My stay in Sydney was to end for a time, as my brother had gone to Wellington, a small township in the western district, and wished us to join him. My sisters and I left on a fine February morning in the mail coach for Bathurst; this coach, not unlike a large baker’s cart, holding eight inside and two on the box seat. The joltings and creakings must have been most trying to the elderly passengers. We were young, and merely felt the heat, which was compensated for by the novelty and the idea of seeing the country. We went as far as Penrith the first day, arriving late in the evening, and leaving again at four o’clock the next morning. It was lovely and fresh crossing the Nepean River in the ferry, thence through Emu Plains and the valley of the Grose; and looking back from Lapstone Hill the view was very charming. Then came into view the scenery of the Blue Mountains, which we had plenty of time to admire. As the weary horses had to be considered on the steep inclines, male passengers would get out and walk, and sometimes the females preferred to do so, becoming much cramped by sitting in the shaky vehicle. At that time there were not any fences on the roads, so at times we appeared on the verge of being precipitated over the rocks into the valley below, the bottom of which we could not see. When the horses had been changed at some wayside inn and were somewhat fresh, we held our breath with the fear of going over the precipices. We had glimpses of deep ravines and gullies, a mass of foliage, the sides and hollows green with ferns of various kinds. At times the clouds seemed beneath us. Having had some heavy rains, there were grave doubts as to whether we should be able to cross the river lying between us and Bathurst. On arriving at the river, and while fording it, we experienced a decidedly creepy feeling, expecting every second that the water would reach us in the coach; however on this journey such a misadventure, we were thankful, was averted. Soon after crossing the river the Bathurst Plains were in view, and then we had the curious sensation of travelling on a sea-like stretch of land, not a tree to be seen for miles,—nothing save grass, land, and sky, with an occasional flock of sheep in the distance. At last we arrived at the yard of the principal hotel in Bathurst, where we were to remain till my brother should meet us, and our escort gave us over to the care of the landlady. We were not to remain there long, as an old friend of ours, learning of our visit, came the next day and took us over to his pretty cottage on the outskirt of the town. We were glad to rest, as only half our journey was accomplished. In a week we were again on our way to our new home, passing through Orange and Molong, busy little places, owing to the gold-fields surrounding them. We were constantly meeting parties of diggers on the road, sometimes a few, returning cityward, looking already depressed; they had evidently found gold was hard to get. Our first landmark of nearing home was Wellington Valley, and it was certainly a cheery one, with its mountainous background, its few farms, and peaceful aspect. The township of Montefiores is on the farther side of the River Macquarie, and the driver stated “that he had heard the river was ‘a banker.’” “If so,” my brother remarked, “we shall have to wait until it lowers;” but we managed to get over safely with only a little water in the bottom of the coach, and soon drove up to my first Bush home, a comfortable brick cottage, with a nice garden at the back, and my brother’s place of business at the side. We were all very tired, so after a refreshing bath and some tea we retired to beds made on the floor, as our furniture was on the road. It being a bachelor’s home, there was very little furniture on our arrival, and it was nearly a month before our belongings reached us by the lumbering drays. Harry had an excellent cook there, and a young woman in the township came to help. Shortly after a great misfortune befell us. My brother’s cook—an old man—died, and then indeed my troubles began. No servants could be got except Chinamen, and these at fearful wages; for being so near the gold-fields, men would not undertake domestic work, and if women were hired in Sydney they might come, remain a month or two, and then leave for the nearest diggings. As there were three of us, I determined to try and do without them except for laundry and rough work. But what trials and mistakes attended us in starting! Bread-making was a terrible experience, and certainly after the utter failures and waste of flour for days, who could blame my brother for saying, “When I marry, it shall be a country girl,”—which of course he did not, as his chosen wife had never been beyond Parramatta. We had at last to fall back on “damper” until I learned the art of bread-making. The yeast gave the most trouble; it was either flat, or else so lively as to cause a cannonade by the bottles bursting. However at last we succeeded, and were famous bread-makers; though we always had to knead each loaf separately, as neither of us were of the muscular type of female. All our water had to be drawn from a deep well by a windlass. This work I could never accomplish; but my youngest sister (a girl of fourteen) became very expert, though I was constantly expecting to hear that she had gone in search of Truth. Fortunately we had an excellent American cooking stove, as well as an immense open fireplace, in which three of us could stand, and a baker’s oven large enough to bake for a dozen families. We soon became very good managers, and were able to attend church every Sunday morning and have an excellent hot dinner as well. It was a very happy home, three girls and the head of the house not thirty years of age. All our friends were young: the manager of the largest station near, with a young wife; the clerk of petty sessions, his young wife and her sister—in fact, except the doctor, an old bachelor, and clergyman and his wife, all were under thirty.

