Banking Under Difficulties/Chapter 4

by George Ogilvy Preshaw

CHAPTER IV.

First Clergymen on the Diggings.—Bishop Perry and Others. —“Dreams go by Contraries.”—Burglar Shot.

Thirty years ago there was little preaching and printing in and around Castlemaine—a place then scarcely known by name. One morning a written notice met the eye of a churchman and gladdened his heart by the announcement that a minister of the Church of England was to preach that day under a large gumtree near Heape’s Store, at Lever Point, Moonlight Flat. The arrival of the hour was guessed at, for watches were not then in every fob; but one or two had gathered below the gum-tree when a young gentleman dressed in a black suit drew near. He was spared the usual “Joe” given to those unfortunates who from necessity had to sport a “bell-topper,” for to the credit of the digger, be it said, the Lord’s day has been, from the first days of gold workings, observed with becoming propriety. The advancing stranger seemed by his very gait to be a clergyman. He took his stand under the tree, and began to read the beautiful service for morning prayer. One or two gathered round, and soon, about a dozen diggers stood under the canopy of Heaven and listened to the form of sound words uttered by the man of God. One came and another went, but about a score remained until the termination of the service. Strange to say, not two of the congregation were baptised or shepherded by the same pastor, for all were far from the homes of their youth. Gruff and grim, with mud bespattered dress, the bearded men were as orderly as could be expected, and had put their pipes into their pockets. Prayer ended, the minister began, “Fellow diggers,—I am a stranger to you all, and we are all strangers to each other. This is the first time I ever preached extempore, or in the open air, and under the blue vault of Heaven, and although I had prepared a written discourse, yet I feel constrained to speak to you about that for which we are all searching.” He did so, and with beautiful simplicity persuaded them not to be less anxious for the gold in the gospel than for the gold in the ground. “Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.” The sermon ended, and all parted after the solemn benediction. Not long after this young minister met with a sudden death in the vicinity of Melbourne, and he is now gone to receive the treasure which he laid up in Heaven.

Castlemaine then was not a township. Its site was not surveyed; the gum trees and wattle grew where tents and houses have since sprung up, but by the creek sides where the diggers congregated the Revs. Gregory and Cheyne held occasional outdoor services, not but that there were other ministers similarly occupied. These jottings, however, refer more to the rise and progress of the Church of England. By-and-bye a wooden store was obtained on the camp reserve as a temporary church. Four round saplings were cut into lengths and fixed in the ground at one end of the edifice; three sides were closed in with pieces of empty pickle and brandy cases, and all played their parts in the construction of the first Episcopalian pulpit in Castlemaine. There were not yet any table, communion rails, or kneeling boards, yet the rude place afforded shelter for the people who gathered for worship, conducted at one time by the Episcopalian clergyman, and at another hour by the Rev. Mr. Low, of the Scotch Kirk. A bell that had been obtained by Mr. G———, whilst yet there was no place for it, was lent to Mr. Currie, the Wesleyan minister, and was for a time fixed in his chapel at Forest Creek, and its merry sound proclaimed the Sabbath morn. At length a rude belfry, surmounted by a wooden cross, ornamented the gable end of the wooden church, and after no little difficulty the bell was removed from Forest Creek. It rang for awhile in the new belfry, and now rings in the Church of England school. Not a few members of the Roman Catholic Church were attracted by the rude emblem of a Saviour’s passion, but, finding the prayers offered in the English tongue, found out the mistake and turned away. The camp officials, with their wives and families, occupied a considerable portion of the rude church, yet a few belted diggers, with blue jumpers and clay-stained trousers, filled the lower benches.

Soon after the want of education was much felt, and Mr. Gee was for a time the very acceptable schoolmaster. The clergyman (Mr. Cheyne) had to ride from Burnbank, a distance of forty miles, to do duty on each alternate Sunday—a duty in which he never failed, although he had to endure trials and hardships but little known nowadays, and by all new chums but little understood. At length a large tent was converted into a dwelling-place for the minister and his family, in which they roughed it for a time. In the centre of this domicile stood an old camp oven, which had seen some service, and this filled with charcoal was all the hearth in this primitive parsonage. It was not an easy matter to build chimneys in those days, for an ordinary one would cost £20, and parsons, even in those golden days, were not overpaid. I have heard Father Barrett say from his place in church that he once went all the way to Sawpit Gully for a dirty half-crown, and somewhere else he declared with disgust that he did not get a ha’porth. One Lord’s day a small table was placed by the pulpit and covered with a clean white cloth, and after the morning service some five or six partook of the Holy Supper, which was administered, the communicants meekly kneeling on the ground. A plain drinking glass was all the church could then afford, although many ounces of gold have since been dug from below the very spot where the altar stood.

