USA > New Hampshire > Grafton County > Canaan > The history of Canaan, New Hampshire > Part 50
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Mr. Earle was not an easy man to get along with. The Spy
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was not a mint and the financial system was a source of irrita- tion to my father. In December, 1848, he wrote : "I often think I could bring my mind down to estimate the value of money, because my friends tell me some day I shall see the necessity of it. But it is no use, my head is too full of wild thoughts, vagaries, dreams. It is only when I get out into the . world, and then I have only learned its value when sometimes, at a moment's notice I have found myself in the cars, and half way to Springfield, Boston or Norwich, without a cent, and have had to borrow of the conductor to pay my passage." His money went as fast as he got it and his friends took advantage of his little regard for it by borrowing of him. Mr. Earle was one of those; and this eventually led to their estrangement. In the early part of '49 a cousin wrote him: "If I were a young man I would go to California." In answering it, he said: "The idea has taken strong hold of me. My mind is haunted with the visions of that golden land. I say to myself, why should I stay here, where only toil and labor are mine, and a mere pittance (which to be sure is more than I carry with me into another world), all I get for my toil. There are many associations and kind friends which it will be hard to part from, but partings and change are the order of nature. I can lose my life by going and I may by staying. I shall feel no more peace of mind here than I would there. It has long been my desire to leave New England, to go beyond the reach of influences that have made my heart, I was going to say, desolate, but it is not so. There is no feeling of desolation in my heart and cannot be as long as there is a good God above, and the woods and fields and glorious beauty all round me. In my younger days my chiefest delight was in rambling alone in the woods and fields and my recollec- tions of thankfulness to the glorious Giver of all that is beau- tiful in the world, still have their influences upon me. My home is among the mountains and my youth was spent there. I studied the works of God, those old mountains seemed like altars and the trees and flowers pointing straight to Heaven, seemed like worshipers before the Majesty above. But I. left them in their silent beauty and grandeur, to wander among men and engage in the strifes of the world. There is a vacuum, a long-
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ing after the past, and an intangible dream of love, an attach- ment stronger than time, back there in my young years, the memory of it and its sad termination, have made my life an active one, but a lonely one. 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."
In March, 1849, he wrote again: "I am inwardly impelled strongly and constantly to go west. I am going to do something besides dabble in politics. Mr. Earle says I am sanguine, ner- vous and impulsive, and it is useless to try to make me other- wise." In July, 1850, he wrote : "I am about to leave this city, probably forever, after eight years and a half of service in the old Spy office. I shall leave it with regret and yet with the con- sciousness that I have already been here too long. I would like to change my business. And will buy me a farm where I can enjoy the sweat of my labor, unannoyed by the political struggles that haunt an editor's life. On the 22d of this month I shall leave. "
After leaving Worcester, he went home to Canaan, visited relatives in Warrensburg, N. Y., and Burlington, preparing to go. In September, 1850, he started for the West on a tour of discovery for something to do, reaching Chicago by way of the Great Lakes. He returned to Canaan with his mind fully made up to go to California. On November 7, 1850, he wrote: "This may be the last day I spend in the house of my childhood. My thoughts are not all sad for I feel an assurance that some day I may return. I know I am not formed to buffet the world. Quiet labor I enjoy. I shall go forth trusting in Providence that my future may be useful to some of the loiterers by the way- side. Privation and hardship and severe toil, I anticipate, but the hope that animates, will I trust, give me strength to bear and overcome the difficulties and dangers." He left home the next day, proceeded to New York to take passage on a vessel bound for the Isthmus. On the 17th they passed under the guns of Morro Castle, ran up the bay and visited Havana. On the 24th
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they arrived at Chagus, where ten of them hired a boat for $150 to go up the river. On the 1st of December they reached Pana- ma, where they took passage in the Constitution, a vessel badly out of repair. There was much sickness on board, the accommo- dations and food being of the poorest kind. On the 14th they entered the Bay of Acapulco, where they landed and bought eggs for a dime apiece. My father bought eleven hens to take to California. They left Acapulco on the 16th, with 190 pas- sengers. On the 29th of December he landed in San Francisco. He remained there three days and with five others in company with him, started up Napa Creek to lay claim to some unoccu- pied land to begin farming. They pushed on three miles be- yond Napa, then a small village of fifty houses, hired a farm of a Mr. Brown and on the 15th of January, 1851, began spading up the soil with three spades. One of their number made a rake. The next day they set out onions, planted ruta-bagas and tur- nips. They succeeded in spading about a quarter of an acre, and made up their minds it was too slow. They went eight miles and bought two mules for $100 each, determined, if they could buy a plow, to plow all they could fence. He writes : "Why am I here in a region so little known, engaged in farming? Most people think there is nothing else to do in California but to dig gold, and the mines are the destination of almost everyone. I could have gone there with my New Hampshire friends and perhaps I should not have regretted it. But as we have tools and seeds fresh from home and did not wish to lose them after learning the price of vegetables in the various markets, we re- solved to find land for cultivation. But farming is expensive and we must wait some months before we can get our crops to market. In the meantime we must live, and provisions are not cheap. Knowing this and believing that the woods and rivers might afford a small income, we sought for a country abound- ing in fish and game. This we have found, and as soon as our seed is in the ground we shall take advantage of what is before us. In the mountains twelve miles distant are grizzlys, whose flesh sells for fifty cents per pound, and whose hide is very valuable ; elk, deer and hare abound. We have a boat and take our stores to San Francisco in one day. We did propose at first
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to go to the mines and carry on gardening and mining. We thought we should find plenty of land without an owner and we might squat anywhere. There is not a foot of land and never will be. We are about sixty miles from San Francisco and have large quantities of turnips and onions in the ground. Turnips bring about twelve and one-half cents each."
