‘As there was no moving the ships, they were put up to auction, and Sammy pocketed half the proceeds. This enabled him to undertake the building he talked about, and now the whole of those buildings facing the water are Sammy’s property.
‘It’s not many people that can make money out of earthquakes, but Sammy managed it, you see. Of course everybody was praying for a second jump-up, so that Sammy’s property would be converted into a back street, and they might get a sea frontage. Sammy had successfully jumped some of the Queen’s property, and why shouldn’t they?
‘When the cold weather came on—for that is the time that earthquakes are frequent—the excitement used to be pretty great. Everyone expected to get a prize some day. A lot of them got the old fellow up atthe observatory to calculate the chances of an earthquake coming, and on the days he fixed for the jerk-up to come off, you’d see hundreds of people sitting along the beach, with pegs and mallets ready to block off their new possessions.
‘Some of them, to be right there when the phenomenon came along, would stand half the night up to their middles in water, ready to drive in a peg directly they felt the lift.
‘We had all sorts of rules given us to tell when to expect an earthquake. They were pretty plentiful when the moon was near to us, so they said.
‘Then there were lots of rules connecting the frequency of shakes and the position of planets, the height of the barometer, the phase of the tide, or the temperature of the air. Some of us would work on one rule, and some on another; but so far as we could make out there was no rule; anyhow, there was no decided rule which would help us to make money. Applied science didn’t work right.
‘I often read about professors prophesying when there will be an earthquake. Some of them fix a day for the event. Sometimes it comes off, and then they are all cock-a-whoop; but when it doesn’t come off, they just lie close.
‘It stands to reason that they must be right sometimes, because in some countries there are earthquakes every day.’
‘Well, and was there never any more jump-ups after the one when Sammy made his money?’ I inquired.
‘Oh yes, there was one a bit down the bay some years ago.’
‘And was there a scramble for it?’ I said.
‘My word there was!’ he answered; ‘if you had seen the cartloads of pegs, and people and buggies all crowding along, each trying to get ahead of his neighbour, you would have thought Wellington was mad. When they got there, what do you think they found? Well, they found it had all been pegged out by Sammy.’
‘What, Sammy again?’ I said.
‘Yes, it was Sammy again, and as far as we could make out he had pegged out the ground before the earthquake came, and as his pegs were below water we could not see them. We don’t call him Soft Sammy any more. We call him Seismic Sammy now.’
Amongst the many sights of Wellington we visited the Museum.
Mac kicked against this, and said he didn’t want anymoamoas. The compliment I paid him on his pun caused him to go.
The collections, although by no means so extensive as at Christchurch, are certainly worth a visit. There were the usual assortment of minerals and fossils, a rusty-looking moa, a freshly-imported mummy, and at the doorway a diagram showing the districts where an approaching eclipse might be seen.
One afternoon was spent at an exhibition of New Zealand productions, which was then being held. Amongst other things we saw many pictures and photos by local artists, tons of woollen goods, a number ofagricultural implements, and a telpher line made by Mr. Fletcher, of Dunedin.
The remainder of our time was spent in interviewing the shops and streets, which were well worthy of inspection.
On one jeweller’s shop I read, as well as I can remember, words like these:
‘Hiki piki waki saki,Hoki poki rapi taki.’
‘Hiki piki waki saki,Hoki poki rapi taki.’
‘Hiki piki waki saki,Hoki poki rapi taki.’
‘Hiki piki waki saki,
Hoki poki rapi taki.’
I suppose it was Maori, and meant to inform the natives that watches and jewellery would be repaired on the shortest notice.
Mac said I might safely offer £50 to the Maori who could translate it properly. We felt we were getting near to Maori-land at last, and we saw several of them in the street.
The Governor of New Zealand lives at Wellington, this being considered a tolerably central position for carrying on the public affairs of the Colony. At the time of our visit Parliament was sitting, but as we were not distinguished strangers we were not invited to a debate. We were very sorry about this, for it would have been interesting, especially if some of the Maori members had spoken.
Maori speeches are, I am told, characterized by their terseness. Once there was a great meeting of the Maoris, which had been called to discuss an important action to be taken in their relations with the white man. All the chieftains spoke except their greatest orator—the Maori Disraeli. M. D. remained silent, and sat with his eyes cast upon the ground until the third day,when at last he rose. There was a death-like stillness, and everyone was anxious not to lose a single syllable of the great chieftain’s wisdom.
Had not Solomon pondered for three days and heard the opinions of his brothers?
