Mynext home was a perfect one in all respects, a comfortable new house at Double Bay, the grounds extending to the beach, and the windows of the principal rooms looking towards the harbour. Again my “lines were cast in pleasant places.” Mr. and Mrs. Frederick had not been long from home; the children were much younger than my former pupils, but, dear little things, the youngest so very quick and affectionate. There were very few houses near us, and we could, and did, wander about the rocks, and spent many hours on the beach at the bottom of the garden. We used to take long walks to gather wildflowers on Belle Vue Hill, at the back of Sir Daniel Cooper’s estate, and as far as Tivoli. There were now many beautiful places at Darling Point, Greenoaks, Mona, Mount Adelaide, and others. Mr. Mort had at Greenoaks a small gallery of charming water-colour pictures. There was also a picture gallery at Mona, chiefly copies in oil from the old masters, which I had the bad taste not to admire, preferring the pictures we had at Hurst. I have always felt what a privilege it was to have Mrs. Frederickas a friend. She was so well read, conscientious, true, and gentle. She had a beautiful voice and excellent taste in music, and having been partially educated on the Continent, could converse on many subjects I had only read of. Unfortunately, being delicate, she was unable to enjoy the surroundings of her beautiful home.
I had a very pretty schoolroom, abundance of books, and quantities of toys amusing and instructive for my children. We occasionally spent Sunday afternoon on the beach, where I taught them simple hymns or composed various tales for their amusement. These children are mothers now, and have reminded me of many of the tales which I had forgotten long ago. I have had many solitary hours since those days; but few sad ones, for memory calls back so much to brighten the present when youth is past. The love and trust of children is a priceless treasure time can never dim or take away. Holidays were a relaxation, and having so many friends, I enjoyed them; but was always glad to return, and agreed with my children in “being pleased when they were over.” They always met me with caresses, declaring “They never wanted any more long holidays without I stayed at home.” While at Hurst I had an invitation from an old friend to a large picnic given by her brother and another squatter visiting Sydney. It was a very grand affair. As it was held at Vaucluse, Mrs. du Moulin called for meen route. Her brother knowing many gentlemen now in Sydney from their stations, there would be no lack of gentlemen.
The then Australian Gunter hadcarte blanchefor providing arecherchéluncheon. A German band was engaged, boats provided for those who liked the water, cricket for others, and dancing for all. It was a lovely day in October, and I am certain never out of “Arcadia” did nearly a hundred young people enjoy themselves more. The pretty girls and handsome men made delightful partners, and time passed too quickly.
I had danced until even I was tired, so with my partner rested for a while, when he told me the following story of the discovery of one of the principal Victorian gold-fields. “We had been travelling overland with cattle, and had camped earlier than usual, the heat being intense; the stockmen were resting at a little distance, waiting until the cook had the evening meal ready. My brother and I were lying on the grass talking over the probabilities of making a good sale of our cattle when we reached our destination, both a little down-hearted, as a few days before we had heard several mobs of cattle had been seen on the road bound for the same market.
“We were both smoking, and I with note-book and pencil jotting down probable results of our hoped-for sales, while Donald pulled up tufts of grass. Presently an exclamation made me look at him. The expression of his face alarmed me. I thought he was ill; his pipe had fallen from his fingers, and he held a tuft of grass in his hand. ‘Look, A——, at this.’ ‘At what?’ I was for a second almost as astonished as he had been. ‘Why, it is gold!’ ‘Yes, hush, keep quiet until after supper, when the men are in their tent; we will examine the place.’ Which we did, and found it was one of the richest fields yet discovered. We at once decided for one of us to ride to the nearest town and take out licenses for the party. In less than a month there were thousands of people on the field. We never took a beast away, but sold them all for a very large sum on the spot. Kept our claim, and each man made a small fortune. We invested ours in a large station property, not caring for a gold-digger’s life. Often has it occurred to me since what a little matter gives the turn to fortune’s wheel, for it was the merest chance took us in that direction, as it was only the breaking away of five of our best cattle, and their taking the left instead of the right and shortest road to the place we were bound for.” “I suppose you were much excited by this discovery?” “Yes, but, Miss L——, almost the first feeling that arose in my mind, ‘Is it for good or evil?’ One thing comforted me; I could now give my mother a home suited to her, and whatever happens to me, she will be well provided for.” The band commencing a delightful waltz, we left our shady seat and were soon dancing with the rest. I went into town with my friend and spent a delightful musical evening at her house. Some time after this some friends of Mrs. Woolley’s of Hereford House, who knew me there, invited me to a ball at their house in Wooloomooloo. Mrs. Frederick said, “You must go; I will send you in the carriage, and as Mrs. Joseph has offeredyou a bed, we will call for you in the morning.” I started, having told the coachman to drive to a house in William Street. When we arrived at this place it was very quiet and dark. I jumped out, saying, “This is the place.” But the coachman, having his doubts, suggested waiting till I was in. When the servant opened the door I began to think I had mistaken the date of the invitation, for there was no sign of a party. A door opened and a gentleman came forward. “I fear I have made a mistake; is this Mrs. Joseph’s?” “No; she lives in Victoria Street.” “They have a ball there to-night?” “Yes; my son has just left for it.” How I blessed the coachman’s forethought in waiting, and how my friends laughed at my blunder when I met them at Victoria Street! The next morning poor Richard, the coachman, could not find the cottage in Rushcutter Bay, where I had spent the night, and had been over an hour in finding me, so it was a chapter of accidents altogether. I met on that occasion our present Agent-General and the beautiful girl he married; and only a few mails ago saw in a paper the death of the lady at whose house the ball took place. Her sister, at whose house I stayed the night, has since become one of our leading women in Sydney society; an Australian, clever, fascinating, and agreeable.
A sad catastrophe occurred at this time which cast a terrible shadow over the beauty of our surroundings and our walks and visits to our beach.
The wreck of theDunbarat the “Gap,” near theSouth Head, was a terrible calamity. It was an awful night, when, with her living freight, she went down outside the haven; the passengers thought they were entering to meet their dear ones in a few short hours. The terrible wind and rain prevented sleep at Hurst. I got up and read the greater part of the night, for the house at times rocked with the force of the tempest. In the morning the sun shone fitfully and the wind had decreased, the white-crested waves I could see from my windows were the only evidence of the fury of the storm now past. We had just gone into the breakfast-room when some gentlemen called upon Mr. Frederick to inform him there had been a terrible wreck at the South Head, and as some cases with his firm’s brand had been seen, could he tell him the names of vessels he expected consignments by? They feared it might be an emigrant vessel just due. He was able to settle that question, as they never shipped by emigrant ships, and mentioned the names of three vessels they had cargo in, theDunbarbeing one; and in a few hours all doubt was at an end, and it was then known to be that ill-fated ship full of passengers, amongst them many colonists returning after a visit to their Fatherland.
Only one man (a sailor) was saved, washed up by the waves between the rocks, and lodged there. It was a most dangerous exploit to attempt the rescue of that one poor creature from his perilous position; but many brave fellows volunteered, and one was lowered by a rope to the rocks beneath, where cruel breakers roared and dashed overboth. At last they were hauled safely up, and when able the rescued man told all he knew of that most terrible night’s work. He was asleep at the time the vessel struck; it must all have happened in a few moments from the time of striking till she sank fathoms deep. But from what he related there can be little doubt the captain had mistaken the South Head light for one inside the harbour, and steered right on to the rocks beneath. Most of the passengers were no doubt asleep, and many were crushed in their berths. The lighthouse keeper reported that he heard the bark of a dog above the roar of the tempest at the hour that they supposed so many poor souls had gone to their last home. This dog had been picked up either at Inkerman or Balaklava, and had been given to a lady on board. So many people had friends or relatives on board, that it caused universal sorrow. An emigrant vessel was wrecked inside the harbour before our arrival in the colony. Soon after the loss of theDunbar, theCatherine Adamsonwas wrecked on, I think, Bradley’s Head, but not with so great a loss of life. For weeks after both wrecks the beaches were strewed with flotsam, and it was heartrending to see many of the things cast ashore, such as needlework half finished, with needles and crochet hooks stuck in reels of cotton, most likely in use a few hours previously; combs from some loved one’s hair; writing from another’s hand, all still now—not even the poor consolation of seeing the loved form again or its last resting-place. Many bodies recovered were so terribly disfigured by the rocks as to be beyond the possibility ofidentification. A young person at Hurst was to have been married to the second officer of theDunbar, and used to go to the morgue to identify her lover day after day, but in vain. She would shake her head and say, “No, Miss, it was not Jim; but some other woman’s loss I saw to-day.” She had to leave us as her mind was evidently giving way. The constant sound of the waves prevented her resting, so I advised her going into the country. Strange to say, the one seaman rescued from theDunbarwas appointed to the lifeboat at Newcastle, and was instrumental in saving the one man from the steamerCawarra, wrecked there.
InDecember 185- we left Sydney to spend four months in Tasmania. I had not been outside Sydney Heads since our arrival in 184-, and being a good sailor enjoyed the short voyage. At this time Tasmania was the principal health resort for the Australian colonies. Our New South Wales railway was only completed as far as Penrith, so Mount Victoria, Blackheath, and Katoomba on the western line; Bowral, Moss Vale, and Sutton Forest on the southern line, were not thought of for that purpose. Hobart Town, therefore, in the season was filled with wealthy tourists from New South Wales and Victoria. Those who were not blessed with too large a proportion of this world’s goods had to be content without change, or be satisfied with Mauly Beach, Botany, and Coogee, all very primitive as to hotels and lodging-houses then. And really, as is the case with many other luxuries, we were just as well without this, now considered a necessity. Nevertheless I was delighted at an opportunity of visiting another colony. I heard a gentleman say, who had travelled over most of the civilised portions of the globe, “that Tasmaniabore the palm for salubrity; its climate being neither too hot nor too cold; its scenery charming, with splendid trees and ferns—in fact, an earthly paradise.” It really appeared so to me, with the English fruits and flowers. Its magnificent trees, hawthorn hedges, and general appearance of cultivation reminded me of the land of my birth, which I so longed to see again. The indigenous trees of Tasmania are finer and more luxuriant in foliage than most of those on the Australian continent; the huon pine is of immense height and girth; so is theEucalyptus globulus—Tasmanian blue gum—and many others.
Hobart Town is situated on the River Derwent; and with Mount Wellington for a background is most picturesque, and certainly at that time struck me as being beautifully clean.
The beaches, with one exception, being shingly, there was an absence of that terrible sand and dust we were accustomed to in Sydney. The traffic was considerably less also. There I saw a mail-coach of the old English type leave for Launceston; and the roads are much better, while the air is more delightful and exhilarating than in New South Wales or Victoria. There were many pretty girls with fresh complexions, and the children looked the picture of health. It struck one as being like a quiet seaside town in England, and Mrs. Frederick and I enjoyed the change very much.
The Domain and gardens were smaller than ours, but the Government House, not quite finished at that time,appeared larger; we called there, as also at the bishop’s at New Town, and left cards. We also attended the opening of the Legislative Assembly; but as Mrs. Frederick was not equal to much visiting, we merely went out during the daytime. As there had been a terrible accident to one of a party attending a picnic on Mount Wellington but recently, I did not accept an invitation “to ascend it.” On the mountain there is a place called “The Ploughed Field,” consisting of masses of rock scattered over the surface as though by an earthquake: to stray alone in this place is most dangerous. On the occasion I have referred to, a young man left the party, his friends thinking “he had returned to Hobart Town by another route.” They “coo-eed” vigorously for a time, and receiving no reply, wended their way home; however, finding he had not returned, they went in search of him, but in vain. Some considerable time after the body was found, with the legs fixed between the rocks, not very far from where a search party had rested a few days after he was lost.
As the house Mr. Frederick had taken had but a small garden, he arranged for us to gather any fruit we required from an orchard near, where there were quantities of red, white, and black currants, strawberries, and cherries; later on plums of all kinds, apples and pears. In one garden at New Town we often spent an afternoon.
We had numberless drives to many pretty spots, and along the Sandy Bay road. I also went for a few days’ visit to a pretty place on the other side of the river, the name of which has slipped my memory; it was the residence of Captain Forster, a retired naval officer, and his wife, such a dear old lady. We sometimes went fishing; but were far from successful in this, though there were quantities of fine fish in the Derwent, and scarcely a day passed while at Hobart without having some. New Norfolk about this time was becoming famous for its salmon ponds, as well as the surrounding scenery, which was indeed lovely. The ferns were very beautiful, and in great variety; but I do not think the native flowers were equal to those of New South Wales; perhaps it was past the season, or I may have sought them in the wrong localities. One fact struck me, after thunderstorms and rain the air became deliciously cool and refreshing—so different from New South Wales, where in the summer after rain it is generally steamy, close, and sultry, especially near Sydney—and I am inclined to think that Tasmania will again rival many of the health resorts the extended railway service has made accessible in New South Wales, now that the sea voyage is so short between Melbourne and Launceston.
My dear old friend, the Rev. W. H. Walsh, was on a visit at Bishop Bromby’s, so we had the pleasure of seeing him occasionally; also Mrs. Augustus of Graycliff, who was staying at Hobart Town for change, as she had been seriously ill since I was at her garden party a few years back; but she was still very beautiful. She and her sisterwere the two handsomest women I ever met, tall, elegant in figure, and perfect in face. The wife of one of our governors had an album of Australian beauties, amongst them Mrs. Augustus and her sister, two nieces of my Hereford House friends, and many others I had seen. I have photos of many of the young people of the present day quite equal to any I have met in England in face or figure, and without partiality, displaying more expression and decidedly more winning manners. Certainly my means of judging may have been limited, still I have been to many places of amusement—to theatres, the Handel Festival, the Royal Academy, and other exhibitions—walking and riding; but could not help remarking that the one prevailing expression in the faces I have seen was supercilious, and never once have I noticed the courtesy to elderly people I have been accustomed to see in Australia. There appears to me in England a dread of being natural for fear of “what people will think.”
Hobart Town was very quiet, though it was the height of the season; but as the girls remarked, “What was the use of thinking of dances, picnics, or any other amusement when there were neither partners nor escorts?” there being so many ladies, and so very few of the sterner sex. The arrival of the steamer from Sydney was an event which caused half the population at least to wend their way to the wharf. The arrival of the mail was another source of great excitement; we seemed to be so far removed from Sydney then—almost as far away as England isfrom Australia at the present time, when there is a weekly mail, and when we can read a cablegram in this morning’s newspaper of the doings in the colonies not a day ago.
We were to leave in the beginning of May, and by that time the weather was really cold. Mount Wellington had already a little snow on its summit, and furs were in requisition.
Our friend Mr. W. H. Walsh returned to Sydney with us, and when we arrived at Twofold Bay, Maria and James came on board in the custom-house officer’s boat to see me. They were out on horseback when the steamer was signalled, and had only just time to ride down to the boat before she pulled off from the shore. We were delighted to meet again; they both thought Tasmania had benefited us considerably. They told me, had they known in time when we were in the Bay before, I could have gone to their cottage at Eden. “Yes,” said Maria, “and you would not have thought it ugly then.” It was hard to say “Good-bye”; but we all felt it would not be for long, as they hoped to be in Sydney again soon.
