e, sir, the
poet, and Doctor Watts, which wrote the 'ymn-book. Cluck!"

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 b