The wreck of the Dunbar at the “Gap,” near the South 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, the Dunbar being 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 over both. 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 the Dunbar, the Catherine Adamson was 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 of identification. A young person at Hurst was to have been married to the second officer of the Dunbar, 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 the Dunbar was appointed to the lifeboat at Newcastle, and was instrumental in saving the one man from the steamer Cawarra, wrecked there.
CHAPTER XII
In December 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 Tasmania bore 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 the Eucalyptus 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 sister were 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.”