From the top of a high hill a splendid wide landscape is seen, with Romsey in the distance, and (the horse having stopped again) Cabby points out Queen Elizabeth’s shooting-box across the fields.  In a lot close by cricketers are at play, and a little farther on, where there is a vine-covered beerhouse, a crowd of clod-hoppers are gathered in a green field, looking at two of their number engaged in a rough-and-tumble fight in their shirt-sleeves.

The road after this running down hill, the horse continues to jog along for a considerable distance, stopping at last under a towering old wall looking out on the sea.

“Wind Whistle Tower, sir,” says Cabby, pointing up at a square tower projecting from the old wall overhead, and above it the remains of an old round tower thickly overrun with ivy.  And, using his fingers industriously, Cabby proceeds to call off the names of various castles and towers here visible—­notably, Prince Edward’s Tower, bold and round, from whose summit three men were looking down.

“What are those?” asks Bunker in the carriage behind us, pointing to the old brass guns which sit on the wall like Humpty Dumpty.

“Them, sir,” says Cabby, “was put there by ’Enry the Heighth, and this ’ere wall was the purtection of the town when the Frenchmen hassaulted it.”

“Ho!” says Bunker, contemptuously.  “Just fancy one of our ironclads paying any attention to the barking of those popguns!”

Whereupon the horse starts again, and we go lazily on, Cabby dropping in a word of enlightenment here and there to the effect that this old tumble-down part of the ancient wall is the celebrated Arcade, which formed part of the wall of the King’s Palace; and this queer old lane running up through the walls like a sewer is Cuckoo lane; and that is Bugle street, where in olden times the warden blew; and here are the remains of Canute’s palace, with its elliptical and circular arches and curious mouldings.

Discharging the cab in the High street, we walk about.  In a shop where we pause for a moment there is a quartette of half-naked barbarians, such as, with all our boasted varieties of humanity, were never yet seen in New York.  We have abundant Chinese and Japanese there, and occasionally an Arab or a Turk, and the word African means with us a man and a brother behind our chair at dinner or wielding a razor in a barber-shop.  These men here are pure barbarians, just landed from a vessel direct from Africa.  Hideously tattooed, and their heads shaved in regular ridges of black wool, with narrow patches of black scalp between, they are here in a small tradesman’s shop in bowery England buying shirts.  They know not a word of English, but chatter among themselves the most horrible lingo known to the Hamitic group of tongues.  They grimace in a frightful manner, and skip and dance, and writhe their half-naked bodies into the most exaggerated contortions known to the language of signs.  The dignified English salesmen