I will name a few Australians who in earlier days made their mark with fewer advantages, compared with those of the present generation—Wentworth, Dalley, Cowper, Windeyer, Stephen, Kendall, Macarthur, Hamilton, Hume, and Kemmis; then Martin, Dowling, and others, who, though not born in, were educated in the colonies, and this at a time when it took months instead of weeks to learn what was going on beyond the waves of the broad Pacific. Every young man who can afford it would benefit by spending some time in the older parts of the world before he settles down, that his views may be enlarged by learning what class of men there are to compete with. It may be the want of such extended competition that makes so many rest content in Australia, where it is comparatively small. Much has been done during the last twenty years to increase the number of our good men; and when some of our present political charlatans, only greedy for place, patronage, and pay, die out, I hope they will work with voice and pen for the real benefit of the country. Our girls must not be forgotten; but so many have been chosen by Englishmen, and transplanted into English homes, that their qualities are betterknown. That they are equal in accomplishments, love of literature, personal appearance, and all that makes woman the light of home to their English sisters, I can truthfully state, having seen three generations of them in their homes.
Oncemore I was meditating another flight into the country. My friend had recovered, and was able to resume the care of her house and family. Sydney never agreed with me, and I so much preferred a country life. Fortunately hearing of an engagement in a family where I knew I should be happy, I bade my friends farewell, and thought, “The world is all before me where to choose; my peace of rest with Providence my guide.” This journey of two hundred miles was begun under better auspices, travelling by train to Penrith, remaining a night with my friends there, who saw me the next morning comfortably seated in a good coach drawn by fine horses, a turn-out for the road very different from that I had hitherto known. The roads were in much better condition, and the inn accommodation improved; but before we arrived at Bowenfels, my anticipation of an uneventful journey was dispelled, as our respectable vehicle was changed for a wreck of the old school, harness tied with rope, horses not well broken in. The usual tomahawk and pieces of spare rope handed in, recalled my first journey’s experiences. As I expected,at every bit of rising ground the horses jibbed, the driver requesting the passengers—a lady, a lame man, and myself—to get out. We did so, and then went on again a few miles, with the same result, at least the jibbing, as the driver got down to lead the horses this time. But as the horses would not move, the driver called to the man on the box, “Hit the nearest to you with your crutch.” He obeyed;—result, it kicked furiously. “Jump out,” screamed the man, which we did at once. Men, coach, and horses then disappeared. My companion showing signs of hysterics, I scolded her, and suggested running down the hill to see what had happened, dreading to look when we neared the spot where the coach stood. Fortunately another hill had stopped the horses, and the man had kept his hold of the reins. The driver’s left arm was broken and one of the shafts, so we had to remain while the poor fellow went off the road to a shepherd’s hut for assistance. Two men came, made a sling for the driver’s arm, tied the shaft together with some of the rope, and hammered at the wheels. It was a terribly anxious time, as the driver asked us to watch the wheels in case they came off. However, at last we arrived at the stage two hours behind time; the shaft was repaired, and another driver got; but he being a stranger, the disabled man had to go as far as Bowenfels. How earnestly I wished this pretty spot had been my destination, being completely worn out with fatigue and fright. Fresh passengers started with us—a young couple belonging to avariété troupeat Mudgee, whose merry chatter and too loudlyexpressed astonishment at Australian travel amused me. They were only just out from California, and described their experiences most graphically, as no doubt they would those of the present trip, as well as that we had just undergone, for my companion related the whole of it. I was rejoicing at leaving them ten miles the Sydney side of Mudgee, it having been arranged for Mr. Charles to send a buggy to meet me at a little inn near the boundary of his estate. The mailman, however, said he was afraid our being two hours late would prevent this; but as we drove into the inn yard I saw the neat single buggy and man waiting. Now thankfully I bid my travelling companions farewell, and sat too worn out to see anything as we drove over grass and road to Broom. My last experience of coach travelling in Australia had ended that night, leaving me stiff and bruised for days. As I write this the sweet face of Mrs. Charles and her cordial welcome is before me, as, bewildered by the lighted hall, she took me by the hand and led me to my room, told me a warm bath was ready, and she would send me in some tea. “You are tired, I can see.” “Yes, and sore; look at my arm,” which was bruised with the iron of the mail-coach. However the bath, delicate meal of chicken, and that panacea for nervous troubles, tea, with some camphorated eau-de-Cologne, soon soothed me to sleep, which lasted till late the next morning. When we had become friends, Mrs. Charles told me I looked such a frail, delicate creature that night, she felt inclined to take me in her arms and carry me to my room. Infact, she had told her husband and three of his brothers this when she returned to the drawing-room, adding, “She is nearly killed with travelling in the horrid coach; her arms are black with bruises. When will they have good coaches in Australia, I wonder?”
My new surroundings were quite different from any I had yet experienced either in town or country. I was now on a sheep station, managed very different from Nanima, and of much less extent, cleared and cultivated. The house was an old one, partly surrounded by the shrubbery of laurustines, lilacs, spiræa, and other flowering shrubs. At one end of the verandah was a trellis of Isabella grape, covering many feet to an enclosure at the back. The orchard was across a paddock in the front, and growing close to the verandah at the back was a large orange tree, a great rarity in the district. The hills in front, and the river at their feet, with lands consisting of farms under cultivation, and so much land cleared belonging to Broom, reminded me of places seen in England. We were several miles from Mudgee, the road to which, through Burra estate, owned by Mr. Charles’s brother, was a very pretty drive. Much of it was tenanted by farmers, and at intervals groups of wattle, kurrajong, willows, native apple, and other trees made charming vistas, with the hills as background. I never tired of the drive to church on Sunday or of shopping and paying visits during the week, particularly as our carriage and pair of ponies were equal to any in Sydney.
