Part 5

After a couple of days wasted at this anchorage, we dropped our Papu friend and steered west, coasting New Guinea as closely as the skipper deemed it prudent to do, and dropping anchor every afternoon when the sun prevented our look-out man from seeing the colour of the water ahead of the ship. We called at the Arrow Islands with about the same success, all trading being confined to curios and some tortoise-shell. So far our trip, though a most enjoyable one, was rather unprofitable. I therefore made up my mind that we should make a direct course for Timor.

Continuing our pleasurable sail—more like yachting on a lake than a sea voyage—we reached the pretty Dutch settlement at Koepang. I had some letters of credit for Messrs. Hansen, Bonliang & Co., a firm half Dutch, half Chinese; and also a letter to the Resident or Governor of the place. In 1854, Koepang was not often visited by traders. The Juste was a very smart little ship; we had a very nice cabin, a good cook, fair wines, and the captain a _bon vivant_, so that ere we had been in Timor many days we had managed to gain a very fair footing with the inhabitants of Koepang.

Our boats, provided with awnings, were kept constantly plying to and from the shore, laden with visitors of all ranks and both sexes. Shooting and fishing parties were organised, pic-nics and dinner parties without end were given in our honour. But the most enjoyable were riding-parties by moonlight, on those wonderfully active ponies for which this island is justly famous.

We purchased here some tons of bees-wax, some very fair coffee, maize, and a large quantity of lime, which proved a very good investment for Mauritius. My intention, however, being to take a cargo of ponies, we took an interpreter (or broker) on board and sailed for Roti, Sandalwood, and the other small islands of the group, to trade for ponies—Koepang having already been pretty well skinned of anything good in that line. Even in the other islands I found it very hard to pick up more than eighty of average size, quality, or colour—the piebald or skewbald being in any quantity, but black, bays, chestnuts, and more particularly greys, were very scarce. The latter are the most valued, either to buy or sell. It took us three weeks to make up our number, but the days were enjoyably spent in hunting with the natives after the herd, and buying as we went along.

Horse-dealing, whether in Europe or the Malay islands is synonymous with roguery and deceit. Every morning as soon as we landed we were besieged by natives who had ponies for sale. Knowing our aversion for piebalds, they never offered anything but blacks, bays, or chestnuts; but, unfortunately, few if any of those offered could stand the first scrubbing with hot water and soap—the dye would not stand the test. As to filing teeth and burning age-marks, I’ll back a Malay against the best and most accomplished horse-dealer in Yorkshire.

Our cargo, put on board with fodder and water for fifty days, averaged £4 a-head. They were all good, healthy young ponies, some of them rather cranky-tempered, but all well up to the mark. Having returned to Koepang to land our broker, and after a most affectionate greeting from all our friends, we made sail for Port Louis. Another fine weather and smooth sea trip, when we never once lowered a stan’-sail except to reeve a fresh halyard to prevent its breaking from constant friction in the one place, against the sheave of the block at the yard-arm.

This is not a work intended to describe localities which, more particularly since _my_ day, have been visited by almost every man, woman, or child who has come from or gone for a trip to Europe. I will therefore abstain from descanting on the beauty or picturesqueness of Mauritius. Still, to those who have only known the Isle of France of late years, I must say that it materially differs from what it was thirty-five years ago, and that even then it had very much lost of its originality as I had seen it ten years earlier. For all that, it is a most charming place; and were it not that its old, proverbially healthy condition has gone for ever—were it not for cholera, smallpox, and other such dreadful but periodical visitations—that island would still be a most charming country to visit or reside in. We spent six weeks in Port Louis, did remarkably well with our cargo, bought a cargo of sugar, and once more steered for old Australia.

But alas! not with smooth weather and fair winds. The poor old barque, so buoyant and brisk when in yachting trim, smooth water, and under every inch of canvas spread to the trade winds—became a tub when filled with sugar to the very deck-level, in heavy seas, S.W. gales, and close-reefed topsails.

Shall I ever forget the fifty-four days cooped up in my cabin, water rushing from stem to stern day and night, not a stitch of dry clothing to change! What a welcome sight the Sydney Heads were, and how glad I was to set foot once more on _terra firma_.

NEW SOUTH WALES.

I.

_A FEW OLD IDENTITIES._

This last trip had given me a surfeit of the sea, and I made up my mind to settle down. In order to do so I looked about for some land having a prospective value, and at last fixed on a spot on one of the estuaries of Port Jackson, between the Parramatta and the Lane Cove rivers, a narrow peninsula known as Hunter’s Hill.

A good deal of this land had been mixed up in some of the early “land booms.” The principal portion belonged to Mrs. Reiby, better known in olden times as “Margaret Catchpole.” Some blocks had been mortgaged by Terry Hughes to the Bank of Australia—a bank that failed in the crisis of 1842. Owing to these intricacies, and doubtful titles, the purchase was made on advantageous terms. The work of securing a sound title was in itself an incentive to purchase the property, which I did in spite of all the forebodings and croakings of my friends.

I must confess that the locality did not enjoy a very wholesome reputation. The Lane Cove river is bounded on one side by the Field of Mars common—some 6800 acres of land which was, and had been, “jumped” by some very rough people—old convicts, runaway sailors, and jail-birds—who eked out a living by stealing timber and boating firewood to Sydney.

One of the landmarks in the river—the “Butcher’s Block”—owed its name to a foul murder. “Murdering Bay,” and “Tambourine Bay,” also had a blood-stained chronicle. On Hunter’s Hill proper there were also some reminiscences of the old felonry of New South Wales—one of the grants having been the property of the Quaker, Towel, who suffered the highest penalty of the law at Newgate for the murder of his servant-maid.

Had I the pen of a romancer I could here depict some thrilling stories, and record bloodcurdling anecdotes.

The “old hands” then living on the Lane Cove river in 1854 have now joined the great majority. Dear old Mrs. Reiby, as worthy and beloved an old lady as ever lived, often related to me the scenes so ably related by the Rev. Archbold Cobbold in his “History of Margaret Catchpole.” Hers is one of the many instances of the random justice dispensed in England in the early days of the present century, when people were sent out to Botany Bay for _crimes_ which now would barely go beyond the jurisdiction of a Police Court bench.

“Black Charley,” “Billy the Bull,” and sundry other old identities, like the Quaker “Towel,” were, however, characters of a different type; and though they had more _luck_ than the latter, and escaped the rope, their career in New South Wales was not altogether free from occasional encounters with the “beak.” The body of a Jamaica black-fellow—one of the firewood dealers of the Field of Mars—was one day found on a projecting rock, the head almost severed from the trunk; hence the name “Butcher’s Block.” The perpetrators of the deed were never traced, but I have strong suspicions that the murderers did not live very far from the spot.

Tambourine Bay, close at hand, took its name from a well-known person, whose “shanty” was built close by. This “lady” had musical proclivities, and a particular talent for the instrument generally played now-a-days by the corner man of a minstrel show. “Tambourine Sal,” however, did not end her days in that locality. Whether her beauty or her musical talent availed her, I cannot say; but she rose out of her abject position, got married, and—romantic though it may sound—one of her grand-children has since figured among the “highest in the land”—another of the many instances of the “progress of New South Wales.”

