One of the greatest drawbacks in an English gentleman's eyes to living
in New Zealand is the want of sport. There is absolutely none. There
used to be a few quails, but they are almost extinct now; and during
four years' residence in very sequestered regions I only saw one. Wild
ducks abound on some of the rivers, but they are becoming fewer and
shyer every year. The beautiful Paradise duck is gradually retreating to
those inland lakes lying at the foot of the Southern Alps, amid glaciers
and boulders which serve as a barrier to keep back his ruthless foe.
Even the heron, once so plentiful on the lowland rivers, is now seldom
seen. As I write these lines a remorseful recollection comes back upon
me of overhanging cliffs, and of a bend in a swirling river, on
whose rapid current a beautiful wounded heron--its right wing
shattered--drifts helplessly round and round with the eddying water,
each circle bringing it nearer in-shore to our feet. I can see now its
bright fearless eye, full of suffering, but yet unconquered: its slender
neck proudly arched, and bearing up the small graceful head with its
coronal or top-knot raised in defiance, as if to protest to the last
against the cruel shot which had just been fired. I was but a spectator,
having merely wandered that far to look at my eel-lines, yet I felt as
guilty as though my hand had pulled the trigger. Just as the noble bird
drifted to our feet,--for I could not help going down to the river's
edge, where Pepper (our head shepherd) stood, looking very contrite,--it
reared itself half out of the water, with a hissing noise and
threatening bill, resolved to sell its liberty as dearly as it could;
but the effort only spread a brighter shade of crimson on the waters
surface for a brief moment, and then, with glazing eye and drooping
crest, the dying creature turned over on its side and was borne helpless
to our feet. By the time Pepper extended his arm and drew it in, with
the quaint apology, "I'm sorry I shot yer, old feller! I, am, indeed,"
the heron was dead; and that happened to be the only one I ever came
across during my mountain life. Once I saw some beautiful red-shanks
flying down the gorge of the Selwyn, and F---- nearly broke his neck in
climbing the crag from whence one of them rose in alarm at the noise
of our horses' feet on the shingle. There were three eggs in the
inaccessible cliff-nest, and he brought me one, which I tried in vain to
hatch under a sitting duck. Betty would not admit the intruder among her
own eggs, but resolutely pushed it out of her nest twenty times a day,
until at last I was obliged to blow it and send it home to figure in a
little boy's collection far away in Kent.
I have seen very good blue duck shooting on the Waimakiriri river, but
50 per cent. of the birds were lost for want of a retriever bold enough
to face that formidable river. Wide as was the beautiful reach, on whose
shore the sportsmen stood, and calmly as the deep stream seemed to glide
beneath its high banks, the wounded birds, flying low on the water,
had hardly dropped when they disappeared, sucked beneath by the strong
current, and whirled past us in less time than it takes one to write a
line. We had retrievers with us who would face the waves of an inland
lake during a nor'-wester,--which is giving a dog very high praise
indeed; but there was no canine Bayard at hand to brave those
treacherous depths, and bring out our game, so the sport soon ceased;
for what was the good of shooting the beautiful, harmless creatures when
we could not make use of them as food?
I often accompanied F---- on his eel-fishing expeditions, but more for
the sake of companionship than from any amusement I found in the sport.
I may here confess frankly that I cannot understand anyone being an
inveterate eel-fisher, for of all monotonous pursuits, it is the most
self-repeating in its forms. Even the first time I went out I found it
delightful only in anticipation; and this is the one midnight excursion
which I shall attempt to re-produce for you.
It had been a broiling midsummer day, too hot to sit in the verandah,
too hot to stroll about the garden, or go for a ride, or do anything
in fact, except bask like a lizard in the warm air. New Zealand summer
weather, however high the thermometer, is quite different from either
tropical or English heat. It is intensely hot in the sun, but always
cool in the shade. I never heard of an instance of sun-stroke from
exposure to the mid-day sun, for there always was a light air--often
scarcely perceptible until you were well out in the open,--to temper the
fierce vertical rays. It sometimes happened that I found myself obliged,
either for business or pleasure, to take a long ride in the middle of a
summer's day, and my invariable reflection used to be, "It is not nearly
so hot out of doors as one fancies it would be." Then there is none of
the stuffiness so often an accompaniment to our brief summers, bringing
lassitude and debility in its train. The only disadvantage of an
unusually hot season with us was, that our already embrowned complexions
took a deeper shade of bronze; but as we were all equally sun-burnt
there was no one to throw critical stones.
What surprised me most was the utter absence of damp or miasma. After a
blazing day, instead of hurrying in out of reach of poisonous vapours as
the tropic-dweller must needs do, we could linger bare-headed, lightly
clad, out of doors, listening to the distant roar of a river, or
watching the exquisite tints of the evening sky. I dwell on this to
explain that in almost any other country there would have been risk in
remaining out at night after such still, hot days.
