I have been up town "to meeting," as my father used to say. The air
was clear and warm when my friend the Mate appeared on deck in all the
splendour of "shore gear." He affects a material which never wears
out. "Mr. McAlnwick, these here are the pants I was married in!" He
reserves his serious thoughts for underwear, of which he carries a
portentous quantity to last a voyage. Smart young cadets, who never
wear the same collar twice, and sport white shirts and soiled souls in
seamen's missions, are the Mate's aversion. He has severe censures for
"gallivantin'" and "dressin' for show." He approves of my own staid
habits of life, after the fashion of those elderly folk who admire in
others what they so sadly lacked in their own spring-time. He forgets
that perhaps even I have trembled with rage because there was a spot
on my collar, that even I may have spent precious moments folding and
pressing a favourite pair of trousers.
The Mate does not often go ashore nowadays, even to missions, and so
the lavendery smell which exhales from the historic pants scarcely
has time to dissipate before they are back in the chest. Different
now, from his young days, when the vessel lay alongside the _Quai de
la Bourse_ in Rouen City, and my friend stepped across each evening to
the Cafe Victor to drink _creme de menthe_ and feel that listening to
the band was rather wicked and altogether Continental. Indeed, his
attachment to the ship is now proverbial, the prevailing feeling
having been brilliantly epitomised by himself. "If I wash me face,"
he snapped to me one day; "If I wash me face, they think I'm goin'
ashore!" But now the decent double-breasted blue serge, the trim beard
and black bowler hat are in evidence; my friend the Mate is about to
attend divine service at the Seamen's Mission. My own appearance in
_mufti_ causes excitement.
"Ye're comin', Mr. McAlnwick?"
"As far as the door," I reply.
The Chief Officer's blue eyes glint as he wrinkles his nose.
"'Tis my opinion, Mr. McAlnwick, that ye've a young woman in the town
yerself."
And we go forth into the town. At the door of the Mission I bid the
Mate farewell, and I catch a last glimpse of him as he removes his hat
and wipes his boots with the diffidence apparently interwoven in
the fibre of all mariners ashore. He is not of a proselytising
disposition. Strong Orangeman, an Ulster Protestant, and--the rest.
So, thinking of him, I fare onward, watching the show. Men and maidens
idly saunter along, or hasten to the house of God. Why, I wonder, do
girls of religious disposition allow themselves so little time to
dress? Two or three have passed me; one had a button loose at the back
of her dress; another's "stole" of equivocal lace was unsymmetrically
adjusted to her shoulders; and so on. I know that God looketh not on
the outward semblance, but I am also painfully aware that young men
are not fashioned after their Creator in that respect, and my desire
to see everybody married is outraged by these omissions. And looking
into the faces of my fellow-passengers this Sunday evening, I am led
to think that, as a class, girls are not very beautiful objects when
they lack refinement. I see much raw material around me which might
possibly be hewn into lovely shape--but----To my friend, with his
intellectual Toryism, this hiatus is quite reasonable. These lower
classes, he will observe sublimely, have their functions; refinement
is not for all. And the _St. James's Gazette_ rustles comfortably as
he sinks back into the saddle-bags again!
Well, let me be honest in this matter. My mind is still in a fluid
state concerning theories of society. I can only generalise. I
believe, with Emerson, that the world exists ultimately for the weal
of souls; I believe, also, the spiritually correlative truth, the
ultimate probity of those same souls, but--I have not yet discovered
why I abhor contact with those who hold the same political faith. Am
I misanthropic? Or unsocial? Why, when I sit resolutely down to hear
my own beliefs preached, do I silently contest each point, adopt the
contrary view? Why do I avoid "active propaganda," "working for
the cause," and such like? Is it because I disbelieve utterly in
preaching? I do that, anyway. I often think how much farther ahead we
should be if no one ever preached. I do not condemn lecturing by any
means. I dislike the packed audience of the conventional preacher,
socialistic or otherwise. My ideal is the heterogeneous assembly,
hearkening to the words of a man skilled in oratory, profound in
thought, a genius in the art of the suggestive phrase. The audience in
all probability would be far from clear as to his intentions; they
would grow clearer as time went on and the suggestions ripened into
independent speculation. If they could understand at once what he
intends, they would stand in no need of his ministry.
You will perceive how unfitted I was for the meeting I attended
to-night. The uppermost thought in mind as I left was, "I do not
believe in bloodless revolutions." You cannot have a revolution of
society without turning part of it upside down. And I am half afraid
that a good deal of what I value most in this world will be turned
upside down by a socialistic revolution. Add the sad, indisputable
fact that if everyone were a Socialist I should, by natural law, be a
Tory, and you will see, more or less accurately, how I stand. You will
see, too, the cause of my belief in heroes and gods, which latter you
call natural laws. I look upon myself as a man working among gods and
heroes, and I am beginning to think that the question of revolutions
rests always ultimately with them, while I, a man, can but look on and
marvel.
Well, I am tired with my jaunt. One's feet are not inured to walking
after months at sea. And I hear my friend the Mate overhead.
"Mr. McAlnwick, ye should have been there! The _elite_ o' the Mission
was on show. An' we had an anthem. 'Twas good!"