Therein lies the secret of the seamen’s special character as a body.  The ship, this ship, our ship, the ship we serve, is the moral symbol of our life.  A ship has to be respected, actually and ideally; her merit, her innocence, are sacred things.  Of all the creations of man she is the closest partner of his toil and courage.  From every point of view it is imperative that you should do well by her.  And, as always in the case of true love, all you can do for her adds only to the tale of her merits in your heart.  Mute and compelling, she claims not only your fidelity, but your respect.  And the supreme “Well done!” which you may earn is made over to her.

III.

It is my deep conviction, or, perhaps, I ought to say my deep feeling born from personal experience, that it is not the sea but the ships of the sea that guide and command that spirit of adventure which some say is the second nature of British men.  I don’t want to provoke a controversy (for intellectually I am rather a Quietist) but I venture to affirm that the main characteristic of the British men spread all over the world, is not the spirit of adventure so much as the spirit of service.  I think that this could be demonstrated from the history of great voyages and the general activity of the race.  That the British man has always liked his service to be adventurous rather than otherwise cannot be denied, for each British man began by being young in his time when all risk has a glamour.  Afterwards, with the course of years, risk became a part of his daily work; he would have missed it from his side as one misses a loved companion.

The mere love of adventure is no saving grace.  It is no grace at all.  It lays a man under no obligation of faithfulness to an idea and even to his own self.  Roughly speaking, an adventurer may be expected to have courage, or at any rate may be said to need it.  But courage in itself is not an ideal.  A successful highwayman showed courage of a sort, and pirate crews have been known to fight with courage or perhaps only with reckless desperation in the manner of cornered rats.  There is nothing in the world to prevent a mere lover or pursuer of adventure from running at any moment.  There is his own self, his mere taste for excitement, the prospect of some sort of gain, but there is no sort of loyalty to bind him in honour to consistent conduct.  I have noticed that the majority of mere lovers of adventure are mightily careful of their skins; and the proof of it is that so many of them manage to keep it whole to an advanced age.  You find them in mysterious nooks of islands and continents, mostly red-nosed and watery-eyed, and not even amusingly boastful.  There is nothing more futile under the sun than a mere adventurer.  He might have loved at one time—­which would have been a saving grace.  I mean loved adventure for itself.  But if so, he was bound to lose this grace very soon.  Adventure by itself is but a phantom, a dubious shape without a heart.  Yes, there is nothing more futile than an adventurer; but nobody can say that the adventurous activities of the British race are stamped with the futility of a chase after mere emotions.