The latter event, which
came off at the hospitable and comfortable homestead of old John Aitken
of that ilk (I mean of Mount Aitken), was a grand gala time to a very
wide circle. Guests, by the score together, trooped up from town and
country, headed, in the former direction, by Andrew Russell, then second
mayor of Melbourne, in succession to my friend Condell, and in the
latter by his cheery and ever-smiling uncle, Peter Inglis, of Ingliston,
a great station homestead in the comparisons of those early times, and
once, as Peter liked to tell, taken for a town, perhaps in the gloaming
hours, by a bush traveller when he inquired of one of the domestics, to
her great amusement, the name of the street he had confusingly got into.
Mrs. Aitken, as literally as by courtesy the good wife of the house, and
then in the full charm of her beauty and strong youth (now Mrs. Kaye,
and sadly changed in both respects), went busily about, her young family
at her skirts, administering plenty and preserving order, while, towards
genial eve, her good man occupied a quiet corner, indisputable king for
the nonce of the toddy race. The night accommodations were a difficulty,
although not a few, like the host himself, were in no great want.
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