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 out-gulched 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 among 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-humored 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 favor 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 ninth verse of the fifteenth 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 vigor, 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 disfavor 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 among
us. Drunkenness was on the wane too. Casual travellers passing through
the Gulch used to marvel at our state of grace, and rumors 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 teetotaller. 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 whiskey 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. Rumor 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.
It was as well that the building was of such a size, for the assembly
upon the Sunday morning was the largest which had ever occurred in
the annals of Jackman’s Gulch. At first it was thought that the whole
population was present, but a little reflection showed that this was
not so. Maule and Phillips had gone on a prospecting journey among
the hills, and had not returned as yet; and Woburn, the gold-keeper,
was unable to leave his store. Having a very large quantity of the
precious metal under his charge, he stuck to his post, feeling that
the responsibility was too great to trifle with. With these three
exceptions the whole of the Gulch, with clean red shirts, and such
other additions to their toilet as the occasion demanded, sauntered in
a straggling line along the clayey pathway which led up to the saloon.
The interior of the building had been provided with rough benches;
and the parson, with his quiet, good-humored smile, was standing at
the door to welcome them. “Good morning, boys,” he cried cheerily, as
each group came lounging up. “Pass in! pass in! You’ll find this is as
good a morning’s work as any you’ve done. Leave your pistols in this
barrel outside the door as you pass; you can pick them out as you come
out again; but it isn’t the thing to carry weapons into the house of
peace.” His request was good-humoredly complied with, and before the
last of the congregation filed in there was a strange assortment of
knives and fire-arms in this depository. When all had assembled the
doors were shut and the service began--the first and the last which was
ever performed at Jackman’s Gulch.
The weather was sultry and the room close, yet the miners listened
with exemplary patience. There was a sense of novelty in the situation
which had its attractions. To some it was entirely new, others were
wafted back by it to another land and other days. Beyond a disposition
which was exhibited by the uninitiated to applaud at the end of certain
prayers, by way of showing that they sympathized with the sentiments
expressed, no audience could have behaved better. There was a murmur
of interest however, when Elias B. Hopkins, looking down on the
congregation from his rostrum of casks, began his address.
He had attired himself with care in honor of the occasion. He wore a
velveteen tunic, girt round the waist with a sash of China silk, a pair
of moleskin trousers, and held his cabbage-tree hat in his left hand.
He began speaking in a low tone, and it was noticed at the time that
he frequently glanced through the small aperture which served for a
window, which was placed above the heads of those who sat beneath him.
“I’ve put you straight now,” he said, in the course of his address;
“I’ve got you in the right rut, if you will but stick in it.” Here he
looked very hard out of the window for some seconds. “You’ve learned
soberness and industry, and with those things you can always make up
any loss you may sustain. I guess there isn’t one of ye that won’t
remember my visit to this camp.” He paused for a moment, and three
revolver shots rang out upon the quiet summer air. “Keep your seats,
damn ye!” roared our preacher, as his audience rose in excitement. “If
a man of ye moves, down he goes! The door’s locked on the outside, so
ye can’t get out anyhow. Your seats, ye canting, chuckle-headed fools!
Down with ye, ye dogs, or I’ll fire among ye!”
Astonishment and fear brought us back into our seats, and we sat
staring blankly at our pastor and each other. Elias B. Hopkins, whose
whole face and even figure appeared to have undergone an extraordinary
alteration, looked fiercely down on us from his commanding position
with a contemptuous smile on his stern face.
“I have your lives in my hands,” he remarked; and we noticed as he
spoke that he held a heavy revolver in his hand, and that the butt of
another one protruded from his sash. “I am armed and you are not. If
one of you moves or speaks, he is a dead man. If not, I shall not harm
you. You must wait here for an hour. Why, you _fools_” (this with a
hiss of contempt which rang in our ears for many a long day), “do you
know who it is that has stuck you up? Do you know who it is that has
been playing it upon you for months as a parson and a saint? Conky Jim,
the bushranger, ye apes? And Phillips and Maule were my two right-hand
men. They’re off into the hills with your gold----Ha! would ye?” This
to some restive member of the audience, who quieted down instantly
before the fierce eye and the ready weapon of the bushranger. “In an
hour they will be clear of any pursuit, and I advise you to make the
best of it and not to follow, or you may lose more than your money.
My horse is tethered outside this door behind me. When the time is
up I shall pass through it, lock it on the outside, and be off. Then
you may break your way out as best you can. I have no more to say to
you, except that ye are the most cursed set of asses that ever trod in
boot-leather.”
