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<h2> A Lady's Visit to the Gold Diggings<br/> of Australia in 1852-53 </h2>
<h3> by </h3>
<h2> Mrs Charles (Ellen) Clacy </h2>
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<h3> Chapter I. </h3>
<h3> INTRODUCTORY REMARKS </h3>
<p>It may be deemed presumptuous that one of my age and sex should venture
to give to the public an account of personal adventures in a land which
has so often been descanted upon by other and abler pens; but when I
reflect on the many mothers, wives, and sisters in England, whose
hearts are ever longing for information respecting the dangers and
privations to which their relatives at the antipodes are exposed,
I cannot but hope that the presumption of my undertaking may be
pardoned in consideration of the pleasure which an accurate description
of some of the Australian Gold Fields may perhaps afford to many; and
although the time of my residence in the colonies was short, I had the
advantage (not only in Melbourne, but whilst in the bush) of constant
intercourse with many experienced diggers and old colonists—thus
having every facility for acquiring information respecting Victoria and
the other colonies.</p>
<p>It was in the beginning of April, 185-, that the excitement
occasioned by the published accounts of the Victoria "Diggings,"
induced my brother to fling aside his Homer and Euclid for the various
"Guides" printed for the benefit of the intending gold-seeker, or to
ponder over the shipping columns of the daily papers. The love of
adventure must be contagious, for three weeks after (so rapid were our
preparations) found myself accompanying him to those auriferous
regions. The following pages will give an accurate detail of my
adventures there—in a lack of the marvellous will consist their
principal faults but not even to please would I venture to turn
uninteresting truth into agreeable fiction. Of the few statistics which
occur, I may safely say, as of the more personal portions, that they
are strictly true.</p>
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<h3> Chapter II. </h3>
<h3> THE VOYAGE OUT </h3>
<p>Everything was ready—boxes packed, tinned, and corded; farewells
taken, and ourselves whirling down by rail to Gravesend—too much
excited—too full of the future to experience that sickening of the
heart, that desolation of the feelings, which usually accompanies an
expatriation, however voluntary, from the dearly loved shores of one's
native land. Although in the cloudy month of April, the sun shone
brightly on the masts of our bonny bark, which lay in full sight of the
windows of the "Old Falcon," where we had taken up our temporary
quarters. The sea was very rough, but as we were anxious to get
on board without farther delay, we entrusted our valuable lives in a
four-oared boat, despite the dismal prognostications of our worthy
host. A pleasant row that was, at one moment covered over with
salt-water—the next riding on the top of a wave, ten times the size
of our frail conveyance—then came a sudden concussion—in veering
our rudder smashed into a smaller boat, which immediately filled and
sank, and our rowers disheartened at this mishap would go no farther.
The return was still rougher—my face smarted dreadfully from the
cutting splashes of the salt-water; they contrived, however, to land us
safely at the "Old Falcon," though in a most pitiable plight; charging
only a sovereign for this delightful trip—very moderate, considering
the number of salt-water baths they had given us gratis. In the evening
a second trial proved more successful, and we reached our vessel
safely.</p>
<p>A first night on board ship has in it something very strange, and the
first awakening in the morning is still more so. To find oneself in a
space of some six feet by eight, instead of a good-sized room, and
lying in a cot, scarce wide enough to turn round in, as a
substitute for a four-post bedstead, reminds you in no very agreeable
manner that you have exchanged the comforts of Old England for the
"roughing it" of a sea life. The first sound that awoke me was the
"cheerily" song of the sailors, as the anchor was heaved—not again,
we trusted, to be lowered till our eyes should rest on the waters of
Port Philip. And then the cry of "raise tacks and sheets" (which I, in
nautical ignorance, interpreted "hay-stacks and sheep") sent many a
sluggard from their berths to bid a last farewell to the banks of the
Thames.</p>
<p>In the afternoon we parted company with our steam-tug, and next
morning, whilst off the Isle of Wight, our pilot also took his
departure. Sea-sickness now became the fashion, but, as I cannot speak
from experience of its sensations, I shall altogether decline the
subject. On Friday, the 30th, we sighted Stark Point; and as the last
speck of English land faded away in the distance, an intense feeling of
misery crept over me, as I reflected that perchance I had left those
most dear to return to them no more. But I forget; a description of
private feelings is, to uninterested readers, only so much
twaddle, besides being more egotistical than even an account of
personal adventures could extenuate; so, with the exception of a few
extracts from my "log," I shall jump at once from the English Channel
to the more exciting shores of Victoria.</p>
<p>WEDNESDAY, MAY 5, lat. 45 degrees 57 minutes N., long. 11 degrees 45
minutes W.—Whilst off the Bay of Biscay, for the first time I had the
pleasure of seeing the phosphoric light in the water, and the effect was
indeed too beautiful to describe. I gazed again and again, and, as the
