So! I have come to be an old man at last! and I hav'n't been a great while about it either. No one is a great while about anything nowadays. Where is my life? heighho! here I am holding tight on to the little end, and it slipping all the while faster and faster out of my fingers. And no wonder; sixty-nine years all taking hold of the rope, and all pulling together, walk it off as fast as two engines racing to a fire, and here is the seventieth running to join them. By the way, what a strange dream that was I had the other night! if I were superstitious, I should suppose it meant something, for I never had any like it before—the world on fire! ten thousand bells ringing the alarm! hurry up the engines! pour on water! but the ocean is burning too! Payne's problem is solved at last. Hark to those volcanoes! great guns, double shotted, there goes Mount Etna, and there's Vesuvius, and that, that must be Cotapaxi; what a tremendous burst there'll be when the fire reaches the great central magazine! but where are the mourners? do the stars miss one of their number? will its ashes reach their sphere?

Well, I have seen a great deal—magnetic telegraph railroads, woman's rights, crystal palaces, California, Australia, and now, ships of twelve thousand tons, the Atlantic turned into a horse-pond: what is the world coming to? There was no such thing when I was young—we didn't profess then to be wiser than all before us. I'm glad I shall soon be out of the way. And yet I should like to see the end. The end, when will that be? and who can tell what it will be? Heighho! it racks my old heart all to pieces, like a locomotive on a corduroy road. No wonder man's life has been shortened to three score-years and ten. How poor old Methusalah would have stared! why we live as long in a year as he did in one of his sleepy centuries. He never could have stood the racket, unless he had first been dried in an oven. It would have fretted the skin off him, as it did off that big juicy apple I had in my pocket when I rode Squire Smith's old trotting horse. Let me see, that was forty, fifty, yes, fifty-one years ago—strange how I remember such a trifle.

Well, well, I have overlapped my time, I don't seem to belong here. That was what that young fire-brain, what's his name, said this morning. He and I were like an ox yoked with a locomotive. I'm the ox; yes, yes, he's right; I can't keep up with their new-fangled ways; nor I don't want to either, they are too fast altogether. All I want is to die and be buried before they harness their steam to the hearses; and yet they've done that already. What was that railroad train the other day at Norwalk but a train of hearses, a great funeral procession? only that they put the folks into them before they were dead.

Yes, yes, the dead ride fast—tramp, tramp, along the land they go; splash, splash, along the sea; and why shouldn't they, if they like it, as well as their betters?

And I won't be buried in the city neither, nor in Greenwood. I've been crowded enough in my life-time—I'll have room enough after I'm dead. But where shall I go? There are places a plenty now, but in fifty years, or ten, who can tell that there won't be a hundred thousand trampling over my grave? Five dollars a square foot, let me see, that would be thirty dollars. Alas, poor Yorick! who would give thirty dollars to secure you a quiet sleep?

That was a glorious idea of that world-weary old Goth to be buried under a river, forever sounding his funeral dirge; but it's no sort of use now—that's the very place to be turned topsey-turvey. I'll be sunk in the very middle of the Atlantic—yes, that'll do—I shall be safe enough there, in an iron coffin. But wait a minute. They are talking already of laying their wires to Europe—yes, and then I shall hardly have settled myself for a nap of a thousand years or so, when they'll be sure to come foul of me, and perhaps fish me up again, or at least give me a confounded shock.

I used to think I would be buried by my old mother, under the old elm in the quiet churchyard. But it's no use: the churchyard is quiet no longer; the old elm is as dusty and worried as I; and the old tombstones have stopped mourning for the dead, to stare, and gape, and gossip over the living. No, I'll not be buried there, to be waked up every hour by that infernal whistle.

Heighho! what a strange thing it is to grow old all alone, and when everything else is so young! I used to think the world would grow old with me, but I believe it's younger than ever. But it's no such thing—it's only paint and varnish; the older it grows, the thicker they lay it on. Wash that off, and what is there but a withered, wrinkled old hag? Faugh! I'd as lieve sit down to dinner with a skeleton. There's nothing old but the hills. They're not ashamed to be grey, God bless 'em! They never can paint Mr. Washington.

