only to betray them; and who, upon the same altar with you, pledges his faith and fealty to the same principles, and then sells faith, and fealty, and principles, and you alike, for the unhallowed Judas guerdon?  Of such, on his own confession was that distinguished upholder of the British crown and government, Mr. Devany.  With an affrontery that did not falter, and knew not how to blush, he detailed his own participation in the acts for which he was prosecuting me as a participator.  And is the evidence of a man like that—­a conviction obtained upon such evidence—­any warrant for a sentence depriving me of all that make life desirable or enjoyable?

   “He was first spy for the crown—­in the pay of the crown, under the
   control of the crown, and think you he had any other object than to
   do the behests of the crown?

“He was next the traitor spy, who had taken that one fatal step, from which in this life there is no retrogression—­that one plunge in infamy from which there is no receding—­that one treachery for which there is no earthly forgiveness; and, think you, he hesitated about a prejury more or less to secure present pay and future patronage?  Here was one to whom existence offers now no prospect save in making his perfidy a profession, and think you he was deterred by conscience from recommending himself to his patrons?  Think you that when at a distance of three thousand miles from the scenes he professed to describe, he could lie with impunity and invent without detection, he was particular to a shade in doing his part of a most filthy bargain?  It is needless to describe a wretch of that kind—­his own actions speak his character.  It were superfluous to curse him, his whole existence will be a living, a continuing curse.  No necessity to use the burning words of the poet and say:—­

   “’May life’s unblessed cup for him
   Be drugged with treacheries to the brim.’

“Every sentiment in his regard of the country he has dishonoured, and the people he has humbled, will be one of horror and hate.  Every sigh sent up from the hearts he has crushed and the homes he has made desolate, will be mingled with execrations on the name of the informer.  Every heart-throb in the prison cells of this land where his victims count time by corroding his thought—­every grief that finds utterance from these victims in the quarries of Portland will go up to heaven freighted with curses on the Nagles, the Devanys, the Masseys, the Gillespies, the Corridons, and the whole host of mercenary miscreants, who, faithless to their friends and recreant to their professions, have, paraphrasing the words of Moore, taken their perfidy to heaven seeking to make accomplice of their God—­wretches who have embalmed their memories in imperishable infamy, and given their accursed names to an inglorious immortality.  Nor will I speculate on their career in the future.  We have it on the best