Arriving on the golden ground the first impulse is to secure a good spot
for future operations. Upon enquiry you resolve upon some lucky gully.
The other day, you are told, a fellow nuggetted ten or twenty pounds
weight, and, of course, you see no reason why half a hundred weight
might not be lying snugly ensconced awaiting the revelations of your
pick. You walk to the place, strike in your claim as near the centre of
the gully as possible, mark your boundaries, determine upon the size and
character of your hole, and at once to vigorous exercise of muscle. Your
mate spells you with the use of his spade or shovel. The top soil is
off, the sands and clays are entered, and all goes on pretty smoothly
until the pick comes into contact with something that soon drives it
back again, with the loss perhaps of its steel point. At it again with
good heart. A harder thrust is made. Again the tool rebounds. Never
despair. Blows thick and fast descend until an entrance is gained, and
some insignificant pieces are knocked off. You pause to gather breath
and strength. “Why I have got into some iron here,” you exclaim. Some
neighbouring bearded digger turns round and condescendingly remarks,
that it is only the “burnt stuff,” and that you must “drive away.”
But the points of the new pick are sadly robbed of their glory. The
blacksmith is sought at his primitive looking forge. After paying only
half-a-crown for each point being steeled, you return to your claim and
dash into it once more. But the day is closing, and the aching back and
arms assure you that it is high time to think of home and supper.
Day after day the toil is continued. A little relief comes after the
burnt stuff, in the shape of some more agreeable, separateable
conglomerate, or some yellow or blue clay. Soon the necessity is seen
for steps being cut in the side of the hole, and the back is rather
tried with the throwing up of the stuff. Afterwards a few sticks are
laid across one side of the top, as a footing place for the drawer up of
the bucket, which has now to be employed. Several awkward lumps of
quartz give a little trouble and test the patience of the miner. As you
go on, your hopes are more strongly exercised. Eagerly do you notice the
progress of your neighbours. Anxiously do you enquire about their luck
when they have got down. In proportion to their success, so is the
elevation of your spirits. Should any one strike upon a rich vein, you
are very inquisitive about the particular direction of that vein, and
the possibility of its running through your domain.
But the bottom is not gained and you begin to fancy that you never will
reach there. “Never mind,” says some encouraging friend, “the deeper you
go the more chance of luck.” Then you feel as though you would like to
delve to the antipodes. On you go, looking cautiously round
occasionally, in hope of catching a peep of some stray nugget or other.
At last a little yellow spot attracts attention. It seems of a brighter
colour than clay—a nearer look satisfies you that it must be gold. With
what delight then does the embryo digger seize upon his first treasure.
More excitement and pleasure are experienced at that time then in
subsequent seasons of pocket scraping. His first impulse is to cry out
“Eureka” with as great a zest as did Archimedes when he was dealing with
gold. Other glittering spangles are in the maggotty stuff. Some greasy
substance with streaks of yellow sand, is at once concluded by you to be
the pipe clay bottom. But this is not the case, you have further to go.
Yet console yourself with the idea that most of that through which you
are now digging may prove “washing stuff.” But you approach the
termination of your downward course. Some light and friable sandstone is
seen studded with interesting looking shining spangles. Seizing a piece
with avidity, you soon drop it with a dejected air as you recognize only
mica. Ah! but _there_ is something different surely. You are half
disposed to doubt. No, it is no mica, but beautiful little specks and
nuggets of gold, stuck all about the piece like currants in the
Christmas pudding. There is no mistake about it, as you break bit after
bit and let the little darlings tumble clumsily into a pannican. True,
some of them are rather dirty; but you cannot help regarding them with
peculiar affection. Well, the pipe clay floor is cleared, scraped and
swept. The precious dust is carefully stored above with that layer
immediately over, and preserved as washing stuff. The revelation of its
wealth is to be made another day, though many and serious are the
speculations as to its latent worth. One will hope there are two ounces
to the load, another confidently asserts that there must be four.
But as yet, perhaps, there has been no important manifestations of
pockets, with their glittering contents. Several dips of the rocky base
gave you hopes of leading on to fortune, but the fossicking knife
cleared out the pipe clay, and harshly scraped against the slate in
vain. On repeated occasions some purple sandy veins with bright red
spots in the pipe clay, like syrens of old, induce you to follow them in
their course, promising all the while a rich feast at the end of the
journey. Most trustfully you suffer yourself to be led along, until all
at once your conductor gives you the slip, and leaves you staring at a
wilderness of dirty white pipe clay. Half tempted to despair, you
languidly turn to another place and carelessly plunge in the knife.
