A Successful Colonist

Observer, Volume 9, Issue 522, 22 December 1888, Page 7

A Successful Colonist

(Written fob the Obsebyer.) j BLINDMAN'S Alley, Whiteohapel, is not j an inviting locality. It is so narrow that people can shake hands across it from opposite windows (although such social amenities are unknown in the Alley), and the houses are bo shaky, dilapidated and rotten, that it is a wonder they didn't fall down years ago, and so make way for something better. The sun never shines, in Blindman's Alley because it never gets a chance to shine there. Gertain straggling sunbeams do sometimes manage to creep in, but they are lost in the gloom and the squalor of the place. As a general thing, Blindinan's Alley is dark, dirty, dismal, and evil- smelling. It is a chosen haunt of thieves, receivers of stolen goods, loose women, and other people ' known to the police,' and ' wanted ' more or less frequently. Mingled with these are costermongers and hawkers, beggars and street ballad- singers. The houses are all let out by the room, six, eight, and even ten people occupying a single apartment. The entire Alley is the property of a certain noble lord, who derives a handsome revenue from this rookery, presided over by the grim triumvirate, Poverty, Vice, and Crime. The noble lord in question has the reputation of being a great philanthropist, and he frequently occupies the chair at religious meetings. He is greatly concerned about the spiritual condition of the heathen black, and has made several handsome donations to be expended in turning the untutored savage from the error of his ways, and leading him to do that which is lawful and right. The spiritual condition of the heathen white doesn't concern his lordship. There are a good many philanthropists of this type knocking about. It is not safe for a curious stranger to explore Blindman's Alley unattended. Jts residents always resent such visits as an unwarrantable liberty, and the rash intruder who entered one end of the Alley well-dressed, would stand an "^excellent show of emerging from the other end as naked as when he was born. There is, or rather was, at the time my story opens, one fairly-dressed man, however, who was always welcome in Blindman's Alley. This was a young curate, the Eev. Edward Best. Would there were more such parsons in the world ! This curate was no mere distributor of tracts and good advice, but a hard-working, earnest man, whose life was devoted to the Whitechapel poor, and. most of whose time was passed in the Whitechapel slums. The roughest bully, the most shameless and degraded virago in the Alley, would acknowledge that the parson was a ' good sort,' and humble themselves in his presence. He laboured unceasingly for good, and how many brands were snatched from the burning, how many • new leaves ' were turned, thanks to his kindly, genial influence, it would be impossible to say without consulting the books of the recording angel. One of Mr Best's favourites was a man who rented a garret at '&£ Blindman's Alley, and who, for the purpose of this narrative, had better be known by the fictitious name of John Smith, 'The parson' saw ' possibilities ' about John, who was a costermonger, and fairly honest, considering his bringing up and surroundingp. He had 'an old woman ' and a trio of kids, as he called them, and when he v.as sober, which was not every day, made a kind husband as husbands go in, Blindman's Alley. When he was drunk ■ On Christmas Eve, IB6o,— twenty- eight years \ a g o—«the0 — « the parson,' as he was always called by the denizens of the Alley, called upon John and his wife. The garret was filthy beyond description. Its walls were black with the accumulated dirt of years, and its floor was much in the same plight. The night was bitterly cold, and a raw, damp fog hung about the Alley, thick enough to cut with a knife. But there was no fire in John Smith's grate. By the empty fire-place sat, or rather crouched, a thin, weary-eyed woman of perhaps three-and-twenty, but who looked many years older. Clasped to her breast was a liny baby, pinched with cold and half starved. A couple of ragged urchins were playing on the floor with some oyster shells. Down the Alley some dranken fury of a woman was screaming ' Murder. I' at the top of her cracked voice, but no one paid any attention. That sort of thing is too common in Bliadman's Alley to excite remark. 'Where is John, Mrs Smith? 1 enquired 'the parson ' as he quietly entered the wretched room and seated himself on the edge of the ricketty wooden bedstead, ' I don't know, sir,' said the poor thing with a world of pathos in her tone 'he aint been 'ome since mdrnin', and being Chrismus I expec' he's avin* a glass somewhere's.' She made no complaint. Just treated it as a matter of course. ' And you and the children have had nothing to eat all day?' She nodded, but did not speak. ' The parson ' quitted the room as quietly as he had entered it, and soon returned with a loaf * of bread and some hot soup, procured from the shop at the corner. The children clamoured to be fed soon as they saw the feast. The mother thanked the parson with a look, and helped the children, reserving but a small portion for herself. While they were all eating— jthe children ravenously, — a heavy step sounded without. The poor 1 woman trembled, the children shrunk beneath the bed. It was only John, and he was not drunk, although he certainly had had « a glass,' He was not a man of prepossessing appearance. Bather short, broad across the shoulders, bandy-legged, with a rough but not altogether a bad face. He flurig his fur cap to the other end of the room and catching sight of the broken jug , containing what remained of the soup he Baid : f* ' Wot's this ?Ho ! You. got money of yer 'hown,eh?' This to his wife. He was about to follow up the query with a blow when his arm was stayed by the parson, of whose presence in the semi-dark-jipess of the room he had been unaware. Up? What !:strike a woman, John, and that ! :;?'womanyour wife ? lam ashamed of you.' ?:-;;^he.;fellow iell back looking foolish enough. yoja Was .'ere, parson' he said '' :but;^'er/^itejlin^/^mer, 'she % 'adn't ' a

