When I was a youth I used to take all kinds of pledges, and do my best to keep them, but I never could, because I didn’t strike at the root of the habit—­the desire; I generally broke down within the month.  Once I tried limiting a habit.  That worked tolerably well for a while.  I pledged myself to smoke but one cigar a day.  I kept the cigar waiting until bedtime, then I had a luxurious time with it.  But desire persecuted me every day and all day long; so, within the week I found myself hunting for larger cigars than I had been used to smoke; then larger ones still, and still larger ones.  Within the fortnight I was getting cigars made for me—­on a yet larger pattern.  They still grew and grew in size.  Within the month my cigar had grown to such proportions that I could have used it as a crutch.  It now seemed to me that a one-cigar limit was no real protection to a person, so I knocked my pledge on the head and resumed my liberty.

To go back to that young Canadian.  He was a “remittance man,” the first one I had ever seen or heard of.  Passengers explained the term to me.  They said that dissipated ne’er-do-wells belonging to important families in England and Canada were not cast off by their people while there was any hope of reforming them, but when that last hope perished at last, the ne’er-do-well was sent abroad to get him out of the way.  He was shipped off with just enough money in his pocket—­no, in the purser’s pocket—­for the needs of the voyage—­and when he reached his destined port he would find a remittance awaiting him there.  Not a large one, but just enough to keep him a month.  A similar remittance would come monthly thereafter.  It was the remittance-man’s custom to pay his month’s board and lodging straightway—­a duty which his landlord did not allow him to forget—­then spree away the rest of his money in a single night, then brood and mope and grieve in idleness till the next remittance came.  It is a pathetic life.

We had other remittance-men on board, it was said.  At least they said they were R. M.’s.  There were two.  But they did not resemble the Canadian; they lacked his tidiness, and his brains, and his gentlemanly ways, and his resolute spirit, and his humanities and generosities.  One of them was a lad of nineteen or twenty, and he was a good deal of a ruin, as to clothes, and morals, and general aspect.  He said he was a scion of a ducal house in England, and had been shipped to Canada for the house’s relief, that he had fallen into trouble there, and was now being shipped to Australia.  He said he had no title.  Beyond this remark he was economical of the truth.  The first thing he did in Australia was to get into the lockup, and the next thing he did was to proclaim himself an earl in the police court in the morning and fail to prove it.

CHAPTER II.

When in doubt, tell the truth. 
                                  —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.