"The Adventures of a Rolling Stone" (continued 6)

At this moment, a change suddenly showed itself in the demeanour of our old roadster. We had been driving him before us, for the last mile or two, with great difficulty; but, on seeing his congeners take to flight, he suddenly threw up his head; and, either calling out to the drove that he was coming, or to us that he was going, he started towards them. Before we could get hold of his bridle, he was beyond reach—going at a rate that promised soon to place him among the foremost of the herd.

We had supposed that our hack belonged to some “serious family” of horses; and that the natural sedateness of his disposition had been augmented by years of toil and starvation. We were never more disappointed, than on seeing him forsake us in the fashion he did. A two-year old could not have gone more gaily.

Cannon and Vane started off in pursuit of him; but, as I had a little more experience in colonial horses, than either of my companions, I bade good-bye both to our roadster and my roll of blankets; and, stretching myself under the shade of a tree, I resolved to await their return.

I did wait. One hour passed, then another, and a third; and still my companions did not come back.

“I am a fool for remaining here,” reflected I. “The squatters station cannot be more than five miles distant; and they have probably gone there? The herd of horses undoubtedly belongs to it; and my companions have followed them home?”

Influenced by these conjectures, I once more rose to my feet; and continued the journey, that had been so unexpectedly interrupted.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.

Jessie.

The path led me along the bank of a river. It was the Yarra-Yarra.

As I moved onward, I began to perceive, that I had not been such a fool, after all, in having waited awhile for my companions. My long quiet reverie, in the shade of the tree, had refreshed me. I had escaped the hot sunshine; and I should now be able to reach my destination, during the cool hours of evening.

I did not wish to arrive at the station before Cannon: as I should require him to introduce me.

My solitary journey was altogether an agreeable one. The bright waters of the Yarra-Yarra flowed by my side, while the gentle breeze, as it came softly sighing through the peppermint-trees, fanned my brow.

After advancing, as I supposed, a distance of about four miles—hearing only the cries of the screaming cockatoo, and the horribly human voice of the laughing jackass—I was suddenly and agreeably surprised by the barking of a dog. The animal could not be far off; and it was also in the direction I was going—up the river.

“The station cannot be distant?” thought I; and eager to catch a glimpse of it, I hastened forward. I had scarce made a step further, when I was startled by a piercing scream. It was a human voice—the voice of a woman. She who gave utterance to it must be near the spot—concealed by some wattle-bushes on the bank of the river?

I rushed forward; and glided through the bushes into the open ground beyond. I perceived a young woman just on the point of leaping into the river!

My abrupt appearance seemed to cause a change in her design. Suddenly turning towards me, she pointed to the water, at the same time exclaiming, “Save her! O, save her!”

Looking in the direction thus indicated, I saw something like a child—a little girl—struggling on the surface of the water. Partly supported by the drapery of her dress, she was drifting down with the current. The next instant I was in the water, with the child in my arms.

The bank of the river, for some distance below, was too high and steep for me to climb out again. After making two or three ineffectual attempts, I gave it up; and, supporting myself and the child by a swimming stroke, I permitted the current to carry us down, until I had reached a place where it was possible to scramble ashore.

The young girl upon the bank had done all she could to assist me, while I was endeavouring to climb out; but, fearing, from the state of excitement in which she appeared to be, that she would herself tumble in, I had commanded her to desist.

On my relinquishing the attempt to ascend the steep bank, she appeared to think that I had done so in despair; and that both the child and I were irrecoverably lost.

Her screams recommenced, while her movements betokened something like a determination to join company with us in the water. This, I believe, she would have done, had I not at that instant reached a place, where the bank shelved down to the surface, and where I at length succeeded in getting my feet upon dry land. In another moment I had placed the child in her arms.

For some time after my getting out of the water, the attention of the young girl was wholly engrossed by the little creature I had rescued; and, without fear of my scrutiny being noticed, I had a good opportunity of observing her.

As she stood before me, affectionately caressing her little companion, I thought that there could be on this earth but one other so lovely—one Lenore.

She appeared to be about sixteen years of age. I had often heard of “golden hair,” and always had regarded the expression as a very foolish figure of speech. I could do so no longer on looking at the hair of that Australian maiden. Its hue was even less peculiar than its quantity. There seemed more than a delicate form could carry.

I could not tell the colour of her eyes; but I saw that they emitted a soft brilliant light, resembling the outburst of an autumn sun.

When she became satisfied that the child was unharmed, she proceeded to thank me for the service I had done, in “preserving the life of her sister.”

I interrupted her expressions of gratitude, by offering to accompany her to her home. The child, after the fright it had sustained, seemed hardly able to stand; and I proposed to carry it in my arms. My proposal was accepted; and we proceeded on up the river.

An animal called in the colonies a “Kangaroo dog,” led the way; and to this quadruped the young girl directed my attention.

“Rosa was running in advance of me,” said she, “and was playing with the dog. It was he that pushed her into the river. I fear, our mother will not allow us to come out again, though I am very fond of straying along the Yarra-Yarra. We have not far to go,” she added; “the house is just behind that hill, you see before us. It is not quite a mile to it.”

I was pleased to hear this: for Rosa was about five years of age, and of a weight that I did not desire to walk under for any great distance.

I had forgotten all about my gun. I had dropped it, when jumping into the river; and only remembered it now, long after we had left the spot. On turning towards my companion, I saw that she had it in her hands.

During our progress towards her home, I was constantly making comparisons between my companion and Lenore. They were mental, and involuntary. She and Lenore were the two most lovely objects I had ever seen; and yet they were altogether unlike. Lenore was dark, reserved, and dignified, though the expression of her features and the silent glance of her eye denoted, that her soul contained volumes of warm poetic fancy that might never be expressed in words.

The young girl by my side was fair and free-spoken; she talked almost continuously; and I could plainly perceive, that every thought of her mind must find expression in speech.

Before we had reached the house, I had learnt the simple history of her life. She was the daughter of Mr H—, the friend of Cannon—for whose station we were bound.

She was the one about whom Cannon had bantered Vane—telling him that he might amuse himself by making love to her. Cannon had never spoken a truer word in his life, than when he said that she was “extremely good-looking.” If the description was at all incorrect, it was because it was too tame. She was more than good-looking—she was beautiful.

I learnt from her that her name was Jessie, that her life was very lonely on the station—where the appearance of a stranger, whatever he might be, was an unusual event; and that she was much pleased that an acquaintance of her father had sent word, that he was about to visit them with two of his friends.

“That acquaintance is Mr Cannon?” said I, interrogatively.

“Yes; and you are one of the friends who was to come with him,” rejoined she, with a woman’s instinct, jumping to the correct conclusion. “Oh! we shall be so happy to have you with us!”

We had still that mile further to go; but although Rosa was no light weight to carry, the distance appeared as nothing.

Before we had reached her home, Jessie H— seemed to be an old acquaintance. I felt assured that my visit to her father’s station would prove a pleasant one.

On arriving at the house there ensued a scene of excitement, of which little Rosa’s mishap was the cause.

Jessie seemed determined to make me the hero of the hour; and I had to listen to profuse expressions of gratitude from her father and mother—all for bringing a child out of the water—an act that a Newfoundland dog would have performed, quite as cleverly as I.

Little Rosa was the favourite of the family; and their thanks for what I had done were in proportion to the affection entertained for her.

When they had succeeded in making me feel very uncomfortable, and appear very much like a fool, I had to listen to some nonsense from my travelling companions Vane and Cannon—who had arrived at the station nearly an hour before. Their badinage was to the effect, that I had got the start of them, in the amusement of love-making to the beautiful Jessie.

My companions had been unsuccessful in the pursuit of our packhorse. He had gone quite off into the “bush”—carrying his cargo along with him.

We never saw either again!

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Six.

Australian Amusements.

The owner of the station, Mr H—, followed the kindred occupations of grazier and wool-grower; and, to judge by the appearance of his home, he had carried on this combined business to some advantage. He was a simple, kind-hearted man, about fifty years of age; and, having been a colonist for more than twenty years, he understood how to make our visit to his home as pleasant, as circumstances would admit.

The day after our arrival, we were inducted into the mysteries of a “kangaroo hunt.” In chase of an “old-man kangaroo” we had a fine run, of about three miles, through the bush; and the affair was pronounced by Vane, who claimed the character of a sportsman, to be a more exciting chase than any fox-hunt he had ever witnessed in the old country. To be “in at the death” of a fox is to be present at a scene of considerable excitement; but it is tame, when compared with the termination of a kangaroo chase. When an “old-man kangaroo” is brought to bay—after having come to the conclusion that he has jumped far enough—then comes the true tug of war.

