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BRIGHTER BRITAIN
OR
SETTLER AND MAORI
IN
_NORTHERN NEW ZEALAND._
BY
WILLIAM DELISLE HAY,
AUTHOR OF "THREE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE," "THE DOOM OF THE GREAT CITY,"
ETC.
"Queen of the seas, enlarge thyself!
Send thou thy swarms abroad!
For in the years to come,--
Where'er thy progeny,
Thy language and thy spirit shall be found,--
If--
--in that Austral world long sought,
The many-isled Pacific,--
When islands shall have grown, and cities risen
In cocoa-groves embower'd;
Where'er thy language lives.
By whatsoever name the land be call'd,
That land is English Still."
SOUTHEY.
IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. I.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1882.
(_All rights reserved._)
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCELES.
PREFACE.
This book is descriptive of things as they are in a part of New Zealand,
together with some reference to past history. It does not attempt to
handle the colony as a whole, but refers to scenes within the northern
half of the North Island only. This part of the country, the natural
home of the kauri pine, is what I here intend to specify under the title
of Northern New Zealand.
I am not an emigration-tout, a land-salesman, or a tourist. When I went
to New Zealand I went there as an emigrant. Not until a few days before
I left its shores had I any other idea but that the rest of my life was
destined to be that of a colonist, and that New Zealand was my fixed and
permanent home. I have, therefore, written from the point of view of a
settler. Circumstances, which have nothing to do with this chronicle,
caused me to lay down axe and spade, and eventually to become a
spoiler of paper instead of a bushman. The materials of this work,
gathered together in the previous condition of life, are now put in
print in the other.
I trust no one of my colonial friends will feel offended, should he
think that he discovers a caricature of himself in these pages. I have
used disguises to veil real identities, occasionally taking liberties as
regards time, situation, and personality. I think that no one but
themselves could recognize my characters.
The substance of one or two chapters of this book has, in part, been
already placed before the public in papers that I contributed to _The
Field_ last year, and is used again here by kind permission of the
proprietor of that newspaper. Also, I have made the Kaipara the scene of
several tales and sketches, which have appeared in sundry periodicals.
If, in writing this book, I had any object beyond that of amusing the
reader, it has been to give accurate information to young Englishmen
belonging to the middle-classes. From this section of home society a
considerable number of emigrants go out who had much better stop at
home. On the other hand, there are many who do not stir, and who would
be much better off in a colony. Perhaps, from the record I am now able
to put before them, some of these young gentlemen will be more able to
decide whether they are personally adapted to become colonists in
Northern New Zealand or not. If one unsuitable emigrant is hereby
deterred from leaving home, and if one capable colonist is added to the
population of "Brighter Britain," my labour will not have been
altogether useless.
For the rest, I throw myself again upon the indulgence of critics, and
on that of a public which has already abundantly favoured the efforts I
have made to please and serve it.
THE AUTHOR.
LONDON,
_June 25th, 1882._
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A "NEW-CHUM'S" INTRODUCTION 1
II. AUCKLAND 21
III. GOING UP COUNTRY 63
IV. IN THE KAIPARA 93
V. OUR SHANTY 115
VI. OUR HOME-LIFE 143
VII. OUR PIONEER FARM. I. 174
VIII. OUR PIONEER FARM. II. 196
IX. OUR SHOW-PLACE 227
X. OUR NATIVE NEIGHBOURS 253
XI. OUR SETTLER FRIENDS 285
XII. A PIG-HUNT 319
BRIGHTER BRITAIN!
CHAPTER I.
A "NEW-CHUM'S" INTRODUCTION.
Three months on board ship seems a long while to look forward to, yet it
is but a short time to look back upon. Emigrants, being for the most
part drawn from among dry-land-living populations, are apt to be daunted
by the idea of a long voyage. People would be more ready, perhaps, to
contemplate becoming colonists, were it not for that dreaded crossing of
the sea which must necessarily be their first step. Their terrors may be
natural enough, but they are more fanciful than real; and once overcome,
the emigrant smiles at his former self.
