The naval station at the Falklands is at Port Stanley, on the eastern island, where there is a splendid land-locked harbour, with a narrow entrance. The little port is, and has been, a haven of refuge for many a storm-beaten mariner: not merely from the fury of the elements, but also because supplies of fresh meat can be obtained there, and, indeed, everything else. Wild cattle, of old Spanish stock, roam at will over many parts of the two islands. When the writer was there, in 1862, beef was retailed at fourpence per pound, and Port Stanley being a free port, everything was very cheap. How many boxes of cigars, pounds of tobacco, cases of hollands, and demijohns of rum were, in consequence, taken on board by his 300 fellow-passengers would be a serious calculation. The little town has not much to recommend it: It has, of course, a Government House and a church, and barracks for the marines stationed there. It is, moreover, the head-quarters of the Falkland Islands Company, a corporation much like the Hudson’s Bay Company, trading in furs and hides, and stores for ships and native trade. The three great characteristics of Port Stanley are the penguins, which abound, and are to be seen waddling in troops in its immediate vicinity, and stumbling over the stones if pursued; the kelp, which is so thick and strong in the water at the edge of the bay in places, that a strong boat’s crew can hardly get “way” enough on to reach the shore; and the peat-bogs, which would remind an Irishman of his beloved Erin. Peat is the principal fuel of the place; and what glorious fires it makes! At least, so thought a good many of the passengers who took the opportunity of living on shore during the fortnight of the vessel’s stay. For about three shillings and sixpence a day one could obtain a good bed, meals of beef-steaks and joints and fresh vegetables—very welcome after the everlasting salt junk and preserved vegetables of the ship—with the addition of hot rum and water, nearly _ad libitum_. Then the privilege of stretching one’s legs is something, after five or six weeks’ confinement. There is duck and loon-shooting to be had, or an excursion to the lighthouse, a few miles from the town, where the writer found children, of several years of age, who had never even beheld the glories of Port Stanley, and yet were happy; and near which he saw on the beach _sea-trees_—for “sea-weed” would be a misnomer, the trunks being several feet in circumference—slippery, glutinous, marine vegetation, uprooted from the depths of ocean. Some of them would create a sensation in an aquarium.