July 24th, 1854 — Sydney. — Weather very mild and bright, though it is the depth of winter, and the city seems very cheerful. Sydney is built on a great bed of sandstone rock, and the public buildings and most of the stores and private houses are built of this stone. From the cellars of every house they quarry stone enough to build the walls; and it gives the place a lively and substantial appearance. The streets, also formed upon the sand-stone rock, are clean and smooth as garden walks. However, I have no notion of describing Sydney. A seaport town of 80,000 inhabitants, and there an end.

Mr. Warren (for that is my name), dwelling peacefully in Mr. Macnamara’s: drove out this evening in his carriage, along with his wife and daughters, to the South Head, where the lighthouse stands. Climbed the lighthouse; and, assuredly, Warren has never seen so lovely a bay as this of Sydney, except Lough Swilly, in Donegal. Mr. James Macnamara is making inquiries about a vessel. If possible, he will secure a passage for all of us in the same ship; but there is no ship at present laid on for San Francisco, and there may be none for a month to come. An English barque, the Orkney Lass, of London, is about to sail in three or four days for Honolulu, in the Sandwich Islands; and once there, we could find easy transit to California. On inquiry, we find that the Orkney Lass is already full of passengers, and the captain could make room only for one. I am urged by my friends here to take this passage and get clear out of the British colonies with all speed, seeing that Nicaragua is fortunately here to escort my family to San Francisco. To-morrow I shall decide.

July 25th. — My wife came to Mr. Macnamara’s to visit Mr. Warren; brought me a letter she had received, before leaving Bothwell, from Smith O’Brien, very warmly congratulating her on my escape; also a letter from John Knox. She had the kindest assistance from our neighbours of Bothwell in all her lousiness arrangements — selling horses, and sheep, and so forth. Nant Cottage and farm are already occupied by an English gentleman recently arrived in the colony, and he took the furniture at a valued price. Fleur-de-lis, our old favourite, is sold to a young lady. May her rack long abound with hay, and the oats never fail in her manger. Tricolor goes to Connellan; Donald to Dan Burke; Dappel, the boy’s little brown mare, has been sold; and Mr. A. Reid promises to take care of her colt. I was very fond of all these horses, and hope to hear sometimes how it fares with them, as well as with my human friends.

Mrs. Mitchel has secured agreeable rooms in a house at Wooloomooloo, a large suburb of Sydney, which has retained its outlandish native name.

A cabin passage is taken for Mr. Warren in the Orkney Lass, for Honolulu. Nicaragua is to bring on the rest of the party by the next good ship bound for San Francisco; so that we shall all meet again, inside the Golden Gate. An American ship, the Julia Ann, is to sail from Melbourne to San Francisco in a few days, and to call at Sydney. If there are berths enough unoccupied for the family, they will come on by that ship.

July 28th. — Went to-day on board the Orkney Lass, Captain John Martin. Difficulty occurs about getting away, as some of the sailors have left the ship, intending to go and dig gold; they have been arrested, but there must be legal proceedings and delay. Every hour’s detention is perilous to me; and this difficulty with the sailors brings “water-police” about the ship, a class of men whom, under existing circumstances, I do not affect. Mr. Warren, indeed, walks about on the poop coolly, conversing agreeably with the other passengers; yet he likes not these water-police.

— None are for me
Who look into me with considerate eyes.

This delay is likely to last a few days: so I go ashore again to Hacnamara’s, and visit my family at their lodgings.

29th. — Still no prospect of lifting anchor for a day or two longer. I went on board in the evening, found we were not to sail; returned on shore along with a French gentleman who is one of my fellow-passengers, and the captain; went insanely to an evening party, and after that repaired with my friends to an oyster tavern — greatly to the surprise and alarm of my friend James Macnamara, who watches over me like my good angel.

Note that the oysters of Sydney are good — those of Hobart Town are bad.

Aug. 2nd. — On board. The complement of our crew is made up. We lifted our anchor at eleven o’clock. Very faint breeze, and that rather against us. The ship was to be searched at the Heads — the last searching.

— It is over. The man five feet ten in stature, with dark hair, was recognised by no enemy. We cleared the Heads about four o’clock; and a fresh breeze sprang up from the north; and now the sun is setting beyond the blue mountains; and the coast of New South Wales, a hazy line upon the purple sea is fading into a dream. Whether I ever was truly in Australia at all, or whether in the body or out of the body — I cannot tell; but I have had bad dreams.

