rushing from stem to stern day and night, not a stitch of dry clothing
to change! What a welcome sight the Sydney Heads were, and how glad I
was to set foot once more on _terra firma_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
NEW SOUTH WALES.
[Illustration]
I.
_A FEW OLD IDENTITIES._
This last trip had given me a surfeit of the sea, and I made up my
mind to settle down. In order to do so I looked about for some land
having a prospective value, and at last fixed on a spot on one of the
estuaries of Port Jackson, between the Parramatta and the Lane Cove
rivers, a narrow peninsula known as Hunter’s Hill.
A good deal of this land had been mixed up in some of the early “land
booms.” The principal portion belonged to Mrs. Reiby, better known in
olden times as “Margaret Catchpole.” Some blocks had been mortgaged by
Terry Hughes to the Bank of Australia—a bank that failed in the crisis
of 1842. Owing to these intricacies, and doubtful titles, the purchase
was made on advantageous terms. The work of securing a sound title was
in itself an incentive to purchase the property, which I did in spite
of all the forebodings and croakings of my friends.
I must confess that the locality did not enjoy a very wholesome
reputation. The Lane Cove river is bounded on one side by the Field
of Mars common—some 6800 acres of land which was, and had been,
“jumped” by some very rough people—old convicts, runaway sailors,
and jail-birds—who eked out a living by stealing timber and boating
firewood to Sydney.
One of the landmarks in the river—the “Butcher’s Block”—owed its name
to a foul murder. “Murdering Bay,” and “Tambourine Bay,” also had
a blood-stained chronicle. On Hunter’s Hill proper there were also
some reminiscences of the old felonry of New South Wales—one of the
grants having been the property of the Quaker, Towel, who suffered
the highest penalty of the law at Newgate for the murder of his
servant-maid.
Had I the pen of a romancer I could here depict some thrilling
stories, and record bloodcurdling anecdotes.
The “old hands” then living on the Lane Cove river in 1854 have now
joined the great majority. Dear old Mrs. Reiby, as worthy and beloved
an old lady as ever lived, often related to me the scenes so ably
related by the Rev. Archbold Cobbold in his “History of Margaret
Catchpole.” Hers is one of the many instances of the random justice
dispensed in England in the early days of the present century, when
people were sent out to Botany Bay for _crimes_ which now would barely
go beyond the jurisdiction of a Police Court bench.
“Black Charley,” “Billy the Bull,” and sundry other old identities,
like the Quaker “Towel,” were, however, characters of a different
type; and though they had more _luck_ than the latter, and escaped
the rope, their career in New South Wales was not altogether free
from occasional encounters with the “beak.” The body of a Jamaica
black-fellow—one of the firewood dealers of the Field of Mars—was
one day found on a projecting rock, the head almost severed from the
trunk; hence the name “Butcher’s Block.” The perpetrators of the deed
were never traced, but I have strong suspicions that the murderers did
not live very far from the spot.
Tambourine Bay, close at hand, took its name from a well-known
person, whose “shanty” was built close by. This “lady” had musical
proclivities, and a particular talent for the instrument generally
played now-a-days by the corner man of a minstrel show. “Tambourine
Sal,” however, did not end her days in that locality. Whether her
beauty or her musical talent availed her, I cannot say; but she rose
out of her abject position, got married, and—romantic though it may
sound—one of her grand-children has since figured among the “highest
in the land”—another of the many instances of the “progress of New
South Wales.”
There are two more old identities of the Lane Cove river which I think
are worthy of notice in this narrative. The first might be remembered
by old colonists, who may have seen old “French Louis” paddling his
small canoe across Darling harbour two or three times a week, or heard
his rather rough language as he wended his unsteady steps back to his
boat. This almost centenarian was French by birth, and had run away
from a whaler at the beginning of the century. In the time when land
could be easily acquired he had purchased a water frontage at Miller’s
Point, where he resided in a bark hut, working on the wharves and
on board ships in the harbour. During a drunken spree he sold his
property for a bottle of rum and a “dump” (the centre part of a crown
punched out, which, to multiply coinage, had then a value equal to the
rim of the five-shilling piece.) When sober, he vainly endeavoured
to regain possession of his grant papers. Failing in this, he gave
himself up to drink, and so impaired his intellect that he was driven
out of the city, and took refuge under a rock at the entrance of the
Lane Cove river, eking out a living by the sale of oysters, which he
took over to Sydney in an outrigger—s.s. Island Canoe—and, I am sorry
to say, seldom returned sober, until I chanced to come across him, and
by dint of patient and close examination elicited his past history.
