I knew an Englishman who said one of the pleasures of life is to be in a country where there is “plenty to kill,” so may quote him as an authority that Australia is very satisfying in this respect. And he certainly ought to have lived where I did thirty-five years ago, as in a couple of hours’ ride he could have shot kangaroo, wallabi, opossum, native dogs, and bagged wood and black duck, wild turkeys, pigeons, and rabbits. The doctor had quantities of the latter on his ground, only ten minutes’ walk from our house, so when fresh meat was not to be had—which was very often the case in the summer—Harry would take his gun, and in about an hour would bring back three or four. Then the river gave sport the angler loved, as there were plenty of fish, especially the fresh-water cod, some nearly three feet in length. Shrimps and small crayfish could be caught with nets. The men had plenty to kill, and for exercise and excitement, what could compare with a kangaroo drive or mustering and branding of cattle?
Drafting sheep was very wearisome; the poor timid things were so tiresome; only the shepherds and their dogs had any patience with them. I have watched flocks of them crossing the river when it was quite low, and yet in their fright many would be in danger of drowning. Cattle were more easily managed; but, oh! the language of the bullock-drivers. I heard a story of a clergyman reproving them for using such fearful language. “They won’t go without, your reverence.” “Try them in as loud a tone without oaths.” But no, they would not move. “You see, sir, they understand that I mean them to go when I say —— ——” And at the familiar words the creatures did go. I liked to watch the bullock teams, both in Sydney and the country, going slowly along with their immense loads of wool bales, taking the golden fleece to the port; but until I went to Montefiores had no idea of the labour, hardship, and risk often run to life and limb ere they reached their destination. I have in summer crossed the Macquarie River on stepping-stones without wetting my feet, and in a few weeks it would be “a banker,” and no one could cross it; then teams had to camp until it was down again.
I determined to pay Sydney a visit whenever a suitable escort presented itself. Hearing of one soon, I left my brother’s house, to return to it only as a visitor for the future, as he married in six months after, so that I became a wanderer once more. This journey to Sydney was a most disagreeable one, for I made it in the hottest season in one of the dreadful coaches, full of passengers of all grades. Two Chinamen from Wellington, one with his “Joss” carried carefully in his arms, which, as the wretched vehicle gave a lurch, struck my shoulder. My escort remonstrated, but the “Heathen Chinee,” “No savee.” We congratulated ourselves when the celestial left us at Bathurst, but it was premature, as a constable taking a prisoner to Sydney occupied the seats vacated by the Chinamen. Travellers certainly did in those early days prove the old adage, for when we drove up to the miserable inn, we found only one apartment to shelter us during a terrible storm. So two ladies, a member of Parliament, constable, prisoner, and others had to keep company in it. As soon as the rough meal was over I returned to a verandah room, to take a few hours’ rest on my rug. Again, on our way before daylight, watching the sun rise on those mountain roads compensated somewhat for the discomfort. The mountains emerged from a golden mist, infinitely grand. The sun seemed to hang for a few minutes over some distant peak, and the valleys to remain full of night’s veil of purple and gray, the birds welcoming the advent of another day, and above all, the deep blue of an Australian cloudless sky made one feel, “It is good to be here.”
CHAPTER X
Though only away from Sydney three years, on my journey down I saw many improvements, and in Sydney felt, like “Rip Van Winkle,” surely I had been at least twenty years asleep. Such numbers of new buildings, streets formed, the shores of the harbour cultivated, new wharves, and numerous houses and stores in course of construction; the harbour alive with steamers, and ships coming and going. Numbers of shops in the main streets, where formerly there were only a few. Surrey Hills, where I first stayed, had become an extensive suburb, and the South Head Road, now Oxford Street, was full of shops. Service for that parish was held in Darlinghurst court-house. The barracks at Paddington were finished, and Wooloomooloo much altered. It was evident that Sydney was becoming the most important city in the Southern hemisphere, though now she must share the laurels with Melbourne, the latter being laid out with system, and wide thoroughfares with a view to the future. When Sydney was laid out no one could have anticipated her present position, and the consequence was a total disregard of anything like good main thoroughfares or proper alignment of the buildings. A hundred years ago such matters were not so much looked after as they are now. Nature, however, has been lavish in her bounty, and the early colonists were wise enough to make choice of the best site possible for the first Australian city. One who has travelled much says, “It ought to be one of the healthiest, cleanest, and best drained cities of the world, and the harbour will always give it the pre-eminence and proud title of the ‘Queen City of the South.’”
Spending nearly four idle months in Sydney gave me many opportunities of marking the great progress made in and around it. The Museum, Grammar School, and St. Mary’s Cathedral were being enlarged or rebuilt; churches and schools rising in the suburbs, Balmain and Pyrmont were becoming populous places; the Botanic Gardens were enlarged.
