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5. John Manning, born in Ireland, and an Irishman to the back-bone, appeared above forty years of age. His head was bald, perhaps from thinking three times more than he ought; his forehead showed intelligence, but care was there with the plough—the plough of dreaming too much of virtue, believing the knaves are not the majority on earth. He had come young to this colony, had passed hard days, and so he had got the colonial habit, now and then, "Divo jucundo Baccho cultum prestare;" hence his hair was fast turning grey. He was a self-educated man, but wanted judgment to discipline his fermenting brain, for the control of his heart, which was good, honest, always warm, affectionate to man, woman, and child. When he took his quill he was "all there," but soon manifested the sort of reading of his youth; and experience, however hard, had not yet taught him the sober reality of the things of the world—that is, he had remained an Irishman, not John Bullised.
6. Oh! you long-legged Vern! with the eyes of an opossum, a common nose, healthy looking cheeks, not very small mouth, no beard, long neck for Jack Ketch, broad shoulders, never broken down by too much work, splendid chest, long arms—the whole of your appearance makes you a lion amongst the fair sex, in spite of your bad English, worse German, abominable French. They say you come from Hanover, but your friends have seen too much in you of the Mexico-Peruvian. You belong to the school of the "Illuminated Cosmopolitans;" you have not a dishonest heart, but you believe in nothing except the gratification of your silly vanity, or ambition, as you call it.
7. The next was a skinny bouncing curl who affected the tone and manners of a Californian; he acted throughout the part of a coward, I scorn to mention his name.
8. Thank God there is among us a man; not so tall as thick, of a strong frame, some thirty five years old, honest countenance, sober forehead, penetrating look, fine dark whiskers. His mouth and complexion denote the Irish, and he is the earnest, well-meaning, no-two-ways, non-John-Bullised Irishman, Peter Lalor, in whose eyes, the gaseous heroism of demagogues, or the knavery of peg-shifters is an abomination, because his height of impudence consisted in giving the diggers his hand, and leaving with them his arm in pawn, for to jump the Ballaarat claim in St. Patrick's Hall. More power to you Peter! Old chummy, smother the knaves! they breed too fast in this colony.
9. Myself, Carboni Raffaello, da Roma, Member of the College of Preceptors (1850), Bloomsbury-square, professor, interpreter and translator of the Italian, French, Spanish and German Language into English or vice versa late of 4, Castle-court, Birchin-lane, Cornhill, London; now, gold-digger of Ballaarat, was present.