How I love the sight of their conscious yet unpretending majesty, their quiet, self-reliant strength! With what grand and noble pity they seem to look down on our fretting, bustling insignificance!

But stop. Where am I? right in the middle of the nineteenth century—the last of my race—the last of the old fogies. There's something in that. There'll never be another after me. Noah, he was the first, and I'm the last. Who is there to mourn for Logan?

But, no matter. They've enough to do to mourn for themselves. From my soul I pity them, poor helpless creatures! stuffed full of self-sufficiency, they've no longer any occasion for our services; they're no longer sensible of any obligation. When I was young it was the fashion to respect old age for what it had done, if not for what it could do; but we have changed all that.

[He turns over some old papers and reads.]

"July, 1812. Some reflections on the exceeding folly of growing old." Let me see: what is this? Oh, ha, ha, [laughing feebly] I remember now. It's that paper I wrote for my grandfather when I was younger and not so wise as I am now; and sister Mary—where is she now, I wonder—she wouldn't let me put it in his way.

[He reads here and there.]

"What a fine thing it is to be young, and in this time of the world too! We are the cream of all that have gone before us. We really live their life; we begin where they ended; we stand on their shoulders; their whole learning is only our alphabet; they laid the foundation, we build the superstructure. But poor old fogies! they would never have got any farther if they had lived a thousand years. It's a lucky thing for the world that they didn't—useless lumber, withered stubble, trees dead at the root—cut, burn, and bury them out of the way: they have done all the good in the world they ever can do, and the world wants them no longer."

"They are a clog on its machinery—dirt in its wheels—rust in its joints—a pebble in its shoe—it's never been a merry world since old men came into fashion."

"If a man must grow old, if he will be so unreasonable and unseasonable, let him keep it to himself and not infect everything about him. If his hair is grey, is that any reason why the sunshine should be so too?—if he walks with crutches, must the brooks stop running?—if his eyes are dim, must we put out the stars or clap a pair of spectacles on to the nose of the moon?"

"Heaven bless the mark! nothing grows old but man and his inventions—the sky is as blue—the sun's eye, though he has but one, is as bright—the wind is as frolicsome, as when they first shone and danced through Eden; the very flowers, though they fade and go out, yet keep their heart young to the last—who ever heard of a decrepit rose, a superannuated violet, or a greyheaded butterfly?"

"I never mean to grow old. I can ride as fast and as far as any of them—my heart beats as many beats to a minute as the best, no one shall ever ride over me, or cry to me to get out of his way.—My last pulsation shall be as vigorous as any that preceded it."

[He lays down the paper with a cold shudder.] Who said I was old? who was that talking about being buried? away with such idle fancies! I shant be buried these twenty years. I'm not old—I'm as vigorous and active as ever I was in my life—there's as much strength in that arm [here he stretches out his right arm, and clasps it with his left hand] as when I was thirty, and my limbs are as light, [he gets up and dances] I should like to see the young man that could tire me out, [he sits down rather suddenly] only I want practice to strengthen my wind; and as for my mind, I believe it is capable of greater exertion than ever, [he knits his brow, and appears to be solving some knotty question in state or finance] yes, I have twenty years yet as good as the best; hurrah boys! never say die! [he swings his hat feebly round his head, then sits down in a tremor of shame and indignation at being detected by his youngest clerk in such outrageous fashion].

In this state he takes his pen and with infinite labour writes these brief observations, as if all the fog of all the Fogies were in his veins.

If the author of the following narrative had taken my advice, he would never have gone to California in the first place, nor written this book afterwards. It is obvious to the dullest capacity that he wouldn't have written the book if he hadn't gone; and as for the other, he allows himself in the very first chapter that I did all I could to prevent it. It may be gratifying to the reader to know that I am the very person there mentioned in such flattering terms, and I can assure him that that account is by no means exaggerated. I believe I am, at least I have always enjoyed the reputation of being as sober and prudent as my neighbors; and it was therefore no more than natural that I should express the unalterable conviction there referred to. I added moreover my reasons for that conviction which the author has seen fit not to mention, possibly because his folly and obstinacy would thereby appear still more inexcusable than they do now; but he shall not escape so easily, as I am determined to set the whole matter in the clearest possible light.