Mudgee twenty-five years ago was a very good town,with churches, banks, stores, a School of Arts or Mechanics’ Institute, and pretty cottages; I certainly was surprised on my first visit to it. It was situated two hundred miles from Sydney, over mountain roads in coaches such as I have described, and only drays to bring everything from, and wool and produce to, the city. No doubt, as several wealthy families had settled and made homes in the immediate neighbourhood, their presence tended to the somewhat rapid progress of this place. One family of three brothers, each on separate properties, and several members of the family I was with had properties in the district: these gentlemen all bearing the same name, I had a difficulty in distinguishing brothers from cousins.
Burra House had been Mr. Charles’s father’s first homestead in the district, a very unpretentious bush house, now to be replaced by the mansion his eldest son was building. When completed this was the largest private residence near the town. Here he entertained the governor, the bishop, and other distinguished visitors. I think his eldest son now resides there, with the railway nearly “at his gates,” daily news from Sydney, and friends able to run down for a few hours. But is it so completely country life there now, with its characteristic freedom from restraint, dress, and worry? When I remember Mudgee, we could dress comfortably, drive a cart, and ride very rough-looking horses; and as others did likewise, no unfavourable comments could be made.
Our household consisted of Mr. Charles, his young wife,her two children, and two girls from a neighbouring estate to be educated with Mr. Charles’s elder daughter. We seldom left Broom for exercise, as the estate consisted of many acres, the river running through it, on the opposite side of which were paddocks under cultivation. We had a rabbit warren near, and many charming spots to visit on our side of the river; communication with the other, when I first went there, was too risky for my nerves. A fallen tree did not represent a bridge to me. Twice I attempted it, and had ignominiously to sit down in the middle and allow my pupils to lead me over, so I determined to wait until a proper crossing-place was made for sheep-washing.
Our favourite walk was to a place I named “The Fairy Dell,” where we often sat and watched “Bunny” at work and play. He has worked to some purpose now in Australia, clearing all before him. How little the man who first introduced the rodents thought what the result would be, or how many thousands it would cost the Government and squatters to rid the country of such pests! Not long after I left Broom, Mr. Charles had his destroyed by burning them out of their holes. Hares will also become a nuisance if not got rid of before making their way into the interior of the country, where they can breed unmolested.
How many acclimatised prolific seed-bearing plants too have become as bad, if not worse than those indigenous to the soil. Geraniums are grown as hedges, pelargoniums grow three or four feet high in a couple of years; clumps of heliotrope, gardenias, fuchsias, and Daphne thrivein the open air and become large shrubs with thick stems; and such plants as the sweet-briar will soon spread over uncultivated ground in the same ratio. I have seen acres covered by it, with roots so embedded that it required a team of bullocks to drag them out. Some early settler no doubt rejoiced in having the sweet perfumed briar near his bush home to remind him of the shady lanes of his native land. I never passed a hedge of it in Parramatta without in imagination seeing a village near St. Osyth Priory in Essex, where we passed many a summer’s day gathering the crimson berries for necklaces to carry back to our London home, and felt just as Australians will feel some day when they see the flowers of their bright land blooming in hothouses in England. Childhood and youth cast their glamour over the past. All is bright and fair in “Wonderland” which the trail of the serpent has not touched. As I forgot in Parramatta rain, fog, and gray-leaden skies, so will they forget hot winds and droughts.
Life on such a sheep station as Broom was certainly an ideal one; we enjoyed all the freedom of the country, with the advantages of being near such a town as Mudgee and within reach of congenial society. As usual, I was fortunate in this respect, meeting with a lady there, the wife of a bank manager just from England, a delightful clever woman—musical, well read, and well travelled. Her conversation was like a fresh breeze from another world, a perfect revelation to me. At Broom too we had Mr. Charles’s younger brother staying for months; hewas a cosmopolitan, had studied at Cambridge, and passed as a barrister in Sydney, but was compelled through delicate health to live in the country, and assisted in managing the out-station. He was somewhat of a dilettante, played the cornet a little, painted a little, sang a little, and read a great deal. His rooms were in a cottage across the courtyard, and contained a curious collection of things bought during his travels, amongst them part of an Egyptian mummy. Whoever the said mummy was in the flesh, she would have been horrified at being kept in a large box, in which music, books, paints, and numbers of other articles were stowed away to clear the room. Mrs. Charles and I often amused ourselves examining these treasures, and once when the owner was absent, determined to tidy his two rooms, expecting thanks for the result of our exercising of our organ of order, in bookcase, boxes, and drawers presenting so different an aspect. But no; the ungrateful man only grumbled, saying, “It will take a week before I can find anything; I prefer my things mixed in a drawer or box, for then I am sure to find them.” He was very fond of pets. One he waited on for a long time. Out shooting on the mountains he discovered an eagle’s nest with eggs in it, so calculating the time, went some weeks after, and watching the parent-bird fly away, secured an eaglet, which grew to be a splendid bird. Poor “Jupiter!” how we pitied it; chained to a post in the grounds, he looked terribly melancholy. At last, to our delight, he broke his chain and flew upwards; but nothaving full command of his enormous wings, only went as far as the roof of the house, and with the assistance of the men was recaptured. “Mulla,” my weekly pupils’ home, was a relic of the past. It was one of the earliest bush houses, built substantially in the same style as I see on these Hampshire roads—bare-looking, with high small windows, narrow doorways, and without verandahs. Mulla had one, but it was an addition since its building; the garden in front too resembled those in this neighbourhood. The owners of the property were natives of the colony, kind and hospitable; I stayed there sometimes, occupying a quaint outside room. The elder girls were excellent housekeepers, good daughters, and sisters, all musical, and fond of reading, “my two girls” especially so. The younger has since spent some time in India, and if the promise of her girlhood is fulfilled, I am certain she has appreciated the contrast with her quiet early home.
