A few days after my imprisonment, an English book, containing prayers and hymns, was handed me by one of my guard, a man named Preito, who probably could make no use of it himself. The hymns had little poetical merit, and probably at another time would scarcely have aroused my attention; but now the promises and consolations of religion which breathed through them, the spirit of Christian resignation and faith of which I was then so much in need, and which to me shone out in every part of them, were an unspeakable comfort. The first hymn to which I opened, seemed so very applicable to my situation, that it impressed itself upon my memory; and I insert it here, thinking that it may be interesting to my readers to see how the promises of Christianity are the truest consolation in all trials. To my complaint, O Lord, my God, Thy gracious ear incline; Hear me, distressed and destitute Of all relief but thine. Do thou, O God, preserve my soul That does thy name adore; Thy servant keep, and him whose trust Relies on thee, restore. To me, who daily thee invoke, Thy mercy, Lord, extend; Refresh thy servant’s soul, whose hopes On thee alone depend. To my repeated, humble prayer, O Lord, attentive be; When troubled, I on thee will call, For thou wilt answer me. Some few days after Mr. Shaw’s removal from the barracks, one evening, the exact date of which has escaped me entirely, I was aroused by a great confusion in the fort, a noise of shouting, and, apparently, of rejoicing. While I was standing at my window, trying to discover the meaning of the uproar, my prison door was opened, and a man put in. He was in sailor’s dress, was apparently an American, and looked terrified and bewildered. I accosted him immediately, in English--asked who he was, saying that he was probably a prisoner, like myself. The guards in the next room were in such a state of excitement that they allowed us to converse unchecked.