20th. — Nearly three weeks at sea. We approach Tahiti, where we discharge some cargo before proceeding to the Sandwich Islands. Our cabin passengers are numerous; and, shades of Bougainville and of James Cook! — we carry four English actresses to the theatre of Honolulu; also an American circus-rider to the circus of that city. The ladies intend giving a concert at Papeete, the town of Tahiti, during our short stay there; and, in the meantime, they make the cabin nearly uninhabitable by practising there in the evenings. They are assured that the French officers and the traders in the town will give them a good house. A lady of Sydney and her little girl going to visit relatives at Tahiti — my friend, the Tahitian Frenchman, a Malouin by birth, and by name Bonnefin, gay and fiery young Breton, of highly agreeable manners — a Mr. Platt, English commercial gentleman, also young but in bad health, going to Tahiti, partly for health, partly for trade — an American of Honolulu and -his wife — an Italian, by name Serpentini, and his signora, who is, indeed, a tall, black-haired, English girl — this is a kind of list of the cabin passengers of the barque Orkney Lass.

Our voyage has been like all other voyages. No land in sight anywhere since leaving Sydney, although we passed within forty miles of the north point of New Zealand.

24th. — Tahiti is in sight, north-east; it Seems covered with high mountains. On our other bow lies Morea, an island of the same group, which rises out of the sea like a mere cluster of uncouth and fantastic peaks, presenting precipices of four or five thousand feet high, some of them overhanging their base.

Before sunset we come near enough to Tahiti to see clearly enough that between the mountains and the sea lay a belt of woodland: wherein as yet I can distinguish no tree except the plumed cocoa-nut palm. We lie, this evening, becalmed between the two islands; but have yet to sail some thirty miles before making the coral-bound harbour of Papeete.

25th. — Off the mouth of the harbour. My Malouin friend is vehemently excited and impatient. He has a valuable interest in our cargo; and that I may be for once instructive, I shall here set down an invoice (as it were) of his venture purchased at Sydney to be sold at Tahiti; bright-coloured printed calico, and black satin and gorgeous silks, for the Tahitian women — rainbow-hued shirts for the men — shoes, coarse, huge and heavy — rum, gin, brandy, and claret. The two last-named importations surprised me at first: for, why should a French settlement take the produce of its own mother country through an English colony? But he had got them out of the bonded stores in Sydney — free of duty; besides, I find that the greater part of the claret and brandy is of those inferior and dubious sorts wherein Great Britain has a more flowing vintage than France.

The day is profoundly calm and brilliant, the sea without a ripple, the sky without the very downiest cloud. But, between us and the island, we see hues of huge breakers, with their foamy crests flashing white in the sun. They burst upon the coral reefs, we see houses, embowered amongst palm and bread-fruit trees: one building, larger than all others, is the French Commissariat’s store: and high up among the thickets of the trees what do I behold? A dome towering above a high-pillared colonnade. I address my Breton friend, and inquire what altar, or what god receives sacrifices in that temple — for Tahiti, as I had always been led to believe, is the C5rprus of these seas, and may not these be the hallowed porticoes of Paphos or Arsinoe?

“That is the theatre,” said my friend, “commenced by our last governor, and still unfinished.” Wherever a very few Frenchmen are gathered together there will be a theatre in the midst of them. As a hotel is to an American — as a church to a Spaniard — so is a theatre to a Frenchman.

In the harbour lie about a dozen vessels — one, a rather shabby French corvette, the Moselle. Pilot boat comes up to us. Pilot, a Frenchman; his crew Tahitians. The pilot falls upon Bonnefin’s neck, and embraces him; then tells him, “with effusion,” that all is well at home.

In the afternoon, having passed through an opening in the reefs, we were at anchor. From this point, We can see more of the low ground of the island, which is here from one mile to two miles wide, between the sea and the mountains. It seems a wilderness of verdure. The gorges of the mountains are also wooded half-way up: thence, all is bare and bleak. I ought to say mountain, not mountains — for all the ravines lead up towards, all the ridges build up, and, buttress-wise, support a grand pyramidal mass, tapering and towering to the aerial peak of Orohena, nine thousand feet high, untrodden yet by foot of mortal man.1

Of course, oranges, cocoa-nuts, and bananas are brought on board, and every one makes a debauch on them. Mr. Warren goes ashore with the captain, accompanied by Platt the Englishman, and Bonnefin the Frenchman. We call at the British Consul’s office; he is one Miller. Bonnefin tells me he is an unpopular and ill-conditioned creature, and, if he knew me, would probably endeavour to induce the French authorities here to arrest me. They would not comply: but still I keep my incognito.

