I unexpectedly joined the party I am now attempting to describe, and
leaving my own travelling spring-van at the church-door, took a seat in
their cart. On arriving at the farm, the elder son met the party at the
slip-rail (homely gate). He was a tall, healthy, open-hearted lad, who
greeted us with—
“Come, Mother, be careful. Jump out, girls. Now, Mrs. C——, how welcome
you are; and the dinner just ready! Ah! you need not tell me who gave
you the sermon: he’s as good as the clock.”
As the girls had all been to church, and there was no female servant in
the house, the description of this rural home, and a short detail of the
dinner, may be acceptable.
The family room was large, with a commodious fire-place. The table was
laid for twelve; the plates and dishes were of blue delf; the knives and
forks looked bright and shiny. It may be remarked, that the Settler’s
table in New South Wales is somewhat differently arranged from what one
is accustomed to see in England, for here the knife and fork were placed
at the right of the plate, while a chocolate-coloured tea-cup and saucer
stood at the left; a refreshing cup of tea being made a part of the
dinner repast. By the fire-place might be seen a large black pot, full
of potatoes, with a white cloth laid on the top for the purpose of
steaming them. Again, at the outer door might be noticed the son with a
man-servant, looking into an oven, and drawing from thence a large
hind-quarter of pork, followed by a peach pie.
“Lend a hand here!” shouted the son.
“Ah! I thought you could not do without me,” said the father.
“Keep the youngsters out of the way, and look about you, girls;” cried
the mother.
Moving where I could better see the cause of the outcry, a round of
beef, cut large and “handsome,” as the settlers say in the Bush, had
been forced into a pot; but no fork, although a Bush-fork is rather a
formidable tool, could remove it.
“You ought to have put a cord round it,” remarked the mother.
“Turn the pot on one side,” said the father.
“Over with it; out with it; shake!—oh, here we have it now.”
As the pot was removed, the beef was seen to advantage, reeking in a
bright clean milk-pan.
“Now, let us make it look decent,” said the self-trained cook, as with
his knife he cut the out-pieces off to improve its appearance. His
trimmings were substantial cuttings, and displayed to advantage the fine
quality of the beef; each cutting he threw to his dogs, as they watched
at a respectful distance his operations. Now, though some of my readers
may not much admire this bush-culinary art, and this mode of dishing-up
a dinner, still there was in the whole scene so much of honest
hospitality, so much of cheerful and good humoured hilarity, exhibiting
in the most pleasing form the simple manners of a primitive people,—the
germs, in fact, of the class of English yeomanry, too often unable to
flourish in their own native land, ingrafted and revived in a foreign
distant shore, that even the most fastidious and refined could not but
feel at such a moment a peculiar zest in joining a family so innocently
happy and guileless as this, surrounded as they were by abundance of all
the essential necessaries of life. Not a shade of care clouded the
party, as they sat down with thankfulness to partake of those things
with which God had blessed their labour.
The arrangement of the table was something in unison with the rest. The
pork, so well seasoned, graced the head of the table, while the burly
piece of beef, now reeking and streaming from its late trimming, was
placed before the honest master of this patriarchal family, with a
plentiful supply of potatoes, peas, and greens, ranged in their proper
places. As soon as the party had partaken of the substantials, the
eldest daughter poured tea into the cups set by each one’s plate—for
this is the custom amongst the Australian settlers; at the same time the
good landlady cut up the peach pie.
The eldest son could now be seen through an open doorway, peering again
into the rudely constructed oven, from which he pulled, with a good deal
of self-importance and glee, an orange tart, whilst his assistant-cook
placed custards on the table in tumblers. The good wife looked amazed,
the husband thoughtful.
“How did you get the oranges,” asked the mother.
“Why, Frank Gore brought ’em,” he replied.
“And who made the custards?”
“_I_ made ’em!”