I could hear the voice of ‘Yorkey,’ speaking in his native Yorkshire dialect, and encouraging me with the statement that I would soon be out of danger.
Notwithstanding the pain I still suffered, I was happy—I believe never more so in my life. The horrible agony I had been enduring for the want of breath had passed away; and, as I recognised the voice of the kind-hearted Yorkshireman, I knew that everything would be done for me that man could do.
I was not mistaken: for ‘Yorkey’ soon after succeeded in getting my arms and legs extracted from the shingle; and I was hoisted up to the surface of the earth.
Previous to this accident, I had but a faint idea of how much I valued life, or rather how much I had hitherto undervalued the endurance of death.
My sufferings, whilst buried in the tunnel, were almost as great as those I had felt on first learning the loss of Lenore!
This accident had the effect of sadly disgusting me with the romantic occupation of gold digging—at all events it made me weary of a digger’s life on Mount Blackwood—where the best claim I could discover, paid but very little more than the expenses incurred in working it.
I thought Mount Blackwood, for several reasons, the most disagreeable part of Victoria I had ever visited, excepting Geelong. I had a bad impression of the place on first reaching it; and working hard for several weeks, without making anything, did not do much towards removing that impression. I determined, therefore, to go back to Ballarat—not a little dissatisfied with myself for having left it. After my experience of the Avoca diggings, I had resolved to remain permanently at Ballarat—believing it to be the best gold-field in the Colony—but I had allowed false reports of the richness of Mount Blackwood to affect this resolution; and I was not without the consolation of knowing, that the misfortunes that befel me at the latter place were attributable to my own folly; in lending a too ready ear to idle exaggerations.