There are two more old identities of the Lane Cove river which I think are worthy of notice in this narrative. The first might be remembered by old colonists, who may have seen old “French Louis” paddling his small canoe across Darling harbour two or three times a week, or heard his rather rough language as he wended his unsteady steps back to his boat. This almost centenarian was French by birth, and had run away from a whaler at the beginning of the century. In the time when land could be easily acquired he had purchased a water frontage at Miller’s Point, where he resided in a bark hut, working on the wharves and on board ships in the harbour. During a drunken spree he sold his property for a bottle of rum and a “dump” (the centre part of a crown punched out, which, to multiply coinage, had then a value equal to the rim of the five-shilling piece.) When sober, he vainly endeavoured to regain possession of his grant papers. Failing in this, he gave himself up to drink, and so impaired his intellect that he was driven out of the city, and took refuge under a rock at the entrance of the Lane Cove river, eking out a living by the sale of oysters, which he took over to Sydney in an outrigger—s.s. Island Canoe—and, I am sorry to say, seldom returned sober, until I chanced to come across him, and by dint of patient and close examination elicited his past history.

It was rather a difficult matter to redeem this unfortunate old man. However, by gradually gaining his confidence, I succeeded in removing him to the French Consulate, housing him comfortably in one of the out-buildings, where the poor old chap spent the last year of his life in comfort and _sobriety_. He died in peace, and, strange to say, on the very spot which he had bartered for a paltry coin and a bottle of the diabolical mixture which deprived him of both his reason and a fortune.

During one of my first excursions in this ill-famed district I landed in one of the bays to make inquiries as to the ownership of a piece of adjoining land. In a very dilapidated hut, devoid of furniture of every kind—indeed, without any apparent signs of even food—I found an old man, barely covered with tattered garments, haggard-looking, emaciated, almost a living skeleton; and, worse still, _stone blind_! Despite the wretched condition he was in, one could detect in the looks, and more particularly in the address of this unfortunate creature, an undeniable stamp of gentility. A few moments’ conversation sufficed to convince me that my first impression was a correct one. This poor creature, formerly a Civil Servant attached to the staff of Sir Ralph Darling, Governor of New South Wales, like many unfortunate beings, had by his early folly lost his situation, and found great difficulty in getting other employment. Sickness, and at last the gradual loss of his sight, caused him to reach that degree of poverty which is a hundred-fold worse to a man brought up in luxury.

Having had to part gradually with even his garments, he was at last driven to live amongst the waifs of the city. When I found the unfortunate wretch, he was living on the very scant charity of the wood-cutters in the locality—sometimes days without food, and barely covering enough for his shivering body.

On inquiry I found that the sad tale was true, in every word, and I lost no time in altering the deplorable state of his affairs. With the help of a few friends a fund was raised, the hut repaired and furnished, and every comfort provided for the poor fellow. We imported books for the blind, which he very soon taught himself to read. Eventually I built my own house close to the spot, and for _fourteen years_ seldom allowed a day to pass without spending a few moments with my _protégé_—a man of highly cultured education, with a wonderful memory, and truly a most entertaining companion.

During the stay of the Galatea in Sydney, in 1870, H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh, to whom I related the man’s history, became very much interested in the sad case; and although it has often been said that the sailor Prince lacked in kindness of heart or liberality, I feel great pleasure in stating that even the dreadful shock he sustained when he was foully shot at by O’Farrell at Clontarf, did not make him forget old Mr. Viret. When the Galatea was about leaving the port, I was summoned to Government House. The Duke was in the midst of his packing up prior to leaving. He met me most cordially, saying—

“I have not forgotten your blind friend, Mr. Joubert. Please send me the name and address of his friends in London. I shall send for them and see if I cannot prevail on them to make him an allowance. Meanwhile I wish you to give him my best wishes, together with this small present,”—which consisted of a five-pound note. The message, I must say, caused the poor old fellow even greater pleasure than the munificent donation, which, nevertheless, proved very acceptable. The poor man died whilst I was away from the colony, but to the last he was carefully looked after by the members of my family, and the circle of friends who had rallied round him since he had been enabled to resume the _outer_ appearance of gentility, and been honoured by a Royal Duke. _Such is life!_

II.