In the four months he had been in Napa valley he had gained nineteen pounds, sleeping on the ground and climbing moun- tains, hunting and farming, chasing coyotes, wolves and bears from their hens, ducks and mules. The latter ran away and they spent ten days hunting them. "You know I always sang a heavy bass; and could never sing anything else. Since I came here I can run a scale from double D in the bass, to B flat in alto without changing a muscle. I do not know what it is attributable to, unless it be the healthy development of my sys- tem, that gives my nerves and muscles, free and equal action." He remained here until the last of June, when with two of his companions, they started for the mines up the Sacramento River. They reached Dry Creek on the 8th of July, and on the morrow began rocking at Winslow's Bar on the Yuba River. After their first week's labor they were able to pay for their tools and pro- visions and divide four dollars each. The severe cold at night and extreme heat in the middle of the day, caused my father to take a severe cold and on the 29th they returned to Napa to divide up the profits of farming. The chickens which they had paid $5.10 for in Acapulco, they sold for $75. About the only profit made. They had worked eight months and did not pay expenses. On the 8th of October he determined to leave Napa and seek his fortune in some other field. He paid $6 for a ride in a cart to Benicia and $100 by steamer to San Fran- cisco, where he remained until the 13th and then started for Big Bar, a placer mining district on the Moquelumne River, where he began to work a race. But mining did not pay and on the 28th of December he wrote: "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
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pain and labor and my pride is often sorely hurt by some double- jointed 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."
On the 25th of February, 1852, he wrote: "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 en- dure all necessary hardships in their strife for gold, and feel confident of success. They arrive at San Francisco, at Stock- ton, 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 walk- ing 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 direc- tion. '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, an- other 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
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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. 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 an- ticipations 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 poor- houses 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 dis- tance 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, per- haps, 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
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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, to- gether 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. Re- member that hard labor is not the only thing a man must en- counter. 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 get- ting 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; the rains and floods carried away everything in March and they could dig only in the cañons. He returned to Stockton and on the 8th of April, with
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two Worcester men, started for Big Creek Flat on the Touwa- lumne River, eight miles from Jacksonville. Here he took out $45, became discouraged, returned to Oak Springs intending to return to the states, "Tired to death of the under life." On the 21st he returned to Stockton, stopped two days with his brother John and started for San Francisco. On the 26th he started for the mines again with a firm determination "of not leaving there without something." On the 7th of May he arrived at the old cabin again, found one of the party, worked a week and divided $8.50. He then started for Moccason Creek to see if he could do any better. The first week he took out $25 the next $26.80. On May 30th he wrote: "How many of these weary hot days must I dig to be able to return to my friends. I have not been fortunate here. The nature of the labor makes it im- possible for a constitution like mine to succeed." He made dur- ing this month $89. In July he left Woods Creek, Dutch Bar, taking a mule train for Stockton and San Francisco on his way to Panama and home. He put off at Yuba Beuna to find his brother, and then returned to San Francisco, where he re- mained three months. On the 27th of September, 1852, he went to Los Angeles. The next day he wrote: "This is my anni- versary, 'I wish I was a boy again when life seemed formed of sunny years.' "
On the 12th of October he went into the office of the Los Angeles Star. In 1853 he became the editor and proprietor. He wrote : "The paper was a folio, five columns to the page, about half the size of the Daily Union, printed with bourgeois and nonpareil, and one-half the sheet was dedicated to the natives in the Spanish language. The price was $6 per year; advertising $2 per inch. There was money in it and danger also. Human life was held at a cheap rate in those years. Thieves and mur- derers were turned loose from Mexican prisons on condition that they left the country. In the autumn of 1852 these cholos be- came so daring that we appointed a tribunal which we named Vigillantes. Quite a number of the scamps were hung on the hill in front of Fremont's old fort in view of the whole city. On one occasion five were hung upon one gallows. On being told by Doctor Osborne that if they desired to leave any mes-
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sage for their friends they had better take that opportunity, as they would soon start for a country where the post office con- nections were uncertain, one of the victims with a noose around his neck, addressed several of his comrades standing in the crowd by name thus: "We made a mistake in coming to this country, amigos. They are too active for us. Go back, every one of you, to Sonora, and obey the laws, or you will soon be traveling this same road. And now," he added, turning to the doctor, who was to float them off, "sons of dogs, do your worst." But there was another element in that country equally as dangerous as those cholos, - the slave-holding intolerance of free speech. A large proportion of the new people were from Ar- kansas, Missouri and Texas, and they brought all their southern prejudice with them. California, in that day was as surely a slave state as Texas. To be sure she adopted and was admitted with a free constitution; but the influence of the slave power was so potent that for four years afterwards annually the Legis- lature enacted a law giving the owners of slaves, brought there for mining purposes, one year longer in which to secure profits from the labor of their slaves.
