Читать книгу My Experiences in Australia. - A Lady - Страница 8

Table of Contents

The suburbs of Sydney—View of the harbour from Paddington—No place like home—The drives round Sydney—Digging out an omnibus—A bouquet of wild flowers—Flowering shrubs—Forest trees—The bush—Varieties of a scrub—Snakes—Botany Road—Botany Bay—The menagerie—Cook's River—New Town.

"Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon low glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom." —Burns.

Sydney has very much increased within the last few years, and its suburbs now are numerous and extensive. On the opposite shore of the inlet known as Darling Harbour, quite a new town has sprung up, and a bridge, which has lately been thrown across, will give, no doubt, an additional impetus to building in that direction. Land has become very valuable there, and where a few years ago a few scattered cottages alone were to be seen, now stand the flourishing suburbs of Balmain, Pyrmont, and St. Leonard's.

In quite an opposite direction, to the south of Sydney, extend Darlinghurst, Wooloomooloo and Paddington, which from the beauty of their situation, and from their hitherto having afforded easier access to the town, have been generally preferred as places of residence. There are many pretty villas and cottages scattered about here, and still farther out on the road to the South Head are some very pretty places, all, as I have before said, built in the villa style, but whose beauty of situation forms their principal attraction. Nothing snore exquisite can be conceived than the views that some of these command. As I sit writing this on a dull February morning in Scotland, the snow beating against the window panes, and myself ensconced in a large arm-chair with my table drawn close to the fire, a picture of one of these views comes vividly before my mind's eye: I am once more seated in a handsome stone verandah, one of the very few to be met with near Sydney; a flight of steps leads down to a small, neatly kept garden, with some really green turf to refresh the eye, and remind one of home; a field beyond, and the slanting roof of a cottage seen through some low growing trees; one or two Norfolk pines, rearing their tall heads far above the others; these form the foreground of my landscape: and beyond are the bright blue waves breaking on the yellow sand, and picturesque headlands, crowned at first with a dark glossy green and becoming more and more indistinct, till at last it is difficult to believe those faint hazy lines are really the outline of the bold North Head, or that that thread of white is the lighthouse on the south shore. Then, looking in the distance like birds of snowy plumage—

"The stately ships come on,

To their harbour under the hill."

And over all is the clear blue sky, and enlivening all, the bright golden sunshine. Or I view the same scene by the soft light of the moon; far in the distance are heard faint sounds of music, and steaming up the harbour is one of the fine mail steamers hung with lamps from stem to stern. The crew, delighted at the termination of their long voyage, fire off rockets and blue lights, which are answered from the shore, and illuminate quite brightly the surrounding scene. A prettier sight could hardly be imagined, but I must own that the principal pleasure I derived at the time from contemplating it, was in the thought it suggested, that in the good ship's next voyage we should probably be among the homeward bound passengers. So, remembering how I pined for my northern home when far away, I feel little difficulty in reconciling myself to our ungenial climate, with its hail and sleet, and frost and ice, and would not exchange our snow-clad hills for a landscape of perpetual summer beauty. Still, there is no doubt it is one of the pleasures of travelling, that these lovely pictures do not pass away from the recollection, and that as much delight is often experienced in dwelling on the remembrance of these scenes as is felt at the time when actually witnessing them.

The drives about Sydney, as may well be imagined from what I have just said, are very picturesque, especially the two in the direction of the South Head, known respectively as the Old and New South Head Roads, and they have the additional advantage of being kept in tolerably good repair, which is more than can be said for most of the roads round Sydney, or, in fact, of the streets themselves occasionally. During the rainy weather which preceded our departure from the colony, I remember seeing, nearly opposite Lyon's Terrace, an omnibus with one of its wheels sunk up to the axles, the horses out, and the driver and conductor gone also; probably in search of spades to dig out their vehicle!

