Often a preacher has his chapel over a saloon where the audience can hear the sharp click of the billiard-balls, the rattle of the dice, and the profanity of the crowd below. One day a man who was rapidly killing himself with drink recited in a voice so that all in the little church could hear him:—
"There is a spirit above,
There is a spirit below,
A spirit of joy,
A spirit of woe.
The spirit above
Is the spirit divine,
The spirit below
Is the spirit of wine."
It was hard work under such circumstances to hold an audience. From the room where the man preached twelve saloons were in sight, and the audience could hear the blasting from the mines beneath them. The communion had to be held at night, as the deacons were in the mine all day. And yet those that did come were in earnest, I think. The very deviltry and awfulness of sin drove some men to a better life who under other conditions would never have gone to church. Many men were hanged for stealing horses, very few for killing a man; while many a would-be suicide has been saved by the efforts of a true-hearted minute-man. No one but a genuine lover of his kind can do much good among the miners. In no place is a man weighed quicker. The miners are a splendid lot to work with, and none more gallant and respectful to a good woman in the world.
The free and easy style of a frontiersman is refreshing. You never hear the question as to whether the other half of your seat is engaged; although, if you are a minister in regulation dress, you will often have the seat to yourself. I remember once, when travelling in a part of the country where both lumbermen and miners abounded, a big man sat down by my side. He dropped into the seat like a bag of potatoes. After a moment's look at me, he said, "Live near here?"
"Yes, at ——."
"Umph! In business?"
"Yes; I have the biggest business in the place."
"I want to know. You ain't Wilcox?"
"I know that."
"Well, don't he own that mill?"