bloomin' copper when I .left this mornin', and then me finding 'er a.eatin' of soap and luxuries like that there, it did make me feel riled.' • I paid for that soup, John. Your wife and children would have gone dinnerless and supperless to bed otherwise, while you have been spending the money that should have fed them, in the public-house and on yourself. Come now, is that manly ?' And then John was forced reluctantly to admit that it wasn't, and to promise amendment, not, unfortunately for the first time. ' Now John,' said the parson at length, ' you go to bed. To-morrow, when you are quite yourself I have something very important to say to you. So you may expect me. You will be out with the barrow in the morning, I suppose? Very well. I will come in the afternoon.' And he went out with a reassuring nod to the poor wife, who thought him a superior brand of angel only awaiting the development of wings to take flight for the place he was al\vay3 telling her about, and which she had tried, over and over again, to picture as a reality. The parson's sermon had done John good — temporarily. He went out in the early morning with his barrow, and with the money he took purchased a bit of dinner at the corner shop in honour of the day. They don't have dinner every day in Blindman's Alley. It won't always run it. Also he kept sober. The parson came about two o'clock, and said he: 1 John, how would yon like to get away from Blindman's Alley to a new land, where fog and cold and misery are unknown, and where the sun shines warm and bright and glorious- a land where you can make a home of your own, and where you and your wife and little ones will be happy and contented, with no more hunger or wretchedness ?' John was too much surprised to answer at once, and his wile thought to herself that the parson's description of this bright new land sounded a good deal like that of ' the land which is fairer than day ' described in the hymn she had heard sung in the Commercial Boad one Sunday evening by some itinerant shepherd. But she said nothing. ' Well,l dunno.parson,' said John at last, ' What 'ud a pore cove like me do hover there, hall among a lot of bloomin' toffs ?' ' There are no " toffs " there of the sort you mean, John. In New Zealand Jack is as good as his master, and poor working men often do well and make money — that is if they keep sober and steady, and work hard.' 'Whereabouts is this here Noo Zealan, sir ?' timidly ventured John's wife. ' Ah, how fur might it be ?' put in John. ' New Zealand is at the other side of the world, say 15,000 miles away.' ' My heye? exclaimed John, ' what say, missus — shall we go ?' 'Where you goes I goes, John,' said the poor wife, simply. * * * A month later the Ocean Queen, an emigrant ship of L2OO tons, sailed from Gravesecd for Auckland, and amongst her passengers were John fcmitb, his wife, and three children. This family, together with several others, were taken from the London slums and sent out by some ' helping hand ' association, of which ' the parson ' was an enthusiastic member. All Blindman's Alley turned out to see John Smith and his wife leave for ' furrin parts.' The last man to shake John and his wife by the hand as they stood upon the crowded deck of the Ocean Queen was the parson. ' Good-bye, John,' he said cheerily, as he pressed the hand of the emigrant, • good-bye, and God bless you and yours I Keep straight, work hard, and remember— no drinking! I shall keep an eye upon you, even though you are fifteen thousand miles away V ' S'elp me, parson, I bleeve yer,' replied John, with a twinkle in his eye, ' hif Lher was more o' your sort ther wouldn't be so many coves go wrong 1 I'll do my best, parson, never fear !' # # * And John was as good as his word. He did his best. He adapted himself to his altered surroundings as only men who have the makings of good colonists in them can. He went upcountry, tackled the first work he could get, saved a little money, built a small house, and three years after he had set foot on New Zealand soil, was as unlike the John Smith of Blindman's Alley as be could well be. He was in fact a new man, and many a thankful letter, ill-spelt and produced with fearful labour, did he despatch to his friend ' the parson. John would sooner do a hard day's work any day, than write a letter, but he couldn't forget the parson. And John's wife picked up too, wonderfully. The care-worn, tired look died out of her eyes. For the first time she began to take an interest in life, and to realise that it was worth living. She helped her husband right worthily, and so things prospered exceedingly with them, and John laid by more money. And then the Thames broke out, and John speculated — and won ; speculated, and won again and again, and raade a fortune. Three daughters were born to him in the colony, and these girls were sent, as soon as they were old enough, to the most expensive boardingschool John could find for them. But the most expensive schools are not always the best schools. John's. daughters learned to he. intensely ' genteel,' also a smattering of French and Italian, and to torture the pianoforte in genuine boarding-school fashion. John's three sons (born in England) are now joint proprietors of a sheep station in Queensland, and are doing well. John long since removed to Eemuera, where he occupies one of the finest mansions obtainable. His wife's death, four years ago, was a great blow to him, and he is only now beginning to recover from the shock. He is inordinately proud of his girls who are fine, big, overdressed young persons with a decided hankering after hupper suckle society. John had one son born to him in the colony, Algernon, who attained his majority only the other day amidst great rejoicings in the parental halls. A dinner party, followed by a ball, took place in Mr Algernon's honour, at which • all the best people ' were present, and John would insist on making a speech, m spite of the frowns and coughs of the young ladies his daughters, who go in perpetual /ear and

