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THE GOLDEN SOUTH
THE
GOLDEN SOUTH
MEMORIES OF AUSTRALIAN HOME LIFE
FROM 1843 TO 1888
BY
‘LYTH’
‘Such is the patriot’s beast, where’er we roam,
His first, best country ever is at home.’
LONDON
WARD AND DOWNEY
1890
INTRODUCTION
As I stood on the deck of one of the largest of the Peninsular and
Oriental Company’s steamers, that now almost annihilate distance between
England and her colonial possessions, taking a last look at the land
where I had left youth, womanhood, kindred, friends, and the dust of
parents, I thought, “Is there anything I can do in return for all God
has done for me here--anything to prove my gratitude to the many true
friends I am leaving: the Australians, young and old, who have thronged
around us to bid us farewell?” Nearly half a century has passed since
the good ship _Euphrates_ came to anchor in this, one of the grandest
harbours of the world, and I stood, as I am now standing, looking at the
beautiful shores of Sydney Harbour. But what a change! Then few signs of
habitation were to be seen, and now one sees stately mansions, countless
and beautiful, surrounded by foliage almost to the water’s edge, silent
witnesses of God’s goodness and man’s perseverance. One stately house
there was, with battlements and tower, set in terraced grounds, with
beautiful trees, shrubs, and flowers that only bloom under glass in
colder climes; and over all a sky blue and transparent beyond
description. In this house there dwell the descendants of two who stood
near me when first I saw this lovely land. They are now in a still safer
and more beautiful haven, having lived a good life here, and left their
children the priceless inheritance of a stainless name. Two of that
family have just left us; I need not say, “Go and do likewise,” for
already they have laid up treasures in heaven.
Why do I wish to write of Australia, more especially of New South Wales,
when such men as Froude, Trollope, and Forbes have done so? Firstly, I
promised, and secondly, because travellers like those mentioned are
merely birds of passage for a few months or weeks, staying amongst us,
feted by a few men in power or position, travelling by special trains
through the country, or on mere pleasure excursions, seeing what is to
be seen under the most favourable conditions, and listening to
interested or interesting descriptions of places and people that they
have not had time to investigate. They leave without having the
slightest idea of the real homes, lives, intellects, and capabilities of
either country or people; and of the best families, scattered over her
vast territory, they know little or nothing. The descendants of military
and naval men, doctors, lawyers, clergymen, and merchants of the old
days, too often not the richest or most powerful men now. Therefore
travellers in these days come and go, either disparaging or fulsomely
praising, just as some do who have visited England, and give a bad
impression of our people and homes. I cannot help alluding to this, as I
have heard many stories of colonists’ behaviour when in England during
the Colonial Exhibition in London. These may be, and no doubt were, in
many instances true, still, if we were to judge the English people, or
indeed any nationality, by those who have visited our shores since the
“gold mania,” I am afraid our experience would be equally unfortunate.
No! let us not be too hasty in judging the many by the few; to my
readers in both countries I say it. This record of a woman’s life and
experience does not pretend to any literary talent; it is written with
the hope of bringing the people of both homes nearer together,
especially the young. Let the older country have patience with the
younger, and lead them by patience and experience, as well as timely
advice, to serve their God, Queen, and country.
To the younger I dedicate “The Golden South.”
CHAPTER I
On a cold dull March morning we left our home in London for the Waterloo
Station, to go by the London and South-Western line to Southampton, from
thence to Portsmouth to join our ship. After dining at the Ship Hotel,
we went on board the vessel which was to be our abode for four months
and a fortnight. Now, though nearly fifty years have passed, I see the
place and recall the strangeness of it all. The ship was an old East
Indiaman with only four large cabins opening into the saloon or “cuddy,”
as it was then generally called. Our family had two of these, so we were
very well off for room and comfort. We left on 25th March, and were
tossing about the famed Bay of Biscay until 10th April. As I am not
writing a diary of our voyage, I will merely mention its chief
incidents. On the 12th of May, when south of the equator, we sighted a
French vessel bound to Buenos Ayres, that diverged from her course with
the view of “speaking” to us. They invited us to dinner; but on our
refusal, accepted an invitation instead to dine with us. The captain and
two passengers were to be our guests, our boat going for them. They
were most delightful people, and Frenchmen-like, full of compliments to
our cook. As some of our passengers spoke their language fluently, the
result was a very pleasant change in the usual monotony of a long
voyage. Just imagine such a thing being done in these days of steam and
quick passages: the passengers from one vessel dining on board another,
spending a few hours, then returning, and being near enough to hear the
music played on board of each vessel, the Frenchmen vainly trying to
give us “God save the Queen.” We were able to give them the
“Marseillaise” splendidly, having some good musicians on board. On 30th
May we encountered a terrible gale, carrying away part of our bulwarks
on the lee side: during this dreadful weather what was left of our live
stock died. This weather continued till 8th June when off Table Bay, and
we had to lay-to all night. No one thought of sleep. Tales of phantom
ships and wrecks recurred to the nervous. However, about 9 A.M. of the
9th June we anchored safely in the bay. We were unable to land for some
hours, but at last went on shore and took rooms at the George Hotel.