The burning points at issue were to be defined, and the action to be taken for everlasting Maori happiness would be declared.
For a moment the monarch of the woods gazed round the assemblage of his brothers, then, stretching forth his hand solemnly, he slowly said:
‘My brothers, the potato is boiled.’
After this he drew his cloak around him, and sank back into his original position.
For many days even the Maoris pondered over the chieftain’s words. That they must be the embodiment of great wisdom was universally admitted, but who could unravel the enigma?
To me and to all who read these lines the solution of the monarch’s wisdom is so clear that I fear it could only be regarded as trifling with intelligence were I to offer an explanation.
Another speech which I saw reported in one of the New Zealand papers occurred while I was in the country. This took place in the Legislative Assembly at Wellington. I may here remark that the Maoris are all tall, well-built men, and although many of them have their faces tattooed in curly blue lines, they have a commanding appearance. Members of the Legislative Assembly, as well as many others, appear in European clothes, and some of them even sport chimney-pots. The cannibal rose—I assume him to be a cannibal because it isquite possible that a few years ago he may have been one. Then with deliberation he addressed his white brothers:
‘The English are a great people. The Maoris are a great people. The Queen of England is endowed with wisdom. The Maori chieftain has wisdom. The Maori wants his rights.’
I do not pretend to give the speeches I have quotedliteratim—my only endeavour is to give their general character.
The Maoris yet retain about half the Northern Island, their country being known as the King Country. Here they live partly in a state of civilization, and partly in their original primitive Maori manner. They are fine intelligent people, but from what I heard and what I saw, are extremely lazy. Many of them are wealthy, their wealth being chiefly derived from ground-rents paid to them by the white adventurer who wishes to occupy portions of their territory. Thus it comes that there are Maoris worth from £20,000 to £200,000. When papa dies, the property goes to the daughters. No wonder that Maori maidens secure Caucasian mates.
From Wellington we had considerable variety in our fellow-passengers. There were examples of a new-born aristocracy, the democracy, and the Maori.
Amongst the former, there was an elderly gentleman who had a dislike to plurals.
His wife and daughter spoke of him as ‘Poo’ papa.’
‘Was you sick then, Mary?’ said poo’ papa to his daughter Mary.
‘Yes, pa,’ said the daughter.
‘Now, was you then?’ said he.
‘Poo’ mamma’ was stout, covered with black satin and lace, and scintillating with diamonds and precious stones—four rings on every finger. ‘Poo’ papa would have had a poor time of it with poo’ mamma, had she used her knuckle-dusters on him. The daughter seemed to be a little ashamed of poo’ papa and poo’ mamma.
The funniest people on board were a group of five who hung together like a bunch of grapes. Three of them were men and two of them ladies. They were all exceedingly short and thick, and had fat flattish round faces. I never learnt how to distinguish one of the men or one of the ladies from another. Each of the men had a bushy, dirty, unkempt beard, and a huge Tam o’Shanter blue bonnet. Their clothes were coarse, dirty, and ill-fitting. On their feet they had long boots. The two ladies had each an imitation sealskin jacket and a round pork-pie hat, and when they went ashore they each carried a small cotton umbrella made of a gaudy chintz. This peculiar group were peculiar enough to attract general attention and they were a puzzle to all of us.
One day Mac announced that he had discovered their occupation. The men, he declared, were carpenters—he had seen them all carefully examining a carpenter’s shop.
‘I was just about to say,’ said our old friend the Yank, ‘that they were butchers—when I was going down the street, I saw them at the butcher’s shop examining a leg of mutton.’
The Maoris were, I believe, members of the Legislative Assembly returning to their homes. They were all fine, big men, with grey beards. But for the tattooing they might have been called handsome. They were certainly by no means the burlesque of a European.
That afternoon the Yank found that these three Maori legislators had been stowed in his cabin.
‘Look here, Cap,’ said he, addressing our brass-buttoned commander, ‘I ain’t going to be bunked in with your native Injins. S’pose I see that tattooed-face looking down at me to-night, I’ll think the devil’s got me. Tell you now, you can just get Buffalo Bill and Texas Jim cleared out of that. Just now I went into my cabin, and there I saw that consumptive-looking one, him with the sulphury-green face, lying on his back staring straight up—heaving and sobbing—taking a plan of the roof.
‘“Suppose your digestion ain’t good?” says I to him, while wiping myself.
‘“No,” says he; “the sea tries me.”
‘“Sorry to hear it,” says I; “excuse me leaving you, but I want a little fresh air.”
