The Eureka Stockade | Page 7

times of Noah! The whole flat turned out an
imperial shicer. (You do not sink deep enough, Signore Editor.) Slabs
that had cost us some eight pounds a hundred would not fetch,
afterwards, one pound. We left them to sweat freely in the hole; and all
the mob got on the fuddle. My mate and myself thought we had been
long enough together, and got asunder for a change. I was soon on the
tramp again. Bryant's Ranges was the go of the day, and I started
thither accordingly. December, 1853. Oh, Lord! what a pack of
ragamuffins over that way! I got acquainted with the German party who
found out the Tarrangower den; shaped my hole like a bathing tub, and
dropped "on it" right smart. Paid two pounds to cart one load down the
Loddon, and left two more loads of washing stuff, snug and wet with
the sweat of my brow over the hole. Got twenty-eight pennyweights out
of the load. Went back the third day, brisk and healthy, to cart down the
other two loads. Washing stuff! gone: hole! gone: the gully itself! gone:
the whole face of it had been clean shaved. Never mind, go ahead again.
Got another claim on the surface-hill. No search for licence: thank God,
had none. Nasty, sneaky, cheeky little things of flies got into my eyes:
could see no more, no ways. Mud water one shilling a bucket! Got the

dysentery; very bad. Thought, one night, to reef the yards and drop the
anchor. Got on a better tack though. Promenaded up to the famous
Bendigo. Had no particular objection to Celestials there, but had no
particular taste for their tartaric water. Made up my mind to remember
my days of innocence, and turned shepherd. Fine landscape this run on
the Loddon: almost a match for Bella Italia, but there are too many
mosquitoes. Dreamt, one day, I was drinking a tumbler of Loddon wine;
and asserted that Providence was the same also in the south. It was a
dream. The lands lay waste and desolate: not by nature; oh no; by hand
of man. Bathing in these Loddon water-holes, superb. Tea out of this
Loddon water magnificent. In spite of these horrible hot winds, this
water is always fresh and delicious: how kind is Providence! One night
lost the whole blessed lot of my flock. Myself, the shepherd, did not
know, in the name of heavens, which way to turn. Got among the
blacks, the whole Tarrang tribe in corrobory. Lord, what a rum sight for
an old European traveller. Found natives very humane, though. My
sheep right again, only the wild dogs had given them a good shake.
Was satisfied that the Messiah the Jews are looking for will not be born
in this bullock-drivers' land; any how, the angels won't announce the
happy event of his birth to the shepherds. No more truck with sheep,
and went to live with the blacks for a variation. Picked up, pretty soon,
bits of their yabber-yabber. For a couple of years had tasted no fish;
now I pounced on a couple of frogs, every couple of minutes. Thought
their 'lubras' ugly enough; not so, however, the slender arms and small
hands of their young girls, though the fingers be rather too long.
That will do now, in as much as the end of the story is this: That
portion in my brains called "acquisitiveness" got the gold-fever again,
and I started for old Ballaarat.

Chapter VI
.

Sua Cuique Voluntas.
I was really delighted to see the old spot once more; Easter, 1854. I do
not mean any offence to my fellow-diggers elsewhere; it struck me very
forcibly, however, that our Ballaarat men look by far more decent, and

our storekeepers, or grog-sellers if you like, undoubtedly more
respectable.
Of a constitution not necessarily savage, I did not fail to observe that
the fair ones had ventured now on a large scale to trust their virtue
among us vagabonds, and on a hot-wind day, I patronized of course
some refreshment room.
I met my old mate, and we determined to try the old game; but this time
on the old principle of 'labor omnia vincit'--I pitched my tent right in
the bush, and prophesied, that from my door I would see the golden
hole in the gully below.
I spoke the truth, and such is the case this very day. Feast of the
Assumption, 1855:--What sad events, however, were destined to pass
exactly before the very door of my tent! Who could have told me on
that Easter Sunday, that the unknown hill which I had chosen for my
rest, would soon be called the Massacre Hill! That next Christmas, my
mate would lie in the grave, somewhere forgotten: