He is modest—almost shy and retiring. Very courtly in manner, in spite of his humble origin; but, then, he is one of Nature’s gentlemen.
Short in stature—the red hair almost white, but still peeping through the beard—his stoop and tottering, dragging gait denote age—also his slowness of speech; but his mind is all there—alive and active and full of thought and force.
Men may rise to great power in a new country if they only have the grit.
The life of another such in Canada, merely as known to the public by newspaper notices, reads like a romance.
“The Hon. William S. Fielding, the Budget-maker of Canada, has never forgotten that he was an office-boy in the Halifax Chronicle. His loyalty to the people from whom he sprang is a secret of his popularity. The finest proof of that popularity was when last year (1910) anonymous friends contributed a purse of £24,000 to become a trust fund for the Minister and his family. For though he handles millions he is a poor man and latterly his health has been indifferent, and Canadian Ministers on retirement receive no pension.
“Mr. Fielding was born in 1848, in Halifax, Nova Scotia. At the age of sixteen he entered the office of the Halifax Chronicle. Four years later he was a leader writer; at twenty-seven he was editor. He entered Nova Scotian politics in 1882. In 1884 he was Premier. In 1896 he was called by Sir Wilfrid Laurier to be Dominion Minister of Finance.”
His last night before leaving England in February, 1909, Mr. Fielding wished to see the popular play An Englishman’s Home. There was not a seat in the house; but by a little judicious management, with some difficulty I secured two tickets at the last moment. I dined with him at the “Savoy,” and then we went on to the theatre. Being short-sighted, I was holding up my glasses. The theatre was darkened during the act. Suddenly I found something warm and soft deposited in my lap. Dropping the glasses, I felt, and, lo! to my amazement, it was a head. A human, curly head. Naturally surprised, I wondered where it came from, and whether the man—for man it was—had had a fit, or was dying. I saw Mr. Fielding pushing him up from the other side. Then the head, murmuring apologies sotto voce, rose, but it was too dark, and the house too silent to find out what had really happened.
When the curtain came down and the lights went up, behold the poor owner of the head, who was sitting on the floor, covered with confusion.
“I am very sorry, madam,” he said. “It was most unfortunate, but my seat gave way.” In fact, the stall on which this good gentleman had been sitting had collapsed, sending his head into my lap, and his legs into the lap of the lady on the other side. A pretty predicament.
The rush on the play was so great that extra stalls had been added, until we had barely room for our knees. These had evidently not been properly coupled together: when at some exciting moment in the play, the gentleman had presumably laughed or coughed, and his downfall ensued.