CHAPTER XVIII
My many Professions—I turn Poet—On a Tramp Steamer—“Shivering Timbers”—Modern Seamen—Struck by Lightning—I leave the Ship
I HAVE been almost everything in my travels. Stow-away, sailor before the mast, bandmaster on a mail steamer, wet-nurse to Samoan twins,[[13]] bushman, boundary rider, woodcutter, sundowner, post-digger, snow-sweeper in North America, painter, deck-hand, “shilling-a-monther” in a liner’s stokehold, messroom steward, native overseer, private grave-digger, author, violinist to South Sea kings and chiefs, solo violinist and orchestral violinist in the large cities of the world, music teacher, song-writer, cornet-player, composer of music for military bands, actor and singer, trader, canvasser for crank patents and medicine, banana planter in Jamaica, nut planter in the South Sea Islands, gold miner in Australia, violinist to Geisha girls in Japan, and the leader of numerous splendid schemes that mostly failed. Glorious schemes they were; but you can never be sure of anything except that you will be certain to attend your own funeral.
[13]. Their mother, a native woman, was drowned by the upsetting of a canoe. A Norwegian sailor and I found the infants, screaming, in a hut on the coast. We secured a ripe coco-nut, and opening the eye-hole in the shell, we placed it in turns at the mouths. They both tugged away and pressed the shell with their hands as though they were at the breast! and soon went off fast asleep. In the morning we gave them into the charge of a native girl, who took them both away to the dead mother’s relations.
I have also been a poet. I wrote a little volume of Australian lyrics which are all burnt now. I was so pleased with the first proofs that I put them on my bedroom mantelpiece, so that I could see them ere I slept and directly I awoke at daybreak. The reviews in the newspapers and journals thrilled me. “Full of sincerity, spirit and impulse.” “Marvellous descriptive ability.” “A real barbarian poet of the South Seas.” I thought my fortune was made, and I could not sleep through thinking of coming fame and fortune. I thought surely such reviews in the newspapers will sell thousands of copies of my book, and I was very happy over my bright outlook. It was summer-time. I became restless, and with the reviews in my pocket I went off, walking very fast in my excitement. I soon arrived in the country at a beautiful spot.
A windmill on the hill-top whirled its big black hands as though trying to catch the winged music of skylarks in the deep blue morning sky. By the lane-side stood a cottage for sale. The very place for me, I thought. I will buy it and write there. What glorious poems of Australia and the South Seas they will be! The bird singing in a clump of firs just by my future front door rippled out notes as though its little body would burst with joy. I took an old envelope from my pocket and started to write a lyric—how happy I was—even the lyric was good!
A month later I wrote to the publisher and said:
“Dear Sir—Will you kindly send me a cheque in settlement for copies of my Australian Lyrics sold. I would not trouble you before the quarter, but unexpected calls on my purse have arrived at an inopportune moment.”
Two weeks later I received this reply:
“Dear Sir—In reply to yours of the 16th, no copies of your book have been sold, and we would call your kind attention to balance of £2, 10s. overdue for binding, and £1, 18s. for corrections in proof, etc., and 9s. 4d. for postage in sending out review copies.”