Gold!

Following almost 20 years in the contentions field of journalism in New England, William Allen Wallace, age 35, caught gold fever and set out for California.

Page 547

My heart has not been hardened, though I have often feared it had, nor have any of its fine cords been blunted, but I often feel lonely and all my thoughts are tinged with sadness. I do not expect ever to get rid of it. But I do wish to change my residence. I want to run away from my fate. And for that reason, I am impelled to go and dig gold.

Gold had been discovered in Sutters Mill in 1848, and the world flocked to northern California to get rich. Wallace was one of 300,000 people who made their way to California in search of riches.

Like most of these men, Wallace failed to become rich. But his writing about how awful those years were paints a vivid portrait of frustration and despair.

He spent only two years digging for gold, but he remained in California founding a number of newspapers for the next eight years.

This week’s blog post is a break from concentration on Noyes Academy and abolitionism. That’s because I have ruptured a Baker’s cyst in my knee and have been in such pain that putting together something requiring thinking has been beyond me.

Untitled, Gary Hamel

Wallace’s writing about his travel to California and his advice to those who might follow him is just delightful. And it will require little work to simply present it here.

These pages of the History are perhaps from either Wallace’s diary or letters home. Son James included them in the book without benefit of paragraph breaks. Perhaps he was simply being faithful to the original, but modern eyes recoil at unbroken paragraphs.

Wallace’s writing below, starts on page 549 of his History and concludes on page 552. Only one of the paragraph breaks is in the original. The others have been added by me.

Pages 549-552

I sometimes think I will leave this country and return to the Atlantic. More money is to be made here than elsewhere, but money is not all I would live for. I have talent and education which ought to serve me better than they do here. I have aspirations which are stifled by physical pain and labor and my pride is often sorely hurt by some doublejointed ignoramus who laughs at my futile attempts to unearth some huge rock.

Were it a question of politics, law or divinity even, I would have no fear of my abilities to meet it. I have but one passion, it is not for gold; it is not for honors or fame; it is for music. I love the forest, for the wind sighs mournfully through its branches. The pattering rain lulls me to sleep.

[…]

Now, how can I say anything to stay a man from coming to this place? There is plenty to eat, to drink, to wear, to be had for money. But these are not what men come here for, golden fortunes are the inducements to all; they start with a feeling that they will endure all necessary hardships in their strife for gold, and feel confident of success.

They arrive at San Francisco, at Stockton, or Sacramento. Here commences the real strife; from either of these points they begin to feel that the elephant is not far off. At either place they are not forty miles from gold. They hire their goods packed to their diggings, themselves walking through the sandy plains, and over the tiresome hills. They are in the mines where they have so often sighed to be.

Here they are to commence a new life in earnest. Now look at them.

Here is a hill a mile and a half long, which they must descend. On their backs (for now they must be their own jackasses) are slung tent, clothes, camp kettles, picks, shovels, pans and their personals. Slowly and wearily they arrive at the foot of the hill, and lay down their packs to rest. They look anxiously around. The earth lies in heaps and furrows, in every direction.

‘What shall we do next?’ Says one. ‘I am hungry and tired; let us stop here.’ They sit down upon the ground, satisfy their hunger with bread and pork, and perhaps sleep. They wake in the morning refreshed and eager to begin the search; for gold has glimmered through all their night visions.

With pick, pan and shovel they start out to prospect — to find a place where they may dig and wash dirt. They traverse the bars and river’s bank up and down, washing out a pan of dirt here, another there; all day long they walk up and down, and return at night weary to their pork and bread. With their weariness comes a feeling of discouragement; for they have scarcely seen the color of gold all day.

In the morning they start again. This day perhaps they will strike something — and perhaps they will not. And this last is perhaps much more intelligible to men now than in other days. Well, this day brings no better success. They see the tracks of the elephant all around — the beast cannot be far off.

unfinished, Gary Hamel

They eat their supper in silence and with forebodings. They are not only sick at heart, but sore afraid. The great tears roll down their cheeks as they sit with their elbows on their knees, regretting the dollar a day, the cheerful homes and sympathizing friends they have left so far away. There is no joy for them in anything around.

The anticipations of great riches with which they started have become so modified, that had they sufficient to get back, they would leave instantly. But they must work; for there are no poorhouses in this country.

They conclude there is nothing for them here. They make inquiries and are told that some eight, ten or fifteen miles away, the miners are getting one or two ounces a day. That is the place for them.

They pack up their chattels, and looking wistfully up the long hill on either hand, start on their weary way — one hill only leads them to another, worse than the first. They inquire of every one they meet, how far they are from their destination, and each one names a distance longer than the first.

They at last reach the two-ounce diggings. The earth lies in heaps and furrows, as at the first place and they know not what to do here. They find that here, as at other places, a few holes and claims are paying well, but that most of the miners are not averaging over four dollars.

To them California has become a great humbug —the largest field for repentance, and the most unavailing— the worst place to find a friend, and the hardest to get out of. Now what is to be done?

They hear of great strikes in different directions; but always at a distance. If they are foolish, they pack on after the rainbow’s dip, otherwise they settle down, and cleave the earth and rocks like other men. As I said before, perhaps they will be fortunate; but this is the most unintelligible word, perhaps, in all this great country.

I dare say that at this time, three men out of every five are getting little more than a living, simply because they are men wholly unfitted for the task they have undertaken.

Did they understand this, they would think twice before they rushed off here, they would make experiments to ascertain whether they were able to pick, dig or shovel, in water, mud, or dry dirt, week in and out, as they have to do here.

You reason, others get gold, why should not I? You can, if you will do what I propose, namely: take a common railroad pick and a shovel, go out into your field and select the stoniest spot you can find; mark out ten feet square and go at it. Sink a hole down to the ledge or bed rock.

It may be five, ten or fifteen feet. Start early in the morning and work till sunset, until you finish the job.

If you do not like this job, I will propose another, the easiest I have experienced. Take your pick and shovel, together with two buckets (common water pails), go down near the river, say fifty, or one or two hundred yards distant, fill your buckets with dirt, and carry them to the river; you ought to carry two hundred buckets in a day.

When you get through the first day judge whether you will be able to do it a whole season. These are the two ways of getting out the gold.

Remember that hard labor is not the only thing a man must encounter. Your intercourse is with men, with dirt and with Nature in her wildest forms. Yet they are not companions with whom man may commune a lifetime.

Their sublime grandeur excites one, but does not satisfy the longings of the human heart. You must do your own cooking, washing and mending, for here are neither wives, mothers, nor sisters. You must roll yourselves in blankets, and when traveling, sleep in your clothes. Fleas swarm all over the country, and sometimes before he has thought of it, one gets lousy.

When I speak of receiving so much as my share of a week’s labor, I simply mean because I work in partnership with others. You ask me when I will get sufficient gold to induce me to return. Really I can not tell. The thought often comes to me that my talents and education ought to be of more service than digging here. Notwithstanding I am getting gold faster than ever before, a feeling of uselessness comes over me, and I long to be back.

He remained at Big Bar until April, 1852

untitled, Gary Hamel