The old store—the church, as it was often called—began to fall into decay. It was repaired once and considerable addition made to it. The Bishop of Melbourne paid his first visit to his Castlemaine flock and preached and blessed the people in this edifice. One day a gentleman in judicial robes was seen entering that humble building who, according to a godly custom at home, went to offer holy worship to Him who is the judge of all. But, by some means, this practice was not continued. In 1856 another great personage—the late Sir Charles Hotham, the Governor—accompanied by his lady and suite, attended church, and joined at the celebration of the Holy Eucharist, showing by their presence a sense of Christian duty, and by their deportment a spirit of humility in the presence and worship of Him who is the Governor of all. But the wind and the rain exercised their dominion, and the building fell fast into decay. The congregation, after a repetition of Sunday shower baths, resolved on getting a better, more substantial, and commodious place of worship. However, by this time an occasional hassock appeared, and a small harmonium was a great addition to the choir, and a great step in advance of the time when the minister and myself (who could only start two tunes between us) contrived to lead the service of praise, and for a little variety took the lead alternately. The font was a simple affair; a tea cup from the parsonage was taken to the creek, filled, and brought by a parishioner. As yet there was no regular afternoon service, and the minister would walk off to some creek side, soon collecting a congregation.

The worthy bishop went to Forest Creek and mounted the best pulpit of wood he could get—an old tree-stump—and preached to the people the glad tidings of salvation. Mr. Cheyne was removed to another sphere of labour, and the Rev. J. Barlow supplied his place. Prior to Mr. Cheyne’s removal he had the pleasure of seeing, as well as the honour of admitting into the bosom of the church, a native man named “Wedgemain” by his tribe, and “John” in the ordinance of holy baptism. I stood sponsor. After this he was married in the church the same day to a half-caste of another tribe. I gave the bride away, and the bridesmaids and witnesses were the few blackfellows and their lubras. Some had courage to approach the altar rails, but a few others of the blanket-wearing tribe stood by the door. J. W. signed his name in the records of the church, but poor Mary had to make her mark.

I had seen a lady and gentleman pass on one or two occasions, and seeing so few gentlemen dressed in black, came to the conclusion that it was a minister of the gospel. Understanding that he was to preach under a gum-tree, I made arrangements for the diggers to go, and I was to act as tent-keeper. After a reasonable time I saw them returning, accompanied by the worthy pair, and judge my astonishment when I found we were well-known to each other. What a pleasure to meet old friends. I gave them a hearty welcome, gave the lady my chair, and the minister a stool. We had no knives and forks for strangers, so I had to exercise my hospitality in the shape of a glass of lemonade—“fizz-up,” as the diggers called it. I need not say that there was very much said about “Auld Lang Syne” and friends at home, and I got a hearty invitation to the manse at Castlemaine. When the minister was about to open the service he said that if any of the congregation would start a psalm tune he would be much obliged. One or two of my party, and a young man camping near, took courage and tried “Stroudwater;” they got through it some way, and at the end of the service the minister went up and thanked them, and was pleased to discover they were the sons of friends he had known at home. Next Sunday was my turn. No Sabbath bell called us together to worship the God of our fathers. The branches of a fine eucalyptus were the sounding board, the ceiling of the temple, the vast canopy of heaven. One after another gathered around us—we were strangers and pilgrims—we had no books, but the line was given out, and all joined in the beautiful psalm, “The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want.” The sound fell on the ears of some who came, the seed was sown broadcast, and the sower will find the fruit in the harvest—“The labourer is worthy of his hire.” I took my bonnet and went round the assembly, the minister pronounced the blessing, and all retired to their tents. A few days afterwards I called at the manse; it stood close to the creek side on the camp ground, at Castlemaine, nearly opposite to the present warden’s office; it consisted of one fine substantial tent, about 12 x 20, lined with carpeting, a good floor-cloth, and divided into two rooms by a chaste and simple screen; the door was canvas at one end, fixed by a colonial lock—good tape. Outside stood a small round tent—I did not intrude—I presumed it served as a place where the minister prepared his sermons, the wife her social meal. I need not say I got a hearty welcome. There was no township then, and consequently no parish kirk, so the minister had to find a congregation where he best could. By-and-bye a canvas church was erected, and a snug little place it was, neatly lined, with rungs of wood driven into the ground, and narrow boards nailed on them as seats. The Rev. Mr. Low was the first to preach there. The manners and customs of the people changed—the walls of a substantial brick church were soon reared round the tent, and in its place the usual complement of first-rate pews and other fittings, with a neat pulpit and precentor’s desk. Near the kirk stands the manse—a neat, substantial brick building, overlooking the town of Castlemaine.