_There_ is a subterranean beauty, a perfect nymph of the hidden world,
softly reclining, though not upon a violet bank. You hasten to obtain
the lovely stranger, and to reveal those long neglected charms to the
wondering gaze of devout admirers. Suspecting the fact of other fair
creatures being similarly confined in these enchanted regions, you rush
forward to the rescue with all the ardour of a knight of chivalry. With
the sword of sharpness you penetrate long passages of gloom, until at
length you reach a dark chamber. An entrance is forced, the light pours
in, and a sight presents itself, which well nigh upsets your reason.
Talk of the secret chamber, where suspended ranged the sweet wives of
hideous Blue Beard! Tell of the dungeon of darkness, round whose damp
walls were chained ten of the fairest dames of Christendom, mates of
war-like knights, whom the giant thief of old had caged! These were
nothing to the view that now unfolds itself. There are not ten, but tens
of tens of the dear creatures most adored by men, and for whose release
from the degradation and pangs of imprisonment down below, such zealous
and such benevolent exertions are being made in the colonies of Victoria
and New South Wales. May those worthy and disinterested labors be
crowned with abundant success! Lord Rosse may say what he pleases about
the intense gratification which he experienced, when he first resolved
the filmy nebulæ of Orion into the galaxy of sparkling orbs, but I mean
to declare that that is perfect moonshine to the delight of the gold
seeker, when he first drops upon a good pocket of nuggets.
The tunnelling work now follows. The head stuff is removed to make way
for you to get under, to work at the latent treasure of specs, nuggets
and washing stuff. The constraint of body in work, the damp, the
closeness of the atmosphere, the gloom, the fear of impending rocks,
with occasional raps of knuckles and skull against the sides and roof,
altogether make this wombatting not the most amusing operation in life;
though, like other uncomfortable things, it now and then leads to some
important and profitable result. It is often annoying to find your hopes
of veins in a bank so thoroughly blasted. A week’s labor brings you to
your boundary in a certain direction without a single glimpse of gold.
Then perhaps, you may be placed in a peculiarly puzzling condition. You
trace a pleasing vein to the verge of your claim; honesty says, “stop,”
and self interest cries “go on.” To some lofty minds this position makes
no manner of difficulty; they see the gold, and they simply follow it,
reserving to a more convenient season the consideration of the precise
whereabouts of their neighbour’s ground. Cases have been known of a poor
fellow delving for weeks in a hole, and when quite sure of dropping on
the gold, he all at once disappears in a cavern, which his friend of the
next claim has constructed with much ingenuity to lighten his labors and
load.
But the business of washing has to be thought of. That heap of dirt has
to be passed through the cradle. If in the dry season, this must be done
at a distance of from three to nine miles from the hole, paying,
perhaps, one shilling a bucket for cartage. There is the loss of time
going so far, and the inconvenience of having the company split into
digging and washing parties, each having a separate establishment.
Unless, therefore, you immediately require cash, you prefer carting the
stuff home to your tent beside the dried up creek, waiting for the time
of rains. When that joyous harvest of diggers does come, all is bustle
and merriment. If a sensible man, and not putting off till to-morrow,
you have secured your washing station beforehand. You now cut a place in
the bank for your tubs and cradle, drive in two posts by the edge of the
water, and roll down against them a log of six or eight feet long,
against which dirt is put, to serve as a firm footing and embankment.
The cradle is made to swing easily and unshiftingly, by the rockers
resting in the grooves of two blocks of wood firmly fixed in the soil.
By giving the cradle a slight slant to the lower end, the water will run
off the quicker; but if it dips too much a little gold may wash off with
the sand. All being ready, you take your iron bucket and carry the stuff
to the tubs. The _Aquarius_ with his long handed dipper, supplies the
liquid for puddling. The stuff is kept well stirred about with a spade,
so as to set the metal free from the adhesive soil and pipe clay. The
dirtied water is gently poured off every now and then, and, with a fresh
supply from the stream, you puddle away. Be not afraid of too much
working, remembering that good puddling makes easy and profitable
cradling. When this is done, you fill the hopper of your cradle with the
stuff, keep on pouring water with the dipper, and rock carefully and
evenly, using with the right hand a short stick to break any clods that
may be in your hopper, but which your tub ought not to have sent there.
