Spithead in case of necessity—"For you see,
sir," said Bill Windus to me, "there's four
thousand of us 'long-shore men 'tween S'thampton
and Selsey Bill, all old sailors, and with the
help of some landsmen, we could man a famous
fleet for home defence, till our sea-going ships
could get at 'em from the Downs and
Plymouth." Now, Bill Windus is my boatman,
a man of very quick hands in managing a boat,
but very slow comprehension in mastering an
idea. For instance, all his notion of an enemy
whom it would be his duty to oppose is
strictly limited to a Frenchman of the old
school. It has not yet reached his mind that
there may be others whom it behoves us to
take or destroy; and whenever he talks even
of "them Rooshans" he has an invariable
habit of chucking his thumb over his right
shoulder, in the direction of Cherbourg.
Whether he thinks the French have taken a
new name, or are masquerading in the dress
of Muscovites, as sometimes they painted
their frigates like merchantmen to come down
upon our homeward bound, unawares, I do
not know; but it is very clear that Bill has
not yet turned his attention to the fact of our
present alliance. He has a deeply-grounded
belief that it would be a great stroke of policy
to bring the Imperial squadrons as fair
captures to Spithead. "'Cause why?" he says,
"if they're all so kind and friendly, we can
do the work ourselves; and if they're not, it's
better to draw their teeth in time, and then
they can do no harm."

But Bill is an old Tory, and a bad politician,
though he has an excellent boat and handles
her like a pilot of the fleet. The last day of
my visit he asked permission to take an old
chum with us up the harbour, and as I was
rather tired of Bill's eloquence I was very
glad of a change. A very different person
from Bill was Harry Sparks—a man of action
—a man of intelligence—a man of few words,
and an immense deal of tobacco, with a large
mouth filled from side to side with amazingly
yellow teeth, and a round close cropped head,
that looked very like a sixty-eight pounder,
sprinkled slightly over with shreds of oakum.
A pleasant man to look at, for he never
flinched from your eye, but exposed his ruddy
countenance, as if he had never in all his life
done anything to be ashamed of. He was
almost as great an enthusiast in maritime
affairs as myself, and we were friends in a
moment. His enthusiasm was shown by a
series of well-directed squirts over the side
of the boat, when I spoke of the magnificence
of our first-rates; and many approving
nods with his bullet-shaped head when I
dilated on the grandeur of our position as the
first of maritime nations, and holding the
trident of Neptune, which I explained to him
was the sceptre of the world.

"I seen it," he said, "in Plymouth Dock, and
a rare good house it is, particular the egg-flip."

We spent a delightful time of it on the
water, and, on parting, I gave Harry Sparks
an invitation to a "pipe and can" in the
Boscawen Arms. At seven o'clock a knock
came to the door, a figure made its appearance
in clean shirt and a very loose blue
jacket, very wide Russia-duck trousers—
the image of Mr. T. P. Cooke in the sailor's
hornpipe—and ducked its head three or four
times, while it kept it steady by holding on
vigorously by a long lock of hair in front.
I recognised my friend Harry Sparks in his
quarter-deck manners and Sunday clothes.

"Here I am, yer honour, and 'most ashamed
of my company, for I ben't used to it."

This, I perceived, in spite of the grammatical
construction, was a compliment to my superior
rank, and, with the help of a large bottle
of Hollands—I prefer that spirit to all
other drinks whatever—a large kettle of
water, and a couple of stout tumblers, I soon
put him at his ease, and the flow of soul
began. It was at my expense for a long time.
I was educated at a classical academy in
Suffolk, and gave him an account of a
Carthaginian galley and a Roman trireme. Mr.
Sparks would have liked no better fun than
to have swept the seas, both of Pompey and
the pirates, with a revenue cutter like the
Dart, mounting four guns, also a picked crew
and a good captain—"For you see, sir, it's a
man that makes all the differ." I agreed
with him on this point in a very decided manner,
and we filled again. "You're right,
Harry," I said; "for what's the use of all
these noble ships at Spithead, if they are
manned by muffs and commanded by an aged
pump, fit only to be a churchwarden or a lord
chancellor? Now, Harry, you're a man of
experience, also of extensive observation, and
you, perhaps, can tell us, have we the man
we want?"—"Dozens!" said Mr. Sparks,
and, with a sound like the Maelstrom
engulfing a ship, he engurgitated his grog, till I
considered it a great mercy that he did not
choke himself with the spoon. "Dozens, sir!"
he repeated, dinting his tumbler on the table
with a force that nearly broke it; "and, first
and foremost, there's old Nero—which some
calls him the Lyon—in the Black Sea—which
will take Semastyfool, as sure as the Scar of
Rooshia has got skin on his nose, afore the
summer's begun. I knows him, I do, that 'ere
Nero; and he's done harder things afore—
'cause I knows 'em very well, though, mayhap,
I can't tell 'em so clear as you would,
sir. Sir, you're a eloquent gentleman, I must
say, and I drink your health again, sir, with
many thanks for the same."

By this time our pipes had diffused a dim
but very agreeable atmosphere through the
apartment: the fire burned cheerily, the
water was always hot, as the kettle rested on
the hob; and, in a very pleasant frame of
mind, I swayed back on the hind legs of my
chair, and listened attentively to the anecdote
delivered with great unction by my
now communicative friend.

"When old Nero was young—as in course,