You glance round the ship. The rigging
is glittering with icicles, and looks like a
tremendous chandelier. We suppose you to
be at anchor somewhere. Halifax is a very
good place for a winter scene,—a very
hospitable place, and capital quarters for salmon.
Or, what do you say to Athens? It sounds
too warm for a jolly Christmas; but, in
reality, it is sometimes terribly cold. There
is a wind that comes down from Russia as
biting and peremptory as an ukase.

But at present we are in the " Bustard."
She was a line-of-battle ship; and I will tell
you, first, how they pass Christmas in a line-
of-battle ship. The " Bustard " was a credit to
the profession; for she could sail right off at
once, directly after she was launched, and was
not repaired above twice in four years! We
had a very pleasant Christmas in her, at
anchor, in Vourla Bay, near the entrance of
the Gulf of Smyrna. We had been looking
after " British interests " in Smyrna, that
autumn, and had protected two balls, a
masquerade, and several dinners at the
consul's.

"It's getting near Christmas," said the
lieutenant of the watch to me after we had
set the men to work holystoning, that morning.

"Very true, Sir," I said, as if he had made
a striking observation.

"Are you cold, Mr. Topples?"

"Very, sir," I answered; for my

' Blue-veined feet unsandalled were,'

like Geraldine's, in ' Christabel.' They always
made us keep the morning-watch barefoot in
that precious " Bustard."

"Ah, you 'd better walk about, then. Just
lift that hammock-cloth over me," said the
lieutenant, composing himself in the nettings.
"Thank you."

There was considerable discussion in the
"Bustard," how Christmas should be kept
that year. Should the ward-room ask the
gun-room and Captain to dinner? or the
Captain ask them? The last was impossible.
Captain Barbell expected every man to do
his duty—and to ask him. So we plucked up
courage. We were an ambitious gun-room
mess. One of that mess was a duke's son.
It was notorious that we had Madeira, while
the ward-room drank mere port. We invited
the ward-room, and Captain Barbell. With
a condescension which is the true charm of
greatness, Captain Barbell accepted. I shall
never forget my emotions when I saw him
enter our mess-room, as if he had been a
gentleman—(I mean, of course, as if he had
been only an ordinary gentleman), and ask
twice for soup!

It was a brilliant preparation that we had
made to receive him. The tiller (which traverses
the gun-room) was wrapped round with
flags. The standards of every nation hung
gracefully blended around in waves of colour.
Eagles and trio-headed eagles swung together,
as if they never pecked at each other,—never
laid bullets instead of jolly edible eggs—
never fed on blood, or turned men into
sausages! The mess looked like a menagerie.
The British lion lay down with every conceivable
animal. Friend Jonathan's stars
helped the Turkish crescent to make a night
of it; and the laurel which they all fight for
(and which grows so impartially in every
country,—why should poor Daphne be made
to back the Furies?) glittered tranquilly and
green among them all.

But, before we went to dinner—just as the
"Roast Beef of Old England" was played,
and Captain Barbell marched out of his cabin,
looking very like the roast beef in question, raw
—we all visited the lower deck where the sea-men
were beginning the evening. There, on
the little tables, suspended by their polished
bars, stood plum-puddings. Perhaps there were
a couple to each mess—looking very like a pair
of terrestrial and celestial globes. How the
coppers ever hold these puddings, I mean some
day to inquire, when I have found out who
wrote " Junius," why Ovid was banished from
Rome, and some easier questions. These
coppers had boiled a lake of cocoa that morning;
had swallowed and boiled masses of junk,
sparkling with lumps of salt; how they
managed to hold the puddings, and to make
them so good, I don't know, just now. Each
pudding was decorated, perhaps with a paper
ornament, perhaps with a sprig from some
bush. Each " great globe itself " vanished
that night! I could feel no doubt of their
destiny when I saw the expression of the
biggest fellow in the ship—the captain of the
forecastle—as, like incense before the shrine
of Neptune, his pudding sent up an awful
steam before his weather-beaten face!

We returned to the gun-room. Captain
Barbell took the place of honour. He gave a
little grim smile as he saw the Sauterne.
There was no Sauterne in his time—when he
was a youngster. And yet he seemed to like
it! He paused, startled at the sparkling
Burgundy also—but he managed to swallow
it! The duke's son asked him to take wine.
There was a sensation. The captain nodded
(" Homer sometimes nods "), and a thrill went
through the mess. Meanwhile, the commander
chatted with the senior mate; my
messmate Riverby got confidential with the
gunnery lieutenant, and found out that they
were related through the Selbys, of Blocksey;
and a few youngsters made desperate attempts
to shatter the sobriety of the boatswain.

The boatswain! He was one of our guests.
He always dines with the officers (generally
with the Captain) on Christmas Day. It is
the aloe-blossoming of his life. It is his Lord
Mayor's Day. With a yellow waistcoat as
large as the mizen-topsail,—with a blue
coat quite new and creasy, that seems to have
been kept in a glass-case, for show, all the
year—he takes his seat. He is asked to take
wine. In olden days, he would have said,
"No, thank 'ee, Sir—I 'll take a potato!"
Now he says, " My respects," and tops of the