Thus
my sarcastic prophecy, that such a suggestion was sure to turn up,
receives an unexpected fulfilment. You will see yet that in deference to
the demands of "progress" the theory of the new seamanship will become
established: "Whatever you see in front of you--ram it fair. . ." The
new seamanship! Looks simple, doesn't it? But it will be a very exact
art indeed. The proper handling of an unsinkable ship, you see, will
demand that she should be made to hit the iceberg very accurately with
her nose, because should you perchance scrape the bluff of the bow
instead, she may, without ceasing to be as unsinkable as before, find her
way to the bottom. I congratulate the future Transatlantic passengers on
the new and vigorous sensations in store for them. They shall go
bounding across from iceberg to iceberg at twenty-five knots with
precision and safety, and a "cheerful bumpy sound"--as the immortal poem
has it. It will be a teeth-loosening, exhilarating experience. The
decorations will be Louis-Quinze, of course, and the cafe shall remain
open all night. But what about the priceless Sevres porcelain and the
Venetian glass provided for the service of Transatlantic passengers?
Well, I am afraid all that will have to be replaced by silver goblets and
plates. Nasty, common, cheap silver. But those who _will_ go to sea
must be prepared to put up with a certain amount of hardship.

And there shall be no boats. Why should there be no boats? Because Pooh-
Bah has said that the fewer the boats, the more people can be saved; and
therefore with no boats at all, no one need be lost. But even if there
was a flaw in this argument, pray look at the other advantages the
absence of boats gives you. There can't be the annoyance of having to go
into them in the middle of the night, and the unpleasantness, after
saving your life by the skin of your teeth, of being hauled over the
coals by irreproachable members of the Bar with hints that you are no
better than a cowardly scoundrel and your wife a heartless monster. Less
Boats. No boats! Great should be the gratitude of passage-selling
Combines to Pooh-Bah; and they ought to cherish his memory when he dies.
But no fear of that. His kind never dies. All you have to do, O
Combine, is to knock at the door of the Marine Department, look in, and
beckon to the first man you see. That will be he, very much at your
service--prepared to affirm after "ten years of my best consider