A Seaside Reverie

Maoriland Worker, Volume 1, Issue 5, 20 January 1911, Page 2

A Seaside Reverie

(By JAMES THORN.)

One morning, not so long ago, it was very quiet and still. For some time I had been seriously thinking about life, and some phases of it seemed so terrifying that my mind was like a maelstrom. So in a mood desiring peace I resolved to walk to the shore, and while resting on the cliffs try to catch the Great Spirit of Silence. My bed, strange to say, for it was early, presented but a feeble obstacle to my avill, and soon I found myself on some chits near Yarmouth, overlooking the North Sea, and hear which a thousand years aero the Romans built a fort. Ihe sea was leaden-grey with a far rim ot gloomy black, but reminding mc ot Socialism in a world of grey philosophy. A cleft in the clouds having let the sun escape, the faintest shimmer of silver sparkled and danced on the horizon at my right like a gem in Heaven s gates. That the sea had tears in it the low murmur of the wavelets told mc and such great quietness pervaded, everything, I thought that possibly a God "might be in Heaven. But of that I was not sure, because not so tar away, it is alleged, by great statesmen, the * Prussians are preparing to jackboot this island and to murder good, peace-loving English folk, which is very terrible When silence is disturbed by metallic clank of swords and sharp, fierce snap of rifle bolts even in imagination God seems to fade into the grey mists of oblivion. No wonder ! Prussia keeps a military camp and a War Lord and a State Church with its Prince of Peace. Whatever the turmoil Christian Prussia suggested, however, the fishing "drifters" from Yarmouth glided softly enough. In the sombre light of the sea they resembled blue shadows, and were it not that now and again heavy soils of smoke rose from the funnels, I should have thought that a spirit drove them. Our brothers of flesh and blood toiled upon them, though, for this I know, that next day a storm lashed the sea to fury and several of them were drowned. " Men must work and women must weep" in this silly world. It seems so absurd. Why should men lose their lives to deprive herrings of theirs? Now, if God had made us vegetarians—well, of course, that is extremely irreverent, and this is a reverie, not a theological argument. And reveries are peaceful things l . Well, I lay down in the sand grass and tried to hear it grow, and very soon my body fell asleep while my mind thought of many things. There was a place called London, for instance. It is so very dreadful that its fascinates. One night in Piccadilly—a great street this, garish with blazing light at night and vibrant with crowding life —I met a girl whose eyes were hard and whose laugh frightened mc. She used terms of endearment to mc, and said things of which I may not write, and I felt ill and very sorry, for she was my sister and in a. sane world she might have been happy. The Devil enjoys himself '\n Piccadilly. And then there is the Embankment. A splendid promenade this, flanking the Thames from Westminster to Blackfriars. From the parapet of the Embankment rise at intervals electric lights which illumine the surroundings so effectively that passersby cannot possibly miss the sights. A humane County Council has provided many seats, and, believe mc, there are many things to see. On the north side tower the Hotels Cecil and Savoy, where Colonial Prime Ministers do occasionally make merry at the public expense, and where in the evenings there are warm lights and sounds of revelry. With the great tower of Westminster at one end and the giant dome of St Paul's to be seen from Westminster Bridge, the scene is magnificent. Were one but ignorant of the under world, these mighty evidences of human genius would make one throb with exultant pride. But on the south side—ah, there is a murky swamp of commerce, and in the winter at midday on the Embankment a long sad line of men lean against the parapet. They are gaunt, hungry men, whose eyes are food-wistful. They stand limp and ragged, waiting with such virtuous patience for soup. Hope has gone from them. They have no self-respect—-clothes make the man, and their clothes are greasy. They are dead men come to "haunt us for our sins. Withal, they are of absorbing interest. Little mothers suffered for them. That alone makes them wonderful, and the thought erases the Hotels Cecil and Savoy. When i-ight comes down these men", or those of them who cannot squeeze into the Workhouse (jocularly dubbed " the lump ") cr into a coffin-bed in a Salvation Army Rescue Home, sleep on the seats, if they are lucky, if not, they wrap themselves in newspapers— the press has its genuine uses after all

—and huddle together on the stone steps at the base of Cleopatra's Needle. They are one of the sights of London. After the play some ot us go down to have a look at them. Of course they are lumps of festering filth whose bluegrey skin many times gleams ghostly through their pitiful rags. It is distressing to know that they are our brothers and sisters, but it is so, and therefore on very cold nights some of us buy them coffee at the stalls just to feel the joy of being good. One frayed old women—they are so chivalrous in England that women sleep out at nights—asked God to bless mc one night, and I hoped He would and felt so rapturously pleased that I yearned to b ly out another coffee stall. Bat God and all, Life is a tremendous mystery. Oily Bishops and shriekful Roosevelts bemoan the falling birthrate and weep sloppy tears about race suicide. Superficial babblers these i Why bring Life into being when nothing but shame and starvation await it? It 'S such crude nonsense to preach an increase in the birth-rate when we are too stupid to feed the life already here. Nothing but the crassest ignorance of human conditions could inspire such miserable impertinences. If no improvement in the distribution of wealth can be effected the facts prove that the world is already over-populated and that there is urgent need for a large scale lethal chamber. There is no wisdom in keeping people in starvation. The race is prejudiced, its virility weakened. The problem to mc appeared to be not that the world needed more life, but more common sense. I was much perplexed, indeed, to explain why children were born at all in circumstances where life is continuously denied opportunity of real expression. So I watched a spider for the explanation. This little fellow was like a yellow bead, and he mcved over my hand as if he had a train to catch. His rapid pace called to mind that the female spider is a cannibal and that when her life purpose has been gratified she kills her mate and eats him. Accordingly I took this spider to be a male who had scented danger from afar and was moving to a more salubrious climate. But on reflection I knew that spider would go back, and be duly swallowed. The Life Force had him in its grip ; Madame Spider would have her meal and the spider species would be sustained. As with the spiders so with men —with a difference. We, too, are in the grip of the Life Force. Nature imposes her will upon us and life appears to carry our spirits down to posterity. My impression, therefore, was that our need was not to lament the numerical state of the population, but to determine that its honourable wants should be satisfied. Could this ever be accomplished? Could starvation be eliminated and men and women given a chance to be happy? Assuredly so. The clouds dispersed, the warm sun caressed the earth and a lark trilled overhead more joyously than ever the angels sang. 1 saw the City Beautiful with its even life of strong men and sweet women. I heard the laughter and beheld the sunshine on the children's curls. I knew it would come to earth, this Beautiful City, for men will not always be blind to the highest, and when they see it they needs must love it and win it for themselves. Just then a ruffian shot a rabbit and woke mc up. Whereupon I rushed to breakfast and eat a lot of things, was hopelessly practical and of the earth earthy. But I eat to live and life is short—do they not dig up Romans' bones nearby to prove it?—and we may as well be happy. We shall be asked to leave here very soon, and we shall never be content to step behind the veil till we know that fullest life has been vouchsafed to all the world. When that is Avon for men there will be fewer questions.

Messrs T. Armstrong and Coy., Drapers and Clothiers, whose extensive premises at each end of the City of Christchurch are well known, advertise in this issue Special Parcel Bargains for those unable to visit their stores. This enables people at a distance to avail themselves of the firm's goods on terms as advantageous as those enjoyed by the citizens. We hope Messrs Armstrong's liberal offer will be largely availed of. 1003