We had enjoyed our four months’ stay; but how delightful it was to be once more at “Hurst,” in our own rooms and with our own surroundings. The feeling of being at home is enhanced by these changes, however well conducted the lodging-house may be. We often laughed over our Hobart Town experiences and at Mrs. Mills, the owner of the house where we stayed, who would shut all thewindows immediately we were out of the house, which it was my mission to open immediately we returned. When her cooking had not been quite satisfactory, and we had ordered things from the pastry-cook’s, our dear old friend W. H. Walsh, desiring to please her, praised some dish which it was high treason to have ordered from outside. All these little matters we could now laugh at, being once more at home, where life had charms not to be compassed elsewhere. Our old pursuits gained value by the change, and the old walks and drives in interest. The winter in New South Wales is very enjoyable from May until November, and life is indeed worth living, after the heat, dust, and mosquitoes, which are most trying.
Now after a year in England, without clear skies, much rain, fog, and snow, I am bound to agree with many who say, “If I were once again in Australia I would never return to this miserable climate.” I shake my head, and call to mind the many discomforts of a hot, dry climate.
My old friends were about to return to the colony and I had promised to go to them again, so my stay at Hurst was drawing to a close. It was a wrench to leave the children I had learned to love; but they were so young compared with others I had taught, and felt I was losing ground in many branches; besides, I had promised. Unfortunately Mrs. Woolley had decided on living in Sydney, so after remaining with them a few months,I had to leave, as my health completely gave way, and an attack of congestion of the lungs rendered me an idle woman for many months. This gave me time to realise what had been accomplished during eighteen years.
Sydneyhad now the University, with Dr. Woolley, a scholar of reputation, at its head. There were also many private schools for young men destined for the Church, with men like Mr. Baly, an Oxford man, and Dr. Forrest of the King School, Parramatta, and Moore College at Liverpool, to prepare them for it. Ladies’ schools were numerous; the Misses Moore, Flower, Thompson and Cooksey were doing good work, preparing young Australian women for their duties. The national school system for the masses had not yet been introduced, which, I regret to say, provides only a strictly secular education. A system which entirely puts religion aside can only end in the repudiation of that responsibility which raises mankind above the lower order of animal creation. The first lesson to inculcate in every child is obedience to God and His laws; obedience to man and his laws then becomes a part of the child’s nature. Another grave objection to the national system is, that it is not for the poorer class exclusively. Men with large incomes send their children to the State schools, paying merely the same rates as thepoor man. Only imagine men with incomes of £800 a year sending their children to these schools! Those whose incomes are sufficiently large to enable them to be responsible for the cost of their children’s education should not rely on State aid. These children are taught not only reading, writing, and arithmetic, but languages, mathematics, algebra, drawing, music, and drill, for a few pence per week. Some of the parents may give their children a year or two at a private school to finish them; but we venture to say the national school system has bent the “twig” in such a way as to preclude almost any hope of straightening it, except in very rare instances. Teachers too are fallible, and are liable to show more interest in the well-to-do man’s child than in that of the poor man. The Government schools have been the means of lifting from the shoulders of thriving and even rich men the responsibility of looking after the education of their children, and the poor man’s child is educated in such a way that in nine cases out of ten he despises his parents, and has gained the notion that honest labour is beneath him. Where the parents are in good circumstances and pay proper attention to the religious training of their children at home, they may not be injured by the lack of it at school; but in the majority of cases the good accomplished at home is neutralised at school. This applies to the poor as well as the rich, only as the poor are often too wearied after their day’s labour to give much attention to the religious education of theirchildren, how much more necessary is it in their case that it should be attended to in school.
That there have always been different grades in society, that it is necessary to the wellbeing of all that it should be so, and that these grades should bear a numerical proportion to each other which can be tolerably well fixed, history bears out. Does the system of education in the national schools tend to keep up this healthy proportion, or does it upset the social economy, in which large communities can only exist with safety to the majority? Is it a healthy state when Jack considers himself as good as his master, if not better? Yet this is the effect produced by public school teaching—a system of levelling. By all means let the State provide a sound, plain education for the children of those whose means are too small to allow of their defraying the expense of it. A certain period of attendance should be compulsory, and religious instruction should not be neglected.
When every church had its day school, it was easy to get domestics, male and female, plainly educated and well trained, or youths desirous of learning a business. I know many homes in the colony now where the heads of families were so educated, who are an example and blessing to all around them, holding good positions and training their children wisely and well.
The Roman Catholic Church is far wiser than the Protestant Church, as in every town and country parish where a church is built there is a school also. They knowhow necessary it is to sow the seed of religious belief with their daily lessons. To my fellow-Protestants in New South Wales or elsewhere I say, keep your church schools in every parish, and to what nobler or better use could the wealthy devote a portion of their riches than by the endowment of church schools? There cannot be a doubt that good training in the early life of a people minimises the necessity for asylums and gaols.
Many will consider my views on the national school question narrow, and ask, Why should the poor children who are clever be deprived of opportunities for cultivating their talents? My answer is, If there is talent, it will, as it always has done, make a way for itself, and did long before this system was thought of. Difficulties are to the talented boy or girl incentives to the exertion necessary to overcome them, and help to form the character. It would be well, after these qualities of talent have developed, that the State should give aid in the way of scholarships or otherwise.
After all, the knowledge acquired at such schools is very superficial; too much is attempted, and the results prove without doubt, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
We had several clever and eloquent men in the Sydney churches from Great Britain and some educated in the colony—men who not only performed their Sunday duties, but worked throughout the week without intermission. Parishes then covered very much larger areas than they do at present.
The Roman Catholic clergy, under their great and good head, Archbishop Polding, had worked wonders for their flock. St. Mary’s Cathedral was at this time a fine building, St. Patrick’s and others were commenced. Presbyterian, Congregational, and Wesleyans, all had large and well-filled chapels. The University was now finished, and the affiliated colleges in prospect. Many new and extensive buildings in the principal streets sprang up like magic; but the impetus given to advancement was more especially noticeable in the suburbs. Randwick was now formed into streets; the Destitute Children’s Asylum, founded by Dr. Cuthill, was finished; the racecourse formed; Wooloomooloo nearly covered with houses; William Street, where but a short time since there were only private houses, was now being converted into a thoroughfare of shops; Waverley and Surrey Hills were fast becoming populous neighbourhoods. Cleveland House, which I remember surrounded by gardens and shrubberies, and standing in its many acres of paddock, was being rapidly cut up; the Redfern Railway Station and station yard were formed on a portion of it; the Silent City close by still holds its silent warnings in the midst of man’s progress, “Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.”
We had occasional visits from celebrities, such as Anna Bishop, Catherine Hayes, G. W. Brooke, and others. Madame Bushelle, Carandini, and Sara Flower were our own; the latter having been with us since 1852. What a voice she had, and what a splendid teacher! I met her ather brother’s a few weeks after her arrival in Australia, before she had made herdébutbefore a Sydney audience. Poor thing! what a sad end was hers; but through years of work and privation she never lost her voice. We had an excellent opera company which she joined—in which were Squires, Madame Escott, Farquharson, Beaumont, with many others, as my contemporaries will remember.
