Once more I was meditating another flight into the country. My friend
had recovered, and was able to resume the care of her house and family.
Sydney never agreed with me, and I so much preferred a country life.
Fortunately hearing of an engagement in a family where I knew I should
be happy, I bade my friends farewell, and thought, “The world is all
before me where to choose; my peace of rest with Providence my guide.”
This journey of two hundred miles was begun under better auspices,
travelling by train to Penrith, remaining a night with my friends there,
who saw me the next morning comfortably seated in a good coach drawn by
fine horses, a turn-out for the road very different from that I had
hitherto known. The roads were in much better condition, and the inn
accommodation improved; but before we arrived at Bowenfels, my
anticipation of an uneventful journey was dispelled, as our respectable
vehicle was changed for a wreck of the old school, harness tied with
rope, horses not well broken in. The usual tomahawk and pieces of spare
rope handed in, recalled my first journey’s experiences. As I expected,
at every bit of rising ground the horses jibbed, the driver requesting
the passengers--a lady, a lame man, and myself--to get out. We did so,
and then went on again a few miles, with the same result, at least the
jibbing, as the driver got down to lead the horses this time. But as the
horses would not move, the driver called to the man on the box, “Hit the
nearest to you with your crutch.” He obeyed;--result, it kicked
furiously. “Jump out,” screamed the man, which we did at once. Men,
coach, and horses then disappeared. My companion showing signs of
hysterics, I scolded her, and suggested running down the hill to see
what had happened, dreading to look when we neared the spot where the
coach stood. Fortunately another hill had stopped the horses, and the
man had kept his hold of the reins. The driver’s left arm was broken and
one of the shafts, so we had to remain while the poor fellow went off
the road to a shepherd’s hut for assistance. Two men came, made a sling
for the driver’s arm, tied the shaft together with some of the rope, and
hammered at the wheels. It was a terribly anxious time, as the driver
asked us to watch the wheels in case they came off. However, at last we
arrived at the stage two hours behind time; the shaft was repaired, and
another driver got; but he being a stranger, the disabled man had to go
as far as Bowenfels. How earnestly I wished this pretty spot had been my
destination, being completely worn out with fatigue and fright. Fresh
passengers started with us--a young couple belonging to a _variété
troupe_ at Mudgee, whose merry chatter and too loudly expressed
astonishment at Australian travel amused me. They were only just out
from California, and described their experiences most graphically, as no
doubt they would those of the present trip, as well as that we had just
undergone, for my companion related the whole of it. I was rejoicing at
leaving them ten miles the Sydney side of Mudgee, it having been
arranged for Mr. Charles to send a buggy to meet me at a little inn near
the boundary of his estate. The mailman, however, said he was afraid our
being two hours late would prevent this; but as we drove into the inn
yard I saw the neat single buggy and man waiting. Now thankfully I bid
my travelling companions farewell, and sat too worn out to see anything
as we drove over grass and road to Broom. My last experience of coach
travelling in Australia had ended that night, leaving me stiff and
bruised for days. As I write this the sweet face of Mrs. Charles and her
cordial welcome is before me, as, bewildered by the lighted hall, she
took me by the hand and led me to my room, told me a warm bath was
ready, and she would send me in some tea. “You are tired, I can see.”
“Yes, and sore; look at my arm,” which was bruised with the iron of the
mail-coach. However the bath, delicate meal of chicken, and that panacea
for nervous troubles, tea, with some camphorated eau-de-Cologne, soon
soothed me to sleep, which lasted till late the next morning. When we
had become friends, Mrs. Charles told me I looked such a frail, delicate
creature that night, she felt inclined to take me in her arms and carry
me to my room. In fact, she had told her husband and three of his
brothers this when she returned to the drawing-room, adding, “She is
nearly killed with travelling in the horrid coach; her arms are black
with bruises. When will they have good coaches in Australia, I wonder?”
My new surroundings were quite different from any I had yet experienced
either in town or country. I was now on a sheep station, managed very
different from Nanima, and of much less extent, cleared and cultivated.
The house was an old one, partly surrounded by the shrubbery of
laurustines, lilacs, spiræa, and other flowering shrubs. At one end of
the verandah was a trellis of Isabella grape, covering many feet to an
enclosure at the back. The orchard was across a paddock in the front,
and growing close to the verandah at the back was a large orange tree, a
great rarity in the district. The hills in front, and the river at their
feet, with lands consisting of farms under cultivation, and so much land
cleared belonging to Broom, reminded me of places seen in England. We
were several miles from Mudgee, the road to which, through Burra estate,
owned by Mr. Charles’s brother, was a very pretty drive. Much of it was
tenanted by farmers, and at intervals groups of wattle, kurrajong,
willows, native apple, and other trees made charming vistas, with the
hills as background. I never tired of the drive to church on Sunday or
of shopping and paying visits during the week, particularly as our
carriage and pair of ponies were equal to any in Sydney.
Mudgee twenty-five years ago was a very good town, with churches,
banks, stores, a School of Arts or Mechanics’ Institute, and pretty
cottages; I certainly was surprised on my first visit to it. It was
situated two hundred miles from Sydney, over mountain roads in coaches
such as I have described, and only drays to bring everything from, and
wool and produce to, the city. No doubt, as several wealthy families had
settled and made homes in the immediate neighbourhood, their presence
tended to the somewhat rapid progress of this place. One family of three
brothers, each on separate properties, and several members of the family
I was with had properties in the district: these gentlemen all bearing
the same name, I had a difficulty in distinguishing brothers from
cousins.
