It is apparent, then, that in guaranteeing an exceptionally high rate of speed the builder assumes no little risk. The designing of a fast ship is indeed more of an art than a science, and each designer proceeds on a theory more or less his own. If the reader has an opportunity to compare models of the Servia, the Alaska, and the City of Rome, three ships built at the same time, each intended to rival the others, he will see by the varying proportions of length or breadth, and by other contrasts, how the opinions of the architects have differed as to the best lines for obtaining speed. True, it is not possible to ignore formulas altogether, but the designer’s intuitions or inspirations are not less serviceable to him than his technical knowledge. [Illustration: The Umbria just before Launching.] We will suppose, however, that the designer sees his way to build such a ship as the specifications submitted to him call for, and that the contract is awarded to him, or to the firm he represents. The ship is now tentatively on paper, though her essential features are well defined, and the next step takes us to Glasgow and the Clyde. II. If in crossing the Atlantic for the first time you choose Glasgow for your port of disembarkation, the sail up the Firth of the Clyde and the river is likely to be full of agreeable and memorable surprises. The beauties of that route are not advertised, and one hears so little of them in advance that they gain impressiveness from the absence of expectation. The Firth itself is like a great Fjord, a land-locked bay hollowed between hills and crags, among which vapory clouds are always shifting, and its deep salt waters are ploughed by fleets of vessels of every class, and especially by yachts, sea-going steamers, and the most rakish-looking excursion boats in the world; it is not unlike the Hudson above Peekskill, though much wider; the rounded hills have the same soft and civilized outlines, and the same appearance of reclamation for man’s use and delectation; modern villas crown their heights and watering-places cluster at their feet. Just below Greenock the passage narrows, and above that we enter the river, which, though not beautiful, is more of a surprise than even the Firth. It meanders through fields, and from the towering deck upon which we stand we look down upon ploughmen at work, cattle grazing, and snug farm-houses. So narrow is the stream, and so low are the banks, that the big steamer seems curiously out of place. How, one asks, has Glasgow ever prospered with so small a river as its only outlet to the sea? We have thought of the Clyde as a wide and capacious stream like the Mersey opposite Birkenhead, or the Hudson opposite New York; but, instead, it is scarcely as wide as the East River at Brooklyn, and there are reaches where two large vessels have no room to spare in passing each other.