BEWILDERING NEW SURROUNDINGS—THE MAORI DRAGON—BREAKFAST AT
WAIROA—THE MISSION-HOUSE—THE HOT LAKE—WHITE TERRACES—SULPHUR
AND MUD VOLCANOES—AN UNJUST CLAIM RESISTED—CHAMPIONS FROM THE
ANTIPODES.
IN A TINY TENT NEAR THE WHITE TERRACES, ROTOMAHANA,
_Tuesday Night, April 3, 1877_.
Now indeed I have found a land of wonders, such as, I fancy, has no
equal, unless perhaps in the volcanic region of Hawaii, which, from all
descriptions, must stand pre-eminent.[54] But all that I have seen
here is truly amazing, and much as I had heard of it, the reality far
surpasses my expectations. It is heaven and hell in alternate glimpses,
so marvellous are some beauties, so dread the horrors.
I can hardly persuade myself that it is only four days since I left
Tauranga, so infinitely varied are all the new impressions which hour by
hour have crowded upon me. I seem to have lived in a bewildering maze of
steam and steam-power gone mad—columns of steam puffing up from every
bush, steam roaring as though all the engines in Europe were bellowing
and snorting simultaneously, or steam rising in quiet mists and wreaths
as it is now doing even in this tiny tent which the Maoris pitched for us
on what they knew to be one of the very few safe spots. Yet even here the
steam is rising through the ground; the sheet of American cloth, which I
laid beneath my blanket, is wrinkled like the hands of a washer-woman,
though our tent is floored with thick layers of fern and _manukau_, and
the paper on which I am writing is quite damp, as is all my drawing-paper.
We have stood by to watch volcanoes being created, and then as quickly
destroyed—volcanoes of mud and volcanoes of sulphur; we have watched
geysers of every sort, active and quiescent, playing in green pools and
in blue pools; and, above all, we have walked up and down, all over the
wondrous marble stairways, till their loveliness has become a familiar
thing; and oh, wonderful new sensation! new possibility in luxury!
we have bathed in those perfect marble baths, selecting from among a
thousand, the very pool of the exact temperature and depth that seemed
most pleasant, and therein have lain rejoicing like true Maoris, till we
ourselves were coated with a thin film of silica from the flinty water,
so that we feel like satin, a delight to ourselves.
It is so strange to look out from this little tent and see clouds of
white steam continually curling up from the thicket of dark _manukau_
scrub which lies between us and the blue lake, on the other side of
which rise more dark hills, and another flight of terraces, not quite so
large as these white ones, near which our tent is pitched, but in some
respects even more beautiful. They are called the pink terraces, but
are really of a pale salmon colour. You cannot think how lovely they
are by moonlight! At the base of these pink terraces there is a great
sulphur-volcano, which tinges all the land and water near it of a clear
lemon colour. And from all the dark hills on every side rise columns of
white steam, telling us how thin is the crust which divides us from the
wonderful laboratory down below. Everything is so new and strange that I
hardly know what to tell you first. Perhaps I had better begin in detail
from the beginning.
I left Ohinemutu at 6 A.M. on Monday morning, and a coach-and-four
brought me fourteen miles over a road (if I may so call it) like the bed
of the wildest mountain torrent. How any springs in the world can stand
it I cannot imagine. We passed Lakes Tikitapa, Roto Rua, and Roto Kahahi
(the blue lake and the lake of shells).
Lake Tikitapa, which is overshadowed by steep wooded hills, is the scene
of an old Maori legend, which tells how Tu-whare-toa, the St George of
New Zealand, here did battle with Taniwha, the great dragon, which he
conquered, but did not slay, only stipulating that it should thenceforth
live quietly at the bottom of the lake. So now the only sign of life it
gives is occasionally to trouble the dead calm of the deep blue waters,
which rise in crested waves; and strangers think that this is the work
of the mountain breeze, but the Maoris know that Taniwha is turning over
restlessly, weary of his long captivity.
We reached Wairoa in time to breakfast at a comfortable well-kept little
hotel, the present landlord of which is an Irish gentleman of good
family—son of a general in her Majesty’s army. I sat at breakfast beside
a private of the armed constabulary, in whom I recognised a member of one
of the best old families in Suffolk. But having already found my coachman
of the morning to be an agreeable and well-informed Oxford man, the son
of an English vicar, who, like many another gentleman out here, has had
his share of life’s ups and downs, I began to realise that I have reached
a new world, in which every man must sink or swim on his own merits, or
his own luck, as the case may be, but wholly irrespective of that of his
forefathers.