WhenChristmas drew nigh, my brother drove over from Wellington to take me back with him for my holidays. We had a very pleasant journey back through Gulgong, passing on our way Messrs. Rouse’s properties, Guntawang, Biragambil, and Beaudesert; all fine estates of these early settlers in the district. Gulgong is now a thriving “golden township,” with church, public school, and its own newspaper, and now, no doubt, a very different hotel from the one we stayed at on this occasion. It was during an election, and therefore full of “free and independents.” My sleeping apartment was near a general room, and nearly all night one man would give noisy utterance to his ideas on the capacities of various candidates, interspersed with allusions to his family affairs; his remarks were very personal, occasionally touching upon the private life of the candidate he opposed. At last, wearied with the incessant talking, I fell asleep, to be roused by the undertones of others who disagreed with the chief orator, a man who ought to be in parliament now, as the talents he possessed resemble those we have so many of in our present Legislative Assembly. I have never hearda debate, or rather wrangle there, but have read them, and had a great many described. As this night’s experience at Gulgong, nearly a quarter of a century ago, returns to my mind, I pity quiet and sensible men who have to listen to such balderdash.
The town of Wellington was improving; court-house, hospital, stores, and cottages were in course of erection, and Montefiores only a suburb.
The Mill Cottage and Bulla I visited, and saw how trees, vines, and shrubs had grown. The same old friends were there, but not for long; and my eyes rested on the well-known spots for the last time, as sixteen years passed ere I saw the district again, strangers sitting beside the hearths, and wandering through the bush, where the friends of my youth had their homes. “Some had gone to lands far distant,” others to “The Silent Land.”
We had a pleasant journey back to Broom through bush lands, past Mitchell’s Creek, arriving at my home in time for tea. It was a great drawback my being such a nervous horsewoman, as I lost many opportunities of seeing such country as vehicles could not travel through. It was very tantalising to watch young people starting off for long rides. Australians of both sexes are veritable centaurs. Fearless and graceful riders, they do not care for walking, and will spend an hour in running a horse in, to ride on an errand they could have gone in less time on foot. Girls brought up in the country will ride any kind of horse over the roughest country. When I first went to Wellington Ihave watched them leaving the town, their horses covered with parcels, and often with a child in front of them. One girl “down the river” wanted to take a small shoe trunk before her. The horses are often only partially broken in, and back and shy frequently, but these young people stick on. I suppose our horses are good, as the Indian market is partly supplied from Australia. They are not equal in appearance to the English horses; this struck me when in the west end of London; even the cab and omnibus horses look better than ours.
The busy time for our gentlemen was approaching. Yards for drafting the sheep had to be made, so Mrs. Charles suggested that we, with some of the girls from Mulla, should picnic at the place over the river where they were working. About eleven we started with the provisions for lunch, which we were to cook at the place of meeting,—chops, steaks, ham, ingredients for pancakes, with some cold provisions, which Mr. James suggested, as he thought “we might burn or otherwise fail in our cooking.” Tea was of course provided; beer and wine also. What a glorious morning it was, and how busy we were,—not even a fire lighted for us when we arrived at the place! Mr. Charles declared we had undertaken to be gipsies, so should not be assisted. “As if we want assistance,” was our proud rejoinder. “Mary, you collect some light wood, while I select a good place for the fire.” This was done; but Mrs. Charles was afterwards too busy unpacking baskets and case to noticethat Mary was waiting for further orders. At last the terrible truth dawned on us,—we had forgotten the matches; and therefore, as Kate said, “must demean ourselves by asking the gentlemen’s assistance.” Little Louie suggested, “The blacks light a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together.” “Takes too long.” Mrs. Charles had left us and gone towards two station hands who were felling trees for the yards, returning with her charming face all aglow. “I have some matches, so Charlie and Jim need not know we forgot ours.” We would not eat anything that we had not cooked ourselves, though the patties, cold ham, and the plum pudding, made by the French cook at Broom, looked very tempting. Mr. Charles was very good and ate underdone steak and burnt pancakes manfully; but Mr. James cruelly refused, saying, “Fried meat was too indigestible, and he did not care for smoked mutton.” “Very well, then, you must not have tea; that is sure to be smoky,” said saucy Kate. After lunch they went back to work, and we scattered about getting flowers and ferns, but were very glad to find on our return to the camp that Mr. Charles had told one of the men to pack up our things,—all but meat, bread, butter, and cake, and with tea ready to make as soon as we came in sight. “It was a real picnic,” we all said, “and more enjoyable than the usual affairs of the kind.”
