Book: The Eureka Stockade

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A cry of "Fire!" is raised; a horse shies and causes commotion. Smoke is seen
to issue from one of the rooms of the ground-floor. The police extinguish it;
and an attempt is made to form a cordon round the building. But it is
too late. Whilst the front of the hotel occupies the attention of the majority
of the crowd, a few are pulling down the back premises.

Mr. Rede sends for the detachment of the gallant 40th now stationed
on Ballaarat.

A shout is raised:--"The 40th are coming."

"Don't illuminate till they come."

"They shall see the sight."

"Wait till they come."

Smash go the large lamps in front of the hotel. The troopers ride round
and caracole their horses.

"Where's the red-coats?"

"There they come, yonder up the hill!"

"Hurrah! three cheers."

The 40th arrive; they form into line in front of the hotel, swords drawn.
"Hurrah! boys! no use waiting any longer."--"Down she comes." The bowling alley
is on fire.--Police try to extinguish the flames--rather too warm.--It's
too late.--The hotel is on fire at the back corner; nothing can save it.--"Hip,
hip hurrah!" is the universal shout.

I had opportunities enough to observe in London, that a characteristic
of the British race is to make fun of the calamity of fire, hence I did not
wonder, how they enjoyed this, their real sport on the occasion.

A gale of wind, which blowed at this exact time, announcing the hurricane
that soon followed, was the principal helper to the devouring of the building,
by blowing in the direction most favourable to the purpose.

The red-coats wheel about, and return to the Camp. Look out! the roof
of the back part of the hotel, falls in! "Hurrah! boys, here's the porter
and ale with the chill off."

Bottles are handed out burning hot--the necks of two bottles are knocked
together!--Contents drunk in colonial style.--Look out! the roof,
sides and all fall in!--An enormous mass of flame and smoke arises
with a roaring sound.--Sparks are carried far, far into the air,
and what was once the Eureka Hotel, is now a mass of burning embers!

The entire diggings, in a state of extreme excitement.--The diggers are lords
and masters of Ballaarat; and the prestige of the Camp is gone for ever.




Chapter XVI.



Loquar In Amaritudine Animoe. Meoe


Now my peace of mind being destroyed, I had recourse to the free British press,
for information, wishing to hear what they said in Melbourne. At this time
the Morning Herald was in good demand; but the 'Geelong Advertiser' had
the swayn on the goldfields. Geelong had a rattling correspondent on
Ballaarat, who helped to hasten the movement fast enough. As I did not
know this correspondent of the 'Geelong Advertiser' personally, so I can
only guess at his frame of mind. I should say the following ingredients
entered into the factory of his ideas:-

1st. The land is the Lord's and all therein; but man must earn his bread
by the sweat of his brow. Therefore, in the battle of life, every man
must fight his way on the old ground, "help yourself and God will help you."

2nd. In olden times, wherever there was a Roman there was life. In our times,
wherever there is a Britain there is trade, and trade is life. But with
the lazy,--who, either proud or mean, is always an incapable, because
generally he is a drunkard, and therefore a beggar, there is no possible
barter; and, inasmuch as man does not live on bread alone, for a fried sole
is a nice thing for breakfast, so also it must be confessed that the loaves
and fishes do not condescend to jump into one's mouth all dressed
as they ought to be. Therefore--and this is the zenith of the
'Geelong Advertiser's' practical correspondent--be not perplexed, if the loaves
and fishes wont pop fast enough into your mouth particularly; let Mahomed's
example be instantly followed: go yourself to the loaves and fishes,
and you will actually find that they are subject to the same laws of matter
and motion as everything else on earth.

3rd. The application. For what did any one emigrate to this colony?
To sweat more? Well, times were hard enough for the poor in old Europe.
Let him sweat more, but for whom? For himself of course, and good luck to him.
Is there not plenty of Victoria land for every white man or black man
that intends to grow his potatoes? Oh! leave the greens-growing to the
well-disposed, to the well affected, ye sturdy sons who pant after
the yellow-boy. "Take your chance, out of a score of shicers, there is one
'dead on it,'" says old Mother Earth from the deep.

Sum total.--With the hard-working gold-digger, there is a solid barter
possible. Hurrah! for the diggers.

'The Argus' persisting in 'our own conceit,' and misrepresenting, perverting,
and slandering the cause of the diggers, ran foul, and went fast to leeward.
Experience having instructed me at my own costs, that there cannot possibly
exist much sympathy between flunkies and blueshirts, I can only guess
at the compound materials hammered in the mortar of 'The Argus' reporter
on Ballaarat:--

lst. The land is the Queen's, and the inheritance of the Crown.

