generally understood that the title was an honorary one, extorted by his
many eminent qualities, and not borne out by any legal claim which he
could adduce. "The Parson" was another of his _sobriquets_, which was
sufficiently distinctive in a land where the flock was scattered and the
shepherds few. To do him justice, he never pretended to have received
any preliminary training for the ministry or any orthodox qualification
to practise it. "We're all working in the claim of the Lord," he
remarked one day, "and it don't matter a cent whether we're hired for
the job or whether we waltzes in on our own account," a piece of rough
imagery which appealed directly to the instincts of Jackman's Gulch. It
is quite certain that during the first few months his presence had a
marked effect in diminishing the excessive use both of strong drinks
and of stronger adjectives which had been characteristic of the little
mining settlement. Under his tuition, men began to understand that the
resources of their native language were less limited than they had
supposed, and that it was possible to convey their impressions with
accuracy without the aid of a gaudy halo of profanity.
We were certainly in need of a regenerator at Jackman's Gulch about the
beginning of '53. Times were flush then over the whole colony, but
nowhere flusher than there. Our material prosperity had had a bad effect
upon our morals. The camp was a small one, lying rather better than a
hundred and twenty miles to the south of Ballarat, at a spot where a
mountain torrent finds its way down a rugged ravine on its way to join
the Arrowsmith River. History does not relate who the original Jackman
may have been, but at the time I speak of the camp it contained a
hundred or so adults, many of whom were men who had sought an asylum
there after making more civilised mining centres too hot to hold them.
They were a rough, murderous crew, hardly leavened by the few
respectable members of society who were scattered among them.
Communication between Jackman's Gulch and the outside world was
difficult and uncertain. A portion of the bush between it and Ballarat
was infested by a redoubtable outlaw named Conky Jim, who, with a small
gang as desperate as himself, made travelling a dangerous matter. It was
customary, therefore, at the Gulch, to store up the dust and nuggets
obtained from the mines in a special store, each man's share being
placed in a separate bag on which his name was marked. A trusty man,
named Woburn, was deputed to watch over this primitive bank. When the
amount deposited became considerable, a waggon was hired, and the whole
treasure was conveyed to Ballarat, guarded by the police and by a
certain number of miners, who took it in turn to perform the office.
Once in Ballarat, it was forwarded on to Melbourne by the regular gold
waggons. By this plan, the gold was often kept for months in the Gulch
before being despatched, but Conky Jim was effectually checkmated, as
the escort party were far too strong for him and his gang. He appeared,
at the time of which I write, to have forsaken his haunts in disgust,
and the road could be traversed by small parties with impunity.
Comparative order used to reign during the daytime at Jackman's Gulch,
for the majority of the inhabitants were out with crowbar and pick among
the quartz ledges, or washing clay and sand in their cradles by the
banks of the little stream. As the sun sank down, however, the claims
were gradually deserted, and their unkempt owners, clay-bespattered and
shaggy, came lounging into camp, ripe for any form of mischief. Their
first visit was to Woburn's gold store, where their clean-up of the day
was duly deposited, the amount being entered in the store-keeper's book,
and each miner retaining enough to cover his evening's expenses. After
that all restraint was at an end, and each set to work to get rid of his
surplus dust with the greatest rapidity possible. The focus of
dissipation was the rough bar, formed by a couple of hogsheads spanned
by planks, which was dignified by the name of the "Britannia drinking
saloon." Here, Nat Adams, the burly bar-keeper, dispensed bad whisky at
the rate of two shillings a noggin, or a guinea a bottle, while his
brother Ben acted as croupier in a rude wooden shanty behind, which had
been converted into a gambling hell, and was crowded every night. There
had been a third brother, but an unfortunate misunderstanding with a
customer had shortened his existence. "He was too soft to live long,"
his brother Nathaniel feelingly observed on the occasion of his funeral.
"Many's the time I've said to him, 'If you're arguin' a pint with a
stranger, you should always draw first, then argue, and then shoot, if
you judge that he's on the shoot.' Bill was too purlite. He must needs
argue first and draw after, when he might just as well have kivered his
man before talkin' it over with him." This amiable weakness of the
deceased Bill was a blow to the firm of Adams, which became so
short-handed that the concern could hardly be worked without the
admission of a partner, which would mean a considerable decrease in the
profits.
