A sovereign costs twenty shillings, as before; and twenty
shillings are as hard to come at as ever. Nevertheless, we believe in
the unseen presence of that slave-genius, who lends himself, with a
sickly smile, to the service of mankind, and buys when we think he is
sold! We have faith in bills of lading, and accept without question
any amount that is reported to lie dormant in the reservoir of the
Bank of England: only we wonder in private whether the importations of
the precious metal are likely to increase permanently in greater
proportion than the population in this quarter of the globe, and the
spread of taste, comfort, and luxury, calling every day new arts into
existence, perfecting old ones, and distributing wealth throughout the
constantly widening circle of talent and industry.
But our present business is with the diggings and the diggers. We have
often wished we could interrogate one of those unquiet spirits in the
manner of Macbeth--'What is't ye do?' How do you manage? By what signs
do you know a locality that is likely to repay your pains? What are
your instruments, your machinery? What do you conceive to be the
prospects of your singular trade? And, in fact, our curiosity is at
this moment to a certain extent gratified: a Voice has been wafted
across the ocean to our private ear, and, undisturbed by the thousand
other tongues of the diggings, we can listen to an account, distinct
so far as it goes, of the whole process of gold-hunting.
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