such crimes than dooming the
man who commits them to perpetual slavery. I take no notice of the fact
that the prisoner in this case maintained his innocence, I assume that
he was guilty, and I consider his sentence to be unjust and
inexpedient. It is true that this man once sat on the bench and
dispensed justice himself; it is also true that he once entertained the
Queen of Great Britain in his own house, and these facts to some extent
determined the severity of his sentence; I find in them additional
reasons for leniency, inasmuch as only a very feeble warning is
necessary to prevent men in the position he occupied, and exposed to
the same temptation, from following in his steps.

I may now refer to the Fenians, of whom there were six who came to the
prison during the last year of my incarceration. They formed a class of
prisoners quite distinct from all the others, and their crime being
also essentially different, the observation I have made with reference
to the proper treatment of ordinary criminals do not apply to them. In
the phraseology of the convicts, they were a "rum lot."

They took rank between the "Aristoes," and the "Democrats," and formed
an "Irish Brigade." One of them died soon after his arrival: two of
then were head-centres, and enthusiastic in the rebel cause, another
was a literary man, Irish to the backbone, but ready to write for money
on any side of politics. The remaining two were soldiers: one an
American infidel, who cursed Catholics and Fenians alike for getting
him into trouble. He called the Pope, the King-of-the-beggars;
quarrelled with the literary Fenian on the subject of religion, and
true to his profession, enforced his arguments by giving his opponent
what the convicts called a punch in the ear-hole, and extracting the
claret from the most prominent feature in his "counting-house."
According to the literary man, Ireland had one great grievance, and if
that were remedied the Emerald Isle would grow greener than ever. "It
is a splendid country," he said "for growing tobacco, and if the Irish
were allowed to grow that fashionable weed they would be the most
prosperous of peoples." A vulgar Scotchman suggested that Ireland would
be all right if the Irish were "Scotched," and the Fenians all roasted
on a gridiron. The irascible Irishman replied that a Scotchman was the
incarnation of impudence--and hereupon a war of words ensued, until the
officers' attention was attracted and brought it