Leaving Newcastle we steamed along past Honeysuckle Point, then onwards through Hamilton, Waratah, Sandgate and Hexham, where we commence to traverse the famous swamps, rendered memorable as the breeding-grounds of the well-known and duly appreciated “Hexham Greys,” those noted mosquitoes, which beyond all question, are able to climb the trees and bark, whilst it is also an equally well-known fact that many of them weigh a pound, but as this is not the real mosquito season we escape any very pressing attentions on their part, and running along through this flat swampy country with the Hunter River shining brightly in the morning sun on our right, we gradually strike into better country, and by the time East Maitland is reached the land looks about as good and as fertile as they make it in this part of the world.
Passing the gaol on our right, where no doubt many an unfortunate is bitterly regretting the hour in which he strayed from the paths of rectitude, we shortly afterwards pull up at East Maitland, where the guard and porters inform us that passengers for Morpeth change here, and after a few minutes delay we again proceed on our journey, calling at High Street (West Maitland) where the inevitable newsboy supplies us with the “Maitland Mercury,” one of the best country papers in New South Wales—conveying, as it does, an enormous amount of information on every conceivable subject to its numerous readers—and a journal of which the proprietary may feel justly proud. On, past Farley, formerly known as the Wollombi Road, where most of the fat cattle are unloaded for the Maitland market, past Lochinvar, Allandale, Greta, with its noted colliery, Branxton, famous for the excellence of its wines, Belford and Whittingham platforms, and we emerge on to the famous Patricks Plains, passing through the valuable estates of Messrs. Dangar—Baroona lying to the left of the line situate on a commanding site, overlooking a most charming and extensive view of the surrounding country, Neotsfield being hidden away to the right, whilst the paddocks with their wealth of pasture are thickly dotted with groups of cattle in splendid condition, who seem highly content with their comfortable quarters. Past Dalcalmah, the beautiful residence of the late D. F. Mackay, who I remember years ago as the proprietor of “Bullamon” and “Nindygully” Stations on the Moonie, in the colony of Queensland—before the Messrs. Fisher became the purchasers—and where he passed many years in the pursuit of his occupation as a squatter, roughing it with his men through fair weather and foul, and where, no doubt, he contracted the seeds of the disease that eventually terminated his life; past the magnificent Beebeah Vineyard, the property of Mr. A. Munro, whose vines have won a deservedly high reputation for purity and flavor, and we pull up at Singleton, 49 miles from Newcastle, about half-past nine, quite ready for the breakfast which awaits us, and which we have been anxiously looking forward to for the last half-hour.
Several old friends greet me on the platform, amongst them being Harry York, formerly a well-known host at Jerry’s Plains, and Joe M‘Alpin, who is now the boniface of the old Caledonian Hotel, and who looks as though the life agreed with him down to the ground.
Breakfast over, we get under way again, and pass over the bridge across the Hunter, where a former member of the New South Wales Legislative Assembly now does duty as gatekeeper; and that reminds me of a racy story told at his expense, as follows:—During his Parliamentary career he on one occasion received an invitation to dinner at Government House, which, of course, was duly accepted; and at length, arrayed in full evening costume, he had the pleasure of stretching his legs underneath the Governor’s mahogany. Waiting at table was at that time reduced to a science in the “uppah succles,” and our worthy M.L.A., who felt rather at sea in such high and dignified company, awoke some compassion in the bosom of his right-hand neighbour, who, to relieve his embarrassment and to make him feel at home, engaged him in conversation on the various topics of the day. Soup was duly served, when a remark from his right-hand neighbour caused our friend to lay down his soup spoon and turn his head to reply. In a twinkling his plate disappeared, to our friend’s utter astonishment; but a supply of fresh fish brought peace to his soul for the time being, when “A glass of wine with you, sir,” from his friend caused him to relinquish his hold upon his fish-knife and fork, turn his head to reply, when, lo and behold! the balance of his fish, plate and all, disappeared like a flash. Turning round to continue his meal, our friend discovered his loss, and coming to the conclusion that some practical joke was being played upon him, he determined to keep a sharp watch during the remainder of the repast. Everything progressed to his satisfaction until the joint was served, when the same performance was likely to be repeated; but our worthy legislator was equal to the occasion, and, seizing his knife, he wheeled suddenly round as he saw the waiter’s hand stretched forth to grasp his plate, and in low but impressive tones said to the astonished waiter: “By Jove! if you remove that plate until I have finished with it I will chop your blooming hand off.” Tableau. Still onwards, passing through some lovely country, both agricultural and pastoral, of which the famous Ravensworth Estate forms no inconsiderable portion, noted in years gone by for the excellent breed of horses raised there by Captain Russell, we at length arrive at Muswellbrook, the great store cattle market of the colony, where thousands of horned stock from distant parts of New South Wales and Queensland are annually brought under the hammer and disposed of to various buyers, a great number of them finding their way into the grand fattening paddocks of the Hunter River valley, there to be topped up for the metropolitan market.