In the village of Wairoa a deserted church and school still stand to
tell of the zeal of the early converts, whose Christianity proved as
evanescent as the morning dew. At the outbreak of the war, they hanged
one of their pastors, Mr Volkner; and the resident clergyman had to fly
for his life.
Once more I have had the good fortune to find myself in the position of
friend’s friend, for I had scarcely finished breakfast when Mr Way (to
whom Mr Edgecumbe had written about me) came to escort me to his pretty
home, the pleasant old mission station, now, alas! no longer used in its
former capacity, but still held by a member of the family. For Mrs Way
was a daughter of the house, born and bred here, loving both place and
people, and marking with bitter pain the change that has crept over them
since evil white influence has worked as a poisonous leaven to overthrow
all the good that Christian teachers had so patiently striven to instil,
with apparently such good result.
Greatly to my delight, Mrs Way volunteered to accompany me to the lakes,
and to take with her a small tent, in which we might sleep for two
or three nights. She herself speaks Maori like a native; and she has
brought with her a dear old Maori nurse, who has been with her from her
childhood, and who does our cooking. She also took a share in paddling
our canoe.
Great was the noise and hubbub which arose when the Maoris learned that
we purposed going in a different canoe to that which they had already
determined on sending. No other travellers had arrived that morning, and
so the whole village was contending for the fleecing of this one lamb.
Horrible was the din which ensued. A happy thought at length struck Mrs
Way. She determined to draw lots who should accompany us, and the novelty
of the proceeding at once restored amity, and a pleasant set of cheery
good-natured lads fell to our lot. They were all delighted with fate’s
decision, though well aware that my companion would allow no rum in her
canoe. The rum is an objectionable feature, which is insisted on as an
extra in all canoes engaged at the hotel, and which does not tend to
improve the efficiency of the crew. The Maoris of the district have been
so thoroughly spoilt by the English, that they are now rapacious to a
degree, and well it is for me that I have Mrs Way to protect me. I was
much amused to hear the Maoris all address her by her Christian name—the
natural result of having all grown up together since childhood.
The canoes are of the rudest description—merely a tree hollowed out—and,
not being balanced by any outrigger, they are peculiarly liable to
overturn on the shortest notice. The large canoes carry fourteen or
fifteen persons sitting single file—two paddles for each passenger. We
had a row of about eight miles across Lake Tarawara, a very beautiful
lake at the foot of a mountain of the same name—a truncated cone of
bare rock 2000 feet high, and so singularly symmetrical that it needs
small imagination to behold in it the form of a vast tumulus; for it is
the place of burial of the Arawa tribe, and is held so sacred that no
traveller is allowed to set foot on it: the Maoris themselves consider it
strictly _tapu_.
The lake is about five miles wide by seven in length. Its rocky shores
are fringed with fine old trees, and the whole scenery is delightful.
We passed close by a rock where custom demands that tribute be paid to
the Atua or guardian spirit of the lake, to insure fair weather. It is
an easily pleased spirit, for our offerings were only scraps of our
luncheon; nevertheless, the weather has continued perfect—no trifling
matter on such an expedition as this.
At the further side we ascended a creek with rapids, where we found the
water quite warm; and in a few minutes we reached the hot lake, which
lies about 900 feet above the level of the sea. I am told that many
people say that their first feeling on arriving here is one of grievous
disappointment. This, I confess, is to me incomprehensible, for though
the general scenery round Rotomahana is not specially striking, it is
certainly not ugly; and though the surrounding hills are only clothed
with dark scrubby vegetation, they are relieved by countless wreaths
of white vapour, marking the site of innumerable boiling springs and
terraces, and suggesting the points of infinite interest, which lie
hidden on every side.
The lake itself is very small—not a mile long, and less than half that
width; and though it appears blue enough when seen from the land, its
waters are turbid and greenish, and no fish or other creatures live in
it, as you can well imagine, the boiling springs being as active below
its surface as on its shores. But an immense number of wild-fowl of many
sorts breed here, and are jealously preserved by the Maoris, who during
the breeding season will not allow a canoe to pass up the creek, and
under no circumstances will suffer a gun to be fired here. They do not,
however, object to snaring, and the wild duck are so numerous that they
are easily captured. Oyster-catchers also abound, as do also the Pukeho,
a large and very handsome blue bird with scarlet head and feet.
