The captain, together with his boat’s crew, whom we left on shore bound, were, for some unknown reason, kept still alive as prisoners. The natives finally, at a council held, determined to murder them all. The arrangements were all completed. The captain was first led forth, firmly bound, and, in imitation of our North American Indians, they laid his head upon the fatal block; the executioner, with his massive war-club in readiness, awaits but the word from the chief which is to send a soul into eternity. But who is this rushing forward, and, Pocahontas-like, braving the ire of that dread chief, and proudly, firmly demanding the life of Captain Spencer and the white men with him? ’Tis the son of the chief, who, with fire in his eye and determination in every line of his features, tells them “they _must_ not murder the white men; if they do, plenty America Fire Kiabuka come, kill all Kanaka.” The bravery and reasoning of the brave boy-chief prevailed, and their lives were spared, though still kept “in bonds.” After some weeks had passed a ship came to the island to trade, and, through some one of the natives, the captain ascertained the fact that Captain Spencer and his men were held prisoners. The captain and crew of the ship trading immediately seized and bound a number of the natives on board as hostages, telling the remainder that if Captain S. and his men were not instantly forth-coming, unharmed, those detained on board as hostages should swing at the yard-arm. This threat had the desired effect. Captain Spencer and his men were liberated from their cruel bondage, and kindly received by all on board. The captain proceeded to the Sandwich Islands, where he now resides; and when narrating to us the above particulars, although an _old sea-dog_, the tear would trickle down the weather-beaten cheek as he recalled to mind the fate of those who were so cruelly murdered, and his own miraculous escape. On Wednesday, July 31st, we saw Henderville’s and Woodle’s Islands. We headed for the latter, and when two or three miles from land our decks were crowded with natives, all bringing something to trade. A lively scene now presented itself, equaling any of our large trading marts, though not, perhaps, on quite as extensive a scale. Here might be seen a native offering a hat to a sailor, and each one endeavoring to get the best of the bargain; another was offering mats, another shells, and so on to the end, all for “’baccy.” At this island we found something in the shape of molasses that we had never yet seen. It is made from the milk of the cocoanut boiled down, and called by them “teka moi moi.” It resembles maple molasses, both in color and flavor, more than any thing else, and was quite a treat to our ship’s company, who purchased large quantities—five cocoanut shells filled with it for one “plug” of tobacco.