Nat Adams had had a roadside shanty in the Gulch before the discovery of
gold, and might, therefore, claim to be the oldest inhabitant. These
keepers of shanties were a peculiar race, and, at the cost of a
digression, it may be interesting to explain how they managed to amass
considerable sums of money in a land where travellers were few and far
between. It was the custom of the "bushmen," _i.e._ bullock drivers,
sheep tenders, and the other white hands who worked on the sheep-runs up
country, to sign articles by which they agreed to serve their master for
one, two, or three years at so much per year and certain daily rations.
Liquor was never included in this agreement, and the men remained, per
force, total abstainers during the whole time. The money was paid in a
lump sum at the end of the engagement. When that day came round, Jimmy,
the stockman, would come slouching into his master's office,
cabbage-tree hat in hand.
"Morning, master!" Jimmy would say. "My time's up. I guess I'll draw my
cheque and ride down to town."
"You'll come back, Jimmy."
"Yes, I'll come back. Maybe I'll be away three weeks, maybe a month. I
want some clothes, master, and my bloomin' boots are well-nigh off my
feet."
"How much, Jimmy?" asks his master, taking up his pen.
"There's sixty pound screw," Jimmy answers thoughtfully; "and you mind,
master, last March, when the brindled bull broke out o' the paddock.
Two pound you promised me then. And a pound at the dipping. And a pound
when Millar's sheep got mixed with ourn;" and so he goes on, for bushmen
can seldom write, but they have memories which nothing escapes.
His master writes the cheque and hands it across the table. "Don't get
on the drink, Jimmy," he says.
"No fear of that, master," and the stockman slips the cheque into his
leather pouch, and within an hour he is ambling off upon his long-limbed
horse on his hundred mile journey to town.
Now Jimmy has to pass some six or eight of the above-mentioned roadside
shanties in his day's ride, and experience has taught him that if he
once breaks his accustomed total abstinence, the unwonted stimulant has
an overpowering effect upon his brain. Jimmy shakes his head warily as
he determines that no earthly consideration will induce him to partake
of any liquor until his business is over. His only chance is to avoid
temptation; so, knowing that there is the first of these houses some
half mile ahead, he plunges into a by-path through the bush which will
lead him out at the other side.
Jimmy is riding resolutely along this narrow path, congratulating
himself upon a danger escaped, when he becomes aware of a sunburned,
black-bearded man who is leaning unconcernedly against a tree beside the
track. This is none other than the shanty-keeper, who, having observed
Jimmy's man[oe]uvre in the distance, has taken a short cut through the
bush in order to intercept him.
"Morning, Jimmy!" he cries, as the horseman comes up to him.
"Morning, mate; morning!"
"Where are ye off to to-day then?"
"Off to town," says Jimmy sturdily.
"No, now--are you though? You'll have bully times down there for a bit.
Come round and have a drink at my place. Just by way of luck."
"No," says Jimmy, "I don't want a drink."
"Just a little damp."
"I tell ye I don't want one," says the stockman angrily.
"Well, ye needn't be so darned short about it. It's nothin' to me
whether you drinks or not. Good mornin'."
"Good mornin'," says Jimmy, and has ridden on about twenty yards when
he hears the other calling on him to stop.
"See here, Jimmy!" he says, overtaking him again. "If you'll do me a
kindness when you're up in town I'd be obliged."
"What is it?"
"It's a letter, Jim, as I wants posted. It's an important one too, an' I
wouldn't trust it with every one; but I knows you, and if you'll take
charge on it it'll be a powerful weight off my mind."
"Give it here," Jimmy says laconically.
"I hain't got it here. It's round in my caboose. Come round for it with
me. It ain't more'n quarter of a mile."
Jimmy consents reluctantly. When they reach the tumble-down hut the
keeper asks him cheerily to dismount and to come in.
"Give me the letter," says Jimmy.
"It ain't altogether wrote yet, but you sit down here for a minute and
it'll be right," and so the stockman is beguiled into the shanty.
At last the letter is ready and handed over. "Now, Jimmy," says the
keeper, "one drink at my expense before you go."
"Not a taste," says Jimmy.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" the other says in an aggrieved tone. "You're too
damned proud to drink with a poor cove like me. Here--give us back that
letter. I'm cursed if I'll accept a favour from a man whose too almighty
big to have a drink with me."