My first and principal reason then was that I did not believe there was any such place as California.

"No such place as California! Well, you have found out your mistake by this time I suppose."

Not at all, I don't believe it now any more than I did then.

"What! not with all the gold that's pouring into the country, and the thousands of ships and hundreds of thousands of men that have gone there!"

Softly, my young friend, all this proves nothing. Indeed, if you have seen California, you of course are justified in believing, but not otherwise. I remember a great many people used to believe in the existence of such a man as Napoleon Bonaparte, and the papers were full of the subject, just as they are now of California. In fact, (I was younger then than I am now,) I used to believe in him myself, and dare say I should have gone on believing to this day if it hadn't been for that little book of the Bishop of Berkshire proving to a mathematical certainty that such a series of events was clearly impossible according to the world's history. But I'm sure California is just as improbable, just as much out of the common course, and we've no more proof, in fact not so much, of its existence, for it's a good deal further off, and though it is a little bigger, it can't make half so much noise; so that is about equal. To be sure, as you say, any number of men and ships have set sail for California, but that's no sign that they ever got there. They say so of course, for no one likes to be humbugged, but for all we know, they might just as well have gone to India, or China, or Japan. I have noticed they are never very fond of talking about their adventures, and when they are, they say very little about the gold they have brought home, though that after all is the only real proof; and they are sure to go into a huff if any one asks them how much they made, or to give some ridiculous and impertinent answer. So you see that, reasoning À priori, the balance of probability is decidedly opposed to the existence of any such country.

But supposing that there is such a country, it doesn't follow that there is any gold in it. In fact this is even more improbable than the other. There is no gold in New York—why should there be any in California? Is it because it is so far off? or because it lies on the Pacific? or because it is good for nothing else? None of these reasons will answer. There are other countries equally distant, equally valueless, and in the same ocean, but they contain no gold; why then, I say, should California?

But a simple proposition will set the matter at rest at once. The world has now existed, according to the strictest calculation, six thousand years; which being multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five, the number of days in a year, will give over two millions of days, on any of which the gold might have been discovered. The chances then that it would not be discovered on the first day of the six thousand and first year are as two millions to one. If we then take into the account, that during all this time the population of the globe has averaged about five hundred millions, and that all this immense number has never made this discovery, the improbability that it should be made by a single individual, and one too that nobody ever heard of, is as five hundred millions to one; and these two chances multiplied together, ought surely to satisfy any reasonable man that there is no gold there, and never has been.

Besides, even supposing California really to be, and to be as full of gold as it is represented, my acquaintance with the character of the late author, was enough to convince me that he would never get a morsel of it. I was not very well acquainted with him, to be sure, having only known him twenty years or so, and his character being of that shallow order, that one could read it at a glance if he would only take sufficient trouble; but as far as I did know, he was always an idle shiftless fellow, with an education he had not the capacity to improve, nor the courage entirely to disown, so he used to say, though I must confess I never could discover why it should require such a prodigious effort. He had waited a long time in hopes something would turn up, and used to justify himself in this particular by reference to one Mr. Wilkins Micawber, who, according to his account, had amassed a considerable fortune in that way; though for my own part I never heard of such an individual before, and always believed that to be one of his own inventions.

