From Lapstone Hill I again saw the valley of the Grose, with the Nepean River like a silver thread winding between banks and meadows fair. Emu plains, with its many farms, nestling amidst the luxuriant autumn foliage, formed a peaceful panorama. Mr. James kindly rested the horses, allowing us to feast our eyes until the approach of a train reminded him of progression, as he immediately remembered that we had some miles to travel ere we reached Glenmore. However, the distance appeared less to me, having so much to think of, past and future. We soon crossed the bridge and drove through part of Penrith; then along the road to our destination, which was so familiar to my companions and so strange to me. One of the greatest trials of my life had been the inevitable feeling of utter loneliness when first entering a family as a stranger, where they were all so familiar, so bound up together by the ties of home affection. My first impression of Glenmore was, “This place should be called Florence, as it was, indeed, the home of flowers.” Hereford House and others had been rich with “earth’s stars,” but not to compare with the profusion and richness of bloom before me. The cottage at the gate was covered with roses, honeysuckle, and the purple and white maurandria. We drove between hawthorn hedges, with arched entrances to orchard, vineyard, and orangery. The front of the house was literally a carpet of flowers, as the gravelled sweep was covered with many coloured portulacas and mignonette, which were allowed to grow and blossom during the master’s and mistress’s absence. While the parents greeted their elder children, I stood looking at the view before me. In the foreground a large bed with trees and flowering shrubs, bordered by verbenas and petunias of every hue; beyond croquet lawn, paddocks enclosed for kangaroo and deer; then grassy slopes bounded by distant hills, clothed from base to summit with foliage. The house was somewhat of the Italian style, commodious, with large lofty rooms, double halls, and cool passages; a long verandah covered with climbing plants on one side, into which my room opened, and immediately in front of my window the opening into the flower garden, which was always full of blossom, and showed each season’s calendar written by Nature’s hand. The finest oak tree I had seen for many a day was here, surrounded by a low hedge of laurestines. Beyond this was the orangery, with the rich green of the leafy trees, the snowy buds and blossoms then perfuming the air—a veritable garden of the Hesperides. Fern Hill and Wimborne, the other estates in “the valley,” were also in their different styles pleasant country houses. The first was a modern mansion situated on rising ground, with well-kept shrubberies, lawns, and vineyard. Wimborne had many acres of cultivated land, parklike in extent. The house was large, but more in the older colonial style of architecture. The owners of the estates were related, so the picturesque church between Fern Hill and Glenmore was like a private family chapel, as the congregation, with few exceptions, consisted of the households of the three places. We had service—conducted with great simplicity—alternately morning and afternoon. It was pleasant to observe the family greetings in the porch on Sundays. Sometimes we left Glenmore for walks in the neighbourhood. One was an especial favourite—a deserted burial-place of an aboriginal tribe on the banks of a creek. It was a very picturesque spot, thickly wooded, with groups of trees with rude carvings on their trunks. I was informed that they left their dead above ground, wrapped in rude hammocks slung between trees, always selecting places near rivers or creeks. Another object for long walks was the collecting of gum by the children; at some seasons it literally poured down the trees. On seeing this, I could understand the large deposits of Kauri gum dug out of the ground in New Zealand, the accumulation of many years. Some mornings we would go on a mushrooming expedition, our paddocks supplying us in great profusion with these delicacies, so that our baskets were always well filled.

The arrowroot grew plentifully at Glenmore, so Mrs. James had nearly a hundredweight made one season. It was interesting to watch the process of grinding the root into pulp, the cleansing of the muddy-looking wash with many waters, until the sediment was a pure white, which is then spread over calico and laid on the grass to dry.

For indoor amusements we had music, reading, and work. Mr. James had an excellent library, and for modern literature a box from Maddock’s (our Australian Mudie) kept us au fait in the doings of the literary world. Occasionally we had croquet parties on the lawn at Fern Hill, with afternoon tea and claret cup. Playing at croquet, or watching the graceful figures of our girls, and the elegant, genial hostess moving amongst her guests, made a very pleasant diversion in the quiet home life. Our household at Glenmore was a very happy one. Mrs. James, one of the sweetest-tempered women I ever met, ruled her large family by love and gentleness, and during three years’ residence under her roof I never saw her angry or in any way ruffled, which, considering there were eight children, from one to twenty years of age, at home, with three boys at holiday time, was really wonderful. She had her two elder girls as companions; I, my children, and one dear girl who rode over from Fern Hill every day to join in our studies—clever, loving, little Lilly. How we missed her when God gathered her for His garden of angels, and our “happy valley” knew her only by the quiet grave which marked her resting-place under the church’s shadow on the hill!

My long holidays were spent with various friends in Sydney. During one, Sydney was en fÊte in honour of the Duke of Edinburgh; this being the first visit paid by a member of the Royal family to Australian shores. James, Maria, and I watched the public reception from a stand in Macquarie Street, and from our friend’s windows in Cumberland Street had an excellent view of the naval reception and harbour illuminations. Afterwards, when staying with Mrs. Frederick, I saw our Royal guest driving past to Point Piper, and later on heard his kindly-natured hostess speak of “the great interest he evinced in colonial life.” Does His Royal Highness ever think of his first experiences of life in Australia?—the dances, picnics, shooting-parties at Nepean Towers and elsewhere? A friend related an anecdote of him which proved he was really fond of animals. On one occasion he returned to the dining-room to give his dog water instead of “leaving it to others,” as his host suggested. I heard he had quite a menagerie on board. A young friend of mine sent him a parrot, and handsome Mrs. E. K. C. an owl, which he named after the donor. I am certain he has never received a more heartfelt welcome than he did in his Royal mother’s “Golden South,” which welcome was so terribly sullied by the maniac’s attempt on his life. Australia will never forget the thrill of horror this caused through the length and breadth of the land. The fair-faced youth to be shot in our midst at a time when all classes met to greet him as a friend and guest! This was my last glimpse of royalty, being an invalid when the Prince of Wales’s sons visited Sydney, and during my year’s residence in England. Still I hope ere my return to Australia to see Her Majesty and members of the Royal family again. While at Glenmore I was present at two weddings—Mr. James’s eldest daughter’s and her cousin’s at Wim: both were very grand affairs. At ours there was a very large family party; out of seventy guests there were only about ten not connected by birth or marriage. Unfortunately the sun refused to shine on our bride, so the grounds were not utilised; but the time passed quickly, and an enjoyable dance finished the day. Miss Una was more favoured a fortnight after, as she had a lovely day to bid farewell to her childhood’s home, the youngest and last to leave. The extensive grounds at Wim were thoroughly appreciated by cricket and croquet players on this occasion.