Burra House had been Mr. Charles’s father’s first homestead in the
district, a very unpretentious bush house, now to be replaced by the
mansion his eldest son was building. When completed this was the largest
private residence near the town. Here he entertained the governor, the
bishop, and other distinguished visitors. I think his eldest son now
resides there, with the railway nearly “at his gates,” daily news from
Sydney, and friends able to run down for a few hours. But is it so
completely country life there now, with its characteristic freedom from
restraint, dress, and worry? When I remember Mudgee, we could dress
comfortably, drive a cart, and ride very rough-looking horses; and as
others did likewise, no unfavourable comments could be made.
Our household consisted of Mr. Charles, his young wife, her two
children, and two girls from a neighbouring estate to be educated with
Mr. Charles’s elder daughter. We seldom left Broom for exercise, as the
estate consisted of many acres, the river running through it, on the
opposite side of which were paddocks under cultivation. We had a rabbit
warren near, and many charming spots to visit on our side of the river;
communication with the other, when I first went there, was too risky for
my nerves. A fallen tree did not represent a bridge to me. Twice I
attempted it, and had ignominiously to sit down in the middle and allow
my pupils to lead me over, so I determined to wait until a proper
crossing-place was made for sheep-washing.
Our favourite walk was to a place I named “The Fairy Dell,” where we
often sat and watched “Bunny” at work and play. He has worked to some
purpose now in Australia, clearing all before him. How little the man
who first introduced the rodents thought what the result would be, or
how many thousands it would cost the Government and squatters to rid the
country of such pests! Not long after I left Broom, Mr. Charles had his
destroyed by burning them out of their holes. Hares will also become a
nuisance if not got rid of before making their way into the interior of
the country, where they can breed unmolested.
How many acclimatised prolific seed-bearing plants too have become as
bad, if not worse than those indigenous to the soil. Geraniums are grown
as hedges, pelargoniums grow three or four feet high in a couple of
years; clumps of heliotrope, gardenias, fuchsias, and Daphne thrive in
the open air and become large shrubs with thick stems; and such plants
as the sweet-briar will soon spread over uncultivated ground in the same
ratio. I have seen acres covered by it, with roots so embedded that it
required a team of bullocks to drag them out. Some early settler no
doubt rejoiced in having the sweet perfumed briar near his bush home to
remind him of the shady lanes of his native land. I never passed a hedge
of it in Parramatta without in imagination seeing a village near St.
Osyth Priory in Essex, where we passed many a summer’s day gathering the
crimson berries for necklaces to carry back to our London home, and felt
just as Australians will feel some day when they see the flowers of
their bright land blooming in hothouses in England. Childhood and youth
cast their glamour over the past. All is bright and fair in “Wonderland”
which the trail of the serpent has not touched. As I forgot in
Parramatta rain, fog, and gray-leaden skies, so will they forget hot
winds and droughts.
Life on such a sheep station as Broom was certainly an ideal one; we
enjoyed all the freedom of the country, with the advantages of being
near such a town as Mudgee and within reach of congenial society. As
usual, I was fortunate in this respect, meeting with a lady there, the
wife of a bank manager just from England, a delightful clever
woman--musical, well read, and well travelled. Her conversation was like
a fresh breeze from another world, a perfect revelation to me. At Broom
too we had Mr. Charles’s younger brother staying for months; he was a
cosmopolitan, had studied at Cambridge, and passed as a barrister in
Sydney, but was compelled through delicate health to live in the
country, and assisted in managing the out-station. He was somewhat of a
dilettante, played the cornet a little, painted a little, sang a little,
and read a great deal. His rooms were in a cottage across the courtyard,
and contained a curious collection of things bought during his travels,
amongst them part of an Egyptian mummy. Whoever the said mummy was in
the flesh, she would have been horrified at being kept in a large box,
in which music, books, paints, and numbers of other articles were stowed
away to clear the room. Mrs. Charles and I often amused ourselves
examining these treasures, and once when the owner was absent,
determined to tidy his two rooms, expecting thanks for the result of our
exercising of our organ of order, in bookcase, boxes, and drawers
presenting so different an aspect. But no; the ungrateful man only
grumbled, saying, “It will take a week before I can find anything; I
prefer my things mixed in a drawer or box, for then I am sure to find
them.” He was very fond of pets. One he waited on for a long time. Out
shooting on the mountains he discovered an eagle’s nest with eggs in it,
so calculating the time, went some weeks after, and watching the
parent-bird fly away, secured an eaglet, which grew to be a splendid
bird. Poor “Jupiter!” how we pitied it; chained to a post in the
grounds, he looked terribly melancholy. At last, to our delight, he
broke his chain and flew upwards; but not having full command of his
enormous wings, only went as far as the roof of the house, and with the
assistance of the men was recaptured. “Mulla,” my weekly pupils’ home,
was a relic of the past. It was one of the earliest bush houses, built
substantially in the same style as I see on these Hampshire
roads--bare-looking, with high small windows, narrow doorways, and
without verandahs. Mulla had one, but it was an addition since its
building; the garden in front too resembled those in this neighbourhood.
The owners of the property were natives of the colony, kind and
hospitable; I stayed there sometimes, occupying a quaint outside room.
The elder girls were excellent housekeepers, good daughters, and
sisters, all musical, and fond of reading, “my two girls” especially so.
The younger has since spent some time in India, and if the promise of
her girlhood is fulfilled, I am certain she has appreciated the contrast
with her quiet early home.