Lovers of music had a great treat about this time in a series of concerts conducted by Lavenu, and held in the grand hall of our University. The oratorios of the “Messiah,” “Creation,” “Moses in Egypt,” and other works of the best composers were rendered in a masterly manner. The choirs of the Sydney churches which joined with the musical societies of Sydney, both vocal and instrumental, were most efficient. The opera company supplied the leading solos, Sara Flower being a host in herself—Mendelssohn’s music being her speciality, as she made her first appearance in it at the Exeter Hall concerts. Her grand contralto voice filled the hall, and many musical critics remarked that no one ever had sung or ever could sing such music better. This bringing together all the musical talent of Sydney was of inestimable benefit to our young Australians, giving fresh impetus to their decided taste for it.
The fine arts at this period had not made much headway; still, scattered over the country, were many pictures of merit by colonial artists. Architects were not numerous, but now there are several of great ability. In criticising their works, people are apt to forget the difficulties theyhave had to contend with, the absence of works of renowned men, and the distance from the countries where the finest models and examples are to be seen and studied. Some who have designed works here have never had these advantages, never having been away from their native land. Again I was with my old friends, James and Maria, close to my father’s old home at Redfern; this visit was most thoroughly enjoyed. One day we made a trip to Parramatta by train. I recalled my girlhood as I saw the familiar streets and houses of this old town, with its old-fashioned buildings without verandahs,—similar to those I pass on the road in this Hampshire village,—the trim little gardens full of flowers, the bricked kitchens, and old-world appearances. Parramatta is, next to Sydney, the oldest town in Australia, and even now retains many of its primitive features; the Domain or Park with its avenue of oaks; its old-fashioned Government House; and its factory buildings still left. There is some charming country round it, well cultivated, with orchards, vineyards, and the splendid orangeries, with their golden fruit. My title does not appear such a misnomer, taking into account the many golden-hued flowers, rivers with beds of golden sand, nuggets of gold and golden quartz—in fact, every touch of His, from glowing sunrise to sunset, proclaims it such. We spent several afternoons on board an American ship, which the captain and his young wife made their home. Trade with America was now becoming extensive. This vessel only carried cargo; but the saloon and cabins were fitted like ayacht’s. When on board, I could see from her deck what a marvellous change had taken place—the increase of wharves, the accommodation at the circular quay much enlarged, and the greater number of ships. Balmain, Pyrmont, and Wooloomooloo from the harbour appeared one mass of habitations; North Shore still was country, and the wooded heights of Darling Point, Edgecliff Road, and Woollahra remained partially free from vulgar bricks and mortar.
How well I remember a dance we attended in Campbell Street, near the Haymarket. Though there were cabs at this time, they were few in number, but omnibuses plied through most of the principal suburbs. That week, having been to a ball at Government House, Maria and I suggested, as that had entailed considerable expense, we would go by the omnibus and walk home by the railway works; so we started. Just as we entered our friend’s hall, the Rev. Mr. Hose, acting warden of the University, met us, reminding Maria she had promised him the first quadrille. “So I did; take my cloak, Kate.” I did so; and being engaged for the same dance as theirvis-à-vis, hurried down just in time. The first figure ended, and when Maria advanced forL’été, I saw my partner laughing. I looked down, and there was Maria’s white satin boots with her goloshes over them; I waited till she had finished the figure and then told her. No one but an Irishwoman could have been so unconcerned. She stooped, took them off, handed them to her partner, saying, “You see the consequence of having a careful husband.” I felt it was a blessing the said husbandwas at the other end of the room. We danced until nearly daylight, then with the Rev. Mr. Hose we passed the Haymarket, just as the hay carts were arriving. Nearly thirty years have passed since then, and Sydney has now its “season” for fashionable people. Conventionality prevents many social gatherings. Mrs. Grundy has found her way to the Antipodes, interfering, as she always does, with that which is natural and innocent by her verdict, “It is not considered good form.” Yet I trust our kind, generous, and hearty Australian hospitality will never give in to her, and become as fearful of her “What will people think or say” as they are in England.
Anotherwarning from the doctor determined me in leaving Sydney for a visit to my brother. Tired of waiting for an escort, I started without; James taking me to Parramatta by train, where I found the coaches now much improved. A friend had promised to send a telegram to some friends of my brother’s to meet me at Green Swamps, and take me to their homestead at Macquarie Plains, where Mr. Henry, being in the neighbourhood, would be my escort to Wellington. I was very glad of this opportunity of rest, and breaking the coach journey. Crossing Bathurst Plains in winter would be bitterly cold under most circumstances, and especially so after being in the coach all day, yet the first part of the journey from Parramatta was very pleasant. The winter in Australia is delightful for travelling; my journeys hitherto had been during the hottest time of the year, so I thoroughly enjoyed this one, free from flies, dust, and heat. We had the advantage of a full moon, and were able to enjoy the scenery. The Blue Mountains appeared more beautiful than ever, so quiet and majestic, like another world, wheretoil and turmoil are unknown. Then, when starting in the early morning, every tree was jewelled with hoar-frost, till the warm rays of the sun turned them into dripping fountains; but I was not sorry to learn we were approaching the inn where I expected to meet Mr. East; but, alas! only to meet disappointment instead, and I had to arrive in Bathurst alone, with a very vague idea of where I should go for the night, thinking if I can only get to the Royal Hotel, I must send a message to the Plains; but seven years had changed Bathurst, which was now a busy place on a Saturday night. After delivering our mails at the post-office, the coach was driven into the yard of a public-house full of busy men. All alighted, and I stood by the side of another female passenger wondering what I should do, when a gentleman addressed me, “I hear you expected friends from Macquarie Plains to meet you; I am driving past their house, and will take you there with pleasure.” Hesitating as to what answer to give to this offer from a perfect stranger, I heard a familiar voice, turned and saw an old acquaintance; so thanking the unknown gentleman, hastened after Mr. F——, who was much astonished at seeing me there. My troubles were now over, as he looked after my luggage and took me to a quiet hotel near, engaged a private room, and left me to the rest I so much needed. Thoroughly worn out in mind and body, I had a good cry before retiring for the night, and wondered whether telegrams were an improvement on the old-fashioned method of communication by letter.The next morning Mr. Henry arrived, he having called at Macquarie Plains as arranged, and heard that Mr. Hall had sent word where I was to be found. I was glad when we left for Frederick’s Valley, where I remained for a week with Mr. Henry’s sister, and had many pleasant drives in the neighbourhood; one to a deserted gold-field, where a large quartz crushing machine was lying idle. This ugly mass of iron had a peculiar fascination for my friend, who, kindly wishing to share his pleasure with me, explained the use of various cranks and wheels. I fear, in saying Yes, where it ought to have been No, I showed my stupidity. He proposed my going to another part of the field, where there was a pretty view of the valley, and where one might pick up some specimens from amongst those heaps of quartz. The valley was pretty, with a number of farms under cultivation; but English farmers would have been surprised at the rough and ready style adopted, and the Australian want of system; still crops were good, the virgin soil no doubt making up for careless husbandry. The fields were divided by open rails or cockatoo fences,i.e.branches and logs of trees laid on the ground one across the other, with posts and slip rails in lieu of gates. The cultivated land, not being divided by close hedges as at home, appeared more extensive. I enjoyed this journey; and having been over the ground before, could mark the progress that had been made. Orange was becoming a large town, but Molong was still in a very primitive state. We passed through Ironbarks diggings. What a place! Fullof activity, few decent houses, tents and huts predominating, though there were several inns, but not comfortable for ladies. We stayed at one for an hour or two, and found the grilled chicken, ham, eggs, bread, and tea were not to be despised, though served on common delf plates placed on a deal table guiltless of a cloth. What a life for men accustomed to the luxuries and comforts of an English home I thought as I watched the groups of diggers. Great heaps of quartz were scattered over the field, and the roads are terribly dusty in dry weather and miry in wet.
Mr. Henry left me to speak with two rough-looking men standing by one of the heaps of quartz, so I walked slowly on, musing on the phantasmagoria we call life. When he overtook me, he said, “One of those men is an earl’s son I met in Melbourne last summer. You would scarcely think so, Kate?” “Yes; for I met a duke’s son in far worse plight a few years ago.”
At one time I had occasion to cross Cleveland Paddocks twice or thrice a week about one o’clock, and several times saw a young man leave the yard of a cordial manufacturer at Redfern, where he washed bottles. It was found out afterwards he was Lord F——, son of a duke. I should not have noticed him; but one morning I dropped my handkerchief, which he saw and, lifting his hat, returned it to me. Some time after, at the band in the Domain, a friend introduced the same young man to me, whom I did not recognise until he remarked: “I have met Miss L—— before.” “Have you?” “Yes; one morning in ClevelandPaddocks.” He had drifted, like many other human wrecks, to the golden shores of Australia to fill a neglected grave. He received a regular allowance from home, which was soon gambled away. While it lasted he lived with gentlemen; when penniless, earned enough to keep body and soul together, anyhow, anywhere. Poor young man! he was one of many I heard of then and since who thought Australia a veritable “Tom Tiddler’s ground,” where picking up gold and silver only required the exertion of stooping for it. It certainly was picked up; but it required stalwart arms and steady perseverance to wield the “picks,” and bear other hard work as well as hard fare.
We had fine weather, so my second view of Wellington was under favourable auspices; the township already showed signs of progress—stores, an inn, court-house, and several pretty cottages were now on that side the river. Montefiores was just the same, being on part of the original Nanima estate, and still private property. My brother had purchased the hotel there and converted it into large stores, with a very convenient private house adjoining, fine garden, and orchard. The former owner had planted the best fruit trees procurable in Sydney; better peaches, figs, and nectarines I have never seen. The fences round were covered with climbing roses of various kinds; there was a large bed of violets and daisies just coming into flower. The vegetable garden was most prolific—cauliflowers so large as to require a boiler to cook them in;asparagus in great quantity, lettuces, onions, and in fact all vegetables in profusion. Harry supplied half the township if they would merely go for it; the same with fruit, and yet quantities were wasted. Many changes had taken place during my absence. The Rev. Mr. Watson had been advised to retire on his pension, and another clergyman appointed; a young man, with his wife, now carried on the work most zealously still in the old church, temporarily improved, as when the court-house was finished in Wellington, it was intended that service should be held there. My friends had left Nanima station, and now owned a steam mill property near the river, and close to a pretty little place recently built by Mr. Anthony, the clerk of petty sessions. Dr. Curtis had almost given up practice, and a young M.D. and his wife, just from England, lived in his cottage. Kind, genial Mr. Silva was the Crown commissioner at Mount Arthur. The late owner of my brother’s property had built a very nice house at the junction of the two rivers, appropriately called the “Meeting of the Waters”; unfortunately he did not live long to enjoy its many beauties. Gobolion was uninhabited, but the ground was being cultivated by a wealthy squatter who had purchased another place a few miles from Montefiores. During my visit we spent a day at the Holms, and also went to a dance there, which, as an illustration of what young people went through in those early times to attend such amusements, I will describe. We were to leave my brother’s house at about six o’clock inthe evening, to arrive at our destination in time to dress. One carriage contained three ladies, nurse, and infant, Mr. Henry driving; a gig and single buggy contained others, and several gentlemen were on horseback. All went on well for several miles, when flashes of lightning and distant thunder warned us of an approaching storm, which at that time of the year was very alarming. To make matters worse, we had to turn into a bush road, with dense underwood, and trees meeting overhead. A terrific peal of thunder and heavy rain frightened the horses, then darkness fell like a dense cloud over us, and we had to stop till the thunder became more distant, when some of the gentlemen dismounted and led the horses, guided only by the lightning, along the track. We could hear the “coo-ee” of the others who had taken a better road. After nearly two hours we found ourselves at the house, wet and half-dead with fright. We were the last to arrive, as the carriage, being large and heavy, could not get through the bush roads as did those with single horses. Our friends were almost afraid we had turned back, which my brother had wished us to do.
Mrs. G—— suggested that we should take off our crinolines at once. “There are only three hanging before the kitchen fire now, and by the time you have had some refreshment and dressed so far, they will be ready for you,” which they were. Not being strong, I felt “Let me lie here in peace”; but I was soon refreshed, and a little after nine o’clock was ready to laugh at our experiences in“going to a party.” We danced till the first beams of sunrise fell on a picture hanging on the drawing-room wall, when some one (I am sure it must have been a man) drew up the blinds. What a transformation! Pretty women looked worn and haggard, and the flowers sad, drooping, or dead. We did not want to see more, but at once retired to change ball-dresses for more suitable apparel. In an hour breakfast was ready, and after we started on a delightful ride home, none the worse for our dance at the Holms. We had other dances at Mount Arthur, and before I left also at “The Meeting of the Waters.” I paid a visit to “The Mill Cottage” and nearly finished my career. I went for a ride on Mrs. Anthony’s horse, a very spirited animal, which threw me. My companion, Dr. Bohme, a German, living in the neighbourhood, was terribly alarmed, till my laughing at the concern he expressed so strangely, in German and broken English, convinced him I was not seriously hurt. For some days I was not able to move without dreadful pain. My friends were greatly troubled, as we were all going to a dance at “The Meeting of the Waters,” where my brother and his family were to meet us. “What shall we say about you to your brother? I dare not tell him you went out on ‘Parson,’ as he told me on no account to let you ride.” “I will go, and should I be unable to dance, must plead headache.” What torture I went through to get ready! However, the drive into Wellington did me good, and when I toldDr. Costerton “how stiff I felt,” he advised, “Have this dance with me, and you will be all right.” Before the evening was over all pain had left me, and my brother did not hear of my unfortunate fall until years after.
Dubbo, a small township farther down the river, was increasing in size and population. When we first went to the district it was not much larger than Montefiores, but had made great progress, and was fast becoming an important place. It is not so picturesque as Wellington, and much hotter.
Before gold was discovered, living in the Dubbo district must have been very trying. A lady living some distance below Dubbo told me they had to keep their buggy and harness in a pit to prevent the extreme heat from cracking them terribly. Butter could not be made, and meat had to be cooked soon after the animal was killed. Vegetables and grass in the dry seasons were not to be had. This state of things I could easily realise, as one summer, while in Wellington, butter could not be had. That was an exceptionally hot year throughout Australia, culminating in the long-to-be-remembered “Black Thursday,” which was almost beyond description. People died from the terrible heat, birds fell from the trees dead, and all vegetation was scorched up, while bush fires added to the misery. With us it ended in an awful thunderstorm, which cleared the air, and we were able to breathe freely again.
As the country was opened up by clearing away the trees and undergrowth, the climate became cooler. During my residence in Wellington and many wanderings through dense scrub and bush roads, I never saw a snake, but lizards and iguanas of all sizes; some were three feet in length, like young crocodiles. Kangaroos we saw at a distance; I knew what they were like, having seen some at the Zoological Gardens in the Regent’s Park. I had also seen the dingo—the native dog of Australia—in England, as my father had a puppy given to him by a friend from Sydney, which, when full grown, was a nuisance to the neighbourhood.
The wallaby makes a pretty outdoor pet, and some people like the opossum and native bear. The birds are very beautiful,—the Blue Mountain and Lowrie parrots, Regent bird, brilliant scarlet and green king parrot, leadbeater, and snow-white cockatoos. The galahs, with their delicate gray and rose-pink plumage, are the prettiest parrots, and become splendid talkers; the tiny budgeric gar, sometimes called the shell parrot; honeysuckers, with yellow eyes, like animated jewels; the butcher bird, crow, eagle, lyre bird, and the kookaburra, or laughing jackass, are well known. The last-named are very useful, as they are destroyers of snakes. A gentleman, travelling along a lonely mountain road, heard this bird’s extraordinary Ha! ha! ha! following him for some distance, until he came close to water and rocky ground, where he saw a large snake basking in the sun. Inan instant “Jack” swooped down, caught the reptile by the back of the head, flew with it to a great height and dropped it on the rock, then flew down and dashed it against the stones till it was quite dead. These birds are met with all over the country, and are still seen close to Sydney. Flying foxes, a species of bat, are most destructive to fruit, knocking it off the trees and biting pieces out of the ripest. Some writers have stated the Australian birds do not sing. This is a mistake; they have not a continuous song like many of the English birds, such as the lark and thrush, but they have some very sweet notes, especially the bellbird, young magpies, and many others, and enliven the bush with their songs. English sparrows are very numerous everywhere in the colonies, and are surely the greediest, and most impudent birds. My verandah flowers in Sydney were nearly ruined by them; they would eat begonias and fuchsias while I was almost within reach of them.
My stay in the country had quite restored me to health, and hearing from a friend in Maitland of another appointment in the Hunter River district, arranged to take it, and left in the autumn for Morpeth, once more braving the perils and discomforts of the road to Bathurst by coach. During a few days’ stay in that town, now quite an important place, I went with a friend to witness the ceremony of consecrating the new Roman Catholic Church. The grand service, with many priests in gorgeous vestments, girls in bridal-like confirmation dresses, acolytes, incense, music, and chanted prayers, all reminded me of earlychildhood when I went with my maternal grandmother to her church in Spanish Place, London. After a short visit to my friends in Cumberland Street, Sydney, and promising to spend part of my Christmas holidays with them, I was again on the wing.
I hadto leave by the steamer from the A. S. N. Company’s wharf at night, and so missed seeing anything of the route until we arrived at Newcastle, when I went on deck, anxious to get a view of the Hunter River. As I expected, the scenery was totally different in character from that of the Western district,—flat, but very pretty with very luxuriant vegetation; many farms with fine pasture lands and orchards. The vineyards too were a new feature to me. We stopped at several places to land passengers, mails, and cargo, then proceeded to Morpeth, where my journey ended, and in a short time I reached my future home, which was at the house of Mr. Edward Close.
The trying ordeal of introducing myself to perfect strangers, being my first experience of this position, was anything but pleasant. The house was large, standing in extensive paddocks, and surrounded by flower garden, shrubbery, and orchard. The members of the household were the owner, a retired military man in his seventieth year, his eldest son, wife, andtheir two little girls, Rosie and Susie. Rosie and Susie, with the daughter of a friend near, were to be my pupils.
We were close to the Bishop of Newcastle’s residence and the church; for walks we had no need to go beyond our own grounds. Morpeth was not pretty, merely one long street with few buildings of any size; the bishop’s house and Mr. Edward Close’s were the only two of any importance in the place at the time I write of. The bishop living so near was a great advantage, as he generally preached at our church on Sunday evenings. Our clergyman was very wearying to listen to, and my little pupils were terribly tried by his long sermons. Strange to say, almost invariably the poorest preachers preach the longest sermons. My dear little girls on such occasions showed their difference in temperament. Susie would whisper very audibly, “When will Mr. W—— stop? I am so tired;” while Rosie with her earnest eyes listened attentively. I once asked her what the sermon was about. “I don’t know, Miss L——, but thought it must be good, as it is from the Bible.”
We lived a quiet uneventful life at Morpeth House. Mr. Edward Close senior was without exception the most Christian-like man I ever knew; he had lived in the district for years, and the only fault that could be found in him during a long career was, “He was too good, too lenient to the faults of others.” At the time I write of he had given up the management of his estate to his eldest son, spendinghis mornings in his flower garden, and after dinner reading in his study. Mrs. Edward Close junior had been his ward, knowing no other father, as she once told me, and certainly she was devotedly attached to him. Her husband was a fine-looking man and enthusiastic volunteer, looking in his uniform every inch a soldier. Both husband and wife were Australians.
Our evenings were spent in a way in every respect congenial to my taste; Mr. Edward Close senior for years had read aloud to those in the house who wished to listen. Mrs. Close and I with our work were always willing to pass our time thus. The other day, in looking over a diary kept in that year, I found a list of the books he read, amongst them being Lord Dufferin’sLetters from High Latitudes, Farrar’sJulian Home,The Tent and the Caravan,The Crescent and the Cross,Life of Kitto, andLife of the Duke of Wellington, the last was most interesting, as the reader had been an actor in many of the scenes described, and in answer to our questions would place the book aside, and fight his battles over again; the kind old face would then light up and the clear eyes flash at the recollection of the days of his youth. Once I remarked, “I cannot understand how you, Mr. Close, could have ever wished to kill, when even the sport of shooting is distasteful to you.” “I cannot understand myself now; but when once the word of command is given, discipline and duty led us on, and afterwards excitement made the animal nature forget all else but the desire to conquer. After the battle to mewas always terrible, and I used to think, ‘I can never fight again.’ Yet I have always felt I could not have been an onlooker only. War is a terrible necessity; but as long as the world lasts inevitable. When I read the accounts of the Indian Mutiny, and heard from the lips of those who witnessed them its horrors, I felt it was indeed so.” This I could understand, remembering one amongst the many tragedies. A girl I knew married a young officer visiting Sydney, and soon afterwards left for India. They were at Meerut with his regiment when the mutiny broke out, and tried to escape by the river; they were seen from the shore and pursued. As all hope of getting away from their pursuers was gone, he whispered a few words to his young wife, to which she evidently agreed; then clasping his wife in his arms, jumped into the river, and they were saved from the fate of many which they had witnessed.
When Sir John and Lady Young paid their first visit to the Hunter River district, they held a reception and a grand review of the volunteers. We went of course. Maitland wasen fêtewith carriages of all description, full of gaily-dressed ladies, and numbers of equestrians of both sexes. Flags, triumphal arches, and our military made up quite an imposing spectacle. Mr. Close sent her ladyship a basket of fruit, amongst it the largest loquats I ever saw, so different from the usual specimens to be purchased now; they were as large as hens’ eggs, with very few seeds. Of late this fruit has been very much neglected; a greatpity, as when properly cultivated it is very delicious, and coming at a season when we have so little fruit, is a great boon. I have never seen it so fine anywhere as at Morpeth House, and excepting there have not tasted bananas ripened on the trees, and by comparison those brought from Queensland and Fiji are not so delicate in flavour.
Early in the spring I went with my pupils to visit a friend of the family at Newcastle. It was a very pleasant change, especially as Morpeth House was being painted, which had affected my health, and was really the cause of our going. The kind old gentleman having noticed my pale face and constant headache, asked Mr. Bolton to take us for a week or two. It was a contrast to Morpeth—the town built on a rocky height, and the streets a series of ascents. We were on one of the highest points, so we had an excellent view of the glorious ocean with its restless waves. We often wandered about the beach gathering shells and seaweed.
One pet at Mr. Bolton’s caused much amusement, an Australian “native companion,” a species of crane; a pretty tame bird with shaded gray feathers and graceful neck. It would run races with the children’s arms round its neck, up and down the garden paths, standing patiently by my side when they were tired, and waiting for another start.
Newcastle was a busy place then. What must it be after more than a quarter of a century’s progress I can onlygather from the newspapers, never having been there since, except in passing from the steamer to the railway station. At Christmas, with Mrs. Close and the children, I went to Sydney. What a journey! A crowded steamer with only one saloon for the ladies and children; and every one was ill but the stewardess and myself. The children were crying, and even Mrs. Close was indifferent to her baby’s wailings. That night’s experience proved that nothing could make me suffer frommal de mer. How glad we were to get onterra firmaonce more. Mrs. Close left me at my friend’s house in Cumberland Street. What a home it was! The dear, gentle mother and her kind and pretty daughters always ready to welcome their friends, especially those without a home. I have often listened to that mother’s conversation, and thought how innocent and unworldly she was. She had married young, and was not a great reader, so that her mind was purity itself. Until her husband’s death, she had never had to think for herself, and fortunately her eldest daughter, a girl of twenty, had to a great extent taken the husband’s place, sparing her mother business worries. In her widow’s dress she looked so pretty and placid, sitting in her usual place by the large dining-room window looking over the harbour. Always ready to sympathise with the joys or sorrows of others, she now warmly welcomed me. Ah me! that dear old home is now broken up, that good mother and true friend “beyond the stars.” Her children have homes of their own, only the eldestremaining unmarried; she, without the duties of a home, takes upon herself those of many. Truly good and charitable, she has been a “ministering angel” to many of those “we have with us always,” and will be able to meet her beloved parents some day without a pang of regret.
In town Mrs. Close had asked me to call on her at Campbell’s wharf, where she was staying with a connection of her husband’s; so one afternoon I called. She was out, but Mr. John received me, and, before I could explain the reason of my visit, began, “Well, young lady, what do you want a subscription for?” I looked astonished, and he continued, “Do you know you are the third that has asked me for help to-day.” “But I don’t want anything.” “Not want anything?” in a surprised tone. “Well, then, you are very unlike my usual young lady visitors, for they generally want something for a church, chapel, school, poor people, or help of some kind. I have neither wife nor children, so am expected to provide for other men’s.” When he heard my errand he laughed, and said, “You are certain you do not want anything?” “Yes, quite certain, Mr. John.” As I would not wait for Mrs. Close’s return, he escorted me to the gate. This gentleman was the eldest of three brothers, old and wealthy colonists, pillars of the Church of England, and true philanthropists, highly respected and honourable men. The one I have alluded to spent a fortune in doing good, and left a large sum to found a church in one of the Pacific Islands. He and his brothers assisted in forming abishopric in the Southern district. They have all gone now to reap an eternal reward for good work done here, leaving an honoured name to their descendants.
Soon after our return to Morpeth, the sad news of our beloved Queen’s loss, by the death of Prince Albert, reached us. A sad loss to her, her family, and the nation of which we were part. Sympathy was sincere, and in most homes it was felt almost as a family bereavement. Mr. Edward Close senior was so much affected as to be almost unable to read the usual daily prayer for the Royal family.
We had incessant rain for some time after our return to Morpeth, and fears of floods were entertained, the district lying low, and most of the farms near the banks of the river. One night, hearing the firing of guns and people running about, I knew these fears were realised, and in the morning heard that Mr. Edward Close junior with our men had been rescuing persons from the roofs of houses and tree tops. It was dangerous work, as often the boats would be nearly stove in by striking against the buildings, fences, and tree stumps, or nearly upset by floating debris. What a desolate scene it was, as viewed from our higher ground, now full of stock rescued from the farms! Only the chimneys of houses and the tops of high trees to mark where a few weeks ago stood comfortable homes, orchards, and gardens. Poor people, what places to return to when the water subsided; furniture and clothing soddened with wet and mud; stock drowned and crops washed away! Iremarked to Mr. Edward Close senior, “They will never live in those places again.” “Yes, Miss L——, in a few weeks you will see them quite comfortable again.” Which was the case, for in less than two months, owing to the wonderful power of the Southern sun, fresh crops were above the ground, the wooden houses fresh whitewashed, and the soil richer and more productive than ever, owing to the rich soil deposited. I went for a short visit to Maitland at this time, and from Government Cottage on the hill saw more of the effects of the flood than at Morpeth. Dead stock, produce, furniture, and whole stacks of hay floated down the stream. Yet Mr. Day said, “Floods in the Hunter were nothing to those in other districts, where many lives would be sacrificed ere aid could be obtained.”
Aftertwelve months’ residence in Morpeth I left for another visit to Penrith, by this time a much busier place, as the then railway terminus for the Western district. The bridge over the Nepean River was finished, so we could cross without that extremely disagreeable ferry. We spent a few weeks in the mountains, visiting Govett’s Leap, the waterfalls, and other well-known spots, while others we explored on our own account. How lovely it all was! What complete solitude in the gullies and mountain paths! The mountains might well be named “Blue,” for at times they were intensely so. One sunset there was most beautiful. We had spent the afternoon collecting ferns, waratahs, and mountain moss, heedless of time, when a heavy storm came on. Taking shelter under some rocks, we watched the sun emerging from the rain-clouds; in an instant every peak was touched with golden tints, and every valley filled by innumerable rainbows; gradually golden tints faded into purple, clouds broke into silver turrets, and along the horizon was a sea of palest green. My companion whispered, “Can heaven be morebeautiful?” We could not so conceive it. The beauty of the scene seemed to make the question “Is there a God?” impossible. If this cannot reach the poorest soul, what can? We often took a drive to “St. Mary’s,” quite an English village in appearance then, with its pretty church and “silent dead” around it. Not silent, for the inscriptions over these last homes are often “sermons in stones.” One always attracted me. It was to the memory of the son of a well-known English house, who, travelling in search of health, gave up the quest here, and died suddenly at the little village inn unknown, in this lonely far-away land. Nurtured in luxury, and favoured with exceptional advantages, he would seem to some safe from common dangers. “The Universal Reaper” says no. This record proves in few words how vain are man’s efforts. But his mother could not have desired a fairer resting-place for her child than here, amidst the humbler graves covered with green turf and shaded by many trees, and under, at night, the emblem of that son’s salvation, “The Southern Cross.”
Now we had a bridge over the Nepean, Mrs. Richard would often suggest drives to various farms on or near Emu Plains. She delighted in paying visits to the farmers’ wives, some of whom had known her in childhood, and would sit and listen with interest to the various details of “how the brindle cow had another calf,” or “when another pig would be killed,” or “the trouble these new-fangled fowls were, not being good mothers, youknow,” until we, who were sitting in the waggonette, felt very tired and hot, wishing the good woman to stop this no doubt all-important subject to her. Sometimes our selfish impatience was punished by the kindly offer of “milk and seedcake,” or “any flowers and fruit we could gather.”
The main street of Penrith was not much altered; the railway station not being in it, the post-office was still at a general shop, but the letters were delivered through a window at the end of the verandah, which was used only for that purpose,—a much better plan than that adopted in this English village where I am now staying, twenty-seven years later, where they are delivered at a counter covered with the usual goods of a country store, whence also telegrams are sent, letters registered, and money orders issued, so that inquisitive persons standing near can study their neighbours’ business.