_A LAND SPECULATION._

All these, and many other stories of the kind, certainly did not improve the market value of this land for suburban villa sites. It had, however, the effect of keeping the price low—there laid the speculation. I bought the place with a perfect and thorough knowledge of its foul reputation, and set to work in real good earnest to redeem it—the position being good, the proximity to town an advantage, and above all the fact that this peninsula, with a main thoroughfare on the top of the hill, running from Ryde to Onion’s Point, admitted of sub-divisions giving deep water frontages to every allotment. All that was needed was some easy mode of access to and from the city, and, if possible, the closing up of the Field of Mars common, which, besides being a harbour for questionable characters, cut off the settlement from Ryde, Pennant Hills, and Parramatta.

The only road to Sydney was a circuitous one involving a crossing of the Parramatta river by means of an antiquated punt ferry at Tarban—a distance of eleven miles; as the crow flies the actual distance from Hunter’s Hill to the Sydney Post Office is barely four and a-half miles.

But in order to carry the bee-line from the one point to the other it was necessary to cross the water twice—first from Pyrmont to Balmain, then again from Five Dock to the northern side of the Parramatta River, near the Tarban Creek Lunatic Asylum. These two bridges, and the formation of the road, I estimated at £60,000. To raise that amount I proposed that the Government should re-assume the Field of Mars common; issue debentures bearing 5 per cent. interest, payable in 20 years; build the bridges, and, when the thoroughfare was open, survey and cut up the common, which I felt convinced would, besides benefiting all parties concerned, leave a fair margin of profit, and open up a large area of Government land now entirely locked up owing to want of access.

The first meeting to discuss this scheme I called at the end of 1853. Like all such matters, it met with most violent opposition—first of all from John Bull and _his rights_. The common had been given to _the people_—what right had the Government to take it back? Then every man wanted the bridge at his own door. The thousand and one difficulties raised against the scheme—the dead-set opposition, in and out of Parliament—far from deterring me from my object, acted as a stimulant. The fight was a long and bitter one to the very end, but the end came at last.

Thirty-three years, almost to a day, after the first meeting held in No. 227 George street, in 1853, the bridges were finished and opened for public traffic; and since that day several sales of land have been held in the Field of Mars common—the results showing that my first estimate of the value of that land was under-rated.

During the thirty years’ war for the bridges, other means had to be resorted to to bring population to Hunter’s Hill. The Parramatta river trade was a monopoly. Steamers, calling at unsuitable hours, charged an exorbitant rate. The company was an old-established and powerful one, and all attempts to run an opposition had failed. So did all endeavours to get anything approaching unanimity amongst the few people interested in the locality. Messrs. P. N. Russell and Co. had on hand a small screw steamer which they were anxious to sell. I looked at her, and after some haggling, chartered her at a low monthly figure for six months, with right of purchase. On the first of the following month the “Isabel” made her appearance at the wharf, and in lieu of 2s. 6d. single, carried passengers to and from Sydney at 1s. _return_. The first week or two proved rather uphill work, but when the first month came to an end the number of passengers increased materially, and it soon became evident that a larger boat would be required.

The neck of the monopoly was broken. Overtures were made for a compromise, fares were lowered, accommodation increased; but all of no avail. I made up my mind that we should remain independent, and from that day to this we have remained so. The fleet of handsome, swift boats belonging to Hunter’s Hill have all originated from the little unpretending “Isabel,” which all the jeering, ridicule, and bitter jealousy of its powerful opponents could not put down. She was nick-named the “Jezebel” and the “Puffing Billy,” and her safety was cried down. But she kept up her course in spite of it all, and with all her insignificance proved to be the originator of a new line which has tended to bring up the value of land from £5 an acre to £5 _a foot_!! The opening of the direct communication over the bridges has also, as it was natural to expect, brought on railways and trams from the city, and further increased the value of the land, which has now reached £10 and £15 a foot, and converted the locality into one of the most populous, thriving suburbs of Sydney.