The venerable gentleman places his back against a tree; and resists further molestation in a most determined manner. He shows fight in his own way—by lifting up one of his hind legs, and bringing it down again with a sudden “slap”—all the time supporting himself in an upright attitude on the other. The blow does not cause a sudden jar, like the kick of a horse; but by means of his long, sharp claws, the kangaroo will tear the skin from the body of a dog, or any other assailant, that may imprudently come within reach.

Vane and Cannon knew that I had been a sailor. They expected, therefore, some amusement in seeing me “navigate” a horse across the rough country—among the standing and prostrated trees of an Australian “bush.”

They did not know, that I had been more than two years in the saddle—as a United States dragoon; and that I had ridden over heaps of dead and wounded men—over crippled horses and broken carriages—as well as thousands of miles across the desert plains and through the dense forests of America.

They were taken somewhat by surprise, on beholding my horsemanship; and Vane flattered me with the hope, that a few years’ practice would make me as good a hunter as himself!

We returned home with a game-bag—containing two dead kangaroos; and next day, at dinner, indulged in the luxury of “kangaroo-tail” soup.

Our amusement, for the following day, was a fishing excursion along the Yarra-Yarra.

We caught an abundance of fish; but they were so small, that angling for them appeared to be an amusement more fit for children than men; and we soon became weary of the rod and line.

Each day, on returning home to the station, we enjoyed the society of the beautiful Jessie.

As already stated, this young lady was an accomplished conversationist—though her teaching had been only that of Nature. She could carry on a conversation with all three of us at once; and on a different subject with each.

I believe that Vane fell in love with her at first sight; and his whole behaviour betokened, that he intended paying no attention to the command or request which had been made by the man who introduced him.

I knew very little about love affairs; but something whispered me that, if Vane should form a serious attachment for Jessie H— it would end in his disappointment and chagrin. Something told me, she would not reciprocate his affection—however fond it might be.

At the same time, I could perceive in the young lady a partiality for myself. I did not attempt to discover the reason for this. It might have been because my introduction to her had been made, under circumstances such as often win a woman’s love. She might have admired my personal appearance. Why not? I was young; and had been often told that I possessed good looks. Why should Jessie H— not fall in love with me, as well as another?

As I reflected thus, conscience whispered to me, that I should take leave of Mr H—’s family; and return to Melbourne.

I did not do so; and I give the reason. Jessie H— was so enchantingly lovely, and her conversation so interesting, that I could not make up my mind to separate from her.

Several times I had mentally resolved to bid adieu to my new acquaintances; but my resolutions remained unfulfilled. I stayed at the station, under the fascinations of the charmer.

Our diversions were of different kinds. One day we would visit a tribe of native blacks living up the river, where we would be treated to astonishing spectacles of their manners, and customs, especially their exploits with the boomerang and spear.

Our mornings would be spent in kangaroo hunting; and our evenings in the society of the beautiful Jessie.

One day we made an excursion—all going well mounted—to a grazing station about fifteen miles from that of Mr H—. Our object was to assist the proprietor in running a large drove of his young cattle into a pen—for the purpose of having them branded.

The animals were almost wild; and we had an exciting day’s sport, in getting them inside the inclosure. Several feats of horsemanship were exhibited by the different graziers, who assisted at the ceremony. The affair reminded me of what I had seen in California, upon the large grazing estates—“ganaderias” of that country. We were home again before dinner time; and in the evening I was again thrown into the company of Jessie.

I could not help reading her thoughts. They were easily interpreted: for she made no attempt to conceal what others might have desired to keep secret. Before I had been a week in her company, I was flattered with full evidence, that the warmest love of a warm-hearted girl was, or might be, mine.

There are few that do not sometimes stray from the path of rectitude—even knowingly and willingly. By staying longer at the station of Mr H— when convinced that the happiness of another depended on my leaving it—I was, perhaps, acting as most others would have done; but I knew I was doing wrong. It brought its own punishment, as wickedness ever will.

Jessie loved me. I was now sure of it. Several circumstances had combined to bring this misfortune upon her. Grateful for the service I had done in saving their child, her father and mother acted, as if they could not treat me with sufficient consideration. Little Rosa herself thought me the most remarkable man in the world; and was always talking of me to her sister.

It was natural for a girl like Jessie to love some one; and she had met but few, from whom she could make a choice. There was nothing strange in her young affections becoming centred on me; and they had done so. Conscience told me that I should at once take myself from her presence; but the fascination of that presence proved stronger than my sense of duty; and I remained—each day, becoming more enthralled by the spell of her beauty.

Why was it wrong in me to stay by the side of Jessie H—? Lenore Hyland had forsaken me; and why should I not love another? Where could I hope to find a woman more beautiful, more truthful, more worthy of being loved, or more capable of loving than Jessie. The task of learning to love her seemed every day to grow less difficult; and why should I bring the process to an abrupt termination?

These considerations required my most profound reflection. They obtained it—at least I thought so;—but the reflections of a man, under the fascinating influence of female beauty, are seldom guided by wisdom. Certainly mine were not, else I would not have allowed the hopes and happiness of my life to have been wrested from me by the loss of Lenore.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Seven.

“Love but One!”

“What should I do?” This was the question that presented itself to my mind, almost every hour of the day. It called energetically for an answer.

I loved Lenore Hyland—I felt that I ever should, as long as life was left me. Such being the case, was it right for me to endeavour to gain the affections of an unsophisticated girl like Jessie H—? Would it be honourable of me to take advantage of that incident—which had no doubt favoured her first inclination towards me? To win her heart, and then forsake her, would be to inflict upon her the same sorrow I was myself suffering for the loss of Lenore.

Lenore was still more dear to me than life; and I had only lived since losing her, because I believed it a crime to die, until some Supreme Power should call me to come. And yet should I ever return to Liverpool, and find Lenore a widow—even though she should wish it—I could never marry her!

“She can never be mine,” thought I. “She never loved me; or she would have waited for my return. Why, then, should I not love Jessie, and make her my wife?”

There are many who would have adopted this alternative; and without thinking there was any wrong in it.

I did, however. I knew that I could never love Jessie, as I had loved Lenore—to whose memory I could not help proving true, notwithstanding that she had abandoned me for another. This feeling on my part may have been folly—to a degree scarce surpassed by my mother’s infatuation for Mr Leary; but to know that a certain course of action is foolish, does not always prevent one from pursuing it.

“Shall I marry Jessie, and become contented—perhaps happy? Or shall I remain single—true to the memory of the lost Lenore—and continue the aimless, wandering, wretched existence I have lately experienced?”

Long and violent was the struggle within my soul, before I could determine upon the answers to these self-asked questions. I knew that I could love Jessie; but never as I should. “Would it be right, then, for me to marry her?” I answered the last question by putting another. “Should I myself wish to have a wife, who loved another man, and yet pretended for me an affection she did not feel?”

I need scarcely say, that this interrogatory received an instantaneous response in the negative. It determined me to separate from Jessie H—, and at once. To remain any longer in her society—to stay even another day under the roof of her father’s house, would be a crime for which I could never forgive myself. To-morrow I should start for Melbourne.

I had been walking on the bank of the river, when these reflections, and the final resolve, passed through my mind. I was turning to go back to the house, when I saw Jessie straying near. She approached me, as if by accident.

“Miss H—,” said I, “I am going to take leave of you.”

“Going to leave me!” she exclaimed, her voice quivering as she spoke.

“Yes; I must start for Melbourne to-morrow morning.”

She remained silent for some seconds; and I could see that the colour had forsaken her checks.

“I am very sorry,” she said at length, “very sorry to hear it.”

“Sorry!” I repeated, hardly knowing what I said, “why should that grieve you?”

I should not have asked such a question; and, as soon as I had done so, I perceived the mistake I had made.

She offered no reply to it; but sate down upon the bank; and rested her head upon her hands. An expression had come over her countenance, unmistakeably of a painful character; and I could see that her eyes were fast filling with tears.

“Surely this girl loves me? And surely I could love her?”

I know not how these two mental interrogatories were answered. I only know that, instead of rejoicing in the knowledge that I had gained her love, I was made miserable by the thought.

I raised her to her feet; and allowed her head to rest upon my shoulder.

“Miss H—,” said I, “can it be that you show so much emotion, merely at parting with a friend?”

“Ah!” she replied, “I have thought of you as a friend; but such a one as I never knew before. My life has been lonely. We are here, as you know, shut out from all intercourse with the world. We can form but few friendships. Yours has been to me like some unknown joy of life. You have been my only thought, since I first saw you.”

“You must try to forget me—to forget that we have ever met; and I will try to forget you. I should only think of you as a friend!”

For a second she stood gazing upon me in silence. Then tremblingly put the question:

“You love another?”

“I do, although I love without hope. It is one who can never be mine—one I may, perhaps, never see again. She and I were playmates when young. I fancied she loved me; but she did not: she has married another.”