On entering the lake, we found ourselves at the foot of the white
marble terraces, which the Maoris call Te Tarata. I confess I quite
despair of being able, by any words, to give you such a description as
will enable you to form a true idea of their dreamlike beauty. They
are in nature what the Taj Mahal at Agra is in architecture,—a thing
indescribable—a fairy city of lace carved in pure marble,—a thousand
waterfalls suddenly frozen and fringed with icicles. Perhaps you will
best picture it to yourself as a steep hillside, artificially terraced so
as to form hundreds of tiny fields—flooded rice-fields, such as we see in
mountainous parts of India, and elsewhere; but the stone-work enclosing
and sustaining each little lake is of white marble, fringed with
stalactites resembling the most creamy-white coral, which, if it escapes
the barbarous hands of tourists, should grow more beautiful year by year,
as the ever-trickling water drips over it. So rapid is the deposit, that
fern-leaves and sticks which drop into the water are in a few days so
thickly incrusted, that they look as if they had been crystallised by
a confectioner; and sometimes a dead bird falls in, and is apparently
petrified while its flesh is still quite fresh.
So there are feathers and ferns enough to supply travellers with harmless
mementoes, if only they would be content with these; but I regret to say
that the method of proving the rapidity of this deposit which finds most
favour with the snobs of all nations, is that of writing their names in
pencil on the smooth porcelain surface, where, within a few hours, it is
rendered indelible by a thin transparent coating of silica. One crime
against good taste leads to another; and some ugly scars on the fair
white surface show where curiosity hunters have taken the trouble to cut
out and appropriate certain names of note.
To our shame be it spoken, this practice has called forth a grave rebuke
from the Maoris, who have had a notice printed, in English, imploring
visitors to abstain from defacing the beautiful terraces, either by
writing their names or by breaking off stalactites, the slow deposit of
ages.
The total height of the white terraces is only about 150 feet, and the
width at the base about 300 feet; but the amount of beauty of detail
crowded into this space defies description. While some of the terraces
are so deep and bold as to suggest marble battlements of fairy citadels,
others resemble gigantic clam-shells, filled to the brim with the
most exquisite blue water, sometimes tinged with violet, which, as it
drips from the lip of the shell, forms a deep fringe of the loveliest
stalactites, generally pure white, but sometimes tinged with other
colours. Each great shell-like bath partly overhangs the one below it,
so that in some the bather can find shelter from the sun beneath this
wonderful canopy with its dripping gems. All the lovely forms of frost
crystals are here produced in enduring material, which alternately
suggests rare mosses and fine lace-work, all alike carved in white
alabaster.
The source of all this beauty is a large boiling pool, situated about
150 feet above the lake. It is about 30 feet in diameter, and lies in a
crater of about 260 feet in circumference, enclosing it on three sides
with steep reddish cliffs, while on the fourth side, whence the marble
terraces descend to the lake, there is a rocky island about 12 feet high,
which seems to suggest that the walls of the crater may once have formed
a complete circle, and have gradually been decomposed by the action of
steam. By watching the ebb and flow of the boiling waves, it is generally
possible to reach this island and look into the water-crater. Here, from
unfathomable depths, wells a fountain of the most exquisite turquoise
blue, and through the crystalline waters you discern the coral-like
border which fringes both the inner and outer lip of the great porcelain
basin which lines the crater.
When the wind blows from the south, the water sinks far down into the
depths of the crater, and then, instead of the ordinary cream colour, the
dazzling whiteness of the basin, and of the whole series of terraces,
is like that of driven snow. At such times you can look right down the
funnel, which measures about eight feet across: its sides are smooth,
and as perpendicular as the shaft of a well. But such a sight cannot
be obtained without risk; for occasionally, without a moment’s notice,
a vast column of water shoots far into the air, with a tremendous
explosion, and the whole stairway becomes the bed of one wide waterfall.
Generally, however, it is pretty safe to venture while the wind is
southerly. But so soon as it changes, the water rises at the rate of
three or four feet in an hour, heaving and roaring as it does so, till
at length it shoots heavenward in a dazzling column sixty feet high and
above twenty in diameter, and descends in blue ripples which overflow the
terraces. The ordinary condition of the pool is tolerably equable, and
only a slight upheaval of the centre, like that of a boiling, bubbling
pot, marks it as a geyser. Its temperature is about 210° Fahr.; but the
water gradually cools in its descent, and the basins near the level of
the lake are comparatively cool. So this wonderful series of shell-shaped
baths are not only of all sizes and depths, but also of every shade of
temperature; and the height of luxury in bathing is to revel in each by
turn, increasing in warmth as you approach the summit, or decreasing as
you descend towards the lake.
