by David Ruffle
The city was remarkable for what I saw then was a thriving, although less so of late, city with forty thousand inhabitants living where twenty years ago there was not even one house, but enormous amounts of activity would have been seen with gold fields being worked, the mines in full flow and outside of that there would have been only the solitude of the wild primeval forest, now tamed by man. It was incredible to think that the long lines of stately buildings, the elegant shops and the huge factories could have sprung up in such a short space of time.
Over the course of my first few days in Ballarat, I covered the whole area on foot, traversing the old workings on the gold fields. In Leigh valley, I observed the sandstone foundations of a station which had remained unbuilt. Those unfinished walls were in a paddock overlooking a little carse of some four or five acres by the creek side, close to the junction of the Woolshed Creek, with the main stream in the valley.
On the other side of the larger stream rise basaltic mounds, marked with the pits and banks of the earlier miners. Like the trenches of an old battlefield, these works of the digging armies of the past were now grass-grown and spotted with wild flowers. All around, the open lands of twenty years ago had been turned into streets and fields and gardens.
Whenever I think of Ballarat that is the image I see. Perhaps it was the same for the old diggers of two decades before. For those who stayed, how many enjoyed this expansion of the city from such humble beginnings? Did they see it as magical? Did they see their own lives as diggers magical? It certainly seemed that way to be in the stories of the gold rush I had read, but reality sings a different song. I pictured an old digger now as he walked about those spacious gas-lit streets, where he no longer has need of the candle in the broken bottle as a lantern after dark, but where every thoroughfare is adorned with crowding edifices and is glittering with the blaze of a more artificial life and the results of accumulated wealth. As he looks, perhaps there come moments when all the scene dissolves into its original elements. Through all the rattle of street strife, over all the display of churches, towers, halls and noisy warehouses, his eyes see something and his ears hear something invisible and inaudible to others. Over all the array of aggregated civic opulence and beauty and its dark shadows of want and haggard strife for bread, there steal to him the silence of the beginning, a few white tents among the forest trees that are no more; the half-dozen columns of curling smoke from the camp fires; the round, oval and square pits of the shallow-ground digger; the scanty patches of newly turned up golden soil. The fresh breeze that came over the old silent odorous bush and its reaches of grass-land, breathes upon him again instead of the noisome exhalations from the gutters and sewers and by-ways of the thickly peopled city. In another moment that scene, too, glides past and reality and the present impose itself.
The old diggers I spoke to were certainly more prone to looking back than looking forward and for such tough, uncompromising men they all had a touch of wistfulness that clung to them. The site of the Eureka stockade action which so thrilled me as a boy was disappointing. There was nothing left of the buildings and nothing there that recorded the event. It seemed conveniently forgotten if not by the people, then certainly the authorities who apparently had no wish to commemorate the violence of that event.
Once the excitement of my early forays into the city had paled, I settled down into a routine; assisting Doctor Josephs when required which was often enough and nothing like the comparatively light tasks I had been entrusted with on the ship. I can honestly say I worked extremely hard for my board and lodgings. To me, the atmosphere of the city, notwithstanding the industry, was quite healthy. The endless queues of patients streaming to our door testified of something else. It wasn’t a malady that could in most cases be whittled down to a handful of common ailments.
There was a malady of the mind at work. The obsession the diggers had shown when they were hunting for gold now turned into other obsessions; food, drink, smoking and diseases arising from the access the men had to easy women. I tried my level best to get to the root of these problems by sitting the men down, eighty percent of all our patients were men, and talking to them. Not just talking of course, but listening. Doctor Josephs was none too pleased with these sessions of mine; he was only too glad to see the back of most of them. Not that I am casting aspersions on his medical abilities. I wasn’t then and I am not now. We were just different in our approach.
Once a week or sometimes twice a week I wrote a letter to Adeline. Looking back to my youth, I can acknowledge now that they were unnecessarily florid and romantic, but there was no doubt in my mind that I was in love and I had no reason to suppose that Adeline did not reciprocate my feelings. The replies were fairly swift in coming and I would carry her letters with me everywhere and read them so often that they were in danger of falling apart. The news was that the hotel was doing well and she had settled in very well. She expressed the wish that we would meet before too long.
Later letters took longer to arrive and left me frustrated and worried out of my mind. The missives that did arrive were now somehow impersonal and concentrated on events at the hotel and township rather than her feelings, hopes and dreams. There was often a mention of a Veerhoeven, A Dutchman whom her father had taken on to oversee the completion of the hotel. I should have seen it coming of course. It is no wonder they say love is blind. Three months later, Adeline’s father sent me a letter simply stating that Adeline had married Dirk Veerhoeven a few days before.
The news stopped me dead in my tracks. It was as though my whole future had become a thing of nonsense that I wanted no part of. The Josephs’ were very patient with this madman they had taken into their house who had suddenly become incapable of even the simplest of duties. They say there’s no fool like an old fool, at my age I am entitled to say it, but I think it is equally so that there is no fool like a young fool. Gradually, this madness, and I don’t use the word lightly, passed, and life went back to a form of normality.
