It would be a difficult task to picture the excitement at the time of
the gold discovery. Most people seemed to have gone mad with the gold
fever. My brother (who was living in Bathurst at the time), in the midst
of it all, was one of the first to go to Ophir or Sofala, I forget
which.
The first discovery was made by a man who had been in California, and on
seeing the geological formation of the Bathurst district, he at once set
to work to seek the precious metal. I have heard my brother say, “That
with few exceptions there were only old men, women, and children left in
Bathurst when the fever set in. Men of all ranks, professional or
otherwise, flocked to the ‘Diggings.’ Stores were set up rapidly, and
every week fresh finds and fields were discovered and rushed to.” In
Sydney the fever for gold was nearly as bad. I have often gone to the
Parramatta Road, standing on the high banks on either side, and watched
the different parties wending their way to the new El Dorado. Some in
comfortable vehicles and well-laden drays, others--more humble
diggers--in carts, and parties of men on foot carrying their “swags” or
leading a pack-horse. All were full of life, hope, and energy. How few
reaped the golden harvest, and to how many who had broken up their
homes, giving up their comforts and family ties, did this bring misery
and ruin, almost, as Tom Hood wrote, “To the very verge of the
churchyard mould.” The greed for gold leads poor humanity to almost
every extreme. From my own experience in this instance it certainly did,
for in going about amongst the working classes as I did, the accounts
related to me were of the most painful character. The tradesmen leaving
their business, taking with them the earnings of years to sink in outfit
and expenses; the mechanics their trades, leaving their poor wives to
earn a living for themselves and children anyway they could. Little
homes sold or mortgaged, all for the mere chance of making “a pile.” All
female labour became cheaper, and laundresses in Sydney were plentiful;
female servants could be had for very low wages. Occasionally men would
send for their wives and children “to join them on the ‘Diggings’;” and
after the first rush the wife could make more money by washing than the
man could by digging, and many other ways than actual digging cropped up
to lead to fortune.
The news soon reached England, and steamers came out crowded with
passengers who were going to “make a fortune.” Such people too! Men who
had never been used to hard work, and had never handled spade or pick,
except perhaps in the soft prepared ground of a little villa garden,
men who had never soiled their white hands with any kind of work, men
delicate in health and used only to refined society. Here is one
instance which came to my notice. A young man with a pretty wife left a
most comfortable home and large circle of friends to go out to the
“Diggings.” He took a cottage for his wife close to us. Then he joined a
party, and took with him tents, tools--in fact, everything requisite for
a “gentleman digger;” promising his wife “that when the summer set in
she should join him.” I used to listen sadly to this pretty creature’s
anticipations of how soon her husband would make his fortune and return
with her to her father. In what part of England they would purchase an
estate. Every letter she expected to learn “that her husband and party
had ‘struck gold,’ and were getting it by the pound at least.” Then a
week passed without a letter from her husband, and she became almost
frantic. We took every means to find out the cause, and at last the news
arrived. “He was ill,” so the pretty brave wife decided at once to go to
her husband. My father saw her safely into the wretched vehicle called
“the mail coach,” and we watched her leave, taking charge of her house
during her absence. On her arrival at the “Diggings” she found her
husband recovering from a severe attack of inflammation of the lungs.