What a rest from the unceasing noise of a ship and all its miseries to
the landsmen! Cape Town was lovely, at least I thought so,--very
different from England, the deep red-clay of the roads, numbers of
natives, strange waggons drawn by bullocks, the mountains for a
background, and now (while off it) the beautiful sea in front. The
bazaar-like shops, strange carriages and horses, the hotel so different
from anything I had ever seen--all come back as a picture, as I write.
We remained at the Cape until the 19th June, and had many drives. In
carriages drawn by six small horses we started for Upper Constantia, Van
R----’s vineyard and wine estate, where there is a well-constructed
house of modern style, elegantly furnished. In the garden there was a
Kaffir’s hut, with clay figures life-size, orange trees, subtropical
fruit trees, and flowers everywhere around. We were conducted through
the cellars, and tasted the wine, which has so great a reputation. We
went also to Lower Constantia, where the vineyard of Van C---- is
situated. This was quite a different style of place, close to the
mountains, with the house, garden, and people of the old Dutch type. In
the cool garden violets, primroses, and other English flowers were
blooming, the last I saw for many a day, and those dearest to me never
saw again. We were delighted with the wildflowers, my father making a
collection for his herbarium,--geraniums, phlox, and many others.
While at the Cape there was a ball given at Government House, to which
some of our passengers went, my father and mother among the number, and
in that out-of-the-way place the former met an old schoolfellow; so even
in those early days, when steam was almost in its infancy, the smallness
of the world was exemplified.
We left on the 19th June, and had very favourable weather, only having
two gales, in one of which we lost a man overboard--the carpenter. We
had three families of returning colonists,--the Attorney-General,
Archdeacon C----, with his wife and two children, and another lady and
gentleman, with one child. Divine service was held every Sunday, and
though the archdeacon was seventy-five years of age, he was a good
preacher and very active. He had gone home blind from cataract, but
Alexander, the famous oculist, restored his sight.
As we neared the end of our voyage, it became very monotonous to some,
as we were growing tired of one another; and to those who were going to
an unknown country and who had heard a great deal more about that
country than they had known prior to leaving, there was a dread of “what
the future might hold in store for us”; and in my own family especially
this thought would intrude. “We had better have remained in England;”
but it was too late now.
We were sailing through Bass Straits, passing islands, and with the
Tasmanian land to the south of us, in a few days expected to see the
land of “The Golden South.” We passed Sydney Heads late, and until the
anchor was let go did not know that we had at last reached our
destination. A resounding knock at our Venetians made me wake up.
“K----,” said my mother, “we are in fairyland; look out of the port.” I
did, and my eyes were dazzled by the brilliant sunrise of an Australian
August morning, the long white beaches fringed by heights wooded down to
the rippling bay. I was very soon on deck, and even now can almost feel
the thrill of delight at the view then presented before me. Many have
seen this and written of its loveliness since, in these days of travel;
but not as I saw it then, as to a certain extent man’s improvements
(save the mark!) have marred some of the Master’s works. Few houses were
to be seen, only a few cleared spaces surrounded with trees of the most
luxuriant foliage. We waited till the health officer came on board and
pronounced “All well;” then the pilot took charge of the ship, and we
were soon gliding towards the anchorage, from which we could see Sydney
and the north shore with its few houses buried in foliage. Soon the deck
was crowded.
Our archdeacon’s eldest son, I think, was the first on board to greet
the parent so loved and respected. “I can see you now,” were the old
man’s words of greeting. We were soon standing on the quay, a small
affair then, and entered the hired close carriages brought by my
father’s partner to take us to his house. We drove along George Street,
past the Gaol and Barracks, then into Pitt Street. “Well! what do you
think of it, K----?” asked my mother, I suppose from seeing the blank
look on my face; I was so dreadfully disappointed. “It is like E----,
where we stayed last summer, not a bit like a foreign country; Cape Town
is much prettier.” “Ah! Miss K----, you will find it foreign enough by
and by,” remarked our host. My mother was delighted at what troubled me.
“I can fancy myself at home sometimes,” she murmured. She was a true
child of the city. London had always been her home, and though, for her
children’s sake, she left it every summer for the country, she only
endured the change, and like Charles Lamb, saw nothing in it. “London
suits me best, and humanity is more satisfying than mountains, trees, or
flowers.” Poor mother! I remembered afterwards our host looked pityingly
at her beautiful face when she said this.