You are never entirely in the dark, now; there is always a beacon in sight, either before you, or behind you, or abreast.
One might almost say that lamps have been squandered there.

Dozens of crossings are lighted which were not shoal when they were created, and have never been shoal since; crossings so plain, too, and also so straight, that a steamboat can take herself through them without any help, after she has been through once.

Lamps in such places are of course not wasted; it is much more convenient and comfortable for a pilot to hold on them than on a spread of formless blackness that won't stay still; and money is saved to the boat, at the same time, for she can of course make more miles with her rudder amidships than she can with it squared across her stern and holding her back.
But this thing has knocked the romance out of piloting, to a large extent.

It, and some other things together, have knocked all the romance out of it.

For instance, the peril from snags is not now what it once was.