It was rather a difficult matter to redeem this unfortunate old man.
However, by gradually gaining his confidence, I succeeded in removing
him to the French Consulate, housing him comfortably in one of the
out-buildings, where the poor old chap spent the last year of his life
in comfort and _sobriety_. He died in peace, and, strange to say, on
the very spot which he had bartered for a paltry coin and a bottle of
the diabolical mixture which deprived him of both his reason and a
fortune.
During one of my first excursions in this ill-famed district I landed
in one of the bays to make inquiries as to the ownership of a piece
of adjoining land. In a very dilapidated hut, devoid of furniture of
every kind—indeed, without any apparent signs of even food—I found
an old man, barely covered with tattered garments, haggard-looking,
emaciated, almost a living skeleton; and, worse still, _stone
blind_! Despite the wretched condition he was in, one could
detect in the looks, and more particularly in the address of this
unfortunate creature, an undeniable stamp of gentility. A few moments’
conversation sufficed to convince me that my first impression was a
correct one. This poor creature, formerly a Civil Servant attached to
the staff of Sir Ralph Darling, Governor of New South Wales, like many
unfortunate beings, had by his early folly lost his situation, and
found great difficulty in getting other employment. Sickness, and at
last the gradual loss of his sight, caused him to reach that degree of
poverty which is a hundred-fold worse to a man brought up in luxury.
Having had to part gradually with even his garments, he was at last
driven to live amongst the waifs of the city. When I found the
unfortunate wretch, he was living on the very scant charity of the
wood-cutters in the locality—sometimes days without food, and barely
covering enough for his shivering body.
On inquiry I found that the sad tale was true, in every word, and I
lost no time in altering the deplorable state of his affairs. With
the help of a few friends a fund was raised, the hut repaired and
furnished, and every comfort provided for the poor fellow. We imported
books for the blind, which he very soon taught himself to read.
Eventually I built my own house close to the spot, and for _fourteen
years_ seldom allowed a day to pass without spending a few moments
with my _protégé_—a man of highly cultured education, with a wonderful
memory, and truly a most entertaining companion.
During the stay of the Galatea in Sydney, in 1870, H.R.H. the Duke
of Edinburgh, to whom I related the man’s history, became very much
interested in the sad case; and although it has often been said that
the sailor Prince lacked in kindness of heart or liberality, I feel
great pleasure in stating that even the dreadful shock he sustained
when he was foully shot at by O’Farrell at Clontarf, did not make him
forget old Mr. Viret. When the Galatea was about leaving the port, I
was summoned to Government House. The Duke was in the midst of his
packing up prior to leaving. He met me most cordially, saying—
“I have not forgotten your blind friend, Mr. Joubert. Please send
me the name and address of his friends in London. I shall send for
them and see if I cannot prevail on them to make him an allowance.
Meanwhile I wish you to give him my best wishes, together with this
small present,”—which consisted of a five-pound note. The message, I
must say, caused the poor old fellow even greater pleasure than the
munificent donation, which, nevertheless, proved very acceptable.
The poor man died whilst I was away from the colony, but to the last
he was carefully looked after by the members of my family, and the
circle of friends who had rallied round him since he had been enabled
to resume the _outer_ appearance of gentility, and been honoured by a
Royal Duke. _Such is life!_
II.
