This Spot Was The Scene Last May Of A
Horrible Murder, Which Has Added No Little To The Notoriety Of The
Neighbourhood.
After several miles you at length arrive at Kilmore, which is a large
and thriving township, containing two places of worship, several stores
and inns.
There is a resident magistrate with his staff of officials,
and a station for a detachment of mounted police. Kilmore is on the
main overland road from Melbourne to Sydney, and, although not on the
confines of the two colonies, is rather an important place, from being
the last main township until you reach the interior of New South Wales.
The Government buildings are commodious and well arranged. There are
several farms and stations in the neighbourhood, but the country round
is flat and swampy.
The middle road leads you direct to Keilor, and you must cross the Deep
Creek in a dangerous part, as the banks thereabouts are very steep, the
stream (though narrow) very rapid, and the bottom stony. In 1851, the
bridge (an ordinary log one) was washed down by the floods, and
for two months all communication was cut off. Government have now put a
punt, which is worked backwards and forwards every half-hour from six
in the morning till six at night, at certain fares, which are doubled
after these hours. These fares are: for a passenger, 6d.; a horse or
bullock, 1s.; a two-wheeled vehicle, ls. 6d.; a loaded dray, 2s. The
punt is tolerably well managed, except when the man gets intoxicated -
not an unfrequent occurrence. When there was neither bridge nor punt,
those who wished to cross were obliged to ford it; and so strong has
been the current, that horses have been carried down one or two hundred
yards before they could effect a landing. Keilor is a pretty little
village with a good inn, several nice cottages, and a store or two. The
country round is hilly and barren - scarcely any herbage and that
little is rank and coarse; the timber is very scarce. This road to the
diggings is not much used.
But to return to ourselves. The rain and bad roads made travelling so
very wearisome, that before we had proceeded far it was unanimously
agreed that we should halt and pitch our first encampment.
"Pitch our first encampment! how charming!" exclaims some romantic
reader, as though it were an easily accomplished undertaking. Fixing a
gipsy-tent at a FETE CHAMPETRE, with a smiling sky above, and all
requisites ready to hand, is one thing, and attempting to sink poles
and erect tents out of blankets and rugs in a high wind and pelting
rain, is (if I may be allowed the colonialism) "a horse of quite
another colour." Some sort of sheltering-places were at length
completed; the horses were taken from the dray and tethered to some
trees within sight, and then we made preparations for satisfying the
unromantic cravings of hunger - symptoms of which we all, more or less,
began to feel. With some difficulty a fire was kindled and kept alight
in the hollow trunk of an old gum tree. A damper was speedily made,
which, with a plentiful supply of steaks and boiled and roasted eggs,
was a supper by no means to be despised. The eggs had been procured at
four shillings a dozen from a farm-house we had passed.
It was certainly the most curious tea-table at which I had ever
assisted. Chairs, of course, there were none, we sat or lounged
upon the ground as best suited our tired limbs; tin pannicans (holding
about a pint) served as tea-cups, and plates of the same metal in lieu
of china; a teapot was dispensed with; but a portly substitute was
there in the shape of an immense iron kettle, just taken from the fire
and placed in the centre of our grand tea-service, which being new, a
lively imagination might mistake for silver. Hot spirits, for those
desirous of imbibing them, followed our substantial repast; but fatigue
and the dreary weather had so completely damped all disposition to
conviviality, that a very short space of time found all fast asleep
except the three unfortunates on the watch, which was relieved every
two hours.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8. - I awoke rather early this morning, not
feeling over-comfortable from having slept in my clothes all night,
which it is necessary to do on the journey, so as never to be
unprepared for any emergency. A small corner of my brother's tent had
been partitioned off for my BED-ROOM; it was quite dark, so my first
act on waking was to push aside one of the blankets, still wet,
which had been my roof during the night, and thus admit air and light
into my apartments. Having made my toilette - after a fashion - I
joined my companions on the watch, who were deep in the mysteries of
preparing something eatable for breakfast. I discovered that their
efforts were concentrated on the formation of a damper, which seemed to
give them no little difficulty. A damper is the legitimate, and, in
fact, only bread of the bush, and should be made solely of flour and
water, well mixed and kneaded into a cake, as large as you like, but
not more than two inches in thickness, and then placed among the hot
ashes to bake. If well-made, it is very sweet and a good substitute for
bread. The rain had, however, spoiled our ashes, the dough would
neither rise nor brown, so in despair we mixed a fresh batch of flour
and water, and having fried some rashers of fat bacon till they were
nearly melted, we poured the batter into the pan and let it fry till
done. This impromptu dish gave general satisfaction and was pronounced
a cross between a pancake and a heavy suet pudding.
Breakfast over, our temporary residences were pulled down, the
drays loaded, and our journey recommenced.
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