Part 1

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Notes of a Gold Digger, and Gold Diggers’ Guide

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NOTES OF A GOLD DIGGER,

AND

GOLD DIGGERS’ GUIDE,

By

JAMES BONWICK,

_Author of “Geography for Australian Youth,” &c., &c._

MELBOURNE: R. CONNEBEE, 174, ELIZABETH STREET, AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

1852.

THE ROAD TO THE DIGGINGS.

Gold Fields have a most bewitching influence upon fallen humanity. The very name begets a spasmodic affection of the limbs, which want to be off. Then man, as a mere lover of beauty, cannot help wishing to look upon the pretty mineral in its virgin home of seclusion, and his acquisitiveness pants for possession of the loveliest darlings ever rocked in a cradle. But the Australian Gold Fields put to the blush the very fairy tales of old. The Genii of the “Arabian Nights” would have stared, had they winged their flight over the ocean, and taken a quiet evening’s stroll under our ranges and gullies. Need we wonder that the dull eyes of the sons of earth twinkle with delight at the chamber of treasure.

“They come—they come.” Well, let them come; and I for one will be glad to see them as lucky as their hearts can wish. In order to give the embryo digger a little insight into the wonders of this wonderful region, I have noted down a few facts, the result of my own experience as a Gold Digger.

Some simple hints before you start, my friend. Do not encumber yourself with too much luggage. The drays will not carry it for “_thank ye_.” There is no necessity for laying in a stock of everything, as storekeepers at the mines do not now desire a thousand per cent upon every article. This may arise from a principle of benevolence, or, as some ill-natured people say, from competition. If you lay in a stock in town you are likely to buy too much, as you are surrounded by good things, and the difficulties of the journey are unknown to you. Should you reserve the purchase of most of your requirements, till you arrive at the ground, you will have no trouble in carriage, you will _know_ what you really want, and, from the high price, you will only _buy_ what you want. By all means, however, provide yourself with good stout clothes and boots, a coat and trousers of oil-skin cloth, a roll of canvass for your future home, not forgetting a decent shooting jacket for Sundays, when you ought to appear civilized. Tools are dearer up than in town. A cradle may be carried in parts without much trouble.

Take up a few choice books, (not on Metaphysics or Mathematics,) because you should be prepared in some degree to keep up your intellectual position. A packhorse will ease the toil of a party, or a bundle might rest on the top of a passing dray. Unless positively obliged, spare yourself the anxiety of having your own conveyance. Otherwise a solemn warning—_beware of a gibber_, as that genus is not an uncommon one on the road. There are few things in life more undesirable than pushing behind a cart at every foot of rising ground, extricating a load from a chasm, or watching a vehicle approaching a precipice, impelled by an animal that will persist in going crabwise.

Now, I will suppose you are fairly started. You are rather nervous, yet sanguine. Sundry brave stories keep up your spirits. By one you are told of a fellow benighted in the bush, who could not sleep by reason of the hardness of his bed, but who ascertained by morning-light that he chanced to throw himself down upon a nest of big golden nuggets. Another tells you of a bullock driver in want of a stick, who pulled up a young wattle, and found hanging at the root, a whole family of nuggets like a brotherhood of potatoes; but that he was in too great a hurry to stop to pick them up. On the way you are passed by lots of returning diggers, some of whom carry down bags of treasure, and a few are carrying aches and pains to the hospital. There is some difference between your smooth chin, and their rough beards—your prim appearance and their soiled garb. You may possibly reach the Deep Creek, twenty miles from Melbourne, on the first day. Of course you camp. A fire is lighted, the meal is taken, and the romance of your first night out is enjoyed. You are wrapped in a 'possum rug or blanket beside your fire, or, if you are wise, beneath a canvass thrown over the shafts of a cart. Never start without a good breakfast. The dreary, crab-hole, five-mile plains are to be crossed. I had the satisfaction, when coming down, to be lost in this quarter, wandering about hungry and tired nearly all night, because my geological curiosity allowed the cart and my mates to get some hours a-head of me. It is to be hoped that you have a dry season in which to pass over Jackson’s Creek. On the other side an excellent dinner may be provided for you by Mr. Rainy at the Coffee House. The hills now rise on each side of you, and through one of the loveliest countries in the world you gain the Bush Inn at Gisborne, thirty-six miles from town. There are two inns there. Charges are no object to the successful digger, but usually a consideration to the up-going. A baker’s shop and store will there supply you with necessaries. I paid 2s 6d for a good loaf, 2s 6d for a pound of butter, and 7d for a pound of sugar. Prices vary according to the state of the roads. Near the Bush in winter you have to wade through a “slough of despond.” Going some miles hence, round the foot of Mount Macedon, a pretty watering place is obtained. You may, however, pass at once into the mysterious Black Forest, fourteen miles in extent. Being no alarmist, I shall give you no legend of powder and ball pertaining to those realms.