After the first week or two at sea, the most inveterate "land-lubber"
begins to feel at home; in another week or two he has become quite
nautical, and imagines himself to have been a sailor half his life;
while, when the voyage is over and the time come to go ashore, there are
few who leave their floating home without regret.
As things are managed nowadays, there exists no reason for apprehension
of the voyage on the part of would-be colonists. Emigrants who are taken
out "free"--that is, at the expense of the colonial government--as well
as those who pay their own passage, are cared for in most liberal and
considerate style. The rivalry between the various colonies of Australia
has had this effect among others--that the voyage is made as safe,
smooth, and inviting to emigrants as is possible. They are berthed with
an ever-increasing attention to their care and comfort, while they are
absolutely pampered and fattened with abundance and variety of the best
food.
No one expects to commence life in a new country without undergoing some
amount of hardship and difficulty, and when the emigrant gets on shore,
and begins to experience the various little annoyances that a "new-chum"
must necessarily undergo, he realizes most thoroughly the pleasures and
comforts he has left behind him on board ship; and, very frequently,
vainly endeavours to suppress the wish that he was back on board "the
old hooker" making the voyage out over again.
As to _danger_, nothing amuses an old salt more than the bare idea of
the "perils of the sea." To him, a railway journey, short or long,
appears an infinitely more terrible and risky undertaking than a voyage
half round the globe; and he will enumerate the various dangers to which
a landsman is exposed as vastly in excess of those which may happen to
the mariner.
Life on board an emigrant-ship would, it might be thought, be somewhat
dull and monotonous. As a matter of fact, it is scarcely ever found to
be so. First of all, the little community of two or three hundred
souls--men, women, and children--contrives to find sufficient fund for
amusement in itself, in all the varieties of social intercourse.
The progress of each day is marked by some fresh events that,
insignificant as they may seem when regarded from a distance, do yet
bear the strongest interest to all on board. A glimpse at some distant
land, the signalling or speaking of other vessels, the appearance of
strange birds and fish, the passage into different climates, the
excitement of a storm, or the opportunity which a calm gives for general
junketing; all such incidents are looked upon as a real gain by the
voyagers, while there is always something stirring on board to divert
and enliven them.
All kinds of games are resorted to, many more, in fact, than landsmen
have any idea of; a vast amount of reading is done; there are sure to be
one or two on board who know how to spin a yarn with due effect; some
are musical, and others can sing. Concerts, lectures, theatricals, and
dances are got up; while, as there is generally a due admixture of the
sexes, not a little flirting and downright courting is carried on; and,
lastly, if there is any quarrelling and bickering, the differences of
those who engage in it afford much amusement to the rest.
Altogether, the modern emigrant's existence on board ship is a calm,
easy, indolent, well-fed, and cheerful interlude of repose, amid the
storms and worries of the great battle of life. If existence has been to
him hitherto rather hard and thorny than otherwise, he finds the voyage
out a pleasant interval of rest and refreshment; and, in any case, it
recruits and prepares him to better commence the new life in the colony,
with good spirits and high hopes, with invigorated strength, and renewed
health in both mind and body.
Although it might be thought that social equality would necessarily
prevail on board ship, such is by no means the case. Of course there are
great differences in the social tone of various ships, but, as a rule,
"aft" seldom condescends to mix much with "forrard." Yet there are
generally many interchanges of courtesy, as between upper, middle, and
lower classes; and different messes will sometimes banquet one another.
The "cuddy" will, perhaps, get up amateur theatricals or charades, to
which spectacle the whole vessel will be invited; while the "steerage"
will return the compliment with a concert, more or less brilliant in
performance.
Thus, a pleasant interchange of civilities goes on aboard most ships,
and serves to help make the time pass away. Differences of rank and
station are supposed to be pretty well levelled down in the colonies.
Most of the time-worn prejudices of the old country, it is true, melt
away before the revivifying breath of colonial life, yet sometimes "Mrs.
