The Logs were a narrow and rude pier constructed of square trunks laid side by side, with upright posts here and there to keep them in place. They were chiefly used by the Royal Navy boats which were coming and going all day long. I recall the picture of one. At sight of the boat and the officer in command the boy on the Logs runs a little farther out where the Logs are covered with water--he would not willingly stand in the way of that officer, whom he envies with a yearning inconceivable to be in his place. Nobody remembers how boys yearn and long for the impossible. The boat is manned by eight stout, well-set-up fellows; they wear spotless white ducks, jerseys, and straw hats. The officer stands up in the stern, strings in hand. He commands these splendid fellows--He!!!--and he is no older than the envious boy who looks on. He wears a jacket, white ducks, and a cap with the enviable crown and anchor on it. His voice is clear and loud. Timid? Afraid? Not a bit of it. This midshipmite is already Captain and First Lieutenant and all. He jumps on the Logs and marches off, head erect, conscious that all other boys regard him with envy unspeakable. Do the sailors put tongue in cheek and mock him when he is gone? Not a bit of it. The child is their officer; he represents authority. It is not the boy who commands men--it is the Captain. The faces of the men, if you look at them, are not quite like the faces of their grandsons who at present man the navy. Our man of '96 is sober, quiet, thoughtful, as becomes one whose long training has almost made him belong to a learned profession. He is a total abstainer too. When he goes ashore it is to the Sailors' Home and not to the old quarters. The men of '48 are sturdy and bluff and resolute; but they have a certain look that means rum when they can get it, and other indulgences such as can be afforded.