The volunteer movement had fired the ambition of the young men of this district to become soldiers. The son of a captain in the army was the head of “our regiment,” Mr. Richard the lieutenant. A grand volunteer ball was to be held in the hall, and several visitors from Sydney were expected. The stores were very busy, and nothing but the army ball was talked of. It was a most successful affair; not over select certainly, the captain’s wife dancing with one of his men, their butcher’s son, much to her husband’s amusement, who whispered, “Look at my wife; she has not the vaguest idea who her partner is; the uniform doesit, you know.” I discovered this later in the evening, when Captain James introduced a partner to me; the face was familiar, and during the first figure of the quadrille I wondered where I had seen it. He did not speak, but danced solemnly; but while waiting for the next figure, he called me “Miss,” and appeared to know me, yet his style of dancing proved he was not accustomed to ladies as partners, for he would put his arm round my waist instead of taking hands. At last I discovered who he was, when, thinking to pay me a compliment, he alluded to my feet. Yes, he had served me with a pair of shoes a few days before. Captain James declared he and Mrs. Richard’s brother knew the instant I found this out by my manner to the poor young man. They were wrong, for I did my best to place him at his ease by talking about the district. It was a very pretty scene; nearly all the men in uniform, and several very pretty girls. The room was gaily decorated with flags. An excellent supper was provided by the ladies of the district, and we left about two o’clock; but the dancing continued till daylight. Being the first affair of the kind, it served as a topic of conversation for months, and the local belles voted picnics and tea-meetings slow by comparison.
Again I wended my way to Sydney, to live with a friend who was a great invalid, and undertake the management of the house and education of her two children. We lived at Surrey Hills, close to the principal nursery garden in Sydney, which was a very extensive property owned by aman who came to the colony with Captain Wilson, R.A., grandfather of my brother’s wife. The land, I think, was a grant from Government; it was a sandy swamp, but eminently fitted for the use it was put to; beautiful flowers and fine vegetables were grown at little outlay. At the time of my brother’s marriage the owner of this extensive property was becoming wealthy, and now it is worth many thousands. Much of it has been built upon. Another very wealthy family in Sydney owe their first step to riches to a similar source, their father having gone to the colony as secretary to my sister-in-law’s grandfather, and acquired land. Captain Wilson only left his children an honourable name; but as I have previously remarked as a curious fact, the large grants of land made to, or large areas purchased for a trifle by the early colonists, especially military or naval men, are not owned by their descendants. The land, apparently of little value, was sold by them to more business-like and far-seeing men; sometimes almost given away.
Afterwards we left Surrey Hills for a house in town near to my first home in the colony, and by doing so formed a close friendship with a family in the neighbourhood; the head of that family was a clever professional man, educated in England, who arrived in the colony when such were few, and by ability and perseverance attained the position he still so ably and honourably fills. A true Englishman of the old school, straight in word and deed, kind and generous—in fact, an example in every relation of life. If we had suchmen in our colonial parliaments, how very differently they would be conducted, and the country governed; but his professional and home duties during his early career occupied the whole of his time, and now the state of political life is such that good and honourable men often decline to enter the arena; however, he uses his influence and talent in other channels for the benefit of his adopted country.
When the volunteer movement commenced, he became captain of one of the Sydney corps, entering into the various duties of the position with his usual energy. To advance this patriotic movement he sacrificed many precious evenings that otherwise would have been spent with his family or in his well-stocked library. Of his wife it is impossible to speak too highly; the best of mothers, sisters, and friends, she and her sister are now the only two left near my own age of the intimate friends of the “days that are no more.” Through these friends my life in Elizabeth Street was passed in much happiness; their home was a delightful one, well arranged, and as free from care as is possible; their children were good and beautiful. In their carriage I had many drives round Botany and Long Bays, Randwick, Waverley, Five Dock, Burwood, and Homebush, thus gaining knowledge of the environs of Sydney. Mrs. Dawson was one who really deserved a carriage; no one ever saw her out driving alone. It was one of her greatest pleasures to take those with her who were without such a luxury, just as it was a pleasure to her husband to lendbooks from his library, or to welcome to his home those who were not so well provided with this world’s goods. When I hear people complain, “The world is very selfish,” I think of such as these and others I have known in the limited sphere of colonial life, and believe Charles Mackay is right in saying, “The world is what we make it.”
We went for a change to Manly Beach this summer staying at the Lagoon, a pretty little place on the ocean side. Thallie and I did not find fault with the rooms being small, nor did we feel the want of piano, or books, as we lived as much as we could out of doors, exploring rocks, beach, and bush. Here were fairy nooks, silent beaches, all unknown to the public, for Manly was not, as at present, a fashionable watering-place, or inhabited by wealthy citizens. Two steamers were quite sufficient for passenger traffic except on holidays. Lodging-houses, two or three hotels, and small shops constituted “our village.” The view of the ocean outside of the North Head is very fine. I used to sit on the beach, watching the white-winged ships “come and go,” earnestly wishing I could sail away to my “ain countrie,” that was hallowed by youthful recollections into sacred ground, where the great and noble lived and died. I am in that land now, learning over again that anticipation is often illusive. Unfortunately we have had an unusually rainy season; this, with fog, snow, and dull skies, by comparison with our sunny, clear Australian weather, has considerably damped my patriotic ardour, and has made mefeel sometimes that before another winter I will go, like the swallows, to a more genial clime. To compare England with the Golden South would be folly; the two countries are so utterly unlike. In the cities of one age has darkened, and progress improved and added to the massive constructions of a wealthy nation’s palaces, churches, and homes. The country too in summer is like a well-kept farm or garden, rather too well kept, as where we live nearly every acre is private property, nothing but the roads that you may walk on. Only the other day a friend went (into what we call a paddock) to gather some wildflowers, when she was ordered off by a man, and the flowers she had picked by the public roadside taken from her. Thousands of acres covered with fern, heath, and firs are kept to give pleasure only to the few. I cannot understand this, as in Australia, except in grounds immediately surrounding the houses or in a state of cultivation, few persons object to sharing the beauties of nature with their kind. This closing up of all the best features of English country spoils its charm, beautiful as it is, when one can only view it by peeping through hedges or barred gates. Who will wonder if I prefer the country where all who possess land are willing to share the pleasures of it with others? How often have we walked through pleasant grassy slopes instead of keeping the dusty highway, resting when tired under the trees’ shade; if riding or driving, taking down the slip-rails to avail ourselves of shady spots, and this through the property of people we did not even know.One old friend of ours at Burwood allows football and cricket-matches to be played on his grounds without a murmur of disapproval. This is another digression for which I must beg my readers’ pardon—another wandering from the subject to many years later. Let me see what event happened at this period. A new cricket ground was opened on what was only a few years ago sandhill and swamp; the roads to it were, and are still, through that terrible enemy of Sydney housekeepers, red dust and sand. A visit to the ground (Albert) was a treat indeed, as the relatives and friends of the knights of the “Willow” could also enjoy their Saturday afternoons and holidays watching from the grand stand, or seated on the grassy terraces, the prowess and skill of the players. Not being a judge of the game, or specially interested in any of the players, one visit was sufficient for me at that time. When I saw the place again, shrubs and trees surrounded it. My English readers know how well our colonial youths play their favourite game, having witnessed it on many a well-fought field. In this as well as in all outdoor sports they are proficient, and as time rolls on, year after year will bring them more to the front intellectually. Steam now bridges the ocean. During the few weeks spent on board our floating hotels on their way to the centre of the empire and of intellectual culture they become more cosmopolitan in their views every day. I know this to be the case, as last year we experienced it on the P. and O. boat. We had Englishmen returning from a tour inthe colonies, Americans, a judge from India, a Chinese lieutenant, two governors from English colonies, and some members of the aristocracy, with a few colonials who had not been beyond their own land. Before we left the steamer I could see what an impression had been made upon our young people.