cal ocean, the island seems, indeed, a fit place
of banishment. It is about seven miles long and four broad. The most
remarkable natural object is, of course, the Norfolk Island pine, which
rears its stately head a hundred feet above the surrounding forest. The
appearance of the place is very wild and beautiful, bringing to my
mind the description of the romantic islands of the Pacific, which old
geographers dwell upon so fondly. Lemon, lime, and guava trees abound,
also oranges, grapes, figs, bananas, peaches, pomegranates, and
pine-apples. The climate just now is hot and muggy. The approach to
Kingstown--as the barracks and huts are called--is properly difficult.
A long low reef--probably originally a portion of the barren rocks
of Nepean and Philip Islands, which rise east and west of the
settlement--fronts the bay and obstructs the entrance of vessels. We
were landed in boats through an opening in this reef, and our vessel
stands on and off within signalling distance. The surf washes almost
against the walls of the military roadway that leads to the barracks.
The social aspect of the place fills me with horror. There seems neither
discipline nor order. On our way to the Commandant's house we passed a
low dilapidated building where men were grinding maize, and at the sight
of us they commenced whistling, hooting, and shouting, using the most
disgusting language. Three warders were near, but no attempt was made to
check this unseemly exhibition.

May 14th.--I sit down to write with as much reluctance as though I were
about to relate my experience of a journey through a sewer.

First to the prisoners' barracks, which stand on an area of about three
acres, surrounded by a lofty wall. A road runs between this wall and
the sea. The barracks are three storeys high, and hold seven hundred and
ninety men (let me remark here that there are more than two thousand men
on the island). There are twenty-two wards in this place. Each ward runs
the depth of the building, viz., eighteen feet, and in consequence is
simply a funnel for hot or cold air to blow through. When the ward is
filled, the men's heads lie under the windows. The largest ward contains
a hundred men, the smallest fifteen. They sleep in hammocks, slung close
to each other as on board ship, in two lines, with a passage down
the centre. There is a wardsman to each ward. He is selected by the
prisoners, and is generally a man of the worst character. He is supposed