is a thing one is loth to part with, or change, even for a better book.
But the well-tried friend of many voyages is oh! so hard to part with at
sea. A resting-place in the solemn sea of sameness--in the trackless
ocean, marked only by imaginary lines and circles--is a cheerless spot
to look to; yet how many have treasures there!

Returning to the voyage and journal: Our pilot proved incompetent, and
we narrowly escaped shipwreck in consequence at Martin Garcia Bar, a bad
spot in the River Plate. A small schooner captain, observing that we
needlessly followed in his track, and being anything but a sailor in
principle, wantonly meditated mischief to us. While I was confidently
trusting to my pilot, and he (the pilot) trusting to the schooner, one
that could go over banks where we would strike, what did the scamp do
but shave close to a dangerous spot, my pilot following faithfully in
his wake. Then, jumping upon the taffrail of his craft, as we came
abreast the shoal, he yelled, like a Comanche, to my pilot to: "Port the
helm!" and what does my mutton-headed jackass do but port hard over! The
bark, of course, brought up immediately on the ground, as the other had
planned, seeing which his whole pirate crew--they could have been little
less than pirates--joined in roars of laughter, but sailed on, doing us
no other harm.

By our utmost exertions the bark was gotten off, not a moment too soon,
however, for by the time we kedged her into deep water a _pampeiro_ was
upon us. She rode out the gale safe at anchor, thanks to an active crew.
Our water tanks and casks were then refilled, having been emptied to
lighten the bark from her perilous position.

Next evening the storm went down, and by mutual consent our mud-pilot
left, taking passage in a passing river-craft, with his pay and our best