The Eureka Stockade [38]
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. It is dangerous to approach them; they know the dodge how to pick up a quarrel for the sake of gratifying their appetite for fighting. You cannot avoid them in this colony; they are too numerous. I saw hundreds of these Vandemonians, during my four months in gaol. Their heart must be of the same stuff as that of vultures, because they are of the same trade. In a word, they are the living witnesses among us, of the terrible saying of Isaiah, 'The heart of man is desperately wicked.'
Through such did Satan plant his standard to rule this southern land, before Christ could show his Cross; hence, before famous Ballaarat could point at a barn, and call it a church, on the township, old Satan had three palaces to boast of, the first of which--a match for any in the world--has made the landlord as wealthy and proud as a merchant-prince of the City of London. 'Non ex illis Mecoenates,'--that's the secret how this land has produced so many first-rate bullock-drivers.
The scene at the Prince Albert is now more interesting.
Chapter LIV.
In Vino Veritas.
The Vandemonian was, of course, accompanied by nine more of his pals, all of them armed to the teeth with revolvers, swords, pikes, and knives.
Carl Wiesenhavern, a man of noble character, and, therefore a man who hates knavery, and has no fear of a knave, answered with his peculiar German coolness, "Here I am, what do you want?"
"Nobblers round," was the eager reply.
"If that's what you want," replied Wiesenhavern, "you shall have it with pleasure."
"We got no money."
"I did not ask for any: understand me well, though;" pointing at each of them with the forefinger of his clenched right hand, "you will have a nobbler a-piece, and no more: afterwards you will go your way. Are you satisfied with my conditions?"
"Yes, yes! we agree to that: go on you b----."
Wiesenhavern scorned to notice the fellow, and, according to the old custom of the house, placed two decanters of brandy, together with the tumblers, on the bar, saying, "Help yourselves, gentlemen."
They fell at once upon the brandy, and their mean rascality was shown by some seizing the glass and covering it with the full hand to conceal their greediness. Nobbler-drinking is an old colonial habit; it gives pluck to the coward when he is 'up to something;' so happened it with these fellows.
"Well, landlord, your brandy is d---d good--the real sort of stuff, and no b----y mistake. You shouted nobblers round for all hands--that's all right; it's no more than fair and square now for the boys to shout for you:" and, with a horrible curse, "Fill up the bottles; let's have another round."
Wiesenhavern kept himself quiet. One of the ruffians showed his intention to enter the bar, and play the landlord within. Wiesenhavern coolly persuaded him back by the promise he would fetch from his room, "something rowdy,
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. It is dangerous to approach them; they know the dodge how to pick up a quarrel for the sake of gratifying their appetite for fighting. You cannot avoid them in this colony; they are too numerous. I saw hundreds of these Vandemonians, during my four months in gaol. Their heart must be of the same stuff as that of vultures, because they are of the same trade. In a word, they are the living witnesses among us, of the terrible saying of Isaiah, 'The heart of man is desperately wicked.'
Through such did Satan plant his standard to rule this southern land, before Christ could show his Cross; hence, before famous Ballaarat could point at a barn, and call it a church, on the township, old Satan had three palaces to boast of, the first of which--a match for any in the world--has made the landlord as wealthy and proud as a merchant-prince of the City of London. 'Non ex illis Mecoenates,'--that's the secret how this land has produced so many first-rate bullock-drivers.
The scene at the Prince Albert is now more interesting.
Chapter LIV.
In Vino Veritas.
The Vandemonian was, of course, accompanied by nine more of his pals, all of them armed to the teeth with revolvers, swords, pikes, and knives.
Carl Wiesenhavern, a man of noble character, and, therefore a man who hates knavery, and has no fear of a knave, answered with his peculiar German coolness, "Here I am, what do you want?"
"Nobblers round," was the eager reply.
"If that's what you want," replied Wiesenhavern, "you shall have it with pleasure."
"We got no money."
"I did not ask for any: understand me well, though;" pointing at each of them with the forefinger of his clenched right hand, "you will have a nobbler a-piece, and no more: afterwards you will go your way. Are you satisfied with my conditions?"
"Yes, yes! we agree to that: go on you b----."
Wiesenhavern scorned to notice the fellow, and, according to the old custom of the house, placed two decanters of brandy, together with the tumblers, on the bar, saying, "Help yourselves, gentlemen."
They fell at once upon the brandy, and their mean rascality was shown by some seizing the glass and covering it with the full hand to conceal their greediness. Nobbler-drinking is an old colonial habit; it gives pluck to the coward when he is 'up to something;' so happened it with these fellows.
"Well, landlord, your brandy is d---d good--the real sort of stuff, and no b----y mistake. You shouted nobblers round for all hands--that's all right; it's no more than fair and square now for the boys to shout for you:" and, with a horrible curse, "Fill up the bottles; let's have another round."
Wiesenhavern kept himself quiet. One of the ruffians showed his intention to enter the bar, and play the landlord within. Wiesenhavern coolly persuaded him back by the promise he would fetch from his room, "something rowdy,