On this particular evening, during my first summer in the New Zealand
Malvern Hills, after we had watered my pet flowers near the house, and
speculated a good deal as to whether the mignonette seed had all been
blown out of the ground by the last nor'-wester or not, F---- said, "I
shall go eel-fishing to-night to the creek, down the flat. Why don't you
come too? I am sure you would like it." Now, I am sorry to say that I am
such a thorough gipsy in my tastes that any pursuit which serves as an
excuse for spending hours in the open air, is full of attraction for
me; consequently, I embraced the proposal with ardour, and set about
gathering, under F----'s directions, what seemed to bid fair to rival
the collection of an old rag-and-bottle merchant. First of all, there
was a muster of every empty tin match-box in the little house; these
were to hold the bait-bits of mutton and worms. Then I was desired
to hunt up all the odds and ends of worsted which lurked in the
scrap-basket. A forage next took place in search of string, but as no
parcels were ever delivered in that sequestered valley, twine became
a precious and rare treasure. In default of any large supply being
obtainable, my lamp and candle-wick material was requisitioned by F----
(who, by the way, is a perfect Uhlan for getting what he wants, when
bent on a sporting expedition); and lastly, one or two empty flour-sacks
were called for. You will see the use of this heterogeneous collection
presently.
It was of no use starting until the twilight had darkened into a cloudy,
moonless night; so, after our seven o'clock supper, we adjourned into
the verandah to watch F---- make a large round ball, such as children
play with, out of the scraps of worsted with which I had furnished him.
Instead of cutting the wool into lengths, however, it was left in loops;
and I learned that this is done to afford a firm hold for the sharp
needle-like teeth of an inquisitive eel, who might be tempted to find
out if this strange round thing, floating near his hole, would be
good to eat. I was impatient as a child,--remember it was my first
eel-fishing expedition,--and I thought nine o'clock would never come,
for I had been told to go and dress at that hour; that is to say, I was
to change my usual station-costume, a pretty print gown, for a short
linsey skirt, strong boots and kangaroo-skin gaiters. F----, and our
cadet, Mr. U----, soon appeared, clad in shooting coats instead of their
alpaca costumes, and their trousers stuffed into enormous boots, the
upper leathers of which came beyond their knees.
"Are we going into the water?" I timidly inquired.
"Oh, no,--not at all: it is on account of the Spaniards."
No doubt this sounds very unintelligible to an English reader; but every
colonist who may chance to see my pages will shiver at the recollection
of those vegetable defenders of an unexplored region in New Zealand.
Imagine a gigantic artichoke with slender instead of broad leaves, set
round in dense compact order. They vary, of course, in size, but in our
part of the world four or six feet in circumference and a couple of feet
high was the usual growth to which they attained, though at the back of
the run they were much larger. Spaniards grow in clusters, or patches,
among the tussocks on the plains, and constitute a most unpleasant
feature of the vegetation of the country. Their leaves are as firm as
bayonets, and taper at the point to the fineness of a needle, but are
not nearly so easily broken as a needle would be. No horse will face
them, preferring a jump at the cost of any exertion, to the risk of a
stab from the cruel points. The least touch of this green bayonet draws
blood, and a fall _into_ a Spaniard is a thing to be remembered all
one's life. Interspersed with the Spaniards are generally clumps of
"wild Irishman," a straggling sturdy bramble, ready to receive and
scratch you well if you attempt to avoid the Spaniard's weapons.
Especially detrimental to riding habits are wild Irishmen; and there are
fragments of mine, of all sorts of materials and colours, fluttering now
on their thorny branches in out-of-the-way places on our run. It is
not surprising, therefore, that we guarded our legs as well as we could
against these foes to flesh and blood.
"We are rather early," said the gentlemen, as I appeared, ready and
eager to start; "but perhaps it is all the better to enable you to see
the track." They each flung an empty sack over their shoulders, felt in
their pockets to ascertain whether the matches, hooks, boxes of bait,
etc., were all there, and then we set forth.
