From Lapstone Hill I again saw the valley of the Grose, with the Nepean
River like a silver thread winding between banks and meadows fair. Emu
plains, with its many farms, nestling amidst the luxuriant autumn
foliage, formed a peaceful panorama. Mr. James kindly rested the horses,
allowing us to feast our eyes until the approach of a train reminded him
of progression, as he immediately remembered that we had some miles to
travel ere we reached Glenmore. However, the distance appeared less to
me, having so much to think of, past and future. We soon crossed the
bridge and drove through part of Penrith; then along the road to our
destination, which was so familiar to my companions and so strange to
me. One of the greatest trials of my life had been the inevitable
feeling of utter loneliness when first entering a family as a stranger,
where they were all so familiar, so bound up together by the ties of
home affection. My first impression of Glenmore was, “This place should
be called Florence, as it was, indeed, the home of flowers.” Hereford
House and others had been rich with “earth’s stars,” but not to compare
with the profusion and richness of bloom before me. The cottage at the
gate was covered with roses, honeysuckle, and the purple and white
maurandria. We drove between hawthorn hedges, with arched entrances to
orchard, vineyard, and orangery. The front of the house was literally a
carpet of flowers, as the gravelled sweep was covered with many coloured
portulacas and mignonette, which were allowed to grow and blossom during
the master’s and mistress’s absence. While the parents greeted their
elder children, I stood looking at the view before me. In the foreground
a large bed with trees and flowering shrubs, bordered by verbenas and
petunias of every hue; beyond croquet lawn, paddocks enclosed for
kangaroo and deer; then grassy slopes bounded by distant hills, clothed
from base to summit with foliage. The house was somewhat of the Italian
style, commodious, with large lofty rooms, double halls, and cool
passages; a long verandah covered with climbing plants on one side, into
which my room opened, and immediately in front of my window the opening
into the flower garden, which was always full of blossom, and showed
each season’s calendar written by Nature’s hand. The finest oak tree I
had seen for many a day was here, surrounded by a low hedge of
laurestines. Beyond this was the orangery, with the rich green of the
leafy trees, the snowy buds and blossoms then perfuming the air--a
veritable garden of the Hesperides. Fern Hill and Wimborne, the other
estates in “the valley,” were also in their different styles pleasant
country houses. The first was a modern mansion situated on rising
ground, with well-kept shrubberies, lawns, and vineyard. Wimborne had
many acres of cultivated land, parklike in extent. The house was large,
but more in the older colonial style of architecture. The owners of the
estates were related, so the picturesque church between Fern Hill and
Glenmore was like a private family chapel, as the congregation, with few
exceptions, consisted of the households of the three places. We had
service--conducted with great simplicity--alternately morning and
afternoon. It was pleasant to observe the family greetings in the porch
on Sundays. Sometimes we left Glenmore for walks in the neighbourhood.
One was an especial favourite--a deserted burial-place of an aboriginal
tribe on the banks of a creek. It was a very picturesque spot, thickly
wooded, with groups of trees with rude carvings on their trunks. I was
informed that they left their dead above ground, wrapped in rude
hammocks slung between trees, always selecting places near rivers or
creeks. Another object for long walks was the collecting of gum by the
children; at some seasons it literally poured down the trees. On seeing
this, I could understand the large deposits of Kauri gum dug out of the
ground in New Zealand, the accumulation of many years. Some mornings we
would go on a mushrooming expedition, our paddocks supplying us in great
profusion with these delicacies, so that our baskets were always well
filled.
The arrowroot grew plentifully at Glenmore, so Mrs. James had nearly a
hundredweight made one season. It was interesting to watch the process
of grinding the root into pulp, the cleansing of the muddy-looking wash
with many waters, until the sediment was a pure white, which is then
spread over calico and laid on the grass to dry.
For indoor amusements we had music, reading, and work. Mr. James had an
excellent library, and for modern literature a box from Maddock’s (our
Australian Mudie) kept us _au fait_ in the doings of the literary world.
