“_July 16th._—After this terrible work of destruction had continued for twenty-four hours, the French troops landed in great force at break of day this morning, under cover of a heavy fire from the fleet. It required two hours’ fighting to gain possession of the fortifications, and even then the struggle was indefinitely prolonged in outlying houses and hamlets. By mid-day all was comparatively quiet. At the time of the landing, the esparto yards of two or three merchants were in flames; but our stores do not appear to have taken fire. Various estimates as to the loss on both sides have been made, but no two agree. Over a dozen French soldiers and marines, including an officer, have been interred in the Christian burial-ground, but others have shared undoubtedly a common grave with the Arabs in the trenches before the town. The resistance was as brave as it was hopeless, but no amount of personal courage can compensate for the use of weapons fit only for old metal-dealers or curiosity shops. In the narrow streets of the native town, house after house was only occupied after a desperate hand-to-hand conflict.” · · · · · · · · · · The sequel to the fall of Sfax I shall tell in the next chapter. There can be little question but that the delay in effecting the capture of the city to a great extent destroyed the moral effect of the achievement when it really did take place; instead of being the end and extinction of the insurrection, it became, as it were, the beginning of a race contest, the termination of which is still apparently in the future. A humble poet has already sung the siege of Sfax. An honest tar, by name John Root, united on board H.M.S. “Monarch” the functions of able seaman and poetaster. On returning to Malta he published his “Bombardment of Sfax” in a leaflet, entitled “Thoughts and Facts from a Sailor’s Pen,” and if John’s quantities are somewhat rough and eccentric, his appreciations of what he saw are almost as correct as Mr. Galea’s. I quote a few verses, which tell quaintly enough in a few words the tale of the sad fate of Sfax:— “More able pens than mine will tell How Frenchmen fought and Arabs fell, Mown down by showers of shot and shell, When Sfax town was bombarded. “Seven days the game was going on, Not one thought it could last so long; ’Twas never thought by any one The Arabs thus would stand it. “At last the French its capture plann’d, One morning early boats were mann’d, The ships fired fast, but few could stand— The boats were fast advancing; “And when the boats got near the shore, They shot and shell did likewise pour; And added theirs to louder roar, All death and slaughter dealing. “Each Arab stuck well to his gun, ’Twere better had he cut and run; His last he’d looked towards the sun For Hotchkiss guns now faced him. “Beneath such storms of shot and shell