Half the charm of these natural baths consists in the exquisite colour
of the water, which is a chemical turquoise blue, so vivid that it is
even reflected on the cloud of white steam which for ever rises from
the crater. The tone of the sky has no influence whatever in imparting
this hue, which never varies, and looks strangely incongruous with a
primrose or daffodil sunset, or when, as this morning, the grey clouds
were flushed with rose-colour, but not a bit of blue was in the sky.
Perhaps I may best describe the colour as cobalt dissolved in milk, but
then it is perfectly transparent, and in some pools the water is tinged
with amethyst, in others it is like liquid opals. I am quite at a loss to
account for these varied colours, as all the pools are filled from one
source, and the lovely cream-coloured basins in which the water lies are
all formed by the continual deposit from the water itself.
I think the most plausible theory I have heard suggested as to the
formation of these terraces is, that before the wall of the crater gave
way, and allowed the imprisoned waters to escape, the hillside was
clothed with the same scrub of dark _ti_ tree or _manukau_ and fern as
covers all the country round; but as year by year the fluid flint flowed
over and incrusted it, the whole became the basis for the series of
pools, irregular in shape, size, and depth as we now behold them. You can
imagine readily enough how a shrub like a gigantic heather-bush, thus
bent forward by the pressure of water, would eventually become the rim of
a very deep pool, in which swimmers would find ample room to move, while
reeds and ferns would form only a shallow basin,—a fit bath for children.
This theory, too, would account for the lip of some basins being smooth,
or like a coil of rope carved in marble, while others are in just such
clusters of stalactite as might be formed were a huge _manukau_ bush
the foundation on which the deposit was commenced. So delicate and
apparently brittle is this nature-carved lace-work, that at first I felt
compelled to tread lightly so as not to injure it; but I soon saw that
this caution was needless, so I now reserve all my care to avoid stepping
unnecessarily into the hot pools. I need scarcely tell you that such
walking as this makes short work of the strongest boots!
With the rashness of a “new chum” (which is the colonial term to express
a very green new arrival), I determined to ascend to the red cliff
overlooking the crater, much to the disgust of the Maori who had taken
charge of me, and whose experience had taught him a wholesome dread
of the thin treacherous crust over which we had to climb. Finding his
remonstrances were vain, he contented himself with cutting branches of
brushwood with which to cover the most doubtful spots on which we had
to tread. This acted in the same manner as huge Canadian snow-shoes,
in diminishing the risk of the thin crust of soil giving way beneath
our footsteps. But certainly the peril is greater than I at first
realised; for the whole rock is so undermined and disintegrated by the
perpetual action of subterranean steam, that there is always danger of
its crumbling away on the slightest pressure. When I rejoined Mrs Way,
she heard my guide tell his companions that it was now their turn to
escort the rash white woman, but that he would not risk his life again by
accompanying her on such expeditions.
It seems that not long ago a gentleman persisted in thus exploring,
though the Maoris positively refused to follow him. In a very few minutes
a patch of apparently firm grass gave way, and he sank up to the waist;
most fortunately it proved to be only a steam-hole. However, it was a
sufficient warning, and he was happily able to scramble out by himself,
and quickly retraced his steps.
It was difficult to turn away from anything so fascinating as the
fairy-like white terraces; but my companion told me of other wonders in
store. So she led me by a narrow path through the low gloomy bush, with
countless boiling springs bubbling and steaming on every side of us,—some
so veiled by overhanging ferns as to be dangerously invisible, while
others throw up jets of water which at certain seasons attain a height
of from thirty to forty feet—their steam, of course, rising far higher.
One of these forms a small, clear, sea-green lake, which it lashes into
boiling waves—literally boiling—and ceaselessly breaking on the shore in
white foam. The temperature of the pool is 210° Fahr.
A few steps farther our path lay along a high ridge of rock, not two feet
wide, separating two water-craters. In one lies a dark indigo-coloured
pool, from which rises an upright column of dazzling white; while on
the other side the water shoots out in a horizontal jet. Both are
intermittent, and they play alternately. The colour of the volcanic rocks
at that point is wonderful. The most vivid metallic gold, chrome yellow,
green, brown, and red, appear mingled as in some strange patchwork, and
the whole is traversed by myriad golden tubes of crystallised sulphur,
through which the scalding steam issues in little white puffs.
