Alla larga! Sor Fattorone: Pronti denari, Fan patti chiari.
Minca coglione!"
Such were more or less the expressions to give vent to my feelings
on my way to the Prince Albert Hotel, Bakery-hill, to meet there a friend
or two, especially my old mate, Adolphus Lessman, Lieutenant of the Rifle-men.
Chapter LIII.
Turbatus Est A Furore Oculus Meus.
The following is the scene, so characteristic of the times, as it was
going on at the Prince Albert:--
"Who's the landlord here?" was the growl from a sulky ruffian,
some five feet high, with the head of a bull-dog, the eyes of a vulture,
sunken in a mass of bones, neglected beard, sun-burnt, grog-worn,
as dirty as a brute,--the known cast, as called here in this colony,
of a 'Vandemonian,' made up of low, vulgar manners and hard talk,
spiked at each word, with their characteristic B, and infamous B again;
whilst a vile oath begins and ends any of their foul conceits. Their glory
to stand oceans of grog, joined to their benevolence of 'shouting'
for all hands, and their boast of black-eye giving, nose-smashing,
knocking in of teeth, are the three marks of their aristocracy.
Naturally cowards, they have learned the secret that 'Pluck,' does just as well
for their foul jobs. Grog is pluck, and the more grog they swallow,
the more they count on success. Hence their frame, however robust by nature,
wears out through hard drink, and goes the way of all flesh, rarely with
grey hairs.
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