We lived for a time on the heights of Marrickville, our ground opening on to bush, or what in England would be termed wood or forest-land, leading to Cooks River, where there were vistas through which we could see houses “bosomed high in tufted trees;” cleared land, and luxurious foliage of pittosporum, lily-pilly, and other native trees: ferns too were very plentiful. We were near old friends, and became intimate with a family residing near us,—an Englishman, his wife, and five daughters; the parents arrived in the colony in the early days. The father, a university man, was master of a private school at Parramatta, and the mother was the true type of an Englishwoman,—tall, handsome, and clever, so it is needless to say the daughters of such parents were agreeable, and became intimate friends of ours. Their mother has gone; but her children live to show another generation of Australians the results of a brave unselfish life. A little later we welcomed another family to our home, as the introduction of a young gentlewoman who brought letters from my husband’s family ended in a close friendship with her relatives in Sydney, with whom she stayed a year.

Our little world in Australia was anticipating a great event, the opening of the first International Exhibition. The site chosen for the building was a “happy thought,” just inside the Domain gates, near the principal streets of the city, and with a panorama of earth, sea, and sky from every part of it, which few, if any exhibitions ever had before. The building could not be said to be original in design: still many said, “It was an exhibition in itself;” and certainly the site was unique for beauty. When filled with our own and the products from many lands, our anticipations of pleasure were fulfilled. The numerous courts were always crowded day after day. The Italian, Austrian, and German especially, so much so that we and others preferred visiting it early in the morning, and having a quiet view of the sculpture and pictures, including “St. Cecilia,” “Non Angli sed Angeli,” Meissonier’s marvellous works, and other poetry of the brush; the china, glass, furniture, jewellery, and silver, which it would be difficult to give any idea of from mere description. Several talented musicians visited us, so every day organ and pianoforte recitals, with concerts, gave pleasure and instruction to the ear, as so much that was beautiful did to the eye. The Queensland and island courts showed us much that was interesting,—pine-apples growing in huge pots, sugar-cane, native cloth, and many tinted shells; the Chinese and Japanese courts with their quaint wonders and delicious tea; India with her rich gems and stuffs,—all not only a pleasure but an educator. Week after week our people visited this exhibition and the annexes in the grounds, where machinery and other useful inventions were shown. Sydney was crowded with visitors, and the first tramway was opened to bring many from the railway station. From this time many improvements were made in our shops, as numberless things that had been sent from home for the first time as exhibits became common. At the end of this year ten years will have passed since it was opened, and when I left Sydney it was still talked of; nothing now remains of it except the lovely grounds where it once stood. Will another ever rise in its place, like a phoenix? It was a pity that it was destroyed; still, being built of perishable materials, it would have been a never-ending expense to the country to keep it in repair.

The last time I visited the building was to see “The Old English Fayre,”—a very pretty sight. The centre was arranged as a street in the olden time, with shops on either side with quaint old signs; the wares were sold by ladies in costumes of the time; and certainly our Australian beauties looked very fair.

When the Exhibition closed, almost every one felt, “What shall we do with our afternoons?” For me this was soon answered. My husband’s health failing, the doctor ordered change, and we left for a tour in the Western district. This was my first journey by train over the Blue Mountains. I did not enjoy it; in fact, when we wound our devious way over the wonderful zigzag, I wished we were on the old road I had last travelled, with all its discomforts attached to it. When near, terribly near the edge of the precipices, I held my breath, and looking back on the way we had come, said, “I wish we were safe at home.” My husband, to reassure me, remarked, “The engineer-in-chief is in the next carriage, so it is all right.” “What of that! clever as he is, he cannot prevent accidents. Perhaps there is something wrong.” Just then we stopped, and not at a station. “I am sure there is.” “No, nothing of importance,” as the panting engine went on again. The worst was over when we reached Hartley Vale, and by the time we reached Bathurst I was no longer nervous. After dinner we left our hotel and walked through the town, so altered and improved that I could scarcely recognise it. We inspected the new block of public buildings, and after trying in vain to find the cottage residence where I stayed nearly thirty years ago, returned to the hotel, which we left next morning and took the train to Orange, remaining there a week with our old friend Marian. We visited a young friend, whose husband had the best brewery in the town, and inspected the shops and numerous buildings erected since I drove through some years previous. We were present at a cricket match and at the laying of the foundation stone of a public school. Several speeches were made, the best (and that is not saying much in praise) from an Australian orator, whose voice is bad, and who never forgets one letter in the alphabet, though often another, while speaking. We then left for Wellington, where my brother met us at the railway station. If I had felt like Rip van Winkle in Sydney after being absent three years, what did I feel now in Wellington? Now I saw a busy little town with churches, banks, shops, private residences, and hotels; a substantial road bridge over the Macquarie, and another, an iron bridge, nearly finished, for the railway. A few brick cottages in Montefiores was the only difference there except at Gobolion, now a large comfortable cottage with gardens and orchard. The children I had left were married, with children of their own. Since our visit many other improvements had taken place,—handsome bank buildings, a hall, where last winter they had a skating rink, had been built, and a volunteer corps and a band founded. The town is now a municipality, and the Corporation have an idea of lighting it by electricity. This, for a small town two hundred miles from Sydney, proves Australian progress. My niece, who has always taken a great interest in Church affairs, Sunday school, and choir, and has played the organ in the church for two years, had been presented with a gold watch and handsome brooch.