I undertook the education of my youngest sister, and many an afternoon we would walk a mile or two, choose a shady spot, and hear her lessons, or prepare others for the following day, while we worked. Life for a time was like one long summer day. Pianos were scarce in the district, only one in Montefiores, until we had one from Bathurst. I managed, without the aid of a master, to play the flutina for accompaniments and dance music. The manager of the station could play the guitar, and one of his superintendents the flute. What pleasant days and evenings we spent there, dining at seven, dressing for dinner of course, and waited on by the Chinese butler and his assistants in costume! All the indoor servants at the station were Chinese, the outdoor aboriginals. I shall never forget a terrible night we spent there. It was at the election time; Mr. Dunlop and all the gentlemen were at the election dinner in Montefiores, Mrs. Dunlop, ourselves, and two other ladies were in the house alone. It was a long low house with small rooms opening one into the other; most of the windows were French windows, opening on to verandahs. We were chatting in the drawing-room when we heard fearful shrieks proceeding from the barn and wool-shed about three hundred feet from the back of the house. “What’s that?” I inquired. Mrs. Dunlop listened for a while, and answered, “Some of the blacks beating their ‘gins’—wives, I mean.” But soon we heard men’s voices in the verandah, and my young friend jumped up and ran to see if the shutters were fastened, and then said, “We will go into my room, where the windows are higher from the ground and the shutters are closer than these.” Putting out all the lights here, the five of us went quietly into her room, and sat there listening. The noise increased, coming nearer and nearer, when Mrs. Dunlop said, “I am afraid the Chinese and the blacks are fighting; if so, they will kill one another. I know Yang-See and Ah-Sing were in the township all day; I am afraid they have brought drink home.” Imagine our horror at hearing this; we might all be killed before the gentlemen returned. At that moment a violent knocking at the door of the room made us all think “What next?” when a woman’s voice said, “Let me in, Missy; they will kill me. Missy Dunlop, let me in.” “I will call your master,” was the answer; “you go to Mr. Brinsley’s room.” The woman ran across the verandah to an outer room; at the end we heard her rush in and lock the door. More voices were heard in the verandah, so Mrs. Dunlop said very loudly, “David, have you your revolver loaded?” “Here it is,” turning the handle of the door. In an instant we heard the pat, pat of naked feet running past the windows, and knew her ruse had succeeded. The men thought their master had come home, and knowing from experience that he would not hesitate to use his revolver, went back to their huts and camp. How thankful we were when about two hours after the sound of horses’ feet told us our friends had returned! They were astonished to see us all up; but at our urgent request did not go down to the camp or shed. The next morning when I opened my window I saw Jenny, the “gin,” cleaning the verandah with her head bound up; but otherwise she appeared nothing the worse for her husband’s little corrections of the previous night. When I asked her what it was all about, “Too much rum, Missy, ba’al budgery drink.” “Did he hurt you very much?” She showed me a terrible gash in her head. “Nullah, nullah, ba’al budgery, Missy,” said poor Jenny. “They were all drunk, Missy, like gentlemen; but my Missy did wise.” “Did they go to Mr. Brinsley’s room?” “No, no; me yabber, yabber to him,” and then she laughed like a child, showing her white teeth. “Stupids tink him in there; me know him in Montefiores.” “Did you go to the camp when he came home?” “No, no; master put me in stable. Chinamen no good, Missy,” she said with conviction. I thought, better than your people. The two races never did agree, and were always quarrelling; but they had to be borne with, as near the gold-fields a white man could not be kept for any time. Mr. Dunlop liked the celestials; they were steady, methodical workers, never forgot an order, cost little to keep, and only occasionally became troublesome, when they managed to get opium and have a smoking feast. Our cook nearly died after one of these opium feasts. He asked my brother if he might go to Nanima one Sunday. Of course he was allowed to do so. Monday morning came, but Boney did not put in an appearance; Tuesday he was still absent, so my brother rode over to Nanima to see if he was there. Mr. Dunlop said, “No; I sent him off the place this morning. He will be useless for a week; my men are in a terrible state, like so many logs; look at them.” The Chinamen were lying about in a large tent looking like corpses. Mr. Dunlop turned one over with his foot, and a shocking countenance was disclosed. “What will you do with them?” “Let them sleep some of it off, see that they have not hidden any, and then have some good strong soup made for them.” My brother came home and found Boney lying on the floor of his room, outside the house. He was a very difficult patient; he “no wantee livee,”—he wanted to be left alone—“no chin chin master; Joss wants Boney; me die.” But he was far too valuable to be allowed to die without an effort to save him. My brother insisted on his taking food, threatening him with all manner of punishment, and standing by to see him take sufficient nourishment; but it was several days before he could attend to any duties. He was an excellent cook, exceedingly clean, and afforded us