Throughout the long nights of the dreary winter months these disturbances continued; a time of the utmost anxiety and annoyance to worthy Captain Chapman, who was invariably the foremost in the fray. Nothing can exceed the pluck and energy with which he tackled the most truculent. When a prisoner, mad with rage, dares any man to enter his cell, it is Governor Chapman who always enters without a moment’s hesitation; when another, armed with a sleeveboard, threatens to dash out everybody’s brains, it is Captain Chapman who secures the weapon of offence; when a body of prisoners on the mill break out into open mutiny, and the warder in charge is in terror for his personal safety, it is Governor Chapman who repairs at once to the spot and collars the ringleaders. Perhaps it would have been better if so much resolute courage had not been tempered with too much kindness of heart. No one can read of Captain Chapman’s proceedings without admitting that he was brave; but for his particular duties he was undoubtedly also amiable to a fault. Had he been more unrelenting it is probable that the worst offenders would never have gone such lengths in their insubordination. A word or two of contrition, often the merest sham, was sufficient generally to secure his pardon. Thus when a man has worked himself into a fury and appears ready for any act of desperation, the mere appearance of the governor calms him, and the prisoner, softened, says, “You, sir, use me much better than I deserve. Put me in the dark.” “I left him,” says Captain Chapman, on one occasion, “saying I trusted my lenity would have a much better effect than a dark cell. I therefore admonished and pardoned him.” Had such kindness been productive of good results no one could have questioned his wisdom; almost invariably it was worse than futile, and the malcontents soon worse than ever, and devising fresh schemes.