She remained with him until he was convalescent, then returned home,
having obtained his consent to let part of their cottage furnished. We
were aware that their funds were getting low, so, though we thought it a
great risk for her to take strangers into her house, we did not like to
dissuade her. I used to go in to see her every day, and about a week
after her return as usual called after dinner, when she met me beaming
with smiles, saying: “Miss L----, I have let my rooms to such nice
people,--a young married couple just from home. The gentleman called
this morning and arranged everything. Such a very distinguished and
aristocratic-looking man! He offered such high terms; and I am to engage
a nurse-girl for their baby.” “I am exceedingly glad,” I said; “but,
Dora, have you had good references?” Her face clouded, “He never offered
any.” “Did you ask for them?” “Yes; but he continued talking, and made
me quite forget all about it; still, Miss L----, I am sure it is all
right.” I looked at her innocent face and thought, “You are indeed a
Dora after Dickens’s model.” However the mischief, if any, was done, and
it would not avail to say more about it. I was very glad at the idea
that they might become useful and intimate friends to her, as we were
soon to leave for my brother’s at Wellington, two hundred miles from
Sydney, and her only friends in the colony were made through our
introduction. Well, the next day her lodgers came, and certainly they
were both handsome, the man aristocratic-looking. Everything appeared
favourable enough; Dora was charmed, though a week passed without her
having said more than “Good-morning” to Mrs. Fyling, who she thought was
fretting. “But I never saw greater devotion than his to his wife; she is
very fond of the baby; but whenever he is at home, she sends it away at
once. I think, dear, he must be of a very jealous disposition, and does
not care to see even his own child caressed.” “Perhaps so.” “I am sure,
dear, they are good people,” went on Dora; “they inquired about the
nearest church, and have a Bible and Prayer-book on their
dressing-table.” “Yes,” I answered vaguely; somehow I did not feel at
ease about these people, my father having remarked, “He did not think
all was right with them.”
The next morning I was leaving our gate when a gentleman stopped me and
asked “If I knew which was Mr. ----’s cottage.” I pointed it out to him.
“Do you know whether he is at home?” “No; he is at Ophir, but his wife
is there.” “Alone?” “No; she has a gentleman and lady living there.”
“Thank you,” and raising his hat passed me. He did not go towards the
house, but towards the town. How long that morning appeared, and when I
started on my daily walk back from Redfern to the Glebe, it seemed twice
its usual distance. I ran into my own home and said, “I will take lunch
with Mrs. ----,” which I did. We had just finished, and were waiting
until the maid had removed the things from the next room, when a knock
and ring at the hall door startled us. I looked out, and standing there
was the man I had seen that morning and another gentleman with him. The
girl opened the door. On his asking for my friend, she went towards him.
At that moment Mrs. Fyling crossed the hall. I shall never forget the
yell of the other man or the scream from Mrs. Fyling. He rushed to her
and drew her into her room, asking, “Where is my child and that man?”
Shall I ever forget this scene of agony, reproach, and violence? The
cause of all this had just arrived from town and entered the cottage by
the French window of their sitting-room. The husband left his wretched
wife and rushed at him; but fortunately his friend prevented further
violence, and begged him “to consider the terrified owner of the house,”
at the same time reminding him that his faithless wife was not worth his
passion or regrets. “You can have your child, and you promised me you
would let those miserable creatures go, as their sin will soon bring
about its own punishment.” “Hers will,” said her husband, looking down
on her as she was lying on the floor. “Only two years since you married
me, your father’s trusted friend. Did I ever refuse you anything or pain
you by an angry word? Did I not leave you with every luxury while I was
toiling for your comfort? Oh, God! it is such frail creatures make men
brutes.” “Forgive me,” she cried. “Never!” was the stern reply. We left
the room and went into my friend’s apartment, as the nurse had not yet
returned from her walk with the child. When he saw his child, he
snatched it from the nurse’s arms and wept over it in bitter tears.
His friend told Mrs. S----, “He had only returned from England a few days
before,” to find his wife and child gone, and a letter from Mr. Fyling
awaiting him, stating “they had started for Tasmania,” but he did not
believe this, as from his servants he heard that they were still in
Sydney. “I had heard where they were, and fearing that if he should meet
them together unexpectedly something very serious might be the result, I
determined to bring him here. I need not say, Mrs. S----, how sorry I
am: this was inevitable.” “Never mind,” sobbed my friend; “it cannot be
helped; but how could she be so wicked, and with a child of her own to
love and tend?” After a little while poor Captain ---- and his friend,
with the child in his arms, left the house. During the afternoon the
noise of packing in the lodgers’ rooms made me aware they were preparing
for departure, and about five o’clock the nurse-girl brought Mrs. S----
a note to state “they were leaving,” enclosing a quarter’s rent for the
rooms. A carriage was driven up soon afterwards, Mr. Fyling carrying his
unfortunate companion to it, and thus they passed out of our lives.
After this my poor young friend let her house furnished, and went to
live with her husband on the Ophir diggings.