Now sheep-washing and shearing were the chief business at Broom. The gentlemen left at daylight, returning to an early breakfast. We finished our usual home occupations as quickly as possible, wishing to spend part of the afternoon watching the process, and a very pretty sight it was. The home flocks were chiefly bred from imported sheep, famous for the quality of their wool, which Mr. Charles had made arrangements for getting up well. Yards were put up on one side of the river for the unwashed sheep, and close to the bank large tanks filled with hot water were placed, in which the sheep were first scoured, and then passed on for two men to dip them several times in the river. A man stood ready to drive them up the grassy bank into paddocks on the other side, when in a day or two they looked like balls of snow, and were ready for the shearing shed. This part of the work I soon tired of, as occasionally the shears cut deeper than the wool; still it is wonderful watching experienced men clip, clip, and then in a few minutes away the frightened creature runs, shorn of its beautiful coat.
Very young lambs are not pretty I discovered at Broom, when Mr. Charles brought in a motherless one, which, being of a valuable breed, he wished to be brought up by hand. The parlour-maid undertook to feed it from a bottle, and “Snow” consequently became a nuisance, following the girl everywhere. It grew to be a very pretty creature,—an ideal “pet lamb” which the children delighted to play with; but unfortunately “Snow” grew very quickly, and one evening Mr. Charles said, “I must take ‘Snow’ to Sam, who has the care of several others.” A tender farewell ensued, and a few tears from Lilly, who was consoled by being told, “We will go and see the pet soon,” which promise was fulfilled; but, alas, ungrateful “Snow” had forgotten us,and not even biscuit would tempt it to leave its friends!
When shearing was over, the young people persuaded Mrs. Charles to give them a dance at Broom, which was followed by a grand ball at the School of Arts in Mudgee, given by Mr. George to all classes. It reminded me of tenants’ balls I had read of in county stories of the old country; some of the farmers had lived on the property for years, and many of the servants at Burra and Broom were of the third generation. One old man at Broom had been in the family nearly fifty years; we used often on Sunday afternoons to visit him at his hut, taking some delicacy for his evening meal. He had been a tall, powerful man, but was now bent with the “burden of many years.” I had been reading to him as usual, when after a long pause he began talking of “the old country,”—the only subject he ever seemed interested in—when he remarked in answer to some question of mine, “You see, Miss, I was lagged very young, so can remember those times well.” “What, Sam! were you sent to Australia?” was my shocked question. “Yes, Miss,” in an apologetical tone; “but not for a very bad crime; they called it poaching. You see, this is how it was. We lived in a grand game country, miles and miles of heather and bracken alive with wild things, always tempting us to snare ’em. My mother was dead, and father married again, so no one cared much about me. One day a lot oflads said to me, ‘Sam,’ says they, ‘we are going to Lord X——’s park to-morrow night; will ’ee come?’ At first I said No, minding a promise I made mother when I was a bit of a boy; but they persuaded me, so at last I agreed to meet them at the cross roads. Well, I went; two of the lot were well-known bad uns, I heard later on. The keepers had heard they were skulking about the village, so set a trap for them, and we were all caught. They said, as it was my first offence, I should have been let off easy; but you see I had a tussle with one of the keepers and nearly killed him. I could not help knocking him down, when he called me a thief; so I was sent over the seas with the lot, and was assigned to this family after a while, and have been in it ever since. Good masters, all on ’em, Miss; the old gentleman as well as his sons,—good to their men, bond or free.” Poor old Sam was right to be grateful; he was well cared for to the end of his life, which was a long one—dying in his hut amidst green pastures and country sounds. After the old man’s narrative, Louie inquired, “Don’t you feel lonely, Sam?” “No, little Miss; I was a shepherd for years, and often days after days only heard the sheep and my dog’s voice.”
Thesecond summer I spent at Broom was hotter than usual, owing to extensive bush fires. The mountains in front of the house were a magnificent sight. At night sometimes we would see the “fire king” clearing all before him stealthily, leaving paths of flame as he went, then surrounding a mighty tree, creeping from stem to branch, until amidst a shower of sparks it fell into its “gold and scarlet grave,”—these, with masses of undergrowth like beacon fires, making any pyrotechnic display look poor by comparison.