Grundy's" awful features will show themselves, hiding the old foolish
face under a new and somewhat strange aspect.
It would be interesting to note how many of the most prominent and
influential citizens of a colony came there originally in the humblest
possible way; and how many of the dregs of colonial society--the
occupiers of the lowest rung on the colonial ladder--reached their new
home with all the pomp and circumstance of quarter-deck sublimity, and
all the humbug and pretension of real or fancied aristocracy. Is the
result we see--for these contrasts are to be found plentifully in all
the colonies at the Antipodes--what it ought to be, or not? That is the
question.
In the colonies, and particularly in the younger and newer among them, a
man must perforce be the sole architect of his own fortunes. Industry
and energy, enterprise and perseverance pave the pathway to success, and
yield a real and lasting benefit to him who holds such endowments. A man
must prove what he _is_, not what he _was_; his antecedents go for but
little, and his "forbears" for nothing at all. In the Antipodean
colonies of Great Britain is realized, perhaps, the nearest approach to
true freedom; and, in a wide social sense, the closest approximation to
the ideal republic.
However, we are still on board ship, and, after an easy and not too
eventful voyage of some three months, are looking eagerly out for the
first sight of the promised land. Bound to Auckland, New Zealand, our
vessel is one of the largest that has yet sailed from Gravesend to that
port; and she carries some three hundred emigrants and passengers on
board. We have grown so accustomed to our good ship, and to our life on
board of her, that we have got a strange feeling that this voyaging will
never end; nor does the idea altogether arouse our discontent.
We have had one or two births, and, alas! one poor child has been taken
from our little company. There have, of course, been no weddings on
board, but the prevailing opinion is that several have been arranged to
take place as soon as we get on shore. And the time is very near now.
At last, late one afternoon, as the ship is bowling steadily along with
a ten-knot breeze on the port quarter, the deck is hailed from aloft,
and the cheery, long-expected, and long-wished-for cry of "land ho!" is
taken up by a hundred voices, and rings out across the sea. But there is
nothing to be seen for all that; and though more than three hundred
pairs of eyes keep anxious ward and watch, darkness falls before an
almost imperceptible cloud upon the far horizon is pronounced
oracularly by the mate to be Cape Maria Van Diemen, New Zealand's
north-western-most promontory.
One may easily imagine that it is difficult to "turn in" on a night when
such a fresh excitement fills every mind, but, I suppose, most of us do
contrive to get to sleep eventually. With the first break of dawn in the
morning there is a stir and commotion all through the ship. Rules are
forgotten, and etiquette broken through, as men, women, and children
rush hastily on deck to take their first look at our future home.
It is a beautiful summer morning. There is only a slight ripple on the
surface of the water, and not a cloud in the blue sky overhead. The
gentle breeze that just keeps us in motion blows off the land, bearing
with it a subtle perfume of trees and flowers and herbage; how
unspeakably grateful to our nostrils none can tell so well as we, who
inhale it with ardour after so many weeks at sea.
Yonder, a mile or two to starboard, and seeming within a stone's throw,
is the land we have come so far to seek. A wall of rock, the northern
cliff of New Zealand rises abrupt and imposing from the sea, broken here
and there into groups of pillared, pinnacled islets, nobly irregular in
outline, piled and scarred, indented and projected, uplifted and
magnificent. On the summit of the cliffs, on ledges and terraces, down
at the bottom of the rocks, filling every little bay, and sweeping down
the gullies and ravines, is everywhere abundant the wild foliage of the
evergreen forest. Glorifying the rich and splendid scene, diversifying
with numberless effects of light and shadow the whole panorama, shining
upon the glowing sea, touching the topmost crags with sparkling
grandeur, and bathing in beauty the thousand-tinted green of the forest,
is the sun, which, on the eastern horizon, is rising clear and bright
and steady. And so we gaze rapturously on the wide and beautiful
picture--a picture the remembrance of which will remain with us long:
our first sight of the new land of hope and promise.