_A LAND SPECULATION._
All these, and many other stories of the kind, certainly did not
improve the market value of this land for suburban villa sites. It
had, however, the effect of keeping the price low—there laid the
speculation. I bought the place with a perfect and thorough knowledge
of its foul reputation, and set to work in real good earnest to redeem
it—the position being good, the proximity to town an advantage, and
above all the fact that this peninsula, with a main thoroughfare on
the top of the hill, running from Ryde to Onion’s Point, admitted of
sub-divisions giving deep water frontages to every allotment. All that
was needed was some easy mode of access to and from the city, and, if
possible, the closing up of the Field of Mars common, which, besides
being a harbour for questionable characters, cut off the settlement
from Ryde, Pennant Hills, and Parramatta.
The only road to Sydney was a circuitous one involving a crossing of
the Parramatta river by means of an antiquated punt ferry at Tarban—a
distance of eleven miles; as the crow flies the actual distance from
Hunter’s Hill to the Sydney Post Office is barely four and a-half
miles.
But in order to carry the bee-line from the one point to the other it
was necessary to cross the water twice—first from Pyrmont to Balmain,
then again from Five Dock to the northern side of the Parramatta
River, near the Tarban Creek Lunatic Asylum. These two bridges, and
the formation of the road, I estimated at £60,000. To raise that
amount I proposed that the Government should re-assume the Field of
Mars common; issue debentures bearing 5 per cent. interest, payable
in 20 years; build the bridges, and, when the thoroughfare was open,
survey and cut up the common, which I felt convinced would, besides
benefiting all parties concerned, leave a fair margin of profit, and
open up a large area of Government land now entirely locked up owing
to want of access.
The first meeting to discuss this scheme I called at the end of 1853.
Like all such matters, it met with most violent opposition—first of
all from John Bull and _his rights_. The common had been given to _the
people_—what right had the Government to take it back? Then every man
wanted the bridge at his own door. The thousand and one difficulties
raised against the scheme—the dead-set opposition, in and out of
Parliament—far from deterring me from my object, acted as a stimulant.
The fight was a long and bitter one to the very end, but the end came
at last.
Thirty-three years, almost to a day, after the first meeting held in
No. 227 George street, in 1853, the bridges were finished and opened
for public traffic; and since that day several sales of land have been
held in the Field of Mars common—the results showing that my first
estimate of the value of that land was under-rated.
During the thirty years’ war for the bridges, other means had to be
resorted to to bring population to Hunter’s Hill. The Parramatta
river trade was a monopoly. Steamers, calling at unsuitable hours,
charged an exorbitant rate. The company was an old-established and
powerful one, and all attempts to run an opposition had failed. So
did all endeavours to get anything approaching unanimity amongst the
few people interested in the locality. Messrs. P. N. Russell and Co.
had on hand a small screw steamer which they were anxious to sell. I
looked at her, and after some haggling, chartered her at a low monthly
figure for six months, with right of purchase. On the first of the
following month the “Isabel” made her appearance at the wharf, and in
lieu of 2s. 6d. single, carried passengers to and from Sydney at 1s.
_return_. The first week or two proved rather uphill work, but when
the first month came to an end the number of passengers increased
materially, and it soon became evident that a larger boat would be
required.
The neck of the monopoly was broken. Overtures were made for a
compromise, fares were lowered, accommodation increased; but all of
no avail. I made up my mind that we should remain independent, and
from that day to this we have remained so. The fleet of handsome,
swift boats belonging to Hunter’s Hill have all originated from the
little unpretending “Isabel,” which all the jeering, ridicule, and
bitter jealousy of its powerful opponents could not put down. She was
nick-named the “Jezebel” and the “Puffing Billy,” and her safety was
cried down. But she kept up her course in spite of it all, and with
all her insignificance proved to be the originator of a new line which
has tended to bring up the value of land from £5 an acre to £5 _a
foot_!! The opening of the direct communication over the bridges has
also, as it was natural to expect, brought on railways and trams from
the city, and further increased the value of the land, which has now
reached £10 and £15 a foot, and converted the locality into one of the
most populous, thriving suburbs of Sydney.
Building having always been a favourite hobby of mine, led me to put
up a good many houses at Hunter’s Hill. In order to carry out my
building scheme, and to do so profitably, I sent home to Lombardy for
some artisans under special contract. This, as might be expected, gave
rise to a good deal of discontent amongst the working class. However,
I had made a very binding agreement with my men, and held them more
particularly by the fact that they had no knowledge of English.
