Symonds is a thorough old "salt," a tar of the
old school; and, as such, is, of course, _au fait_ with the weak points
in a ship's cleanliness and manoeuvring. His inspection was, I believe,
extremely satisfactory.

We hoped that with the departure of the admiral we should have been
permitted to land earlier this evening, as a sort of reward for our late
exertions, especially as we have not seen our homes and families by
daylight for some considerable period. Imagine, then, our feelings when
a signal was thrown out at Mount-Wise that we were to perform some
evolution, which would consume all the remaining hours of light. But the
little cherub on the royal truck, which, according to Dibdin, is perched
at that commanding altitude, especially to look out that squalls don't
happen to Jack, came to console us in the--at other times
unwelcome--shape of a deluge of rain. Thus we got ashore earlier,
though, as a set-off against so much happiness, wetter men.

On July 26th orders came that we were to proceed to Portsmouth, to take
in our armament of torpedoes, and in a few hours the Start was growing
small astern as we took our way up channel. We were only a night at sea,
but that a dirty one--not rough, but foggy--such as one usually
encounters in this great commercial highway. Early on the following
morning the Isle of Wight lay abeam, and the view from the sea was most
lovely: the white cliffs of the island, packed in layers like slices of
cake, presenting a learned page out of the book of nature to the
curious. In passing Sandown Bay we caught a distant view of the
operations for raising the "Eurydice." Our thoughts naturally took a
melancholy turn, for many of us had lost comrades--some few, friends--in
that ill-fated ship. But I think one of the leading characteristics of
the sailor is the ease with which he throws off melancholy at will. The
fact is, he encounters danger so frequently, and in so many varied
shapes and forms, that if he put on depressing thoughts every time he is
brought face to face with it, then he would be for ever clothed in that
garb.

With a pausing tribute to the dead, and many a silent prayer,
perhaps--for sailors can and do pray--we steamed into Spithead,
forgetting, in all probability, the Eurydice and all connected with her.

As our torpedoes were all ready for us, it was not long before they were
on board and fitted in their places. Our ship was not originally
intended to carry these murder