Occasionally we had croquet parties on the lawn at Fern Hill, with
afternoon tea and claret cup. Playing at croquet, or watching the
graceful figures of our girls, and the elegant, genial hostess moving
amongst her guests, made a very pleasant diversion in the quiet home
life. Our household at Glenmore was a very happy one. Mrs. James, one of
the sweetest-tempered women I ever met, ruled her large family by love
and gentleness, and during three years’ residence under her roof I never
saw her angry or in any way ruffled, which, considering there were eight
children, from one to twenty years of age, at home, with three boys at
holiday time, was really wonderful. She had her two elder girls as
companions; I, my children, and one dear girl who rode over from Fern
Hill every day to join in our studies--clever, loving, little Lilly. How
we missed her when God gathered her for His garden of angels, and our
“happy valley” knew her only by the quiet grave which marked her
resting-place under the church’s shadow on the hill!
My long holidays were spent with various friends in Sydney. During one,
Sydney was _en fête_ in honour of the Duke of Edinburgh; this being the
first visit paid by a member of the Royal family to Australian shores.
James, Maria, and I watched the public reception from a stand in
Macquarie Street, and from our friend’s windows in Cumberland Street had
an excellent view of the naval reception and harbour illuminations.
Afterwards, when staying with Mrs. Frederick, I saw our Royal guest
driving past to Point Piper, and later on heard his kindly-natured
hostess speak of “the great interest he evinced in colonial life.” Does
His Royal Highness ever think of his first experiences of life in
Australia?--the dances, picnics, shooting-parties at Nepean Towers and
elsewhere? A friend related an anecdote of him which proved he was
really fond of animals. On one occasion he returned to the dining-room
to give his dog water instead of “leaving it to others,” as his host
suggested. I heard he had quite a menagerie on board. A young friend of
mine sent him a parrot, and handsome Mrs. E. K. C. an owl, which he
named after the donor. I am certain he has never received a more
heartfelt welcome than he did in his Royal mother’s “Golden South,”
which welcome was so terribly sullied by the maniac’s attempt on his
life. Australia will never forget the thrill of horror this caused
through the length and breadth of the land. The fair-faced youth to be
shot in our midst at a time when all classes met to greet him as a
friend and guest! This was my last glimpse of royalty, being an invalid
when the Prince of Wales’s sons visited Sydney, and during my year’s
residence in England. Still I hope ere my return to Australia to see Her
Majesty and members of the Royal family again. While at Glenmore I was
present at two weddings--Mr. James’s eldest daughter’s and her cousin’s
at Wim: both were very grand affairs. At ours there was a very large
family party; out of seventy guests there were only about ten not
connected by birth or marriage. Unfortunately the sun refused to shine
on our bride, so the grounds were not utilised; but the time passed
quickly, and an enjoyable dance finished the day. Miss Una was more
favoured a fortnight after, as she had a lovely day to bid farewell to
her childhood’s home, the youngest and last to leave. The extensive
grounds at Wim were thoroughly appreciated by cricket and croquet
players on this occasion.
During one of my visits to Sydney, I saw and heard of the man who
afterwards became famous as “the claimant” to the Tichborne estate; he
had just arrived from the country and was staying at the same hotel as
my brother. One afternoon, on calling there, in the hall I met this man
face to face. “Do you know who that is, K----?” “No; who is he?” “Well,
he says he is Sir Roger Tichborne.” That evening after dinner at our
friend’s the subject was alluded to, and on our host asking, “What do
you think of him, L----?” “What do I think? Why, he is no more Sir Roger
Tichborne than you are. No man, however unused for years to the society
or manners of gentlemen, could ever forget certain usages of his youth
as this man has, who cannot even spell the simplest words correctly.”
“That is nothing.” “Well, that may be; but if you saw this man often,
you would understand what I mean.” In after years, when I heard how the
impostor was believed in, I thought of this conversation. Of course at
the time I write of, the infamous scheme had only commenced, and the man
was off his guard and untutored.