darkness above became more dense, the silence of evening more profound,
and the moving lights beneath more brilliant, I could have believed them
the eyes of the Undines, who had quitted their cool grottos beneath the
sea to gaze on the daring ones who were sailing above them. At times one
of these stars of the ocean would seem to linger around our vessel, as
though loth to leave the admiring eyes that watched its glittering
progress.* * * * *</p>
<p>SUNDAY, 9, lat. 37 degrees 53 minutes N., long. 15 degrees 32 minutes
W.—Great excitement throughout the ship. Early in the morning a
homeward-bound sail hove in sight, and as the sea was very calm, our
captain kindly promised to lower a boat and send letters by her. What a
scene then commenced; nothing but scribes and writing-desks met the view,
and nought was heard but the scratching of pens, and energetic demands for
foreign letter-paper, vestas, or sealing-wax; then came a rush on deck, to
witness the important packet delivered to the care of the first mate,
and watch the progress of the little bark that was to bear among so
many homes the glad tidings of our safety. On she came—her stunsails
set—her white sails glittering in the sun—skimming like a sea-bird
over the waters. She proved to be the Maltese schooner 'Felix,' bound
for Bremen. Her captain treated the visitors from our ship with the
greatest politeness, promised to consign our letters to the first pilot
he should encounter off the English coast, and sent his very last
oranges as a present to the ladies, for which we sincerely thanked him;
the increasing heat of the weather made them acceptable indeed.</p>
<p>WEDNESDAY, 12, lat. 33 degrees 19 minutes N., long. 17 degrees 30
minutes W.—At about noon we sighted Madeira. At first it appeared little
more than a dark cloud above the horizon; gradually the sides of the rocks
became clearly discernible, then the wind bore us onward, and soon all
traces of the sunny isle were gone.</p>
<p>FRIDAY, 28, lat. 4 degrees 2 minutes N., long. 21 degrees 30 minutes
W.—Another opportunity of sending letters, but as this was the second
time of so doing, the excitement was proportionately diminished. This
vessel was bound for the port of Liverpool, from the coast of Africa;
her cargo (so said those of our fellow-travellers who boarded her),
consisted of ebony and gold-dust, her only passengers being monkeys and
parrots.</p>
<p>SUNDAY, JUNE 6, long. 24 degrees 38 minutes W.—Crossed the Line, to the
great satisfaction of all on board, as we had been becalmed more than a
week, and were weary of gazing upon the unruffled waters around us, or
watching the sails as they idly flapped to and fro. Chess, backgammon,
books and cards, had ceased to beguile the hours away, and the only
amusement left was lowering a boat and rowing about within a short
distance of the ship, but this (even by those not pulling at the oars)
was considered too fatiguing work, for a tropical sun was above us, and
the heat was most intense. Our only resource was to give ourselves up
to a sort of DOLCE FAR NIENTE existence, and lounge upon the
deck, sipping lemonade or lime-juice, beneath a large awning which
extended from the fore to the mizen masts.</p>
<p>TUESDAY, AUGUST 17, lat. 39 degrees 28 minutes S., long. 136 degrees 31
minutes E.—Early this morning one of the sailors died, and before noon
the last services of the Church of England were read over his body; this
was the first and only death that occurred during our long passage, and
the solemnity of committing his last remains to their watery grave cast a
saddening influence over the most thoughtless. I shall never forget the
moment when the sewn-up hammock, with a gaily coloured flag wrapped round
it, was launched into the deep; those who can witness with indifference a
funeral on land, would, I think, find it impossible to resist the
thrilling awe inspired by such an event at sea.</p>
<p>FRIDAY, 20, lat. 38 degrees 57 minutes S., long. 140 degrees 5 minutes
E.—Sighted Moonlight Head, the next day Cape Otway; and in the afternoon
of Sunday, the 22nd, we entered the Heads, and our pilot came on board. He
was a smart, active fellow, and immediately anchored us within the bay
(a heavy gale brewing); and then, after having done colonial justice to a
substantial dinner, he edified us with the last Melbourne news. "Not a
spare room or bed to be had—no living at all under a pound a-day—every
one with ten fingers making ten to twenty pounds a-week." "Then
of course no one goes to the diggings?" "Oh, that pays better still—the
gold obliged to be quarried—a pound weight of no value." The
excitement that evening can scarcely be imagined, but it somewhat
abated next morning on his telling us to diminish his accounts some 200
per cent.</p>
<p>MONDAY, 23.—The wind high, and blowing right against us. Compelled to
remain at anchor, only too thankful to be in such safe quarters.</p>
<p>TUESDAY, 24.—Got under weigh at half-past seven in the morning, and
passed the wrecks of two vessels, whose captains had attempted to come
in without a pilot, rather than wait for one—the increased number of
vessels arriving, causing the pilots to be frequently all engaged. The
bay, which is truly splendid, was crowded with shipping. In a few hours
our anchor was lowered for the last time—boats were put off
towards our ship from Liardet's Beach—we were lowered into the first
that came alongside—a twenty minutes' pull to the landing-place—another
minute, and we trod the golden shores of Victoria.</p>
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