In Portsmouth, more than in any place in England, the policy of England is manifest. Portsmouth is one vast fort, and every other man you see on her streets is a soldier. You come upon vast fortifications everywhere, long lines of earth works stretch in every direction on the coast, commanding every approach to the city, and vast stores of ammunition are piled away safe and secure but ready for use at a moment's notice. Portsmouth is a watch dog for that part of the island, and it would be a daring foe that would attack her. It gives you a very good idea of England's strength, and of her power of defense. But heaven help the people who have to foot the bills for all this. After a day spent in the midst of all these places suggestive of war with its terrible sequences, it was a pleasure, in the evening, when the light sea breeze tempered the heat that had been so oppressive, to stroll down to the "Old Fort," as it is called, though it bears but faint resemblance now, to an effective fortification. Its heavy stone abutments that were once crowned with cannon, are now covered with moss; the cannons have been taken away, and in their stead are rustic seats around which happy children laugh and play, while their nurses sit talking of their red coated favorites in the adjoining barracks. There is just now an air of peace and harmony, of war days done away with, that is only disturbed by the occasional sight of a sentry who paces his beat in front of the barracks. It is [Illustration: UNDER CLIFF--ISLE OF WIGHT.] [Sidenote: OUR STEAMER FRIEND TIBBITTS.] peace now, but the sentry shows how insecure the peace. England must be always ready for war. But standing upon a parapet, overlooking the sea, one forgets for the time the fact that he is in the very midst of that oppressive power, the strong arm of the soldier, and gives himself up to kindlier thoughts, brought up by the marvelous beauties of the scene spread out before him like the mystic picture painted by fairy hands. The sea, over which the last rays of the sinking sun dance and shimmer, is just rippled with a light breeze that sends the graceful little yachts skimming merrily over its surface. The misty outlines of the Isle of Wight, half hidden by a delicate purple haze, gradually fade from sight as the sun sinks lower and lower, and throws a broad path of golden light along the bright blue water. As it sinks into the sea, a great globe of brilliant red, a stately ship, with graceful masts rising high in air, cuts the path of golden light, and for an instant is clearly outlined against the glowing orb. Every mast, every rope, even, can be seen clearly and distinctly against the beautiful background. For an instant every outline is tinged with gold, then it passes slowly on, the sun sinks beneath the waves, and then comes the soft twilight, when one "sinks into reveries and dreams."