The second summer I spent at Broom was hotter than usual, owing to extensive bush fires. The mountains in front of the house were a magnificent sight. At night sometimes we would see the “fire king” clearing all before him stealthily, leaving paths of flame as he went, then surrounding a mighty tree, creeping from stem to branch, until amidst a shower of sparks it fell into its “gold and scarlet grave,”—these, with masses of undergrowth like beacon fires, making any pyrotechnic display look poor by comparison.

I spent part of the Christmas holidays with Mrs. Blomfield at Eurund in a very pretty house on the other side of Mudgee, visiting Wilber and the Pipeclay diggings while there. We started early one morning for the latter, well provided with luncheon baskets. After driving over very indifferent roads through bush paddocks, we arrived at “the creek,” where there were several parties of diggers washing gold on its banks. “The first thing,” suggested one of our party, “for us to see is ‘Long Tom’ at work,” pointing to a group of men; “there he is.” I had a dim recollection of a nautical individual with the lugubrious addition of a coffin in some drama, or perhaps one of the characters belonging to my brother’s pasteboard theatre, and therefore thought, when we drove up to this group, the man Mr. Blomfield spoke to was “Long Tom,” and a tired, untidy woman sitting near Mrs. Long Tom. But no, I was wrong, for going a little farther, we came upon a party consisting of four men, and the real “Long Tom” or cradle, was a narrow trough filled with earth, into which water flowed through a kind of funnel; the cradle was rocked, and the gold washed from the earth fell into a tin dish. While we stood watching, they got about half an ounce, as it was very rich on this spot. The men’s clothes were a bright yellow, and no wonder, for the water of the creek looked, as Mr. Blomfield said, “as though the late Mr. Turner, R.A., had washed his brushes in it after painting a sunset.” After seeing all that was to be seen here, we went on to New Pipeclay diggings; an enormous rabbit-warren-like place, the huts scattered about not very unlike hutches. Our carriage drew up to the side of a hole surrounded by logs of wood, on the top of which was a windlass, where a man stood every now and then answering some one below, whose voice sounded very sepulchral. Presently the man above called out, “Dinner,” and quickly drew his mate up like he would a bucket of water, very gruff and pipe-clayey and slightly dazed by the light. We drove through the principal street, the children—all of the prevailing terra-cotta colour—staring at “the ladies.” No doubt dirt-pie-making was their principal amusement, plenty of material lying about. Margie inquired of her husband, “What would Jane think of this dirty place? the proverbial peck of dirt must be eaten all at once, for everything is peppered with the dust, and the water yellow with the clay. How dreadful for clean muslins!” As there was not much to see at New Pipeclay, we determined to drive four or five miles farther to “New Old Pipeclay.” Being in doubt, we inquired the way of a digger, who, with the usual delightful vagueness of that wandering class, directed us wrong, and we found ourselves driving over a ploughed field. Start out, English farmer; as I have said before, crops in Australia are not petted and protected as with you. The owner of this, standing at his door, slowly advanced, and then kindly took us to the nearest slip-rail. Evidently horses and vehicles planting their autographs over his fields were everyday occurrences, as he said nothing about it: he moved slowly, spoke little, and his appearance generally gave one the idea that he was a stranger to the order of the bath. He pointed out the nearest road, and then rested against his boundary fence watching us, as much as to say, “What can people like them want to go poking about diggings for, in this hot weather too?” We found “New Old Pipeclay” more warren-like than the one we had seen. Here we left the vehicles and watched four men working a large claim, the gentlemen of our party entering into conversation with those above, and then accepting an invitation to “go below.” We were all invited, but Margie and I declined, and amused ourselves by picking up specimens of quartz and crystals from the heaps around the claim. When the gentlemen appeared, followed by more men, they were so delighted at all they had seen that Margie and I regretted we had not braved the dangers of windlass and dust; but it was too late now. As a consolation one of the men gave us some large crystals, which a few years after caused quite a sensation amongst my many Sydney friends. After giving the diggers some money to “wash the pipeclay out of their throats,” we started for home, driving through the place just as the men were leaving off work. “We are driving over gold-mines, Jim,” said one of the gentlemen. “Yes, and look at the miserable hovels the people live in who are bringing it from the under world.” Hovels, indeed! More than one had only a hole in the roof for a chimney; a few had casks fixed for the purpose; but there was no attempt to keep the places neat. Yes, in two or three were evidences of a woman’s home, in a rough railing covered with creeping plants, or a show of curtains at the little windows. A tidy female, watching from the open door of a hut, attracted one of our friends; he rode up, asking, “Are we to take the right or left road.” On her answering, we left him still talking. When he joined us again, he said, “That is a countrywoman of yours, Miss L——; only a few years out from Wales.” She says the dirt and muck here will drive her mad; but her man is making a good pile. Digging for gold is better than digging for iron in the old country; but when they have enough, they are going back. Ah, that going back to the quiet peaceful village life! how few do return; and if they do, are they the same innocent, contented country folk, after living in such pandemoniums, as the early gold-fields too often were? How many homes and lives were ruined by the lust for gold in those early days of colonial life, only those who were living there can know. How many wives and children were deserted the Destitute Children’s Asylum at Randwick or the asylums for old men and women could answer.