much amusement watching his ways. Before he did any cooking he would wash his hands and arms; this was done very often, a dozen times in a day. He did not consider himself bound to obey any one but “the master;” “Missee no good.” When I told him that “I was the mistress of the house,” he said, “No, Missee not master’s wife.” He was also very much surprised to see us engaged in any household work. “Ladies no work in my country.” Boney was an invaluable servant, most economical and quiet; then as a gardener he was most useful. Until his advent I had taken the flowers under my care; but it was hard work, as there was nearly a quarter of an acre to attend to. We had brought many of our old favourites from Violet Cottage at The Glebe, and soon obtained some plants from our friends. We were the first to introduce violets into the district, where they grew luxuriantly; most of the dear old English flowers flourish there. At the present time my brother has many to remind him of the old country, but at the time I write of I only remember the violets. The climate, though perhaps better than Sydney, is drier, and frosts in winter and spring severe. Geraniums, heliotrope, and all tropical plants have to be housed. Peaches, nectarines, apricots, figs, and the vine flourish. Nearly every fruit will grow there; but owing to the frosts oranges only in a few sheltered spots. Acacias, cedars, mimosa, and many other trees grow very freely. At the entrance gate of Gobolion there were two magnificent almond trees, and when in blossom were very lovely. In travelling it was not uncommon to come across a peach tree flowering in mountain gorges or gullies, sprung up from peach stones thrown down by travellers.

We found our Sundays terribly long when we first went to Montefiores; the river being up, the Rev. Mr. Watson was unable to cross, and we were without service for nearly two months. That river, or rather the two rivers, as Montefiores was at the junction of the Bell and Macquarie rivers, were my bÊte noir; no one could cross except by swimming their horses. The Rev. Mr. Watson had been one of the early missionary clergymen sent out to the Blacks, and had settled on the Wellington side of the river, where he lived surrounded by a small colony of them. He and his wife were now growing old, and all their interest was centred in the poor natives, whom they taught to read, write, and sing. They had sweet voices, and they were the only singers in the choir. The church was a most primitive building of wooden slabs, the imperfect joints in places admitting the daylight, wind, and dust. The seats or forms were rough, the unpolished pulpit and chancel low, constructed for Mr. Watson, who was a little man. The only music was human voices, and the church bell was hung in a tree at the side; but what mattered it when a temple not made by hands could be seen from the open door and windows. Such a beautiful view of Mount Arthur, and above such a dome of glorious blue, to make us feel how near we were to Him who fashioned it all. How well I remember our first going to church for morning service! We had been informed “that half-past ten was the time for service to commence;” but as Mr. Watson’s time and that of Montefiores differed very considerably, the warning bell continued its ringing till he made his appearance. Those who rode or drove to church left their horses in the open ground outside, as there was no enclosing fence. This morning Mr. Watson was early, so we were really in church by a little after ten; service commenced at once, and was finished before twelve. It was a delicious morning in April, so we decided to take a long walk before returning home, and started off by the river. We walked for some distance without meeting any one, everything fresh and delightful. After a time we sat down by the river, and I heard my youngest sister her Collect and Catechism, then talked over the great desire I had to establish a Sunday School as soon as Mr. Watson could be consulted as to the best means of doing so; when Louisa reminded me that Mrs. Richard had said, “He will not consent, as he does not care about the white children when he has the black ones round him.” “I will try at any rate,” concluded our conversation. “Now we had better go home.” We started to return, but it was not so easy to accomplish, as we had unthinkingly wandered from the river, and found ourselves surrounded by hills, nothing except sheep tracks to guide us. We tried first one, then the other, without success; all seemed to lead to the hills. Tired, faint, and frightened we sat down to rest. “We had better go towards the sun,” suggested Bell quietly. She was so delicate I began to dread the effect of this terrible time on her; but she was the quietest and calmest of the three. At last I began to get so bewildered, nervously anticipating the horrors of being “lost in the Bush,” I could go no farther, but sat down and wept bitterly. I was again aroused by my sister’s gentle faith; “Harry will know we have lost our way, and he will soon find us.” I did not tell her I knew my brother would not be home until the evening. Vainly we proceeded, only to get nearer the hills, when Susan said, “Look, there are some broken branches; let us take that track, and follow it up.” We did so, and in about an hour came in sight of a shepherd’s hut we had passed when we had first left the river; and saw in the distance Mount Arthur, at the foot of which nestled the township, and in a short time we could see the smoke rising from the houses, and we were not long in reaching home. My brother said we had been walking in a circle for hours.

