The successive generations that went out to sea from these Isles went out to toil desperately in adventurous conditions.  A man is a worker.  If he is not that he is nothing.  Just nothing—­like a mere adventurer.  Those men understood the nature of their work, but more or less dimly, in various degrees of imperfection.  The best and greatest of their leaders even had never seen it clearly, because of its magnitude and the remoteness of its end.  This is the common fate of mankind, whose most positive achievements are born from dreams and visions followed loyally to an unknown destination.  And it doesn’t matter.  For the great mass of mankind the only saving grace that is needed is steady fidelity to what is nearest to hand and heart in the short moment of each human effort.  In other and in greater words, what is needed is a sense of immediate duty, and a feeling of impalpable constraint.  Indeed, seamen and duty are all the time inseparable companions.  It has been suggested to me that this sense of duty is not a patriotic sense or a religious sense, or even a social sense in a seaman.  I don’t know.  It seems to me that a seaman’s duty may be an unconscious compound of these three, something perhaps smaller than either, but something much more definite for the simple mind and more adapted to the humbleness of the seaman’s task.  It has been suggested also to me that the impalpable constraint is put upon the nature of a seaman by the Spirit of the Sea, which he serves with a dumb and dogged devotion.

Those are fine words conveying a fine idea.  But this I do know, that it is very difficult to display a dogged devotion to a mere spirit, however great.  In everyday life ordinary men require something much more material, effective, definite and symbolic on which to concentrate their love and their devotion.  And then, what is it, this Spirit of the Sea?  It is too great and too elusive to be embraced and taken to a human breast.  All that a guileless or guileful seaman knows of it is its hostility, its exaction of toil as endless as its ever-renewed horizons.  No.  What awakens the seaman’s sense of duty, what lays that impalpable constraint upon the strength of his manliness, what commands his not always dumb if always dogged devotion, is not the spirit of the sea but something that in his eyes has a body, a character, a fascination, and almost a soul—­it is his ship.

There is not a day that has passed for many centuries now without the sun seeing scattered over all the seas groups of British men whose material and moral existence is conditioned by their loyalty to each other and their faithful devotion to a ship.