All but one of the packages promised me from the _Jacob Bell_ were sent on board; that contained a valuable article,--a present from a French baron, formerly one of the French legation at the court of Peking, but now Commissioner of the Imperial Customs at Fuh-chau. Captain Maffit, on being told of its elegance and rare value, and that it was in a part of the ship near my state-room where it could be readily found, and transferred with our trunks of sea-clothing, and Captain Frisbie’s luggage to the steamer, said, in an earnest manner, “Mrs. W----, you shall have the box, and I will see that it is sent on board”; but on returning to his own vessel very coolly said that he had looked for it, but it could not be found. I was not sensible of any feeling of indignation in relation to the pillaging and wanton destruction of our property. A kind Providence had ordered that the stunning effect of our unexpected capture should render me unfit to care for or realize the loss of my property; nor, with the exception of some occasional agitation,--when a view of our terribly fearful position, and the perils with which we were environed flashed across my mind,--was I conscious of any emotion, but was much like Dr. Livingstone when the lion’s paw was on him,--“without feeling.” Captain Maffit had said, when we were first taken, that we would be only two or three days on board his ship, as he would probably, by that time, meet some friendly vessel, and be able to transfer us, but if not, he would take us into a neutral port; yet day after day we continued sailing in every direction, and unfurling the flag of whatever nation best suited his purpose, in order the more successfully to play the corsair. In the course of three days the debilitating effects of the increasing heat warned me that we were again seeking the heat of the tropics; and nearly at the same time the fact that the captain feared to attempt entering a neutral port, and that in essaying to do so we must run the risk of an encounter with some of our Government cruisers, began to dawn upon my excited imagination, making the possibility of an early release from our unhappy condition seem more remote than ever. This unnatural excitement was followed by great depression,--a sort of despair,--under which nature gave way, and, like a child, I could not allude to our painful situation without weeping. Despair is said to give courage to the weak, but it failed in my case; and when the day closed, and the gloom of night settled around us, the fear and anxiety which seemed to make up the sum of those dismal hours may be perhaps imagined, but no description of their terrors can be given which will not fall short of the reality. A soul suspended in Dante’s “Limbo” could scarcely be more hopeless. We could not disrobe, but laid ourselves down to rest in the clothes worn during the day. Sleep was far from being the “sweet restorer,” and every