment, more
expressive than elegant.
Lumps of gold, according to these wonderful accounts, were to be picked
up for the stooping. Some men had made a fortune in a single month, from
steamer to steamer.
Every remarkable piece of good fortune was exaggerated, and the
sufferings and privations, even of the successful, barely touched upon.
There was scarcely enough shade to temper the dazzling light of this
most brilliant picture. No wonder that it had all the magic of Aladdin’s
wonderful lamp to these men, who had been born on the hard rocky soil
of the Granite State, and, from their boyhood, had earned their bread
by the sweat of the brow. If it dazzled speculators in the city, men
who counted their gains by thousands, how much more the small farmer,
the hard-working mechanic, of the villages, whose utmost industry and
carefulness scarcely procured ordinary comforts for their families.
Just as the stage was ready to drive off again Squire Merrill came out
on the piazza with several newspapers in their inviting brown wrappers,
a new magazine, and one or two letters. There was of course a little
bustle as the passengers took their seats, and the driver pulling on his
buckskin gloves, came from the comfortable bar-room, followed by the
tavern-keeper.
“More snow, Squire, I calculate,” remarked the sagacious Mr. Mooney,
nodding towards a huge bank of dull-looking clouds in the west. “What’s
your hurry?”
“All the more hurry if you’re right, Mr. Mooney,—I think you are; and
somehow I never find too much time for any thing. Going right by your
house, Gilman; shall I give you a lift?”
“Well I don’t care if you do,” answered Gilman, to the surprise of his
fellows, and especially the hospitable Mr. Mooney. He had not yet taken
his daily afternoon glass, and just before one of them had signified his
intention of standing treat all round, to celebrate the good news from
California.
The Squire seemed pleased at the ready assent, for it was equally
unexpected to him, knowing Gilman’s bad habits. He did not give him time
to withdraw it, for the instant the stage moved off, followed, in the
broad track it made through the snow, the bells of both vehicles jingling
cheerfully in the frosty air. It may seem strange to those unaccustomed
to the plain ways of the country, especially at the North, that a man
of Squire Merrill’s evident respectability should so willingly make a
companion of a tavern lounger. But, in the first place, the genuine
politeness of village life would make the neighborly offer a matter of
every day occurrence, and besides this, the Squire had known Gilman
in far different circumstances. They played together on the district
school-ground, as boys, and their prospects in life had been equally
fair. Both had small, well cultivated farms, the Squire’s inherited from
his father, and Gilman’s his wife’s dowry, for he married the prettiest
girl in the village. Squire Merrill, with true New England thrift, had
gone on, adding “field to field,” until he was now considered the richest
man in the neighborhood, and certainly the most respected. His old
school-fellow was one of those scheming, visionary men, who are sure in
the end to turn out badly. He was not industrious by nature, and after
neglecting the business of the farm all the spring, he was sure to see
some wonderful discovery that was to fertilize the land far more than any
labor of his could do, and give him double crops in the fall; or whole
fields of grain would lie spoiling, while he awaited the arrival of
some newly invented reaping machine, that was to save time and work, but
which scarcely ever answered either purpose. Gradually his barn became
filled with this useless lumber, on which he had spent the ready money
that should have been employed in paying laborers—his fences were out of
repair, his cattle died from neglect.
Mr. Gilman, like many others, called these losses “bad luck,” and parted
with valuable land to make them up. But his “luck” seemed to get worse
and worse, while he waited for a favorable turn, especially after he
became a regular visitor at Mooney’s. Of late he had barely managed
to keep his family together, and that was more owing to Mrs. Gilman’s
exertions than his own.
The light sleigh “cutter,” as it was called, glided swiftly over
the snow, past gray substantial stone walls, red barns, and
comfortable-looking farm houses. The snow was in a solid, compact mass,
filling the meadows evenly, and making this ordinary country road
picturesque. Sometimes they passed through a close pine wood, with
tall feathery branches sighing far away above them, and then coming
suddenly in sight of some brown homestead, where the ringing axe at the
door-yard, the creaking of the well-pole, or the bark of a house-dog made
a more cheerful music. There are many such quiet pictures of peace and
contentment on the hill-sides of what we call the rugged North, where the
rest of the long still winter is doubly welcome after the hard toil of
more fruitful seasons.
