The second summer I spent at Broom was hotter than usual, owing to
extensive bush fires. The mountains in front of the house were a
magnificent sight. At night sometimes we would see the “fire king”
clearing all before him stealthily, leaving paths of flame as he went,
then surrounding a mighty tree, creeping from stem to branch, until
amidst a shower of sparks it fell into its “gold and scarlet
grave,”--these, with masses of undergrowth like beacon fires, making any
pyrotechnic display look poor by comparison.
I spent part of the Christmas holidays with Mrs. Blomfield at Eurund in
a very pretty house on the other side of Mudgee, visiting Wilber and the
Pipeclay diggings while there. We started early one morning for the
latter, well provided with luncheon baskets. After driving over very
indifferent roads through bush paddocks, we arrived at “the creek,”
where there were several parties of diggers washing gold on its banks.
“The first thing,” suggested one of our party, “for us to see is ‘Long
Tom’ at work,” pointing to a group of men; “there he is.” I had a dim
recollection of a nautical individual with the lugubrious addition of a
coffin in some drama, or perhaps one of the characters belonging to my
brother’s pasteboard theatre, and therefore thought, when we drove up to
this group, the man Mr. Blomfield spoke to was “Long Tom,” and a tired,
untidy woman sitting near Mrs. Long Tom. But no, I was wrong, for going
a little farther, we came upon a party consisting of four men, and the
real “Long Tom” or cradle, was a narrow trough filled with earth, into
which water flowed through a kind of funnel; the cradle was rocked, and
the gold washed from the earth fell into a tin dish. While we stood
watching, they got about half an ounce, as it was very rich on this
spot. The men’s clothes were a bright yellow, and no wonder, for the
water of the creek looked, as Mr. Blomfield said, “as though the late
Mr. Turner, R.A., had washed his brushes in it after painting a sunset.”
After seeing all that was to be seen here, we went on to New Pipeclay
diggings; an enormous rabbit-warren-like place, the huts scattered about
not very unlike hutches. Our carriage drew up to the side of a hole
surrounded by logs of wood, on the top of which was a windlass, where a
man stood every now and then answering some one below, whose voice
sounded very sepulchral. Presently the man above called out, “Dinner,”
and quickly drew his mate up like he would a bucket of water, very gruff
and pipe-clayey and slightly dazed by the light. We drove through the
principal street, the children--all of the prevailing terra-cotta
colour--staring at “the ladies.” No doubt dirt-pie-making was their
principal amusement, plenty of material lying about. Margie inquired of
her husband, “What would Jane think of this dirty place? the proverbial
peck of dirt must be eaten all at once, for everything is peppered with
the dust, and the water yellow with the clay. How dreadful for clean
muslins!” As there was not much to see at New Pipeclay, we determined to
drive four or five miles farther to “New Old Pipeclay.” Being in doubt,
we inquired the way of a digger, who, with the usual delightful
vagueness of that wandering class, directed us wrong, and we found
ourselves driving over a ploughed field. Start out, English farmer; as I
have said before, crops in Australia are not petted and protected as
with you. The owner of this, standing at his door, slowly advanced, and
then kindly took us to the nearest slip-rail. Evidently horses and
vehicles planting their autographs over his fields were everyday
occurrences, as he said nothing about it: he moved slowly, spoke little,
and his appearance generally gave one the idea that he was a stranger to
the order of the bath. He pointed out the nearest road, and then rested
against his boundary fence watching us, as much as to say, “What can
people like them want to go poking about diggings for, in this hot
weather too?” We found “New Old Pipeclay” more warren-like than the one
we had seen. Here we left the vehicles and watched four men working a
large claim, the gentlemen of our party entering into conversation with
those above, and then accepting an invitation to “go below.” We were all
invited, but Margie and I declined, and amused ourselves by picking up
specimens of quartz and crystals from the heaps around the claim. When
the gentlemen appeared, followed by more men, they were so delighted at
all they had seen that Margie and I regretted we had not braved the
dangers of windlass and dust; but it was too late now. As a consolation
one of the men gave us some large crystals, which a few years after
caused quite a sensation amongst my many Sydney friends. After giving
the diggers some money to “wash the pipeclay out of their throats,” we
started for home, driving through the place just as the men were leaving
