When we parted from our friends at Kilimane, the sea on the bar was frightful even to the seamen.  This was the first time Sekwebu had seen the sea.  Captain Peyton had sent two boats in case of accident.  The waves were so high that, when the cutter was in one trough, and we in the pinnace in another, her mast was hid.  We then mounted to the crest of the wave, rushed down the slope, and struck the water again with a blow which felt as if she had struck the bottom.  Boats must be singularly well constructed to be able to stand these shocks.  Three breakers swept over us.  The men lift up their oars, and a wave comes sweeping over all, giving the impression that the boat is going down, but she only goes beneath the top of the wave, comes out on the other side, and swings down the slope, and a man bales out the water with a bucket.  Poor Sekwebu looked at me when these terrible seas broke over, and said, “Is this the way you go?  Is this the way you go?” I smiled and said, “Yes; don’t you see it is?” and tried to encourage him.  He was well acquainted with canoes, but never had seen aught like this.  When we reached the ship—­a fine, large brig of sixteen guns and a crew of one hundred and thirty—­she was rolling so that we could see a part of her bottom.  It was quite impossible for landsmen to catch the ropes and climb up, so a chair was sent down, and we were hoisted in as ladies usually are, and received so hearty an English welcome from Captain Peyton and all on board that I felt myself at once at home in every thing except my own mother tongue.  I seemed to know the language perfectly, but the words I wanted would not come at my call.  When I left England I had no intention of returning, and directed my attention earnestly to the languages of Africa, paying none to English composition.  With the exception of a short interval in Angola, I had been three and a half years without speaking English, and this, with thirteen years of previous partial disuse of my native tongue, made me feel sadly at a loss on board the “Frolic”.

We left Kilimane on the 12th of July, and reached the Mauritius on the 12th of August, 1856.  Sekwebu was picking up English, and becoming a favorite with both men and officers.  He seemed a little bewildered, every thing on board a man-of-war being so new and strange; but he remarked to me several times, “Your countrymen are very agreeable,” and, “What a strange country this is—­all water together!” He also said that he now understood why I used the sextant.  When we reached the Mauritius a steamer came out to tow us into the harbor.  The constant strain on his untutored mind seemed now to reach a climax, for during the night he became insane.  I thought at first that he was intoxicated.  He had descended into a boat, and, when I attempted to go down and bring him into the ship, he ran to the stern and said, “No! no! it is enough that I die alone.  You must not perish; if you come, I shall throw myself into the water.”  Perceiving