trembling tliat ( pa will make an exhibition of himself.' On this occasion they nearly fainted when the : old gentleman, who boasts that he, hasn't 'a hatom of pride about, him, thank Gawd,' dropped into the retrospective and remarked, laying his hand on his son's shoulder : ' When I thinks, ladies and genelmen, of what I was and what I ham., it just fairly takes my breath away. Twenty-height years ago, Halgernon, my boy, I was a pore 'umble eorstermonger, ( l Oh, pa !') yes, a pore 'umble eorstermonger living inßlindman's Halley, an' ahearnin' a honest — well a livin' any way— by the sweat of my brow and a barrer. (' Oh pa 1') Thanks to that there reverend parson, as is now gone above along with the syrups and the cherrybums and is aplayin' on a golden 'arp continual, thanks to Hm— and I don 1 1 see no parsons if \s sort out 'ere - I was snatched from niis'ry and starvation to become a rich and pros'prous man (hear hear), and Halgernon, my son, don't let me never hear you speak disrespeckful of the parsons as is the fashion with young men nowadays, though to be sure all parsons ain't alike no more than all cabbages is ; one cabbage may 'aye a good 'cart, and another may not be worth hanythink, but still don't you forget, Halgernon, what a parson done for you, and speak respectful of the lot. I 'aye opes of you my son. I shall live, if lam spared, to see you a great loryer, p'raps (Mr Algernon is studying law)and an ornament to the prerfesshin, an' p'raps, who knows, a Hem Haitch Har ?' Here he beamed with gratified pride and looked all around the table. And then, after the applause had died away, he continued : 'Yes, Halgernon, when I thinks of Blindman's Halley, and then looks round oh all these here toffs— ('Oh pa 1 ! P— in an agonised chorus) 'I feel — there, I w^n't say no more, fur fear I should break .down'— and to the intense relief of the young ladies and of Algernon, he resumed his chair. The old man's tastes are as simple as they can possibly be, and he finds it hard at times to conform to the ways of his young people. He is never tired of talking of old times, and haa an awkward habit of dropping in at his daughters' five o'clock tea, in his shirt sleeves, to relate to the high-toned guests some horrible reminiscence of Blindman's Alley and the barrer. Fortunately his wealth absolves him from all awkward consequences of these ill-timed disclosures. Even ' the best people ' are charmed with him. They think him « so refreshingly natural ' 'so delightfully original,' •so charmingly unconventional,' etc., etc., etc. Verily, a fat balance at one's banker's is a good thing. Like Charity, it covereth a multitude of imperfections. Mr Algernon, the apple of his father's eye and the hope of his declining years, ia fond of ' the Gov'nor,' as he calls him, and yet ashamed of him. He (Mr Algernon ), like his sisters, is ambitious to shine in ' Society.' His card reads :

aud he patronises the most expensive tailors and jewellers. He is in communication with Heralds' 'College, and expects a bran new crest, motto and family tree ' out by the next mail. This Christmas the Remuera mansion will be filled with guests, and if ' Pa ' will only ' conduct himself with propriety ' and refrain from 'reminiscences ' and from joking with the men servants while they are waiting at table, all will go rneiry as wedding bells at ' Belgrave House.' When the family first moved into their palatial quarters, the old man wanted to christen the place 'Blindman's Lodge,' but the proposal met with such a storm of disapproval that John didn't press it. Two of the young ladies are ' engaged ' both to desirable— using the word in its worldly sense — partis, and John has been several times referred to in the papers as ' our esteemed fellowcitizen.' And so you see, the star of the family continues in the ascendant. * # * And of such.dear friends, is three-fourths of our colonial ' aristocracy ' composed, although all successful colonists are not so simple and unaffected as plain John Smith. C. A. Wimuns.