"Well, well, mate, don't turn rusty," says Jim. "Give us one drink an'
I'm off."
The keeper pours out about half a pannikin of raw rum and hands it to
the bushman. The moment he smells the old familiar smell his longing for
it returns, and he swigs it off at a gulp. His eyes shine more brightly,
and his face becomes flushed. The keeper watches him narrowly. "You can
go now, Jim," he says.
"Steady, mate, steady," says the bushman. "I'm as good a man as you. If
you stand a drink, I can stand one too, I suppose." So the pannikin is
replenished, and Jimmy's eyes shine brighter still.
"Now, Jimmy, one last drink for the good of the house," says the keeper,
"and then it's time you were off." The stockman has a third gulp from
the pannikin, and with it all his scruples and good resolutions vanish
for ever.
"Look here," he says somewhat huskily, taking his cheque out of his
pouch. "You take this, mate. Whoever comes along this road, ask 'em what
they'll have, and tell them it's my shout. Let me know when the money's
done."
So Jimmy abandons the idea of ever getting to town, and for three weeks
or a month he lies about the shanty in a state of extreme drunkenness,
and reduces every wayfarer upon the road to the same condition. At last
one fine morning the keeper comes to him. "The coin's done, Jimmy," he
says; "it's about time you made some more." So Jimmy has a good wash to
sober him, straps his blanket and his billy to his back, and rides off
through the bush to the sheep-run, where he has another year of
sobriety, terminating in another month of intoxication.
All this, though typical of the happy-go-lucky manners of the
inhabitants, has no direct bearing upon Jackman's Gulch, so we must
return to that Arcadian settlement. Additions to the population there
were not numerous, and such as came about the time of which I speak were
even rougher and fiercer than the original inhabitants. In particular,
there came a brace of ruffians named Phillips and Maule, who rode into
camp one day and started a claim upon the other side of the stream.
They outgulched the Gulch in the virulence and fluency of their
blasphemy, in the truculence of their speech and manner, and in their
reckless disregard of all social laws. They claimed to have come from
Bendigo, and there were some amongst us who wished that the redoubted
Conky Jim was on the track once more, as long as he would close it to
such visitors as these. After their arrival the nightly proceedings at
the "Britannia Bar" and at the gambling hell behind became more riotous
than ever. Violent quarrels, frequently ending in bloodshed, were of
constant occurrence. The more peaceable frequenters of the bar began to
talk seriously of lynching the two strangers who were the principal
promoters of disorder. Things were in this unsatisfactory condition when
our evangelist, Elias B. Hopkins, came limping into the camp,
travel-stained and footsore, with his spade strapped across his back and
his Bible in the pocket of his moleskin jacket.
His presence was hardly noticed at first, so insignificant was the man.
His manner was quiet and unobtrusive, his face pale, and his figure
fragile. On better acquaintance, however, there was a squareness and
firmness about his clean-shaven lower jaw, and an intelligence in his
widely-opened blue eyes, which marked him as a man of character. He
erected a small hut for himself, and started a claim close to that
occupied by the two strangers who had preceded him. This claim was
chosen with a ludicrous disregard for all practical laws of mining, and
at once stamped the new-comer as being a green hand at his work. It was
piteous to observe him every morning as we passed to our work, digging
and delving with the greatest industry, but, as we knew well, without
the smallest possibility of any result. He would pause for a moment as
we went by, wipe his pale face with his bandanna handkerchief, and shout
out to us a cordial morning greeting, and then fall to again with
redoubled energy. By degrees we got into the way of making a
half-pitying, half-contemptuous inquiry as to how he got on. "I hain't
struck it yet, boys," he would answer cheerily, leaning on his spade,
"but the bed-rock lies deep just hereabouts, and I reckon we'll get
among the pay gravel to-day." Day after day he returned the same reply
with unvarying confidence and cheerfulness.
It was not long before he began to show us the stuff that was in him.
One night the proceedings were unusually violent at the drinking saloon.
