The old style: oppressors and oppressed. A sad reflection, very sad
reflection, for any educated and honest man.

For what did we come into this colony? 'Chi sta bene non si move,'
is an old Roman proverb. If then in old Europe, we had a bird in hand,
what silly fools we were to venture across two oceans, and try to catch
two jackasses in the bush of Australia!

I had a dream, a happy dream, I dreamed that we had met here together
to render thanks unto our Father in heaven for a plentiful harvest,
such that for the first time in this, our adopted land, we had our own food
for the year; and so each of us holding in our hands a tumbler of Victorian
wine, you called on me for a song. My harp was tuned and in good order:
cheerfully struck up,

'Oh, let us be happy together.'

Not so, Britons, not so! We must meet as in old Europe--old style--improved
by far in the south--for the redress of grievances inflicted on us,
not by crowned heads, but blockheads, aristocratical incapables,
who never did a day's work in their life. I hate the oppressor, let him wear
a red, blue, white, or black coat.--And here certainly, I tackled
in right earnest with our silver and gold lace on Ballaarat, and called on all
my fellow-diggers, irrespective of nationality, religion, and colour,
to salute the 'Southern Cross' as the refuge of all the oppressed
from all countries on earth.--The applause was universal, and accordingly
I received my full reward:

Prison and Chains! Old style.