We had time to indorse mentally this outspoken opinion during the long
sixty minutes which followed; we were powerless before the resolute
desperado. It is true that if we made a simultaneous rush we might bear
him down at the cost of eight or ten of our number. But how could such
a rush be organized without speaking, and who would attempt it without
a previous agreement that he would be supported? There was nothing for
it but submission. It seemed three hours at the least before the ranger
snapped up his watch, stepped down from the barrel, walked backward,
still covering us with his weapon, to the door behind him, and then
passed rapidly through it. We heard the creaking of the rusty lock, and
the clatter of his horse’s hoofs as he galloped away.
It has been remarked that an oath had for the last few weeks been a
rare thing in the camp. We made up for our temporary abstention during
the next half-hour. Never was heard such symmetrical and heartfelt
blasphemy. When at last we succeeded in getting the door off its hinges
all sight of both rangers and treasure had disappeared, nor have we
ever caught sight of either the one or the other since. Poor Woburn,
true to his trust, lay shot through the head across the threshold of
his empty store. The villains, Maule and Phillips, had descended upon
the camp the instant that we had been enticed into the trap, murdered
the keeper, loaded up a small cart with the booty, and got safe away to
some wild fastness among the mountains, where they were joined by their
wily leader.
Jackman’s Gulch recovered from this blow, and is now a flourishing
township. Social reformers are not in request there, however, and
morality is at a discount. It is said that an inquest has been held
lately upon an unoffending stranger who chanced to remark that in
so large a place it would be advisable to have some form of Sunday
service. The memory of their one and only pastor is still green among
the inhabitants, and will be for many a long year to come.
THE SILVER HATCHET.
On December 3, 1861, Dr. Otto von Hopstein, Regius Professor of
Comparative Anatomy of the University of Buda-Pesth, and Curator of
the Academical Museum, was foully and brutally murdered within a
stone-throw of the entrance to the college quadrangle.
Besides the eminent position of the victim and his popularity among
both students and townsfolk, there were other circumstances which
excited public interest very strongly, and drew general attention
throughout Austria and Hungary to this murder. The _Pesther Abendblatt_
of the following day had an article upon it, which may still be
consulted by the curious, and from which I translate a few passages
giving a succinct account of the circumstances under which the crime
was committed, and the peculiar features in the case which puzzled the
Hungarian police.
“It appears,” said that very excellent paper, “that Professor von
Hopstein left the University about half-past four in the afternoon,
in order to meet the train which is due from Vienna at three minutes
after five. He was accompanied by his old and dear friend, Herr
Wilhelm Schlessinger, sub-Curator of the Museum and Privat-docent of
Chemistry. The object of these two gentlemen in meeting this particular
train was to receive the legacy bequeathed by Graf von Schulling to
the University of Buda-Pesth. It is well known that this unfortunate
nobleman, whose tragic fate is still fresh in the recollection of
the public, left his unique collection of mediæval weapons, as well
as several priceless black-letter editions, to enrich the already
celebrated museum of his Alma Mater. The worthy Professor was too much
of an enthusiast in such matters to intrust the reception or care of
this valuable legacy to any subordinate; and, with the assistance of
Herr Schlessinger, he succeeded in removing the whole collection from
the train, and stowing it away in a light cart which had been sent by
the University authorities. Most of the books and more fragile articles
were packed in cases of pinewood, but many of the weapons were simply
done round with straw, so that considerable labor was involved in
moving them all. The Professor was so nervous, however, lest any of
them should be injured, that he refused to allow any of the railway
employés (_Eisenbahn-diener_) to assist. Every article was carried
across the platform by Herr Schlessinger, and handed to Professor von
Hopstein in the cart, who packed it away. When everything was in,
the two gentlemen, still faithful to their charge, drove back to the
University, the Professor being in excellent spirits, and not a little
proud of the physical exertion which he had shown himself capable of.
He made some joking allusion to it to Reinmaul, the janitor, who, with
his friend Schiffer, a Bohemian Jew, met the cart on its return and
unloaded the contents. Leaving his curiosities safe in the store-room,
and locking the door, the Professor handed the key to his sub-curator,
and bidding everyone good evening, departed in the direction of his
lodgings. Schlessinger took a last look to reassure himself that all
was right, and also went off, leaving Reinmaul and his friend Schiffer
smoking in the janitor’s lodge.