A rich pocket had been struck during the day, and the striker was
standing treat in a lavish and promiscuous fashion, which had reduced
three parts of the settlement to a state of wild intoxication. A crowd
of drunken idlers stood or lay about the bar, cursing, swearing,
shouting, dancing, and here and there firing their pistols into the air
out of pure wantonness. From the interior of the shanty behind there
came a similar chorus. Maule, Phillips, and the roughs who followed them
were in the ascendant, and all order and decency was swept away.
Suddenly, amid this tumult of oaths and drunken cries, men became
conscious of a quiet monotone which underlay all other sounds and
obtruded itself at every pause in the uproar. Gradually first one man
and then another paused to listen, until there was a general cessation
of the hubbub, and every eye was turned in the direction whence this
quiet stream of words flowed. There, mounted upon a barrel, was Elias B.
Hopkins, the newest of the inhabitants of Jackman's Gulch, with a
good-humoured smile upon his resolute face. He held an open Bible in his
hand, and was reading aloud a passage taken at random--an extract from
the Apocalypse, if I remember right. The words were entirely irrelevant,
and without the smallest bearing upon the scene before him; but he
plodded on with great unction, waving his left hand slowly to the
cadence of his words.
There was a general shout of laughter and applause at this apparition,
and Jackman's Gulch gathered round the barrel approvingly, under the
impression that this was some ornate joke, and that they were about to
be treated to some mock sermon or parody of the chapter read. When,
however, the reader, having finished the chapter, placidly commenced
another, and having finished that rippled on into another one, the
revellers came to the conclusion that the joke was somewhat too
long-winded. The commencement of yet another chapter confirmed this
opinion, and an angry chorus of shouts and cries, with suggestions as to
gagging the reader, or knocking him off the barrel, rose from every
side. In spite of roars and hoots, however, Elias B. Hopkins plodded
away at the Apocalypse with the same serene countenance, looking as
ineffably contented as though the babel around him were the most
gratifying applause. Before long an occasional boot pattered against the
barrel, or whistled past our parson's head; but here some of the more
orderly of the inhabitants interfered in favour of peace and order,
aided curiously enough by the afore-mentioned Maule and Phillips, who
warmly espoused the cause of the little Scripture-reader. "The little
cuss has got grit in him," the latter explained, rearing his bulky
red-shirted form between the crowd and the object of its anger. "His
ways ain't our ways, and we're all welcome to our opinions, and to sling
them round from barrels or otherwise, if so minded. What I says, and
Bill says, is, that when it comes to slingin' boots instead o' words
it's too steep by half; an' if this man's wronged we'll chip in an' see
him righted." This oratorical effort had the effect of checking the more
active signs of disapproval, and the party of disorder attempted to
settle down once more to their carouse, and to ignore the shower of
Scripture which was poured upon them. The attempt was hopeless. The
drunken portion fell asleep under the drowsy refrain, and the others,
with many a sullen glance at the imperturbable reader, slouched off to
their huts, leaving him still perched upon the barrel. Finding himself
alone with the more orderly of the spectators, the little man rose,
closed his book, after methodically marking with a lead pencil the exact
spot at which he stopped, and descended from his perch. "To-morrow
night, boys," he remarked in his quiet voice, "the reading will commence
at the 9th verse of the 15th chapter of the Apocalypse," with which
piece of information, disregarding our congratulations, he walked away
with the air of a man who has performed an obvious duty.
We found that his parting words were no empty threat. Hardly had the
crowd begun to assemble next night before he appeared once more upon the
barrel and began to read with the same monotonous vigour, tripping over
words, muddling up sentences, but still boring along through chapter
after chapter. Laughter, threats, chaff--every weapon short of actual
violence--was used to deter him, but all with the same want of success.
Soon it was found that there was a method in his proceedings. When
silence reigned, or when the conversation was of an innocent nature, the
reading ceased. A single word of blasphemy, however, set it going again,
and it would ramble on for a quarter of an hour or so, when it stopped,
only to be renewed upon similar provocation. The reading was pretty
continuous during that second night, for the language of the opposition
was still considerably free. At least it was an improvement upon the
night before.
For more than a month Elias B. Hopkins carried on this campaign. There
he would sit, night after night, with the open book upon his knee, and
at the slightest provocation off he would go, like a musical box when
the spring is touched. The monotonous drawl became unendurable, but it
could only be avoided by conforming to the parson's code. A chronic
swearer came to be looked upon with disfavour by the community, since
the punishment of his transgression fell upon all. At the end of a
fortnight the reader was silent more than half the time, and at the end
of the month his position was a sinecure.
