It would be a difficult task to picture the excitement at the time of the gold discovery. Most people seemed to have gone mad with the gold fever. My brother (who was living in Bathurst at the time), in the midst of it all, was one of the first to go to Ophir or Sofala, I forget which.

The first discovery was made by a man who had been in California, and on seeing the geological formation of the Bathurst district, he at once set to work to seek the precious metal. I have heard my brother say, “That with few exceptions there were only old men, women, and children left in Bathurst when the fever set in. Men of all ranks, professional or otherwise, flocked to the ‘Diggings.’ Stores were set up rapidly, and every week fresh finds and fields were discovered and rushed to.” In Sydney the fever for gold was nearly as bad. I have often gone to the Parramatta Road, standing on the high banks on either side, and watched the different parties wending their way to the new El Dorado. Some in comfortable vehicles and well-laden drays, others—more humble diggers—in carts, and parties of men on foot carrying their “swags” or leading a pack-horse. All were full of life, hope, and energy. How few reaped the golden harvest, and to how many who had broken up their homes, giving up their comforts and family ties, did this bring misery and ruin, almost, as Tom Hood wrote, “To the very verge of the churchyard mould.” The greed for gold leads poor humanity to almost every extreme. From my own experience in this instance it certainly did, for in going about amongst the working classes as I did, the accounts related to me were of the most painful character. The tradesmen leaving their business, taking with them the earnings of years to sink in outfit and expenses; the mechanics their trades, leaving their poor wives to earn a living for themselves and children anyway they could. Little homes sold or mortgaged, all for the mere chance of making “a pile.” All female labour became cheaper, and laundresses in Sydney were plentiful; female servants could be had for very low wages. Occasionally men would send for their wives and children “to join them on the ‘Diggings’;” and after the first rush the wife could make more money by washing than the man could by digging, and many other ways than actual digging cropped up to lead to fortune.

The news soon reached England, and steamers came out crowded with passengers who were going to “make a fortune.” Such people too! Men who had never been used to hard work, and had never handled spade or pick, except perhaps in the soft prepared ground of a little villa garden, men who had never soiled their white hands with any kind of work, men delicate in health and used only to refined society. Here is one instance which came to my notice. A young man with a pretty wife left a most comfortable home and large circle of friends to go out to the “Diggings.” He took a cottage for his wife close to us. Then he joined a party, and took with him tents, tools—in fact, everything requisite for a “gentleman digger;” promising his wife “that when the summer set in she should join him.” I used to listen sadly to this pretty creature’s anticipations of how soon her husband would make his fortune and return with her to her father. In what part of England they would purchase an estate. Every letter she expected to learn “that her husband and party had ‘struck gold,’ and were getting it by the pound at least.” Then a week passed without a letter from her husband, and she became almost frantic. We took every means to find out the cause, and at last the news arrived. “He was ill,” so the pretty brave wife decided at once to go to her husband. My father saw her safely into the wretched vehicle called “the mail coach,” and we watched her leave, taking charge of her house during her absence. On her arrival at the “Diggings” she found her husband recovering from a severe attack of inflammation of the lungs. She remained with him until he was convalescent, then returned home, having obtained his consent to let part of their cottage furnished. We were aware that their funds were getting low, so, though we thought it a great risk for her to take strangers into her house, we did not like to dissuade her. I used to go in to see her every day, and about a week after her return as usual called after dinner, when she met me beaming with smiles, saying: “Miss L——, I have let my rooms to such nice people,—a young married couple just from home. The gentleman called this morning and arranged everything. Such a very distinguished and aristocratic-looking man! He offered such high terms; and I am to engage a nurse-girl for their baby.” “I am exceedingly glad,” I said; “but, Dora, have you had good references?” Her face clouded, “He never offered any.” “Did you ask for them?” “Yes; but he continued talking, and made me quite forget all about it; still, Miss L——, I am sure it is all right.” I looked at her innocent face and thought, “You are indeed a Dora after Dickens’s model.” However the mischief, if any, was done, and it would not avail to say more about it. I was very glad at the idea that they might become useful and intimate friends to her, as we were soon to leave for my brother’s at Wellington, two hundred miles from Sydney, and her only friends in the colony were made through our introduction. Well, the next day her lodgers came, and certainly they were both handsome, the man aristocratic-looking. Everything appeared favourable enough; Dora was charmed, though a week passed without her having said more than “Good-morning” to Mrs. Fyling, who she thought was fretting. “But I never saw greater devotion than his to his wife; she is very fond of the baby; but whenever he is at home, she sends it away at once. I think, dear, he must be of a very jealous disposition, and does not care to see even his own child caressed.” “Perhaps so.” “I am sure, dear, they are good people,” went on Dora; “they inquired about the nearest church, and have a Bible and Prayer-book on their dressing-table.” “Yes,” I answered vaguely; somehow I did not feel at ease about these people, my father having remarked, “He did not think all was right with them.”