My peaceful life at Glenmore had to cease, owing to bad health; a long
rest was imperative, so once more I had to avail myself of my friends’
kind offer to pay them a long visit at Oviedo Cottage, Petersham, where
as usual I was treated as a sister. One family--James’s oldest
friends--had a nice suburban house and grounds near to us. He had known
the owner from boyhood in England, and had been present at his marriage
to a young and very pretty girl, now the energetic and hospitable
mistress of Derry Vale, with a fine family to brighten their home. This
place, greatly enlarged since my first visit, was our last resting-place
in New South Wales. I also paid several visits to Parramatta, which
always interested me. Parramatta or Rose Hill, as it was first called,
is the oldest inland town in the colony, and the first harvest ever
gathered in New South Wales, one hundred years ago, was reaped there.
Old Government House still remains in the Inner Domain, or Parramatta
Park. This place, with its avenue of oaks, is like a scene from the old
country. The orchards are very numerous now, extending over an area of
four thousand acres, varying in size from fifty to a hundred acres each;
the orangeries cluster more thickly around Castle and Pennant Hills.
Here the vine was first planted, and grows luxuriantly--in fact, the
district seems adapted to every kind of fruit. Apples, pears, and plums
from the northern lands; oranges, grapes, peaches, and other fruits from
the southern lands of Europe flourish equally well. Alas! Parramatta has
one drawback--mosquitoes. These pests are found in all the districts on
the eastern side of the mountain range, and to some people make night
far from comfortable. I have known many, after living in the country a
quarter of a century, dread on this account the approach of summer.
Besides visiting Parramatta by steamboat and train, I have been by the
well-known road, scarcely altered since I travelled on it so many years
ago. Races were still held on the Homebush Course, and boating parties
on the river, now world renowned as the scene where our Australian
scullers have won their laurels. The trip by the steamer is very
agreeable, passing on the way up the river Five Dock, Hunter’s Hill,
Kissing Point--the latter now called Ryde; others renamed Greenwich,
Mortlake, etc.
I read an article the other day in an English paper on the fondness
Australians have of naming places after celebrated men; Gladstone was
one mentioned. I quite agree with the writer to a certain extent; still
is it not unwise to sneer at colonials, who wish by so doing to honour
their country by such names as Wellington, Gordon, Drake, Nelson, and
others? No doubt they have many absurd as well as commonplace names. But
are there none equally so near home? In my opinion the natives’ names
should have been retained and adopted. What could be more euphonious
than those we have still,--such as Ulladulla, Illawarra, Wollondilly,
Nanima, Eurunderie, Marulan, Moruya, Murrurundi, Merriwa, and hundreds
of others?
I had an excellent view from Point Piper of the _Flying Squadron_ that
visited Sydney. It was a fine sight, watching the ships under canvas
gliding on the intensely blue waters, under an equally blue sky, to
Middle Harbour.
We had flower shows in the gardens, cricket-matches in the Domain,
bazaars everywhere now. Our church school feasts were held in many spots
open to the public, and on the shores of the harbour, which later on,
when the train was available, were deserted for fresher fields.
Australia is certainly well adapted for outdoor amusements. Cricket and
tennis can be played almost all the year round, and picnics and garden
parties are practicable through about eight months. Holidays are spent
in the open air, as there are few places for day amusements under cover
like the Crystal Palace at Sydenham and others in England. Trains,
omnibuses, trams, and steamers swarm with well-dressed and happy-looking
people, all bent on enjoyment, while the city and suburbs are almost
deserted. I have often watched them, and thought this is really “a land
flowing with milk and honey.” No cruel winter, when men and women,
however willing, cannot find work. There seems to be no real want or
poverty. Surely such a land must become the home of millions!--this
sunny land, “a land of promise” for the overgrown population of cities
of the older world.
A sad bereavement made me leave Sydney for a time. Maria’s death caused
a terrible blank in my life, so hearing of an engagement to educate a
girl of sixteen, I left in the autumn for Singleton.