Some of the greatest among men have spoken and written regarding the material progress of mankind as if every new invention for shortening distance, for economising time or labour, and increasing production were but another step in the direction of eliminating romance from the weary world.

Especially has this been said of sea traffic. We are asked to believe that in the tiny vessels of Magalhaens, the pestilential hulls of Anson’s squadron, or the cumbrous wooden walls of Trafalgar, there dwelt a romance which is now non-existent at sea—that the introduction of the steam-driven ship has been fatal to a quality which in truth belongs not at all to material things, but holds its splendid court in the minds of men. Do they, these mourners over departed romance, hold, then, that misery is essential to romance? Is it essential to romantic interest at sea that because of the smallness of the ships, their lack of healthful food, their clumsiness of build and snail-like progress, men should suffer horribly and die miserably? Truly, if these things are necessary in order that romance shall flourish, we may find them still amongst us both at sea and on land, though happily in ever lessening proportion to an improved order of things.

But sober consideration will surely convince us that as far as true romance is concerned the modern ironclad warship, for instance, need abate no jot of her claim to the three-decker of last century or the Great Harry of our infant Navy. The sight of a 15,000-ton battleship cleared for action and silently dividing the ancient sea in her swift rush to meet the foe, not a man visible anywhere about her, but all grim, adamantine, and awe-inspiring—in what is she less romantic than the Victory under all canvas breaking the line at Trafalgar? As an incentive to the exercise of the imagination, the ironclad certainly claims first place. Like some fire-breathing dragon of ancient fable she comes, apparently by her own volition, armed with powers of destruction overtopping all the efforts of ancient story-tellers. Yet to the initiated she is more wonderful, more terror-striking, than to the unknowing observer. For the former pierce with the eye of knowledge her black walls of steel, and see within them hundreds of quiet, self-possessed men standing calmly by gun-breech, ammunition-hoist, fire-hose, and hospital. Deep under the water-line are scores of fiercely toiling slaves to the gigantic force that actuates the whole mass. Hardly recognisable as human, sealed up in stokeholes under abnormal air pressure, the clang of their weapons never ceases as they feed the long row of caverns glowing white with fervent heat. All around them and beneath them and above, clearly to be discerned through all the diabolical clamour of engines and roaring of furnaces, is that sense of invisible forces subdued by the hand of man, yet ferociously striving against restraint, a sense that makes the head of the new-comer throb and beat in sympathy until it seems as if the brain must burst its containing bone.

Just abaft these chambers of accumulating energy are the giants being fed thereby. Unhappy the man who can see no romance in the engine-room! Nothing exalting, soul-stirring, in the rhythmical race of weariless pistons, no storm-song in their magnificent voices as they dash round the shaft at ninety revolutions per minute. Standing amid these modern genii, to which those of “The Thousand and One Nights” are but puny weaklings, the sight, the senses are held captive, fascinated by so splendid a manifestation of the combination of skill and strength. And when unwillingly the gazer turns away, there are the men; the grimy, greasy, sweat-stained men. Watchful, patient, cat-like. Ready at the first hint, either from the racing Titans themselves or from the soaring bridge away up yonder in the night, to manipulate lever, throttle-valve, and auxiliaries as swiftly, deftly, and certainly as the great surgeon handles his tools in contact with the silent, living form under his hands.

What a lesson on faith is here. Faith in the workmanship of the complicated monsters they control, faith in one another to do the right thing at the right moment when a mistake would mean annihilation, faith in the watcher above who is guiding the whole enormous mass amidst dangers seen and unseen. This, too, is no blind faith, no mere credulity. It is born of knowledge, and the consequences of its being misplaced must be constantly in mind in order to insure effective service in time of disaster. It would surely be a good thing if more poetry were written on the lines of “McAndrew’s Hymn,” always supposing the poets could be found; greater efforts made to acquaint us who lead comfortable lives ashore with the everyday heroism of, the continual burnt-offering rendered by, the engineer, fireman, and trimmer. Perhaps we might then begin to discern dimly and faintly that so far from the romance of the sea being destroyed by the marine engine, it has been strengthened and added to until it is deeper and truer than ever.

And as with the men in the bowels of the ship so with those above. Commanding such a weapon of war as hinted at in the preceding lines, see the central figure in his tower of steel, surrounded by telephones, electric bells, and voice-tubes. Every portion of the ship, with its groups of faithful, waiting men, is within reach of his whisper. Behind him stands a man like a statue but for the brown hands grasping the spokes of the tiny wheel which operates the 150 horse-power engines far away in the run, which in their turn heave the mighty steel rudder this way or that, and so guide the whole fabric. This man in command wields a power that makes the mind reel to consider. A scarcely perceptible touch upon a button at his side and away speeds a torpedo; another touch, and two guns hurl 850 lbs. of steel shell filled with high explosive to a distance of ten miles if necessary. Obedience instant, perfect, yet intelligent is yielded to his lightest touch, his faintest whisper. So too his subordinates, each in their turn commanding as well as being commanded, and each saturated with the idea that not merely obedience, but obedience so swift as to be almost coincident with the order, is essential. Yet above and beyond all this harmony of discipline is the man who controls in the same perfect way the working, not only of one ship, but of a whole fleet. He speaks, and immediately flags flutter if by day, or electric lights scintillate if by night. Each obedient monster replies by fulfilling his will, and the sea foams as they swoop round each other in complicated evolutions, or scatter beyond the horizon’s rim to seek the common enemy. It is the triumph of discipline, organisation, and power under command.

As it is in the Navy so it is in the Mercantile Marine. Here is a vessel of a capacity greater than that costly experiment born out of due time, the Great Eastern. Her lines are altogether lovely, curves of beauty unexcelled by any yacht afloat. With such perfect grace does she sit upon the sea that the mere mention of her size conveys of it no conviction. Her decks are crowded with landward folk, for whose benefit naval architects and engineers have been busy devising ways and means of bridging the Atlantic. Every comfort and convenience for the poor, every luxury for the rich, is there. Majestically, at the stroke of the hour, she moves, commences her journey. Amid all the hubbub of parting friends, the agony of breaking up home bonds, the placid conductors of this floating city attend to their work. Theirs it is to convey on scheduled time from port to port across the trackless, unheeding ocean all this multitude of units, each a volume of history in himself or herself of most poignant interest could it be unfolded. And oh, the sinuous grace, the persistent speed, the co-partnership of affinity held between man’s newest and God’s oldest work. Its romance is beyond all power of speech to describe. Silent, speechless marvel only can be tendered unto it. The very regularity and order which prevails, the way in which arrivals may be counted on, these are offences in the eyes of some would-be defenders of romance. They are not apparently offended at the unerring regularity of natural phenomena. How is it that the same quality manifested by man’s handiwork in relation to the mutable sea gives occasion of stumbling? A hard question. Not that the mere regularity alone is worthy of admiration, but the triumph of mind over matter, manifested as much in the grimiest little tug crouching behind a storm-beaten headland watching, spider-like, for a homeward-bound sailing-ship, or in the under-engined, swag-bellied tramp creeping stolidly homeward, bearing her quota of provision for a heedless people who would starve without her, is everywhere to be held in admiration as fragrant with true romance, the undying romance of the sea.