His round head of tolerable size,
is of German mould, for the earnestness of his forehead is corrected
by the fullness of his cheeks, and a set of moustachios is the padlock
of his mouth, whose key is kept safe in his head, and his heart is the
turn-key. When his breast is full, and he must make it clean, its gall
will burn wherever it falls, and set the place a blazing. To keep friends
with such a cast of mind, whose motto is Nelson's, you must do your duty;
never mind if you sink a shicer, bottom your shaft any how. You are
his enemy if you are or play the flunky; he will call you a 'thing,'
and has a decided contempt for 'incapables.' Hence, his energy was never
abated, though the whole legion of Victorian red-tape wanted to dry
his inkstand, and smother his lamp in gaol. That there are too many fools
at large, he knows, because he has travelled half the world, what he can
not put up with, is their royal cant, religious bosh, Toorak small-beer,
and first and foremost, their money-grubbing expertness. Hence, now
and then, his ink turns sour, and thereby its vitriol burns stronger.
'The Times', of which he is the founder, is the Overseer of Ballaarat,
and the 'Dolce far niente' will not prosper.
Our literary prisoner was literally insulted, and could not look with
enough contempt on all those accursed asses braying (at him)
'The Times!' 'The Times!'
I felt for him very much, and joined conversation with him in French.
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