but big—barring a Scandinavian here and there,
with an eye as blue as the sea, the natural home
of his race. Tartar faces in the crowd recal the
desert and the tent; and one man is pointed out
to us as a Mahometan. The Finns are in ships
by themselves; for that strange, antique people
(foes long ago of the Scandinavian vikings) has
its own character, traditions, and superstitions,
and is best managed on "nationality" principles.

Passing round the decks, we notice the
absence of mess-tables, for the crew eat out of a
kind of tubs, after the fashion of a pic-nic. Their
drink is "rom," as with ourselves. Nor is their
discipline dissimilar. The punishment is flogging—
formal, sometimes, as in English men-of-war,
but casual, also, the agency in such case
being a rope's end. This last is exploded in our
service, though not in the American. There is,
however, this important difference between an
English and a Russian crew. The English one
is "paid off," and goes where it likes. The
Russian one goes to its barracks and its villages,
but in either case can be recalled at the pleasure
of government.

The most original-looking figure in a Russian
man-of-war is the functionary answering to our
chaplain—a monk. The priests of the national
church being married, it is found more convenient
to "draw" a holy man from a monastery and
send him on board. He wears a bearskin cap,
a beard, a long velvet gown, and top-boots, and
looks strange among the swarthy sailors. Morning
and night, the men assemble for prayers on
the upper deck, in long lines, and a picturesque
sight it is. Off go all hats. The monk prays
rapidly and fervently, the men bowing and crossing
themselves eagerly at intervals. On Sundays
you may hear the hymn sounding from the main-
deck, and see a real look of devotion on the
swarthy faces as they join. At Easter, the
captain kisses the crew all round, in token of
Christian amity.

We descend, now, to the officers' mess-room
(all officers, except the captain, mess together in
Russian ships), and are received with true gentlemanly
courtesy. In Russia, to be an officer in
the marine, you must be "noble;" and a
commission in the marine also constitutes noblesse.
Among the officers, as among the men, there is
diversity of race. Some are of pure Russ
extraction, some of Polish, some of German, some
even of Tartar—but of ancient or cream-of-
Tartar blood. Duke Constantino is making the
marine more and more popular among the
aristocracy. But the national—the official
—idea prevails over every other. You may
be of the thirty princely houses sprung
from Rurik, or the grandson of an ennobled
foreigner, but you are Russian and naval avant
tout.

There seems a greater freedom in a Russian
mess than among us. If you want a cigar with
your wine or tea (they drink tea out of tumblers
without milk, which looks exactly like brandy-
and-water), the mess-servant brings a wax-
candle for you to light it by. Benbow would
not be long in his grave if such a thing were
seen in one of her Majesty's vessels!

The Russian youngsters go to college before
joining a ship, and are cadets before being
midshipmen, and midshipmen before being
lieutenants, as in our profession. All, or nearly all,
speak French, but not so many English as one
would have expected. There is a little naval
journal, a kind of Moniteur de la Flotte,
published in Russia for the express discussion of
professional questions. This is another proof of
their present zeal in sea affairs. Duke Constantine
is doing much for his navy. That he is not
a practical seaman in the strict sense is probable,
but he has a thorough knowledge of the theory
of everything belonging to it, and he is looked
up to as a man of brains and energy. It is
evident that the Russian navy believes in its
future, evident even amidst the cordial admiration
which the officers show for our navy and
its history. Certainly they are sparing no pains,
and we may now expect to hear of their
squadrons frequently as en route to the
Mediterranean and the Pacific. While at Spithead
they have not invited rivalry in the ordinary
evolutions—sending up and down top-gallant
yards, loosing and furling sails, &c. But they
had a field-day soon after the Grand-Duke's
arrival, when they did not hesitate to invite the
criticism of our squadron. Their presence
altogether added much to the interest of
Portsmouth during our summer visit, and it is
paying them a just compliment to say that
England ought to feel more vividly than ever
the duty of keeping her flag flying at its old
height.

OUR MR. DOVE.

MR. LILYSEED was a decidedly clever man.
He had tried many professions and occupations
about the provinces, and had found them all too
slow as roads to wealth. His last and present
occupation was that of a London linendraper.

Now a London linendraper may be, and often
is, a very dull and respectable man, but Mr.
Lilyseed was far too clever to be so tamely
respectable. Go ahead was his creed, and Push
on was his watchword; and this was the reason
why he was largely trusted and respected. His
orders were never neglected in Cannon-street or
Manchester, and his bills were considered as
good as bank-notes, after deducting a slight
discount for the time during which they were running.

The main secret, however, of Mr. Lilyseed's
popularity in the markets, was the excellent
faith that he had always kept with his creditors.
He had always paid his way. If anybody
had suffered, his creditors were not the persons.

Mr. Lilyseed had, in some respects, been a
singularly unfortunate man; a man who seemed
doomed to be visited by the fearful calamity of
fire. The electric fluid (as it is popularly called)
had always spared his stock-in-trade and house-