of correction which he describes is chiefly
confined to wool-picking, stone-cutting, and blacksmiths' work. The
fare he states to be plentiful, but not of the very best quality.
Speaking of ill-treatment, he says:--

"The convicts all have the privilege of complaint against officers; but
while I was there no one used it but myself. I believe they dared not.
The officer would probably deny or gloss over the cause of complaint,
and his word would be believed rather than that of the convict; and his
power of retaliation is so tremendous, that few would care to brave it.
The chance is ten to one that a complaint to the directors would be
falsified and proved fruitless; and the visit of the governor, council,
and magistrates, for the purpose of inquiry, is mere matter of form.
When they asked me if I had reason to complain of my treatment, I
answered in the negative, because I really had none; but had they asked
me if there was any defect in the institution, I would have pointed out
a good many."

The monotony of their existence is well described:--

"Few incidents chequered the monotony of our existence. `Who has got a
piece of steel in his eye?'--`Who has gone to the hospital?'--`How many
came to-day in the carry-all?' were almost the only questions we could
ask. A man falling from the new prison, and breaking his bones in a
fashion not to be approved, was a conversational godsend. One day the
retiring tide left a small box on the sands at the bottom of the house
of correction wharf, which was picked up by a convict, and found to
contain the bequest of some woman who had `loved not wisely, but too
well,' namely, a pair of new-born infants. In my mind, their fate was
happy. If they never knew woman's tenderness, neither did they ever
know woman's falsehood. There is less pleasure than pain in this bad
world, and the earlier we take leave of it the better."

He complains of due regard not being paid to the cleanliness of the
prisoners:--

"A great defect in the police of the house was the want of baths. We
were shaved, or rather scraped, but once a week. Washing one's face and
hands in ice-cold water of a winter morning, is little better than no
ablution at all. The harbour water is interdicted, lest the convicts
should swim away, and in the stone-shop there are no conveniences for
bathing whatever: they would cost something! In the wool-shop, forty
men have one tubful of warm water once a-week. When I say