The tubs being emptied, one of the party can be filling and preparing
another, while you take out the residuum at the bottom of your cradle.
The gold ought to rest on the wooden shelf under the hopper, but much
will run down with the sand into one of the compartments at the bottom.
But this has to be washed by the hand in the tin dishes. Now this
process I cannot describe. It is one of the deepest mysteries of the
gentle craft of gold digging. The uninitiated cannot possibly divine how
the dish washer is able to separate the soil from the precious treasure.
This art requires a watchful eye and skilful hand. Many men from
careless washing lose much gold. Two men were in a great hurry to get
through their heap, a party afterwards went over the washed material and
extracted ten pounds weight of metal.
The day’s work over, you put your gold into the digger’s treasure
chamber,—a matchbox; and you retire to your home to get dry clothes and
your supper. But the gold has to be dried. A spade is put on the fire,
the contents of the box poured on it, and the moisture soon disappears.
The dust is then carefully blown away, the magnet is passed over to take
up the iron particles, the little gathering is weighed and the result is
known. Some interesting guesses are made as to the value of your heap.
If thirty buckets made a load, if six buckets fill a tub, and if ten
tubs shall have produced you that day eight ounces of gold, you can form
a tolerable idea as to the value of your heap. But you know that while
one part may bring but an ounce a load, there will be some rich tubs
when that locality is reached, where the currant pudding lumps were
deposited.
The washing season is a lively time, as nearly all are abroad. The merry
joke is heard, and the loud laugh mingles with the rattling of stones in
the hopper, the grinding of cradles, and splashing of water. There is
some amusement in quizzing the machines employed. One day I saw an
unfortunate Irishman without a mate, who had a most original contrivance
for conducting his washing operations. The cradle, a very rude one, was
two feet long, his dipper was a tin pannican cleverly fixed in a slit
stick, and his puddling tub was a hole in the ground. Some in the dry
season have taken known good stuff, put it over a fire and blown away
the dust to get at the gold. In California, some have chosen a windy day
to sift the dry stuff, placing a blanket or cloth on the ground to catch
the heavy metal. A few at our mines have taken advantage of occasional
summer showers to turn the water from a hill into a deserted hole, which
they converted into a washing station. Though as a rule small parties
had better pay cart-hire than keep a horse, yet I knew a couple of
diggers who managed in the following manner. One got each day a load of
stuff from a hole, which his mate carted to the creek, eight miles off,
washed, and came in the next morning for another load. The latter,
having his wife at head-quarters, would not only bring a supply of water
to his worthy bachelor friend of the little _oilskin_ tent, but now and
then a loaf, a cake or a tart. The chief washing stations in the dry
season at the Mount were, the Forest and Campbell Creeks, and the river
Loddon. Those of Bendigo were the Sheepwash, Emu, and Bullock Creeks.
There is a story told of an old man, at Friar’s Creek, who put on his
spectacles, and examining some stuff out of his hole, observed no gold
in it. He was prevailed upon by somebody to wash a little of it in the
morning, when the metal appeared. The old gentleman persisted in
believing that none was there when he looked for it, exclaiming, “then
sure the divil himself came in the night and put it there.”
When the wet season sets in, the holes are often filled up and rendered
useless, if not, the walls become insecure, and serious accidents have
occurred in consequence. Surface washing then becomes the rage. The
country is explored and hills are tried. Where favourable the surface is
skimmed over, carted to the water, and washed. Though not so rich as
that from holes, the stuff is got at less labour, and the water is
nearer at hand. The holes at Bendigo are the shallowest, and those of
Ballarat the deepest; many of the former are under six feet, and the
latter, more than thirty feet. In California to save time in
prospecting, a number will form a miners’ club, pay down a certain sum
each, select two or three good men and true, and send them prospecting,
while the others remain at steady work. Quartz crushing is not likely to
pay here like in some places, as Brazil, where labor is cheap. The size
of the claim differs from that in California, where no regular system is
adopted, but where it is determined by the miners, at the several
localities. Here one man is allowed eight feet long by eight broad,
though no party, however many in number, can have a portion larger than
sixteen feet long and the same in breadth.
