Mrs. Smith's husband. Isn't
he at sea, a captain or a chief engineer, or something? He comes among
us occasionally; travels to town, now and then, in our carriage. A
hearty man--uses rather strong language, though! Has not a great deal to
say of things--no interest in politics, in the market, in the games.
Never made very much of him. Don't see him at the clubs. Seems to spend
all his time at home. At home! Oh yes; wasn't it only the other day his
small daughter told ours her daddy was _going_ home again on Saturday!

In war, we are learning. There are no more games; contentious politics
are not for these days; the markets and business are difficult and
wayward. We are come to see our dependence on the successful voyages of
Mrs. Smith's husband. His coming among us, from time to time, is proof
that our links with the world overseas are yet unbroken, that there may
still be business to transact when we turn up at the office. Strangely,
in the new clarity of a war vision, we see his broad back in our
harvest-fields, as we had never noticed it before. He is almost one of
our staff. He handles our goods, our letters, our gold, our securities,
our daily bread. His business is now so near to us that----

But no! It cannot properly be done. We recall that there _is_ one way
for our ready recognition when we come on shore these days. We cannot
appropriate a longshore point of view, we cannot conceal our seafaring
and merge into the crowd. There _is_ a mark--our tired eyes, as we come
off the sea! True, there are now, sadly, many tired eyes on the beach,
but few carry the distant focus, the peculiar intentness brought about
by absence of perspective at sea. We cannot adopt a public outlook owing
to this obliquity in our vision, we are barred by the persistence of
that vexed perspective in our views on shore.

Still, the point may be raised that only in our actual seafaring are we
recognized. We are poor citizens, nomads, who have little part with
settled grooves and communal life on shore. The naval seaman is a known
figure on the streets. His trim uniform, the cut of his hair, the swing
of a muscular figure, his high spirits, are all in part with a
stereotyped conception. He is the sailor; Mercantile Jack has lost his
tradition in attire and individuality, he has vanished from the herd
with his high-heeled shoes, coloured silk neckerchief, and sweet-tobacco
hat.

In the round of shore communications there is exercise for ass