Besides, on the first attempt made to turn them off their engagements,
I at once met the difficulty by a system of piece-work, which enabled
them to work long hours, and actually make wages far beyond their
expectations. When my operations at Hunter’s Hill came to an end, the
assistance of these seventy odd tradesmen enabled me to take contracts
in and around Sydney for large buildings, wharves, &c., which we
carried out on the co-operative system most profitably, in spite of
trades and trades’ unions.
[Illustration]
III.
_A HARD KNOCK._
Had I kept at such works, and left mercantile pursuits to those who
were better able to cope with such risky ventures, things might have
prospered better; but, however, fate would have its way, and the
consequence, hastened by the failure of the Agra Bank, led me into
a loss of £54,000, which swallowed up all my hard-earned savings,
properties, &c. Once more I had the world before me.
It is not in my nature to throw up the sponge, nor am I given to
moping over pecuniary losses. My creditors proved their appreciation
of the manner of working out the estate by presenting me with the
deeds of the place I had built for myself on the banks of the Lane
Cove river. There I stayed, looking around for a new field.
The Agricultural Society of New South Wales, of which I was a
member, held a meeting in February, 1867, when a very unsatisfactory
balance-sheet, showing a debit balance, was produced. A resolution
proposed to wind up and close that institution, was seconded, and
would have been carried, had I not moved as an amendment, “That,
instead of winding up this useful institution, it be re-constructed
on a broader basis, a new council appointed, the seat of the society
removed from Parramatta to Sydney, and a _show_ advertised in
the course of six months from date, offering £800 in prize-money,
and certificates for horses, cattle, sheep, poultry, pigs, wool,
wine, farm and dairy produce, as well as implements, machinery,
and manufactures.” The meeting was rather taken aback by the bold
proposal, but there were amongst the members of the moribund society
a few men such as Sir E. Deas Thomson, Sir W. MacArthur, John Oxley,
John Wyndham, Howard Reid—now, I am sorry to say, all gone to join
the great majority. These were the men to help any country or society
out of difficulties. I had very little trouble, with the co-operation
of such help-mates, in reconstructing the society on a new and firm
basis. I gladly entered into my new honorary functions.
The Cleveland Paddock (now the Prince Alfred Park) was then a
quagmire with a filthy drain running across it—a plague spot. This
I at once selected for our new show-grounds. Draining, fencing in,
and levelling, were easy works, soon accomplished. Having obtained
the free use of the newly-erected Cleveland School, for fine art,
manufacturers’, and horticultural exhibits, I built sheds, pens,
&c., all over the paddock. Entries came in far in excess of our most
sanguine expectations. The great day was approaching.
The 26th of August came, but with it one of those downpours which are
only met with in tropical and semi-tropical countries. Our poor show
certainly looked very dismal. The first day was something disastrous.
On the night of the 26th, however, stars came out—mine must have been
among them. On the 27th the gate returns gave £l,100! This kept up
well throughout the four days; but what crowned all our efforts was
the high price realised for all the blood stock offered at auction.
It had been a bold enterprise, but the great success achieved amply
rewarded us for our hard work.
As the old adage has it, “Nothing succeeds like success.” Before the
end of the year our members’ roll had increased from 63 to 2000. The
society was fairly on its legs, with a substantial credit balance,
central offices, a library, laboratory, &c., &c., and last, though
not least, a monthly journal. The gratitude of the stock-breeders, as
well as that of the citizens of Sydney, for having brought about such
a result, assumed a very tangible form. A service of silver plate and
a heavy purse of sovereigns was presented to me at the annual general
meeting, when I was asked to assume the management of the concern.
This is the origin of the exhibitions which for many years have been
held annually in Sydney and other cities in Australia.
The success of this first attempt, however, showed the necessity to
have permanent buildings, and at the suggestion of the Council of the
Agricultural Society, the Corporation of the city of Sydney obtained
parliamentary sanction to appropriate the Cleveland Paddock, endow it,
and erect the building which stands there still, and has proved of so
much use to the city for exhibitions and other great public gatherings.
