What about ocean steamers racing? The question was raised in the British House of Commons a few years ago, and elicited the answer that there is no law in the statute book forbidding it. Are not these ocean greyhounds built and subsidized with a special view to speed? Other things being equal, the fastest boat draws most passengers. A competing ship may be in sight or out of sight; it makes little difference. There is a race going on all the same, and the palm is awarded to the one that lands the mails in London or New York, as the case may be, in the fewest number of hours and minutes. Probably ninety-nine out of every hundred passengers on board the _Majestic_ on a certain day in May, 1894, if placed in the witness-box, would swear that on that day an exciting race took place on the high seas, which ended in the SS. _Paris_ outrunning the _Majestic_, and dashing across her bows in dangerous proximity! It was an optical delusion. Both ships, no doubt, were doing their level best, and had they continued their respective courses much longer, there is no saying what might have happened, but, at the proper time, Captain Parsell blew off steam, slowed his ship, put his helm down, and crossed the stern of the _Paris_. It was beautifully done. * * * * * And how about these so-called lifeboats, hanging in the davits, so prettily painted, so neatly encased in canvas, and so firmly secured in their places? That they are useful sometimes, the writer knows from personal observation. On a recent voyage from Liverpool to New York we ran into a dense fog off the Banks of Newfoundland. The steam whistle gave forth its dolorous sounds all hours of the night, but the ship rushed on at her accustomed pace. At 4.20 a.m. most of us were awakened out of our slumbers by a violent shaking of the vessel. Had we been near land we might have fancied that the ship was grating along a pebbly bottom, but that could not be. Presently the engine stopped, and a loud roar of steam from the funnels brought most of the passengers on deck. It was a raw, damp morning, about daybreak, with fog as thick as burgoo all around. You couldn’t see half the length of the ship. Everything on deck appeared to be at sixes and sevens. Where the after-boats had been ropes and tackles were swinging to the roll of the ship; orders were being given from the bridge in peremptory tones, a few sailors were hurrying here and there, yelling out their ready “Aye, aye, sir!” Down goes another boat. Three or four had already left the ship and disappeared in the mist. What is it all about? “Oh! we have run down a fishing schooner and smashed it to smithereens.” Listen! voices of men in distress are heard; they shout louder and louder, and are answered, call for call, by the steam whistle. The ship had overshot the scene of the disaster, but was brought back to the spot by the instant reversal of her twin-screws—it was that that