Never was a moral revolution brought about more rapidly and more
completely. Our parson carried his principle into private life. I have
seen him, on hearing an unguarded word from some worker in the gulches,
rush across, Bible in hand, and perching himself upon the heap of red
clay which surmounted the offender's claim, drawl through the
genealogical tree at the commencement of the New Testament in a most
earnest and impressive manner, as though it were especially appropriate
to the occasion. In time an oath became a rare thing amongst us.
Drunkenness was on the wane too. Casual travellers passing through the
Gulch used to marvel at our state of grace, and rumours of it went as
far as Ballarat, and excited much comment therein.
There were points about our evangelist which made him especially fitted
for the work which he had undertaken. A man entirely without redeeming
vices would have had no common basis on which to work, and no means of
gaining the sympathy of his flock. As we came to know Elias B. Hopkins
better, we discovered that in spite of his piety there was a leaven of
old Adam in him, and that he had certainly known unregenerate days. He
was no teetotaler. On the contrary, he could choose his liquor with
discrimination, and lower it in an able manner. He played a masterly
hand at poker, and there were few who could touch him at "cut-throat
euchre." He and the two ex-ruffians, Phillips and Maule, used to play
for hours in perfect harmony, except when the fall of the cards elicited
an oath from one of his companions. At the first of these offences the
parson would put on a pained smile and gaze reproachfully at the
culprit. At the second he would reach for his Bible, and the game was
over for the evening. He showed us he was a good revolver shot too, for
when we were practising at an empty brandy bottle outside Adams' bar, he
took up a friend's pistol and hit it plumb in the centre at twenty-four
paces. There were few things he took up that he could not make a show at
apparently, except gold-digging, and at that he was the veriest duffer
alive. It was pitiful to see the little canvas bag, with his name
printed across it, lying placid and empty upon the shelf at Woburn's
store, while all the other bags were increasing daily, and some had
assumed quite a portly rotundity of form, for the weeks were slipping
by, and it was almost time for the gold-train to start off for Ballarat.
We reckoned that the amount which we had stored at the time represented
the greatest sum which had ever been taken by a single convoy out of
Jackman's Gulch.
Although Elias B. Hopkins appeared to derive a certain quiet
satisfaction from the wonderful change which he had effected in the
camp, his joy was not yet rounded and complete. There was one thing for
which he still yearned. He opened his heart to us about it one evening.
"We'd have a blessing on the camp, boys," he said, "if we only had a
service o' some sort on the Lord's day. It's a temptin' o' Providence to
go on in this way without takin' any notice of it, except that maybe
there's more whisky drunk and more card-playin' than on any other day."
"We hain't got no parson," objected one of the crowd.
"Ye fool!" growled another, "hain't we got a man as is worth any three
parsons, and can splash texts around like clay out o' a cradle? What
more d'ye want?"
"We hain't got no church!" urged the same dissentient.
"Have it in the open air," one suggested.
"Or in Woburn's store," said another.
"Or in Adams' saloon."
The last proposal was received with a buzz of approval, which showed
that it was considered the most appropriate locality.
Adams' saloon was a substantial wooden building in the rear of the bar,
which was used partly for storing liquor and partly for a gambling
saloon. It was strongly built of rough-hewn logs, the proprietor rightly
judging, in the unregenerate days of Jackman's Gulch, that hogsheads of
brandy and rum were commodities which had best be secured under lock and
key. A strong door opened into each end of the saloon, and the interior
was spacious enough, when the table and lumber were cleared away, to
accommodate the whole population. The spirit barrels were heaped
together at one end by their owner, so as to make a very fair imitation
of a pulpit.
At first the Gulch took but a mild interest in the proceedings, but when
it became known that Elias B. Hopkins intended, after reading the
service, to address the audience, the settlement began to warm up to the
occasion. A real sermon was a novelty to all of them, and one coming
from their own parson was additionally so. Rumour announced that it
would be interspersed with local hits, and that the moral would be
pointed by pungent personalities. Men began to fear that they would be
unable to gain seats, and many applications were made to the brothers
Adams. It was only when conclusively shown that the saloon could contain
them all with a margin that the camp settled down into calm expectancy.