In the Black Forest are many rises, no surface stone, a great number of stringy bark trees, some fine cherry trees, and the modest cup of the beautiful epacris. At Five Mile Creek, at which are two inns, you pass over a wooden bridge. Soon after you come to sweet Carlshrue. Here are a Police station, a blacksmith, and houses of accommodation. On my way to town, early one morning, I beheld an icy forest on the plains. The arborescent icicles were about half-an-inch high and a twelfth diameter. Each top gently curved over. A vast number of these beautiful crystals standing together reminded one of a miniature giants’ causeway, or stalagmites from some sparry cave. Going up, our party spent a pleasant Sunday near a water-hole at Carlshrue.

You now approach the important township of Kyneton, fifty-six miles from town. Here are inns, stores, cottages, a wooden church, a pretty stone parsonage, and a neighbourhood of the finest alluvial black soil. Passing the Campaspie you gain the bridge of the Coliban: that is, if the awful quagmire permits your passage. A thriving township is just formed here called Malmsbury. This is about twenty miles from the Forest Creek. Attempting to get a short cut to the Loddon, my party were three days stumbling with a gibbing horse among the slate ranges. We had, too, the excitement of a twenty-four hours fast on that occasion. But you are less aspiring, and, following the beaten track, you come at last upon the scene of scenes. It is quite a beehive. Men are flitting about in strange disguise. Heads are popping up and down in various holes around you. The population are digging, wheeling, carrying or washing. But I have to conduct you through the diggings, so we must hasten forward. The old Post Office Square, the entrance to Adelaide Gully, the Montgomery Hill, the White Hill, the Private Escort station, the Little Bendigo, have to be passed in succession before reaching the junction of Forest, Barker, and Campbell creeks; at which place is the Chief Commissioner’s Quarters. This is a walk of four or five miles to the west. Desirous of seeing other digging regions, you must return to the neighbourhood of the Square, enter Adelaide Gully, and keep alongside the Adelaide creek till you come to the dividing range. Once over that, you approach the head waters of Friar’s creek, and you may follow down that stream to the south till it unites with the Loddon. The Golden creek flows southward into Friar’s creek; it has the interesting neighbourhood of Golden Gully, Red Hill and Windlas Hill. Turning once more to the east you reach the junction of the Campbell Creek and Loddon River. Pursuing thence a northernly course along the banks of the former, you again behold the Commissioner’s Tent. What with genuine soldiers, pensioners, and police, there is a force of about 200 men. There you will see the depository of Gold, awaiting the Escorts to carry it to town, and there is the place where for thirty shillings you may procure the talisman of a license.

But perhaps you want to go further. You have heard of Bendigo, and you would like to try your luck there. Then on we go to Bendigo. The direct road from Melbourne to Bendigo Creek is about 100 miles, but from Forest Creek about 30. You keep the side of Barker’s Creek on your progress to the northward. Now and then you pass some encampment in the wilderness. The presence of bottles of various character, innocent and suspicious, is always on the trail of the civilized man. On your right you have the long range of Mount Alexander. Upon a lovely evening my senses were feasted by a delicious scene. All the forest trees before me were in darkness, but beyond them and through them were caught glimpses of the granitic walls of Alexander, brilliantly shining in the last red rays of the setting sun. It was as though I was approaching by night some illuminated enchanted castle. The Porcupine Inn is nearly half-way from Forest Creek to Bendigo. It is often the place of tumultuous revelries among lucky diggers. Some people think it wise to camp beyond that locality. The country beyond Gibson’s station is finely timbered. The pasturage greatly improves as you progress, and few districts present such softness and gentleness of beauty in the landscape. Bendigo has a noble ornament in the fluted, Doric-column like trunks of its magnificent iron bark eucalypti. There is majesty, there is even sublimity in the solitude of an iron bark forest. Then, in the day a variety of pretty songsters awaken the air with pleasure, and the evening is closed in with the wild and ringing chuckle of the laughing jackass.

Bendigo is the Carthage of the Tyre of Forest Creek. The diggings there extend nearly twenty miles in length. The ransacked gullies are many; as, Golden, Spring, Jim Crow, Dusty, Poorman’s, Blackman’s, Iron Bark, Picanniny, Long, American, Californian, Eagle Hawk, Peg Leg, and Sailor. Though most of these may be wrought out, a good living may be got in either by the new comer, in a little tin-dish fossicking in deserted holes. Once upon the spot you are ready to go with the rush to any newly discovered gully of wonders.

THE DIGGER AT WORK.

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.