There is a sale advertised to take place on the day we pass through; and away on the hillside, at the south-eastern corner of the town, we observe the saleyards filled with cattle, whilst drovers and stockmen are hurrying hither and thither, giving life and animation to the scene; whilst buyers are congregating from different parts of the district in order to supply their requirements.
Mr. and Mrs. Blunt leave us here; and away we go past Aberdeen, pulling up at the bridge which here spans the Hunter, to replenish the water tanks of our engine. On past Turanville, of which a splendid view is obtained away to the left; and Scone, where thousands of pounds have been spent in the extermination of that terrible pest, the prickly pear. On through the fertile and beautiful valley of the Upper Hunter, past Wingen, with its famous burning mountain, and into the valley of the Page, tributary of the Hunter, eventually pulling up at Murrurundi, nearly 120 miles from Newcastle, about a quarter to one, and where we are allowed ten minutes to stretch ourselves and refresh the inner man if we feel so inclined.
We change engines here; in fact, we obtain two for one, it being absolutely necessary to attach an additional locomotive in order to climb the Liverpool Range at the head of the valley, and which I have many a time climbed on foot in the coaching days of King Cobb, when Murrurundi was the terminus of the Great Northern line, it being more than even their noted good teams of horses could do to drag a heavy load of passengers and mails to the summit.
Onwards and upwards we go, winding around spurs and alongside steep ranges, obtaining some magnificent views of the town and valley below, the prospect in some places being most lovely and enchanting, with its background of noble-looking hills; and at length we plunge into the tunnel and intense darkness, from which we emerge into the far famed Doughboy Hollow, a famous camping ground in the olden days, where the teamsters who had surmounted the difficulties of the range were glad to rest themselves and their tired cattle before tackling the black soil plains of Breeza, and where they would gather round the camp fires at night relating their various adventures by flood and field, backing “Doughboy” and “Damper” against “Bally” and “Brindle,” and swapping lies generally, until it was time to go to roost. On past the Willow Tree, Braefield platform, Quirindi—a thriving little inland town, situate in the midst of some splendid agricultural country—the whole of which, from here to Tamworth, must in the course of time come under the operation of the plough, and find employment and food for thousands of people—we at length pull up at Werris Creek, at half-past two, 156 miles from Newcastle, where, in exchange for half a-crown, we are allowed to discuss an ample repast in one of the largest and best refreshment-rooms in the colony, twenty-five minutes being allowed for the operation; and as a lavatory is attached to the establishment, we find a good wash very acceptable and refreshing before proceeding to dinner.
Here part of our train is detached, it being the junction of the North-Western line, and with its complement of passengers proceeds onwards, via Breeza, Gunnedah, and Boggabri, to Narrabri, the present terminus of that portion of the line; although it will be a good day for the colony when the extension is carried out via Moree to Queensland border, the country in that direction being some of the finest grazing land in the whole of the colonies, which must eventually become populated, as means of communication are provided for the people; the roads, so called, being simply impassable in wet weather, and many a time and oft have the inhabitants of that part of the colony been threatened with famine in consequence of their supplies being detained for weeks and months at a stretch in transit from Narrabri to their destination.
However, I suppose all that will come to an end when the colony is blessed with a progressive Government, and in the meantime we will proceed on our journey, via Currabubula and Duri, to Tamworth. We pass through beautiful open forest and plain country, every acre of which seems fit for cultivation, and is dotted here and there with comfortable-looking homesteads and smiling farms, and shortly pull up for a few minutes at West Tamworth, where I greet a very old friend on the platform in the person of Mr. David Brown, of Menedebri Station, who is beginning to look “like a flour bag” now, although still as smart and active looking as I remember him in years gone by, when he was bossing the Millie South run on the Galathera Plains, then the property of his father, and where a traveller was always secure of a real Australian welcome. He was riding, as usual, a splendid-looking specimen of a hackney, being always reckoned a good judge of a horse; but as the train waits for no one, except perhaps a Minister for Works or a Railway Commissioner, we bid each other good-bye and steam away for Tamworth proper, crossing the valley of the Peel and the river itself by a long viaduct and bridge, and curving away to the right, shortly afterwards pull up at the station, where on the platform I espy another old and esteemed friend, Mr, Frank Wyndham, who formerly owned the Boronga Station on the Macintyre River, but after many years of hard work and anxiety finally had to succumb to the combined forces of droughts, bad markets, and excessive rentals; but being one of the old sort, who never say die, he has established himself in business in Tamworth as a stock and station agent, and I was very pleased to learn he has succeeded very well in his undertaking, and is doing much better than he did in his squatting ventures. He deserves all the good fortune that time may have in store for him, for he is a “real white man,” whichever way you take him.