“How very strange! To me it seems impossible!”

The artless innocence of these observations, proved the purity of the mind from which they could emanate.

“And yet,” continued she, “for one who has acted in that manner, you can still feel love?”

“Alas! such is my unfortunate fate.”

“Oh! sir, if you but knew the heart you are casting away from you!—its truth—its devotion and constancy—you would never leave me; but stay here and be happy. You would learn to love me. You could not hate one, who loves you as I can; and will to the end of my life!”

I could make no reply to this speech. Sweet as it might have been to the ears of some, I listened to it only with pain. I scarce knew either what to say, or do; and I was only relieved, from my painful embarrassment, when our steps brought us back to the house.

I loved Lenore for what she had been; and regarded her now as lost—as dead; yet I determined to remain true to her. My affections were not wandering fancies—finding a home wherever circumstances might offer it. I could “love but one.”

Jessie H— was beautiful, innocent, and affectionate; but all these qualities could not conquer my love for Lenore; and honour commanded me to depart speedily from her presence.

Shortly after entering the house, she retired to her own room; and I saw no more of her for the night.

Before doing so myself, I took leave of Mr and Mrs H—, telling them that I must be off by daybreak in the morning.

My companions, Vane and Cannon, declared their unwillingness to accompany me; and used every argument to dissuade me from such an abrupt departure; but their arguments were only thrown away upon me. I had formed the determination; and nothing could have influenced me to abandon it. On becoming assured of this, they at length consented to go along with me.

Mr and Mrs H— did not urge me very strenuously to remain; and I believe that their silent eloquence could have been explained: by the supposition that it arose, from a regard for the happiness of their daughter.

We took our departure from the station at an early hour of the morning—before any of the household—except some of the domestics—were astir.

This manner of leaving may appear unceremonious; and would be so, in many parts of the world. But it is nothing unusual in Australia—where early setting out upon a journey is almost the universal fashion.

I did not care for the company of Vane and Cannon, on the way back to Melbourne. I would much rather have dispensed with it: as I wished to be alone. I wanted an opportunity for reflection—such as that journey would have afforded me. The society of Jessie H— had revived many memories within me. It had rekindled my passion for Lenore—strengthened my regrets for the past, and my despair for the future.

As I walked at a rapid pace, my companions fell behind—until, at length, I lost of them altogether.

Before the hour of noon, I had reached the city of Melbourne—sorry to think I had ever left it, to go upon an excursion, that had ended only in adding to the discontent already too firmly established within my bosom.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Eight.

Unsuitable Associates.

Once more I found myself without a home, without an occupation, and without any plans for the future—with a spirit undecided—depending on some slight circumstance as to what course I should next take.

Such a position is ever unpleasant. I knew this, from the fact of having been too often placed in it; and being well accustomed to the disagreeable reflections attending it.

I was anxious to decide, upon something to do. What should it be? What part of the world should I next visit? Why had I come back to Melbourne at all? Was it to make more money; or spend what I had already made? These, and a thousand other interrogatories succeeded each other in my mind; but to none of them could I give an intelligent answer.

While in this state of indecision, I came near losing a portion of my self-respect. There was a good deal to seduce me into habits of dissipation; and not much to restrain me from them. I had no longer the motives, to guard me against evil courses, that had once guided me. What could I gain, by always keeping on my best behaviour? Ever since first leaving home, I had endeavoured to conduct myself, as well as my limited knowledge would allow. What had I gained by it? Nothing, except, perhaps, a little vanity. Was this worth all the exertion I had made by resisting temptation?

Having little else to do, I spent some time in considering the question. The result was: satisfaction at the course I had pursued, and a determination to continue it.

A little vanity is, perhaps, after all, not such a bad thing. If a man cannot win the good opinion of others, he should endeavour to keep on proper terms with himself; and this he cannot do, without conducting himself in a proper manner. Because Fortune had not dealt with me, as I had wished, that was no reason why I should take her for an example, and imitate her unkindness. A man in adversity is too often deserted by his acquaintances; but this is no argument for turning against himself and becoming his own enemy. I determined not to act in a manner so stupid. I had too much self-respect, or pride, or vanity, to do so. Call it by what name you please, it served me at that time in good stead: for it was this, and nothing else, that restrained me from entering upon a course of dissipation.

My companions Vane and Cannon were good examples of men, who act without any fixed principles or firm resolve. They had both been, in the old country, what is called a “little wild,” and had come to the colonies not from any inclination on their own part, but rather at the instance of their relatives and friends. They had been sent out, in fact—in the hope of their getting tamed by the hardships of colonial life.

I have known thousands of genteel young men similarly expatriated; and who, armed with letters of introduction and recommendation, had landed in the colonies, under the belief that they were very much wanted there. Never was there a greater delusion—as most of them had afterwards reason to know. The only people required in Australia are those of good habits—combined with some brains, or else a willingness to work. The “fast youths” packed off to get them out of the way, are generally deficient in these essential requisites—otherwise they might have found employment at home.

Unwilling to work, they arrive in the colonies with too good an opinion of themselves and too low an opinion of the people there. Although leaving England under the belief that there may be greater people left behind, they feel confident that they will stand foremost in Australia.

Some of these young gentlemen have the sense soon to discover their mistake; and many of them turn to hard work, with a will that does them credit. My companions Cannon and Vane were not of this kidney. Neither would consent to do anything, that savoured of “toil;” and with all their letters of introduction—backed by the influence of the friends to whom they had come introduced—they were unable to procure what they had been led to expect—easy situations under “government.”

According to their showing, there was something wrong in the system; and the fault was with the colonial government and people. They could not understand that those who are called upon to govern a young colony—and put together the machinery of its social state—require to know something: and that they who, in their native land, have proved incapable of performing any useful duty, will be found still more useless, in a land where the highest capability is required.

Both had been unfortunate in having friends, who, while apparently behaving too well to them, had in reality been treating them in a cruel manner. They had been brought up in idleness—with the idea that labour is vulgar, and disgraceful to a gentleman. With these views they had been thrust forth upon a wide world—to war with life’s battles, as it were, undisciplined and unarmed. Neither had the spirit successfully to contend against the adverse circumstances, in which they now found themselves; and they appeared to think that the best way for combating their misfortune was to betake themselves to a course of dissipation.

I endeavoured to persuade them, to go up to the diggings with me, and try to make their fortune by honest and honourable labour; but both rejected my counsel—Vane even receiving it with scorn. They would not soil their soft hands by bringing them in contact with the dirty earth! They had as little inclination for such menial labour, as I for many habits in which they indulged, and which to my way of thinking were far more menial than gold-digging.

They had been educated as gentlemen—I had not. Their ways were not my ways; and, seeing this, I resolved to cut their acquaintance. They were naturally not bad fellows; but they had faults, arising from a defective education, that rendered their company undesirable—especially in a place like Melbourne.

They were both pleasant companions; and in many respects I could have liked them; but as they were trying to live in Melbourne on nothing a year, I saw they would not be the right sort of associates for me.

To do them justice, they seemed to be aware of this themselves, more especially Cannon. One day he had the honesty to confess to me, that he was afraid he could not lead the life of a respectable gentleman any longer.

“Why?” I asked; “can you not get work?”

“No,” he answered with a sneer; “I’m not going to drive bullocks, or dry-nurse a flock of sheep, for any man. I must live in some other manner—whether it be considered respectable or not.”

“What can you do?” I inquired.

“Haven’t an idea. I only know, Stone, that I shall be ‘spongeing’ on you, if you don’t cut my acquaintance.”

“And, when you can live on your acquaintance no longer, what then?”

“Then I must turn billiard-marker. My friends have sent me here, as they said, to make my fortune, but, as I believe, only to get rid of any further trouble with me at home. They have succeeded in their purpose: for I don’t believe that I shall ever rise the ‘tin’ to return to England, although I should deucedly like to do so.”

“Why should you wish to go where you are not wanted? Why not set to work; and become independent, by your own exertions?”

“Ah! my friend, you forget that we have not been brought up alike. You have had sensible parents, or guardians, who have done something to prepare you for that sort of thing, while I have been brought up foolishly by those who have tried hard to make me believe myself wiser than other people. What seems easy to you, is altogether impossible to me. You have been educated in a world that has taught you some wisdom, while I have been trained by a family that has only made a fool of me. I have been taught to believe that a man should owe everything to his ancestors; and you, that he should be indebted only to himself. Therefore, it’s idle to talk about the matter—we can never agree.”

I saw that there was no use in urging Cannon to attempt doing any thing in the colonies, as long as he could perceive no object to be gained by exerting himself.