2nd. Who dares to teach the golden-lace the idea how to shoot?

3rd. Let learning, commerce, even manners die, But leave us our old nobility.

4th. 'Sotto voce':--In this colony, however, make money; honestly if possible,
of course, but make money; or else the 'vagabonds' here would humble down
a gentleman to curry-powder diet.

5th. To put on a blue shirt, and rush in with the Eureka mob! fudge:
'odi profanum vulgus et arceo.' There are millions of tons of gold dug out
already, as much anyhow, as anyone can carry to Old England, and live
as a lord, with an occasional trip to Paris and Naples, to make up for
the time wasted in this colony.

Sum total.--Screw out of the diggers as much as circumstances will admit;
they have plenty of money for getting drunk, and making beasts of themselves,
the brutes!

To be serious; should a copy of this book be forgotten somewhere, and thereby
be spared for the use of some southern Tacitus, let him bewail the perfidious
mendacity of our times, whose characteristic is SLANDER, which proceeds
from devil GROG; and the pair generate THE PROSPERITY OF THE WICKED.
Here is a sample:-

On Saturday, September 29th, 1854, the members of the Local Court, Ballaarat,
held a public meeting on the usual spot, Bakery-hill, for the purpose of
taking the sense of their fellow miners, respecting the admittance
or nonadmittance of the legal profession to advise or plead in said court.--
See report in The Star, a new local paper, No. V, Tuesday, October 2nd.

Messrs. Ryce and Wall having addressed the meeting in their usual honest,
matter-of-fact way:-


"Great Works" was shouted and immediately appeared
C. Raffaello, member of the Local Court. He hoped,
that if there were any Goodenough present that they
would see and not mislay their notes while he briefly
brought three things before the meeting; the first
concerned the meeting and himself, the second concerned
himself, and the third concerned those present. The
first was easily disposed of--have I, as I promised,
done my duty as member of the Local Court to your
satisfaction? (Yes, and cheers.) Very well, the second
matter concerns myself--personally he was under no
obligations to the lawyers--the services he received
at the trial was done to him as a state prisoner,
and not to Carboni Raffaello individually; when
individually, he requested to be supplied with six
pennyworth of snuff by Mr. Dunne, it was promised,
but it never came to him. It would not have cost much
to have supplied him, and it would have greatly obliged
him, as habit had rendered snuff-taking necessary to him.
With the permission of those present he would take
a pinch now. (He took a pinch amidst laughter and cheers.)

The admission of lawyers into the Local Court would give
rise to endless feuds, where valuable interests were
concerned, and so much time would be lost in useless
litigation. As he had no wish through any personal
obligation to see the lawyers in the Local Court,
and as he considered that it was for the advantage of
the miners that they should not be admitted, he opposed
their entrance.

The third matter concerned those present. What did they
come to Australia for? Why, to improve their prospects
in reality, though on shipboard they might say it was to
get rid of the 'governor,' or to get clear of an ugly wife,
and now that you are here are you to allow the Ballaarat
lawyers to fleece you of your hard earnings? Not being
fond of yabber-yabber he would simply ask: are you fairly
represented by us? (Yes, yes.) If so then support us,
and if we do not represent you we will resign. Don't say
yes if you don't mean it, for I do not like yabber-yabber.


I beg to assert, that the above report is correct, as far as it goes. Some
five hundred diggers were present. Now for the perversion from the reporter
of 'The Argus', Melbourne, Tuesday, October 2.

"Carboni Raffaello, a foreigner [a foreign anarchist, if you please,
Mr. Editor], then spoke in his usual style [that is, sedition, revolution,
and rebellion, that's it], the principal (sic) points of his remarks being,
that while incarcerated in the Melbourne gaol [was it for common felony,
or high treason?] he was not supplied with snuff, though he had entreated
his learned counsel, Mr. J. H. Dunne, for sixpenny worth. He [Please,
Raffaello or Dunne? fine pair together] did not consider himself under
any obligation to the lawyers: he [but who? Dunne or Raffaello?] was not fond
of yabber-yabber."

Thus an honest man is brayed at by asses in this colony! The fun is odious
and ridiculous enough.

When such reporters of the British press prostitute British ink, the only ink
that dares to register black on white the name, word and deed of any tyrant
through the whole face of the earth, and for the sake of a pair of
Yankee boots, lower themselves to the level of a scribbler, thus affording
to be audacious because anonymous, the British press in the southern hemisphere
will be brought to shame, and Victoria cannot possibly derive any benefit
from it.

Let the above observation stand good, I proceed with my work.

