Reminiscences of a Gold-Digger.

To the Editor of the Times.

Sir,

—I find that the gold mania, though partially subsided, has not by any means worn off; allow me, therefore, through the medium of your widely- circulating journal, to offer a few remarks to the public, which I feel bound to do as a returned digger. I think I can make myself better understood by drawing a parallel case.

Imagine a man tenderly nurtured, by birth and education a gentleman; unexpected events have reduced his fortune, and he is left to struggle with the world in poverty. He hears of the gold-fields, and thinks by a few years’ hard toil to put his family for ever above want. If married, he leaves his wife at home, and takes a passage to Melbourne. There he chooses a mate—he cannot work alone; perhaps this mate is a convict or a sailor, or perhaps a government emigrant: in either case he cannot converse with, cannot enter into his refined feelings; every sentence he utters is accompanied by an oath.

They go to the diggings; he must work hard, he must do as much work as the man who has been used to hard page 72 labour from infancy, or his mate will grumble; may be, with all his working, he cannot save enough to pay for his next gold-licence; the last has run out, and he is working in suspense without one; and if he is taken by the “traps,” he will be sent to prison handcuffed to a common felon.

He returns from his work dispirited and miserable, eats his supper, and rolls himself in his blanket on the ground, very likely with the rain pouring through on him for a whole night. He ponders on his melancholy situation; thoughts of home crowd into his head. His wife! He has not heard from her; she may be sick, or in poverty; she may be dead. Who knows? He despairs. People are being murdered around him, deaths are occurring, and dysentery has claimed many victims; he has watched them to their graves—nay, there is one close to his very tent. It is his turn now; a low fever is on him; he can eat nothing, his face is deathly white, and he gets paler every day. There is no one to attend on him; his mate thinks he is doing more than most people would if he simply makes him a pannikin of tea on returning from work. He is now reduced to a skeleton; but, hark! there are persons talking outside his tent; they are coldly calculating his chances of recovery—his own mate is one—and he hears them; delirium succeeds, the fever has reached its height. It is night; his lips are parched, but no kind hand is there to give him water; he lies on his back, his tongue swollen and lolling out of his mouth; his breath smells fearfully, his pulse scarcely beats at all.

At this crisis, perhaps, his mate will fetch a so-called doctor, one who has been unable to pass his examination at home, from incapacity; he feels his pulse, says it is so low that nothing but brandy can save him; he gives him brandy, adulterated with vitriol or brimstone. During the night, with the strength of delirium, he gets up and wanders out of his tent; the excitement wears off, and he sinks down on the wet ground, far from his camp. Unable to return, he lies there till morning, exposed to the dew of night and cold raw air, when he is discovered and led tottering back to his tent. His reason has returned; page 73 he knows he is about to die; but how prepared for death? He still hears the oaths and blasphemies of his companions; no man of God is there to lead him to repentance, no ministering angel to comfort him in his dying moments. But, hush! he tries to sit up, and half utters the name of wife; but the death-rattle meets it in his throat. One convulsive struggle and all is over; his spirit has passed into a better land, while none but a convict was present to catch his dying words.

Next day his mate buries him; perhaps not more than a foot of earth covers his corpse. Here he lies—no stone to mark his grave. His wife is a widow, but she never hears what has become of him.

I have known several cases of this kind, and also cases of murder, where the various parties have not been known by any other than their Christian names; consequently their friends could never gain any intelligence of them. I think some of your clever correspondents might be able to suggest some means of obviating this. There is a registry in Melbourne, where, by paying a small sum, you can register your name, occupation, &c., and they will answer any inquiries on the payment of a similar small sum by the querist Now, I think a registry ought to be a government concern.