George, Pitt, King, and Hunter Streets were those alone worthy of the name, and they were disfigured by irregular buildings, very small and mean-looking shops and private houses, and by broken patches of vacant land. The footpaths were miserably bad and the roads ill kept. There were no omnibuses or cabs, only old private carriages for hire from the livery stables. This to a woman like my mother, who had never walked two miles consecutively, was indeed misery; however, when we found a house of our own in Elizabeth Street, she brightened for a time. Such a house to her fresh from one in a London Square! Our Sydney house contained six bare rooms, a kitchen outside, and servants’ room over it, without fixtures or cupboards of any kind, no water but what was bought or brought from the city taps by our servants at certain hours of the day; and for this house and small paved yard the rent was £100 per annum. I, being young, could not realise the discomfort of such a home, and found Sydney and its suburbs quite foreign enough for me.

When we had quite settled in our first Australian home, to find the nearest Church of England was a consideration. To find our parish (St. Laurence’s) church was a disused brewery was another terrible shock to my mother’s idea of the fitness of things. However, when the incumbent proved to be a clever Oxford M.A. and fine preacher, her troubles in this respect ended. To me it was the greatest gain to become one of his children; he was so kind, loving, and genial, and had that great gift of leading young men and women to see in religion the love and pity of God.

Out of that one parish, extending then over many miles, there are now at least ten made, each with a church and congregation much larger than those of the old mother parish.

It was a pleasant walk across the racecourse, now called Hyde Park, to the Domain and Botanic Gardens. In another direction miles of sandhills; in another, towards Wooloomooloo, there were lovely walks by the waters of the harbour. For six months I practically lived out of doors, the clear fresh air was so exhilarating, except when a strong southerly wind was blowing; then it became anything but pleasant, as the sand from the hills, mixed with the pulverised clay of the roads, formed a dust which covered and penetrated everything and everywhere. This was generally known as a “Brickfielder.”

My father had letters of introduction to many residents in Sydney, Elizabeth Bay, Darling Point, and Rose Bay; and visiting at these places, we soon found that New South Wales was not wanting in cultured gentlemen and families. The reason for stating this is that I find, since returning to England, it is thought by some “that people in those early days of Australia lived almost like savages,” and “that colonial society was composed only of very low people.” How different was the reality, for in many houses we enjoyed the society of educated and scientific men, and of accomplished and gentle women, surrounded by all the comforts and refinements of life.

The schools in the colony were few and far between. The chief were the Sydney Grammar School, Normal Institution in Sydney, and the King’s School, Parramatta; the latter being a boarding-school for boys, where most of the young Australians were educated. Dr. Forrest, one of the early principals of the school, from all I have heard, was a second Arnold. One of his pupils in later days filled his former master’s place worthily and efficiently, after working some years in a country parish. He only resigned his position a few years ago, when a master from England was appointed, but since I left Australia last year another change has been made, and a new master has just arrived there. Only one ladies’ school of note had been established at this time.

The schools certainly were of the best, and conducted by men and women who understood their duties, and I have often questioned whether the advantages of the present system of education in the colonies is an improvement on the past. Everything is now made so easy, books of all kinds and on all subjects doing away with any necessity for thought, and therefore any special talent or genius in the pupil may wither or die for want of the stimulant to exertion, and this generation, I am afraid, like our Australian parrot, will only repeat the words of others.

Our family were to a certain extent for a time independent of schools, as both our parents were above the average in intellect and knowledge of books. My father was a great reader, especially on all subjects connected with natural history, a great lover of the stage, and an enthusiastic entomologist, having a splendid collection of English specimens in two cabinets he brought to Australia. My mother was also a great reader, well informed in history, biography, and all the writers of the day. Shakespeare was a household word, and most of his plays I have heard read by both, each taking part. All the chief poets’ works were well known to them. We had Byron, Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Rogers, Shelley, Pope, and Moore as our guests of an evening: Bulwer, Thackeray, and Dickens, the latter personally known to my father; in fact, all the best writers of the day were our teachers. I have always been a quick and insatiable reader as long as I can remember, and having a good library to gratify my desires, I only required some one to direct me and talk over the books I read to finish an education begun early in England. My mother soon found a French lady to teach us French, music, and singing, so for the first year we only attended her classes.

