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 lend books 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 me feel 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 in the 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.
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 better known. 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.
CHAPTER XVII
Once more 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 a variété troupe at Mudgee, whose merry chatter and too loudly expressed 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. In fact, 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.