The noise of all these roaring fountains was something
deafening,—vulgarly suggestive of a crowded railway junction, with
high-pressure engines puffing and blowing on every side. Each moment we
were enveloped in clouds of steam which hid everything from our view; and
in places the fumes of sulphur almost choked us. Occasionally there was
a pause—a moment of awful silence, followed by a subterranean rumbling
of sulphureous gases, and then came a deafening explosion. It was a weird
scene, yet so fascinating in its horror that only the recollection of how
much there was still to see urged us onward.
There are other geysers scattered all over the hill, each having its
own Maori name, which is generally descriptive—such as “the sighing
fountain,” “the quiet pool,” “the long water,” &c. Some spout three or
four times a-day, others at regular intervals of so many minutes.
I believe there are about twenty-five terraces of the same sort as the
one I have described to you—not on so large a scale, but still of some
importance; and besides these there are an immense number of smaller ones
in this immediate neighbourhood. Some of the geysers which produce these,
occasionally throw up jets to the height of from twenty to thirty feet.
We halted a long time near an intermittent spring, which was playing in
wild excitement, sometimes from one side of the basin, then the other,
dashing its boiling waves against the enclosing rock walls with a mighty
uproar. Sometimes for a few moments it seemed weary, and the clear
transparent waters lay still and calm; then it uprose more turbulent than
before, lashing itself into fury, and tossing up jets of solid water to
a height of from twenty to thirty feet. Not far from this pool, there
is a singular blowpipe on the side of the hill. It is only about a foot
in diameter, but from it rushes a ceaseless column of steam, working at
high-pressure, and shrieking like some distressed spirit.
Still hurrying on through the dark _manukau_ scrub, we next found
ourselves beside a lake of half-cooled liquid grey mud, dotted all over
with small mud volcanoes, each a perfect model of Vesuvius. From every
cone issued puffs of white steam, shortly followed by a discharge of
boiling clay, which, trickling down the cone, gradually increased its
size. So liquid was the mud, that each miniature volcano was perfectly
reflected in the pool.
On every side of us lay craters in which masses of thick boiling mud were
being slowly upheaved—rising and falling with a dull muffled gurgle, and
finally bursting in one huge bubble. It was a hideous sight, and gave
me a more horrible feeling of repulsion than anything I ever remember.
Dante might here have borrowed a new phase of horror for his ‘Inferno.’
The bare idea, that by the slipping of a foot one might be hopelessly
engulfed in so appalling a tomb, was too dreadful, and I confess I turned
away shuddering.
As we crossed a bed of dried-up cracked mud, our footsteps echoed as if
the ground below was hollow, and it gave me a thrill of horror to think
where we might land if that thin crust should give way! All the ground
hereabouts is just steaming mud, but there are diversities in the degrees
of horror. One mud-pool differs essentially from another. Many of them
throw out a greasy clay of an ashen grey hue, which the Maoris eat with
the greatest relish, not merely to appease hunger, but as a delicacy. A
greedy man will swallow a pound weight of this edible clay immediately
after a very good meal, and seems none the worse of his peck of dirt.
Other mud-pools are full of dark slime, almost as black as pitch, and
very hot: it is these which gurgle and burst in huge bubbles. Others,
again, throw up enormous lumps of soft black mud, which fall back, to be
again thrown up, as if the earth-spirits were indulging in a grim game at
ball.
Though bewildered by the clouds of steam which encompassed us on every
side, we still pressed on, but in a few moments were brought to a
standstill by so deafening a roar that no thunder-crash you ever heard
could equal it. It proceeded from a deep fissure in the rocks, whence
rose blinding clouds of steam. We approached this Devil’s Caldron as near
as we dared, not able to hear a word either of us uttered; then, fairly
stupefied, we turned away, thankful for the power of flight, and agreeing
that we had surely been standing at the very mouth of hell.
Two minutes later we paused beside a perfectly cold calm green lake. Its
water, though not clear, is green in itself, and, moreover, reflects
the green scrub and ferns which clothe the encircling hills. It is not
particularly pretty, but so very calm and peaceful that it contrasted
wonderfully with the appalling scene of turmoil and noise we had just
left.
Evening was now closing in, and it was time to think of supper, so
retracing our steps past the horrible mud-lake, and threading our way
cautiously among the craters, where we could hear the boiling mud giving
great gulps (_wallops_ seems the only descriptive word), we emerged from
the dark copse, and found ourselves on the shore of the lake just as the
wonderful sunset tints shed their glory on the bare volcanic mountains
round us, lending them a beauty not their own.
