about the disturbance, and what do you think I found? One thing I found
out was, that it had just gone through the town in a straight line. It
had worked just like the subtle fluid works; it had travelled along
the shortest distance between two points. It hadn’t gone to the right
or the left, but it had gone as electricity goes, in a straight line,
and therefore I say that earthquakes are electricity. And what is
more, when we get some railroads through the country, the stuff will
gradually escape along the metals, and these underground thunderstorms,
as I call ’em, will stop. Now what do you think of that for a theory?’
said he.
He finished up by telling me the following story about Soft Sammy.
* * * * *
‘In many countries when an earthquake takes place,’ he began, ‘the
land goes down. At Lisbon it went down so suddenly that it buried a
whole lot of people. In our country, so far as I can make out, the land
appears to have a habit of going up. In ’55 about 4,600 square miles
of land rose in some places nine feet, and the breadth of the beach
increased more than 100 feet.
‘All this, you know, occurred near Wellington, and it has kept on
occurring, off and on, ever since. The trouble and litigation these
earth-jerks have cost us have been something terrible.
‘After the first jump-up, people were for a time too scared to know
what they ought to do. Most of them, when they recovered a bit,
began to scratch about amongst their ruins, trying to root out their
property. Most of the things had got so flattened that it was difficult
to tell what was yours and what was somebody else’s.
‘One man sued another for having been digging in the wrong ruins. The
plaintiff deposed that the defendant had not only trespassed, but had
stolen his kitchen-clock. The article was produced in court, and the
defence held it not to be a clock, but a warming-pan.
‘If it was a clock, the judge remarked that he should give the case in
favour of the plaintiff; but if it was a warming-pan, he should be
compelled to side with the defendant.
‘Do you know, the thing had been so flattened, that there wasn’t a
jury in Wellington could decide whether the thing was a clock or a
warming-pan. One man stuck to it that it was a frying-pan, and from
the smell of it should say it had last been used to cook beefsteak and
onions.
‘While all this was going on in the town, the people who lived along
the quay were speculating as to when the water was coming back. There
were all the ships lying high and dry, and, as far as you could see,
there was a broad beach covered with rocks and seaweed. It wasn’t so
many days before the mussels and stuff began to putrefy, and when the
breeze set in from outside, the smell was horrible.
‘One day, as we were walking along the new beach, we observed that
here and there some pegs had been driven in, just as if somebody had
been staking out a claim; and when we came to inquire, we found that
somebody had been staking out a claim.
‘The fellow who did it was a man who lives up there,’ and our
acquaintance pointed up the hill to one of the biggest houses in the
town. ‘At that time he was a new chum, and because we thought he was a
bit soft, we called him Soft Sammy.
‘Sammy, however, took the wind out of our sails this time. Instead of
pottering round his ruins like the rest of us had been doing, he had
quietly staked the new ground which had been lifted up.
‘At first they told him that land between high and low water-mark was
the Queen’s property, and he couldn’t hold possession. Billy, however,
showed that the judge had a bit of land on which there was a ship
stranded. When it came there no one knew, but that it was a long time
ago there was no doubt, as there was then a tree growing out of it.
“The tree didn’t walk there,” was Sammy’s argument; “and if that land
belongs to you, then the land I’ve pegged out belongs to me.”
‘The judge decided in Sammy’s favour.
‘As soon as Sammy got possession, he sent round notes to the masters of
all the ships which were lying on his ground, politely informing them
that unless they moved off his patch within the next twenty-four hours,
he should be compelled to take action against them for trespass. He
wanted to build on the ground, and they were in the way, he said.
‘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 at the
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 any _moa_ moas. 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 of
agricultural 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._’
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 is quite 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 quoted _literatim_--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 sheep coming 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 the
_Boojum_, 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 the _Police News_ in 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, when there 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 overboard to 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 be very 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 were all 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.