I had been a long time at Montefiores before I succeeded in establishing a Sunday School, but being without any service there for over two months, determined on another effort. At this time a newly appointed Crown commissioner and his wife came to reside here; the lady was a very delightful person, who had travelled a great deal in India and elsewhere. It struck me that it would be a great advantage to the cause to gain her influence. I mentioned the subject to her, when she very kindly undertook to call the clergyman’s attention to the advantage of establishing a Sunday School for the welfare of the young people of the district. She explained to him that permission was desired to hold the school in the church, and to have charge of the key on those Sundays when service was not held there; also that I did not expect or desire any assistance from him, which was the real cause of his not acceding to my request in the first instance; in fact he did not wish to devote any of his time to it. Thus, through the kindly aid of this lady, the object was gained, after vainly trying for it so long. He told her “that he was sure I should not be able to get half a dozen children together,” as there were so many Roman Catholics; however, he was mistaken, as I commenced with eleven, and often had thirty. It was a source of much comfort to have our Sundays spent in doing some good work, and with a proper feeling that it was not kept as any other day. We divided our children into three classes. When the clergyman held service in the morning, I had the school in the afternoon, and vice versa; or when the rivers were up, swollen by rains, always in the afternoon, and often devoted two or three hours to the classes. After the usual church lessons were finished, I would read them an interesting child’s book, sometimes telling an Australian country story; and so the time passed quickly by.

There were times when we found country life a little monotonous, as there was not any girls’ society in the immediate neighbourhood, and the intercourse with Sydney so difficult. Mails only twice a week, no telegrams, little news, and not very many new books. Nanima was our “oasis”; there we always found something to amuse, either the family music, or a reading by one of the gentlemen. We spent many a hot afternoon or evening at Black House, listening to Esther Summerson’s unselfish life, poor Ricks beginning to save, Mr. Jarndyce’s east wind, and Lady Dedlock’s punishment. David Copperfield, Vanity Fair, and Pendennis I first heard of there. As our friends were intellectual people, the conversation after on the works that had been read brought the characters to our minds as realities.

This station was equal in extent to some German duchies, covering many thousand acres. It was the place of the district at that time. The manager was the brother-in-law of the owner. I have met there several members of very old English families; young men who had drifted to the colony, younger sons and ne’er-do-wells, were sent out to “gain colonial experience,” or in too many cases to die in the “Bush” while holding some very subordinate position. One, the Hon. Mr. T——, was a storekeeper on a station; another, a countess’s brother, was a hut-keeper on our friend’s station; and Sir F. P—— was a trooper in the gold escort; but all were received and treated as gentlemen, which they still were, however poor. Mrs. Dunlop was the daughter of a retired naval officer, and her husband, the manager, came of a good old Scotch family. One of his superintendents was an admiral’s son, and relative of one of our great wits and authors. This made our visits there very agreeable, and this is not a single instance; there were many such homes in the Australian colonies thirty-six years ago, and no doubt long before.

The first break in our little circle was the removal of Mr. Richard and family to a town near Sydney, where he had a much better appointment, and was also near some relatives. Two ladies leaving the district was a terrible loss, especially as their cottage was only a few minutes’ walk from us. We had a dull time too, as several gentlemen were away from the two nearest stations “overlanding,” i.e. taking sheep, cattle, and flour to Melbourne; but we had plenty of resources in our household duties, needlework, music, and reading. Still it was good news to learn that “all were back again, and Bishop Barker was to pay his first pastoral visit, and hold a confirmation.” We had heard our new bishop was a very tall man, so doubts arose as to his being able to stand upright in either pulpit or church. One of the tallest of our congregation found he could not, so the flooring of the pulpit was removed, but the altar could not be lowered, so the poor bishop had to stand with his head bent downward all the time he was there. He was accompanied by his wife, who by her graceful, kindly manner won all hearts, as did also the bishop. A picnic, of course, was organised to visit the Wellington caves, when all the gentlefolks of the surrounding country met. We had been to the caves before with a private party, but this visit was quite a public affair, and the caves were lighted up by numbers of torches, making the masses of stalactites and stalagmites glisten like jewels, embedded in snow as white as the country now lying before me. The caves are difficult of access, but once within them they are very beautiful and repay the trouble; however, they will not bear comparison with the caves at Jenolan, much nearer to Sydney.

