Without competition the old East India Company sent its ships from England to the East for 300 years, and served Britain little better at the end of that time than at the beginning. With competition the transatlantic voyage has been cut from forty days to little more than four. Giant ships plough every sea and offer their magnificence to every passenger who cares to pay the passage money. No longer do silks and spices fill the holds of the argosies of the deep. Iron ore or polished motor cars, bales of cotton or crates of textiles, toys or machinery, hides or shoes, lumber or furniture—it matters not. Given only a place of origin and another place overseas where buyers wish it delivered and ships there will be to carry it. There is not a single harbour between the eternal ice of the two polar seas that is not visited by ships. There is not a person of the billion and a half who inhabit the globe but is affected by them. The natives of Central Africa buy cotton goods made in England of cotton grown in Alabama. The Eskimos of the frozen north hunt for seals with guns made in Connecticut. Oil that gushes from the rocks of Transcaucasia is refined, and burned in motor cars as they roll along the Champs Élysées. Copper from the Andes is made into roofing for houses everywhere on earth. Toys made in Czechoslovakia or Japan fill the counters of the toy shops of Britain and America. No longer do oceans divide the world. As shipping lines continue their development they cannot fail to weld the world into a vast economic unit, interdependent and friendly, useful to one another and to unnumbered generations of the future. To-day we look back to the beginnings of the shipping lines and smile as we think of their trifling activities. In a hundred years they have grown from infancy to vigorous manhood, but their future will not be one of senility. Instead, as years go by, their growth will greatly continue, and a hundred years from now the point of view of our children’s children will probably be to the shipping lines of to-day what ours is to the lines of a hundred years ago. CHAPTER XIV THE IMPORTANCE OF SHIPS Since time immemorial man has sailed the sea, yet is the sea but little known. To most of us it is an enigma, even though we may often have viewed its undulating surface from the deck chairs of ocean liners. But the ocean is not to be learned by idling passengers in deck chairs. One must play a part—no matter what—in the struggle to master it before one may feel acquainted with it. Nor even then may one become familiar, nor trust it over much. Sometimes it rages loud and long, and finally, worn out with the strain of raging, goes into a sort of restless doze, with occasional reawakenings of anger. Sometimes it hides beneath a mask of fog—quiet but untrustworthy, motionless but sulky—giving out no warnings of its dangers, and stubbornly interfering with those that man sends out. But these are not the moods most natural to the sea.