Church histories aren’t everybody’s cup of tea. The theological debates and schisms that exercised many of our European ancestors are almost forgotten in the 21st century, and it’s hard to grasp the central role that the church, in its various denominations, occupied in society not all that many generations ago. Today, accounts of the various doings of the churches may seem dust-dry and irrelevant and, as a result, it’s tempting to leave church histories sitting unread on shelves.
Now and then, despite this disinclination, I do pick up church histories and occasionally I’m rewarded with some gems of information. One particularly surprising example in recent times has been Go, Tell it on the Mountains, a history of St Andrews Presbyterian Parish, Gloucester, NSW, by Daryl Lightfoot and Sue Pacey. I have a connection to the Gloucester area, so I committed the necessary funds to buy this book, with scant expectation of any particular enjoyment. To my surprise and delight this turned out to be an excellent book, very nicely written in an elegant and clear style. Even better, it casts a wide net with its narrative, hauling in fascinating information about distant events in Scotland that had big implications for the pattern and nature of white settlement in the Gloucester area. I’ll write more about that, one day. In the meantime, I really want to share some wonderful excerpts the book’s authors included that describe the experience of travel in the Hunter and Manning regions in the mid-19th century.
The excerpts came from The Christian Advocate and Wesleyan Record, a publication I have never seen and probably wouldn’t pick up if I did – until now, perhaps. (Many copies are digitized at the site linked above, by the Camden Theological Library.) The first excerpt was written by “Old Boomerang” (John R. Houlding), who was travelling from Sydney to Raymond Terrace for a missionary meeting in 1860:
A traveller per steam-boat from Sydney to the Hunter River usually comes on deck to stretch his legs after the vessel puts into the smooth waters of Newcastle Harbour. Breathing the sweet air is a refreshing change from other nauseating smells of bilge-water, brandy and empty boots . . . the steamer is swiftly paddling over the Flats and the half-squeamish traveller gazes around in vain for something worth looking at in the way of scenery; nothing more picturesque is to be seen than mud-flats, sand-banks, and low swampy islets covered with mangrove bushes and pelicans or dredging machines, coal barges and oyster boats, blocking up the narrow channel, and putting him in nervous dread of a “stick on the Flats” for four or five hours.
Anon he passes the embryo township of Tomago . . . further along, on the same side, a sooty-looking cluster of huts, and a lot of gallows-looking colliery paraphernalia half-frighten him . . . and at the same moment he inhales a rich perfume . . . from the charming garden and orangery of Ash Island; but he has scarcely finished . . . when he sniffs up the thick fumes of the boiling-down establishment in Horse Shoe Reach . . . the steamer turns into Long Reach and . . . the boat whirls rapidly past a picturesque little island in the middle of the river, with its waving cluster of swamp oaks upon which hundreds of nankeen birds nightly rest . . .
The steamer whirls him in sight of a pretty little township of dozens of snug-looking houses, little and big; its smoking flour-mill, capacious stores, and the charming green hills in the background, such inviting spots for villa residences . . . He applies to the captain or the man at the wheel who informs him that yonder handsome-looking cottage, half-hidden by the Norfolk Island pine, is the parsonage; and that cow-house-shaped, mouldy old wooden building behind the bell-post with its moss-covered shingled roof as holey as the top of a pepper-box was built twenty-one years ago for a school-house and it has been used as a temporary church ever since . . . and that large red brick mansion far away . . . is Roslyn Castle; and that neat, freshly painted little building just below is the Methodist Chapel . . .
“Ease her, stop her,” roars a black-visaged greasy boy, down a brass chimney pot . . . and the steamer is a alongside the wharf at Raymond Terrace.
The second excerpt quoted was by the Rev. Stephen Rabone, a Sydney-based Wesleyan minister who travelled to Maitland by steamer and train in June 1859, then by horse to Gloucester via Raymond Terrace:
On Monday evening, June 6th, I left Newtown, and at 11 o’clock left the wharf in the good steam-boat Williams, and the following morning landed at Newcastle about 6 o’clock . . . The passengers from the steamer for Maitland and up-country had to wait for more than an hour ere the first train left; at length the puffing, grunting machine was heard and seen . . . At the shrill whistle we moved away . . . in half an hour we were over the Hexham swamps and at the “station”.
Wednesday 8th – This morning I took steamer [from Morpeth] to Raymond Terrace . . . and was joined by Messrs, F, B, E and a boy from Maitland, all en route for the Manning. At 11 o’clock we set off, intending to travel 35 miles that day . . . we rode on till we passed the fifth mile tree from Raymond Terrace on the Stroud road . . . when suddenly we heard a cracking noise and in a moment we saw between us and our two companions ahead a large tree slowing bending and falling towards us. I only had time to utter an exclamation when crash came the tree, felling one horse and its rider . . . that he and his horse had escaped instant death appeared little other to us than miraculous; the tree (an old swamp oak) was large and heavy. We left him at the inn at Limeburners Creek with his friend.
Thursday 9th – Left Stroud this morning at 9 o’clock . . . and when 16 miles from Stroud halted and refreshed. It was near 5 o’clock pm when we arrived at Gloster, a small township 30 miles from Stroud, pleasantly situated, containing some twelve or fourteen houses, and in sight of that bold mountain scenery for which many parts of this land are remarkable. In Gloster there is an inn, situated off the main road; we staid for the night at a very clean and comfortable accommodation house, where in the evening I conducted a religious service, twelve or fourteen being present.
Friday 10th – Left Gloster at daylight . . . after the first hour’s ride from Gloster, we commenced the process of ascending and descending ranges and mountains which continued through the next twenty five miles. Our guide left us at the “Spout”, a high and steep embankment, up which is a narrow track. At the bottom of the hill riders dismount and, one of the number heading the procession, the horses’ heads are set for the track when, after a little persuasion, the first moves, then the second, and so one after another they go; not so much walking or running, as jumping from step to step in the track to the top of the hill, their riders following. We saw the remnant of a shepherd’s hut, and near to it, enclosed by a rude fence, were the remains of the shepherd’s body . . . and so on we went, ascending, holding the manes of our horses to maintain equilibrium . . . now crossing a river for the sixth time and running so strong that our horses did not like to breast it. At 5 o’clock pm we made the house of a friend, who with his family previously resided on the Allyn. Mr M. made us welcome to his hut, and such creature comforts as it afforded.