He was fond too of talking, in his barbarous and senseless fashion, about his having been engaged, at such an early age that he really had no voice in the matter, to one Clio or Chloe, some person of colour I suppose, though nobody to my knowledge ever saw her, and he declared that now he was arrived at years of discretion, (discretion indeed!) as the laws of society, which he was pleased in his wisdom to pronounce foolish and absurd, rendered a divorce difficult, he was determined to run away from her altogether; and the California fever breaking out just then, he was one of the first to be taken. But though California seems expressly designed by Providence for the accommodation and relief of just such good-for-naughts, lazy clerks, runaway apprentices, men without professions, and professions without practice—he was really as unfit for anything of the kind as could possibly be imagined or conceived of. He has seen fit to indulge in much unseemly and unbecoming mirth over the misfortunes of some of his acquaintances, but I will venture on my own authority to maintain that among them all there was not one but was better calculated to make his way in the world, and in California too, for that matter, than himself. He might have walked right over a lump of gold weighing a hundred pounds every day for six months, and would have been sure to tumble into the hole after it had been taken out, and wonder he had not seen it before.

As for faith and energy, he hadn't as much as could ride on a thistledown; and though he could dream fast enough, I warrant you, of thousands and of millions, yet when it came to the actual, downright, wide-awake necessity, he was of no more account than a child or a philosopher.

It was in view of these various reasons that I declared my unalterable conviction, that he would not get gold enough to carry on his thumb-nail. Of course, being unalterable, I have never thought of altering it. And there has been no reason. He did, indeed, for some time after his return, carry about with him a snuff-box, half full of an ugly yellow dust he called gold, and some folks were credulous enough to believe him; but I was too old a bird to be caught with such chaff. It looked as much like brass as it did like gold. Besides, nobody knew, nobody could know where it came from, and like enough he had it manufactured for the occasion. Anything was more probable than that it came from California.

I could forgive him anything, however, even his good fortune, easier than his inconsequential, illogical mode of reasoning. It is very evident that he did not meet with that success he had expected; but instead of giving the true reasons for his disappointment, he seeks to conceal his weakness by a variety of evasions equally futile, ridiculous, and absurd.

In the first place, he was sick! When I was young no one ever thought of being sick except women and old men; but, I suppose, now the case is different. But see the folly of the thing! For why? I've known him, as I said, any time these twenty years, and, to my certain knowledge, he was never sick in his life; and then, to go and be sick just then, at the most critical and important crisis, as it were, when so much was at stake, his whole future prosperity, as one may say, hanging on it, that is, on his being sick or well—to be sick at such a time, I say, argues the most deplorable folly and shortsightedness. Why in the world wasn't he sick during the voyage, when he had nothing else to do? or why not wait till he got home, when he could have things comfortable about him?

But the Burke rocker? surely that was a most grievous misfortune. Not if he had known how to use it. For they employ the Burke rocker to this very day in the enlightened States of Virginia and North Carolina; and, of course, it is good enough for such a semi-barbarous country as California. But, for my part, I wonder at his ever thinking of anything so plainly unfit for the purpose.

Then there is the loss he sustained by the submarine armour. All I can say is, served him right. I never saw one of those machines myself, and know nothing at all about it, but I should as soon think of ploughing with a balloon, as of digging under water, or out of water, with a feather bed on my back, a bolster on each leg, a pillow on each arm, and a great copper kettle on my head.

The project, then, of going to California was conceived with rashness—determined upon with obstinacy—and executed with folly. He, to be sure, sets up in defence the fact that the scheme was finally successful, as if that were enough to silence all objections. Now, I am an old man, and may perhaps be growing a little crotchety and whimsical in my old age, but I must and will protest against any such dangerous and heretical doctrine. Success has here nothing to do with the matter; in fact he had no business to succeed; his success was and must be a positive insult to all who are in the habit of governing their conduct by judgment and right reason. If this plea is to be received in vindication, there is no crime or blunder that may not be excused in the same way; we have no longer any use for our boasted reason, and are at once plunged from the firm ground of induction and analogy into the quagmire of chance and conjecture. He was always a sort of wildfire, and knew no more about logic than Will-o'-the-Wisp does of straight walking. But as even a Will-o'-the-Wisp is sometimes very useful, in pointing out to the benighted traveller the marshy and dangerous ground over which it hovers, so the reader may, perhaps, in like manner, take warning from the example here set before him; and if so, the author, like a piece of rotten wood,—I cannot stop to perfect the simile,—will have shed more light from his folly, than he ever could have produced by his wisdom.