The next winter was a very severe one in Mudgee, and I saw a real fall of snow in Australia. A large party was given by the wealthy owner of Havilah at the School of Arts; and Mrs. Robinson had kindly invited a number of ladies to dress at “The Bank.” We had commenced this important business when Mrs. Robinson, calling me, said, “Come here, Miss L——, and look at the whitest dress you will see to-night.” I at once went to the drawing-room window, at which my friend stood, and saw roads, gardens, and roofs covered with snow. Our young friends were soon with us admiring the wintry white; but the cold drove them back to the warm rooms. I could not leave the window for some time, the “beautiful snow recalled so much.” “Yes,” whispered my friend, putting her arm round me; “I can understand and read your thoughts. This does bring back the dear old country, which, with all its faults, is the one land to us.” It was cold that night—bitterly so, as many felt who had to ride or drive many miles home after the dance was over. The Agricultural Show was our next amusement. It was a fine cool autumn, and we had several picnic parties on the grounds. Viewing sheep, cattle, horses, and wool for the sterner sex; vegetables, flowers, preserves, butter, etc., etc., for us ladies to criticise, gave all a “good time.” These country meetings there were very pleasant; everybody knew everybody; friendly greetings from high and low drew the bonds of kindly, neighbourly feelings closer, as to a certain extent all were equal. Farmer B——’s cattle and produce were as good if not better than some of his wealthier neighbours’. The rich Mrs. Robinson’s butter was beaten by that of a tenant’s wife. The poorer could with truth and sincerity say of the richer, “How kind they are to help us over any difficulty, or come to see us when sickness or sorrow entered our humble homes!” Not many months after this their deep sympathy was evinced with their richer neighbour, Mr. Charles, by one humble mother coming forward in the hour of deepest need at Broom, when the reaper Death claimed the young mother there.

My life had been full of changes, not untouched by sorrow and bereavements, and this sudden ending of a young and energetic life was a terrible experience. The three little children were left motherless; one was only just able to ask for mamma: “When will she come home? I want her.” The other two were unconscious of that want. How my heart ached for them. After remaining at Broom until a connection of the family took charge of the house and my pupils’ education, I left for Mulgoa, having arranged with Mrs. James to meet her a few miles from Broom, as they were travelling from their station. This journey was a very different experience of Australian travel, for we drove in a comfortable waggonette, making short stages, and stopping at quiet inns. We stayed at Bowenfels one day, so I was able to judge what a pretty place it was, with its two principal estates and farms. Many English trees flourish there; indeed, all those I see every day in our garden here grew well.

I gazed now for the last time on the valleys and fern-covered slopes of the Blue Mountains before “the iron horse” made them to a certain extent lose their novelty. Yet who would complain, when progress gives pleasure to thousands, where tens only were able to enjoy it?