We found that the Maori lads had pitched our little tent and made all
ready for the night, and that some previous traveller had here built a
tiny hut, of which the men took possession as their own quarters. Old
Mary had cooked our food in a boiling pool close by, using a flax basket
(exactly like those you so commonly see in England) as her cooking-pot.
Presently the lads lighted a fire, and formed a picturesque group on the
edge of the lake, while we sat listening to the mingled sounds of the
night,—the rush of steam from the larger and more distant springs, the
bubbling of those close round, and the shrill cries of the wild-fowl.
It had been a day of new sensations, and full of interest from dawn till
night. One more new experience remained, on which good old Mary strongly
insisted—namely, that we should bathe in a pool of warm liquid mud. It is
an artificially-constructed tank on the edge of the lake, to which the
Maoris have brought water from a boiling spring by a small conduit. The
old woman led the way cautiously along a path beset with dangers even in
broad daylight. Finding the bath too hot, she dashed away the surface
water, when we found the lower portion comparatively cool, whence we
inferred that the water of the sulphureous hot spring must be lighter
than that of the lake.
Though not inviting to the eye, we found our mud-bath so enjoyable that
it was with the utmost reluctance we at length left it, and plunged into
the cold lake to avoid any fear of chill. It was very calm and beautiful
in the quiet moonlight. The night air was keen, and we were glad of all
our warm wraps, though the steam which stole up through the ground below
us must have somewhat warmed the tent.
The Maoris have the greatest faith in mud-baths; and there are certain
pools to which they bring their sick from far and near. Coming up the
creek to Rotomahana, we passed a native house built over a pool, in which
a sick lad lives permanently. He was carried there several months ago,
suffering from some aggravated hip-disease, and experienced considerable
relief from lying in the water. But having been left there for some hours
he very naturally fainted on being removed, so his kindred resolved to
keep him permanently in the water, and there he has lain week after week,
and will probably remain until he dies.
At early dawn this morning we started in the canoe in search of fresh
wonders, leaving the tent and our goods to take care of themselves. We
took most of our food with us, but the men, having implicit trust in the
honesty of all Maoris, left a piece of mutton, which Mrs Way had given
them, to cook itself in a boiling spring, and on their return they found
it had been stolen, contrary to all custom.
We rowed first to the little isle Puai, part of which is actually a
small volcano, and the rest soft mud and fissured rock, through which the
steam comes hissing and puffing: nevertheless the existence of a small
native hut shows that some travellers have selected this dangerous spot
for their night-quarters. It certainly has the advantage of commanding a
capital view all round; and as we looked back to our own camping-ground
we saw the dark mountains veiled by a thousand columns of white steam,
which also rose from the surface of the lake, mingling with the wreaths
of morning mist. Had time allowed we might have visited fresh groups
of geysers, terraces, fumaroles, and solfataras. As it was, we devoted
the morning to the pink terraces, which, I think, would be the most
fascinating place for camping, though the Maoris prefer our site, as
offering superior culinary advantages. But such vulgar considerations
would be outweighed by the charm of having perfect command, at all hours,
of this, the very queen of all baths, and also by the beauty of the
general view of the lake from the hill overlooking this terrace.
This flight of marble basins differs from the others in that they have
none of the sharp coral-like stalactites which, while they so greatly
enhanced the beauty of the white terraces, do detract somewhat from
the comfort of bathing in them, especially to foolish people who, like
myself, cannot swim, and so dare not venture into the deeper pools. The
pink terrace has no such drawback, its marble being so polished that you
may walk barefooted over it, or strike yourself against the curved edges
of the basins without the slightest discomfort. Rock and water are alike
smooth and warm and pleasant, and you can prolong the delight of the bath
to any extent, passing from one pool to another, sometimes receiving a
gentle shower as the sparkling drops trickle from the overhanging rim
of a pool, perhaps eight or ten feet above you, or else lying still in
passive enjoyment, and watching the changing lights that flit across lake
and hill, and all the time the kindly water is coating you with a thin
film of that silica which makes the bath so smooth and the bather so
silky.
I wonder how it would pay to start a “Silica Bath Company” in London? We
have certainly enough of flint in the old country, so silica cannot be
lacking.
These salmon-coloured terraces are subject to the same variations as
their white neighbours. They, too, are formed by a geyser which plays in
a basin about sixty feet above the lake. This lovely blue pool is also
encircled on three sides by high bare cliffs of many colours. The pool is
nearly fifty feet in diameter, and is surrounded by a marble platform
about twenty feet in width, where you can generally walk in safety, but
are always liable to a sudden rise and overflow of boiling water. We
walked all over the terraces dry-shod this morning, but later in the day
they were flooded to the depth of five inches.
