six boats would be simultaneously swung, filled, and got away from the side; and if any sort of order is kept, the ship could be cleared of the passengers in a quite short time.  For there must be boats enough for the passengers and crew, whether you increase the number of boats or limit the number of passengers, irrespective of the size of the ship.  That is the only honest course.  Any other would be rather worse than putting sand in the sugar, for which a tradesman gets fined or imprisoned.  Do not let us take a romantic view of the so-called progress.  A company selling passages is a tradesman; though from the way these people talk and behave you would think they are benefactors of mankind in some mysterious way, engaged in some lofty and amazing enterprise.

All these boats should have a motor-engine in them.  And, of course, the glorified tradesman, the mummified official, the technicians, and all these secretly disconcerted hangers-on to the enormous ticket-selling enterprise, will raise objections to it with every air of superiority.  But don’t believe them.  Doesn’t it strike you as absurd that in this age of mechanical propulsion, of generated power, the boats of such ultra-modern ships are fitted with oars and sails, implements more than three thousand years old?  Old as the siege of Troy.  Older! . . .  And I know what I am talking about.  Only six weeks ago I was on the river in an ancient, rough, ship’s boat, fitted with a two-cylinder motor-engine of 7.5 h.p.  Just a common ship’s boat, which the man who owns her uses for taking the workmen and stevedores to and from the ships loading at the buoys off Greenhithe.  She would have carried some thirty people.  No doubt has carried as many daily for many months.  And she can tow a twenty-five ton water barge—­which is also part of that man’s business.

It was a boisterous day, half a gale of wind against the flood tide.  Two fellows managed her.  A youngster of seventeen was cox (and a first-rate cox he was too); a fellow in a torn blue jersey, not much older, of the usual riverside type, looked after the engine.  I spent an hour and a half in her, running up and down and across that reach.  She handled perfectly.  With eight or twelve oars out she could not have done anything like as well.  These two youngsters at my request kept her stationary for ten minutes, with a touch of engine and helm now and then, within three feet of a big, ugly mooring buoy over which the water broke and the spray flew in sheets, and which would have holed her if she had bumped against it.  But she kept her position, it seemed to me, to an inch, without apparently any trouble to these boys.  You could not have done it with oars.  And her engine did not take up the space of three men, even on the assumption that you would pack people as tight as sardines in a box.