off work. “We are driving over gold-mines, Jim,” said one of the
gentlemen. “Yes, and look at the miserable hovels the people live in who
are bringing it from the under world.” Hovels, indeed! More than one had
only a hole in the roof for a chimney; a few had casks fixed for the
purpose; but there was no attempt to keep the places neat. Yes, in two
or three were evidences of a woman’s home, in a rough railing covered
with creeping plants, or a show of curtains at the little windows. A
tidy female, watching from the open door of a hut, attracted one of our
friends; he rode up, asking, “Are we to take the right or left road.” On
her answering, we left him still talking. When he joined us again, he
said, “That is a countrywoman of yours, Miss L----; only a few years out
from Wales.” She says the dirt and muck here will drive her mad; but
her man is making a good pile. Digging for gold is better than digging
for iron in the old country; but when they have enough, they are going
back. Ah, that going back to the quiet peaceful village life! how few do
return; and if they do, are they the same innocent, contented country
folk, after living in such pandemoniums, as the early gold-fields too
often were? How many homes and lives were ruined by the lust for gold in
those early days of colonial life, only those who were living there can
know. How many wives and children were deserted the Destitute Children’s
Asylum at Randwick or the asylums for old men and women could answer.
The next winter was a very severe one in Mudgee, and I saw a real fall
of snow in Australia. A large party was given by the wealthy owner of
Havilah at the School of Arts; and Mrs. Robinson had kindly invited a
number of ladies to dress at “The Bank.” We had commenced this important
business when Mrs. Robinson, calling me, said, “Come here, Miss L----,
and look at the whitest dress you will see to-night.” I at once went to
the drawing-room window, at which my friend stood, and saw roads,
gardens, and roofs covered with snow. Our young friends were soon with
us admiring the wintry white; but the cold drove them back to the warm
rooms. I could not leave the window for some time, the “beautiful snow
recalled so much.” “Yes,” whispered my friend, putting her arm round me;
“I can understand and read your thoughts. This does bring back the dear
old country, which, with all its faults, is the one land to us.” It was
cold that night--bitterly so, as many felt who had to ride or drive many
miles home after the dance was over. The Agricultural Show was our next
amusement. It was a fine cool autumn, and we had several picnic parties
on the grounds. Viewing sheep, cattle, horses, and wool for the sterner
sex; vegetables, flowers, preserves, butter, etc., etc., for us ladies
to criticise, gave all a “good time.” These country meetings there were
very pleasant; everybody knew everybody; friendly greetings from high
and low drew the bonds of kindly, neighbourly feelings closer, as to a
certain extent all were equal. Farmer B----’s cattle and produce were
as good if not better than some of his wealthier neighbours’. The rich
Mrs. Robinson’s butter was beaten by that of a tenant’s wife. The poorer
could with truth and sincerity say of the richer, “How kind they are to
help us over any difficulty, or come to see us when sickness or sorrow
entered our humble homes!” Not many months after this their deep
sympathy was evinced with their richer neighbour, Mr. Charles, by one
humble mother coming forward in the hour of deepest need at Broom, when
the reaper Death claimed the young mother there.
My life had been full of changes, not untouched by sorrow and
bereavements, and this sudden ending of a young and energetic life was a
terrible experience. The three little children were left motherless; one
was only just able to ask for mamma: “When will she come home? I want
her.” The other two were unconscious of that want. How my heart ached
for them. After remaining at Broom until a connection of the family took
charge of the house and my pupils’ education, I left for Mulgoa, having
arranged with Mrs. James to meet her a few miles from Broom, as they
were travelling from their station. This journey was a very different
experience of Australian travel, for we drove in a comfortable
waggonette, making short stages, and stopping at quiet inns. We stayed
at Bowenfels one day, so I was able to judge what a pretty place it was,
with its two principal estates and farms. Many English trees flourish
there; indeed, all those I see every day in our garden here grew well.
I gazed now for the last time on the valleys and fern-covered slopes of
the Blue Mountains before “the iron horse” made them to a certain extent
lose their novelty. Yet who would complain, when progress gives pleasure
to thousands, where tens only were able to enjoy it?