My next home was a perfect one in all respects, a comfortable new house at Double Bay, the grounds extending to the beach, and the windows of the principal rooms looking towards the harbour. Again my “lines were cast in pleasant places.” Mr. and Mrs. Frederick had not been long from home; the children were much younger than my former pupils, but, dear little things, the youngest so very quick and affectionate. There were very few houses near us, and we could, and did, wander about the rocks, and spent many hours on the beach at the bottom of the garden. We used to take long walks to gather wildflowers on Belle Vue Hill, at the back of Sir Daniel Cooper’s estate, and as far as Tivoli. There were now many beautiful places at Darling Point, Greenoaks, Mona, Mount Adelaide, and others. Mr. Mort had at Greenoaks a small gallery of charming water-colour pictures. There was also a picture gallery at Mona, chiefly copies in oil from the old masters, which I had the bad taste not to admire, preferring the pictures we had at Hurst. I have always felt what a privilege it was to have Mrs. Frederick as a friend. She was so well read, conscientious, true, and gentle. She had a beautiful voice and excellent taste in music, and having been partially educated on the Continent, could converse on many subjects I had only read of. Unfortunately, being delicate, she was unable to enjoy the surroundings of her beautiful home.

I had a very pretty schoolroom, abundance of books, and quantities of toys amusing and instructive for my children. We occasionally spent Sunday afternoon on the beach, where I taught them simple hymns or composed various tales for their amusement. These children are mothers now, and have reminded me of many of the tales which I had forgotten long ago. I have had many solitary hours since those days; but few sad ones, for memory calls back so much to brighten the present when youth is past. The love and trust of children is a priceless treasure time can never dim or take away. Holidays were a relaxation, and having so many friends, I enjoyed them; but was always glad to return, and agreed with my children in “being pleased when they were over.” They always met me with caresses, declaring “They never wanted any more long holidays without I stayed at home.” While at Hurst I had an invitation from an old friend to a large picnic given by her brother and another squatter visiting Sydney. It was a very grand affair. As it was held at Vaucluse, Mrs. du Moulin called for me en route. Her brother knowing many gentlemen now in Sydney from their stations, there would be no lack of gentlemen.

The then Australian Gunter had carte blanche for providing a recherchÉ luncheon. A German band was engaged, boats provided for those who liked the water, cricket for others, and dancing for all. It was a lovely day in October, and I am certain never out of “Arcadia” did nearly a hundred young people enjoy themselves more. The pretty girls and handsome men made delightful partners, and time passed too quickly.

I had danced until even I was tired, so with my partner rested for a while, when he told me the following story of the discovery of one of the principal Victorian gold-fields. “We had been travelling overland with cattle, and had camped earlier than usual, the heat being intense; the stockmen were resting at a little distance, waiting until the cook had the evening meal ready. My brother and I were lying on the grass talking over the probabilities of making a good sale of our cattle when we reached our destination, both a little down-hearted, as a few days before we had heard several mobs of cattle had been seen on the road bound for the same market.

“We were both smoking, and I with note-book and pencil jotting down probable results of our hoped-for sales, while Donald pulled up tufts of grass. Presently an exclamation made me look at him. The expression of his face alarmed me. I thought he was ill; his pipe had fallen from his fingers, and he held a tuft of grass in his hand. ‘Look, A——, at this.’ ‘At what?’ I was for a second almost as astonished as he had been. ‘Why, it is gold!’ ‘Yes, hush, keep quiet until after supper, when the men are in their tent; we will examine the place.’ Which we did, and found it was one of the richest fields yet discovered. We at once decided for one of us to ride to the nearest town and take out licenses for the party. In less than a month there were thousands of people on the field. We never took a beast away, but sold them all for a very large sum on the spot. Kept our claim, and each man made a small fortune. We invested ours in a large station property, not caring for a gold-digger’s life. Often has it occurred to me since what a little matter gives the turn to fortune’s wheel, for it was the merest chance took us in that direction, as it was only the breaking away of five of our best cattle, and their taking the left instead of the right and shortest road to the place we were bound for.” “I suppose you were much excited by this discovery?” “Yes, but, Miss L——, almost the first feeling that arose in my mind, ‘Is it for good or evil?’ One thing comforted me; I could now give my mother a home suited to her, and whatever happens to me, she will be well provided for.” The band commencing a delightful waltz, we left our shady seat and were soon dancing with the rest. I went into town with my friend and spent a delightful musical evening at her house. Some time after this some friends of Mrs. Woolley’s of Hereford House, who knew me there, invited me to a ball at their house in Wooloomooloo. Mrs. Frederick said, “You must go; I will send you in the carriage, and as Mrs. Joseph has offered you a bed, we will call for you in the morning.” I started, having told the coachman to drive to a house in William Street. When we arrived at this place it was very quiet and dark. I jumped out, saying, “This is the place.” But the coachman, having his doubts, suggested waiting till I was in. When the servant opened the door I began to think I had mistaken the date of the invitation, for there was no sign of a party. A door opened and a gentleman came forward. “I fear I have made a mistake; is this Mrs. Joseph’s?” “No; she lives in Victoria Street.” “They have a ball there to-night?” “Yes; my son has just left for it.” How I blessed the coachman’s forethought in waiting, and how my friends laughed at my blunder when I met them at Victoria Street! The next morning poor Richard, the coachman, could not find the cottage in Rushcutter Bay, where I had spent the night, and had been over an hour in finding me, so it was a chapter of accidents altogether. I met on that occasion our present Agent-General and the beautiful girl he married; and only a few mails ago saw in a paper the death of the lady at whose house the ball took place. Her sister, at whose house I stayed the night, has since become one of our leading women in Sydney society; an Australian, clever, fascinating, and agreeable.

