I repeat, though, indeed, I think I have known ships who really
seemed to have had eyes, or else I cannot understand on what ground
a certain 1,000-ton barque of my acquaintance on one particular
occasion refused to answer her helm, thereby saving a frightful
smash to two ships and to a very good man's reputation. I knew her
intimately for two years, and in no other instance either before or
since have I known her to do that thing. The man she had served so
well (guessing, perhaps, at the depths of his affection for her) I
have known much longer, and in bare justice to him I must say that
this confidence-shattering experience (though so fortunate) only
augmented his trust in her. Yes, our ships have no ears, and thus
they cannot be deceived. I would illustrate my idea of fidelity as
between man and ship, between the master and his art, by a
statement which, though it might appear shockingly sophisticated,
is really very simple. I would say that a racing-yacht skipper who
thought of nothing else but the glory of winning the race would
never attain to any eminence of reputation. The genuine masters of
their craft--I say this confidently from my experience of ships--
have thought of nothing but of doing their very best by the vessel
under their charge. To forget one's self, to surrender all
personal feeling in the service of that fine art, is the only way
for a seaman to the faithful discharge of his trust.

Such is the service of a fine art and of ships that sail the sea.
And therein I think I can lay my finger upon the difference between
the seamen of yesterday, who are still with us, and the seamen of
to-morrow, already entered upon the possession of their
inheritance. History repeats itself, but the special call of an
art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly
gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.