I spent part of the Christmas holidays with Mrs. Blomfield at Eurund in a very pretty house on the other side of Mudgee, visiting Wilber and the Pipeclay diggings while there. We started early one morning for the latter, well provided with luncheon baskets. After driving over very indifferent roads through bush paddocks, we arrived at “the creek,” where there were several parties of diggers washing gold on its banks. “The first thing,” suggested one of our party, “for us to see is ‘Long Tom’ at work,” pointing to a group of men; “there he is.” I had a dim recollection ofa nautical individual with the lugubrious addition of a coffin in some drama, or perhaps one of the characters belonging to my brother’s pasteboard theatre, and therefore thought, when we drove up to this group, the man Mr. Blomfield spoke to was “Long Tom,” and a tired, untidy woman sitting near Mrs. Long Tom. But no, I was wrong, for going a little farther, we came upon a party consisting of four men, and the real “Long Tom” or cradle, was a narrow trough filled with earth, into which water flowed through a kind of funnel; the cradle was rocked, and the gold washed from the earth fell into a tin dish. While we stood watching, they got about half an ounce, as it was very rich on this spot. The men’s clothes were a bright yellow, and no wonder, for the water of the creek looked, as Mr. Blomfield said, “as though the late Mr. Turner, R.A., had washed his brushes in it after painting a sunset.” After seeing all that was to be seen here, we went on to New Pipeclay diggings; an enormous rabbit-warren-like place, the huts scattered about not very unlike hutches. Our carriage drew up to the side of a hole surrounded by logs of wood, on the top of which was a windlass, where a man stood every now and then answering some one below, whose voice sounded very sepulchral. Presently the man above called out, “Dinner,” and quickly drew his mate up like he would a bucket of water, very gruff and pipe-clayey and slightly dazed by the light. We drove through the principal street, the children—all of the prevailing terra-cotta colour—staring at “the ladies.” Nodoubt dirt-pie-making was their principal amusement, plenty of material lying about. Margie inquired of her husband, “What would Jane think of this dirty place? the proverbial peck of dirt must be eaten all at once, for everything is peppered with the dust, and the water yellow with the clay. How dreadful for clean muslins!” As there was not much to see at New Pipeclay, we determined to drive four or five miles farther to “New Old Pipeclay.” Being in doubt, we inquired the way of a digger, who, with the usual delightful vagueness of that wandering class, directed us wrong, and we found ourselves driving over a ploughed field. Start out, English farmer; as I have said before, crops in Australia are not petted and protected as with you. The owner of this, standing at his door, slowly advanced, and then kindly took us to the nearest slip-rail. Evidently horses and vehicles planting their autographs over his fields were everyday occurrences, as he said nothing about it: he moved slowly, spoke little, and his appearance generally gave one the idea that he was a stranger to the order of the bath. He pointed out the nearest road, and then rested against his boundary fence watching us, as much as to say, “What can people like them want to go poking about diggings for, in this hot weather too?” We found “New Old Pipeclay” more warren-like than the one we had seen. Here we left the vehicles and watched four men working a large claim, the gentlemen of our party entering into conversation with those above, and then accepting an invitation to “go below.” We were all invited, but Margie and I declined, and amused ourselves by picking up specimens of quartz and crystals from the heaps around the claim. When the gentlemen appeared, followed by more men, they were so delighted at all they had seen that Margie and I regretted we had not braved the dangers of windlass and dust; but it was too late now. As a consolation one of the men gave us some large crystals, which a few years after caused quite a sensation amongst my many Sydney friends. After giving the diggers some money to “wash the pipeclay out of their throats,” we started for home, driving through the place just as the men were leaving off work. “We are driving over gold-mines, Jim,” said one of the gentlemen. “Yes, and look at the miserable hovels the people live in who are bringing it from the under world.” Hovels, indeed! More than one had only a hole in the roof for a chimney; a few had casks fixed for the purpose; but there was no attempt to keep the places neat. Yes, in two or three were evidences of a woman’s home, in a rough railing covered with creeping plants, or a show of curtains at the little windows. A tidy female, watching from the open door of a hut, attracted one of our friends; he rode up, asking, “Are we to take the right or left road.” On her answering, we left him still talking. When he joined us again, he said, “That is a countrywoman of yours, Miss L——; only a few years out from Wales.” She says the dirt and muck here will drive her mad; buther man is making a good pile. Digging for gold is better than digging for iron in the old country; but when they have enough, they are going back. Ah, that going back to the quiet peaceful village life! how few do return; and if they do, are they the same innocent, contented country folk, after living in such pandemoniums, as the early gold-fields too often were? How many homes and lives were ruined by the lust for gold in those early days of colonial life, only those who were living there can know. How many wives and children were deserted the Destitute Children’s Asylum at Randwick or the asylums for old men and women could answer.
The next winter was a very severe one in Mudgee, and I saw a real fall of snow in Australia. A large party was given by the wealthy owner of Havilah at the School of Arts; and Mrs. Robinson had kindly invited a number of ladies to dress at “The Bank.” We had commenced this important business when Mrs. Robinson, calling me, said, “Come here, Miss L——, and look at the whitest dress you will see to-night.” I at once went to the drawing-room window, at which my friend stood, and saw roads, gardens, and roofs covered with snow. Our young friends were soon with us admiring the wintry white; but the cold drove them back to the warm rooms. I could not leave the window for some time, the “beautiful snow recalled so much.” “Yes,” whispered my friend, putting her arm round me; “I can understand and read your thoughts. This does bring back the dear old country, which, with all its faults, is the one land to us.” It was cold that night—bitterly so, as many felt who had to ride or drive many miles home after the dance was over. The Agricultural Show was our next amusement. It was a fine cool autumn, and we had several picnic parties on the grounds. Viewing sheep, cattle, horses, and wool for the sterner sex; vegetables, flowers, preserves, butter, etc., etc., for us ladies to criticise, gave all a “good time.” These country meetings there were very pleasant; everybody knew everybody; friendly greetings from high and low drew the bonds of kindly, neighbourly feelings closer, as to a certain extent all were equal. Farmer B——’s cattle and produce were as good if not better than some of his wealthier neighbours’. The rich Mrs. Robinson’s butter was beaten by that of a tenant’s wife. The poorer could with truth and sincerity say of the richer, “How kind they are to help us over any difficulty, or come to see us when sickness or sorrow entered our humble homes!” Not many months after this their deep sympathy was evinced with their richer neighbour, Mr. Charles, by one humble mother coming forward in the hour of deepest need at Broom, when the reaper Death claimed the young mother there.
