The "something" was a box containing my private effects, which had been taken from the Marguerite to the Reindeer at the time of the former's capture, and left in the hands of her commander. Captain Woods had taken good care of them, and so had Waghorn, as I found everything safe and secure. What Haines had saved from the wreck was in a canvas sack, and Waghorn told me that the dunnage-bags of the Marguerite's men were stored in a warehouse close by, and could be had whenever the prisoners were liberated. The Reindeer only remained a few days in port, and had gone to sea again in the hope of using up more American privateers. In good time the next morning we were on board the Portsmouth packet, which left very promptly with a favoring wind. What a delight it was to be on the sea again, and how we enjoyed every whiff of the fresh breeze that was blowing! It seemed to me that years had elapsed since I last sailed the ocean; years of suffering and sorrow; but I was rapidly forgetting them all in the delight of my newly regained liberty. All day I remained on deck. When night came and we retired to the cabin I was unable to sleep, so great was the ecstasy of being again afloat and free! Haines had the same experience. He explained to me in the morning that he found it so jolly sleeping on board ship again that he had to lie awake to enjoy it. We sailed up the Solent, which separates the Isle of Wight from the mainland, and entered the roadstead of Spithead, passing the spot where the Royal George went down in 1782. She was a man-of-war, and had been heeled over while undergoing repairs. While in this position a gust of wind struck her, carrying her so far over that the water rushed in through the port-holes of the depressed side, and filled her rapidly, so that she sank in a few minutes. Eleven hundred persons were aboard at the time, including the admiral, all the officers and crew, and three hundred women and children. Two hundred were saved, and all the rest were drowned, including the admiral and nearly all the women and children. Many of her guns have been fished up, but all attempts to raise the hull have failed. As we passed the spot where the wreck lies, I thought of the lines of the poet Cowper, which were written shortly after the occurrence:-- "Toll for the brave, The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore!" Portsmouth is an important naval and military station of England, and has a splendid harbor, four miles long by three in width, opening upon the magnificent roadstead of Spithead, where a thousand ships of the line could ride at anchor, and find plenty of room. The dockyards are very extensive; at least, that is what I was told, as we were not permitted to visit them, nor to go about the fortifications, which were jealously guarded against inspection by foreigners.