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 of lads 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.”
CHAPTER XIX
The second 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 of a 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.” No doubt 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; but her 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?
CHAPTER XX
From Lapstone 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 pleasant country 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.