But I must not forget what was the first and only place of worship in the old Canvas Town, and before the present town had any proclaimed existence—the place where Professor Jackson preached. What his faith and practice were, was not well defined. A few well-meaning women went from tent to tent and got the willing offerings of all; a large tent was soon erected below the present parsonage, and where I gave the first course of lectures on scientific subjects delivered in Castlemaine. This was the birthplace of the national school; the platform for meetings of innumerable kinds; where Mr. Hitchcock's voice was often heard; where the professor delineated the characters and described the bumps of bystanders on week days, and denounced the pleasures of sin on Sundays. What lungs the professor had! I was never in the chapel when he preached, but at half-a-mile distant I have sat on Clinker’s Hill and listened to his discourse. There were some large trees then in the market square. He pitched a tent there, where he remained for a few months, when he disappeared from the scene. In front of this nondescript place stood a large tent on a hillock, near the site of the steam flour mill. This was the residence of an Italian; a large signboard was fixed in front bearing the name of John Baptiste, truss-maker. John found few trusses were required, and turned his attention to digging. I was passing the place one day and was called in to see a poor black man, who in a fit of religious frenzy had cut his throat. The poor fellow was quite dead. The truss-maker took it very much to heart, and made up his mind to dedicate himself and his home to God. He sold off his little property; sometimes went to church, sometimes to chapel; then stayed away from both; was seen by several ministers, but was inclined to have his own way; shut himself in, and converted the whole of a large substantial tent into a pretty little chapel, which was lined with red blankets, and the roof with white calico, the pulpit and seats all covered with red baize; a deal table, covered with a clean white cloth, stood before the pulpit—a bible on the one and a prayer-book on the other; a neatly-made chandelier was suspended from the ceiling, and the floor covered with cleanly washed stones, the tailings of the digger’s cradle. He offered the use of the place to all on Sunday, but none seemed disposed to accept his offer; nothing would satisfy them but the exclusive right to the place. However, the Mormons got hold of him. I called on him once and found the place lit up inside with at least a dozen candles. He was in the pulpit in a kind of surplice, and reading something to a soldier. I never saw him again. He called on me and left a long written testimony with reference to Mormonism, and concluded by stating that he was off to the Salt Lakes. The chapel is gone, and now there is no trace of the existence of either. About this time many worthy and pious people who had been seeking to serve God in a little tent at Campbell’s Creek located themselves at Castlemaine, and with a few others holding congregational principles, hired a large store near Froome’s corner, which was occasionally used by D. Blair and others, and ultimately by the Rev. Edwin Day, to whose zeal and perseverance the Congregationalists are indebted for a large place of worship, and the minister himself for a comfortable residence. The Baptists’ too, have a place of worship. All seemed bent on doing God’s work in their own way.

The minister of ——— was a worthy man, and would rather see a man doing mischief than standing idle. His man David was as industrious as most of his class, but thought that his master wished him to do more than his share of work, and was determined to give him a hint whenever opportunity offered. David slept in a small room in an outhouse, and the minister thinking that his man was rather late in bed one morning said so. David excused himself by saying that he had been dreaming, and thought that he had been in hell. The minister remarked that it was a bad place to be in, and walked away. However, David was a bit of a philosopher, and waited for his opportunity. One morning the minister met David, who was up earlier than usual, and was quite chatty. “Well, David; no dreams this morning? you’re up too soon.” David was far from being lazy, and hated to be thought so; and believing that the minister minded other folk’s work more than his own, said: “Oh! aye, sir; I had a dream; I’ve been in Heaven this time!” “In Heaven, d’ye say, David? I think it would have been as well to have remained there in case you never get back; but what did you see there, David?” “Well, sir, I saw the angels, and a lot of braw folks; I saw ane better buskit than a’ the rest; and as she saw that I was a stranger she came up to me and spak as couthie as if she had kenned me a’ my days; I could’na help making a bow, and taking off my bonnet; she made a curtsey, and said, ‘And whar d’ye come from, my man?’ I said, ‘I’m the minister’s man.’ ‘The minister,’ quoth she, and she turned to a braw young lass stannin next her, saying, ‘I say, turn up the books, for I dinna think we’ve had a single soul from that parish for the last twenty years.’” “Tut! tut! David,” for the minister did not relish the rebuke, “dreams, ye ken, aye gae by contraries; I’ve little faith in dreams.”

I had often seen a tent almost always shut, but as there was a brass plate on one side and a card or two fixed on the other, I thought it no intrusion to take a look at the inscription on either, and found out that the owner was a surgeon, and it was only at the interval of two years that I found him a patient but unlucky digger. The doctor was a gentleman, and like many others had to retire from the field of practice to seek for another and more profitable one, and on the eve of his departure felt sleepless. However, he went to bed, after seeing his goods and chattels duly boxed, and only sorry that he had not a larger treasure. Someone thought otherwise, and at midnight he thought he saw the tent door move. It’s a dog, said the doctor; but he touched his double-barrelled gun to give himself courage. He was alarmed, however, and seeing a larger object than before, he made no noise. Suspecting there was something up, he watched, and soon after saw the tent move again, and off went one barrel, and, little thinking what would be the result, he fired off the second, saying, “Will you take another.” No reply. The doctor went to sleep. Next morning a man was found on the hill side, bleeding, sick, and weary, and lying under a tree, then between Jack Morris’s and the parsonage. In course of time the doctor was up and about. A man was found, evidently shot by somebody—not dead, but dying. The doctor told his adventure, and gave himself up as the man who did the deed. The man died; a bullet was found in his neck. The doctor went before the authorities, and was at once discharged.

[The foregoing chapters have been compiled from my late father’s note books, which will in some measure account for their fragmentary character. They do not aim at being anything more than plain records of daily events, and are written in the first person. The remaining portion of this work will, of course, appear in the usual form.]