Gobolion, a homestead near us, was almost a ruin; it adjoined the doctor’s property on the bank of the river. His house was a small weatherboard building, but quite commodious enough for the bachelor medico, a tall gentlemanly old man, whose garden and pets were his “Lares and Penates.” On my first visit there I could not understand his reason for allowing several large mounds to remain in the front of his house; they were not very sightly, though an attempt had been made at ornamentation by planting flowering runners on them—one was nearly covered with the small scarlet verbena. He told me the reason afterwards why he had not had the mounds levelled. When he purchased the land some years before, this spot was the burying-place of one of the principal tribes, whose custom it was to inter their dead in an upright position, and the mounds were heaped up over the bodies. He had ordered several of the mounds to be removed, when he was told “That he would bring down terrible vengeance on himself, as the aboriginals were tenacious on the subject of the last resting-place of their people, and had been known to travel hundreds of miles to bury their dead.” So the doctor at once prevented more being done, and for several years allowed them to bring any of their tribe to the old ground. I have since thought, when looking at the neglected state of the cemetery in Elizabeth Street, Sydney, the poor despised blacks had more feeling in this respect than their white brethren. I felt pity for them then, and more still now, for they have nearly all disappeared before the white race’s rule. The Australian blacks have not found many advocates, I am aware, but they could have been taught to be useful. I know this from experience to be the case. A friend of mine had a woman, Emma, an excellent laundress; her husband, Harry, was groom and handy man, and Fanny was nurse to my friend’s first child; these came from the Mission, and could all read and write. One great drawback was that they never would rest contentedly in a house; so my friends allowed them a tent in the paddock. There was a very clever black called Darby who was frequently in the township, and while we were there was twice converted, first by the Roman Catholic bishop and then by our bishop. Darby told some one, “He would be converted every week to get money.” He could read, write, and play cards—in fact, he was quick in learning. Once at a sale he was making a noise, when the auctioneer threatened him with a spade. “Oh, Mr., do you want to make me the knave of spades?” was Darby’s comment. Drink was the ruin of the natives; they could never refuse it, and it not only debased them, but caused them to die young from pulmonary complaints.

I was horrified on hearing them quote Scripture and hymns glibly. One man, Raymond, when intoxicated would go up and down the road shouting out the most sacred words from our service, and only ceased when placed in the lock-up. This poor creature died in his gunyah of rapid consumption. The blacks were like children, having no forethought, little if any reason, but affectionate, and easily pleased. They certainly believe in a future state, hence the idea of burying their dead in a standing position—“To jump up quick.” They are also afraid of an evil spirit doing harm to them. We had one black as outdoor help, who was exceptionally wild and excitable; but my youngest sister could manage him splendidly, not having the slightest fear of him; but he too was fond of rum, and she often teased him about this weakness. He always called my sister by her name, refusing to add Miss. One great objection to him as a servant was his dislike to clothing; but this was insisted on, so shirt and trousers were at last his everyday costume. At Christmas we gave him a full suit, with hat, boots, and large white collar, sending him down with a note to Mrs. Richard. He was very pleased at first, but the next day he returned minus all excepting his shirt and trousers, having bartered them away for drinks and tobacco. Soon after this he informed us he must go back to his tribe. “Too hot for houses now, Louisa; come back winter.” And he did so, taking up his work as though he had never left it. He remained on until summer returned and then disappeared again. He was a simple creature; the only thing that roused the savage in him was to inquire, “Have you ever been to Sydney, Franky?” Louisa had been told to do this without knowing why. The result, Franky glared at her, saying, “No, Louisa; Franky will go away and never come back.” Louisa made him understand “she meant no harm” by the inquiry. We were told afterwards he had been to Sydney, sent to gaol there for killing another black, and when let out started for Wellington, travelling night and day, with scarcely any food or rest, till he had completed two hundred miles. He arrived nearly dead from exhaustion, and then took to the “Bush.” While in prison he had forgotten all the English he had ever learned. Poor creature! it is easy to realise how this child of nature suffered, caged up in stone walls, under prison discipline; and no wonder to us now that he disliked staying in the kitchen to take his meals, and would merely come to the door for them.