The drives referred to, when passable, used to be my favourite resorts, and in the spring of the year they can boast of additional attractions, in the shape of the wild flowers which grow by the road side. Oh, these said wild flowers, what pleasure they afforded me! I am, unfortunately, nothing of a botanist, and could get no work on the plants of Australia, and very little information on the subject from any one to whom I applied; so that of many of the most beautiful specimens I do not even know the name. There was one beautiful creeper especially, Kennedia Rubicunda, with pea-shaped flowers of a deep crimson, with a large trefoil leaf of dark glossy green, and another with a smaller blossom of brilliant scarlet, almost the texture of velvet, which covered the ground in sandy spots. Extending from tree to tree, and spreading over the bushes, looking at a little distance like a delicate gauze veil of the most exquisite blue, was another beautiful runner whose name I could never learn; it grew almost without leaves, and its stem was so slight it could only be seen when quite close, so that really it often seemed floating in the air. Then there was the Sheep Vine, with its purple vetch-like blossom, growing in long wreaths; its botanical name, Kennedia Microfilla, I do happen to know, as I found it in our greenhouse at home among our most cherished creepers. Besides these, are the Bignonias, the common white variety of which is most abundant in the neighbourhood of Sydney, and two or three varieties of the white Clematis, which all grow to a great height, running up the trunks and entwining round the branches of the high forest trees, often clothing some old decayed trunk with a life and beauty not its own.

One instance of this I remember particularly. In one of my many rambles through the bush, which I enjoyed more than I did anything else in the colony, my husband drew my attention to the trunk of a young tree, which grew to the height of some ten or twelve feet, with a few branches drooping downwards. Some one had, a few months previously, set fire to it, and now round its blackened stem grew the native Bignonia, with its white wax-like flowers, and bright glossy leaves, like those of the yellow jasmine. It ran up to the full height of the tree, twined round the remaining branches, and then drooped down again almost to the ground. The most skilful hand could not have trained it more gracefully, and a most beautiful picture it formed, standing out in relief against the background of the dark evergreen bush, by which it was surrounded.

The evergreen flowering shrubs are far more numerous even than the creepers, and some of the blossoms they bear are very beautiful. There is the Native rose, as it is called, which, however, bears no other resemblance than that of colour to the old garden favourite. It is known to botanists, I believe, as the Borronias serrulata. The leaf is small, more resembling the box than any other shrub I am familiar with, but with the edges indented; the flowers grow in clusters at the end of the stem, and are in shape, small cup-like bells of the brightest rose colour; it has a strange pungent perfume, which is pleasant enough in the open air, but rather too powerful in a room. There is also a native Jasmine, its flower precisely resembling the white Jasmine we are all familiar with at home, but the plant itself bearing more likeness to the broom. There is also the native tulip-tree or Waratah, as it is more commonly called, with large scarlet blossoms, in size and shape somewhat resembling a peony; and there is the native heath, or Epacris, of which there are many varieties, the commonest, perhaps, being one which grows in large bushes, and has crimson flowers tipped with white. There is another variety, whose name I do not know; it grows lower, and the flowers are more of a scarlet hue; and another, somewhat more rare, with green blossoms. I have only named a few of the very many flowering shrubs that abound near Sydney. Besides these are many beautiful Orchidaceous and bulbous rooted plants. Of the former I may mention the Rock Lily, which, with a coarse, ugly leaf, bears the most beautiful flower, of the bush. It is generally of a pale straw colour, though I have seen them of a rich mottled tortoiseshell hue, and it grows in delicate little bells, along a stem perhaps a foot in length, which hangs in a graceful curve. I have seen young ladies wear these blossoms in their hair, and can bear witness how very well they looked. The only other plant which, in my opinion, can contest the palm of beauty with this feather-like flower, though quite unlike it in form and hue, is that known as the Fringed Violet, a most exquisite little thing, of the Iris tribe, I fancy; it is formed of three leaves, so smooth and glossy in texture as to resemble satin, each leaf being surrounded with a most delicate little fringe, such as might serve to adorn the train of a fairy queen. In colour it is the most delicate lilac or peach; it has a bulbous root, and long narrow leaves almost resembling grass. This beautiful little flower is most difficult to transplant, and I am not aware that it has ever been brought to this country. We gathered some of its seeds, which we brought carefully home, but have not succeeded in inducing any of them to grow; perhaps roots might have done better; but stove-heat will not start the seed.