Just then, I was myself slightly inclined to take a similar view of things. I had hoped and toiled to make myself as perfect, as was possible for a human being, placed in my circumstances. What had I gained by it? Nothing. What could I expect to gain? Nothing. Influenced by these thoughts, I remained for some time in doubt, whether I should return to the diggings or not. Life there, was, after all, only an excitement. It was not happiness.

Several times the temptation came strong upon me, to go back to Jessie; and see if I could find happiness with her. In striving to overcome this temptation, I was, perhaps, acting not so unlike my companions—Vane and Cannon: I was refusing to accept of fortune’s favours, when they could so easily have been won.

They were in a growing colony, where, with labour, they might easily have obtained a high position—yet they would not exert themselves. I was playing a very similar part; for I saw how I might become happy—at all events, how I might live without unhappiness—yet I rejected the opportunity fortune had thus set before me. I would only consent to accept happiness on my own terms; and my obstinacy was not so very different from that which was the besetting sin of my companions.

I never felt more like a Rolling Stone, than when in Melbourne upon that occasion; but the sensation was not peculiar to myself: for the city contained thousands of people who had been everywhere; and were ready, at an hour’s notice, to go there again!

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Nine.

Farrell’s Story Continued.

I at length succeeded in making up my mind to leave Melbourne; and, having parted with Vane and Cannon, I proceeded alone to Geelong—on my way to the gold fields of Ballarat. It was my first visit to Geelong; and I made it a short one; but, short as it was, I came to the conclusion, that if the people of Geelong had, within the two previous years, advanced in civilisation as rapidly as those of Melbourne, they must have been in a dreadfully degraded state before: since I found the social, moral, and intellectual condition of the place, if possible, still lower than that which had disgusted me on my first visit to Melbourne—and this is saying a deal.

The principal business of the Geelongers appeared to be that of drinking; and at this they were, to a high degree, industrious. Almost every one, with whom I came in contact, used obscene language, and were, or appeared to be, in every way more depraved, ignorant, and brutish, than any people to be found out of England itself.

From Geelong I went on to Ballarat—a distance of forty-eight miles—in a conveyance drawn by four horses; and paid for my accommodation the smart sum of six sovereigns.

On my arrival, I once more pitched my tent on the richest gold field known to the world.

Gold-diggers had been called “lucky vagabonds” by the then Attorney-General of Victoria. Perhaps he was right; but, whatever name had been given them, I was well pleased at finding myself once more in their company; and ready to share their toils, chances, and disappointments.

There is something in gold hunting that unsettles a man’s mind, and makes him unfit for the ordinary occupations of life; and yet the calling itself is exactly suited to the state of mind it thus produces.

In this respect it is perhaps, unfortunately—too like the profession of the gamester.

No other occupation could have been so well adapted to my state of mind. I had no hopes to realise—no object to accomplish, but that of forgetting the past, and guarding my thoughts from straying into the future.

Such being the case, it was with much satisfaction that I again found myself a “lucky vagabond”—amidst the ever-varying scenes of excitement, to be witnessed on the gold fields of Ballarat.

The first acquaintance I encountered, after my arrival at the place, was Farrell—the Californian gold-digger—whom I had last seen in San Francisco.

As a matter of course, we stepped into the nearest hotel, to have a glass together.

“I suppose,” said Farrell, as soon as we were seated—“you have no objection to listen to the conclusion of that little romance—the second chapter of which I made you acquainted with in San Francisco?”

“Not the slightest,” I answered. “Although I felt sorry for what had happened to you, I confess I was very much amused at what you told me. But the most interesting part of the romance—as you call it—had not transpired. I shall be very glad to hear more of it.”

“Well,” proceeded Farrell, “you shall. As I told you they would, Foster and my wife came out to California; and, as I expected, to San Francisco. However, they had come ashore so very secretly and quietly, that I did not succeed in finding them, until they had been about ten days in the city.

“Foster took a house in Sacramento Street, furnished it with the money I had sent home to maintain my faithless wife; and laid in a stock of liquors. He intended to commence business in the grog-selling line; and was about opening the establishment, when I found them out.

“As soon as I did so, I went straight to the house—prepared for some sport.

“Foster and my wife were out shopping, and, no doubt, spending what remained of my money. The new tavern was in charge of a young man, whom they had engaged as a barkeeper.

“I immediately took possession of the whole concern—the house, and everything in it.

“I then discharged the barkeeper from their employment; and, the instant after, engaged him in my own service.

“I remained in that house for nine weeks—managing the business which Foster had intended to profit by; and then sold out for five thousand dollars.

“Neither Foster nor my wife, to my knowledge, ever came near the place—at all events, they never showed their faces in the house. They had found out, by some means, that I was in possession; and that had proved sufficient to make them surrender their claim without a contest.

“After selling out, I found leisure to look about me; and make further enquiries concerning the precious pair. I learnt that they had gone up to Sacramento city—where they had both taken situations in a public-house, managed by some other man. They had no longer any money, to go into business for themselves.

“I was still determined to see them; and started off for Sacramento.

“They must have had some one on the watch; for, on reaching the place, I found they had left only two hours before! As my anger had been for some time evaporating, I had no desire to pursue them any farther. The fact is, I felt a degree of freedom—after the loss of my wife—that went far towards reconciling me to the man who had relieved me of her. Besides, there was something in the idea of having turned Foster out of his finely furnished house in San Francisco, that made me think myself nearly square with him; and I did not care to take any more trouble, simply for the sake of troubling them.

“I returned to San Francisco; and from that place took passage in a ship just sailing for Melbourne.

“My anger has now entirely passed away; and yet I know I am still having some revenge—in addition to that I have already got. Wherever they may be, they are not living happily. They know that they have done wrong; and I’d lay a wager, there’s not an hour of the day that they’re not thinking of me, and dreading that I will make my appearance.

“I can return to my native land, and be happy. They cannot. I never wish to see either of them again: for I have become philosophical, and am willing that their crime should bring about its own punishment.”

I congratulated Farrell on the philosophy that had enabled him so successfully to regain his tranquillity of spirit; and, after giving each other mutual directions for meeting again, we parted company.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirty.

Odd Fashions in the Gold Fields.

Farrell’s philosophical resolve—to trouble the delinquents no more—formed the subject of my reflections, as I walked towards my tent. It was an illustration of the power which circumstances may have, in allaying even the strongest passion: for I knew that, when first made acquainted with his dishonour, the man had felt both deeply and resentfully.

I could not help applying the lesson to myself. “Is it possible,” thought I, “that any circumstances can ever arise to allay my longings for Lenore? Is there in time a power that will yet appease them?”

My sentimental reflections were interrupted, by a scene that was of a different character—altogether comical. Not far from the place where I had parted with Farrell, I saw a crowd collected around a tent. Two miners, who had been “regular mates,” were quarrelling; and their neighbours had gathered upon the ground, to be edified by an abundance of vituperative eloquence.

After the two men had, for a considerable time, amused the bystanders with their dispute, there appeared to be but one point upon which they could agree. That was that they should remain “mates” no longer.

The tent, some provisions in it, along with their mining tools and cooking utensils, they owned in common: having shared between them the expense attending their purchase.

As these things could not be divided to the satisfaction of both parties, it was proposed that each should remove from the tent, whatever was fairly entitled to be called his “private property,” and that everything held in common—including the tent itself—should be burnt! This proposal was at once agreed to.

Each then brought forth from the tent his roll of blankets, and along with some other purely “personal effects.” The ropes, picks, shovels, and buckets—that chanced to be lying outside the tent—were then “chucked” inside; after which, a match was applied to the dry canvass, and the diggers’ dwelling was instantly in flames. The two disputants then walked coolly away from the place—each carrying his bag upon his back; one going to the east, the other to the west, amidst the cheers of the spectators—all of whom seemed greatly to admire this original mode of dissolving a partnership.

Law is so expensive and uncertain in all newly-established communities, that even sensible people do not like to resort to it, in the settlement of their disputes. Perhaps in this respect, the citizens of older communities might imitate the gold-diggers to advantage.

While in California, I was witness to another incident illustrative of the unwillingness to resort to the judgments of a legal tribunal. It was a case of two gold-diggers, who had been working together, and were about to dissolve partnership. Among the property they had owned in common was a fine mule. Each was desirous of becoming sole possessor of the animal; but neither would consent to give the other the price demanded for parting with his share. The difficulty might have been arranged by arbitration; but, neither desiring to be under any obligation to a third party, they adopted a more independent plan for settling the dispute.

“I’ll give you fifty dollars for your share of the mule,” proposed one, “or I’ll take a hundred for mine? I want the animal.”

“And I’ll give you fifty for your share, or take a hundred for mine?” said the other, “I want it too.”

“I’ll make you another offer,” said the first. “We’ll play a game of ‘Euker,’ and whoever wins shall have the mule?”