My life had been full of changes, not untouched by sorrow and bereavements, and this sudden ending of a young and energetic life was a terrible experience. The three little children were left motherless; one was only just able to ask for mamma: “When will she come home?I want her.” The other two were unconscious of that want. How my heart ached for them. After remaining at Broom until a connection of the family took charge of the house and my pupils’ education, I left for Mulgoa, having arranged with Mrs. James to meet her a few miles from Broom, as they were travelling from their station. This journey was a very different experience of Australian travel, for we drove in a comfortable waggonette, making short stages, and stopping at quiet inns. We stayed at Bowenfels one day, so I was able to judge what a pretty place it was, with its two principal estates and farms. Many English trees flourish there; indeed, all those I see every day in our garden here grew well.
I gazed now for the last time on the valleys and fern-covered slopes of the Blue Mountains before “the iron horse” made them to a certain extent lose their novelty. Yet who would complain, when progress gives pleasure to thousands, where tens only were able to enjoy it?
FromLapstone Hill I again saw the valley of the Grose, with the Nepean River like a silver thread winding between banks and meadows fair. Emu plains, with its many farms, nestling amidst the luxuriant autumn foliage, formed a peaceful panorama. Mr. James kindly rested the horses, allowing us to feast our eyes until the approach of a train reminded him of progression, as he immediately remembered that we had some miles to travel ere we reached Glenmore. However, the distance appeared less to me, having so much to think of, past and future. We soon crossed the bridge and drove through part of Penrith; then along the road to our destination, which was so familiar to my companions and so strange to me. One of the greatest trials of my life had been the inevitable feeling of utter loneliness when first entering a family as a stranger, where they were all so familiar, so bound up together by the ties of home affection. My first impression of Glenmore was, “This place should be called Florence, as it was, indeed, the home of flowers.” Hereford House and others had been rich with “earth’s stars,” but not to compare with the profusion and richness of bloom before me. The cottage at the gate was covered with roses, honeysuckle, and the purple and white maurandria. We drove between hawthorn hedges, with arched entrances to orchard, vineyard, and orangery. The front of the house was literally a carpet of flowers, as the gravelled sweep was covered with many coloured portulacas and mignonette, which were allowed to grow and blossom during the master’s and mistress’s absence. While the parents greeted their elder children, I stood looking at the view before me. In the foreground a large bed with trees and flowering shrubs, bordered by verbenas and petunias of every hue; beyond croquet lawn, paddocks enclosed for kangaroo and deer; then grassy slopes bounded by distant hills, clothed from base to summit with foliage. The house was somewhat of the Italian style, commodious, with large lofty rooms, double halls, and cool passages; a long verandah covered with climbing plants on one side, into which my room opened, and immediately in front of my window the opening into the flower garden, which was always full of blossom, and showed each season’s calendar written by Nature’s hand. The finest oak tree I had seen for many a day was here, surrounded by a low hedge of laurestines. Beyond this was the orangery, with the rich green of the leafy trees, the snowy buds and blossoms then perfuming the air—a veritable garden of the Hesperides. Fern Hill and Wimborne, the other estates in “the valley,” were also in their different styles pleasantcountry houses. The first was a modern mansion situated on rising ground, with well-kept shrubberies, lawns, and vineyard. Wimborne had many acres of cultivated land, parklike in extent. The house was large, but more in the older colonial style of architecture. The owners of the estates were related, so the picturesque church between Fern Hill and Glenmore was like a private family chapel, as the congregation, with few exceptions, consisted of the households of the three places. We had service—conducted with great simplicity—alternately morning and afternoon. It was pleasant to observe the family greetings in the porch on Sundays. Sometimes we left Glenmore for walks in the neighbourhood. One was an especial favourite—a deserted burial-place of an aboriginal tribe on the banks of a creek. It was a very picturesque spot, thickly wooded, with groups of trees with rude carvings on their trunks. I was informed that they left their dead above ground, wrapped in rude hammocks slung between trees, always selecting places near rivers or creeks. Another object for long walks was the collecting of gum by the children; at some seasons it literally poured down the trees. On seeing this, I could understand the large deposits of Kauri gum dug out of the ground in New Zealand, the accumulation of many years. Some mornings we would go on a mushrooming expedition, our paddocks supplying us in great profusion with these delicacies, so that our baskets were always well filled.
The arrowroot grew plentifully at Glenmore, so Mrs.James had nearly a hundredweight made one season. It was interesting to watch the process of grinding the root into pulp, the cleansing of the muddy-looking wash with many waters, until the sediment was a pure white, which is then spread over calico and laid on the grass to dry.
