I am promised to be let loose next Saturday, May 14th, 1870; but, whether or not such will be the case, depends altogether upon the honor and feelings of Governor Jno. W. Geary. I hope he'll never get out of his gear until he ungears me.
My page, as well as my time, is drawing to a close, and as the last part of a speech should always be best, I hope some very bright "Prison Thoughts" may finish this stupid lot of expressions, which I have put down as they flitted through my brain. I never profess to possess any wit, but solid grit.
I asked Mr. Perkins, the Superintendent of this honorable prison, to allow me to give myself a few alcoholic vapor baths for the "Itch," which the filthy place inoculated me with, but he refuses to grant my request, and thinks (in fact, says) his doctors must treat me; he is determined to drug me, but I'll die first. One of his M. D.'s sucks the