The third challenge was accepted. The game was played; and the difficulty settled in five minutes, without any expense or ill-feeling arising out of it!

A disposition to settle doubts and difficulties by chance—that “unspiritual god”—is very common, among those who have long followed the occupation of gold hunting—for the reason, no doubt, that there is so much chance or uncertainty in the calling itself. Gold-diggers become familiarised to a sort of fatalism; and, in consequence, allow many questions to be decided by chance, that should be submitted to the test of reason.

I have seen a miner after working out a rich claim, toss up a dollar, to decide whether he should return home or not! The piece of money fell wrong side down; and the man remained at the diggings; and for aught I know, may be there still, working for a “pennyweight per diem.”

And yet I do not always condemn this mode of relieving the intellect from the agony of doubt.

I once met two miners in San Francisco—to which place they had come from different diggings, for the purpose of having a few days’ rest after months of toil. They had been shipmates to California; and now meeting again, each told the other of the way fortune had served him, since they had parted.

“I have got together two thousand three hundred dollars,” said one. “I came out here to make up a pile of four thousand. If I had that, I’d go home.”

“I have done nearly as well,” said the other; “I have about two thousand; and if I had what we have both got, I’d go home; and never touch pick or shovel again.”

“Ah! so would I,” sighed the first.

“Well, then,” challenged his old shipmate, “I’ll tell you what we can do. We both want to go back home, with not less than four thousand dollars. We need not both be disappointed. One of us can go; and let the other stay. I’ll cut a pack of cards with you; and the one who cuts highest, shall take four thousand dollars, and go home. The odd two or three hundred will be enough, to carry the loser back to the diggings. What say you, old hoss?”

This proposal was instantly accepted. The man, who had made it, lost his two thousand dollars; and next morning he handed the money over to his more fortunate friend, shook hands with him, and started back for the diggings!

This story may seem improbable, to those who have never been in California in its best days; but I can vouch for its truth.

After parting with Farrell, I seemed destined to witness a variety of incidents on that same evening; and of both characters—comic and tragical.

Shortly after passing the crowd, who had assisted at the dispute of the two miners, I came in sight of another concourse of people—in the middle of which appeared two or three policemen. They were gathered around the shaft of an abandoned claim. I went up to see what the excitement was about; and learnt, that a Chinaman had been found suspended in the shaft.

The Celestial had committed suicide, by hanging himself; and the plan he had adopted for terminating his existence, seemed, from its ingenuity, to have met with as much admiration from this crowd, as had been bestowed by the other one on the mode of settling their dispute, which had been adopted by the two diggers.

The Chinaman, knowing that the shaft was a deep one, had placed a large log of wood across the top of it. To the middle of this he had tied the end of a rope about fifteen feet long. The other end he had fastened, loop fashion, around his neck; and then jumped down the shaft. No Jack Ketch could have performed the operation for him, in a more effectual manner.

I afterwards learnt that the Chinaman had been an opium eater; and that he had secretly squandered some gold, in which his mates owned shares. The crime preying on his conscience—perhaps, when he had no opium to fortify it—was supposed to be the cause of his committing the act of self-destruction.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirty One.

A Disagreeable Partnership.

For two or three days I strolled about the diggings, looking for some opportunity of setting myself to work. On the Eureka lead I found five men holding a claim, that stood a good chance of being “on the line.” It was within four claims of a place where gold was being taken out; and the “lead” would have to take a sharp turn to escape this place. A shaft had already been sunk to the depth of twenty feet, that would have to go down about ninety feet further. It would require eight hands to work the claim; and the five who owned it wished to sell some shares—for the purpose of making up the number.

The price asked was fifty pounds each; and, not seeing any better prospect of getting into a partnership, I purchased a share; and paid over the money.

I did not much like the appearance of my new partners. None of them looked like men accustomed to do hard work, or earn their livelihood in any respectable way. They seemed better suited for standing behind a counter, to sell gloves and ribbons, than for the occupation of gold-digging. But that the claim was likely to prove rich, I should not have chosen them as working associates.

One of the number was named John Darby. He was one of those individuals, who can never avail themselves of the fine opportunities afforded, for saying nothing. Darby’s tongue was constantly on the go, and would often give utterance to a thousand words that did not contain a single idea. His eloquence was of the voluble kind, and very painful to the ear—being nothing but sound, without one grain of sense. His voice often reminded me of the clattering of the flour-mills I had heard in Callao. Whenever he would mount a hobby, and get his tongue freely going, the air seemed to vibrate with the movement of ten thousand demons, each hurling a fire-ball into the brain of the listener!

According to his own account, Darby had been ten times shipwrecked on the voyage of life. Several times, by not being able to marry as he wished; and once, when he was too successful in this design. The latter misfortune he regarded as being more serious than all the others.

Physically, as well as morally and intellectually, my gold-digging companion, John Darby was a singular creature. He did not weigh more than ten stone—though he was six feet one inch high standing in his shoes.

He had a small round head, from which hung long bay-coloured tresses of hair; and these he every day submitted to a careful dressing à la Nazarene.

Another member of our interesting “firm,” who went by the name of “George,” was simply an educated idiot.

In the opinion of many persons the man who has received a book education—whatever his natural abilities—must be a highly intelligent person. For my part, I think different; and I have adopted my belief, from an extensive experience of mankind.

It has been my misfortune to meet with many men of the class called “educated,” who knew absolutely nothing that was worth the knowing; and George was one of these. He had received college instruction, yet no one could spend five minutes in his company without thinking of the phrase “ignorant idiot.”

Like most people of his class, his folly was made amusingly conspicuous, by his assumption of an intellectual superiority over the rest of his companions.

Like most people, too, he had his vexations, the greatest being that his superiority was not always acknowledged. On the contrary, he was often chagrined by the discovery: that the light of his genius—like that of the lamp that burned in Tullia’s grave—could not be seen of men. His eccentricities were at times amusing. Perhaps he had not been created in vain, though it was difficult to determine what had been the design of bestowing existence upon such a man—unless to warn others against the absurdities, by which he daily distinguished himself. He was a living lesson in the sixth volume of the great work of Nature; and none could study him, without subjecting themselves to a severe self-examination. Useless as I may have supposed the existence of this man to be, I must acknowledge myself indebted to him for many valuable lessons. My observation of his follies had the effect of awakening within me certain trains of thought, that removed from my own mind many strong prejudices hitherto possessing it. In this sense, I might say, that, he had not been created in vain, though his intended mission could not have been that of delving for gold on the fields of Ballarat.

Another of our firm had been an apothecary’s assistant in London; and had but recently made his début on the diggings. He could not think of anything else, nor talk on any other subject, than the “shop,” and what it contained; and I could not help fancying myself close to a chemical laboratory, whenever this individual came near me.

The other two partners of the concern used to make their appearance on the claim, about ten o’clock in the morning; and generally in a state of semi-intoxication.

These two men kept my mind in a constant state of trepidation—that is, when they were at work with me. I could never feel safe, in the shaft below, when I knew that either of the two was at the windlass.

Any man, in the least degree affected by drink, is a dangerous associate in the working of a gold mine—especially when entrusted with the charge of the windlass. He may not see when a bucket wants landing; or, when trying to lower it, he may hang the handle over the wrong hook—an almost certain consequence of which will be the crushing in of the skull of whoever may have the misfortune to be below!

No wonder that I felt some apprehension, while toiling in the companionship of my intoxicated partners.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirty Two.

A Sudden Dissolution of Partnership.

So much did my apprehensions prey upon me, that I had some idea of selling out my share and forsaking the partnership; but I had not been very long in the concern, before becoming convinced that we were sinking a shaft into one of the richest claims upon the line.

It was alike evident to me, that a great deal of hard labour would have to be performed, before the gold could be got out of it; and that my associates were the wrong men for this sort of thing.

Fortunately at this crisis a man of a different character purchased one of the two shares, that had remained unsold. Fearing that the other share might fall into the hands of some trifler like the rest of my original partners, I purchased it myself; and then underlet it to a young fellow, with whom I had formed an acquaintance. This young man had been hitherto unsuccessful at gold-digging. His name was John Oakes; and I had learnt from him that, he was by profession a sailor, yet—unlike the majority of sailors met with on the gold fields—he was a man of temperate habits; and seemed determined to save money, if he could only get hold of it.

Up to this time he had not found an opportunity of acting upon his good resolves: for every claim, in which he had taken a share, had turned out a failure.

Before telling Oakes of my intentions towards him, I simply informed him, that I had purchased the eighth share in our claim, and offered to underlet it to him.

“There’s nothing I’d have liked better,” said he, “than to get into a claim along with you. You are always lucky; and I should have been sure of getting something at last; but unfortunately I haven’t the money to pay what you have advanced.”