During one of my visits to Sydney, I saw and heard of the man who afterwards became famous as “the claimant” to the Tichborne estate; he had just arrived from the country and was staying at the same hotel as my brother. One afternoon, on calling there, in the hall I met this man face to face. “Do you know who that is, K——?” “No; who is he?” “Well, he says he is Sir Roger Tichborne.” That evening after dinner at our friend’s the subject was alluded to, and on our host asking, “What do you think of him, L——?” “What do I think? Why, he is no more Sir Roger Tichborne than you are. No man, however unused for years to the society or manners of gentlemen, could ever forget certain usages of his youth as this man has, who cannot even spell the simplest words correctly.” “That is nothing.” “Well, that may be; but if you saw this man often, you would understand what I mean.” In after years, when I heard how the impostor was believed in, I thought of this conversation. Of course at the time I write of, the infamous scheme had only commenced, and the man was off his guard and untutored.

My peaceful life at Glenmore had to cease, owing to bad health; a long rest was imperative, so once more I had to avail myself of my friends’ kind offer to pay them a long visit at Oviedo Cottage, Petersham, where as usual I was treated as a sister. One family—James’s oldest friends—had a nice suburban house and grounds near to us. He had known the owner from boyhood in England, and had been present at his marriage to a young and very pretty girl, now the energetic and hospitable mistress of Derry Vale, with a fine family to brighten their home. This place, greatly enlarged since my first visit, was our last resting-place in New South Wales. I also paid several visits to Parramatta, which always interested me. Parramatta or Rose Hill, as it was first called, is the oldest inland town in the colony, and the first harvest ever gathered in New South Wales, one hundred years ago, was reaped there. Old Government House still remains in the Inner Domain, or Parramatta Park. This place, with its avenue of oaks, is like a scene from the old country. The orchards are very numerous now, extending over an area of four thousand acres, varying in size from fifty to a hundred acres each; the orangeries cluster more thickly around Castle and Pennant Hills. Here the vine was first planted, and grows luxuriantly—in fact, the district seems adapted to every kind of fruit. Apples, pears, and plums from the northern lands; oranges, grapes, peaches, and other fruits from the southern lands of Europe flourish equally well. Alas! Parramatta has one drawback—mosquitoes. These pests are found in all the districts on the eastern side of the mountain range, and to some people make night far from comfortable. I have known many, after living in the country a quarter of a century, dread on this account the approach of summer. Besides visiting Parramatta by steamboat and train, I have been by the well-known road, scarcely altered since I travelled on it so many years ago. Races were still held on the Homebush Course, and boating parties on the river, now world renowned as the scene where our Australian scullers have won their laurels. The trip by the steamer is very agreeable, passing on the way up the river Five Dock, Hunter’s Hill, Kissing Point—the latter now called Ryde; others renamed Greenwich, Mortlake, etc.

I read an article the other day in an English paper on the fondness Australians have of naming places after celebrated men; Gladstone was one mentioned. I quite agree with the writer to a certain extent; still is it not unwise to sneer at colonials, who wish by so doing to honour their country by such names as Wellington, Gordon, Drake, Nelson, and others? No doubt they have many absurd as well as commonplace names. But are there none equally so near home? In my opinion the natives’ names should have been retained and adopted. What could be more euphonious than those we have still,—such as Ulladulla, Illawarra, Wollondilly, Nanima, Eurunderie, Marulan, Moruya, Murrurundi, Merriwa, and hundreds of others?

I had an excellent view from Point Piper of the Flying Squadron that visited Sydney. It was a fine sight, watching the ships under canvas gliding on the intensely blue waters, under an equally blue sky, to Middle Harbour.

We had flower shows in the gardens, cricket-matches in the Domain, bazaars everywhere now. Our church school feasts were held in many spots open to the public, and on the shores of the harbour, which later on, when the train was available, were deserted for fresher fields. Australia is certainly well adapted for outdoor amusements. Cricket and tennis can be played almost all the year round, and picnics and garden parties are practicable through about eight months. Holidays are spent in the open air, as there are few places for day amusements under cover like the Crystal Palace at Sydenham and others in England. Trains, omnibuses, trams, and steamers swarm with well-dressed and happy-looking people, all bent on enjoyment, while the city and suburbs are almost deserted. I have often watched them, and thought this is really “a land flowing with milk and honey.” No cruel winter, when men and women, however willing, cannot find work. There seems to be no real want or poverty. Surely such a land must become the home of millions!—this sunny land, “a land of promise” for the overgrown population of cities of the older world.

A sad bereavement made me leave Sydney for a time. Maria’s death caused a terrible blank in my life, so hearing of an engagement to educate a girl of sixteen, I left in the autumn for Singleton.