acclamation, as we moderns say, corpus ad rogum humeris senatorum ferendum.
The conduct of both sexes, at funerals, was, in some respects, rather ridiculous, in those days. Virgil says of King Latinus, when he lost his wife,
————it, scissa veste, Latinus,
Canitiem immundo perfusam pulvere turpans;
which means, in plain English, that the old monarch went about, with his coat torn, defiling his white hair with filthy dust.
Cicero, in his Tusculan Questions, iii. 26, is entirely of this opinion: detestabilia genera lugendi, pædores, muliebres lacerationes genarum, pectoris, feminum, capitis percussiones—detestable kinds of mourning, covering the body with filth, women tearing their cheeks, bosoms, and limbs, and knocking their heads. Tibullus, in the concluding lines of his charming elegy to Delia, the first of his first book, though he evidently derives much happiness, from the conviction, that she will mourn for him, and weep over his funeral pile, implores her to spare her lovely cheeks and flowing hair. No classical reader will censure me, for transcribing this very fine passage:
Te spectem, suprema mihi quum venerit hora,
Te teneam moriens, deficiente manu.
Flebis et arsuro positum me, Delia, lecto.
Tristibus et lacrymis oscula mixta dabis.
Flebis; non tua sunt duro præcordia ferro,
Vincta, nec in tenero stat tibi corde silex.
Illo non juvenis poterit de funere quisquam
Lumina, non virgo, sicca referre domum.
Tu manes ne læde meos: sed parce solutis
Crinibus, et teneris, Delia, parce genis.
The suttee, or sacrifice of the widows of Hindostan, on the funeral pile of their husbands, was not more a matter of course, than the laceration of the hair and cheeks, among Roman women. It was undoubtedly accounted disreputable, for a widow to appear in public, after the recent funeral of her husband, with locks unpulled and cheeks unscratched. To such extremity had this absurd practice proceeded, that the fifth law of the tenth of the Twelve Tables, to which reference has been made, in a former number, was enacted to prevent it—mulieres genas ne radunto.
No discreet matron perpetrates any such absurdity, in modern times. The hair and cheeks of the departed have, occasionally, given evidence of considerable laceration, from some cause unknown; but neither the law of the Tables, nor the pathos of a Tibullus is commonly required, to prevent a Christian widow, from laying violent hands, upon her cheeks or her hair.
No. XXXI.
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
