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Show j SUCH A DREADFUL SEA-DOG. Tbe Cherished Pilot of Fiction Smashed by Fact's Hard Fist. Among the glaring frauds is the pilot of fiction. The general impression of this article is a salt-soaked citizen with a hot nose, a long neck for grog, voice with variations like a bass viol, sou'wester, short black pipe, shawl around his neck, select vocabulary of profanity and a generally damp air combined with a bow - legged swagger. "Luff, you lubber," and "Hold her steady to port, my hearty," are the words of wisdom that fall from his lips before he "tumbles" into his boat over the side of the vessel with a bone-breaking recklessness. reckless-ness. He can tell when, to a certainty of ten feet, just where his vessel is in a fog that would make a land lubber turn pale. He is painted as the terror of everybody aboard ship, from captain to cook. He could, in an emergency, chew glass as easily as tobacco, while to his grog capacity there is practically no limit. - The reality on the North River, New York, and the Clyde, knocks the underpinning under-pinning from this idea of yellow-back literature, and in fact of works of higher grade in the book world. The New York pilot is an elderly dude in white plug hat and patent leather gaiters. His clothing is of the latest cut, his linen is irreproachable, and he never raises his voice above a conversational tone. Standing beside the captain and first officer on the bridge as the steamer heads toward Sandy Hook, he says a word and the order is sent back to the wheelhouse by electricity. The simple pressure of the thumb on an ivory button does the work. Instead of the traditional rum and water in the captain's cabin, when about to leave the ship, he lubricates lubri-cates his palate with a small bottle of Mumm's or Piper Heidsieck. He smokes, but it is a Henry Clay. As he gingerly clambered over the rail into the waiting yawl, nineteen of the passengers held their breath for fear he would crush his cuffs or damage his light pantaloons in the descent. "Thanks ; that was done nicely. That cursed Frenchman yesterday made me bark my shins," was his parting words, as he waved a white hand in farewell from the little boat. On the Clyde the pilot wears a Scotch cap, which alone distinguishes him in make-up and manner from his trans-Atlantic brother.-CTasfiroic letter in tlie Pittsburg Despatch. |