At first it appeared as if we had stepped from the brightness of the
drawing-room into utter and pitchy blackness; but after we had
groped for a few steps down the familiar garden path, our eyes became
accustomed to the subdued light of the soft summer night. Although heavy
banks of cloud,--the general precursors of wind,--were moving slowly
between us and the heavens, the stars shone down through their rifts,
and on the western horizon a faint yellowish tinge told us that daylight
was in no hurry to leave our quiet valley. The mountain streams or
creeks, which water so well the grassy plains among the Malvern Hills,
are not affected to any considerable extent by dry summer weather. They
are snow-fed from the high ranges, and each nor'-wester restores many a
glacier or avalanche to its original form, and sends it flowing down the
steep sides of yonder distant beautiful mountains to join the creeks,
which, like a tangled skein of silver threads, ensure a good water
supply to the New Zealand sheep-farmer. In the holes, under steep
overhanging banks, the eels love to lurk, hiding from the sun's rays in
cool depths, and coming out at night to feed. There are no fish whatever
in the rivers, and I fear that the labours of the Acclimatization
Society will be thrown away until they can persuade the streams
themselves to remain in their beds like more civilised waters. At
present not a month passes that one does not hear of some eccentric
proceeding on the part of either rivers or creeks. Unless the fish are
prepared to shift their liquid quarters at a moment's notice they will
find themselves often left high and dry on the deserted shingle-bed. But
eels are proverbially accustomed to adapt themselves to circumstances,
and a fisherman may always count on getting some if he be patient.
About a mile down the flat, between very high banks, our principal creek
ran, and to a quiet spot among the flax-bushes we directed our steps.
By the fast-fading light the gentlemen set their lines in very primitive
fashion. On the crumbling, rotten earth the New Zealand flax, the
_Phormium tenax_, loves to grow, and to its long, ribbon-like leaves the
eel-fishers fastened their lines securely, baiting each alternate hook
with mutton and worms. I declared this was too cockney a method of
fishing, and selected a tall slender flax-stick, the stalk of last
year's spike of red honey-filled blossoms, and to this extempore rod I
fastened my line and bait. When one considers that the old whalers were
accustomed to use ropes made in the rudest fashion, from the fibre of
this very plant, in their deep-sea fishing for very big prey, it is
not surprising that we found it sufficiently strong for our purpose. I
picked out, therefore, a comfortable spot,--that is to say, well in the
centre of a young flax-bush, whose satiny leaves made the most elastic
cushions around me; with my flax-stick held out over what was supposed
to be a favourite haunt of the eels, and with Nettle asleep at my feet
and a warm shawl close to my hand, prepared for my vigil. "Don't speak
or move," were the gentlemen's last words: "the eels are all eyes and
ears at this hour; they can almost hear you breathe." Each man then took
up his position a few hundred yards away from me, so that I felt, to all
intents and purposes, absolutely alone. I am "free to confess," as our
American cousins say, that it was a very eerie sensation. It was now
past ten o'clock; the darkness was intense, and the silence as deep as
the darkness.
Hot as the day had been, the night air felt chill, and a heavy dew
began to fall, showing me the wisdom of substituting woollen for cotton
garments. I could see the dim outlines of the high hills, which shut in
our happy valley on all sides, and the smell of the freshly-turned earth
of a paddock near the house, which was in process of being broken up
for English grass, came stealing towards me on the silent air. The
melancholy cry of a bittern, or the shrill wail of the weka, startled
me from time to time, but there was no other sound to break the eternal
silence.
As I waited and watched, I thought, as every one must surely think,
with strange paradoxical feelings, of one's own utter insignificance in
creation, mingled with the delightful consciousness of our individual
importance in the eyes of the Maker and Father of all. An atom among
worlds, as one feels, sitting there at such an hour and in such a spot,
still we remember with love and pride, that not a hair of our head falls
to the ground unnoticed by an Infinite Love and an Eternal Providence.
The soul tries to fly into the boundless regions of space and eternity,
and to gaze upon other worlds, and other beings equally the object of
the Great Creator's care; but her mortal wing soon droops and tires,
and she is fain to nestle home again to her Saviour's arms, with the
thought, "I am my Beloved's, and He is mine." That is the only safe
beginning and end of all speculation. It was very solemn and beautiful,
that long dark night,--a pause amid the bustle of every day cares and
duties,--hours in which one takes counsel with one's own heart, and is
still.
Midnight had come and gone, when the sputter and snap of striking
a match, which sounded almost like a pistol shot amid the profound
silence, told me that one of the sportsmen had been successful. I got
up as softly as possible, wrapped my damp shawl round my still damper
shoulders, and, fastening the flax-stick securely in the ground, stole
along the bank of the creek towards the place where a blazing tussock,
serving as a torch, showed the successful eel-fisher struggling with
his prize. Through the gloom I saw another weird-looking figure running
silently in the same direction; for the fact was, we were all so cramped
and cold, and, weary of sitting waiting for bites which never came, that
we hailed with delight a break in the monotony of our watch. It did
not matter now how much noise we made (within moderate limits), for
the peace of that portion of the creek was destroyed for the night.
Half-a-dozen eels must have banded themselves together, and made a
sudden and furious dash at the worsted ball, which Mr. U---- had been
dangling in front of their mud hall-door for the last two hours. Just as
he had intended, their long sharp teeth became entangled in the worsted
loops, and although he declared some had broken away and escaped, three
or four good-sized ones remained, struggling frantically.
