however inferior to Spithead or the Sound in
scenery—with plenty of room to swing, and
fifteen fathoms water, or so, underfoot. But how
empty of shipping, and how different in stir,
bustle, and gaiety, from the Portsmouth which
we saw this August! Men-of-war there are none
but a frigate and a corvette, to which adds itself
a Dutch frigate, presently, come in for repairs.
Yachts, pleasure-boats, passenger steamers, are
not much seen at Cherbourg at the best of
times, and it is now the dullest part of autumn.
A pretty little steamer runs out some days; she
is the boat that is laying down the telegraphic
cable along the coast.

The Port Militaire lies on the north-west side of
the town, beyond the prancing statue. For leave
to see it, the stranger must apply—presenting
his passport at the same time—to the Préfecture
Maritime. This is the naval head-quarters,
communicating by telegraph with Paris, and to
which came one morning, while we were there,
the order to push on with the Chinese preparations.
Admission to the Port was granted, without
any questions asked, in my case: but the
ticket is always for a limited time, and bears on
it directions that you shall be accompanied by
somebody; the whole affair being conducted, it
is right to add, with every courtesy.

Walking briskly along the western streets—
narrow, white, stony, and clean—one finds the
dockyard wall to one's right, bounding a long
suburban road, planted with trees. Soldiers pass
at every step, as in all parts of Cherbourg: marine
infantry in blue trousers, line regiments in red,
the latter smaller men, nimble, bullet-headed,
close-cropped, with white gaiters, who carry,
swingingly and easily, muskets that might
seem a deal too large for them. The sword
bayonet is to be seen, too,—a short, rather
curved, two-edged sword, with brass handle,
which becomes a bayonet on the musket, and
a short sword in the belt. But more interesting
than these is a large white building, with
a ground in front and railed, on the opposite
side from where the dockyard is, and bearing
in the centre, over an ornamental device, formed
of flags, the words

EQUIPAGES DE LA FLOTTE.

This is an edifice of purposes and objects
quite unfamiliar to a Briton; an edifice the very
existence of which is an anomaly in British eyes,
a SAILORS' BARRACKS. We pass a blue-jacket
sentry, and, peering through the railings, we see
groups of sailors walking up and down before
the long whitewashed building with its hundred
windows in a row, the sight being somehow an
unnatural one. Superficially, all sailors
resemble each other, and these men are more like
British sailors than the soldiers are like
British soldiers. It is the dress, no doubt,
as well as the fact (true, at least, of the sailors
I saw at Cherbourg) that in size and looks
French sailors are more up to the British mark
than most people, perhaps, suppose. Only, there
is the old objection, which is equally felt in
looking at Russians. They are too soldier-like,
too pipe-clayish; and when on Sunday they
march down to the Quai Napoléon with drums
beating before them, the rub-a-dub-dub and the
regular tramp of feet scare away the sea poetry
which belongs to a Guernsey frock and a
loose-ribboned straw hat. So it is when they
are amusing themselves. They pace along, bolt
upright, in gangs of half a dozen, singing in a
barren, noisy characterless manner; and when
drunk even, they want Jack's riotous and brutal
humour, and only look stupid. But they are
fine, strong men, clean, and in good order.

There were about eighteen hundred seamen
in these barracks in October. It is undoubtedly
a handy way of keeping them while ships are
fitting out, or paying off, or till they are
required elsewhere. Naval men are getting tired
of our plan of "hulking" the crews, while a
ship is preparing, in rusty, wormeaten, small old
vessels, involving an endless amount of rowing
about; of discomfort, and loss of time. We
need not make soldiers of our men, either; yet
a Government Sailors' Home, so to speak; a
building adapted to their habits, and
conveniently situated, might be worth thinking of in
our principal ports.

Near the building devoted to the reception of
the "Equipages de la Flotte" are various traces
of the kind of population in these parts. There
are stalls where you see strings of sausages
hanging up for military and naval consumption;
wine-shops endlessly supplying a variety of
drams, dirty little establishments of several
kinds. An Englishman is stared at hereabouts a
good deal, as he wends his way under the trees
onward to the principal entrance of the dockyard.

Turning along to his right after a little
while, and passing the outer wall, he finds
himself approaching the drawbridge and gate
of this now famous establishment. The Port
is defended, not only towards the sea, but
towards the town—towards the direction (from
eastward and southward) in which we have
come. A deep fosse, the rich green banks sloping
down to a broad ditch of water, has to be crossed
by the drawbridge before we enter. The walls
are slit with loopholes for musketry, or "murder-
holes," as the French more forcibly call them.
Crossing the bridge we find a handsome building,
the Majorité, or administrative offices,
before us towards the left, with a very pleasant
bit of garden and shrubbery in front of it. In
the open space, many blocks of granite lie
about, awaiting employment; and these roll
past you, truck after truck, or larger vehicles,
drawn sometimes by men, sometimes by horses,
with stores, timber, and so forth. The regular
ouvrier in blouse, at two francs a day, passes
briskly to and from his work, and a general
feeling that you are in a busy place takes
possession of the mind.

Let us pass the inner gate, and present our
tickets. "Monsieur is to be accompanied?
Bien! There will be a gendarme immediately."

The gendarme—in the well-known cocked-
hat, light blue trousers, and sabre, of his order,