"'I say, Bill, this here's rayther respectable okipashun—that cove with the specs is a first-class swell in Melbourne, and there's a lot in the same party with him. The greatest nobs are all the same as uz snobs! I saw Mr. from the Barwon here this morning: he found his shepherd in a hole getting gold, an' no mistake! He comes with his brother to have a turn with the rest; but when he saw him he looked non-plushed, and said to himself, "Well, I can't go down to this,"—and I believe the fool started back;—but come, it's our turn now.'
"The evening shadows fall, the gun from the commissioner's tent is fired—the signal for digging to cease; the fires blaze up, the men gather round them for their evening meal, their smoke floats over the trees as over a city, the sounds of labour are hushed, but are succeeded by loud voices and ringing laughter, mingled with the bells of the browsing oxen, and the dogs baying more loudly as the darkness grows more dark. A party of gamblers are staking each a pinch of gold-dust on the turn of a copper. The native police, lithe and graceful as kangaroo-dogs, are enjoying a round of sham combat; one black fellow attacks with a frying-pan; the other pretends to shoot him with his knife: a painter might study their attitudes. Hark! to the sax-horns from the Black Hill floating to us across the valley; close at hand the sweet melody of the German hymn in chorus rises; and then down from toward the river comes the roaring chorus of a sailor's song. The space and distance mellow in one harmonious whole all the sounds; and as we retreat they fall upon one wearied with hard labour, like the rich hum of an English meadow in harvest time.
"A flash! a bang! another! now platoon-firing: become infectious, the sounds of war mingle with and overpower the music.
"The warm day terminated in a bitter cold night, and a storm of snow and hail ushered in Sunday—for we are 1,200 feet above the sea. On the Sabbath digging and washing gold cease; but the axe and the hammer ring continually, and the crash of falling timber booms over the hills. The miners, with what few wives are there, are building huts, mending tents, gathering firewood, and washing out their mud-stained garments.
"The men soon assume a clean and more civilised costume, form groups, compare notes, make calls. The unsuccessful wander off into remote spots, prospecting. Some start for the post-office. The tide of emigrants flows in, and men who never before dwelt out of reach of an inn and a waiter have to learn now to camp under a tree and cook a chop without a frying-pan."