The courts were all friendly to this legislation, and if an ap- peal were made to them to interfere, the judges "reserved an opinion." Pistols and knives were the chief ornaments of men, and the ladies had not yet arrived. It was a time for constant active watchfulness, and it was years before confidence was firmly established among the motley crowd that had gathered there to form a social community. In August, 1854, after an absence of four years, he started for home by way of the Is- thmus. On August 25 he arrived in New York, and on the 30th reached Canaan, where he spent thirteen days with his mother and sisters. His brother Burns had died in the meantime. Dur- ing September he visited relatives in Warrensburg and Syracuse, N. Y., and in October went to Worcester. In Providence on the 12th of October, he wrote: "I have now no ambition, but to re-, turn to California. I want the free mountain air, my horse, rifle, woods and flowers." He made two visits to Professor Gray of Harvard College with flowers he had collected in California, and so pleased was the old man that he cried. The variety and
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beauty of the California flowers had never been shown him before, and he directed him how to collect and preserve fur- ther specimens which were to be sent him. On the 28th he went to Milford, N. H., to visit relatives, then to Warrensburg, N. Y., then to Providence, and to Danvers, Mass. On Novem- ber 24, he wrote: "I, alone, am a wanderer up and down the earth, stopping like a rail car here and there for refreshments." On the 5th of December he left New York for Panama and San Francisco, where he arrived on the 31st. January 10, 1855, found him again in Los Angeles.
On the 25th of January he received the appointment as school- master and taught until the 17th of June, "when he began to prepare for another journey home, wearied with teaching dull- ards from the frontiers." While teaching, he with some of his friends became interested in Spiritualism, and attended seances, but was never able to get much satisfaction out of that belief. It was new to that wild country and appealed to many men so far away from their kindred. The medium took advantage of those who had distant friends; his belief in mediums was never strong, and gradually died out. On the 4th of July he went to San Francisco, stopped with his sister Melvina and on the 16th set sail for the Isthmus; on August 1st he crossed the Isthmus and on the 11th landed in New York. On the 18th "started for the home of my childhood. Found old Atherton encroaching upon my lines, that we have occupied for forty years. Nearly all the trees were planted since my father's death. It is twenty-five years since I left my schoolmates here. Mother has filled the house with boarders for the school, of young people whose fathers and mothers were my playmates. I return from wandering over the face of the earth and find my- self classed as old by those with whom it seems natural for me to associate. Though my hair is silvered, they knew of me from their parents, and they received me with the respect due to age and to travel, not with the familiarity of companionship. Surely I am getting old. I am the last of my family. My mother has married again, my sisters have married and their names no longer belong to me. My brothers and my father lie in yonder churchyard. There is a row of mounds there and all
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my kin are resting there. But I do not grieve; for what are these bodies, more than old garments we cast off? These beau- tiful scenes of my childhood, I become more enamoured of each time I approach them. The further I wander the more do I turn towards it." He remained at home but a short time and on the 6th of September visited relatives in Danvers and Salem. From there he went to Providence, New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Cleveland, Syracuse, and on October 2, returned to Canaan to leave again on the 8th. On the 13th he reached New York and on the 20th set sail again for California. "I cannot wait, I must travel this world alone." On the 15th of Novem- ber he landed in San Francisco, and on the 23d was back again to take up his old quarters in Los Angeles. On the 25th he be- gan school at San Gabriel at $90 per month. He continued to teach more or less during the time he lived in Los Angeles while he was not editing a newspaper. In 1856 he was ap- pointed school commissioner. In April he purchased the Los Angeles Star and edited it for a short time as proprietor. A month afterwards he sold it. "I could not advocate Buchanan for president, and the politicians wanted a Democratic press. I then edited a Spanish campaign paper called El Clamor Publico, and through its instrumentality carried the county for Fremont. The starting of the paper was a dangerous move. Grant Owry (who has since been a delegate in Congress from Arizona), came into town one day from Tuscon with a lot of his fellows, and said he had come to "clean out the black abolitionists," and had "brought along the ropes." He was met at the plaza and ad- vised to take his band and ropes back into the desert, and told that no outrage upon any person whomsoever would be per- mitted; that the men of Los Angeles were capable of taking care of themselves, and, if occasion required, of him and his band also. He found us all "loaded," even the most peaceable of us, and took himself back silently to the left bank of the Gila River." "I was the first man who dared announce himself a Republican in southern California in 1856, spending much time and money upon this Spanish paper, but never happened to be on the winning side in that country ; worse men than I got all the offices." When a member of the school board, the city
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