The Commissioner becomes excited,
and orders the troopers to take the man in charge; but no trooper appears
to relish the business.
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':
