| [Introduction], [Chapter I], [ II], [ III], [ IV], [ V], [ VI], [ VII], [ VIII], [ IX], [ X], [ XI], [ XII], [ XIII], [ XIV], [ XV], [ XVI], [ XVII], [ XVIII], [ XIX], [ XX], [ XXI], [ XXII], [ XXIII], [ XXIV]. |
INTRODUCTION
As I stood on the deck of one of the largest of the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s steamers, that now almost annihilate distance between England and her colonial possessions, taking a last look at the land where I had left youth, womanhood, kindred, friends, and the dust of parents, I thought, “Is there anything I can do in return for all God has done for me here—anything to prove my gratitude to the many true friends I am leaving: the Australians, young and old, who have thronged around us to bid us farewell?” Nearly half a century has passed since the good ship Euphrates came to anchor in this, one of the grandest harbours of the world, and I stood, as I am now standing, looking at the beautiful shores of Sydney Harbour. But what a change! Then few signs of habitation were to be seen, and now one sees stately mansions, countless and beautiful, surrounded by foliage almost to the water’s edge, silent witnesses of God’s goodness and man’s perseverance. One stately house there was, with battlements and tower, set in terraced grounds, with beautiful trees, shrubs, and flowers that only bloom under glass in colder climes; and over all a sky blue and transparent beyond description. In this house there dwell the descendants of two who stood near me when first I saw this lovely land. They are now in a still safer and more beautiful haven, having lived a good life here, and left their children the priceless inheritance of a stainless name. Two of that family have just left us; I need not say, “Go and do likewise,” for already they have laid up treasures in heaven.
Why do I wish to write of Australia, more especially of New South Wales, when such men as Froude, Trollope, and Forbes have done so? Firstly, I promised, and secondly, because travellers like those mentioned are merely birds of passage for a few months or weeks, staying amongst us, feted by a few men in power or position, travelling by special trains through the country, or on mere pleasure excursions, seeing what is to be seen under the most favourable conditions, and listening to interested or interesting descriptions of places and people that they have not had time to investigate. They leave without having the slightest idea of the real homes, lives, intellects, and capabilities of either country or people; and of the best families, scattered over her vast territory, they know little or nothing. The descendants of military and naval men, doctors, lawyers, clergymen, and merchants of the old days, too often not the richest or most powerful men now. Therefore travellers in these days come and go, either disparaging or fulsomely praising, just as some do who have visited England, and give a bad impression of our people and homes. I cannot help alluding to this, as I have heard many stories of colonists’ behaviour when in England during the Colonial Exhibition in London. These may be, and no doubt were, in many instances true, still, if we were to judge the English people, or indeed any nationality, by those who have visited our shores since the “gold mania,” I am afraid our experience would be equally unfortunate. No! let us not be too hasty in judging the many by the few; to my readers in both countries I say it. This record of a woman’s life and experience does not pretend to any literary talent; it is written with the hope of bringing the people of both homes nearer together, especially the young. Let the older country have patience with the younger, and lead them by patience and experience, as well as timely advice, to serve their God, Queen, and country.
To the younger I dedicate “The Golden South.”
CHAPTER I
On a cold dull March morning we left our home in London for the Waterloo Station, to go by the London and South-Western line to Southampton, from thence to Portsmouth to join our ship. After dining at the Ship Hotel, we went on board the vessel which was to be our abode for four months and a fortnight. Now, though nearly fifty years have passed, I see the place and recall the strangeness of it all. The ship was an old East Indiaman with only four large cabins opening into the saloon or “cuddy,” as it was then generally called. Our family had two of these, so we were very well off for room and comfort. We left on 25th March, and were tossing about the famed Bay of Biscay until 10th April. As I am not writing a diary of our voyage, I will merely mention its chief incidents. On the 12th of May, when south of the equator, we sighted a French vessel bound to Buenos Ayres, that diverged from her course with the view of “speaking” to us. They invited us to dinner; but on our refusal, accepted an invitation instead to dine with us. The captain and two passengers were to be our guests, our boat going for them. They were most delightful people, and Frenchmen-like, full of compliments to our cook. As some of our passengers spoke their language fluently, the result was a very pleasant change in the usual monotony of a long voyage. Just imagine such a thing being done in these days of steam and quick passages: the passengers from one vessel dining on board another, spending a few hours, then returning, and being near enough to hear the music played on board of each vessel, the Frenchmen vainly trying to give us “God save the Queen.” We were able to give them the “Marseillaise” splendidly, having some good musicians on board. On 30th May we encountered a terrible gale, carrying away part of our bulwarks on the lee side: during this dreadful weather what was left of our live stock died. This weather continued till 8th June when off Table Bay, and we had to lay-to all night. No one thought of sleep. Tales of phantom ships and wrecks recurred to the nervous. However, about 9 A.M. of the 9th June we anchored safely in the bay. We were unable to land for some hours, but at last went on shore and took rooms at the George Hotel. What a rest from the unceasing noise of a ship and all its miseries to the landsmen! Cape Town was lovely, at least I thought so,—very different from England, the deep red-clay of the roads, numbers of natives, strange waggons drawn by bullocks, the mountains for a background, and now (while off it) the beautiful sea in front. The bazaar-like shops, strange carriages and horses, the hotel so different from anything I had ever seen—all come back as a picture, as I write.
We remained at the Cape until the 19th June, and had many drives. In carriages drawn by six small horses we started for Upper Constantia, Van R——’s vineyard and wine estate, where there is a well-constructed house of modern style, elegantly furnished. In the garden there was a Kaffir’s hut, with clay figures life-size, orange trees, subtropical fruit trees, and flowers everywhere around. We were conducted through the cellars, and tasted the wine, which has so great a reputation. We went also to Lower Constantia, where the vineyard of Van C—— is situated. This was quite a different style of place, close to the mountains, with the house, garden, and people of the old Dutch type. In the cool garden violets, primroses, and other English flowers were blooming, the last I saw for many a day, and those dearest to me never saw again. We were delighted with the wildflowers, my father making a collection for his herbarium,—geraniums, phlox, and many others.
While at the Cape there was a ball given at Government House, to which some of our passengers went, my father and mother among the number, and in that out-of-the-way place the former met an old schoolfellow; so even in those early days, when steam was almost in its infancy, the smallness of the world was exemplified.