Modern scientific naval architecture can properly be said to date from the latter part of the 17th Century, for it was then that the first studies were made of the passage through the water of various shaped hulls. Before this, ships were built and if they were successful were copied; if unsuccessful they had less influence on later design. Now began a study that has been carried down to to-day, and scientific deductions began to be made, and upon these investigations and the results of them an important part of naval architecture has been founded.
Still, however, this new science was crude. One reason for this was that ships depended upon the wind for power, and it was a slow task to compile comparative data. That this was not impossible, though, is proved by the brilliant American designers of the first half of the 19th Century, who suddenly evolved the clipper ships that so far surpassed all previous sailing ships that comparison became mere contrast.
But it was steam that made it possible for naval architects to develop their profession to so high a point as it has reached. It was during the 19th Century, then, that naval architecture made its greatest progress. Since the 19th Century great improvements have been made, it is true, and many facts have been discovered, and naval architecture still is progressing, but the 19th Century made a profession of it, and the 20th Century is only continuing its development.
The profession of the naval architect is one that is not widely recognized or understood. When Cass Gilbert designs a Woolworth Building we recognize him as a great architect, and realize, to some extent, the great task he has so successfully completed. When the building is built we view it with interest, perhaps with awe, and comment on the brilliance of the architect and the ability of the constructor. And they deserve all the credit they get—and more.
But how often have you ever heard mention made of the architects from whose brains were evolved the Mauretania and the Leviathan, the Belgenland and the Majestic? True, it is commonplace to marvel at their size. But who thinks of the titanic task that faced their designers?
And now imagine a Woolworth Building being built on a sloping runway, and, when completed, slid bodily into the water, across thousands of miles of which mighty engines placed inside could drive her at express-train speed. Imagine such a structure, with all the magnificence of appointments that are to be found in the Woolworth Building, forcing its way through winter storms with waves pounding madly at its sides—waves which, striking the ironbound coasts of Maine or Wales, sometimes tear away tons of the living rock and hurl it about in a smother of foam. And then compare such a structure with the greatest ships of to-day. There are several far longer than the Woolworth Building is tall, but these vast steel hulls do not rest on foundations of steel and concrete—immovable. They float in the water, and may pitch and roll in the giant swells of the deep sea, but still their huge steel frames easily bear the strain, and while a tremor of the earth might dash skyscrapers disastrously about our ears, the almost constant motion of the sea, whether violent or weak, affects them little. For such work as this the architects of ships deserve all praise.
In such huge and complicated structures as ships have grown to be, repairs, naturally, are frequent and vital. The ordinary wear to which the machinery is subjected necessitates constant adjustments and replacements. Improved mechanical apparatus sometimes is installed to take the place of less reliable or less economical apparatus. The action of sea water on the exposed metal and the collection below the water line of barnacles and other marine growths require periodic attention, while paint seems for ever necessary and, at least on warships, wet paint is omnipresent.
Before the introduction of iron and steel, ships were comparatively small, and consequently it was a simpler job to haul them out of water or ground them at high tide in order that, when the tide had gone out, their underbodies could be examined and repaired. Sometimes, again, tackle made fast to their masts and led to anchors dropped well away from their sides or to points ashore made it possible for ships to be hauled over to one side or the other, bringing a large part of their underbodies above water, where their crews could make the necessary repairs, or scrape off most of the accumulation of marine growth.
THE OLYMPIC