For indoor amusements we had music, reading, and work. Mr. James had an excellent library, and for modern literature a box from Maddock’s (our Australian Mudie) kept usau faitin the doings of the literary world. Occasionally we had croquet parties on the lawn at Fern Hill, with afternoon tea and claret cup. Playing at croquet, or watching the graceful figures of our girls, and the elegant, genial hostess moving amongst her guests, made a very pleasant diversion in the quiet home life. Our household at Glenmore was a very happy one. Mrs. James, one of the sweetest-tempered women I ever met, ruled her large family by love and gentleness, and during three years’ residence under her roof I never saw her angry or in any way ruffled, which, considering there were eight children, from one to twenty years of age, at home, with three boys at holiday time, was really wonderful. She had her two elder girls as companions; I, my children, and one dear girl who rode over from Fern Hill every day to join in our studies—clever, loving, little Lilly. How we missed her when God gathered her for His garden of angels, and our “happy valley” knew her only by the quiet grave which marked her resting-place under the church’s shadow on the hill!
My long holidays were spent with various friends in Sydney. During one, Sydney wasen fêtein honour of the Duke of Edinburgh; this being the first visit paid by a member of the Royal family to Australian shores. James, Maria, and I watched the public reception from a stand in Macquarie Street, and from our friend’s windows in Cumberland Street had an excellent view of the naval reception and harbour illuminations. Afterwards, when staying with Mrs. Frederick, I saw our Royal guest driving past to Point Piper, and later on heard his kindly-natured hostess speak of “the great interest he evinced in colonial life.” Does His Royal Highness ever think of his first experiences of life in Australia?—the dances, picnics, shooting-parties at Nepean Towers and elsewhere? A friend related an anecdote of him which proved he was really fond of animals. On one occasion he returned to the dining-room to give his dog water instead of “leaving it to others,” as his host suggested. I heard he had quite a menagerie on board. A young friend of mine sent him a parrot, and handsome Mrs. E. K. C. an owl, which he named after the donor. I am certain he has never received a more heartfelt welcome than he did in his Royal mother’s “Golden South,” which welcome was so terribly sullied by the maniac’s attempt on his life. Australia will never forget the thrill of horror this caused through the length and breadth of the land. The fair-faced youth to be shot in our midst at a time when all classes met to greet him as a friend and guest! This was my last glimpse of royalty,being an invalid when the Prince of Wales’s sons visited Sydney, and during my year’s residence in England. Still I hope ere my return to Australia to see Her Majesty and members of the Royal family again. While at Glenmore I was present at two weddings—Mr. James’s eldest daughter’s and her cousin’s at Wim: both were very grand affairs. At ours there was a very large family party; out of seventy guests there were only about ten not connected by birth or marriage. Unfortunately the sun refused to shine on our bride, so the grounds were not utilised; but the time passed quickly, and an enjoyable dance finished the day. Miss Una was more favoured a fortnight after, as she had a lovely day to bid farewell to her childhood’s home, the youngest and last to leave. The extensive grounds at Wim were thoroughly appreciated by cricket and croquet players on this occasion.
During one of my visits to Sydney, I saw and heard of the man who afterwards became famous as “the claimant” to the Tichborne estate; he had just arrived from the country and was staying at the same hotel as my brother. One afternoon, on calling there, in the hall I met this man face to face. “Do you know who that is, K——?” “No; who is he?” “Well, he says he is Sir Roger Tichborne.” That evening after dinner at our friend’s the subject was alluded to, and on our host asking, “What do you think of him, L——?” “What do I think? Why, he is no more Sir Roger Tichborne than you are. No man, however unused for years to the societyor manners of gentlemen, could ever forget certain usages of his youth as this man has, who cannot even spell the simplest words correctly.” “That is nothing.” “Well, that may be; but if you saw this man often, you would understand what I mean.” In after years, when I heard how the impostor was believed in, I thought of this conversation. Of course at the time I write of, the infamous scheme had only commenced, and the man was off his guard and untutored.
My peaceful life at Glenmore had to cease, owing to bad health; a long rest was imperative, so once more I had to avail myself of my friends’ kind offer to pay them a long visit at Oviedo Cottage, Petersham, where as usual I was treated as a sister. One family—James’s oldest friends—had a nice suburban house and grounds near to us. He had known the owner from boyhood in England, and had been present at his marriage to a young and very pretty girl, now the energetic and hospitable mistress of Derry Vale, with a fine family to brighten their home. This place, greatly enlarged since my first visit, was our last resting-place in New South Wales. I also paid several visits to Parramatta, which always interested me. Parramatta or Rose Hill, as it was first called, is the oldest inland town in the colony, and the first harvest ever gathered in New South Wales, one hundred years ago, was reaped there. Old Government House still remains in the Inner Domain, or Parramatta Park. This place, with its avenue of oaks, is like a scene from the old country. The orchards arevery numerous now, extending over an area of four thousand acres, varying in size from fifty to a hundred acres each; the orangeries cluster more thickly around Castle and Pennant Hills. Here the vine was first planted, and grows luxuriantly—in fact, the district seems adapted to every kind of fruit. Apples, pears, and plums from the northern lands; oranges, grapes, peaches, and other fruits from the southern lands of Europe flourish equally well. Alas! Parramatta has one drawback—mosquitoes. These pests are found in all the districts on the eastern side of the mountain range, and to some people make night far from comfortable. I have known many, after living in the country a quarter of a century, dread on this account the approach of summer. Besides visiting Parramatta by steamboat and train, I have been by the well-known road, scarcely altered since I travelled on it so many years ago. Races were still held on the Homebush Course, and boating parties on the river, now world renowned as the scene where our Australian scullers have won their laurels. The trip by the steamer is very agreeable, passing on the way up the river Five Dock, Hunter’s Hill, Kissing Point—the latter now called Ryde; others renamed Greenwich, Mortlake, etc.