I have been tempted into a somewhat long dissertation on the Bush-flowers, and can only plead as an excuse, their great beauty, and the intense enjoyment that I derived from making acquaintance with them. Among the smaller trees, or larger shrubs, of the bush may be mentioned the Acacias, of which the variety is almost endless. I collected specimens of some eighteen or twenty different species growing in the immediate vicinity of Sydney; and I believe the varieties scattered over the different colonies amount to nearly a hundred; they are very beautiful, and make one think of the French name for the laburnum, "pluie d'or." The credit of a still better comparison belongs to, I think, Colonel Mundy, who says their branches look as if laden with "a golden snow-storm." The Banksias, again, form some of the intermediate growth of the bush. Among them may be mentioned the Honeysuckle or Bottle-washer tree; whence the derivation of its former name I never could learn; the latter it is easy to account for, as the flowers are in the form of long round tubes, composed of rough spiky fibres, and the possibility might well be suggested of using them in the manner their name implies. The trees of larger growth are almost all of the Eucalyptus tribe, characterized by their dark sombre colour, the length and narrowness of their leaves, and the fact of their shedding their bark instead of their foliage. They all bear white blossoms in the spring, which have a strong perfume, and quite scent the air. The principal distinction between them is in their bark, and it requires a somewhat practised eye to distinguish between the Red, White, and Spotted Gums, the Stringy Bark, and Iron Bark, all of which trees are extensively employed for building purposes.

Around Sydney very few specimens remain of the original growth of the forest; the timber has all been cut down, and the young wood which has sprung up can give one a very poor idea of what these same trees are when they attain their full size. Here and there, it is true, a tall gum-tree raises its head, whose white stem and spreading branches, often nearly void of foliage, make one compare it to some hoary patriarch, a relic of byegone times; but, in general, the trees near Sydney are low and bushy, many of them still only forming brushwood; so that when you get into the centre of this scrub, you may fairly call yourself in the bush, for you can often not see many yards before you. Indeed, for this reason, the country in the immediate neighbourhood of Sydney generally deserves this name far better than that more in the interior, for there the trees grow farther apart, and are very tall, with few lower branches, so that the view is comparatively clear, and there is not generally much underwood; but in fine seasons the country boasts of a fair enough sward of grass.

Of course, I must be understood as referring to the parts of the colony I myself have visited. In the far interior, I am aware that there are large tracts of country completely covered with scrub, and thus totally unserviceable for all purposes of pasturage. Some, indeed, are quite impenetrable, even to the aborigines. My husband relates that on one occasion, during one of his exploring excursions in the far north-west, he encountered one of these dense jungles or thickets, and on proposing to enter it on horseback, was told by his black guide, "Bail yarraman (no horse), only white fellow." Of a second he was informed, "Bail white fellow, only black fellow;" and of a third, "Bail black fellow"—"Bail," the aboriginal negative, meaning that not even a native could penetrate this scrub.

Of course, in no part of the neighbourhood of Sydney does the bush come up to this last description; but even there a ramble through it is not a little detrimental to ladies' dresses; indeed, I much doubt whether many of the colonial ladies ever venture on such expeditions. In the summer season, indeed, it would not be very safe to undertake them, as the snakes of New South Wales are very numerous, and, with few exceptions, very deadly; but in early spring and autumn such rambles are truly delightful, especially to the stranger, to whom every object has the extra attraction of novelty.