I got a large very careful drawing from the ridge overlooking these
terraces, with our tent and the white terraces on the other side of the
lake. From this point I observed a great cloud of primrose-coloured
steam rising from a cone—so returning to the canoe, we rowed round to
this spot, and found a large active volcano of the purest sulphur.
The whole of the crater is pure yellow, and so are many of the rocks,
and also the water of the lake for a considerable distance, making a
strange foreground to the vivid blue of the distant lake and sky. In
the afternoon we retraced much of the ground we went over yesterday, as
of course I am anxious to secure drawings of some of the most striking
scenes. One might work here for months and find strange new subjects
every day. It certainly is not comfortable sketching-ground, as there
are few spots where it would be possible to sit down, and it is no easy
matter to hold a large block and work standing, even when a faithful
Maori stands by to hold your colour-box. One man, Hémé, is very good and
helpful, but the others rather hold aloof, being greatly awed by a number
of their countrymen, who have arrived with other canoes, and are making
themselves odious.
It seems that, at the instigation of a white man (who, for his own
reasons, was anxious to curry favour with the Maoris), they have issued
a printed notice, to the effect that no one shall take photographs in
this district without paying them a tax of £5 for that privilege. From
the first moment of my arrival at Wairoa, my sketching-blocks became a
source of keen interest to the natives, who therein scented a possibility
of extortion. From that moment they have returned to the attack again and
again; and though, happily for me, they consider it useless to attack
a stupid woman who cannot understand them, they have never ceased to
annoy Mrs Way, whom they consider bound to take their part, and are very
angry indeed because she tries to make them understand that water-colour
painting and photography are distinct arts. They have decided that I
ought, on the contrary, to pay them a larger sum, because the coloured
drawings give a truer idea of the place, and must therefore be more
valuable. It was quite in vain to suggest that the sight of these
pictures would induce fresh visitors to come and spend their much-coveted
gold in the district. This only added fresh fuel to the fire. They
said it was certain I should make a fortune by showing those pictures
in Auckland, perhaps even in Britain, while they, owners of the place,
would have no share in the profits. Of course I was determined not to pay
the money, both from a natural aversion to being done, and also because
such a precedent would have settled the question, to the detriment of all
future sketchers. But you can imagine the annoyance which these noisy
talkers have caused us: happily they are all camped at the other side of
the lake.
Now I am thoroughly tired, and am going to repeat the mud-bath of last
night, and then turn in for a good night’s rest.
* * * * *
OLD MISSION STATION, WAIROA, _April 5_.
We were aroused at 4 A.M. by Mr Way, who had ridden all the distance
from Wairoa to bring us a loaf of bread, and to announce the unexpected
arrival at his house of a party of friends, who purposed joining us in
the course of the day. He had waded across the creek at the head of the
lake; and having thus provided us with breakfast, he returned to rejoin
his party at home.
Being now thoroughly awake, and dear old Mary being equally so, we stole
quietly out of the tent and went off to bathe at the white terraces.
It was a lovely sunrise; the water was delicious—temptations to linger
manifold. Altogether it was a good deal later than we thought, when we
returned along the shore, gracefully draped in our plaids and blankets,
but by no means fully attired. To my dismay I perceived a large party of
Maoris assembled round our cooking-spring, and another canoe lying beside
ours. Mary recognised the party as being with two Scotch gentlemen, who
had arrived on the other side of the lake the previous day, and with whom
we had fraternised by small exchanges of fish and bread, matches, and
pepper and salt. Fortunately they had gone off to the mud volcanoes; so
having dressed with all speed, we were able on their return to invite
them to share our breakfast, just taken out of the hot spring. Their
arrival was most opportune; for the Maoris, having talked themselves
into great excitement, just then came up _en masse_ to inform Mrs Way
that I must either at once pay them the coveted £5, or leave the place
instantly. They were so very stormy and decided, that it would have been
extremely unpleasant had we been alone. Happily the quiet determination
of our new friends overawed them, and they fell back grumbling.