I read an article the other day in an English paper on the fondness Australians have of naming places after celebrated men; Gladstone was one mentioned. I quite agree with the writer to a certain extent; still is it not unwise to sneer at colonials, who wish by so doing tohonour their country by such names as Wellington, Gordon, Drake, Nelson, and others? No doubt they have many absurd as well as commonplace names. But are there none equally so near home? In my opinion the natives’ names should have been retained and adopted. What could be more euphonious than those we have still,—such as Ulladulla, Illawarra, Wollondilly, Nanima, Eurunderie, Marulan, Moruya, Murrurundi, Merriwa, and hundreds of others?
I had an excellent view from Point Piper of theFlying Squadronthat visited Sydney. It was a fine sight, watching the ships under canvas gliding on the intensely blue waters, under an equally blue sky, to Middle Harbour.
We had flower shows in the gardens, cricket-matches in the Domain, bazaars everywhere now. Our church school feasts were held in many spots open to the public, and on the shores of the harbour, which later on, when the train was available, were deserted for fresher fields. Australia is certainly well adapted for outdoor amusements. Cricket and tennis can be played almost all the year round, and picnics and garden parties are practicable through about eight months. Holidays are spent in the open air, as there are few places for day amusements under cover like the Crystal Palace at Sydenham and others in England. Trains, omnibuses, trams, and steamers swarm with well-dressed and happy-looking people, all bent on enjoyment, while the city and suburbs are almost deserted. I have often watched them, and thought this is really “aland flowing with milk and honey.” No cruel winter, when men and women, however willing, cannot find work. There seems to be no real want or poverty. Surely such a land must become the home of millions!—this sunny land, “a land of promise” for the overgrown population of cities of the older world.
A sad bereavement made me leave Sydney for a time. Maria’s death caused a terrible blank in my life, so hearing of an engagement to educate a girl of sixteen, I left in the autumn for Singleton.
I leftby steamer for Newcastle to meet the train by which I was to travel as far as Singleton, where a carriage was to meet me. The country we travelled through struck me as being flat and uninteresting compared with the scenery of the mountains so well known to me. Singleton was a well-laid-out town, already possessing several good buildings, a church, large store, and public school. My destination—a large cattle farm some miles out—was very unlike anything I had hitherto lived at, low and flat; the house, however, was very comfortable and nicely furnished. My own apartments were large, and certainly everything was suitable for our requirements: bookcase and piano for study or amusement. My pupil, a girl of sixteen, decidedly above the average in intelligence, promised to be a pleasant companion. There was originality in her character. Under judicious and wider training she was likely to develop into a clever woman; but with present surroundings I used to think, “She will grow hard, and perhaps sceptical.” Wombo was a large farm and station for breeding from famous imported cattle. My pupil, the youngest of the family,seemed quite an anomaly there. Though her mother was of good natural ability, a long residence in such an isolated place had to a certain extent dried up the early impressions of a visit to England and life in Sydney. For the first time I saw there what splendid servants the Chinese can be made. They had a cook equal to the best European I ever met with; his dishes, bread, and butter the best of their kind; his kitchen a picture of cleanliness, as he also was in person. A daughter of his, about fourteen years of age, born on the place, was being trained as a parlour-maid, and already waited at table quickly and well. The cook had married a young emigrant girl from Somersetshire, who had been housemaid at Wombo, and certainly in this union had the best of it; she being an ignorant, lazy woman. She lived in what might have been made a pretty, comfortable home; instead of which it was a miserable, untidy, dirty hole, with numbers of children running about like half-caste savages, unkempt, uncared for. Poor “Jimmy” occasionally asked for half a day from the house, and then had a turn-out of his own. Several times I tried to get his wife to speak of herself, or her early home, but she seemed to have sunk into a state of apathy. She must have been a fine-looking woman; indeed, her former mistress told me she was, and could have married a white man. When she told her she was going to marry the Chinese cook, her mistress had remonstrated with her, asking, “What would your mother say to such a thing as your marrying a Chinese heathen?” “Idunno; he’s as good as she; same God made ’em both.” Mrs. Durham now thought Jimmy was the more to be pitied.
A most agreeable break in our usually monotonous life occurred soon after my advent at Wombo in a visit from W. B. Dalley, who was an old and intimate friend of the family, accompanied by a brother of Mrs. Durham. They spent several days with us. It was a treat listening to the conversation of these men at dinner in the evening; and afterwards Mr. Dalley would come into my sanctum, have a chat, and read to Sophie and me. He was certainly a man his country should honour;was, I have to write, as lately I have heard he has joined the “great majority.” A more courteous gentleman could not be; refined in taste, liberal in views on all subjects, one of Australia’s most gifted sons. The fire of eloquence had touched his lips, and his “silver speech” added beauty to the poems he read to us, which would have given delight to the authors. I had just been reading Longfellow’sHyperion, and Bulwer’sPilgrims of the Rhineto Sophie, from both of which he quoted long passages; then he read several of Tennyson’s and Longfellow’s, and with two extracts from the latter, “his especial favourites” he told us, I will close this poor tribute to his memory—