In the largest of the Wellington caves, which is of great height, and named the cathedral, there is no difficulty in imagining a pulpit, and at the side an opening leading to vestry, which it was necessary to creep into. The bishop suggested, “You may explore that, being small. I should never get out again.” I did go in, and was well repaid by the lovely sight. Before leaving we all assembled in the centre cave and sang the Old Hundredth Psalm. I never witnessed a more impressive scene, or heard the grand old hymn to greater advantage than in this strange place, some hundreds of feet under the earth’s crust, where pre-Adamite creation once sported, as gigantic bones of animals have been found there. This, the first visit of the bishop, afforded me special pleasure. Our commissioner’s wife told him of my Sunday School, for which he gave me earnest words of commendation and encouragement. I replied, “It is the outcome of the early influence of my beloved pastor.”

On the bishop’s return to Sydney, at a public breakfast, he mentioned amongst other matters connected with his country visits, his gratification at witnessing of so much being done in the lonely “Bush” by the energy and kindness of private ladies, not only teaching but establishing Sunday Schools. Mrs. Barker accompanied the bishop for many years on all his journeys, which extended over many thousands of miles, when travelling was attended by much hard work and discomfort. At this time Mrs. Barker travelled in a buggy driven by their servant, while the bishop, a good horseman, preferred riding.

At that time the diocese consisted of the whole of New South Wales; since it has been divided into five bishoprics—Sydney, Newcastle, Goulburn, Armidale, and Bathurst. We have also a Synod, composed of clerical and lay members; but I do not think it has improved the working of Church affairs, the clergymen being dependent for their stipends on voluntary aid and assistance from the Church Society, an arrangement which often placed them in a false position.

In the far-away, sparsely populated districts, in bad seasons, the poor clergy have great difficulty in paying their way. But the time I am now writing about, away from townships, if they saw a clergyman twice or thrice a year, it was as much as they could expect. On these occasions numbers came in from down the river, bringing children to be christened, confirmed, and others to be married. Montefiores was quite gay for a few days, in fact it was some weeks before we were restored to our usual quiet, for after the bishop’s departure there was plenty to talk over. Our blacksmith’s forge was a great meeting-place for the men folks, and the blacksmith was a character with the bad habit of swearing terribly. He had seen and talked to the bishop, whom he admired as being a good horseman more than anything else, and in repeating his conversation with him, used his usual strong language, and gave the bishop credit for doing likewise. My brother said, “Now, Jack, you know his lordship never said that.” “By —— he did, and you are a —— —— to doubt me.”—“What! do you mean to tell us, Jack,” drawled a haw-haw gentleman, “that the head of the Church swore as you do.” “Oh, well, Mr. ——, you know what I mean.” Returning one afternoon from our usual walk, we saw several people standing about surrounded by groups of children. “What is the matter, I wonder?” queried Louisa, when a well-known sound reached my ear. Could it possibly be! Yes, it was the well-remembered voices of Punch and Judy. Our brother met us at the door, laughing heartily. “Such an excitement, girls! A show from the ‘Diggings’ to hold an indefinite number of performances in the old shed there,” pointing to one close to our garden fence. “May we go, Harry?” “I think not; the place will be crowded; no seats; you would not like it.” But he took Louisa in to witness the first performance of the well-known drama so familiar to London children, and children of larger growth. We were much amused, watching great bearded men going in and out all the evening, and the shouts of laughter were infectious. One very old man told me next day, “It made me feel a boy again, Miss, though I held my grandson in my arms.” The next excitement was the news of the charge of the Gallant Six Hundred at Balaklava, then the fall of Sevastopol. Everything that would bear the explosion of powder was put into requisition, and a perfect cannonade from guns, revolvers, and ancient pistols was kept up until the store of ammunition was exhausted, while the smoke from bonfires covered the township.

