There are riches here to be found. And adventure. But most of us find only dust.
The canvas that is supposed to keep me dry needs patching. I’ve been robbed of my few specks of gold by bandits and government officials. What a place to have come to.
In London I lived a poor but educated life. I knew the works of Shakespeare. I attended performances and public lectures. At the Great Exhibition I saw the world’s grandest things.
I had my eye on a lass. But hers was on William Bates who I considered an oaf. I made a fool of myself for her and had to leave Coleman St. Young Pike found me passage to the colonies.
So here I am. And here I have been made rough and uncompromising.
Somehow around me a city has grown—evidence, at least, of the gold that most of us miss.
And on the main street a theatre of sorts has been put up. There are posters of Miss O’Hara who is to play Desdemona. I intend to see the play, whatever the cost. And I intend to meet this Miss O’Hara. Her picture is the fairest thing I’ve seen since I landed. If I could meet her for a moment then all my hardship shall not have been in vain.
2 thoughts on “Rush”
This seems more like a rough autobiography than a fictional story.
You’re pretty right there. My great, great, great grandfather came to Australia in search of gold and married an actress on the goldfields.