'The Age' was then just budding, and was considered, on the diggings the organ
of the new chum Governor. 'The Age' soon mustered a Roman courage in the cause
of the diggers, and jumped the claims both of The Herald and 'The Argus';
and though the 'own correspondent,' under the head of Ballaarat, be such a dry,
soapy concern that will neither blubber nor blather, yet 'The Age' remained
the diggers' paper.

The 'Ballaarat Times' was all the go, on the whole extent of the diggings.
Soon enough the reporter, aye, the editor himself, will both appear
'in propria persona'.




Chapter XVII.



Arcane, Impenetrabili, Profunde,
Son Le Vie Di Chi Die L'Esser Al Niente.


When our southern sky is overloaded with huge, thick, dark masses, and claps
of thunder warn us of the pending storm, then a gale of wind is roaring
in space, doing battle with the bush, cowing down man and beast, sweeping away
all manner of rottenness. This fury spares not, and desolation is the threat
of the thunder.

A kind Providence must be blessed even in the whirlwind. Big, big drops
of rain fight their way through the gale; soon the drops muster in legions,
and the stronger the storm, the stronger those legions. At last they conquer;
then it pours down--that is, the flood is made up of legions of torrents.

Is the end of the world now at hand? Look at the victorious rainbow!
it reminds man of the covenant of our God with Noah, not far from this
southern land. The sun restores confidence that all is right again as before,
and nature, refreshed and bolder, returns again to her work.

Hence, the storm is life.

Not so is the case with fire. Devouring everything, devouring itself,
fire seems to leave off its frenzy, only to devour the sooner any mortal thing
that comes in the way to retard destruction. A few embers, then a handful
of ashes, are the sole evidence of what was once kingly or beggarly.

Fire may destroy, consume, devour, but has no power to reduce to 'nothing.'

Hence the calamity of fire is death.

The handful of ashes lie lifeless until a storm forces them into the living
order of nature, which, when refreshed, has the power to ingraft those
ashes to, and make them prosper with, the grain of mustard seed.

Hence death is life.

Such is the order of Providence. Now, good reader, watch the handful of ashes
of what was once Bentley's Eureka Hotel.




Chapter XVIII.



Pecunia Omnia Vincit.


In the dead of the night after the burning of the Eureka Hotel, three men
had been taken into custody, charged with riot, and subsequently committed
to take their trial in Melbourne.

I think the diggers at this time seriously contemplated to burn down the Camp,
and thus get rid in a blaze of all their grievances.

A committee for the defence of these men, met at the Star Hotel, and sent round
to all the tents on Ballaarat for subscriptions. I contributed my mite,
and then learned that VERN, KENNEDY, and HUMFFRAY were the triumvirate
of said committee.

The following placard was posted throughout the goldfields:-


500 POUNDS REWARD

for the discovery, apprehension and conviction
of the murderer of James Scobie, found dead near
the late Eureka Hotel, etc., etc.


At one and at the same time, also, the following placards were posted
at each prominent gum-tree on the goldfield:-


500 POUNDS REWARD

increased by Government to

1,600 POUNDS!!

for the apprehension and conviction of the robbers
of the Bank of Victoria.


A desperate deed was committed in broad mid-day; Monday, October 16th,
in the Ballaarat township.

Four men in the garb of diggers, wearing sou'-wester hats, and having
crepe over their faces, entered the Bank of Victoria, and succeeded
in carrying off property in notes and gold, to the amount
of about 15,000 pounds.

Who would have told me then, that soon I should be messmate to those
unknown audacious robbers, in the same gaol!!

Let's go to the public meeting in the next chapter.




Chapter XIX.



Una Scintilla, Sparasi La Bomba,
Spalanca A Multitudini La Tomba.


The following story was going the rounds of the Eureka. There was a
licence-hunt; the servant of the Rev. P. Smyth, the priest of the Catholic
church, Bakery-hill, went to a neighbouring tent to visit a sick man.
While inside, a trooper comes galloping up at the tent-door, and shouts out,
"Come out here, you d----d wretches! there's a good many like you on the
diggings." The man came outside, and was asked if "he's got a licence?"
The servant, who is a native of Armenia, answers, in imperfect English,
that he is a servant to the priest. The trooper says, "Damn you and
the priest," and forthwith dismounts for the purpose of dragging
Johannes M'Gregorius, the servant, along with him. The servant remonstrates
by saying he is a disabled man, unable to walk over the diggings.
This infuriates the trooper, he strikes and knocks down the poor disabled
foreigner, drags him about, tears his shirt--in short, inflicting such injuries
on the poor fellow, that all the diggers present cried out "shame! shame!"