“Never mind that,” rejoined I. “The claim is pretty safe to be on the lead; and you can pay me, when you have obtained your gold out of it.”

“Then I accept your offer,” said Oakes, apparently much gratified. “I need not tell you, how kind I think it of you to make it. I feel sure it will bring me a change of luck. I’ve never had but one decent claim, since I’ve been on the diggings; and the gold I got out of that was stolen from me. Rather, should I say, I was robbed of it. Did I ever tell you how that happened?”

“No—not that I remember.”

“Well, then, let me tell you now. There were three of us in partnership, in a good claim on Eagle-Hawk Gully, Bendigo. We got out of it about forty-eight pounds of pure gold. During the time we were at work, we used to take the gold—as quick as we cleaned it out—to the Escort Office; and leave it there on deposit, until we should finish the job.

“When we had worked out the claim, we all went together to the office, and drew out the deposit.

“My two mates lived in a tent by themselves; and they proposed that we should go there—for the purpose of dividing our ‘spoil.’

“On the way, we stopped at a tavern—with the owner of which they were acquainted, where they borrowed some gold weights and scales. They also purchased a bottle of brandy—to assist us, as they said, in the pleasant task that we had to perform.

“We then continued on to their tent. After going inside, we closed the door—so that no one should interrupt us, or see what we were about.

“Before proceeding to business, each of my mates drank a ‘taut’ of the brandy; and, although I did not care for it, to keep from quarrelling with them, I took a thimbleful myself. Immediately after swallowing that brandy—although, as I have said, there was only a thimbleful of it, I became insensible; and knew nothing of what passed afterwards. I did not recover my senses, until the next morning, when I found my two mates gone, and nothing in the tent except myself! They had taken the whole of the gold—including my share—along with them; and I have never set eyes upon either of them since.

“That lesson has cured me for ever of any propensity for strong drink, besides making me very particular as to the men I work with. What sort of fellows are they in the claim with you?”

“That is a subject on which I was just going to speak to you,” said I. “They are not of the right sort for the work we have to do: one of them is an old woman, another a young one, and a third is worse than either. Two others are drunkards. There is only one—and he lately entered with us—who can be depended on for doing any work.”

“It’s unfortunate,” said Oakes; “but I mustn’t lose the chance of a good claim, for all that. I’ve no other prospect of getting one. I’ll come over in the morning; and go to work with you. Perhaps, when the shaft is sunk, and we get a sight of the gold, there may be a reformation amongst your mates.”

Next morning, at seven o’clock, Oakes made his appearance upon the claim. George and the apothecary came up a little later; and were soon followed by Mr John Darby.

When Oakes and Darby met, they recognised each other as old acquaintances.

“Is it possible, Darby, that I find you still in the colony?” asked Oakes. “I thought that you had long ago started for England.”

“No; I did not intend going home,” replied Darby, evidently not too well pleased at encountering his old acquaintance. “I only went to Melbourne for a few days—to recruit my health, which was never very good at Bendigo. After getting all right again, I came out here.”

Darby continued talking as if against time; and, as we were looking out with some impatience for the two drunkards, we allowed him to go on without interruption.

I had requested all the members of the “firm” to be early upon the ground on that particular morning. A full company had now been made up; and I wanted to come to some understanding with my partners—about a more energetic “exploration” of the claim.

The two “swipers,” as they were called, soon after made their appearance; and, as they drew near, I could perceive that another recognition had taken place.

On seeing the new partner, both turned sharp round; and then started off, at a brisk pace, in the opposite direction!

For a moment Oakes appeared surprised—as if uncertain what to make of it. All at once, however, his comprehension became clearer; and, calling to me to follow him, he set off in pursuit of the fugitives.

The two had diverged from each other in their flight; and, as they had already got a good start of us, both were successful in making their escape. When Oakes and I came together again, he informed me, that the men were his old mates, who had robbed him on the Bendigo diggings!

We repaired to the police encampment; and, after procuring a force, proceeded to the tent of the runaways.

As a matter of course, we found that the birds had flown; and could not be discovered anywhere upon the diggings.

We were no more troubled with them, as “sleeping partners” in the claim.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirty Three.

A Frightful Nugget.

When Oakes and I got back from our search after the thieves, we discovered that still another defection had taken place in the firm. During the interval of our absence, Mr John Darby had sold his share, to a person, who had the appearance of having work in him, after which that talkative gentleman had quietly slipped away from the spot.

I had noticed that he had not seemed highly delighted with the idea of my friend Oakes coming into the company; and I presumed that this was the cause of his sudden desertion of us.

On making my conjecture known to Oakes, I received from him the following explanation:

“I knew Darby,” said Oakes, “when he first arrived in the colonies. He had come over here, as many others do, under the belief that hard work was degrading to a gentleman, such as he loudly proclaimed himself to be. Suffering under this affliction, he would not condescend to become a miner, but obtained a situation in the government camp at Bendigo.

“One day I had the misfortune to pass an hour in his company—during which he seemed struck with a fit of temporary sensibility, and declared his intention to take to gold-digging.

“Toiling to get gold,” said he, “is manual labour, I admit; still it is not degrading to a man of fine sensibilities. I’m told that there are men of all the learned professions engaged in mining; and that a celebrated author is now a gold-digger at the Ovens. Gold-diggers have no masters; and I have even heard, that they affect to despise us government people at the camp.”

I afterwards ascertained that Mr Darby had been dismissed from the government employment, just before making these remarks; and to this cause, no doubt, might be assigned the change, that had taken place in his views regarding “labour.”

Not long after that interview with him, he made his appearance near where I was working, in the Bendigo diggings. He had some mining tools with him—such as gold-diggers sometimes buy for the amusement of their children. He appeared as if he intended to pick up a fortune, without soiling his hands with the dirt, since both of them were gloved!

Paying no heed to some derisive cries that greeted him as he came upon the ground, he strutted on, looking out for a claim.

The place, he at length selected for his début in gold-digging, was chosen with some apparent judgment.

Seeing two old shafts, about ten yards apart, that had the appearance of having been well worked, he supposed the ground between them must also be worth working; and just half-way between the two he commenced sinking another.

The soil of the place was shallow—not over eight feet in depth—and Darby, inspired by high hopes, toiled industriously for the greater part of a day. At the end of each hour it could be seen that his head had descended nearer to the level of the earth; and, before leaving off in the evening, he had got waist deep into the dirt.

Next morning he was again at work, at a very early hour.

“I sha’n’t be surprised,” said he to one of his neighbours who was passing, “if I should find a jeweller’s shop here. If it turns out well, I shall be on my way home to-morrow. As good luck would have it, the Great Britain sails for England next week.”

“I shall not be surprised at your good luck,” replied the miner, with a significant smile; “at least, not any more than you’ll be astonished at finding no gold in that hole.”

“I won’t be at all astonished,” retorted Darby; “astonishment is a vulgar feeling, that I’m not in the habit of indulging in. So far as that goes, it would make little difference to me, whether I found no gold at all—a nugget the size of myself—or the devil.”

Darby continued toiling for nearly an hour longer. At the end of this time, he was seen suddenly to spring up out of the hole; and run with all the speed, his tottering limbs could command, in the direction of his tent—falling down, once or twice, on the way!

Some of the diggers had the curiosity to go, and look down the hole he had made—in the hope of discovering the cause of his so suddenly forsaking it. To their surprise they saw a human corpse! It was partly uncovered. The face, with its half decayed features, had been exposed to view by the spade of Mr Darby, who had been all the time engaged in re-opening an old tunnel excavated by their former owners between the two worked-out claims.

Some man had been murdered; and his body concealed in the tunnel. Of course the miner who had “chaffed” Darby in passing knew nothing of this. He only knew that a tunnel was there; and that Darby would get no gold out of the shaft he was sinking; but the man was as much astonished as any of us, on seeing the horrible “nugget” that had rewarded the labours of the “gentleman gold-digger.”

We heard that afternoon that Darby—immediately after receiving payment for his share in our claim—had started off to Melbourne, with the intention of returning to England. He had still retained enough pride of character, or vanity, or whatever it might be called, to dread the ridicule, that he knew must await him, should Oakes tell us the story of that Bendigo nugget.

His defection was a fortunate circumstance for us: as it led to our procuring, in his place, a partner capable of performing a full share of the toil we had before us.

On that day Fortune appeared determined to favour us. Before night we had disposed of the two shares, abandoned by the “swipers,” to a couple of first-class miners.

Next morning we all went to work with a will. Even George and the apothecary—stimulated by the example of the others—did their best to imitate it.

This, however, was on their part only a spasmodic effort. Before many days had elapsed, the toil proved too great for their powers of endurance; and each entered into an agreement with a “working partner,” who was to have one-half of their gold in return for the labour of getting it out for them.

