sleep off their last spree. The mates are set to the task of dragooning
into order the unruly mass. Half the men have spent their advance, and
mean to run as soon as the ship arrives. They intend to do as little as
they can,--to "soger," and shirk, and work against the ship all they
can. The captain cares only to make a quick passage and get what he can
out of the crew. Community of interest there is none. Brutal authority
is pitted against sullen discontent.

In the old days of the little white-headed farmer's boy's dreams, there
were discovery and trading-ships sailing into unknown seas, and finding
fairy islands never visited before. There were savages to trade
with,--to fight with, it might be. There were a thousand perils and
adventures that called for all the manly and ennobling qualities both
of generous command and loyal obedience. It was a point of honor to
stick by ship and captain while ship and captain remained to stick by;
for the success of a voyage depended on such mutual trust and help. But
now where is the sea's secret? There is hardly a square league of water
which has not been sailed over. Find an island large enough to land a
goat upon, and you will find it laid down in the charts,--and, if it be
only far enough south, a Stonington sealer at anchor under its lee, or
a New Bedford whaler's crew ashore picking up drift-wood. Where are the
old dangers of the sea? We are fast learning to calculate for the
storms, and to run from them. Steam-frigates have ended forever the
pirates of the Spanish Main. The long, low, black schooner, which could
sail dead to windward through the pages of the cheap "yellow-covers,"
and the likeness of which sported its skull and crossbones on the said
covers, is to be met with nowhere else. Neither the Isle of Pines nor
the numberless West India keys know her or her romantic commander any
more.