Varied are the emotions that take possession of the individuals of our
company; but I think there are some among us, more thoughtful or
sentimental, perhaps, who, unconsciously to themselves, draw a kind of
inspiration from the noble scene. To such there seems, in those majestic
cliffs, sea-swept and forest-crowned, first seen as lighted by the
rising sun, a nameless sermon preached, a wordless lesson taught, an
everlasting poem sung. And our minds and spirits are calmed, refreshed,
and invigorated; while in some dim way we grasp ideas that the silent
scene irresistibly conveys to us. Rising within us, as we gaze, comes
with fresh new force the knowledge of the qualities that should be ours:
the high-hoping courage, the unshrinking energy, the dauntless
resolution, and the unfailing industry that must animate the colonist,
and be the best endowments of an inceptive nation!
Later in the day we round the North Cape, and go sailing on down the
coast, with light and rather baffling winds that eventually bring us to
port on the following evening.
Among our passengers are several old colonists, who are returning from a
visit "home." In the colonies Great Britain is always spoken of as
"home," even by colonial-born people. Talk about the raptures at
returning to "my own, my native land!" that is nothing to the transports
of joy that now infect our colonists. They laugh, they sing, they dance
about the decks, they chatter "sixteen to the dozen," and display every
eccentricity of unbounded delight and satisfaction.
Probably a good deal of this is put on for the edification of us new
chums, but there is no question that most of it is an expression of real
feeling. All through the voyage these good people have been in great
force, relating numberless yarns of their past experiences, more or less
truthful in detail. But now their self-importance is overwhelming and
superior to all considerations. Every headland, bay, or island that we
pass is expatiated upon, and its especial story told, in which, I note,
the narrator generally seems to have been the most prominent figure
himself. No one is allowed to remain below, even for meals, scarcely for
sleeping; he or she must be up on deck to hear strange-sounding names
applied to every place we sight.
Cape Kara-Kara is a name to us and nothing more. Whangaroa Heads, that
guard the harbour of that name, with its settlements and saw-mills, is
but little better, though some few, who have been industriously reading
up, remember Whangaroa as the scene of the ghastly massacre of the crew
of the _Boyd_, half a century ago. Capes Wiwiki and Brett we have no
previous acquaintance with, though we have heard of the Bay of Islands,
over whose wide entrance they are the twin sentinels. And then in slow
succession we sight the Poor Knights Islands, Bream Head, the Hen and
Chickens, the Barrier Islands--Great and Little, Cape Colville, Rodney
Point, and the Kawau, Sir George Grey's island home.
And now, on the afternoon of the second day, we are running closer and
closer to the shore; islands and islets are becoming more numerous, and
the seas are getting narrower. Right ahead a conical mountain top is
perceived, Tiri-Tiri is close to, and it is high time the pilot came
aboard. That mountain top is Rangitoto, an extinct volcanic cone upon a
small island that protects the entrance to Auckland Harbour. Presently
we shall see the similar elevations of Mount Eden and Mount Hobson, that
look down on Auckland from the mainland.
Of course, we are all on the _qui vive_ of expectation, looking out for
the first signs of life. Hitherto we have seen nothing to rob us of the
notion that we are a veritable cargo of Columbuses, coming to colonize
some new and virgin land, until now utterly unknown to the rest of the
world. The shores we have passed along have presented to us every
possible variety of savage wilderness, rocks and bush and scrub and
fern, but no appearance of settlement at all, not even any signs of
aboriginal life have we descried.
There is a growing idea getting the better of our common sense--an
impression that there has been some sort of mistake somewhere or other.
For, how can it be possible that we are just outside the harbour of a
considerable city, with the shores of mainland and island as far as we
can see, just as wild as Nature made them, wilder than anything most of
us have ever seen before. The utmost recesses of Scotland, or Ireland,
or Wales would look quite tame and domesticated contrasted with these
rugged solitudes. Not a house nor a hut anywhere, not a trace of the
presence of man, not even--so it chanced--another sail upon the sea!