‘Now, Cap, I’m not going to bunk in with your native Injins, don’t you believe it. That’s straight, isn’t it?’ said he, appealing to the company.
Whether it was straight or not, the Maoris retained the cabin; and our Yank, I am sorry to say, had to camp on a sofa in the saloon. These little facts may be of value to future travellers by the monopolist line of steamers.
At the next port our American friend saw some sheepcoming on board, and at once asked the ‘Cap’ whether they also were to have berths in the saloon.
‘I guess everything counts here,’ he remarked.
This was at Napier. Napier is situated on a peninsula, at the end of which there are high whitish-grey bluffs.
Many of our passengers went ashore in a little steamer called theBoojum, and of course landed on the opposite side of the peninsula to where the town is built.
The passengers now became thicker and thicker. In every cabin there were at least four, and all of them, at least those in my cabin, through their habits, were disgusting. For some days I was unable to open a portmanteau, and had to continue without a change of clothes.
The next port was Gisborne, where we again anchored several miles from the shore. Here I was told there were a great number of Maoris, the remainder of the population being chiefly composed of lawyers, who get considerable practice by advocating the rights of their tattooed-faced clients.
I was told that Gisborne boasted of forty full-fledged practitioners, and a number of fledgelings; and from one or two specimens who came on board our vessel, they must be exceedingly good talkers.
I have seen a lawyer’s signboard. It gave the gentleman’s name, followed by barrister and solicitor. After this there was a translation of what was above in Maori. It finished up with ‘Roia,’ which I suppose is their way of writing ‘lawyer.’
Mac and I had the intention of getting out at Gisborne,and going thence, viâ the Hot Lakes, overland to Auckland.
When we heard that this was the place where the intelligent Maoris murdered all the whites on one occasion, that the stages by the coach averaged about fifty miles each, and finally that we might possibly fall into the hands of the Roias, we thought we would continue on where we were, and approach the Hot Lakes from the other side.
While lying at Gisborne, we saw a sight to which colonials are probably accustomed. This was the shipment of about 400 sheep. They came alongside in barges. At first the sheep were put in iron cages six or seven together, and then, by means of a steam-winch, hoisted up to the deck. This, however, was not quick enough, so a number of thin pieces of cord, very like log-line, were arranged with slip-knots. Each sheep to be lifted was secured by fastening the slip-knot round its stomach. Six or seven cords, each with its sheep, were then taken and fastened to the hook which before had raised the cages. As the chain with its hook tightened by the lifting of the winch, the six or seven sheep were dragged sprawling across the deck until they were suspended—when up they went, heads and tails, a living, swinging, twirling mass, bumping against the side of the ship until they reached the deck. Here they were released, and kicked and thumped until they moved to their proper quarters.
The whole performance was sickening, and all of us, who were not accustomed to see the handling of sheep, regarded it as brutal. Several of them died after this.
The Yank, who was always straightforward with his opinions, ‘guessed that these fellows’ (meaning those who were doing the torturing) ‘would figure in thePolice Newsin his country.’
Maybe we were tender-hearted and our sympathies for the sheep arose from ignorance. Anyhow, its effect on me was sufficient to disturb my night’s rest. I dreamt I was in a big ship (it wasn’t in New Zealand), and all the officers on board were sheep. There were the little sailor sheep with blue shirts, and officer sheep with gilt buttons.
Presently a load of stout old gentlemen, some of whom seemed as if they enjoyed a glass of port wine and an easy-chair after their dinner, came alongside. These were directors of the steamship company.
When the sheep saw them, they were delighted, and skipped about on their hind-legs; for you must remember they were walking about and looking just like little men. After looking through his glasses at the cargo, the sheep-captain said:
‘Here are some directors. Get out the thin rope, boys. Thin rope, mind. Yes, that will do. Put it round their stomachs. Now hoist away—head and tail.’
Then all the sheep laughed and grinned, whilst the directors, who were coming up swinging against the side of the ship, shrieked for mercy. Then they were dumped down on the deck like a heap of big ripe grapes, unhooked, and kicked into pens. One or two of them died.
These proceedings, which caused a great deal of merriment amongst the crew, were hardly over, whenthere was a fearful squealing and cawing heard at the back of the ship, and all the sheep ran aft to see what was the matter.
‘Why, it’s only a lot of molly-hawks and albatrosses crying,’ said the captain.
To mop up their tears some of them held little bits of seaweed and bladder-wrack in their claws.