We walk along the beach, which is also the main street of Papeete: meet hundreds of men and women — a tall, well-made, graceful and lazy race. The women have great black eyes, long, smooth black hair; and on every glossy head a wreath of fresh flowers. They wear nothing but the parieu, a long robe of some bright-coloured fabric (made for them in world-clothing Manchester), gathered close round the neck, and hanging loose to the feet without even a girdle. I am not reconciled to this dress, though they generally have forms that no barbarity of drapery can disguise — nor to their wide mouths, though their teeth are orient pearls.

Cocoa-nut and bread-fruit trees shade the streets; and the mountains send down several small streams of pure cold water. French restaurants are numerous; and there you have an opportunity of mingling the cool Water with claret, a mixture grateful to the seafaring heart.

30th. — Our singing women gave a concert last night in a public room. It was a failure. Neither Governor Pages nor any of the French officers attended, owing, it is said, to a failure of etiquette on the part of the mellifluous ladies — they had sent no complimentary tickets. Most of the audience were Tahitian women, in rainbow parieus and exuberant chaplets of scarlet hibiscus flowers. Two daughters and a little son of Queen Pomaré were present — the son a most beautiful boy. The Queen lives in a large cottage in the village, kept up for her by the French Government, and came herself last night, and mingled with the crowd at the door of the singing-house. M. Bonnefin brought me out, and presented me to her Majesty, a large bare-footed woman of about forty-five. She can scarcely speak a word of English, or French either, and excused herself from coming in by the simple monosyllables, “No dress.”

A splendid sixty-gun frigate, Le Forte, came in here yesterday, carrying a French admiral. Two or three days ago also appeared a small war steamer, the Phoque. So the place is full of officers and sailors. The permanent garrison of the station consists of a body of gens d’armes. But it is said that a larger French establishment is shortly to be kept in the Pacific; and that these ships are to be followed by three others, all destined for some service yet unknown. New Caledonia, or the Fiji islands, are supposed to be the object.

31st. — Went with M. Bonnefin to visit the frigate. We were shown politely over the ship by a lieutenant; saw a lithograph portrait of the Empress Eugenie in the admiral’s cabin, and drank eau sucré with the officers.

Every morning Mr. Warren goes with the captain, M. Bonnefin, and young Derby the American circus-rider, to bathe in the Fowtowa River, a fine dashing limpid stream, almost overarched by palm, orange, breadfruit, lime, and guava trees.

September 4th. — Hired a horse, and rode with M. Bonnefin up the valley, or rather ravine, that brings down the Fowtowa from the mountains. For the first two miles there was nothing but a wilderness of guava (a most noxious root-spreading tree that chokes all other vegetation, and has made wilderness of much land which was once cultivated for taro); through and through this forest roved myriads of hogs, the principal live stock of the Tahitians, devouring oranges, cocoa-nuts, and guavas. All this level ground, M. Bonnefin tells me, was once in cultivation, when the island was ten times as populous, wealthy, and contented as it is now (before civilisation overtook it); but ever since Europeans have infested the place, the inhabitants have grown Iazy and they are at present under solemn engagements to their respective chiefs not to work more than needful to support themselves — and this is very little — while the French or any other foreign nation hold the island. The consequence is, that all stores for this naval station must be brought from America. The French, however, to do them justice, hardly interfere with the natives at all, do not take possession of their lands, nor enforce them to adopt any of the usages of European life, nor compel them to labour and till the ground. If the English or Americans were here in their place, the poor brown fellows would surely be compelled to labour, to read English, to say their catechism, and raise produce for their masters, or their brown backs would be made acquainted with the civilising cat-o’-nine-tails.

But long before the French took Tahiti, the missionaries had nearly turned it into a desert and a pandemonium. The vices and diseases of Christendom had worn down the population to a shadow: and such agriculture as the creatures carried on had been ruined by the introduction of execrable guava: for that also is a gift of the missionaries, as well as “rum and true religion.”