It is close upon sunset, the foresail is backed, the pilot's signal is
flying, and the foghorn sounding, and soon we shall see if there is any
life or not in this weird new land. Presently, comes a shout of "Ship
ahoy! ahoy!" apparently from the sea, and a little boat emerges from the
shadow of the shore and makes its way alongside.
Of course every one rushes to the side to see the pilot come aboard. It
being more than three months since we saw a strange face, we are
naturally consumed with a burning curiosity. It is rather disappointing
though, to have come half round the world only to be met by men like
these. The pilot might be own brother to his fellow-craftsman who took
us down the Channel, and his crew are just the same kind of brawny,
bearded, amphibious-looking men that are to be seen any day in an
English seaport. We had nourished an insane kind of hope that we should
have been boarded by a canoe full of Maoris, in all the savage splendour
of tattooing and paint and feathers; but here, instead of all that
romantic fancy, are three or four ordinary "long-shore" boatmen, with a
pilot who steps on board in the most matter-of-fact manner possible.
Well, we must make the best we can out of the circumstances; so, when
the pilot has come out of the captain's cabin, where he has shown his
certificate and discussed his "nobbler," when he has formally taken
charge of the ship, and we are once more moving through the water, we
begin to pester him with the question, "What's the news?"
Now, as we have been between three and four months at sea, isolated from
the rest of the world, we are naturally all agog to hear what has
happened in our absence. New Zealand's news of the old world is at least
a month old, but then that is considerably in advance of our dates. The
pilot has, therefore, enough to do in answering all the questions that
are levelled at him, and as he is probably pretty well accustomed to
similar experiences, he is, I fear, in the habit of allowing his fancy
to supply any gaps in his actual knowledge of the progress of events;
hence we glean many scraps of information that on further inquiry turn
out to be more or less imaginative.
And now that we are entering the harbour of Auckland, it is
unfortunately getting too dark to see much. There is not a long gloaming
in northern New Zealand--once the sun has dropped below the horizon
darkness succeeds very rapidly; so, though we get an indistinct glimpse
at some houses on the shore as we sail along, it is quite dark as we
round the North Shore and come into Auckland harbour.
There goes the anchor at last, with a plunge and a rattle! Now the good
ship is swinging in the current of the Waitemata, and the voyage, that
at its commencement seemed so long and that now appears to have been so
short, is fairly terminated. Before us, extending to right and left, and
up and down, are thousands of lights glittering and twinkling over the
shadowy outlines of the city; while into our ears is borne the welcome
hum and stir of city life. There is no going ashore until next
morning--until the health officer and the customs shall have boarded and
inspected us. So that night is devoted to the bustle and confusion of
packing up; and various spoony couples moon about the decks, renewing
promises and vows in expectation of their parting on the morrow.
When morning comes we make our bow to Auckland. There it lies, this
Antipodean city, looking so white and clean and fair in the morning
sunshine, stretching away to right and left, rising in streets and
terraces from the shore, cresting the heights with steeples and
villa-roofs, and filling up the valleys below. In the far background is
the heavy brow of Mount Eden, whose extinct crater we shall explore
by-and-by, and whence we shall obtain a splendid view of the entire
city, its suburbs, and the surrounding country.
From our point of view out in the harbour the city presents a scattered
and uneven appearance, that adds to its generally picturesque aspect. As
a central feature are the long lines of wharves and quays with their
clustering shipping; just beyond these is evidently the densest part of
the city. Huge and imposing stone buildings stand thickly here, showing
that it is the centre of the business part of Auckland. To right and
left the ground rises abruptly and steeply, and the streets become
irregular in outline. Nor is the shore a straight and continuous line;
these heights on either hand are promontories jutting out into the
stream, and hiding deep bays behind them, round which, straggling and
irregular, sweeps the city.
The further our eyes travel from the centre of the picture, the more do
we lose sight of any trace of uniformity in building. Quite close to the
busy parts, so it seems to us, houses stand in their own wide gardens;
the streets and roads are lost amid the embowering foliage of trees and
shrubs. The house-structures are built on every conceivable plan, up and
down the wooded shores; every builder has evidently been his own
architect to a great extent, and there is no lack of elbow-room
hereaway.
