A MAN OF METTLE.
Not longer than four years ago, Mr. Smith was a bricklayer in the old
country, earning an average wage of thirty shillings a week, out of
which he supported himself and his old mother; and one day, for want
of something better to do--he was out of work at the time--he
emigrated almost by accident. This is a literal fact. He arose early
in the morning, with no intention of leaving the country, but somewhat
sad at heart because he had no work to do. (When he related the story
in after days he said that his hands felt like lumps of lead as they
hung by his side.) On this morning, then, he strolled to the London
Docks, and saw a ship making ready to start for Australia; was told
that it would sail for Gravesend in the afternoon; idly inquired the
price of a steerage passage, and found that he had just money enough
in his pocket, and a trifle over, the scrapings and savings of ten
years' bricklaying; and had a chat with an enthusiast, who painted
Australia in the colours of the rainbow, and then painted England in
ditch colours.
"What is the use of wearing one's life away in such a country as
this?" demanded the enthusiast. "What has a man got to look forward to
when he's old, and not fit to work?"
Mr. Smith considered. What _was_ the use of grinding one's life away
in such a country as England? What was there to look forward to, to
hope for, to work for? A poor man's grave. Perhaps a pauper's funeral.
Born a bricklayer, died a bricklayer; that might be his epitaph, if he
left money enough to pay for one.
"Australia's the place for such men as us," continued the enthusiast.
"Australia's the land of gold, and milk, and honey. England's no
country for men of spirit; it's used up, sir--used up. And there's the
new land waiting to make poor men rich--holding out its arms for
them."
"I should like to go with you," said Smith.
"Come, then," said the enthusiast.
"I'm afraid there's not time," said Smith; "there's my old mother. I
couldn't leave without saying good-bye to her."
"What's your name?" asked the enthusiast.
"Smith," replied Smith.
The enthusiast gave a start, and uttered an exclamation.
"What's the matter?" asked Smith.
"Nothing," said the enthusiast; "only I was thinking that I _should_
like you to come."
"But how is it to be managed?" inquired Smith, glancing at the name of
the vessel, with his mouth watering. It was a nine-hundred-ton ship,
called the Gold Packet. "But how is it to be managed? A man that I
know emigrated a year ago, and he had to buy bedding, and tin cups,
and soap and towels, and I don't know what else; those things ain't
got by whistling for them."
"I'll manage it for you," said the enthusiast. "You go home and say
good-bye to your mother. Be back here at one o'clock. By that time
I'll have your passage-ticket, and your berth, and bedding, and tin
cups, and soap and towels, and everything else ready for you. What do
you say?"
"What do I say? There's my hand upon it, and thank you. I'll do it."
And with quickened pulses he hastened home, kissed the amazed old
woman--who was so dumbfoundered that she could do nothing but look at
her son, and cry--promised to send her plenty of money from Australia
and to make a lady of her in five years, and was back to the Gold
Packet at one o'clock.
"You're a man of mettle," said the enthusiast; "you're just the sort
for the gold-diggings; it's such men as you they want. You'll make
your fortune there as sure as eggs are eggs. Here's your ticket. Come
down-stairs; I'll show you your berth and things."
"How much does it all come to?" asked Smith. The enthusiast pencilled
some figures on a piece of paper, and gave it to Smith, who looked at
the items, and added them up. Everything was correct; he handed the
enthusiast the money, and had exactly two shillings and fourpence left
to conquer the new world with. Smith went down-stairs (to speak
courteously of the descent; but there are worse, we are taught) into
the den where the steerage passengers were packed, and the enthusiast
showed him his berth, his bedding, his tin cups, his bar of yellow
soap, and other necessary paraphernalia. The enthusiast showed these
things to Smith, but Smith could scarcely see them, the place was so
dark. Smith was not daunted because the place was dismal, and because
it was filled with women crying, and children screaming, and men
growling--a very pit of discomfort. His soul rose to the occasion; he
had a spirit above a bricklayer's; with his passage ticket in his
hand, and two shillings and fourpence in his pocket, he felt himself a
king. There was work before him to do, and he was happy in the
prospect of no more idle days. When he went on to the deck he did not
see the enthusiast, but he did not miss him, he was so interested in
what was going on about him, the hurrying to and fro, the shouting,
the singing of the sailors, the loosening of the sails, the hauling of
ropes. In an hour the ship was off, winding its way through such a
complicated labyrinth of boats and ships and ropes, that the wonder
was how it disentangled itself safely. Smith watched the man[oe]uvres
with admiration. Then he glanced at the passage ticket. "Holloa!" he
said, "they've made a mistake in my Christian name. I'm William Smith,
not John."
(Let me mention here, briefly, that our Smith never set eyes again on
the enthusiast, whose name was also Smith, prefixed by John. It was
his passage ticket, indeed, that our Smith held in his hand. All the
time he had been painting in the most glowing colours the glowing
attractions of the goldfields on the other side of the world, he had
been filled with the most gloomy forebodings. His courage had failed
him at the last moment, and seizing the opportunity which had so
fortunately presented itself of giving the new world another Smith
instead of himself, he had sold his passage ticket and bedding and
cooking utensils to the bricklayer, and after receiving the money for
them, bade good-bye to the Gold Packet and all the fair promises it
held out.)
With his two shillings and fourpence in his pocket, William Smith
started on the voyage, and made himself so useful, and was altogether
so cheerful and shrewd and bustling, that he soon became a prime
favourite with the passengers and crew. In ninety-two days from the
date of sailing, the ship passed through Port Philip Heads, and from
that day Fortune smiled upon William Smith. In a fortnight he was on
the goldfields; in six months he was a speculator; in twelve, he had
saved a thousand pounds. And now he was proprietor of a fine hotel and
a theatre, and had a dozen other irons in the fire, not one of which
did he allow to grow cold.
I think I shall be pardoned for this digression. This story is of the
Mosaic kind, and although there are some strange bits in it, I hope
none will be found incongruous, but that they will all fit in one with
another, and form a complete and original whole.