The care of animals at the mines is no small difficulty and trial. Food
in the dry season is confined to oats and bran for the horses, and these
at such prices as to make the weekly cost of a horse from £3 to £5. Some
men close their work early, and take the beasts perhaps four or five
miles to some scanty pasture, and stopping there in their 'possum rug
for the night, bring them in the next morning. There is the great
nuisance of animals straying, and the loss of time to parties looking
for them. Not a few of the better kind find their way to sales in
Melbourne, for the profit of those who have had the _trouble_ of
bringing them all the way down from some run near the diggings.
It is a mistake to imagine that none but diggers do well at the mines.
Without regarding the gold buyers, and storekeepers, who do _sometimes_
realize a few hundreds per cent per annum, the blacksmiths manage to
hammer a good many ounces out of the diggers. One told me that he gave
his men 25s a day and their board and lodging, and that he would
willingly give 50s. a hundred feet of sawn stuff, and pay cartage
himself. Excellent wages are made by others at hut building. Several
trades could there be conducted most profitably; such as shoemaking,
harness making, &c. Of course medical men collect a little of the gold
dust. Of all employments, that of carter in the dry season appears to me
the least enviable, walking continually beside their bullocks or horses
in one cloud of dust, and tormented by myriads of flies.
The routine of toil is not a monotonous one. The engagements are
various, and constant excitement attends them. Occasionally a rush gives
animation to a gully. The seizure of a grog-tent, a squabble about
claims, the horn of the news-vendor, a visit from the commissioner, give
a diversion to the scene. License time gives good opportunity for talk.
Instead of the thirty shillings for the monthly license, a man may pay
half-an-ounce of gold. Usually the first ten days of the month are days
of grace; after that, enquiries may be expected as to the possession of
the document. Though the risk is not great, few are without their
licenses. The five pounds penalty is often not so bad as the loss of
time. A policeman one day demanded a sight of his license from a digger
at Friar’s Creek. The man civilly said it was in his waistcoat down the
hole, and that he would go and fetch it directly. He departed, and
forgot to return. The hole was visited, but the bird had flown. As it
happened, there was much tunnelling in that part, and the man had
quietly passed along the subterranean passages, and raised his head from
another and distant cell.
Now, as to success at the diggings;—although cases, plentiful as
blackberries, occur in which parties have been two or three months up
and more, without doing anything beyond paying expenses, yet I am not
expected to talk of these. We all want to hear of the fortunate, and
make no enquiry about unlucky diggers. It is, however, a fact that many
who have dug nineteen holes in vain, have dropped upon the gold in the
twentieth. A party that I knew were five weeks wholly without success;
in three weeks after they got £900. Four men were weeks without luck,
when they fell in with 75lbs weight. Another was four months and in
debt, when a bright day came suddenly in the shape of a £500 share.
There were two parties, friends of equal strength, working in the same
place for three mouths; the one did not pay expenses, the other walked
off with 98lbs weight. At the foot of a tree three fellows took out
£1800 worth; they went down to Melbourne, and stopped till they had
knocked it all down. I knew a man at Bendigo who washed out 9lbs of gold
from a nosebag of stuff. At Ballarat two tubs yielded 24lbs. The
surfacing at Golden Gully, Friar’s Creek, was so immensely rich, that to
talk of sums would appear speaking fables. Holes have been bought for an
ounce of gold which have realized many pounds weight. A friend of mine
met a man whom he knew, walking in rags and dirt behind a dusty dray to
town, and yet carrying £1500 worth of gold. In Peg Leg gully 50 and even
80lbs have been taken from holes three or four feet deep. Several
companies of sailors have been remarkable fortunate, and so have those
of our sober and worthy German fellow-colonists. A hole at Forest Creek
produced 60lbs in one day, and 40lbs more the day after. The Burra
miners are no luckier than digging tailors. From one of our golden
gullies a party took 198lbs in six weeks. The largest Victorian nugget
weighed 25lbs. Perseverance will accomplish wonders at the diggings as
elsewhere. Men must not be down-hearted if not successful at first. They
must try, try, try again. Even the aborigines are wealthy in these
times. I met a party of them at Bullock Creek well clothed, with a good
supply of food, new cooking utensils, and money in their pockets. One
remarked with becoming expression of dignity, “me no poor blackfellow
now, me plenty rich blackfellow.”