I went to a garden party with my future sister at Graycliff, a pretty place near Watson’s Bay, where there is a beautiful view of the harbour; but it was very difficult to get at by land. It was a lovely day, and the hostess being an intimate friend of Soph’s, I was able to ramble about con amore, walking to Vaucluse and taking mental sketches of its many beauties.
After my brother’s marriage I went to Penrith for a few weeks’ stay at “Sara Cottage” situated in the one street of that very quiet town, like an English village with its general store, an inn or two, a church, a doctor’s house, and several cottages. No Bank or School of Arts then, the bridge not finished, and very few well-to-do residents in the town, Mr. Richard’s property being one of the best, and comparing favourably in every respect with his wife’s first home at Montefiores. It gave me great pleasure to share her delight in its beauty and comfort. While there I had an invitation to spend a few days at Dunheved, a real old-fashioned Australian cottage, with its verandahs kept from falling by a wisteria with branches as thick as my arm. It was a mass of blossoms in every shade of lavender, and the sweet perfume pervaded the atmosphere. What a picture it all was, as we drove up, the mistress of the house and her two fair daughters standing under the graceful canopy to welcome me! She was an admiral’s daughter, and her husband, a naval man, had settled some years before in this district; I think their eldest son still owns the property. It was through his visiting Montefiores just before I left that I had now the pleasure of meeting his family. Afterwards his mother wrote to me occasionally, but gradually the correspondence ceased, and place as well as people are now only a memory.
I then went again to Sydney to stay with an old friend at Surrey Hills, a native of the colony, well educated, refined and intellectual. Her father was in the commissariat department, and during the Peninsular War married a Spanish lady. Kate inherited some of her mother’s national character, being proud and passionate; but she was a devoted daughter, and sacrificed her prospects in life to her one brother. She was another of the Rev. Horatio’s children who blessed his teaching, and bore her cross willingly. At this time she had just lost her widowed mother. I was glad to be free to visit her, and remained until Mr. Horatio found another home for me at The Glebe, strange to say, only a few minutes’ walk from my father’s old home. Hereford House was a very different abode, being quite a mansion. The grounds surrounding it were extensive, and kept in exquisite order by a scientific gardener and assistants. The rosary was perfect, with walls and arches of climbers, beds of standard roses of every hue, a shrubbery of camellias, datura, durante, dentzia, stephanotis, gardenia, tecoma, more the size of trees than shrubs; oleanders, pepper trees, and other tropical plants. Then the conservatory, with tea, coffee, and spices in flower, as well as a magnificent specimen of the pitcher plant. I had never seen such a garden in Australia; thirty-two years ago there were few to equal it. There was a fine garden at Toxteth Park full of flowers, but being larger, was not so well kept or so varied. The Glebe was famous for its floral treasures; being well sheltered from the sea air, they flourished better than in many other situations near Sydney.
All the arrangements of Hereford House were in good taste; the owner, an Englishman, and his pretty gentle wife, an Australian, treated their children’s governess as a trusted friend. We had a pretty ante-room, with French windows opening on to the garden, for study,—not with bare walls and uncarpeted floor, too often considered good enough for a schoolroom, but pictures, bookcase, and covered desks. As my eldest pupil was nearly sixteen, teaching under such auspices was delightful indeed. Amongst many visitors there, I met two young people with whom I formed a friendship, to end only by the “Great Reaper’s scythe.” They had been in the colony a year or two, when they met our mutual friends travelling in the interior. James was an engineer of no mean ability, having been appointed before he had reached his twenty-first birthday to superintend some important engineering work in Spain. And at the time the gold fever was at its height, he resigned an excellent appointment in London to accompany a friend to Sydney in one of the large steamers so frequently leaving for the New El Dorado, where he met a young Irish lady travelling with some friends, hoping to meet a brother in Melbourne, if not, to return to her family by the same steamer; but “Don Cupid” stepped in, and there was no going back for Maria, as before they arrived in Sydney she was James’s promised wife. Like two foolish young people, they married at once, and might have realised the proverb “Marry in haste” had not James’s very excellent testimonials and letters of introduction soon procured him a Government appointment. His first work was the superintendence of the construction of engineers’ workshops and a dry dock at an island in Sydney Harbour, where they were residing in a pretty cottage when I met them at Hereford House. When I used to complain of the miserable accommodation of Bush inns, Maria would remind me it was through that they met Mr. and Mrs. Woolley, who, travelling with an invalid child, arrived at the best inn at Mittagong, to find the only private sitting-room occupied by James and Maria, he having been inspecting some iron-mines in the district. Of course they offered the room, and from that time had become their intimate friends, always welcome at Hereford House as long as his duties would permit them to stay. They were an acquisition to our circle, he a fine handsome fellow, who had seen a good deal of the world, and she as fascinating and bright as young Irishwomen generally are.