Once more I was meditating another flight into the country. My friend had recovered, and was able to resume the care of her house and family. Sydney never agreed with me, and I so much preferred a country life. Fortunately hearing of an engagement in a family where I knew I should be happy, I bade my friends farewell, and thought, “The world is all before me where to choose; my peace of rest with Providence my guide.” This journey of two hundred miles was begun under better auspices, travelling by train to Penrith, remaining a night with my friends there, who saw me the next morning comfortably seated in a good coach drawn by fine horses, a turn-out for the road very different from that I had hitherto known. The roads were in much better condition, and the inn accommodation improved; but before we arrived at Bowenfels, my anticipation of an uneventful journey was dispelled, as our respectable vehicle was changed for a wreck of the old school, harness tied with rope, horses not well broken in. The usual tomahawk and pieces of spare rope handed in, recalled my first journey’s experiences. As I expected, at every bit of rising ground the horses jibbed, the driver requesting the passengers—a lady, a lame man, and myself—to get out. We did so, and then went on again a few miles, with the same result, at least the jibbing, as the driver got down to lead the horses this time. But as the horses would not move, the driver called to the man on the box, “Hit the nearest to you with your crutch.” He obeyed;—result, it kicked furiously. “Jump out,” screamed the man, which we did at once. Men, coach, and horses then disappeared. My companion showing signs of hysterics, I scolded her, and suggested running down the hill to see what had happened, dreading to look when we neared the spot where the coach stood. Fortunately another hill had stopped the horses, and the man had kept his hold of the reins. The driver’s left arm was broken and one of the shafts, so we had to remain while the poor fellow went off the road to a shepherd’s hut for assistance. Two men came, made a sling for the driver’s arm, tied the shaft together with some of the rope, and hammered at the wheels. It was a terribly anxious time, as the driver asked us to watch the wheels in case they came off. However, at last we arrived at the stage two hours behind time; the shaft was repaired, and another driver got; but he being a stranger, the disabled man had to go as far as Bowenfels. How earnestly I wished this pretty spot had been my destination, being completely worn out with fatigue and fright. Fresh passengers started with us—a young couple belonging to a variÉtÉ troupe at Mudgee, whose merry chatter and too loudly expressed astonishment at Australian travel amused me. They were only just out from California, and described their experiences most graphically, as no doubt they would those of the present trip, as well as that we had just undergone, for my companion related the whole of it. I was rejoicing at leaving them ten miles the Sydney side of Mudgee, it having been arranged for Mr. Charles to send a buggy to meet me at a little inn near the boundary of his estate. The mailman, however, said he was afraid our being two hours late would prevent this; but as we drove into the inn yard I saw the neat single buggy and man waiting. Now thankfully I bid my travelling companions farewell, and sat too worn out to see anything as we drove over grass and road to Broom. My last experience of coach travelling in Australia had ended that night, leaving me stiff and bruised for days. As I write this the sweet face of Mrs. Charles and her cordial welcome is before me, as, bewildered by the lighted hall, she took me by the hand and led me to my room, told me a warm bath was ready, and she would send me in some tea. “You are tired, I can see.” “Yes, and sore; look at my arm,” which was bruised with the iron of the mail-coach. However the bath, delicate meal of chicken, and that panacea for nervous troubles, tea, with some camphorated eau-de-Cologne, soon soothed me to sleep, which lasted till late the next morning. When we had become friends, Mrs. Charles told me I looked such a frail, delicate creature that night, she felt inclined to take me in her arms and carry me to my room. In fact, she had told her husband and three of his brothers this when she returned to the drawing-room, adding, “She is nearly killed with travelling in the horrid coach; her arms are black with bruises. When will they have good coaches in Australia, I wonder?”

My new surroundings were quite different from any I had yet experienced either in town or country. I was now on a sheep station, managed very different from Nanima, and of much less extent, cleared and cultivated. The house was an old one, partly surrounded by the shrubbery of laurustines, lilacs, spirÆa, and other flowering shrubs. At one end of the verandah was a trellis of Isabella grape, covering many feet to an enclosure at the back. The orchard was across a paddock in the front, and growing close to the verandah at the back was a large orange tree, a great rarity in the district. The hills in front, and the river at their feet, with lands consisting of farms under cultivation, and so much land cleared belonging to Broom, reminded me of places seen in England. We were several miles from Mudgee, the road to which, through Burra estate, owned by Mr. Charles’s brother, was a very pretty drive. Much of it was tenanted by farmers, and at intervals groups of wattle, kurrajong, willows, native apple, and other trees made charming vistas, with the hills as background. I never tired of the drive to church on Sunday or of shopping and paying visits during the week, particularly as our carriage and pair of ponies were equal to any in Sydney.

Mudgee twenty-five years ago was a very good town, with churches, banks, stores, a School of Arts or Mechanics’ Institute, and pretty cottages; I certainly was surprised on my first visit to it. It was situated two hundred miles from Sydney, over mountain roads in coaches such as I have described, and only drays to bring everything from, and wool and produce to, the city. No doubt, as several wealthy families had settled and made homes in the immediate neighbourhood, their presence tended to the somewhat rapid progress of this place. One family of three brothers, each on separate properties, and several members of the family I was with had properties in the district: these gentlemen all bearing the same name, I had a difficulty in distinguishing brothers from cousins.

