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.