One of the striking features of Sydney, as of all British seaport towns of any size, was the taverns, or "publics," the name of which was legion, each having its distinctive sign. Here were to be found the Red Cross, the Blue Cross, and crosses of all hues of the rainbow; the Red Rose and the White Rose as rivals, typical of the ancient houses of Lancaster and York; the Thistle and the Shamrock both rivalling the Rose, and again a more compromising publican bore aloft a trinity of all three; Red Lions, Green Boars, Blue Elephants, and other impossibilities in zoology, boldly asserted the reality of their existence, while Swans and Magpies on one side of the street eyed Crooked Billets and Wheels of Fortune on the other, and the Jolly Tar near the landing swung his tarpaulin aloft, and kicked up his heels at the whole 'long shore tribe' of them. The landlord of this house was especially gracious to us all, and found his account in it, as our men spent much of their time and money in his establishment, so that the Jolly Tar was, for the time being, even more jolly than was his wont. The advent of an American whaleship at Sydney was a rare occurrence at that day, though, two or three years later, it became a fashionable port of resort for Nor'westmen, the exorbitant port-charges to foreign ships having been taken off, as also the duties on oil sold under a certain quantity. As we had a good voyage in the ship, and came on shore with substantial linings to our pockets, we were always welcome visitors at the "publics," taking the wind out of the sails of all wool-droghers, soldiers, and bar-room loungers generally. It was "Get up, Jack, and let John sit down," when the Yankee whaler's men were coming. I made the acquaintance of an intelligent seaman at the Jolly Tar, a Philadelphian, who had been here some time, having been left sick in the hospital from an American brig, and was anxious to ship and go home with us if possible. Speaking of the landlord of the house, this Ashton said to me: "You would hardly believe, would you, that this man was sent here with two pen'worth of lag?" "Two pen'orth of lag!" said I, considerably mystified, "What do you mean by that?" "It means," explained Ashton, "in the slang phrase used here, that he was transported for fourteen years. A term of seven years is called a pen'orth of lag, fourteen years two pen'orth, and so on." "But you don't mean to say that he is a convict, now?" said I. "Certainly," he returned, "but you must not use that word here; or, if you do, don't speak it so loud. Say a 'government man.' He is still under sentence. I don't know what his offence was, but a few years ago a small matter was enough to transport a man. The law is changed now, and the system is, I think, abolished altogether. No new ones are brought, and these you see here are old stock whose term of service has not yet run out." "But can a convict, then, go into business for himself?"