The next morning I was leaving our gate when a gentleman stopped me and asked “If I knew which was Mr. ——’s cottage.” I pointed it out to him. “Do you know whether he is at home?” “No; he is at Ophir, but his wife is there.” “Alone?” “No; she has a gentleman and lady living there.” “Thank you,” and raising his hat passed me. He did not go towards the house, but towards the town. How long that morning appeared, and when I started on my daily walk back from Redfern to the Glebe, it seemed twice its usual distance. I ran into my own home and said, “I will take lunch with Mrs. ——,” which I did. We had just finished, and were waiting until the maid had removed the things from the next room, when a knock and ring at the hall door startled us. I looked out, and standing there was the man I had seen that morning and another gentleman with him. The girl opened the door. On his asking for my friend, she went towards him. At that moment Mrs. Fyling crossed the hall. I shall never forget the yell of the other man or the scream from Mrs. Fyling. He rushed to her and drew her into her room, asking, “Where is my child and that man?” Shall I ever forget this scene of agony, reproach, and violence? The cause of all this had just arrived from town and entered the cottage by the French window of their sitting-room. The husband left his wretched wife and rushed at him; but fortunately his friend prevented further violence, and begged him “to consider the terrified owner of the house,” at the same time reminding him that his faithless wife was not worth his passion or regrets. “You can have your child, and you promised me you would let those miserable creatures go, as their sin will soon bring about its own punishment.” “Hers will,” said her husband, looking down on her as she was lying on the floor. “Only two years since you married me, your father’s trusted friend. Did I ever refuse you anything or pain you by an angry word? Did I not leave you with every luxury while I was toiling for your comfort? Oh, God! it is such frail creatures make men brutes.” “Forgive me,” she cried. “Never!” was the stern reply. We left the room and went into my friend’s apartment, as the nurse had not yet returned from her walk with the child. When he saw his child, he snatched it from the nurse’s arms and wept over it in bitter tears.

His friend told Mrs. S——, “He had only returned from England a few days before,” to find his wife and child gone, and a letter from Mr. Fyling awaiting him, stating “they had started for Tasmania,” but he did not believe this, as from his servants he heard that they were still in Sydney. “I had heard where they were, and fearing that if he should meet them together unexpectedly something very serious might be the result, I determined to bring him here. I need not say, Mrs. S——, how sorry I am: this was inevitable.” “Never mind,” sobbed my friend; “it cannot be helped; but how could she be so wicked, and with a child of her own to love and tend?” After a little while poor Captain —— and his friend, with the child in his arms, left the house. During the afternoon the noise of packing in the lodgers’ rooms made me aware they were preparing for departure, and about five o’clock the nurse-girl brought Mrs. S—— a note to state “they were leaving,” enclosing a quarter’s rent for the rooms. A carriage was driven up soon afterwards, Mr. Fyling carrying his unfortunate companion to it, and thus they passed out of our lives. After this my poor young friend let her house furnished, and went to live with her husband on the Ophir diggings.