an official letter written by Governor Mason to the War Department wherein he said that in his opinion, “There is more gold in the country drained by the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers than would pay the cost of the late war with Mexico a hundred times over.”  The public immediately was alert.  And then, strangely enough, to give direction to the restless spirit seething beneath the surface of society, came a silly popular song.  As has happened many times before and since, a great movement was set to the lilt of a commonplace melody.  Minstrels started it; the public caught it up.  Soon in every quarter of the world were heard the strains of Oh, Susannah! or rather the modification of it made to fit this case: 

   “I’ll scrape the mountains clean, old girl,
   I’ll drain the rivers dry. 
   I’m off for California, Susannah, don’t you cry. 
   Oh, Susannah, don’t you cry for me,
   I’m off to California with my wash bowl on my
     knee!”

The public mind already prepared for excitement by the stirring events of the past few years, but now falling into the doldrums of both monotonous and hard times, responded eagerly.  Every man with a drop of red blood in his veins wanted to go to California.  But the journey was a long one, and it cost a great deal of money, and there were such things as ties of family or business impossible to shake off.  However, those who saw no immediate prospect of going often joined the curious clubs formed for the purpose of getting at least one or more of their members to the El Dorado.  These clubs met once in so often, talked over details, worked upon each other’s excitement even occasionally and officially sent some one of their members to the point of running amuck.  Then he usually broke off all responsibilities and rushed headlong to the gold coast.

The most absurd ideas obtained currency.  Stories did not lose in travel.  A work entitled Three Weeks in the Gold Mines, written by a mendacious individual who signed himself H.I.  Simpson, had a wide vogue.  It is doubtful if the author had ever been ten miles from New York; but he wrote a marvelous and at the time convincing tale.  According to his account, Simpson had only three weeks for a tour of the gold-fields, and considered ten days of the period was all he could spare the unimportant job of picking up gold.  In the ten days, however, with no other implements than a pocket-knife, he accumulated fifty thousand dollars.  The rest of the time he really preferred to travel about viewing the country!  He condescended, however, to pick up incidental nuggets that happened to lie under his very footstep.  Said one man to his friend:  “I believe I’ll go.  I know most of this talk is wildly exaggerated, but I am sensible enough to discount all that sort of thing and to disbelieve absurd stories.  I shan’t go with the slightest notion of finding the thing true, but will be satisfied if I do reasonably well.  In fact, if I don’t pick up more than a hatful of gold a day I shall be perfectly satisfied.”