I even began to enjoy life in Ballarat anew for the truth was that this city that had sprung out of nowhere was filled with such vibrancy and growth that it was impossible not to be caught up in it. There was no Rugby club to immerse myself in, but cricket was played to a fairly high standard and I was invited to join the ranks, not that I was especially a cricketer of note, but I gave it my all and managed to pick up a fair few runs if rather less by way of wickets! I remember well the fierce rivalry between Ballarat and Geelong in spite of the first match between the sides having taken place only a few years before. The Eastern oval was, in those days at least, a fairly ramshackle place with shady fish ponds surrounded by trees. The grandstand was a large wooden building with a skittle alley made of interlaced sticks with a thatched roof. Behind this building there was a bowling green.
On rainy days, of which there were plenty, we would fill our time playing skittles... for money. I was often out of pocket particularly as the losers were expected to stand a round of beers at the Lewis Pavilion Hotel which had the distinction of being the only fully licensed hotel on a sports ground in the state of Victoria.
There was a rumour, unconfirmed like all good rumours should be, that WG Grace[13] would be touring Australia in the winter of 1873/1874 and there was further talk that he would be bringing his troops to Ballarat. It had been my plan to be back in England by then to pick up the reins of my education, but the thought of being involved in a splendid sporting occasion began to sway me towards thoughts of staying longer. I gave in to those thoughts of course and duly advised the University of London that I would be taking up their offer a few months later than planned.
When time allowed, I would hire a horse and ride out into the countryside. It was a striking landscape, its beauty rugged, its splendours haphazard. There was a myriad of insects and spiders that seemed to be hell-bent on destroying any of humankind they came across, many filled with enough poison to fell a horse let alone a man. I remembe
r guiding my horse through a lightly wooded area as the sun dropped in the sky and shot rays between the trees. Glistening in between two trees was the largest web I had ever seen. And sitting motionless in it was the largest spider I had ever encountered. I am not one to affix human attributes to any member of the animal kingdom, but believe me, that spider was mean. Angry and mean. I had no real idea what it could do to me, but I was not about to stay and find out. I turned the horse around and rode fast for Ballarat. It was hardly a comforting thought that if the insects and spiders did not get you, then the snakes would! The sight of my first kangaroo was quite a moment I can tell you, but very quickly subsequent sightings became commonplace. Familiarity etc.
The talk of WG Grace’s impending visit became bit by bit more than hearsay and arrangements were under way to receive our renowned visitors. The match was set to be played in the first week of January and it was decided that it would be a match which pitched twenty-two men of Ballarat against the eleven of Grace’s team as there was an understandable gulf in class between the two sides. It was to be termed Ballarat against All England. Even with such a numerical advantage, Ballarat would not be expected to win although they certainly would expect to put up a good show. I entertained no hopes of playing in the match; there were other stalwarts of the cricket club who deserved their chance to play against such illustrious opposition. I was, after all, to all intents and purposes a visitor to the city.
However, a fortuitous chain of circumstances conspired to give me the opportunity of walking out onto the Eastern oval[14] to face Doctor Grace. For one, the date of the match coincided with the annual Caledonian gathering which laid claim to being the largest and grandest fete in the area. Some of those who could reasonably be expected to be part of the twenty-two found their loyalties torn and three or four had no choice but to withdraw from selection. Add to that, a dog bite, a calamity involving a runaway horse and an overturned carriage and suddenly I found myself in the twenty-two and with a, perhaps, ill-deserved nod to the few runs I had garnered in previous matches I was to enter the fray at number four in the batting line-up.
When Grace and his team rolled into the city they were greeted by the mayor who treated them to a fine luncheon. In the afternoon Grace inspected the pitch which he declared to be a fine piece of turf. He expressed some surprise at the short boundaries which he thought would play into the tourist’s hands. He was proved right for over the course of the first two days’ play, they racked up 470 runs with Grace and his brother, George, commonly known as Fred, making centuries. We had of course twenty-two fielders which you think would be number enough to keep the score down, but we struggled in the field with many hits simply going over our heads. I must also add in defence of our fielding that it was a very hot day and standing in the field under a broiling sun while batsmen played merry was no easy thing.
In spite of the Caledonian gathering, the attendance was very good indeed; six to seven thousand was the estimate. That the batting of the tourists was the principal attraction was not in doubt for on the third day when it was our turn at the wicket we found the crowd had fallen away considerably. We made a good match of it with the Figgis brothers making eighty odd runs between them. I was lucky enough to make thirty-three runs before being out legged before wicket to WG Grace himself. No shame in that I told myself. At the close of the third and final day the score for Ballarat stood at 276 and the match was declared a draw. The local newspaper reported that I had made my runs in a cricket-like manner which seemed to be another way of saying that my batting was not the most exciting on view! When we came off the field we found champagne bottles lined up on a table in the luncheon room. We needed no second invitation to partake. Once the match and the celebrations were over, my thoughts were of my return to England which could be put off no longer.
