RAIN, rain, and more rain, dripping off the sodden trees, soaking the
fields, and blotting out the landscape as with a neutral-tinted gauze.
The sort of day that we in the land “dove il doce Dorico risuona”
designate as “saft.” Enter along the road to me a neighbour of some
fifty to sixty years of age, one Mr. Campbell, a little bent, hair faded
rather than grey, frosty-faced as we Scotsmen are apt to turn after some
half a century of weather, but still a glint of red showing in the
cheeks; moustache and whiskers trimmed in the fashion of the later
sixties; “tacketed” boots, and clothes, if not impervious to the rain, as
little affected by it as is the bark of trees. His hat, once black and
of the pattern affected at one time by all Free Church clergymen, now
greenish and coal-scuttled fore and aft and at the sides. In his red,
chapped, dirty, but grey-mittened hands a shepherd’s stick—long, crooked,
and made of hazel-wood.
“It’ll maybe tak’ up, laird.”
“Perhaps.”
“An awfu’ spell o’ it.”
“Yes, disgusting.”
“Aye, laird, the climate’s sort o’ seekenin’. I mind when I was in New
Zealand in the sixties, aye, wi’ a surveyor, just at the triangulation,
ye ken. Man, a grand life, same as the tinklers, here to-day and gane
to-morrow, like old Heather Jock. Hoot, never mind your dog, laird,
there’s just McClimant’s sheep, puir silly body, I ken his keel-mark.
Losh me, a bonny country, just a pairfect pairadise, New Zealand. When I
first mind Dunedin it wasna bigger than the clachan there, out by. A
braw place noo, I understan’, and a’ the folk fearfu’ took up wi’ horse,
driving their four-in-hands, blood cattle, every one of them. There’s
men to-day like Jacky Price—he was a Welshmen, I’m thinking—who I mind
doing their day’s darg just like mysel’ aboot Dunedin, and noo they send
their sons hame to be educated up aboot England.
“When? ’Oo aye, I went oot in the old _London_ wi’ Captin Macpherson.
He’d bin the round trip a matter o’ fifteen times, forbye a wee bit jaunt
whiles after the ‘blackbirds’ (slaves, ye ken, what we called free
endentured labourers) to the New Hebrides. The _London_, aye, ’oo aye,
she foundered in the Bay (Biscay, ye ken) on her return. It’s just a
special providence I wasna a passenger myself.
“Why did I leave the country? Eh, laird, ye may say. I would hae made
my hame out there, but it was just the old folks threap, threaping on me
to come back, I’m telling ye. A bonny toon, Dunedin, biggit on a wee
hill just for a’ the wurrld like Gartfarran there, and round the point a
wee bit plain just like the Carse o’ Stirling. Four year I wrocht at the
surveyin’, maistly triangulation, syne twa at shepherdin’, nane o’ your
Australlian fashion tailing them a’ day, but on the hame system gaen’
aboot; man, I mind whiles I didna see anither man in sax weeks’ time.”
“Then you burned bricks, you say?”
“Aye, I didna’ think ye had been so gleg at the Old Book. Aye, aye,
laird, plenty of stra’, or maybe it was yon New Zealand flax stalk. The
awfiest plant ye ever clapt your eyes on, is yon flax. I mind when I
first landed aff the old _London_—she foundered in the Bay. It was just
a speecial interposition . . . but I mind I telt ye. Well, I just was
dandering aboot outside the toon, and hettled to pu’ some of yon flax;
man, I wasna fit; each leaf is calculated to bear a pressure of aboot a
ton. The natives, the Maories, use it to thack their cottages. A bonny
place, New Zealand, a pairfect pairadise—six-and-thirty years ago—aye,
aye, ’oo aye, just the finest country in God’s airth.
“Het? Na, na, nane so het as here in simmer, a fine, dry air, and a
bonny bright blue sky. Dam’t, I mind the diggings opening tae. There
were a wheen captins. Na, na, not sea captins, airmy captins, though
there were plenty of the sea yins doon in the sooth; just airmy captins
who had gone out and ta’en up land; blocked it, ye ken, far as frae here
to Stirlin’. Pay for it, aye, aboot a croon the acre, and a wee bit
conseederation to the Government surveyor just kept things square. Weel,
when the diggins opened, some of them sold out and made a fortune. Awfu’
place thae diggins, I hae paid four shillin’ a pound for salt mysel’, and
as for speerits, they were just fair contraband.
