IN THE CAPTAIN’S CABIN

Evening Star, Issue 17033, 2 May 1919, Page 2

IN THE CAPTAIN’S CABIN

[An. Bights Reserved.]

[By Captain Walter Manning (•* Jonto MQuade”).] No. VIII. Tfiore is a story told about a politician who. on the eve of a grave political crisis, paid an unexpected visit, during the midnight hours, to the editor of a great daily newspaper. His business was to induce a support which he felt his party Lad not, hut oi.glit to have, received. The nature of the issue at stake is immaterial to the story, which rests solely upon the fact that the visitor was' a very clever man, and. m putting his case, employed a Machiavellian subtlety and finesse (tinged with delicately - conveyed flattery) which would have tickled the vanity of and captured a less astute man than the editor. The latter listened with great attention, but at the first smell of “ soft soap " nicked up the corner of tha tablecloth and looked under the table, a proceeding which puzzled hii visitor, though he made no comment. Later on, when the lubricating dement became more apparent, the editor repeated the act. This time the politician was surprised into asking; " What are you looking under the table for? - ’ “ I’m looking,” replied the -editor quietly, “to see who’s pulling my leg.” ******* Those journalists and pressmen who have spent mutually enjoyable evenings in jny cabin will, 1 feel assured, when they read what I have to say about them, sea no neoessitv for “looking under the table.” Most sailors, especially steamship skippers, are as wary of reporters as a cat is of a fox terrier. They dislike and treat them with reticence, for fear of what- they mar put into print. I always liked them for’what they k4pt out. My experience has been that many of those small troubles and incidents which occur on board ship, and cannot escape mention in the papers, have been cut down to brief, plain " pars.” instead of being made conspicuous by big headlines and variegated with purple patches of sensationalism. _ When travelling, any of those pressmen who knew me rarely failed to look me up, and those who didn't came along and introduced themselves. They came not merely to see the skipper, but to meet “ a freak s’—“a 5 ’ —“a strange combination " —who had smelt printers ink as well as sadwater, and to whom their companionship was as exhilarating as a glass of champagne. Of the field nights we had I could fill a book. Often til! the early hours of the morning wo would talk books, authors, poets, and every kind of scribe that ever wielded a pen. The styles of writers—ancient, modern, and contemporary —would pass in review and be criticised and ranged in order of favor. Personal reminiscences wo aid flow; memories would be revived of my pre-nautical days fas a London apprentice), when I mixed with “devils” and “comps.,” and learned to love my Fleet street and Fetter lane like Dr Johnson; funny stories of composing room complications, had caligraphy, u coups,” and things that were _ “ slept on ” too long, would be told; Fielding, Smollett, Richardson, Dean Swift, Sterne, Cervanths, and (modern-wards) Scott, Balzac, Bulwer Lytton, Dickens, Thackeray, Trollope, and every writer, from the Charlie Chaplins of literature (who made fortunes) to the geniuses and great purists) were torn from their -graves and overhauled, The psychology of the pen would be dealt with; the how, when, and where “the divine afflatus” would descend on various writers; their lives, literary and domestic, and their ways, and in some cases their tragic and early deaths. These chats were most beneficial to me. Most- notably, in one instance, was I guarded against a -danger. It was so clearly demonstrated by the fate of Poe, Guy Do Maupassant, aud a host of others that short-story writers die young, that I checked my aspirations towards that specialty till I had passed the age of 60. In connection with mood, habit, and other idiosyncrasies, in producing a facile pen, it was interesting -to hear of Bret Harte, who wrote well or badly according to the furnishing of the room he used ; of Thackeray , who romped boyishly between fits of literary work; of David' Christie Murray, who said “ I can never write unless I smoke,” and then added, sententiously, “ Some of my critics say that I ought to leave off smoking”; and of hundreds of other cases of eccentricity. Comradeship between those who have tha literary art, and even those who have tie temperament' but not the art, have no sex limitations.

One night alter being stuck on the bridge with, fog, I came down after it cleared, about 11 p.m., to run against a lady Journalist at the bottom of tho bridge ladder. We had never met before, but had exchanged courtesies and friendly sympathies by letters and “anthers’ copies.” The deck was deserted, the weather calm but cold, but in three minutes we were having a delightful tete-a-tete, the proprieties being fully guaranted by my official position and—the hat she wore! We were like Lyndall and Waldo in the 1 Story of an African Farm.’ We forgot that she was a woman and I a man; we were merely “ things that could think.” For two hours we sat on a deck seat oblivious of the temperature, and exchanged opinions and experiences. Hers, in various parts of the world, and often in strange company, were moat interesting. One evening, when two or three scribes and scribblers were gathered in my cabin, & debate took place as to whether the bestliterary ability could be acquired or whether it ran in the blood like a wooden leg. Also, whether the talent (or curse) should be encouraged in tho young, or whether it was better to “thump it out of them” when you caught them at it. Argument on the point of narrative ability produced the following story : There was once a pious old gentleman taking a quiet walk along a country road, which ran—as so many roads do in New Zealand—along a line of railway. As he wandered along he came to a gang of navvies and other workmen who were repairing a culvert and laying down fresh rails. When abreast of the group the old gentleman lingered and watched. Among the hustlers was a navvy of Herculean proportions driving in big spike nails with a sledge hammer. His aim was marvellously accurate, hut unfortunately he was accidentally Jogged by one of his fellowworkmen, and, missing the nail-head, struck his foot. He dropped the hammer, picked up his foot, and, commencing with relegating his clumsy comrade to the hottest of hot regions, and casting reflections on the legitimacy of his birth and the moral character of his immediate feminine progenitors, gave vent to a lurid flow of blasphemy and obscenity which made the sarroundnig air putrid. The old gentleman, horror-stricken and shocked, lilted his hands in pious protest and said: “Oh! my man! my man! Wherever did you learn language like that!” Tho navvy dropped his foot, and, eyeing the old gentleman from head to foot in the contemptuous way that a genius would glance at a gaby, replied: “Guv’nor! It can’t be learnt. It’s a blanky gift !” No more argument was required. During the last 40 years the travelling public have been, to me, a kind of itinerant encyelopsedia—loose leaves from A to Z turning up in a haphazard way and often when required. They did not, however, always correspond with their lettering, i have learned something about military strategy from a lawyer; acoustics from a commercial travefier ; equity and law from a soldier; poetry from a trade union secretary; moral philosophy from a billiard marker; and anatomy and physiology from a veterinary surgeon. A chemist taught me how to retain perfect health without using drugs, and I am indebted to aColonial Treasurer for showing me some physical culture exercises which increased my chest expansion, and enabled me (like Bombardier Wells) to “get back my lost punch.” Yet from no class of men have I received more benefit, kindly sympathy, and inspiration, than from my many friends on th# New Zealand Press.