Tried he was accordingly. That he was
guilty of the offence imputed to him there can
be no reasonable doubt; but that he had a fair
trial seems unlikely. All his material
witnesses were dead or dispersed over the globe.
All the witnesses against him were common
soldiers, who might reasonably be supposed not
to be animated by the most partial feelings.
Lacy, O'Shallaghan, and Company, who looked
on at the flogging, did not appear. However,
luckless Governor Wall, in spite of his rank,
position, "good Dublin family," and connexion
"with Lord Seaforth," was found guilty, and
sentenced to be hanged ignominiously within a week.

It was felt that the soldier was not to be
left to the mercy of commissioned despots, and
it was to be shown to the public that he who
flogged was to be as responsible as the victim
whom he flogged. By a wonderful stretch of
clemency, "His Majesty was graciously pleased
to respite" him—not with any view of final
mercy, but to give luckless Governor Wall
what is called a longer day. And when the end
of that time arrived, Governor Wall was
executed in presence of a large crowd, and
Armstrong, after a long delay, avenged.

This is a very startling and significant
instance, and points a moral. Of the unhappy
end of the victim, and the stern justice which
disposed so summarily of his persecutor, some
profit may now be made—reaching even beyond
their tragic issues. It is this: that no "influence,"
either of the "good Dublin families," or
the high "connexions," or "Lord Seaforth"—
who may be taken to typify the whole sheltering
interests of power and universal Dowbigginism
—should be allowed to stand between the public
and its prisoner.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER.

BEHOLD me on my way to an Emigrant Ship,
on a hot morning early in June. My road
lies through that part of London generally known
to the initiated as "Down by the Docks."
Down by the Docks, is Home to a good many
people—to too many, if I may judge from the
overflow of local population in the streets—but
my nose insinuates that the number to whom it
is Sweet Home might be easily counted. Down
by the Docks, is a region I would choose as my
point of embarkation aboard ship if I were an
emigrant. It would present my intention to me
in such a sensible light; it would show me so
many things to be run away from.

Down by the Docks, they eat the largest
oysters and scatter the roughest oyster-shells,
known to the descendants of Saint George and
the Dragon. Down by the Docks, they consume
the slimiest of shell-fish, which seem to have
been scraped off the copper bottoms of ships.
Down by the Docks, the vegetables at
greengrocers' doors acquire a saline and a scaly
look, as if they had been crossed with fish and
seaweed. Down by the Docks, they "board seamen"
at the eating-houses, the public-houses,
the slop-shops, the coffee-shops, the tally shops,
all kinds of shops mentionable and unmentionable
—board them, as it were, in the piratical
sense, making them bleed terribly, and giving
no quarter. Down by the Docks, the seamen
roam in mid-street and mid-day, their
pockets inside-out, and their heads no better.
Down by the Docks, the daughters of wave-ruling
Britannia also rove, clad in silken attire,
with uncovered tresses streaming in the breeze,
bandanna kerchiefs floating from their shoulders,
and crinoline not wanting. Down by the Docks,
you may hear the Incomparable Joe Jackson
sing the Standard of England, with a hornpipe,
any night; or any day may see at the waxwork, for
a penny and no waiting, him as killed the policeman
at Acton and suffered for it. Down by the
Docks, you may buy polonies, saveloys, and
sausage preparations various, if you are not
particular what they are made of besides seasoning.
Down by the Docks, the children of Israel creep
into any gloomy cribs and entries they can hire,
and hang slops there—pewter watches,
sou'-wester hats, waterproof overalls—"firtht rate
articleth, Thjack." Down by the Docks, such
dealers exhibiting on a frame a complete nautical
suit without the refinement of a waxen visage
in the hat, present the imaginary wearer as
drooping at the yard-arm, with his seafaring and
earthfaring troubles over. Down by the Docks,
the placards in the shops apostrophise the
customer, knowing him familiarly beforehand,
as, "Look here, Jack!" "Here's your sort,
my lad!" " Try our sea-going mixed, at two
and nine!" "The right kit for the British
Tar!"  " Ship ahoy!"   "Splice the main-brace,
brother!" "Come, cheer up, my lads We've
the best liquors here, And you'll find something
new In our wonderful Beer!"  Down by the
Docks, the pawnbroker lends money on Union-
Jack pocket-handkerchiefs, on watches with
little ships pitching fore and aft on the dial, on
telescopes, nautical instruments in cases, and
such-like. Down by the Docks, the apothecary
sets up in business on the wretchedest scale—
chiefly on lint and plaster for the strapping
of wounds—and with no bright bottles, and with
no little drawers. Down by the Docks, the
shabby undertaker's shop will bury you for next
to nothing, after the Malay or Chinaman has
stabbed you for nothing at all: so you can
hardly hope to make a cheaper end. Down by
the Docks, anybody drunk will quarrel with
anybody drunk or sober, and everybody else will
have a hand in it, and on the shortest notice you
may revolve in a whirlpool of red shirts, shaggy
beards, wild heads of hair, bare tattooed arms,.
Britannia's daughters, malice, mud, maundering,
and madness. Down by the Docks, scraping
fiddles go in the public-houses all day long, and,
shrill above their din and all the din, rises the
screeching of innumerable parrots brought from
foreign parts, who appear to be very much
astonished by what they find on these native
shores of ours. Possibly the parrots don't know,
possibly they do, that Down by the Docks is the
road to to the Pacific Ocean, with its lovely islands.