Burra House had been Mr. Charles’s father’s first homestead in the district, a very unpretentious bush house, now to be replaced by the mansion his eldest son was building. When completed this was the largest private residence near the town. Here he entertained the governor, the bishop, and other distinguished visitors. I think his eldest son now resides there, with the railway nearly “at his gates,” daily news from Sydney, and friends able to run down for a few hours. But is it so completely country life there now, with its characteristic freedom from restraint, dress, and worry? When I remember Mudgee, we could dress comfortably, drive a cart, and ride very rough-looking horses; and as others did likewise, no unfavourable comments could be made.

Our household consisted of Mr. Charles, his young wife, her two children, and two girls from a neighbouring estate to be educated with Mr. Charles’s elder daughter. We seldom left Broom for exercise, as the estate consisted of many acres, the river running through it, on the opposite side of which were paddocks under cultivation. We had a rabbit warren near, and many charming spots to visit on our side of the river; communication with the other, when I first went there, was too risky for my nerves. A fallen tree did not represent a bridge to me. Twice I attempted it, and had ignominiously to sit down in the middle and allow my pupils to lead me over, so I determined to wait until a proper crossing-place was made for sheep-washing.

Our favourite walk was to a place I named “The Fairy Dell,” where we often sat and watched “Bunny” at work and play. He has worked to some purpose now in Australia, clearing all before him. How little the man who first introduced the rodents thought what the result would be, or how many thousands it would cost the Government and squatters to rid the country of such pests! Not long after I left Broom, Mr. Charles had his destroyed by burning them out of their holes. Hares will also become a nuisance if not got rid of before making their way into the interior of the country, where they can breed unmolested.

How many acclimatised prolific seed-bearing plants too have become as bad, if not worse than those indigenous to the soil. Geraniums are grown as hedges, pelargoniums grow three or four feet high in a couple of years; clumps of heliotrope, gardenias, fuchsias, and Daphne thrive in the open air and become large shrubs with thick stems; and such plants as the sweet-briar will soon spread over uncultivated ground in the same ratio. I have seen acres covered by it, with roots so embedded that it required a team of bullocks to drag them out. Some early settler no doubt rejoiced in having the sweet perfumed briar near his bush home to remind him of the shady lanes of his native land. I never passed a hedge of it in Parramatta without in imagination seeing a village near St. Osyth Priory in Essex, where we passed many a summer’s day gathering the crimson berries for necklaces to carry back to our London home, and felt just as Australians will feel some day when they see the flowers of their bright land blooming in hothouses in England. Childhood and youth cast their glamour over the past. All is bright and fair in “Wonderland” which the trail of the serpent has not touched. As I forgot in Parramatta rain, fog, and gray-leaden skies, so will they forget hot winds and droughts.

Life on such a sheep station as Broom was certainly an ideal one; we enjoyed all the freedom of the country, with the advantages of being near such a town as Mudgee and within reach of congenial society. As usual, I was fortunate in this respect, meeting with a lady there, the wife of a bank manager just from England, a delightful clever woman—musical, well read, and well travelled. Her conversation was like a fresh breeze from another world, a perfect revelation to me. At Broom too we had Mr. Charles’s younger brother staying for months; he was a cosmopolitan, had studied at Cambridge, and passed as a barrister in Sydney, but was compelled through delicate health to live in the country, and assisted in managing the out-station. He was somewhat of a dilettante, played the cornet a little, painted a little, sang a little, and read a great deal. His rooms were in a cottage across the courtyard, and contained a curious collection of things bought during his travels, amongst them part of an Egyptian mummy. Whoever the said mummy was in the flesh, she would have been horrified at being kept in a large box, in which music, books, paints, and numbers of other articles were stowed away to clear the room. Mrs. Charles and I often amused ourselves examining these treasures, and once when the owner was absent, determined to tidy his two rooms, expecting thanks for the result of our exercising of our organ of order, in bookcase, boxes, and drawers presenting so different an aspect. But no; the ungrateful man only grumbled, saying, “It will take a week before I can find anything; I prefer my things mixed in a drawer or box, for then I am sure to find them.” He was very fond of pets. One he waited on for a long time. Out shooting on the mountains he discovered an eagle’s nest with eggs in it, so calculating the time, went some weeks after, and watching the parent-bird fly away, secured an eaglet, which grew to be a splendid bird. Poor “Jupiter!” how we pitied it; chained to a post in the grounds, he looked terribly melancholy. At last, to our delight, he broke his chain and flew upwards; but not having full command of his enormous wings, only went as far as the roof of the house, and with the assistance of the men was recaptured. “Mulla,” my weekly pupils’ home, was a relic of the past. It was one of the earliest bush houses, built substantially in the same style as I see on these Hampshire roads—bare-looking, with high small windows, narrow doorways, and without verandahs. Mulla had one, but it was an addition since its building; the garden in front too resembled those in this neighbourhood. The owners of the property were natives of the colony, kind and hospitable; I stayed there sometimes, occupying a quaint outside room. The elder girls were excellent housekeepers, good daughters, and sisters, all musical, and fond of reading, “my two girls” especially so. The younger has since spent some time in India, and if the promise of her girlhood is fulfilled, I am certain she has appreciated the contrast with her quiet early home.