“And the weemen. Aye, I mind the time, but ye’ll hae seen the Circassian
weemen aboot Africa. Weel, weel, I’m no saying it’s not the case, but
folk allow that yon Circassians are the finest weemen upon earth. Whiles
I hae seen some tae, at fairs, ye ken, in the bit boothies, but to my
mind there’s naething like the Maories, especially the half-casted yins,
clean-limbed, nigh on six feet high the maist o’ them. Ye’ll no ken
Geordie Telfer, him that was a sojer, he’s got a bit place o’ his ain out
by Milngavie. Geordie’s aye bragging, bostin’ aboot weemen that he’s
seen in foreign pairts. He just is of opeenion that in Cashmere or
thereaboots there is the finest weemen in the warld. Black, na, na,
laird, just a wee toned and awfu’ tall, ye ken. Geordie he says that
Alexander the Great was up aboot Cashmere and that his sojers, Spartans I
think they ca’ed them, just intromitted wi’ the native weemen, took them,
perhaps, for concubines, as the Scriptures say; but ye’ll ken sojers,
laird; Solomon, tae, an awfu’ chiel yon Solomon. The Maori men were na
blate either, a’ ower sax fut high, some nigh on seven fut, sure as
death, I’m tellin’ ye. Bonny wrestlers, tae; man, Donald Dinnie got an
unco tirl wi’ ane o’ them aboot Dunedin, leastwise if it wasna Dinnie, it
was Donald Grant or Donald McKenzie, or ane of they champions frae Easter
Ross. Sweir to sell their land tae they chaps, I mind the Government
sent out old Sir George Grey, a wise-like man, Sir George, ane o’ they
filantrofists. Weel, he just talkit to them, ca’ed them his children,
and said that they shouldna resist legeetimate authority. Man, a wee
wiry fella’, he was the licht-weight champion wrestler at Tiki-Tiki, just
up and said, ‘Aye, aye, Sir George,’ though he wasna gi’en him Sir
George, but just some native name they had for him, ‘we’re a’ your
children, but no sic children as to gie our land for naething.’ Sir
George turnit the colour of a neep, ane o’ yon swedes, ye ken, and said
nae mair.”
“How did they manage it?”
“The Government just arranged matters wi’ the chiefs. Bribery, weel a’
weel, I’ll no gae sae far as to impute ony corruption on them, but a
Government, a Government, ye ken, is very apt to hae its way.
“Dam’t, ’twas a fine country, a pairfect pairadise. I mind aince going
oot with Captin Brigstock, Hell-fire Jock they ca’ed him, after they
bushrangers. There was ane Morgan frae Australlia bail’t up a wheen
folks, and dam’t, says Captin Brigstock, ye’ll hae to come, Campbell.
Shot him, yes, authority must be respected, and the majesty o’ law
properly vendeecated, or else things dinna thrive. It was in a wood of
gora-gora we came on him about the mouth of day. Morgan, ye ken, was
boiling a billy in a sort o’ wee clearin’, his horse tied to a tree close
by, when Brigstock and the others came upon him. Brigstock just shouted
in the name o’ the law and then let fly. Morgan, he fell across the
fire, and when we all came up says he, ‘Hell-fire, ye didna gie me ony
chance,’ and the blood spouted from his mouth into the boiling pan.
“Deid, ’oo aye, deid as Rob Roy. I dinna care to mind it. But a fine
life, laird, nae slavin’ at the plough, but every ane goin’ aboot on
horseback; and the bonny wee bit wooden huts, the folk no fashed wi’
furniture, but sittin’ doon to tak’ their tea upon the floor wi’ their
backs against the wall. That’s why they ca’ed them squatters. They talk
aboot Australlia and America, but if it hadna been for the old folks I
would hae made my hame aboot a place ca’ed Paratanga, and hae taken up
with ane o’ they Maori girls, or maybe a half-caste. Married, weel, I
widna say I hae gane to such a length. Dam’t, a braw country, laird, a
pairfect pairadise, I’m telling ye;” and then the rain grew thicker, and
seemed to come between us as he plodded on towards the “toon.”