A SERMON UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Lyttelton Times, Volume LXI, Issue 7143, 21 January 1884, Page 5

A SERMON UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

(From the Portland Nows, Oregon.) Port Gamble has distinctive features of its own. The town site, hotel, store, and mill are owned by the mill Company, and no business can be opened without their consent. The one hall is used for schoolhouse, church, and theatre. Nearly all companies that play the circuit take in Port Gamble. The Company’s hotel is run by a “ queer genius” known as “ Jim,” a burly, big Missourian of 6ft 2in, 2361 b, and a squeaky, thin, falsetto voice. He is far-famed for good nature, wit, and eccentricity; is everybody’s friend among the boys, whom he effectually leads by the noses. A Seattle minister once had a notice posted about the town that divine service would be held on a certain Sunday. There are few women in the place, and not a soul climbed the school-house hill to be saved. The minister waited three-quarters of an hour, then wended his way to the hotel. The office, bar, and billiard-room were crowded with mill hands and loggers, rough in dress and speech, all smoking, swearing, drinking, &c. Just inside the door sat Jim at a poker game. To him the minister complained that no one had come to hear hi™ preach. Jim was in for fair play at once. He said to the sad-faced divine: — " All right, stranger; jest you go back up hill, and I’ll make these fellers come up an’ give ye a show. Jest you shinny right along, an’ don’t fret, an’ I’ll tote ’em up thar quicker’n greased lightnin’.” His reverence retired, and Jim called out, “ Say, all you fellers, hold up. There’s a gospel sharp up to the meetin’ house says ’taint fair; we ain’t give him no show. I 'low ’taint neither, bein’s he’s served notice on us two weeks, an’ come on from Clamtown (Seattle) ’cordin’ to contract. Come on, now, all you duffers, an’ toteyerselves up thar. Put up them dice, you fellers; bar’s shet till after meetin’ house. Come on, Joe Hawks; you’re the worse old sinner in this camp. You need mendin’ morn’n any of us, I reckon. Stop them billiards yander. Ought to be ashamed o’ yerselves, playin’ when thar’s a preacher in town. March out o’ here! Git! Lock the door. Bill, an’ you see you came right on up, too. Take off that apron, first; an’ none o’ your derned cuttin’ up in meetin’, or you won’t sling no more drinks over my bar, I tell ye!” He drove every man out and before him like a flock of sheep, up the hill to “ meetin'house,” where all of them had been to see the show the night before. When he arrived he headed the gang of lodgers and roughs, and walked up to the minister. *' Higgins, can’t you set down, or have ye got a bile ? Set down, I tell ye! Now, mister, you let go at ’em. They’re a lot of onery critters, anyhow, and ye kin just go for the whole possy.” And not a face wore a smile. The good man read a chapter and said a prayer, but couldn’t sing. He timidly asked some of the brethren to read a hymn. None of the brethren responded, but all looked at Jim. He was equal to the occasion. “ Prank Harris, you kin sing. Shell out some o’ them songs o’ yourn.” Prank Harris said, “ I only know ‘ Nancy Lee,’ and ‘ Bango was his Name.’” “Well, them songs ain't no good for a meetin’ house; better for loggin’ camp, I reckon. Tom Kerrish, I Tow you more about hymns, bein’s most Scotch fellers is church folks. Sing out now, and all you duffers as kin, jine into the chorus,” and Jim began beating time vigorously. Tom Kerrish hemmed and coughed to clear his tin oat, and started in with “ Auld Lang Syne.” Jim nodded to the “fellers” here and there until the entire crowd, one by one, “ jined in the chorus” lustily. When the last verse was reached everybody was singing, and at a sign from Jim Tom started in again, and they sang the whole song through twice, beating time with thou' boots and keeping perfectly decorous. At the close the irrepressible Jim spoke out—- " Now give it to ’em, mister, red-hot, but cut it short. Most of ’em has to got back to the woods in the morniu’ an’wants to finish the’r games this evenin'.” The minister did “ give it to ’em,” and the men listened with respectful attention. When through, the spokesman again officiated. “ Can’t none o’ you sainyors sing no more ? Well, I Tow ye kin put up if ye can’t sing. Give'us yer tile, mister,” and taking the divine’s hat ho proceeded to levy contributions from each man. “ Come down now all you duffers; a man can’t come from Clamtown for nothin’ to save yer onery souls. Dan Higgins, you old sinner, yon won the last pot to-day ; sling that flyer lively Tom Kerrish, you km get off with four bits. That was a right good hymn o’ vour’n. Bill, Tow you don’t get off less n two an'a half, bein’ as you git more free drinks’n any feller hero, and so on all round, until every man had “ put up, and the hat was full. Put a lOdo gold piece on top. ho handed the talc back, and said. “Well, mister, we’re obleeged. I reckon the boys has done the square.thing. | low you don’t take in no such pot as tins every day, Meetin’s out, fellers. Good day, mister;” and the entire crowd, without further ceremony, went back to cauls, billiards, and drinks, as though nothing had happened- This is not a westeni | y...rn, but an o or true tale. 1- iaullj hap

p<)tie(l not tli roe months ago, and “ Jim ” is still alivo, as fat in flesh and os thin in voice as then.