Neither a farm nor yet a large estate, it was something between the two, while the household and the ménage generally were more in accordance with the habitudes of English country-house life than often obtains in Australia.
Mr. Pomeroy Greene, resolving to make Victoria his future home, had emigrated after a comprehensive fashion—not now so common. He brought with him, in addition to his large family, a house, with men-servants and maid-servants, horses and carriages, farm tools and implements, nearly everything which he could have needed had he proceeded to free-select an uninhabited island. Was there not "Rory O'More," a son of "Irish Birdcatcher"; "Nora Creina," dam by "Drone"; the graceful "Taglioni," and the hunter "Pickwick," a big, powerful, Galway-looking nag, up to any weight over any height, and not too refined to draw a cart or do a day's harrowing on a pinch? An exceedingly useful stamp of horse in a new country, most of us will admit, and quite worth his passage money.
Also, in this connection, came Tom Brannigan, an active, resolute, humorous young Irishman, with a decided family likeness to one Mickey Free about him. He was stud groom, and a model retainer during the first years of the settlement of Woodlands. Let me not forget Smith, the butler, a decorous, solemn personage of staid demeanour and faultless accuracy of get-up, an occasional twinkle of the eye only at times betraying that he belonged to the Milesian and not the Saxon branch of his widely-dispersed family and vocation.
Just thirteen miles from Melbourne, Woodlands was a pleasant morning or afternoon's ride—an easy drive. You left Melbourne by the Flemington road, traversed the Moonee Ponds, finally debouching upon the plain, whence you saw the house, built bungalow fashion upon a wooded slope, with flanking wings and a courtyard, verandah-encircled likewise, facing eastward towards Sunbury, and on the west having an extensive outlook over plain and forest, with the sea in the distance. The landscape was extensive, "wide and wild, and open to the air," but sufficiently wooded to prevent the expression of bleakness. These thoughts possibly do not occur to me as I dress provisionally in shooting coat, slippers, etc., and rush out to the stables to look at the gallant steed that is to carry Cæsar and his fortunes, a game-looking Arab grey, fast and a good fencer, the property of one John Fitzgerald Leslie Foster—a guest at the time, and lent to me for the occasion. Only been a few days off grass, though otherwise in good buckle. The certainty of his being short of condition does not weigh with me, however, so anxious am I to have a throw in and sport my tops and cords. Tom Brannigan thinks "he has a great spring in him entirely," and encourages me to hope that a lucky chance may land me a winner. He relates an anecdote of his brother Jim, a well-known steeplechase jock, in a race where the fences were terrific. One of the country people was heard to say, "Sure the most of them would break their necks, but Jim Brannigan and the ould mare would have a leg to spare, somehow or somehow." Much comforted by this apposite reference, I shut the door, and inspect the rest of the stable. It is not a very small one.
Having a look for the hundredth time at "Rory O'More"—a beautiful brown horse, showing great quality, with a strong likeness to "The Premier" in more than one of his points, and glancing at a couple of yearlings—I betake myself to an inspection of the battle-steeds of the day.
They are a goodish lot, and in that state and condition of life which impress on me the idea that, unless under the favouring accident of a general bouleversement, my chance of winning is slender indeed. First of all stands an elegant blood-looking grey, the property of the heir-apparent, sheeted, hooded, and done up in great style. He is as "fit as a fiddle," and will have on his back an exceedingly cool and determined rider—who, like Mr. Stripes, "will not throw a chance away."
Next to him is a powerful, hunter-looking bay, an animal which would fetch about four hundred guineas in England. Let me describe him—remembering as I do every hair in his skin. I had ridden him more than once, and the reader, if he has been home lately, will note if I have overrated his price. A three-quarter or four-fifths bred horse, bay with black points, save one white hind leg. A light, well-shaped head, a good neck, and shoulders so oblique that it took the length of the snaffle bridle to pay out for rein; flat and clean bone under the knee, deep across the heart, powerful quarter, with muscular thighs and well-bent hocks. He would have been quite in the English fashion of the present day, as he had a shortish pulled tail. Height about fifteen hands three inches, on short legs.
This was "Thur'mpogue," the property of Edmund M'Neill, of the firm of Hall and M'Neill, near Daisy Hill. The portrait is that of a weight-carrier, doubtless. And so he needed to be, the aforesaid Edmund being of the unusual height of six and a half feet. Though not particularly broad, it will be seen that he could not be a very light man. In another box stands a long, low, blood-like chestnut horse. He winces and lays back his ears after a fashion which indicates temper, as the boy pulls the sheet off at my instigation. The test is a true one. What little he has is proverbially bad, and he has deposited so many riders in unexpected localities by "mount, and stream, and sea," that a less resolute horseman than the Chief would have fought shy of him as an investment. He is in great form, however, and as hard as nails, his close bright golden coat shining like shot satin. I involuntarily give vent to an exclamation, which denotes that my own and other people's chances have receded since interviewing "The Master of the Rolls," for such is the legal luminary I now behold.
Back to bedroom and bath; for by this time dressing has set in seriously all over the house, and the bachelors' apartments, in a separate wing, resound with the careless talk and frequent laughter which are sure to emanate from a number of friends in the golden prime. All sorts of opinions are volunteered about the merits of each other's horses, sarcastic hints as to horsemanship and condition, laughing retorts and confident anticipations, are to be heard on every side, welling out from the bed-chambers and along the corridors, into which, with the exuberance of youth, the inmates, in various stages of apparelling, likewise overflow.
We all met at breakfast, of course. Talk about suppers! There may be, doubtless, a fair share of enjoyable "causerie," or even serious love-making, at supper, "when wit and wine sparkle instead of the sun"; but for real, honest, hearty enjoyment, when all is sanguine anticipation of excitement or success, with good weather, good spirits, and good company, commend me to a country-house at breakfast time, where the sexes are judiciously mingled, and a hunt, a steeplechase, or a picnic is on the cards. There may be a few things better in this life of ours. If so, I have seldom come across them.