Commissioner Johnson rides up, and says to the crowd about him, that he should
not be interrupted in the execution of his 'dooty.' The priest hears
of his servant's predicament, comes to the spot, hands a five-pound note to
Johnson as bail for his servant's appearance the next day at the police-office.

The following morning, Johannes M`Gregorius is charged with being on
the gold-fields without a licence. The poor foreigner tries to make a defence,
but was fined five pounds. Commissioner Johnson now comes in and says,
M`Gregorius is not charged with being without a licence, but with assaulting
the trooper Lord--ridiculous! This alters the case. The trooper is called,
and says the old story about the execution of 'dooty,' that is,
licence-hunting.

A respectable witness takes his oath that he saw the trooper strike
the foreigner with his clenched fist, and knock him down.

The end of the story is in the Ballaarat tune, then in vogue: "Fined 5 pounds;
take him away."




Chapter XX.



Public Meeting
Held at the Catholic Chapel, Bakery-hill, Wednesday, October 25th.


After a good deal of pretty intelligible talk about the 'helpless Armenian,'
the trooper Lord, and our respected priest; Thomas Kennedy, pouncing on
the thing of the day proposed:--

"That it is the opinion of this meeting that the conduct of Mr. Commissioner
Johnson towards the Rev. Mr. Smyth has been calculated to awaken the highest
feeling of indignation on the part of his devoted flock: and to call upon
the government to institute an inquiry into his (gold-lace) character,
and to desire to have him at once removed from Ballaarat."

Carried unanimously.

The priest was requested to address the meeting.

Father Patricius Smyth, a native of Mayo, looks some thirty-five years old,
and belongs to the unadulterated Irish caste--half-curled hair, not abundant,
anxious semicircular forehead, keen and fiery eyes, altogether a lively
interesting head. He is a Latin and Celtic scholar; and that excuses him
for his moderate proficiency in modern languages. He was educated at Maynooth,
the eye-sore of Sabbatarians, and therefore believes it incontestable
that the authority conferred on him by the Bishop must needs be derived
from God; because the Bishop had been consecrated by the Pope, who--inasmuch
as a second branch of the Prince of the Apostles never was heard of at the time
of St. Augustin--is the successor of St. Peter, the corner stone on which
OUR LORD did build the Christian church, and our Lord's warrant is written
in St. John, chapter xiv, 24: 'Sermo quem auditis non est meus,
sed ejus qui misit me, nempe Patris.' And so Father Smyth feels himself
entitled to adopt what was said of the Divine Master, 'Docebat enim eos
ut habens auctoritatem, non autem ut scribae.' St. Matthew, chap. vii, 29.
Hence his preaching, though not remarkable for much eloquence,
does not lull to sleep. There is no cant, and strange as it may appear,
there is little argument in his short-framed sentences, because they are
the decided opinion of his mind and the warm expression of his heart,
anxious for the salvation of his flock, as he believes he will be called
to account if any be lost. He, out of civility, may not object to hear
what Paley or Butler has to say, but he scorns any conversation with Voltaire,
and would see the fellow burnt, as in the times of old. His character
was never impeached, because his conduct is an example to all of the strength
of his faith. Either at the altar or at the table he forgets not
that he belongs to the priesthood of Ireland, the 'proved gold' of the Catholic
church. His song is, 'Erin, my country,' and 'I love thy green bowers,'
is the end of his story, which is a hint to me that this is not the place
to say more for the peace of John Bull. Hence Ireland produced a
Daniel O'Connell, but has not yet got the repeal.

Father Smyth, in addressing the meeting, spoke with coolness and forbearance,
yet commendatory of the constitutional manner in which his congregation sought
redress from the government, for the insult offered them, through his person,
in the abuse of his servant by the trooper Lord. On concluding his address,
he was warmly cheered, when the reverend gentleman and his friends adjourned
to the parsonage, to partake of some refreshments.




Chapter XXI.



Public Meeting
Held on Bakery-hill, November llth.


Political changes contemplated by THE REFORM LEAGUE.

1. A full and fair representation.--Don't you wish you may get it?

2. Manhood suffrage.--Thanks to the Eureka-boys, it costs now one pound.
Cheap!

3. No property qualification of members for the Legislative Council.--The
identical thing for 'starring' on stumps to a fellow's heart's content.

4. Payment of members.--That's the accommodation!

5. Short duration of Parliament.--Increase the chances of accommodation,
that's it.

What was the freight per ton, of this sort of worn out twaddle imported
from old England?

How much does this new chum's bosh fetch in the southern markets,
and in the Victorian market particularly?