What surprise us most are the evidences of taste and cultivation and
general prosperity everywhere in view. Our previous glimpses at the
shore of our new country had not prepared us for anything like this. It
is decidedly encouraging to new-comers, who are disturbed somewhat by
the prospect of doing battle with the wilderness, to find a sort of
Anglo-Saxon Naples here in the Southern Sea.
We had an idea that our arrival would have been quite an event in this
little place. Nothing of the sort; Aucklanders are too well used to the
arrival of emigrant ships. One or two enter the harbour every month,
besides other craft; and then the Pacific Mail steamers, large and
splendidly equipped vessels, call here twice a month on their way to and
fro between Sydney and San Francisco.
There are one or two vessels like ours lying out in the stream at the
present time, others are lying alongside the principal wharf, or its
cross-tees, amid a forest of spars belonging to small coasting craft.
Plenty of shore boats have come off to us on one errand or another; but
it is evident that our arrival has not created that impression upon the
city which we had had a notion that it would have done.
The morning papers will notice our advent, with a brief account of the
voyage, and will give exceedingly inaccurate lists of our passengers.
Only those people who expect friends or cargo by us will take any
special interest in us; the evening promenaders on the wharf will glance
at our ship with a brief passing interest; and the current of Auckland
life will flow on unchanged, regardless of the fact that some three
hundred more souls have been absorbed into its population.
Breakfast this morning is partaken of in the midst of a hurry-skurry of
excitement, but, for all that, it is an imposing meal, and comprises all
sorts of luxuries to which we have long been strangers. Beefsteaks,
milk, eggs, fruit, and vegetables, fresh fish just caught over the side,
and other fondly-loved delicacies are on the bill of fare. By-and-by,
all formalities having been gone through, comes the parting with
shipmates and the confusion of landing.
It is not without a strong feeling of astonishment that we step out of
the boat that has brought us off, and enter the city. We were totally
unprepared for the scene before us. From the accounts we had read and
received, we had pictured Auckland to our minds as little better than a
collection of log-huts, with here and there, perhaps, a slightly more
comfortable frame-house. And here is the reality. A city that would put
to shame many an old English town. A main street--Queen Street--that
might even compare favourably with many a leading London thoroughfare in
all its details. Fine handsome edifices of stone, with elaborate
architecture and finish; large plate-glass shop-windows, filled with a
display of wares; gas-lamps, pillar letter-boxes, pavements, awnings,
carts, carriages, and cabs; all the necessities, luxuries, and
appurtenances of city life, civilized and complete.
Truly, all this is a wonderful surprise to us. Our preconceived ideas,
gathered from various books dating only a few years back, had led our
fancies completely astray. Learning from these sources that, not much
more than thirty years ago--in 1840,--the first ship-load of British
emigrants landed in New Zealand; that since then the colony had
struggled for bare life against many and great difficulties; that it had
had to wage several desperate wars with the aborigines; had had its
financial and legislative troubles; and was still so very very young, we
were naturally prepared to find Auckland a rude, rough, and inchoate
settlement, pitched down in the midst of a wilderness as savage and
uncouth as those shores we passed along yesterday.
We know that a very few years ago, Auckland really was but what we had
fancied it still would be, and so we comprehend now how little the
people at home actually realize of the conditions of life at their
Antipodes. Moreover, as we pass along the streets of this British city,
set down here on the shaggy shores of Britain's under-world, in the very
heart of recent Maori-dom, so remote and far removed from the tracks of
ancient civilization, we look around us and are filled with wonder and a
feeling akin to awe. This is what colonization means; this is the work
of colonists; this is the evidence of energy that may well seem titanic,
of industry that appears herculean; this is Progress! The thought
thrills us through and through. We, too, have made our entry into the
new world; we, too, have crossed the threshold of colonial life; and
thus to-day, at the outset of our new life, our minds have opened to
receive the first true lesson of the colonist.