12 75km from Melbourne. During the gold rush Geelong experienced a brief boom as the main port to the rich goldfields of the Ballarat district.
13 England’s foremost cricketer of ‘The Golden Age’.
14 The Eastern Oval was host to one of the Test matches in the infamous ‘Bodyline’ series between Australia and England 1932/33.
Cylinder 5
I certainly had mixed feelings the day of my departure from Ballarat. From being a complete stranger, I had in my way become part of that community. I had been accepted as so many others had been accepted there before me. But now it was time to leave. I was leaving behind friends, but confident that the new chapter of my life would result in friendships that would hopefully prove to be just as strong.
The voyage home was long and just as arduous as the outward journey with no diversions to take up my time, nor indeed any worthwhile occupation. I kept myself to myself mostly and resolved that if any damsels in distress were to twist or sprain ankles in my vicinity then I would do my level best to ignore them. I had kept my uncle informed of my plans not that I was expecting any kind of welcoming committee when I embarked at Liverpool. I would have liked to head north to Hexham, but a lack of funds meant that the journey to London would have to be immediate.
I felt as though my education was complete with my doctoring, yes, I think it can be called that, on board the Hellespont and my work in Ballarat, but in reality, I had four years of hard work approaching before being let loose in the world... somehow, somewhere. In the field of medicine things were changing very quickly. Sophia Jex-Blake[15] was leading the way for women to be allowed to take their degrees in medicine, something that just did not happen in those times. She argued that natural instinct leads women to concern themselves with the care of the sick. However, with education of girls being restricted to domestic crafts, women generally could not qualify to compete with men as medical practitioners. However, she argued that there was no objective proof of women’s intellectual inferiority to men. She said that the matter could easily be tested by granting women ‘a fair field and no favour’ - teaching them as men were taught and subjecting them to exactly the same examinations.
This seemed perfectly sound and logical to me and I wholeheartedly agreed with her sentiments. It was only 1870 when the University of Edinburgh admitted women in spite of fervent opposition. But and there is always a but. As the women began to demonstrate that they could compete on equal terms with the male students, hostility towards them began to grow. They received obscene letters, were followed home, had fireworks attached to their front door, mud thrown at them. This culminated in the Surgeons’ Hall[16] riot on the 18th November 1870 when the women arrived to sit an anatomy exam at Surgeons’ Hall and an angry mob of over two hundred were gathered outside throwing mud, rubbish and insults at the women.
The events made national headlines and won the women many new supporters. However, influential members of the medical faculty eventually persuaded the university to refuse graduation to the women and the campaign in Edinburgh failed in 1873. Many of the women went to European universities that were already allowing women to graduate and completed their studies there.
It was as I arrived in London that Doctor Jex-Blake was setting up the London School of Medicine for Women. They were exciting times. Life in Forest Hill, however, was just the same. My uncle was still holding the reins of his business empire and Mrs Chinneck was still running around after him. I moved back into my old room, feeling like a schoolboy again. I suppose that’s what I was... an overgrown schoolboy with still so much to learn. The University of London would see me through to my goals, most of which to be honest were not exactly clear to me.
Did I want to have my own medical practice? Did I want to become a surgeon? To open a medical practice, I would need to be a member of The Royal College of Surgeons and a licence from the Royal College of Physicians. My life quickly became a round of learning in the greatest detail whole swathes of information on chemistry, physics, botany, anatomy and physiology. My aptitude for learning was as strong as it had ever been and in sp
ite of feeling that life was one weary trudge through textbooks, I took in what I needed and probably an awful lot more I didn’t. Most of my training took place at Barts[17]within the confines of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital Medical College.
The journey there replicated the journey I had made to St Paul’s. I alighted at the same station and walked to Smithfield. The days were shorter than they were at school for which I was grateful. Some days were entirely spent in watching operations being performed whilst the surgeon in charge kept us regaled with a commentary of what he was doing and why. One unfortunate student standing by me one day, during a particularly intricate and quite bloody surgical procedure, fainted clean away. I was made of sterner stuff which I was to find out a few years later after the battle of Maiwand.
But once more, I digress. My attention wanders often, not just speaking into this cylinder, but throughout my life. The memories of my youth I am relating contrast so wildly with what my life has become, it’s difficult to carry on. That early vitality has all but gone. I know, it’s life. But it doesn’t make it any easier. I’ll take a short break to compose myself.
I was able to reacquaint myself with St Paul’s through being invited to play rugby for the old boys’ team, the Paulinians. I was also fortunate enough to renew my association with the Blackheath club. Sport was the perfect antidote for the hours of tedium I often had to endure in my studies. Even allowing for that tedium I worked hard to ensure my grades would be of a standard high enough to earn my diploma without too much by way of re-visiting of topics. It was certainly a long four years. But I was fortunate enough to make some good friends during my time there.
The first of these was Godfrey Jacobs, who was a very attentive and capable student, but also a very fine sportsman. I cajoled him into trying out for Blackheath[18] which he did with great success, becoming an influential member of the side, whose play-making was a thing of beauty. We shared many glorious moments in some of Blackheath’s famous victories.