After this arrangement had been made, we could count on a proper working company; and our progress in the exploitation of the mine was, thenceforth, both regular and rapid.

We had not been long engaged upon the claim, when we discovered that it was “on the line,” and our toil was lightened by the golden prospects thus predicated.

I was struck with the interest which Oakes appeared to feel in the result. He would scarce take time, either for eating or sleeping, and, I believe, he would have continued to toil twenty-two hours, out of the twenty-four, had we allowed him!

When the claim was at length worked out, and the gold divided, Oakes came to me, and paid back the fifty pounds I had advanced towards the purchase of his share.

“You have made my fortune,” said he, “and I am going home with it to-morrow. It is not a large one; but it is all I require. I must now tell you what I intend to do with the money—as I believe that will be some reward to you, for your generosity in taking me into the claim. I have a father, who has been in prison for seven years for debt; and all for the paltry sum of a hundred and sixty pounds! Six years ago, I left home, and turned sailor, only that I might get my passage to some foreign land—where I might make the money to pay this debt, and take my father out of prison. I knew I could never raise it in England—where some of our governing people tell us we are so prosperous, and contented! One hundred and sixty pounds was a large sum, for a young fellow like me to get together. I knew I could never make it up, by following the sea; and I had begun to despair of ever doing so, until I got aboard of a ship in Cape Town bound for Melbourne. Of course I joined the ship, with the intention of escaping from her, when we should reach Melbourne. I need hardly tell you, that I succeeded. One night, as we were lying anchored in Hobson’s Bay, off Williamston, I slipped into the water; and, by swimming more than a mile, I reached the shore. Soon after, I found my way to the Bendigo diggings.

“While working out that claim on Eagle-Hawk Gully—of which I have told you—I was the happiest man on earth: but, when I discovered that my mates had absconded with my gold, I was driven nearly distracted. It was a cruel disappointment to a man, anxious to liberate an honest father from prison, as well as extricate a mother and two sisters from a situation of extreme misery.

“Since then I have had no good luck—until you got me into this claim we have just completed. Thank God, I’ve got the money at last; and may He only grant that I shall live to reach old England with it, in time to relieve my suffering relatives. That is all I care for in this world; and if I can accomplish it, I shall be willing to die.”

At my request Oakes promised to write to me from Melbourne; and let me know in what ship he would sail.

This promise was kept, for, the week after, I received a letter from him, informing me—that he had embarked in the ship “Kent,” bound for London.

I could not help offering up a silent prayer, that favouring winds would safely waft him to his native shore; and that his long-cherished hopes might meet with a happy realisation.

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

An Adventure with a “Black fellow.”

Shortly after the departure of Oakes, I went to a little rush, on Slaty Creek, on the Creswick’s Creek Gold-fields, about thirteen miles from Ballarat.

I was accompanied by two others, with whom I had lately been working. Soon after arriving at the rush, we took possession of a claim; and proceeded to “prospect” it.

After sinking a small hole on the claim, and washing some of the earth from the bottom of it, we found a little gold—not what we thought “payable,” and yet the “prospect” was so good that we did not like to forsake the claim. In hopes that it might contain richer “dirt” than what we had found, we determined to stay by it a while longer.

To sink our shaft to any advantage, we needed a crowbar. There were some very large stones in the ground that could not be moved without one. A crowbar was an article we did not possess; and as we could not find one at the two or three stores established on Slaty Creek, I walked over, one evening, to Creswick Creek—a distance of some three or four miles—intending to purchase one there.

By the time I reached the township, made my purchase, and started towards home, it had got to be ten o’clock. About half a mile from Creswick, on the road homeward, I had to pass a camp of native blacks.

These people, in morality and social habits, are upon a scale, perhaps, as low, as humanity can reach. The sole object of their existence is, to obtain strong drink. For that, they will sometimes work at gathering bark and poles; or they will look about for stray specks of gold—in places where the miners have been working, and which have been abandoned.

Any one, who understands the strength of their aversion to labour, may form some idea of the desire these blacks have for drink: when it is known that they will sometimes do the one for the sake of getting the other!

An Australian native black, after becoming degraded by intercourse with the whites, will sell his mother, sister, or wife, for brandy!

The party, whose camp I was compelled to pass, had evidently met with some success, in their various ways of obtaining brandy during that day, for from the noise they were making, I judged that all, or nearly all of them, must be in a state of intoxication.

Not wishing to be annoyed, by their begging for tobacco—which I knew they would be certain to do, should they see me—I resolved to keep out of their way. Instead of following the direct path—which led on through the place where they had erected their “mia-mias” or huts—I made a détour of their encampment. After passing well round it, I turned once more towards the road to Slaty Creek, which, after a time, I succeeded in regaining.

I had scarce got well upon the track, when I was confronted by a big “black fellow,” apparently beside himself with drink.

As a general rule, the native blacks, seen roaming about the gold-fields of Victoria, are seldom guilty of malignant violence towards the whites; but the man, whom it was now my misfortune to meet, proved an exception to this rule: for the reason, no doubt, that he was maddened with alcohol.

As he approached me, I saw that he was brandishing a “waddy waddy,” or club. I strove to avoid him; but found, that although mad with drink, he was active upon his limbs, and able to hinder me from making a retreat. Had I attempted to run away, I should have been brought to a stop—by a blow from his “waddy waddy.”

I saw that my best chance of safety would be in standing firm, and defending myself.

The fellow made two desperate lounges at me with his club, which, with some difficulty, I managed to dodge—and all the while that he was delivering his murderous assault, he kept shouting to me, in his native gibberish—apparently making some important communication, but the nature of which I had not the slightest idea.

Just as I was beginning to consider the affair serious, and was preparing to act on the offensive, the black made a third blow with his waddy waddy. This I was unable, altogether, to avoid; and the club struck heavily against one of my legs.

Irritated by the pain produced, I could no longer control my temper; and, grasping the crowbar with both hands, I aimed a blow at the black fellow’s head.

I did not strike with the intention of killing the man. I only knew that my life was in danger; and that I was suffering great pain from the wound I had received. This, however, had irritated me beyond the power of controlling myself; and, no doubt, my whole strength was given to the stroke.

The crowbar descended upon the black fellow’s naked crown; and never shall I forget the horrible sound made by the crashing in of his skull. It was not only horrible, but sickening; and for a moment, completely unmanned me. It was not the mere thought, that I had broken a man’s head, that unmanned me, for I had both witnessed, and taken part, in many a sanguinary scene before that—without feeling any such remorseful emotion. It was the horrid sound—caused by the crashing in of his skull—that not only overcame me, but, for a time, rendered me faint, sick, and disgusted with the world, and all it contained.

That sound echoed in my ears for hours afterwards; and, ever since that time, I have carefully avoided being near any place where a “free fight” was about to take place—lest it might be my misfortune to hear a similar sound.

The day after, it was reported, that the blacks were entertaining themselves with a funeral. I did not learn the particulars of the ceremony; but, presume it was similar to a funeral I had witnessed among a tribe of the same people on Fryer’s Creek, in July, 1853. One of their number had been killed, by another of the tribe; and, on the next day, I was present at the performance of their funeral rites, over the remains of the murdered man.

A grave was dug, about five feet deep—into which the body was lowered, and a sheet of bark laid over it. The earth was then filled in; and while this was being done, by one man, two others stood inside the grave, stamping upon the dirt, and treading it down, as firm as they could make it!

What could have been their object in thus packing the dead body, I never understood, unless it was done, under the impression, that the corpse might come to life again, without this precaution being taken to keep it under ground!

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Farrell and His Wife, Once More.

Three weeks “prospecting,” at Slaty Creek, convinced me that it was not the place for a gold-digger to make his fortune, without the severest labour; and for this reason, I left it—returning to Ballarat.

On arriving at the latter place, I went to see my old Californian acquaintance, Farrell. The instant I set eyes on him, and he on me, his features plainly proclaimed that he had something to tell me, which he deemed very amusing.

“Farrell,” said I, “you are working a rich claim; I see fortune written on your face.”

“Nothing of the kind,” he answered; “I have just finished a tolerable spell of digging, it is true; and shall start for home to-morrow. But it ain’t that; I have better news still.”

“Better news? What can it be!”

“I’ve seen Foster, and my wife. Ha! ha! they’ve been living in sight of my tent for the last four months; and I never knew they were there until two days ago!”

“Then you have seen Foster?”

“Certainly, I have!”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing. Fate is giving me all the revenge I want; and I would not interfere with her designs—not for the world. In saying that Foster is the most miserable object I’ve seen for many years. I speak only the truth. He has a rheumatic fever, and hasn’t been able to stir out of his tent for six weeks. He will probably never go out of it again—that is, alive. Now, I call that fun; isn’t it?”