Squire Merrill seemed to enjoy it all as he drove along, talking
cheerfully to his silent companion. He pointed out the few improvements
planned or going on in the neighborhood, and talked of the doings of the
last “town meeting,” the new minister’s ways, and then of Mrs. Gilman and
the children. Suddenly the other broke forth—
“I say it’s too bad, Squire, and I can’t make it out, anyhow.”
“What’s too bad, Gilman?”
“Well, the way some people get richer and richer, and others poorer and
poorer the longer they live. Here I’ve hardly got a coat to my back, and
Abby there—nothing but an old hood to wear to meetin’, and you drive
your horse, and your wife’s got her fur muff, and her satin bonnet!
That’s just the way, and it’s discouraging enough, I tell you.”
“My wife was brought up to work a good deal harder than yours, Gilman,
and we didn’t have things half as nice as you when we were married.”
“I know it—hang it all—”
“Don’t swear—my horse isn’t used to it, and might shy—. Well, don’t you
think there must be a leak somewhere?”
“Leak—just so—nothing but leaks the whole time! Hain’t I lost crop
after crop, and yours a payin’ the best prices? Wasn’t my orchard all
killed?—there ain’t ten trees but’s cankered! And hundreds of dollars
I’ve sunk in them confounded—beg pardon, Squire—them—them—_outrageous_
threshing machines.”
The Squire chirruped to his horse—“Steady, Bill—steady! Haven’t you been
in too much of a hurry to get rich, Gilman, and so been discontented when
you were doing well? You always seemed to have more time than I. I don’t
believe I ever spent an afternoon at Mooney’s since I was grown up. I’ve
worked hard, and so has my wife.” “Yours has, too,” he added, after a
moment. “I don’t know of a more hard-working woman than Abby Gilman.”
“True as the gospel, Squire, poor soul!” and the fretful, discontented
look on the man’s face passed away for a moment. A recollection of all
her patient labor and care came over him, and how very different things
would have been if he had followed her example, and listened to her
entreaties.
“Why don’t you take a new start?” said the Squire, encouragingly, for he
knew that if any thing could rouse his old companion it would be the love
for his wife. “You’ve got some pretty good land left, and ought to be
able to work. We’re both of us young men yet. My father made every cent
he had after he was your age; and there’s Sam, quite a big boy, he ought
to be considerable help.”
“Yes, he’s as good a boy as ever lived, I’ll own that—but hard work don’t
agree with me. It never did.”
Gilman was quite right. It never had agreed with his indolent
disposition. There are a great many children as well as men who make the
same complaint.
“If a body could find a lump of gold, now, Squire, to set a fellow up
again.”
“I do believe you’d think it was too much trouble to stoop and pick it
up,” Mr. Merrill said, good-naturedly. He saw that California was still
uppermost in his companion’s mind. “And just look at that stone wall, and
your barn—it wouldn’t be very hard work to mend either of them, and I
don’t believe a stone or a board has been touched for the last two years,
except what Sam has contrived to do.”
Gilman looked thoroughly ashamed. With the evidence of neglect staring
him in the face, he could not even resent it. He seemed relieved when
the Squire drew up before the end door, to think that the lecture was
over. There, too, were broken fences, dilapidated windows, every trace
of neglect and decay. The place once appropriated to the wood-pile was
empty, and instead of the daily harvest of well-seasoned chips, hickory
and pine, a few knotted sticks and small branches lay near the block. One
meagre-looking cow stood shivering in the most sheltered corner of the
barn-yard, without even the cackle of a hen to cheer her solitude. The
upper hinges of the great barn door had given way, but there was nothing
to secure it by, and it had been left so since the cold weather first
came. Every thing looked doubly desolate in the gray, fading light of a
wintry day, and the blaze that streamed up through the kitchen window
was too fitful to promise a cheerful fireside. Yet fifteen years ago,
this very homestead had been known for miles around for its comfort and
plenty.