Sydney and its suburbs to-day are, I need scarcely say, very different from what they were when my mother thought “Redfern out in the country and a dreadful place.” When we were at Liverpool she drove out to Redfern one day, and it was unfortunately after a bush fire, so that for some miles nothing but dark charred trees were to be seen. It was her first and last visit beyond Parramatta, which could be reached by water; she never would go into the country again. Since those days I have often sat by her grave, on the highest part of the Church of England Cemetery in Elizabeth Street, and thought, as I looked on the panorama spread before me on every side, “What would she think of the city of the Golden South now?” What has been done in only forty years since we left her there is marvellous; then there was only just a fringe of civilisation and progress on its coasts. No railways, few churches; the interior of the country almost uninhabited, reached only through mere tracks or roads, nearly impassable, only traversed by that band of pioneers, the squatters,—a terribly maligned people—who had explored and made the country. Only those who have lived amongst them on far-away stations can ever realise what the squatters had to endure before “the desert blossomed like the rose,”—losses by fire, drought, floods, and the raids of the Blacks and bushrangers; roads impassable, drays with supplies kept weeks on the roads, while anxiously looked for. Famine sometimes stared them in the face, for delicate women and children could not exist upon meat alone. Just before our arrival things were in a terrible state; my father could have bought thousands of sheep at sixpence a head, and this price included homestead, improvements, horses, and lease of land. I have sometimes heard later colonists say: “The squatters want it all their own way.” If they do, surely they have a right to a large share of the cake they certainly made under most trying conditions.

I have often ridden through townships, the nucleus of which was the homestead of some early settler; or in later days whirled in the train in a few hours to what once took weeks to reach, for sometimes drays would be delayed for months through the rivers being up. Then even though money was made, consider the isolated life of the squatter. Once a year a visit to Sydney to sell their wool and purchase supplies. It was my good fortune to meet many of these squatters, and certainly, I must say, better informed, more intellectual, and often accomplished men, I have never met. Certainly some were quiet in manner, owing, no doubt, to the nature of the lives they were leading away from mixed society. Many were from the old country, and sons of military and naval men. I need scarcely say, though they were unused to the society of ladies, their behaviour was always gentlemanly. I have heard at times in town “they were a little wild”; but who can wonder, after months of solitude, without any softening and refining influence, that the old Adam should become master! Well, well, the noble, hospitable, single-minded, real squatters will soon die out, but their children, in their native country, or settled in other lands, should never be ashamed to own their fathers or country. I fancy I hear some say, “But how about the first colonists; who were they?” To this I will answer in the words of Him who was the truest and holiest teacher, “He that is without sin, let him cast the first stone.” How many men and women were there in the days I write of amongst all classes, and in every station, who were as guilty and sin-stained as those referred to, but were not found out? In my long sojourn in Australia I have met with some of them, and many of their descendants, but, with very few exceptions, have found them kind, generous, and clever, like other folk—in fact, better than many who have emigrated. Above all, fond and proud of their native land—the land that gave freedom to their ancestors, and in most instances an independence which they could scarcely have attained to in the old country. No wonder an Australian is proud of his country, which appears to me the most wonderful example of the determined energy of the Anglo-Saxon race. When I used to wander through the Exhibition of 1880, this was always present in my mind, “Less than one hundred years ago this country was untrodden by the white man. Where this beautiful building now stands, there were only the Gunyahs or homes of the poor savages. That glorious stretch of ocean unknown, and now—— but words of mine can ill express the change.” But, my fair Australian maidens and stalwart sons, remember, though your fathers helped to make this change through determination and energy, and the lessons learned in the older and more experienced land of their birth, the danger of thinking, “We can do without England,” I cannot advise you too strongly to guard against, as it is both unwise and ungrateful. Your country is a very beautiful one, but not faultless; it has one feature to prevent it from becoming quickly populated—want of rivers that are permanently navigable. In this it is so different from America, where water carriage is generally practicable and cheap. But the children, like the country, are young, and youth is always a little unreasonable. With this warning I will finish this chapter, only adding, be strong to write, each one a page of your life’s history, to improve the present, and adorn the future annals of your country.