It would have been almost impossible for one man to lift such a weight
straight out of the water by a string; and as we came up and saw Mr.
U----'s agitated face in the fantastic flickering light of the
blazing tussock, which he had set on fire as a signal of distress, I
involuntarily thought of the old Joe Miller about the Tartar: "Why don't
you let him go?" "Because he has caught _me._" It looked just like that.
The furious splashing in the water below, and Mr. U---- grasping his
line with desperate valour, but being gradually drawn nearer to the
edge of the steep bank each instant. "Keep up a good light, but not too
much," cried F---- to me, in a regular stage-whisper, as he rushed to
the rescue. So I pulled up one tussock after another by its roots,--an
exertion which resulted in upsetting me each time,--and lighted one as
fast as its predecessor burned out. They were all rather damp, so they
did not flare away too quickly. By the blaze of my grassy torches I saw
F----first seize Mr. U---- round the waist and drag him further from
the bank; but the latter called out, "It's my hands,--they have no skin
left: do catch hold, there's a good fellow." So the "good fellow" did
catch hold, but he was too experienced an eel-fisher to try to lift
a couple of dozen pounds weight of eels out of the water by a
perpendicular string; so he tied it to a flax-bush near, and, stooping
down in order to get some leverage over the bank, very soon drew the
ball, with its slimy, wriggling captives, out of the water. Just as
he jerked it far on shore, one or two of the creatures broke loose and
escaped, leaving quite enough to afford a most disgusting and horrible
sight as they were shuffled and poked into the empty flour-sack.
The sportsmen were delighted however, and departed to a fresh bend of
the creek, leaving me to find my way back to my original post. This
would have been difficult indeed, had not Nettle remained behind to
guard my gloves, which I had left in his custody. As I passed, not
knowing I was so near the spot, the little dog gave a low whimper of
greeting, sufficient to attract my attention and guide me to where he
was keeping his faithful watch and ward. I felt for my flax-stick and
moved it ever so gently. A sudden jerk and splash startled me horribly,
and warned me that I had disturbed an eel who was in the act of supping
off my bait. In the momentary surprise I suppose I let go, for certain
it is that the next instant my flax-stick was rapidly towed down the
stream.
Instead of feeling provoked or mortified, it was the greatest relief
to know that my eel-fishing was over for the night, and that now I had
nothing to do except "wait till called for." So I took Nettle on my
lap and tried to abide patiently, but I had not been long enough in New
Zealand to have any confidence in the climate, and as I felt how damp my
clothes were, and recollected with horror my West Indian experiences of
the consequences of exposure to night air and heavy dew, my mind _would_
dwell gloomily on the prospect of a fever, at least. It seemed a long
and weary while before I perceived a figure coming towards me; and I am
afraid I was both cross and cold and sleepy by the time we set our faces
homewards. "I have only caught three," said F----. "How many have you
got?" "None, I am happy to say," I answered peevishly, "What could
Nettle and I have done with the horrible things if we had caught any?"
The walk, or rather the stumble home, proved to be the worst part of the
expedition. Not a ray of starlight had we to guide us,--nothing but
inky blackness around and over us. We tried to make Nettle go first,
intending to follow his lead, and trusting to his keeping the track; but
Nettle's place was at my heels, and neither coaxing nor scolding would
induce him to forego it. A forlorn hope was nothing to the dangers of
each footstep. First one and then the other volunteered to lead the way,
declaring they could find the track. All this time we were trying to
strike the indistinct road among the tussocks, made by occasional wheels
to our house, but the marks, never very distinct in daylight, became
perfect will-o'-the-wisps at night. If we crossed a sheep-track we
joyfully announced that we had found the way, but only to be undeceived
the next moment by discovering that we were returning to the creek.
From time to time we fell into and over Spaniards, and what was left of
our clothes and our flesh the wild Irishmen devoured. We must have
got home somehow, or I should not be writing an account of it, at this
moment, but really I hardly know how we reached the house. I recollect
that the next day there was a great demand for gold-beater's skin, and
court-plaster, and that whenever F---- and Mr. U---- had a spare moment
during the ensuing week, they devoted themselves to performing surgical
operations on each other with a needle; and that I felt very subdued and
tired for a day or two. But there was no question of fever or cold, and
I was stared at when I inquired whether it was not dangerous to be out
all night in heavy dew after a broiling day.
We had the eels made into a pie by our shepherd, who assured me that if
I entrusted them to my cook she would send me up such an oily dish that
I should never be able to endure an eel again. He declared that the
Maoris, who seem to have rather a horror of grease, had taught him how
to cook both eels and wekas in such a way as to eliminate every particle
of fat from both. I had no experience of the latter dish, but he
certainly kept his word about the eels, for they were excellent.