extends
from the Thames to the Tyne. The evidence is there for all to judge. The
seaway is foul with wrecks, foundered on beach and sandbar--the tide
vexed by under-water obstructions. Topmast spars with whitened cordage
whipping in the wind stand out above the swirl of the tides; a shattered
bow-section or gaunt listed shell of a wrecked vessel sets the turn to a
new shoal drift; crazy funnels, twisted and arake by the broken hulls
below, stud the angles of the buoyage that marks the fairway. Disaster
to our shipping is plainly shewn, grouped in a way that no figures or
statistics could rival. But there is other evidence. Daybreak in the
Channel gives light to a progress of seaworthy craft that seems in no
way diminished by the worst that the enemy can do. He has failed,
despite the sinister sea-marks that litter the fairway. Down the river
estuaries and out from the sea-harbour and roadstead, the coasters still
join in company through the channels. An unending procession; the grey
seascape is never free of their whirling smoke-wreaths. Passing and
turning in the deeps, they steam close to the red-rusted, shattered
hulls of their sister ships. The gaunt masses of tortured steel stand
out as monuments to an indomitable spirit--or to an influence that calls
their sea-mates out to steer by the loom of their wreckage.

PILOTS

IF we may count antiquity and precedence a claim, the pilot is the real
senior of our trade. Before the ship and her tackling--the rude coracle,
setting across the river bars or steering on a short passage by
sea-marks on the coast, before the oversea venturer with his guide in
sun and star--the lodesman, who marked the deeps and the shallows.

The pilot's departure and boarding are definite and well-marked
incidents in the course of a voyage, and have a significance and
interest few other ship-happenings claim. He is our last and first
connection with the shore. His leaving is attended by a sober emotion, a
compound of regret and impatience; regret that his sure support is
withdrawn--impatience to go ahead to open sea. He backs over the rail
and lurches down the swaying side-ladder to his dinghy to an
accompaniment of cordial good-byes. Passengers crowd the bulwarks to
watch his small boat go a-bobbing in the stern-wash as we gather way. It
hardly occurs to them that their farewell letters, now in his
weather-stained bag, may be for days or weeks unposted; to them he is
the last post--the link