After this little episode we fell into home talk, and one of them asked
me if I was any relation to Colonel G. C. of Auchintoul. On hearing I was
his sister, he proceeded to tell me how, last year, he was fishing on the
Deveron, and, much to his embarrassment, had hooked a seven-pound trout
with a very light trout-line, when happily Colonel G. C. espied him, came
to the rescue, and gaffed the fish. Strange, was it not, that Bill should
have rescued a stranger from a wild fish in Banffshire, and that in the
following season the fisher should come to the antipodes, just in time to
rescue me from the wild Maoris! Thanks to this seasonable reinforcement,
I was able to do a good deal of steady work for several hours.
In the course of the day, the other party of friends arrived, and
included two ladies. Arthur Fisher also arrived. The day I left Tauranga
he had been obliged to return to Kati Kati on business, which entailed
a walk of forty miles. He walked back to Tauranga, which made forty
more, before he was able to start on the actual trip to Rotomahana.
Unfortunately he arrived so late that he had but a hurried glimpse of all
the wonders.
Then we all started to row back here, and all the canoes raced down Lake
Tarawara. It was very amusing, and the rowers became immensely excited.
Arriving here, our kind hosts insisted on giving up their own room to the
other two ladies and me, and we all had a very cheery evening. Early this
morning, however, the Maoris returned to the charge with renewed vigour,
determined to extort that wretched £5. They tell Mary that my pictures
shall never leave the district: that they will seize my portfolios and
destroy them all. Mary says it is only bluster, but Mrs Way is not so
sure; and as I should have no redress if irreparable damage is done, we
have packed the precious sketches securely in the middle of a huge bundle
of plaids and pillows, so as to escape attention, and the faithful Hémé
will carry it to the coach.
* * * * *
MRS WILSON’S HOTEL, OHINEMUTU, 10 P.M.
Victory! we have triumphed! By good luck a large party of Europeans
happened to come up by coach, so we enlisted them, and formed altogether
a party of fourteen whites, with the baggage in the middle. Then we
marched through the village to the hotel, just as the coach-and-four was
ready to start. The foe mustered strong, but apparently thought further
attack undesirable, so we drove off in safety. But I confess I am glad
to know that we are here on the territory of another tribe, who are not
likely to sympathise with the people of Wairoa. Mrs Wilson has welcomed
me back with the cordiality of an old friend, as have all the residents
and visitors in the house—kind, hearty people.
* * * * *
AUCKLAND, _Feb. 8_.
Before daybreak the following morning I was out sketching the steaming
graveyard in the Old Pah; and after a very early breakfast started by
coach for Tauranga, leaving the little village still shrouded in thick
clouds of white steam, which sparkled in dewy beads on the webs of
myriads of gossamer spiders. A light fire had passed over the ferny
hills—so light that the skeletons of the brackens were left standing;
and it seemed as if each branch of scorched fern, far as the eye could
reach, was veiled with one of these fairy webs. Arriving at Tauranga, I
found that kind Mrs Edgecumbe had, with her own hands, prepared a capital
tea-dinner for me, her maid having, according to colonial custom, gone
off suddenly, leaving her quite alone on her own resources, with four
children to look after!
An hour later I embarked in the coasting-steamer, where, much to my
delight, I found Mrs Ferguson coming up from her remote station to see
her sweet little daughter, who for the present is left in Auckland. We
spent the night together, lying on a sky-light, tucked in beneath a
pile of blankets, by the good old Scotch captain, who had previously
administered to us a most comfortable glass of real hot toddy! It proved
a dirty night of storm and rain; but we were quite cosy, and Ella filled
me with amazement by accounts of the rides which she constantly has to do
alone, often in the dark, to get nails or anything else required by the
builders of her future home, and of the dangerous fords she has to cross,
sometimes swimming her horse. She makes very light of all the hardships
of her tent-life, which include cooking and baking for the party. It is
wonderful what fragile and delicate ladies can do when they resolve to
face colonial life!
We arrived here safely, and I found Lady Gordon and the children and
Colonel Pratt all ready for our return to Fiji, on board the Zealandia,
which sails next Thursday. Mr Maudslay is expected from Wellington, just
in time to accompany us. We all feel much better for our trip here:
and though I greatly regret having seen nothing of the Southern Isle,
we are not sorry to be going back to our island home.... It is rather
aggravating, both to Lady Gordon and myself, that every one we meet
insists on congratulating us on our very fortunate investments in the
lucky Moanatairi mine. It is quite useless for us to assert that we only
wish we had had such good luck, but that, unfortunately, the idea never
entered our minds. The fact of my having been there is quite sufficient,
and we are now looked upon as millionaires! We only wish it had been
true! Poor Fiji stands greatly in need of such. Good-bye.—Your loving
sister.