A lady at the diggings

“Not a spare room or bed to be had—no living at all under a pound a-day—every one with ten fingers making ten to twenty pounds a-week.” “Then of course no one goes to the diggings?” “Oh, that pays better still—the gold obliged to be quarried—a pound weight of no value.” The excitement that evening can scarcely be imagined, but it somewhat abated next morning on his telling us to diminish his accounts some 200 per cent.

They were returning to Melbourne for a spree, (which means to fling their gains away as quickly as possible,) and then as soon as the dry season was regularly set in, they meant to return to Bendigo for another spell at work. On representing to them the folly of not making better use of their hard-earned wages, the answer invariably was, “Plenty more to be got where this came from,” an apt illustration of the proverb, “light come, light go.”

A few miles further, and the diggings themselves burst upon our view. Never shall I forget that scene, it well repaid a journey even of sixteen thousand miles. The trees had been all cut down; it looked like a sandy plain, or one vast unbroken succession of countless gravel pits—the earth was everywhere turned up—men's heads in every direction were popping up and down from their holes.

The stores at the diggings are large tents, generally square or oblong, and everything required by a digger can be obtained for money, from sugar-candy to potted anchovies; from East India pickles to Bass's pale ale; from ankle jack boots to a pair of stays; from a baby's cap to a cradle; and every apparatus for mining, from a pick to a needle.

The licence, (for which thirty shillings, or half an ounce of gold, is paid per month) is in the following form: … After the 20th of the month, the fine inflicted is generally from 5 pounds to 10 pounds and a licence, which is rather a dear price to pay for a few days' permission to dig. … The inspectors are generally strong-built, rough-looking customers, they dress like the generality of the diggers, and are only known by their carrying a gun in lieu of a pick or shovel.

But night at the diggings is the characteristic time: murder here—murder there—revolvers cracking—blunderbusses bombing—rifles going off—balls whistling—one man groaning with a broken leg—another shouting because he couldn't find the way to his hole, and a third equally vociferous because he has tumbled into one—this man swearing—an other praying.

This day found the four hard at work at an early hour, and words will not describe our delight when they hit upon a “pocket” full of the precious metal. The “pocket” was situated in a dark corner of the hole, and William was the one whose fossicking-knife first brought its hidden beauties to light. Nugget after nugget did that dirty soil give up; by evening they had taken out five pounds weight of gold.

For the present we were obliged to content ourselves with “planting” it—that is, burying it in the ground; and not a footstep passed in our neighbourhood without our imagining ourselves robbed of the precious treasure, and as it was Saturday night—the noisiest and most riotous at the diggings—our panics were neither few nor far between. So true it is that riches entail trouble and anxiety on their possessor.