As we rode up the valley, the guava disappeared, but the stately bread-fruit tree, with its green knobs about the size of a baby’s head, was frequent in our path; and the orange and lime trees, dark as sepulchral yew, threw a black shadow on the pools of the river. The ridges of the hill rose high and steep on either side; and, in the windings of the gorge, we seemed sometimes walled round by mountains. We tied our horses to a tree, and went down (for such is Warren’s uniform custom) to sit on the river’s bank, and listen to its narcotic murmuring. Here, in the very heart of the garden-bower of these romantic South Sea isles, Mr. Warren’s mind reverted to Queen Oberea and her dusky houris, with their aprons of tappa and too hospitable manners. Oberea for so euphonious mariners named the regnant Pomaré of those palmy days — unhappy and too-confiding queen! — why took she ever to her brown heart that wicked Christian, Sir Joseph? Infelix regina! The Phoenician Elissa never was so deceived by pious iEneas. Her fair isles are an unpeopled desert, isles

Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads
O’er coral rocks and amber beds.

And her degenerate descendant, arrayed in satin of Lyons, drinks too much wine of Bordeaux. In a nook of the rock here, by the river, where Oberea and her nymphs were wont to bathe, I find three empty bottles, bearing on a label the legend, “Bass’s Pale Ale.” O, Bass, boundless bottler of beer, thy name and thy liquor pervade the globe: thou hast built thyself a monument more enduring than brass in the quenched thirst of all kindreds, and tongues, and nations. The Australian shepherd blesses, as he unwinds the clasping wire from thy bottle’s burly neck: Dutch boer on karroo of Southern Africa feels his thirst assuaged in advance at very sight of thy label of blue. These eyes have seen thy cork, erst hammered down in that bottling-store of London, leap up towards the Southern Cross and startle the opossum on his lofty branch in Van Diemen’s Land forests — here, too, that bounding cork has overtopped the plumes of the loftiest palm — this quiet dell of the Poljmesian Fowtowoa has witnessed libations to thy numen, to thy power and thy genius; and the slumbering echoes of Orohena have been awaked by thy good report.

My companion, Bonnefin, is a handsome, agreeable, high-spirited young Breton. He knows who Mr. Warren is, and takes much interest in learning all the details of that gentleman’s escape and adventures. We rode down, and dined at a restaurant under Bonnefin’s special patronage, on fowl á la mayonnaise.

Sunday Evening. — Strolled up with Bonnefin to Queen Pomaré’s palace or cottage. It has been a gala evening. The admiral and governor are in the queen’s verandah; the delightful band of the frigate playing polkas and schottisches. The maids of honour (of whom there are six or eight, all in pure white parieus, with flowers radiant in their dark hair), and scores of other Tahitian maidens, some of them splendidly dressed, were dancing on the lawn in front with the young French officers. Mr. Warren is pained to say that the feet of the girls are broad; figures otherwise faultless, eyes supernatural, and the carriage of the head and neck, of that proud and fierce beauty that you see in the bearing of the desert panther.

When the dusk came on, the governor and admiral retired from the scene, but the amusement then only commenced. Bonnefin, Warren, and Platt made their way from the verandah to the presence-chamber, where we were instantly recognised by the king — that is to say, the present man, for Pomaré has had four, some of whom are alive; and indeed one of them was present, this evening, a huge fat Polynesian, now known as the King of Bola-bola, and the husband, ad interim, of the queen of that dependent island. Queen Pomaré’s present husband (as in reason he ought) is the handsomest man in the island. I had met him before, and he had shown me, with much pride, a gold watch and several other French presents which governors and admirals had given him. On this Sunday evening, however, being a grand reception evening, I hardly knew my friend; for he was dressed in a close-fitting, heavily-laced, tremendously-epauletted French military blue coat, and wore a field-officer’s hat with a crimson plume like a cocoa-nut palm. But when the great men went away, and his majesty saw us in the room, he instantly threw off his coat, for coolness, and swinging about at his ease, invited us to a side-table in the presence-chamber, where we found as fine sherry as ever entered the lips of Mr. Warren. Queen Pomaré, in a parieu of green satin, looking very grand, and as sober as she could, occupied a kind of large arm-chair, which, I suppose, is called her throne. Her white-robed maids of honour were flitting about, trying to hammer out a few words of French or English to their numerous admirers; and the discarded prince-consort, now king of Bola-bola, seemed on excellent terms with the present man

Sept. 11th. — The Tahitian cargo of the Orkney Lass is discharged. She is drawn out from her wharf, and to-morrow we weigh anchor for the Sandwich islands.