A sad catastrophe occurred at this time which cast a terrible shadow over the beauty of our surroundings and our walks and visits to our beach.

The wreck of the Dunbar at the “Gap,” near the South Head, was a terrible calamity. It was an awful night, when, with her living freight, she went down outside the haven; the passengers thought they were entering to meet their dear ones in a few short hours. The terrible wind and rain prevented sleep at Hurst. I got up and read the greater part of the night, for the house at times rocked with the force of the tempest. In the morning the sun shone fitfully and the wind had decreased, the white-crested waves I could see from my windows were the only evidence of the fury of the storm now past. We had just gone into the breakfast-room when some gentlemen called upon Mr. Frederick to inform him there had been a terrible wreck at the South Head, and as some cases with his firm’s brand had been seen, could he tell him the names of vessels he expected consignments by? They feared it might be an emigrant vessel just due. He was able to settle that question, as they never shipped by emigrant ships, and mentioned the names of three vessels they had cargo in, the Dunbar being one; and in a few hours all doubt was at an end, and it was then known to be that ill-fated ship full of passengers, amongst them many colonists returning after a visit to their Fatherland.

Only one man (a sailor) was saved, washed up by the waves between the rocks, and lodged there. It was a most dangerous exploit to attempt the rescue of that one poor creature from his perilous position; but many brave fellows volunteered, and one was lowered by a rope to the rocks beneath, where cruel breakers roared and dashed over both. At last they were hauled safely up, and when able the rescued man told all he knew of that most terrible night’s work. He was asleep at the time the vessel struck; it must all have happened in a few moments from the time of striking till she sank fathoms deep. But from what he related there can be little doubt the captain had mistaken the South Head light for one inside the harbour, and steered right on to the rocks beneath. Most of the passengers were no doubt asleep, and many were crushed in their berths. The lighthouse keeper reported that he heard the bark of a dog above the roar of the tempest at the hour that they supposed so many poor souls had gone to their last home. This dog had been picked up either at Inkerman or Balaklava, and had been given to a lady on board. So many people had friends or relatives on board, that it caused universal sorrow. An emigrant vessel was wrecked inside the harbour before our arrival in the colony. Soon after the loss of the Dunbar, the Catherine Adamson was wrecked on, I think, Bradley’s Head, but not with so great a loss of life. For weeks after both wrecks the beaches were strewed with flotsam, and it was heartrending to see many of the things cast ashore, such as needlework half finished, with needles and crochet hooks stuck in reels of cotton, most likely in use a few hours previously; combs from some loved one’s hair; writing from another’s hand, all still now—not even the poor consolation of seeing the loved form again or its last resting-place. Many bodies recovered were so terribly disfigured by the rocks as to be beyond the possibility of identification. A young person at Hurst was to have been married to the second officer of the Dunbar, and used to go to the morgue to identify her lover day after day, but in vain. She would shake her head and say, “No, Miss, it was not Jim; but some other woman’s loss I saw to-day.” She had to leave us as her mind was evidently giving way. The constant sound of the waves prevented her resting, so I advised her going into the country. Strange to say, the one seaman rescued from the Dunbar was appointed to the lifeboat at Newcastle, and was instrumental in saving the one man from the steamer Cawarra, wrecked there.