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!