"Joe, Joe!" No one in the world can properly understand and describe this
shouting of "Joe," unless he were on this El Dorado of Ballaarat at the time.
It was a horrible day, plagued by the hot winds. A blast of the hurricane
winding through gravel pits whirled towards the Eureka this shouting of "Joe."
It was the howl of a wolf for the shepherds, who bolted at once towards
the bush: it was the yell of bull-dogs for the fossikers who floundered
among the deep holes, and thus dodged the hounds: it was a scarecrow
for the miners, who now scrambled down to the deep, and left a licensed mate
or two at the windlass. By this time, a regiment of troopers, in full gallop,
had besieged the whole Eureka, and the traps under their protection ventured
among the holes. An attempt to give an idea of such disgusting and
contemptible campaigns for the search of licences is really odious to an honest
man. Some of the traps were civil enough; aye, they felt the shame
of their duty; but there were among them devils at heart, who enjoyed the fun,
because their cupidity could not bear the sight of the zig-zag uninterrupted
muster of piles of rich-looking washing stuff, and the envy which blinded
their eyes prevented them from taking into account the overwhelming number
of shicers close by, round about, all along. Hence they looked upon
the ragged muddy blue shirt as an object of their contempt.
Are diggers dogs or savages, that they are to be hunted on the diggings,
commanded, in Pellissier's African style, to come out of their holes,
and summoned from their tents by these hounds of the executive? Is the garb
of a digger a mark of inferiority? 'In sudore vultus lue vesceris panem'*
is then an infamy now-a-days!
[* In the sweat of thy brow thou shalt eat bread.]
Give us facts, and spare us your bosh, says my good reader. - Very well.
I, CARBONII RAFFAELLO, da Roma, and late of No. 4, Castle-court, Cornhill,
City of London, had my rattling 'Jenny Lind' (the cradle) at a water-hole
down the Eureka Gully. Must stop my work to show my licence. 'All right.'
I had then to go a quarter of a mile up the hill to my hole, and fetch
the washing stuff. There again - "Got your licence?" "All serene, governor."
On crossing the holes, up to the knees in mullock, and loaded like a dromedary,
"Got your licence?" was again the cheer-up from a third trooper or trap.
Now, what answer would you have given, sir?
I assert, as a matter of fact, that I was often compelled to produce my licence
twice at each and the same licence hunt. Any one who knows me personally,
will readily believe that the accursed game worried me to death.
Chapter X.
Jam Non Estis Hospites Et Advenoe
It is to the purpose to say a few words more on the licence-hunting,
and have done with it. Light your pipe, good reader, you have to blow hard.
Our red-tape, generally obtuse and arrogant, this once got rid of the usual
conceit in all things, and had to acknowledge that the digger who remained
quietly at his work, always possessed his licence. Hence the troopers
were despatched like bloodhounds, in all directions, to beat the bush;
and the traps who had a more confined scent, creeped and crawled among
the holes, and sneaked into the sly-grog tents round about, in search of
the swarming unlicensed game. In a word, it was a regular hunt. Any one
who in Old England went fox-hunting, can understand pretty well,
the detestable sport we had then on the goldfields of Victoria.
Did any trooper succeed in catching any of the 'vagabonds' in the bush,
he would by the threat of his sword, confine him round a big gum-tree;
and when all the successful troopers had done the same feat, they took
their prisoners down the gully, where was the grand depot, because the traps
were generally more successful. The commissioner would then pick up one pound,
two pounds, or five pounds, in the way of bail, from any digger that could
afford it, or had friends to do so, and then order the whole pack
of the penniless and friendless to the lock-up in the camp. I am a living
eye-witness, and challenge contradiction.
This job of explaining a licence-hunt is really so disgusting to me,
that I prefer to close it with the following document from my subsequently
gaol-bird mate, then reporter of the 'Ballaarat Times': -
Police Court, Tuesday, October 24th.
HUNTING THE DIGGER. - Five of these fellows were fined in the mitigated trifle
of 5 pounds, for being without licences. The nicest thing imaginable is to see
one of these clumsy fellows with great beards, shaggy hair, and oh! such nasty
rough hands, stand before a fine gentleman on the bench with hands
of shiny whiteness, and the colour of whose cambric rivals the Alpine snow.
There the clumsy fellow stands, faltering out an awkward apology, "my licence
is only just expired, sir - I've only been one day from town, sir - I have
no money, sir, for I had to borrow half a bag of flour the other day,
for my wife and children." Ahem, says his worship, the law makes
no distinctions - fined 5 pounds. Now our reporter enjoys this exceedingly,
for he is sometimes scarce of news; and from a strange aberration of intellect,
with which, poor fellow, he is afflicted, has sometimes, no news at all for us;
but he is sure of not being dead beat at any time, for digger-hunting
is a standing case at the police office, and our reporter is growing
so precocious with long practice, that he can tell the number of diggers fined
every morning, without going to that sanctuary at all.
