JOSEPH CONRAD I 25 



say that each of her voyages is a triumphant pro- 

 gress ; and yet it is a question whether it is not a 

 more subtle and human triumph to be tjie sport of 

 the waves and yet survive, achieving your end. 



In his own time a man is ahvays very modern. 

 Whether the seaman of three hundred years hence 

 will have the faculty of sympathy it is impossible 

 to say. An incorrigible mankind hardens its heart 

 in the progress of its own perfectability. How will 

 they feel on seeing the illustrations to the sea 

 novels of our day, or of our yesterday? It is 

 impossible to guess. But the seaman of the last 

 generation, brought into sympathy with the cara- 

 vels of ancient time by his sailing ship, their lineal 

 descendant, cannot look upon those lumbering 

 forms navigating the naive seas of ancient wood- 

 cuts without a feeling of surprise, of affectionate 

 derision, envy, and admiration. For those things, 

 whose unmanageableness, even when represented 

 on paper, makes one gasp with a sort of amused 

 horror, were manned by men who are his direct 

 professional ancestors. 



No ; the seamen of three hundred years hence 

 will probably be neither touched nor moved to 

 derision, affection, or admiration. They will glance 

 at the photogravures of our nearly defunct sailing- 

 ships with a cold, inquisitive and indifferent eye. 

 Our ships of yesterday will stand to their ships as 

 no lineal ancestors, but as mere predecessors whose 