From what I have written my readers can only form an idea of the scenery around Montefiores, which is really beautiful. Mountains, river, cleared lands, forests of native apple, eucalypti, shee baks, kurragong, cedar, and wattle trees of great height; acacias too were very plentiful. Wild flowers were numerous, a cream clematis when in seed hanging with threads like silver; several species of orchid, violets, purple and white with purple spots, like their English sisters in form, but scentless. The fringed violet peculiar to Australia, with ferns of many kinds, made the “Bush” “a thing of beauty.” I have forgotten to mention the quandong, a shrub bearing a fruit the size and colour of cherries. The fruit is not unpleasant in flavour, but there is scarcely any of it, the stone being very large in proportion and merely thinly covered with fruit. The stones are valued, as they make up into pretty ornaments, such as bracelets, necklets, chains, or the heads of scarf-pins.

I knew an Englishman who said one of the pleasures of life is to be in a country where there is “plenty to kill,” so may quote him as an authority that Australia is very satisfying in this respect. And he certainly ought to have lived where I did thirty-five years ago, as in a couple of hours’ ride he could have shot kangaroo, wallabi, opossum, native dogs, and bagged wood and black duck, wild turkeys, pigeons, and rabbits. The doctor had quantities of the latter on his ground, only ten minutes’ walk from our house, so when fresh meat was not to be had—which was very often the case in the summer—Harry would take his gun, and in about an hour would bring back three or four. Then the river gave sport the angler loved, as there were plenty of fish, especially the fresh-water cod, some nearly three feet in length. Shrimps and small crayfish could be caught with nets. The men had plenty to kill, and for exercise and excitement, what could compare with a kangaroo drive or mustering and branding of cattle?

Drafting sheep was very wearisome; the poor timid things were so tiresome; only the shepherds and their dogs had any patience with them. I have watched flocks of them crossing the river when it was quite low, and yet in their fright many would be in danger of drowning. Cattle were more easily managed; but, oh! the language of the bullock-drivers. I heard a story of a clergyman reproving them for using such fearful language. “They won’t go without, your reverence.” “Try them in as loud a tone without oaths.” But no, they would not move. “You see, sir, they understand that I mean them to go when I say —— ——” And at the familiar words the creatures did go. I liked to watch the bullock teams, both in Sydney and the country, going slowly along with their immense loads of wool bales, taking the golden fleece to the port; but until I went to Montefiores had no idea of the labour, hardship, and risk often run to life and limb ere they reached their destination. I have in summer crossed the Macquarie River on stepping-stones without wetting my feet, and in a few weeks it would be “a banker,” and no one could cross it; then teams had to camp until it was down again.

I determined to pay Sydney a visit whenever a suitable escort presented itself. Hearing of one soon, I left my brother’s house, to return to it only as a visitor for the future, as he married in six months after, so that I became a wanderer once more. This journey to Sydney was a most disagreeable one, for I made it in the hottest season in one of the dreadful coaches, full of passengers of all grades. Two Chinamen from Wellington, one with his “Joss” carried carefully in his arms, which, as the wretched vehicle gave a lurch, struck my shoulder. My escort remonstrated, but the “Heathen Chinee,” “No savee.” We congratulated ourselves when the celestial left us at Bathurst, but it was premature, as a constable taking a prisoner to Sydney occupied the seats vacated by the Chinamen. Travellers certainly did in those early days prove the old adage, for when we drove up to the miserable inn, we found only one apartment to shelter us during a terrible storm. So two ladies, a member of Parliament, constable, prisoner, and others had to keep company in it. As soon as the rough meal was over I returned to a verandah room, to take a few hours’ rest on my rug. Again, on our way before daylight, watching the sun rise on those mountain roads compensated somewhat for the discomfort. The mountains emerged from a golden mist, infinitely grand. The sun seemed to hang for a few minutes over some distant peak, and the valleys to remain full of night’s veil of purple and gray, the birds welcoming the advent of another day, and above all, the deep blue of an Australian cloudless sky made one feel, “It is good to be here.”