That's the key, for any
future Brougham, for the history of the Local Courts on the gold-fields.
It has fallen to my lot, however, to put the Eureka Stockade on record;
and, from the following 'Joe' chapter must begin any proper history
of that disgracefully memorable event.
Chapter IX.
Abyssus, Abyssum Invocat.
"Joe, Joe!" No one in the world can properly understand and describe this
shouting of "Joe," unless he were on this El Dorado of Ballaarat at the time.
It was a horrible day, plagued by the hot winds. A blast of the hurricane
winding through gravel pits whirled towards the Eureka this shouting of "Joe."
It was the howl of a wolf for the shepherds, who bolted at once towards
the bush: it was the yell of bull-dogs for the fossikers who floundered
among the deep holes, and thus dodged the hounds: it was a scarecrow
for the miners, who now scrambled down to the deep, and left a licensed mate
or two at the windlass. By this time, a regiment of troopers, in full gallop,
had besieged the whole Eureka, and the traps under their protection ventured
among the holes. An attempt to give an idea of such disgusting and
contemptible campaigns for the search of licences is really odious to an honest
man. Some of the traps were civil enough; aye, they felt the shame
of their duty; but there were among them devils at heart, who enjoyed the fun,
because their cupidity could not bear the sight of the zig-zag uninterrupted
muster of piles of rich-looking washing stuff, and the envy which blinded
their eyes prevented them from taking into account the overwhelming number
of shicers close by, round about, all along.
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