And so it ran, sons and daughters, and grand sons and
daughters, world-wanderers and empire-builders, all of them, while the
old folks stayed at home and worked at building empire too.
"There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,
And a wealthy wife is she;
She breeds a breed o' rovin' men
And casts them over sea.
"And some are drowned in deep water,
And some in sight of shore;
And word goes back to the weary wife,
And ever she sends more."
But the Sea Wife's child-bearing is about done. The stock is running
out, and the planet is filling up. The wives of her sons may carry on
the breed, but her work is past. The erstwhile men of England are now
the men of Australia, of Africa, of America. England has sent forth "the
best she breeds" for so long, and has destroyed those that remained so
fiercely, that little remains for her to do but to sit down through the
long nights and gaze at royalty on the wall.
The true British merchant seaman has passed away. The merchant service
is no longer a recruiting ground for such sea dogs as fought with Nelson
at Trafalgar and the Nile. Foreigners largely man the merchant ships,
though Englishmen still continue to officer them and to prefer foreigners
for'ard.
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