fer a life of
comparative freedom at sea to slavery on shore, he repurchased him, and
carried him on board the brig. He was rather disappointed, however, to
find that, without a quadrant or nautical almanac, the captain could be
of very little use to them in that way. He told us, indeed, that the
pirates were very nearly killing him for his supposed obstinacy, because
he could not tell them one day whereabouts they were, when they put
their own rough instruments into his hands. He had great difficulty in
explaining that, without his own books and charts, he could be of little
help to them. However, they promised to attack an English vessel before
long, that they might supply him.

With this object in view, they made sail towards the corvette, which
they took for a merchantman, and thus very nearly caught a Tartar. They
discovered their mistake only when within six miles or so of her; and by
then suddenly altering their course, and standing away from her under
all sail, her suspicions were excited, and she made chase after them.
In such terror were the pirates, when they found themselves so hard
pressed, that they seemed to forget him, or his life would probably have
been sacrificed; but as he was left himself, he was allowed to consider
the best means of preserving it. When, therefore, he saw that the brig
must inevitably strike the rocks, he seized a loose spar on the deck and
sprang overboard, trusting that the current would carry him through the
breakers into smooth water. He had seen us coming out, and guessing
that the brig was an English trader, hoped to be picked up by her. His
surprise and pleasure at meeting with Lyal was very great.

"It would have been a great to damper my own satisfaction, if I thought
that you had still been left in slavery," he remarked, as he wrung the
seaman's hand.

"Well, sir, I can only say that I would go back and be chained up like a
dog, as I was before, for the sake of seeing you free, and sent safe
home to your wife and family," returned the honest fellow, passing the
cuff of his jacket across his eyes, to brush away a tear which his
feelings had brought them.

Yes; the rough sailor has got just the same sort of feelings inside his
bosom which dwells within the silken vest of any young lady or gentleman
who can weep over a novel, or better, sometimes, a deed of heroism; and
right honest, genuine feelings, they are too--which is more than can be
said for those hackneye