‘That’s funny,’ said the commander, looking at the birds through his telescope.
‘Very funny,’ said the first mate, who liked to keep in with his chief.
‘Very, very funny,’ said the second officer.
Then everybody laughed.
‘Let us ask them why they are so sad. Where is my speaking-trumpet?’ said the captain.
The trumpet was brought, and a big sheep, holding it up to his face, after several preliminary ‘Baas,’ shouted out, ‘Ahoy, my feathered friends! why these drippings?’
‘You’ve killed our friends, our best friends, our very dear friends!’ replied the sobbing molly-hawks; ‘we can never fly after your ships any more.’
At this point the tears came pattering down like rain, as if there had been a thunderstorm.
‘Be more explicit, companions of the pastures,’ yelled the big sheep through the trumpet. ‘We do not wish to lose your pleasant company.’
‘Why,’ said the molly-hawks, ‘the gentlemen you have been stringing up practised economy. They allowed the cooks to buy bad butter, so that the passengers would not eat the beefsteak-pies and pastry they made, which were therefore all thrown overboardto us. All the birds in the South Pacific knew this, and it can’t happen any more.’
Then they wept until the sheep had to put on their oilskin coats for fear of spoiling their uniforms.
The day after we left Gisborne, we steamed into Auckland. Auckland harbour is decidedly pretty, and well sheltered. On one side of it there is an island-like promontory, covered with volcanic cones and villas, and at one end are several batteries. Now that the batteries have been made, the Aucklanders feel that cruisers cannot lie off the town and dictate terms.
On the opposite side, where the steamers lie against the wharf, is the town. The ground on which it is built is irregular. Behind it rises Mount Eden, another old volcano. There are volcanic cones even in the town itself.
When you walk along a street in Auckland, you are as likely to find yourself climbing up an old volcanic slope as not. People live in volcanoes, sometimes even in their craters. You can hear people discussing the price of certain volcanoes.
‘You know, £4,000 is what I could give for little Pluto,’ says one man.
‘Well, I only wanted the crater,’ says another.
There is certainly a novelty in buying and selling these slumbering giants. Of course the buyers and sellers trade in them on the understanding that they are dead. We hope they are.
There has been great competition for some of these phenomena on the north shore, a moderate-sized one selling for £5,000. The price, however, varies with the size and the shape. If it has a good crater, it may bevery expensive. Of course, when buying a volcano, it is well to see that it is in a good position, for they are very difficult to move.
At night-time the streets of Auckland are dull and badly lighted, but during the day they are lively, and there is much to engage the attention of a stranger. Amongst the shops I was particularly struck with one of the book-stores, where the free-reading custom was licensed. To add a charm to the book you were studying, a piano discoursed lively music.
Auction-rooms were a great feature in the Auckland streets. At one of them I saw a man trying to sell a counterpane. His face was red, and his voice was hoarse. It was always ‘going, going!’—then he would pause, and appeal to his audience, which was one man and a boy:
‘Really, gentlemen, this fine counterpane for one and sixpence.’ Then persuasively: ‘Make it two bob.’
‘Well, two bob,’ says the man, and it was promptly knocked down as a cheap bargain.
There were many hoardings and advertisements in the street.
‘It will pay you to cross the street and look over our stock,’ was hung over one shop; but right before me, on my side of the street, there was a counter-blast:
‘It will pay you to walk twenty yards farther on, and look at our stock.’
The stocks in many of the shops were large and expensive.
Most of the shops were faced with verandas, extending quite across the sidewalk. These verandas wereall different in design, helping to make the buildings appear very unsymmetrical.
A great problem for the stranger in Auckland is to discover why so many baggage-carts, which are called ‘expresses,’ stand the whole day long in certain parts of the town.
In Victoria Street, which commences as a long hill, you see these carts standing, one behind the other, in a line too long for the eye to carry you to the end of it. I discovered that the secret lay in their charges, for if you engage one of them, the driver will make enough money to keep him for the next week.
The meat-shops were pointed out to me as a speciality, but, as I have said before, I dislike exhibitions of dead bodies. Certainly one of the shops was beautifully decorated, and all the lambs and other creatures, which were hung up by their hind-legs, were ornamented with rosettes and bouquets. These additions possibly toned down the appearance of the shambles, but they looked as much out of place as a blue ribbon does round the neck of a statue.
To me a butcher’s shop is as pleasing as a dissecting-room or a morgue.
With a little training we shall have public windows in which to exhibit the operations of the slaughterhouse. Butchers’ shops ought to have screens before them.
