- - -
Why This Identical Letter Of Mine - Now In The Hands Of James Macpherson Grant,
M.L.C., Solicitor, Collins-Street, Where It Will Remain Till Christmas
For Inspection, To Be Then Returned To The Owner - Was Not Produced
At My STATE TRIAL, Was, And Is Still, A MYSTERY To Me!
Let's run to Bakery-hill.
Chapter XXXIV.
Quos Vult Perdere Deus Dementat.
What's up? a licence hunt; old game. What's to be done? Peter Lalor was
on the stump, his rifle in his hand, calling on volunteers to 'fall in'
into ranks as fast as they rushed to Bakery-hill, from all quarters,
with arms in their hands, just fetched from their tents. Alfred,
George Black's brother, was taking down in a book the names of divisions
in course of formation, and of their captains.
I went up to Lalor, and the moment he saw me, he took me by the hand saying,
"I want you, Signore: tell these gentlemen, (pointing to old acquaintances
of ours, who were foreigners) that, if they cannot provide themselves
with fire-arms, let each of them procure a piece of steel, five or six inches
long, attached to a pole, and that will pierce the tyrants' hearts."
Peter of course spoke thus in his friendly way as usual towards me.
He was in earnest though. The few words of French he knows, he can pronounce
them tolerably well, but Peter is no scholar in modern languages; therefore
he then appointed me his aide-de-camp, or better to say his interpreter,
and now I am proud to be his historian.
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