“Not much for Foster, I should think. But how came you to find them?”

“I was in my tent, one morning, when I heard a woman talking to my partner, who happened to be outside just by the door. The woman was wanting to get some washing to do. She said, that her husband had been a long time ill; and that they hadn’t a shilling to live upon. I thought her voice sounded familiar to me; and, taking a peep out of the tent, I saw at once it was my runaway wife! I waited till she walked away; and then, slipping out, I followed her to her own tent. She went inside, without seeing me; and then I stepped in after her, and stood quietly surveying the guilty pair.

“My wife went off into a fit of ‘highstrikes,’ while Foster lay trembling, like a craven, expecting every moment to be killed. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ said I, ‘I haven’t the slightest intention to put you out of your misery. I like revenge too well for that. You have some more trouble to see yet, I hope; and I’m not going to do anything that might hinder you from seeing it.

“I waited till my wife became sufficiently composed to comprehend what was going on; and then, after thanking her for the kindness she had done me—by relieving me of all further trouble with her—I bid them ‘good day,’ and walked off, leaving them to reflect upon the interview.

“To-day, I have just been to visit them again; and the want and misery, they appear to be suffering, gave me no little pleasure. They looked as though they had not had a morsel to eat for a week; and I could not see a scrap—of either bread or meat—in their tent.

“I told them, not to give themselves any further uneasiness, on my account, for I wasn’t going to molest them any more. ‘I’ve made a little fortune here,’ said I, ‘and intend starting for New York State to-morrow. Have you any message to send to your friends?’ I asked of Foster. The poor devil could not, or would not, make me a reply. ‘Have you, Mary,’ said I, turning to my wife. She could only answer with sobs. ‘It is a miserable, wretched life, at the best, on these diggings,’ I remarked. I am going to leave it, and once more seek happiness in my native land. Excuse me, Mr Foster, and you, Mrs F., for not helping you in your distress. I know that there is an All-wise Creator, who will reward both of you, as your conduct deserves; and it would be presumptuous in me to take any of the work out of his hands. I leave you here, with full confidence in the belief, that divine justice will be impartially administered to all.

“Now that was what I call good talking,—what do you say?”

“Very good, indeed,” I answered. “But are you really going to leave them in that manner?”

“Certainly, I am. I never intend to see either of them again. When I was coming away from their tent, my wife followed me out, went down on her knees, and piteously entreated me to aid her, in returning to her parents. She declared, that she never knew my worth, until she had foolishly lost me; and that she now loved me more than ever she had done—my little finger, more than Foster’s whole body—which it would not have been difficult to make me believe. She said, she would not ask me to let her live with me again; but, that if I would give her money to return home, she would pass the remainder of her days in praying for me.

“No, Mary,” said I, “do not think so unjustly of me, as to suppose I could do that. I love you too well, to stand in the way of your receiving the reward you have deserved; and, besides, you should not desert Forter, whom you have followed so far—now that the poor fellow is in affliction. My affection for you is too sincere, to think of allowing you to commit so great a wrong?

“Having delivered this exordium, I turned and left her. Now that is what I call revenge. What’s your opinion?”

“What is revenge to one man, may not be to another,” was my answer. “If it pleases you to act so, of course, I have nothing to say against it.”

“And what would you do?”

“I should give the woman some money, enough to enable her to return to her parents. As for the man, I should leave him to his fate.”

“Then you would act very foolishly,—as I would, if I followed your advice. The woman having got home, would be there to annoy me. I wish to go back to my native place; and be happy there for the rest of my days. How could that be—living along side a wife who had so disgraced me?”

I could say nothing more to dissuade Farrell from his purpose; and we parted company—he shortly after starting for Melbourne, to take passage for New York.

The after-fate of his faithless wife, and her wretched paramour, some other must record: for, from that hour, I never heard of either of them again.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

The Rush to Avoca.

After passing four or five days in looking about the Canadian, Eureka, and Gravel-pits, “leads” on the Ballarat Gold-fields, and finding no favourable opportunity of getting into a good claim, I determined to proceed to Avoca river, for which place a big “rush” was just starting—that, by all accounts, would turn out a success.

The day after I had formed this resolution, I saw a man with a horse and dray, just departing for Avoca.

The man was willing to take a light load of diggers’ “swags;” and, rolling up my tent and blankets, I put them upon his dray.

The drayman did not succeed in getting all the freight he required: for there was but one other digger besides myself, who furnished him with anything to carry. As he, and a partner he had, were anxious to reach the new gold-field as soon as possible, they determined to start, without waiting to make up a load.

All being ready, we set out at once for the “sweet vale of Avoca.”

The drayman’s partner was a man known in the diggings, by the name of “Bat.” I had often seen “Bat,” and was acquainted with two or three other diggers, who knew him well. He was famed at Ballarat, for having the largest mind of any man in the place; but it was also generally known, that in his mind, the proportion of selfishness, to all other feelings and faculties, was ninety-nine to one.

The reason why Bat’s soul was thought to be so large was, that, otherwise it could not have contained the amount of disgusting selfishness, which it daily exhibited.

He was only miserly about spending money, that might result to the benefit, or injury, of any one but himself. In the gratification of his own desires, he was a thorough spendthrift.

I had heard one of the miners tell a story, illustrative of Bat’s disposition. For amusement, the miner had made an experiment, to see, to what extent, selfishness would, as he expressed it, “carry Bat on the way to hell.”

He enticed this large-souled individual, to go with him on a “spree;” upon which, he treated him five times in succession.

Bat had by this time imbibed a strong desire for more drink; and after waiting for some time for his companion to treat him again, he slipped to one side, and took a drink alone—without asking the other to join him.

After this, the miner treated him twice more; and not long after, Bat again drank alone, at his own expense!

By this time both of them had become pretty well intoxicated; and the spree came to a termination, by Bat’s receiving a terrible thrashing from the convive, who had been vainly tempting him to spend his money.

Bat’s mate, the drayman, knew but little about him—only having joined him as a partner the evening before we started for the Avoca.

On the first day of our journey, late in the afternoon, we arrived at a roadside grog-shop; and all went in for something to drink. Inside the house, were three ill-looking men, who had the appearance of having once lived in Van Dieman’s Land. The shop was a very colonial affair; and, after drinking some poison, called rum, we all came out—leaving Bat weighing some gold, which he had taken out of a leather bag, in presence of all the company. It was to pay for a bottle of brandy, which, as we were going to camp out for the night, he had purchased—for the purpose of making himself comfortable.

Darkness overtook us about a mile or so beyond the grog-shop; and water being near the place, we resolved to stay by it for the night.

Bat came up, just after we had kindled our fire; and drank some tea along with us. He had brought with him two bottles of brandy, instead of one, the second being for his mate, the drayman, who had commissioned him to buy it for him. Seeing these two bottles of brandy in the camp, I did not care about staying on the spot. I believed that the drayman, Bat, and the other digger who accompanied them, would get drunk; and I did not fancy to remain in their company.

I took up my blankets; and, going about two hundred yards off from the camp—to a grove of bushes—I rolled myself in my cover, and slept soundly till the morning.

At sunrise I awoke; and went back to rejoin my travelling companions.

On drawing near the encampment, I saw that something was wrong; and I hastened forward. Bat was not there, but the drayman was, and also the digger. Both were tied with their hands behind their backs, and, furthermore, fastened to the wheels of the dray. I saw that both of them were gagged!

I lost no time in releasing them from their unpleasant imprisonment; and as soon as I had ungagged them, they told me what had happened. About the middle of the night, four men had come up, armed with revolvers, which they had held to the heads of the drayman and digger, while they tied and gagged them. The two were then robbed of all their money, after which, the bush-rangers went their way—taking along with them the drayman’s horse.

“But where is Bat?” I asked.

“We don’t know,” was the reply. “He went away soon after you did.”

Circumstances looked suspicious against Bat; but only to me: for the others understood all that had happened. Bat had determined to keep his bottle of brandy to himself. By remaining with the others, he could not well drink it all without asking them to have a share, as he had already been treated by his partner. To avoid doing so he had stolen away to the bush, where he could drink his liquor alone.

“The men who robbed us,” said the disconsolate drayman, “could be no others than them we saw in the grog-shop; and it was my mate Bat who drew them on to us: for they seemed greatly disappointed, and swore fearfully at not finding him. He flashed his gold-dust before them yesterday; and, of course they came after us to get it. I wish they had got every ounce of it. He deserved to be robbed for tempting them.”

“Have you lost much?” I asked, of the drayman.

“No,” answered he. “Luckily, I had not much to lose—only seventeen pounds. But I care more about my old horse, for I’ve owned him over three years.”

The digger had lost twelve pounds in cash, and a gold nugget of seven ounces weight.