It is also very pleasing to observe the reciprocal feeling which belongs on such occasions to all rightly constituted minds.  When Captain Foster, in 1828, then only lieutenant, received the Copley medal, the highest scientific honour in the gift of the Royal Society, it never occurred to him merely to hang it at his breast in solitary dignity, or to chuckle presumptuously at his own particular good fortune.  So far from this, he thought only of the service; and proceeding straight to the Admiralty, he showed the medal, and declared modestly, but firmly, to their lordships, that he considered the honour only nominally bestowed upon himself, but essentially conferred upon the naval profession at large.  This generous and manly appeal could not fail to make its due impression; and within the same hour, his commission, as commander, was signed, his appointment to a ship ordered, and a voyage of scientific research carved out for him.  But I need not add how bitter a grief it is to those who were personally acquainted with this rising young officer, to think that so much knowledge—­such useful talents—­such unmatched zeal and industry—­and such true love for science—­all so fertile in promises of future service and renown—­should have been lamentably quenched in a moment.

Besides the regular-built sailors, and the saltwater statesmen and philosophers, there is yet another set which greatly outnumbers both, and which, if comparisons must be made, equals, if it does not far exceed them in utility.  I allude to that large and very important body of strictly professional persons who are not remarkable for anything in particular, unless it be for a hearty and uncompromising devotion to the service.  Captains, it is to be feared, are generally too apt to consider these meritorious persons as less entitled to attention than their more showy companions; just as schoolmasters are, not unnaturally, disposed to devote most of their time to the cleverest boys, to the comparative neglect of those who cluster round the point of mediocrity.  It may, however, be easily conceived that the persons least attended to, afloat as well as on shore, often stand more in need of notice and assistance than their gifted brethren, who are better able to make their own consequence felt and acknowledged; for it must not be forgotten that these honest, hard-working men actually perform the greater part of all the routine drudgery of the service, and perhaps execute it better than men of higher talents could do in their place.

The class amongst us who devote themselves to sober literary pursuits is necessarily very small; but that of the happy youths, who dream the gods have made them poetical, has many members, who “rave, recite, and madden round the ship,” to their own (exclusive) satisfaction.  Others there are who deal desperately in the fine arts of painting and music,—­that is, who draw out of perspective, and play out of tune:  not that the ability to sketch the scenes and phenomena continually passing before them is objectionable; I allude here to the pretenders to art.  Their poor messmates can have little respect for these pretending Rembrandts and Paganinis; and the happiness of the mess would be considerably improved if authority were given to pitch every such sketch-book and every flute out at the stern-port.