Building having always been a favourite hobby of mine, led me to put up a good many houses at Hunter’s Hill. In order to carry out my building scheme, and to do so profitably, I sent home to Lombardy for some artisans under special contract. This, as might be expected, gave rise to a good deal of discontent amongst the working class. However, I had made a very binding agreement with my men, and held them more particularly by the fact that they had no knowledge of English. Besides, on the first attempt made to turn them off their engagements, I at once met the difficulty by a system of piece-work, which enabled them to work long hours, and actually make wages far beyond their expectations. When my operations at Hunter’s Hill came to an end, the assistance of these seventy odd tradesmen enabled me to take contracts in and around Sydney for large buildings, wharves, &c., which we carried out on the co-operative system most profitably, in spite of trades and trades’ unions.

III.

_A HARD KNOCK._

Had I kept at such works, and left mercantile pursuits to those who were better able to cope with such risky ventures, things might have prospered better; but, however, fate would have its way, and the consequence, hastened by the failure of the Agra Bank, led me into a loss of £54,000, which swallowed up all my hard-earned savings, properties, &c. Once more I had the world before me.

It is not in my nature to throw up the sponge, nor am I given to moping over pecuniary losses. My creditors proved their appreciation of the manner of working out the estate by presenting me with the deeds of the place I had built for myself on the banks of the Lane Cove river. There I stayed, looking around for a new field.

The Agricultural Society of New South Wales, of which I was a member, held a meeting in February, 1867, when a very unsatisfactory balance-sheet, showing a debit balance, was produced. A resolution proposed to wind up and close that institution, was seconded, and would have been carried, had I not moved as an amendment, “That, instead of winding up this useful institution, it be re-constructed on a broader basis, a new council appointed, the seat of the society removed from Parramatta to Sydney, and a _show_ advertised in the course of six months from date, offering £800 in prize-money, and certificates for horses, cattle, sheep, poultry, pigs, wool, wine, farm and dairy produce, as well as implements, machinery, and manufactures.” The meeting was rather taken aback by the bold proposal, but there were amongst the members of the moribund society a few men such as Sir E. Deas Thomson, Sir W. MacArthur, John Oxley, John Wyndham, Howard Reid—now, I am sorry to say, all gone to join the great majority. These were the men to help any country or society out of difficulties. I had very little trouble, with the co-operation of such help-mates, in reconstructing the society on a new and firm basis. I gladly entered into my new honorary functions.

The Cleveland Paddock (now the Prince Alfred Park) was then a quagmire with a filthy drain running across it—a plague spot. This I at once selected for our new show-grounds. Draining, fencing in, and levelling, were easy works, soon accomplished. Having obtained the free use of the newly-erected Cleveland School, for fine art, manufacturers’, and horticultural exhibits, I built sheds, pens, &c., all over the paddock. Entries came in far in excess of our most sanguine expectations. The great day was approaching.

The 26th of August came, but with it one of those downpours which are only met with in tropical and semi-tropical countries. Our poor show certainly looked very dismal. The first day was something disastrous. On the night of the 26th, however, stars came out—mine must have been among them. On the 27th the gate returns gave £l,100! This kept up well throughout the four days; but what crowned all our efforts was the high price realised for all the blood stock offered at auction.

It had been a bold enterprise, but the great success achieved amply rewarded us for our hard work.

As the old adage has it, “Nothing succeeds like success.” Before the end of the year our members’ roll had increased from 63 to 2000. The society was fairly on its legs, with a substantial credit balance, central offices, a library, laboratory, &c., &c., and last, though not least, a monthly journal. The gratitude of the stock-breeders, as well as that of the citizens of Sydney, for having brought about such a result, assumed a very tangible form. A service of silver plate and a heavy purse of sovereigns was presented to me at the annual general meeting, when I was asked to assume the management of the concern.

This is the origin of the exhibitions which for many years have been held annually in Sydney and other cities in Australia.