Again, how odd the public-house signs! "The
Neptune and Mars;" "The Arethusa and Circe"
—specimens of that quaint grafting of the
classic laurel on the British oak which marks
our naval history. A rude pictorial sentiment,
however, mingles itself with all appeals to
sailors, even of the most business-like character.
A bit of clap-trap is prepared for him at the
slopseller's, and in the bill which invites him to
enter a newly commissioned ship. Kind people
treat him like a child, harsh people like a beast.
For his own part, poor fellow, he often acts as
if he were a mixture of the two; and we may
see him, here, spending his money in treating a
stranger, and drinking himself into the kennel
at the same time. Sailors' Homes do something
to civilise him, but there are still sights—
especially in Portsea and Gosport—which would
appal inland Britons.

While we watch our Jack sailing along, his
knife dangling from his side, his Guernsey frock
collar back, his curls (if a Sandy) floating below
the straw hat, or pushed back on his head, a
body of Russian sailors just landed comes by,
and we cannot help an extra-curious glance at
them. At first sight, at a distance, one is struck
by their general likeness to seamen—our own
particularly. They jump, and don't march, out
of their boat. The hat with the ribbon bearing
the ship's name, the white trousers, the frock—
all have a nautical look. They are big men, too,
if ugly, and the sunburnt hue about them tends
to favour the first impression, and to make you
dismiss the old notion that a Russian sailor is a
dummy meant only for show. Still, a nearer
look weakens this sentiment of reaction that has
been going on in your mind: a certain bagginess
in the hinder regions, a certain sameness
of type in cut and manner, a want of the
individuality, the character, the abandon of our
fellows,—all announces an inferior in the Russian
sailor. Our sailors are a species by themselves,
with a definite place in literature, even, of their
own. There is nothing of this sort about the
Russ. He looks strong, active, good-natured,
brave, and faithful; but he is ages off having
attained an historic individuality. You recognise
in him the man who has not yet got traditions,
and our traditions make our force, as a
Russian officer observed to me.

The Russian sailor, for the most part, is an
ugly fellow, but there are faces that smack of
Scandinavia. On pleasure, they are troublesome
in foreign places, being fond of overhauling
half a shop without being contented with
the prices. To mark their simple and practical
method of dealing at a public-house is, however,
refreshing. After a debate amongst themselves,
during which the British landlady remains
puzzled and patient, the spokesman advances:
"Madame! Rom!" He then indicates the
quantity by producing a coin, and the whole
party proceeds to take drams. I saw one man,
obviously of Tartar extraction, whose performance
was what the Americans call "a caution."
He bolted his glass as a juggler swallows tape,
with a fierce gasp of pleasure after it, which
brought a thousand years of barbarism before
one's imagination. But enough of the Russian
sailor just now, for we are to visit him presently
on board his own ship.

Little things are very significant to the
observing rambler through a town. We wander
into Portsea, through red narrow streets, over
drawbridges, past the long wall of the Ordnance
department. We observe "Philosophical
Institution" written on a building of the seedy
un-Greek order; but philosophy has had to put
the shutters up, and dust is gradually thickening
on the panes. Seaports are not literary,
except it be in the way of fast novels in gaudy
colours, for which there appears a tolerable demand.

Portsea is the most nautical part of Portsmouth.
Here is the famous "Common Hard,"
where "liberty men" hasten to disport themselves;
where few shops offer advances on prize-money
and slave-captures; where the "Naval
Rendezvous" invites men by bills to join H.M.S.
Procrastination (wanting "a captain of the fore-top,
a captain of the main-top, a good fiddler,"
and as many seamen as she can get), and where
are several hostelries famous among naval men.
Of these last is the "Benbow's Head," the
favourite haunt of the junior and gayer part of
the profession, while older and steadier gentlemen
frequent the "Elephant and Castle." In
the coffee-room of the former, a stranger will
not improbably find a copy of the Admiralty's Gunnery
Instructions, brought ashore by some youth
who is "passing" in that science on board the
"Excellent," and who combines with professional
study a relish for pale ale. The youth
is gone for a stroll, however, and the stranger
may peruse at his leisure such examination
questions as, "What is the first thing you do
on getting into a rocket-boat?" (to which the
reply in his case would seem to be, "Get out
again!"); or, "Will grape penetrate the sides of
a ship?" followed by the amplest information
on the subject of red-hot shot. The talk at the
B. H. is at once professional and playful, the
well-known old mixture of smartness and shop.
Charley Vivian was passing the college for navigation
the other day, and when told that his
latitude was only half the proper amount, gravely
informed the authorities that he "forgot to
multiply by two." Billy Sparkles has "missed
stays." Tom Proby, by help of "a sweating
fellow," has pulled through. It is much the
same kind of talk one heard fifteen years ago;
but the examinations are more numerous and
more strict than in those days, a change which
is making itself felt through the profession.

At the end of the Hard, we come to an
imposing wall and a gate guarded by policemen.
It is the entry to the dockyard, an establishment
which we are too curious, as well as patriotic, not
to visit. Foreigners are excluded, unless they
come with formal permission from the
Admiralty; but we Britons are civilly admitted
through the portals, and when there are enough
of us to form a decent convoy, a policeman takes
us under his wing, and conducts us through the