For my part I decline to answer, because I want to attend at the meeting.
J. B. Humffray, is the Secretary of the League; his name is going now
the round of the diggings; I wish to see the man in person; is he a great,
grand, or big man? that's the question.

When you seen JOHN BASSON HUMFFRAY, you have at once before you a gentleman,
born of a good old family; his manners confirm it, and his words indicate
an honest benevolent heart, directed by a liberal mind, entangled perhaps
by too much reading of all sorts, perplexed at the prosperity of the vicious,
and the disappointment of the virtuous in this mysterious world of ours,
but could never turn wicked, because he believes in the resurrection of life.
He is looking some thirty five years old, his person is well proportioned,
but inclining to John Bull's. His prepossessing countenance is made up of
a fine forehead, denoting astuteness, not so much as shrewdness, how,
when and whither to shift his pegs in the battle of life; of a pair of eyes
which work the spell; of a Grecian nose; of a mouth remarkable for the
elasticity of the lips, that make him a model in the pronunciation
of the English language. His voice, that of a tenor, undulating and clear,
never obstreperous, enables his tongue to work the intended charm,
when his head puts that member into motion; but the semi-earnestness
of his address, his cool sort of John Bull smile, betray that his heart
does not go always with his head. Hence he has many enemies, and yet not one
ever dared to substantiate a charge against his character; he has as many
friends, but not one friend, because it is his policy ever to keep friendly,
with redcoats and gold-lace, at one and the same time as with blueshirts
and sou'-westers.

As I cannot possibly mean any thing dishonourable to our old mate,
John Basson Humffray, I may here relate what his foes do say of him.

Suppose any given square and the four pegs to be:


C-------D
| |
| W |
| |
B-------E

C., that is, the Camp; E., that is, the Eureka; D., that is, the doodledom
of red-tape., and B., that is, blue-shirts.

Let W., that is work, be the central point at C, E, and D, B. Now: John is
sinking at Eureka with the red cap; and Basson cracks some yabber-yabber at D,
that is, getting a sip of Toorak small-beer, as aforesaid. Again: when
Basson puts on a sou'-wester to go through the main-drift with blue-shirts,
then John feels entitled to tramp up to Camp, and there, somewhere not far off,
toast on the fourth of July a Doctor Kenworthy; soon after, however,
said Johnny bends his way to shake hands with Signor Raffaello, at the old peg
Eureka, and helps him to rock the cradle. Further, to give evidence
of his consistency, Humffray himself will express his sorrow to Peter Lalor
for his loss of the left arm at the same peg Eureka; and, to atone for
past transgressions, he will soon after call in both the prodigal John
and yabbering Basson, and with his whole heart and voice, strike up,
'God Save the Queen,' at peg Camp. As for bottoming his shaft at the central
point Work, that's a different thing altogether; and yet it must be admitted
that he is 'all there' in his claim, when the hole is bottomed, especially
if a drive is to be put in with his quill. Sum total:--He was, is, and
ever will be, John Basson Humffray, Esquire, of Ballaarat;
'Honi soi qui mal y pense', because his friends want him in St. Patrick's Hall.




Chapter XXII.



Strike Off A Medal In Commemoration.


We are on Bakery-hill, though, attention. Immediate objects of
the Reform League.

I. An immediate change in the management of the goldfields, by disbanding
the Commissioners (undoubtedly the unanimous demand, or 'desire'--if the word
suit better the well-affected--of all blue-shirts). Three cheers for Vern!
Go it hearty! Fine fellow! Legs rather too long! Never mind.

II. The total abolition of the diggers' and storekeeper's licence tax.
(Ah! ah! prick John Bull at his pounds, shillings and pence,
that's the dodge to make him stir.)

Three cheers for Humffray! Hurrah!

The whole of the grand talk of these Bakery reformers leagued together on its
hill, can properly be framed in, on a 'copper;' thus doing justice to all.

Image.
LET
a course of
action be decided on
and carried out unswervingly
until the heel of our oppressors
be removed from our necks.
DON'T LET THE THING DROP THROUGH,
for want of co-operation and support
NOTA BENE.
2s. 6d. gentleman's ticket.
No admission for ladies at present. 'Durum sed levius fit Patientia.'
REMEMBER!
GOD HELPS HIM WHO HELPS HIMSELF (to the 2s. 6d.)
DO NOT LET
the word 'British' become a bye-word.
AND ABOVE ALL LEAVE OFF SINGING
'Britons never, never shall be slaves,'
until you leave fondling
the chains which
prove the song
a lie,
a mockery,
a delusion,
a snare.
----
Great works!

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