12th. — The pilot came on board to take us out, but it is a dead calm. We cannot stir till to-morrow.

13th. — This morning a barque was reported in sight, outside the reefs — an American barque; and, as I was on shore with M. Bonnefin, I heard various speculations as to what she might be. She seemed crowded with passengers; and one man said he knew her to be the Julia Ann. The name aroused me. I took a glass, and soon saw that she was lying off, with no intention to enter the harbour. Soon a boat put off from her side, and came into the opening of the reefs. Anxiously I watched the boat; and while it was still a mile off I recognised one of my own boys sitting in the bow, and Nicaragua beside him. They have come for me.

7 o’clock, p.m. — On board the Julia Ann — I transhipped myself, of course, immediately — within an hour after the boat appeared, I set foot on the deck of an American ship, and took off my hat in homage to the Stars and Stripes. Here, then, Mr. Blake, Mr. Macnamara, Mr. Wright, and Mr. Warren, have all become once more plain John Mitchel. I am surrounded by my family, all well; we are away before a fine breeze for San Francisco; my “Jail Journal” ends, and my “Out-of-Jail Journal” begins.

24th. — The southern constellations go down behind the globe, and I hail once more the North Pole Star and Charles’s Wain. After long syncope, and five years’ sleep of nightmare dreams, life begins again.

We were made as comfortable on board the Julia Ann as the narrowness of the accommodation and the crowd of passengers admit. Capt. Davis, of Newport, Rhode Island, is our commander, and the owner, Mr. Pond, of New York, is also on board. The passengers and crew are all Americans, and already I feel almost a citizen.

Oct. 9th. — We sail, in company with a fleet of merchantmen into the long-wished-for Gate of Gold; Nicaragua and I go ashore, and immediately search for our worthy comrade, MacManus; learn that he is fifty miles out of town, at San Jose; where he has a ranch — but find ourselves surrounded by troops of friends.

Nov. 1st. — Three weeks in California. We have been the guests of the city; and more than princely are the hospitalities of the Golden City; we have spent a week at San José; cantered through the oak-openings at the base of the coast-range, and penetrated the Santa Cruz gap, amongst wooded mountains, where our senses were regaled with the fragrance of pine woods — unfelt for five years. MacManus has spent all his time with us, talking of scenes new and old. My wife has recovered from the effects of her long Pacific voyage, and Nicaragua and I have been feasted at the grandest of banquets, presided over by the Governor of the State.

We are now on board the steamship Cortez, bound for New York, by the Nicaragua route; have bidden farewell to MacManus, our old friend, and to hundreds of new friends, and are steaming again out between the bare hills that form the piers of the Golden Gate. In less than a month I shall see my mother, my brother and sisters, and Reilly, mine ancient comrade, and Meagher, and Dillon, and O’Gorman, and Michael Doheny, that devoted rebel, and the whole band of refugees — shall mutually hear and tell of all our good and evil fortunes since the fatal and accursed ’48; and together consult the oracles whether that black night is ever to know a morning.

13th: — After coasting along the mountainous coast of Lower California, and Guatemala, and passing the pirate-ship Caroline, whose destination all our passengers seem to know, we have entered a small crescent-shaped bay, with a few wooden houses at the head of it, San Juan del Sur. Here we wait all day till a sufficient number of mules are brought together to convey such a multitude across to the Nicaragua Lake, fifteen miles. At length we start; I carrying my little daughter on the saddle before me — two gentlemen kindly taking charge of two others of the children. We are now on board the lake steamer at Virgin Bay.

14th — Castilla Rapids. — Yesterday we traversed the Lake, about ninety miles from Virgin Bay to the outlet of the San Juan River — a vast and lovely lake, surrounded with untamable forests, and here and there a lofty mountain peak. Thus far we have come down in the lake steamer; but here rapids occur, where a transfer must be made; a walk of a quarter of a mile, and re-embarkation on another steamer below the rapids. We are housed in a most comfortless hotel for the night.