Following in the footsteps of the Agricultural Society of New South
Wales, similar institutions have been started in other parts of the
colony, in Victoria, Queensland, and South Australia. The great
improvement in the breed of stock, as well as the development of many
of the resources of the Australian colonies, are in a great measure
due to the efforts of the indefatigable members of the council of that
useful institution, which, I am sorry to say has, I am told, come to
an untimely end owing to mismanagement and the jealous element of the
various branches.
[Illustration]
IV.
_HOME, SWEET HOME._
It was during my secretaryship of the Agricultural Society of New
South Wales that we originated the notion of holding an International
Exhibition in Sydney and Melbourne, as a sequel to the Exposition
Universelle of 1878 (Paris). In order to work up this scheme I was
deputed to go to France, and whilst there acted as secretary to the
New South Wales Commission.
This trip to Europe, after an absence of forty years, I look upon
as one of the brightest events in my long career. I had never felt
home-sick, but still, as I came nearer and nearer to my native home,
all the old love came back for the dear spot. I can hardly convey the
feeling of delight I experienced when the train approached the great
city, and in the hazy distance I once again recognised the outline of
the familiar, and, to all French-born, beloved PARIS!!
My almost childish love for Paris had helped me from afar to follow
all its vicissitudes. I had read with heart-breaking feelings the sad
events of the several revolutions, the Franco-German war, the siege;
and, worse than all, the Commune. I had read in all their heartrending
details the destruction and desecration of that marvellous city, and
I must confess was amazed to find it more marvellous, handsomer, more
enchanting than ever! With the exception of the Tuileries and the
Palace of St. Cloud, not a vestige of the vandalism of the Commune,
not a trace of the barbaric invasion of the Germans were left. Like
the Phœnix of the fable, Paris had risen from its ashes brighter and
more attractive than ever.
Forty years is a long time to be away from one’s native land, yet as
soon as I landed I found myself quite at home. I delighted in long
rambles in the old familiar haunts. The morning after my arrival I
threw open the window of my bedroom, at the Hotel du Nouvel Opera, in
the Chaussée d’Antin, recognised the Rue Joubert opposite, and at once
remembered that this well-known and familiar street (named after my
uncle) led straight to the gates of the College Bourbon, where I had
spent so many of my school days. The temptation was irresistible. I
ran downstairs straight for the old spot, and without any hesitation
through the courtyard into the class-room, to the precise form where
so many years ago I had sat.
Lost in thought, I did not notice the entrance of the old _portière_,
who querulously called upon me to explain such an untimely visit.
My attempt at an explanation evidently confirmed her suspicions
of the insanity she very naturally attributed to me. It took some
persuasion, weighted by the irresistible gift of a five-franc piece,
to make her believe that I was in reality one of the old pupils. A
further explanation brought out the fact that her husband was the
“drummer boy” of my school days. A few moments’ chat with the “boy,”
now advanced in years, made matters easy, and from him I ascertained
that of all the old masters only one remained—Mons. Chapuizy—living
on a small pension, in the Rue St. Fiacre. Having ordered a cab, I
drove down to that address, ascertained that the dear old professor
had rooms on the fifth flat, where I readily found the venerable
gentleman—just out of bed—wrapped up in a tattered old morning gown.
His reception, like that of the _portière_, was at first rather stiff;
the name on my card did not avail to wake up his memory.
It was only after many reminiscences brought to his mind that he
resolved on offering me a chair. His first questions were rather
amusing. He had evidently more knowledge of classics than of
geography. New South Wales, Sydney, even Australia itself, seemed
quite unknown to him. From the abject surroundings of the apartment, I
guessed the penury of the occupant; and in order to loosen effectually
the tongue of Mons. Chapuizy, I suggested that he should dress and
accept a _déjeuner_ at the nearest best restaurant, where, within
half-an-hour, we sat in a private room. A couple of bottles of wine,
and a breakfast such as I am sure the old gentleman had not seen for
many days, quite melted his heart, and brushed off the cobwebs which
evidently clouded his memory.