Besides the shops there were the theatres, public gardens, an embryonic University, and a Museum to be seen. At the Museum there was the usual collection of Maori productions, implements, and weapons, mineralogical and geological specimens, a good collection ofpictures, and, not to do the place an injustice, a little moa.
‘A little moa what?’ said Mac.
This was the second time he made his moa joke, so I remained silent.
I gazed at the rusty-looking little animal for some time, for I knew it might be years before I should again have the opportunity of interviewing this extinct giant of the feathered world.
In and about volcanic Auckland a common sign is, ‘Ash, lapilli, scoria, lava, bombs, etc., on sale.’ When you order a load the vendor asks how you like it—vesicular, amygdaloidal, pumiceous, crypto-crystalline, or how?
Walking about Auckland made me very tired. Coming down a hill you have your toes jammed in the end of your boots, while going up a hill you have your body hanging over your toes. Boots with elevating toes and heels would be a valuable boon to those who live in Auckland.
One climb we made was up Mount Eden. It was a pleasant walk, and the view of the crater filled with browsing cattle, and then of the town and the surrounding country, well repaid the trouble. When on the top we could easily count some twenty other volcanic cones, many of which were accompanied by streams of lava. At one time the district of Auckland must have been bubbling like a porridge-pot.
‘Pretty hot business in Auckland some years ago,’ said Mac, as he wiped his forehead after the climb, and looked down on the twenty extinct porridge-pots.
When returning, we took a look at the Cemetery.From the ages indicated on the tombstones it would appear that the climate of New Zealand is good for the human species. One noticeable thing was the number of people who had been killed by falls from horses. Is there more riding in New Zealand than in other places, or are the horses more frisky, or are the people more clumsy? No doubt there is a reason, if it could be discovered.
One afternoon I went to see a review of the various rifle corps which have been raised in Auckland. There were six companies, all in different uniforms, with a grizzly old general commanding the lot. For a long time they stood in rows doing nothing. The old general, however, kept capering up and down, while two aides-de-camp struggled to keep behind him. Now and then a man would gallop across the field with his sword up and his horse’s tail whirling round and round, as if it was the motive power that made it go.
I thought he was going to have a sham fight with the general; but when he reached him he suddenly put his sword up to his nose, then stuck it in his sheath, whirled round, and went scampering away to where he had come from.
It was a nice warm afternoon, and as I had nothing to do, I did not object to these military manœuvres.
By-and-by they began to move. The idea was to make the six companies march in oblique lines until at certain points they stopped and wheeled to form one long line. They tried it a lot of times, but the line they made had always big gaps left in it.
The crowd said it was the fault of the sergeants, who had to run ahead and mark out the wheeling-points.
The number of Volunteers is about 300, and as that is a number which history tells us can get back safely from the jaws of death, we hope they may do well. The Aucklanders are proud of their Volunteers, and they may well be so.
After this I took a cruise in the domain, where I saw a lovely cricket ground, where eighteen cricket-matches can be played simultaneously. Outside the cricket ground two or three football-matches were going on. I sat down upon the side of a volcano to watch them. The place where the play was going on was in the hollows between several small volcanoes, or, at least, volcanic slopes. It was all fresh and green, and round the sides of the grounds were clumps of oaks and other trees bursting into summer costume. Beyond this arcadian scene came islands, islets, more volcanoes, and then the ocean.
With Italian scenery and warm sunshine I felt as comfortable as a tom-cat sunning itself on a red-tile roof.
On the most distant island, away out in the blue ocean, Sir George Grey lives. Sir George is a great man in New Zealand, a lover of the Maori, and generally original in his conceptions. Anyone would be original if they lived the Robinson-Crusoe-like life that Sir George endures. They say that he does not get many callers.
Everything in Auckland was very nice, excepting my hotel. I was told that it was the best in the place, but the statement made it no better. The bedrooms were like boxes, and everything was untidy and badly managed. The arrival of some passengers by theAmerican mail quite demoralized the establishment. The waiters were bewildered with the orders, and to get anything to eat you had to forage for yourself. I remember that I contented myself with a salt-spoon to stir my coffee.
I spent one afternoon on the north shore, where there is a race-course and some pretty walks. I was rather struck with one house, called Rangitoto View. Rangitoto is a volcanic island lying off Auckland, the view of which is exceedingly striking. Any house that faces Rangitoto has before it a picture. Now, this house faced a stone quarry on the side of a hill, Rangitoto being out of sight.