Those American sailors reposing on the top of the Typee mountain, in that remote and almost unknown region, presented a novel spectacle. An impenetrable gloom hung over the valley beneath, the sky spread like a pall above them, while the dull, heavy roar of the Pacific, as its billows broke in the darkness far below them, added to the strangeness and romance of the scene. At length the gathering storm burst, and the rain fell in torrents. It was a tropical shower--one of those deluges of the skies, and in a few moments the little band was flooded with water. Porter, fearing the ammunition would all be spoiled, bade every man protect it with the utmost care. The Typees, assembled in the valley below to the number of four or five thousand, appeared to entertain the same expectations, for they began to shout and beat their drums in exultation. At length the long wished for day dawned--the storm had ceased, and as the light crept down the sides of the mountain, a scene of surpassing beauty presented itself. A valley nine miles long and three broad, lay spread out before them, inclosed on every side by high mountains. At the farther extremity arose a lofty precipice, over whose brink a torrent rushed in a flying leap, and falling in foam at the base, formed a stream, which, after winding tranquilly through the green and lovely valley, passed, by an opening in the mountains, into the Pacific, that, far away, rolled and glittered in the early dawn. All over this sequestered plain were scattered the breadfruit and cocoa trees, while picturesque villages of bamboo dotted it in every direction. Amid these, immense crowds of swarthy men were moving, and animals grazing, giving life and animation to the strange and beautiful panorama. Firing a volley, to let the enemy know his powder was not destroyed, Porter began the difficult descent. The tortuous course he was compelled to pursue made the journey long and tedious, and that night he encamped in a village of friendly natives. The next morning he moved on the Typee towns. The natives at first closed bravely with him, but frightened by the musketry they soon retreated, followed by the sailors. Retiring from village to village, they at last took refuge in a strong fortress, against which small arms could have no effect. Porter then began the work of destruction, and soon nine villages were wrapt in fire. As the flames and smoke rolled up from the plain, he began his backward march to the ships. At sunset he stood again on the mountain where he had reposed the night before, and looked down on the valley, but it was now a scene of desolation. The smoke curling slowly up from the ruins revealed where the Typee towns had stood, while around the smouldering ashes the inhabitants were gathered in consternation and despair. Porter reached his boats in safety, having marched sixty miles in all. The sailors, unaccustomed to such land duty, were completely broken down with the fatigue and exposure.