In the previous pages we have given some account of the various stations visited by the Royal Navy of Great Britain. Let us next take a glance at the ships themselves—the quarter-deck, the captain’s cabin, and the ward-room. In a word, let us see how the officers of a ship live, move, and have their being on board. Their condition depends very much on their ship, their captain, and themselves. The first point may be dismissed briefly, as the general improvement in all descriptions of vessels, including their interior arrangements, is too marked to need mentioning. The ward-room of a modern man-of-war is often as well furnished as any other dining-room—handsomely carpeted, the sides adorned with pictures, with comfortable chairs and lounges, and excellent appointments at table. In the ward-room of a Russian corvette visited by the writer, he found a saloon large enough for a ball, with piano, and gorgeous side-board, set out as in the houses of most of the northern nations of Europe, with sundry bottles and incitives to emptying them, in the shape of salt anchovies and salmon, caviare and cheese. In a British flag-ship he found the admiral’s cabin, while in port at least, a perfect little bijou of a drawing-room, with harmonium and piano, vases of flowers, portfolios of drawings, an elaborate stove, and all else that could conduce to comfort and luxury. Outside of this was a more plainly-furnished cabin, used as a dining-room. Of course much of this disappears at sea. The china and glass are securely packed, and all of the smaller loose articles stowed away; the piano covered up in canvas and securely “tied up” to the side; likely enough the carpet removed, and a rough canvas substituted. Still, all is ship-shape and neat as a new pin. The few “old tubs” of vessels still in the service are rarely employed beyond trifling harbour duties, or are kept for emergencies on foreign stations. They will soon disappear, to be replaced by smart and handy little gun-boats or other craft, where, if the accommodations are limited, at least the very most is made of the room at command. How different all this is to many of the vessels of the last century and commencement of this, described by our nautical novelists as little better than colliers, pest ships, and tubs, smelling of pitch, paint, bilge-water, tar, and rum! Readers will remember Marryat’s captain, who, with his wife, was so inordinately fond of pork that he turned his ship into a floating pig-sty. At his dinner there appeared mock-turtle soup (of pig’s head); boiled pork and pease pudding; roast spare rib; sausages and pettitoes; and, last of all, sucking-pig. He will doubtless remember how he was eventually frightened off the ship, then about to proceed to the West Indies, by the doctor telling him that with his habit of living he would not give much for his life on that station. But although Marryat’s characters were true to the life of his time, you would go far to find a