On the occasion of our last visit to Sydney, we were residing some eight or ten miles out of town, in the very centre of a wilderness of trees and flowers; and our host and hostess used to be not a little astonished at the unfailing delight we had in exploring the neighbourhood, always coming home laden with flowers. I pressed and dried a great many of them, hoping to be able to give some idea to our friends at home of their great variety and beauty; but they so completely lost their colour, that latterly I took to sketching them; and although, from never having previously attempted flower drawing, I did not succeed as well as I could have wished, still my sketches gave a better idea of their form and colour than was suggested by their own poor withered remains.

Among the many drives round Sydney, there is one which I have not yet mentioned, which, on account of the poor soil through which it passes, is more richly bordered with floral treasures than perhaps any other—I allude to the Botany Road. Its name, however, suggests its only attraction; for, were it not for the many new and beautiful plants and flowers which flourish here, it would be as unpicturesque and uninteresting a drive or ride as it is possible to imagine, passing through a perfectly flat level tract entirely without wood, and by turns an arid sandy plain and a boggy marsh. These marshes, known as the Lachlan Swamps, are, however, of very great importance to Sydney, as, from the water collected here and kept in large reservoirs, the whole of the town is supplied. Botany Bay, by which name the whole colony of New South Wales seemed once to be best known, is situated some five or six miles to the south of Sydney. One wonders why it obtained such a lasting notoriety; for though, it is true, it was here the first detachment of convicts were landed, under the orders, I think, of Captain Phillip, the harbour was soon discovered to be far inferior to that of Port Jackson, on the headlands of which Sydney is now built; and the idea of forming a settlement at Botany was soon abandoned.

On the north side of Botany Bay there is now a good hotel, with a very fair road leading to it from Sydney. It is a favourite resort for the honeymoon, I believe, among certain classes; but I cannot fancy it can boast much to recommend it as a residence, even at such a time. Its principal attractions are the neatly kept pleasure grounds in front, sloping down to the Bay, and a small menagerie dignified by the name of Zoological Gardens. The few native animals among the collection were the only ones that possessed much interest for me. There was a Kangaroo, of course, and a Native dog, a creature of the Jackal tribe, I believe; in colour it is generally a sandy, reddish brown, sometimes brindled, with a fine bushy tail. There was also the Native Bear, a small animal perhaps the size of a large Persian cat, but far more clumsily made; it has sharp claws, and a very knowing wicked little face; the fur is long and rough, and of a brown colour; it lives in trees, and feeds, I believe, on the bark and young shoots. Of native birds, there was the Emu, with its long legs and curious fibry feathers. This creature does not fly, not having the de quoi, but runs at a tremendous pace, putting the swiftest horses and hounds to their mettle to overtake it; when overtaken, I have heard it said that it defends itself by kicking its pursuers, and that a well-directed kick has been known to break a horse's leg; but I should think this somewhat mythical. There were also specimens of the Native companion (a species of crane), of the Pelican, the Black Swan, and many other less remarkable members of the feathered tribes whose names I do not recollect.

On the other side of Botany Bay may be seen the monument to La Perouse, the unfortunate French navigator, who was killed in a skirmish with the natives of one of the South Sea Islands. There is no carriage track leading to it, so I only saw it from a distance. Falling into Botany Bay is a small river known as Cook's River; if so called in honour of the great navigator, it was certainly no great compliment to him. It is only navigable for a short distance, and that merely for little boats; it passes close to the flourishing suburb of New Town, and then through a densely-wooded country, known as "The Forest;" beyond that I do not know its course, but it soon dwindles down into a very insignificant stream. With New Town I may end my account of the suburbs of Sydney; it is certainly one of the largest and most flourishing, containing some pretty villa residences, and a rather picturesque church, which reminds one somewhat of the country churches in England. I believe that the land here is held by a very doubtful sort of tenure, and that at present there is a lawsuit going on, which, if decided in favour of the plaintiff, will turn more than half the population out of their houses. It is too long and intricate a case for me to know much about, nor do I imagine that the details could possess much interest for any one in this country, supposing I happened to be familiar with them.