15th. — This morning we floated down the San Juan to its mouth, on the Atlantic side. It is a rapid, full, and powerful stream, bordered close to the water’s edge, not by hedges, but by high walls of most luxuriant tropical foliage; the lofty trees bound together and festooned by all manner of trailing vines, making the whole a chaotic mass of almost solid verdure. No living thing but alligators, wallowing in the shallow water, and occasionally diving when gently titillated by a ball from a revolver. At last, we glide into the calm expanse of the bay of San Juan del Norte, called by its English “protectors” Greytown, after an illustrious, but roguish statesman, of the name of Grey. The town stretches and straggles about a mile along the shore, backed by wooded heights; seems to contain sixty or seventy houses, and one or two large hotels.2 We come ashore, and the Prometheus, our Atlantic steamer, not having yet arrived, we secure with difficulty, at an extortionate price, two bed-rooms in Lyon’s Hotel, a large wooden house. Lyon is an American; and indeed, all the good houses in the place seem to be American; but there are also some Englishmen, and a few French. The non-arrival of the Prometheus seems to these people an interposition of Providence in their behalf, because they have seven hundred passengers delivered over to their tender mercies, to treat them at discretion, and mulct them as much as they will bear.3

The British have never, it seems, formally given up their protectorate of the Mosquito “kingdom” and its Sambo sovereign. A flagstaff stands here, with a piece of bunting flying therefrom, displaying in the corner the Union Jack, and on the field some device representing the sovereignty of the most gracious Gallinipper, who holds his court, and drinks as much rum as he can get credit for, at Bluefields, a place near the coast, north of Greytown. But there is a sort of municipal government established in the town; the Mayor being an American; and the British never interfere now with the domestic concerns of Greytown. It is an anomalous species of government; for the ground undoubtedly belongs to the State of Nicaragua; and Greytown, in its present condition must, ere long, breed quarrels.

It was here that an English ship fired into the Prometheus, two or three years ago, while insisting on the payment of harbour dues, payable by the American steamer in Greytown, as a British port; and although the dues are not now levied or claimed, yet it will depend entirely on England’s convenience and strength, whether and how soon, they may be demanded again. In the meantime, to maintain a foothold on the soil of Central America, the Downing Street men keep up the protectorate, and, as if to mock at American Republicanism, they insist on a poor, diseased, abject, drunken, idiot Indian, being called his majesty the king. Great is the assertion of a principle!

16th. — The Prometheus arrived this evening, but will not take us on board till to-morrow. So, the innkeepers of Greytown are to have twenty-four hours’ harvest more. We keep our rooms in Lyon’s Hotel, but can neither eat nor drink there. By researches in the town, we have found a little restaurant, adorned all round with uncouth pictures, kept by a Frenchman, who makes eatable omelettes, gives a good dinner, and keeps good claret.4

One other night, then, with the inexorable mosquitoes of Greytown.

1 The Tahitians are too lazy to climb mountains, and see no object in it. Lieutenant Wilkes, of the U.S. Exploring Expedition, detached a party to climb Orohena, for surveying and other scientific purposes. They could only make their way about 6,000 feet. Their Tahitian guides, when they arrived at a point where the wild banana no longer grew, concluded that Heaven was against further progress, and sat down. A French officer set out once alone, to scale Orohena, but never returned.

2 All blown to atoms now, burned down, reduced to ashes, and the ashes scattered on the wind — razed, trampled, sown with salt, and become even as Sodom and Gomorrah, by reason of the impious irreverence of some of the inhabitants thereof towards one Solon Borland, august representative of a first-rate Power.

3 A certain amount of punishment these Greytown people assuredly deserved for their uneatable dinners and their extortion: but the human mind, even of one who has suffered by their practices, would, perhaps, have been satisfied with some less condign and signal vengeance than that which has fallen upon them.

4 It would be pleasing to think that our hospitable Frenchman’s wooden shanty had been spared in the late sack, even as the house of Pindar was, in the bombardment of Thebes. But one can scarce dare to hope this. No; Captain Hollins’s avenging boats’ crews have devoured his poultry, and washed down his omelettes with his claret, or with as much thereof as they could hold. Then they put a torch to his picture gallery; and brought his roof-tree crashing down amidst his broken bottles. Behold the fate of those who refuse to pay dollars, and make apologies to a first-rate Power! The sailors, and marines, however, though all the other formalities of a sack were quickly complied with, did not slay the men or ravish the women (which, perhaps, their crimes had deserved), for, in fact, they fled into the wood? whenever the batteries first opened.