OUR SETTLER FRIENDS.
I think I need hardly say that we are not aesthetic here in the bush. In
point of fact, we have no sympathy whatever with aestheticism or high art
culture. We are, to put it shortly, Goths, barbarians, antithetics, what
you will. The country is not aesthetic either; it is too young yet to use
or abuse intellectual stimulants. There exists among us a profound
contempt for all the fripperies and follies of fashion and civilization.
We hold these things to be wrong--to be a sort of crime against manhood.
In a measure we are Puritan; not altogether in a religious sense, but in
a moral and social one, certainly. We regard our horny hands with pride,
and talk about "honest labour" with something more than a virtuous glow.
We are apt to be rather down on city foplings and soft-handed
respectabilities. All such people we despise with positively brutal
heartiness. When we read of what is doing in London and Paris we swell
with indignation and contempt. We look upon the civilization we have
come out of as no fine thing. Life is a serious matter-of-fact business
to us, and we hold in stern derision the amenities of more sophisticated
communities.
I think that we must look upon things at home much in the same light as
the Norsemen of old did upon the frivolities of Rome or Byzantium. The
spirit of O'Gaygun's philosophy pervades the colonial mind a good deal,
and, possibly, we may be prone to cultivate it as a means of stifling
any regrets we may have after the old life. We are very natural men, you
see, very simple and childlike, unused to the artificialities of larger
and organized society. Our characters have been reformed back to primary
essentials; and the raree-show of civilization dazzles and frightens our
primitive nervous systems. We may have our little failings, but we ask
no pity for them from people whom we so utterly scorn, as we do the
denizens of the elder world. Art! Culture! AEstheticism! Bah! Pouf! Away
with all such degrading, debasing, dehumanizing trumpery! We are men of
a harder, sterner, simpler mould than the emasculate degeneracies of
modern England! We are the pioneers and founders of a new Britain, of a
stronger and purer life!
When describing our farm I gave some hint as to the causes which have
kept us from building a better house hitherto. Some day we shall have
one, of course; or, possibly, we shall have more than one, for some of
our chums have been showing a tendency towards matrimony of late; and if
any of us marry they must have houses of their own, I suppose. We should
need a barrack else, you understand, for families _do_ run large out
here.
Some of our neighbours live in very comfortable houses; and by visiting
them we are kept from becoming reformed into the uttermost savagery
altogether. Other people had more capital than we, or spent what they
possessed in a different manner. There are those who have laid
themselves out to render their homes more in accordance with the taste
that prevails among--I had nearly written _decent_ people, but will say
worldly instead. They have got nicer domiciles than our shanty; but,
then, it takes a woman to look after things. There must be a mistress in
a house that is to be a house, and not a--well, shanty, let us say. Even
Old Colonial is sensible of that.
A frame-house here is built upon exactly the same plan as ours, so far
as regard the piles, framework, outside wall and roof; but the plan of
it varies much. Every man is his own architect, or at least that
business lies between him and the carpenter who builds for him. One sees
some very singular examples sometimes. Rows of isolated rooms connected
by a verandah; houses all gable-ends and wings; all sorts in fact.
A good house will have the outside walls boarded up and down, with
battens covering the chinks, instead of weather-boarding like our
shanty. The inside walls and ceilings will be lined with grooved and
jointed planking, so as to make the house what is styled bug-proof.
There is a broad verandah round the whole or part of the house. There
are brick chimneys inside the house, though, as they are usually an item
of considerable expense, this is not invariable, and chimney out-puts
like ours will be seen not infrequently. There are various rooms, and
possibly an upper storey, which may or may not have a balcony above the
verandah. It is a common practice to have French windows, opening upon
the verandah, instead of doors.
Such houses can be made very elegant as well as comfortable. They are
painted and decorated with carvings outside, and the inside walls may be
painted, papered, or varnished. Furniture and upholstery of all kinds
is, of course, procurable in Auckland; so that one can have all the
comfort of an English home, if one is able to pay for it.
Necessarily, the cost of house-building will vary considerably,
according to the style and size of residence. A cottage with two to four
rooms will cost L100, or less. The average price paid for houses in our
district--large roomy houses for prosperous family-men, contracted for
with a carpenter, to build, paint, and thoroughly finish off--runs from
L250 to L500, or something like it. Kauri timber is used almost
exclusively in the North, so that we may say we live under the shadow of
the Kauri pine.
We keep up the usages of society so far as to pay visits occasionally,
especially to houses where there are ladies. You have got to live in a
country where petticoats are few and far between, where there is not one
woman to twenty or thirty men, as is the case here, in order to
thoroughly appreciate the delights of feminine society. People at home
don't know how to treat a lady; they are too much used to them. Why,
there are actually more women than men in England!
We treasure our ladies, because they are so rare among us in the bush.
Good creatures they are, these settler's wives. How kind and benevolent
they are to us, to be sure! And how they do delight to "boss" us about!
But we like it, we enjoy it, we revel in it. We would lay ourselves down
for them to trample on us, and be truly grateful for the attention.
That is our loyal feeling towards the married ladies resident in the
district. Conceive, if you can, how much more extravagant is our
gallantry when certain other persons are in question--young ladies whom
the irreverent covertly term "husband-hunters!"
Those good lady dwellers in the bush--how it does delight them to
promote the matrimonial felicity of others! How they do enjoy
matchmaking!
Every settler's wife, so soon as she has got over the exclusiveness of
honeymoon happiness, does her best to induce her girl friends from the
city to come and visit her. She is so lonely, she says--poor thing! No
one but her husband, and his neighbours and workmen; her devoted slaves
every one of them, but still, all rough men, you know. She pines for a
companion of her own sex. Oh yes; very much so! It would be a charity,
indeed, if dear Ada or Fanny would come and stay with her a bit.
Dear Ada or Fanny is only too glad of the opportunity. She did want to
see what the bush was like, for she has never been out of Auckland yet,
except a trip to the hot lakes, or so. In fact, her school-days are
scarcely over yet. And then she is so sorry for her friend's loneliness.
It must be dreadful to be isolated in the bush like that. She will
certainly come and see her.
So Miss Ada or Fanny packs up her box. Sweet, amiable creature! She
flies to alleviate her friend's hard lot. She constrains her
inclinations, and sets out bravely for the bush, solely at friendship's
call; for, of course, there is no _arriere pensee_ in her mind. Oh no;
how could there be?
The young lady was not considered exactly a belle in the city, perhaps;
but the bush receives her as an incarnation of Venus herself. Directly
she gets beyond the confines of the city, into the rough, primitive, and
inchoate wilderness, she finds herself elevated to a rank she never knew
before. Coach-drivers, steamboat-captains, hotel-keepers treat her with
a deference and attention that is quite captivating, rude examples of
male humanity though they may be.
Some settler is introduced, or introduces himself, who is travelling
too. He will be delighted, honoured, to be permitted to act as her
escort. Perhaps he has been deputed by her parents, or by her friend, to
look after her. Whether or no, he almost suffocates with importance if
she graciously accords him permission to act as her courier and footman.
Other men who are journeying on the roads or rivers somehow become
attached to Miss Ada's luggage. It appears that they are going in the
same direction. They say so, at any rate. They form themselves into a
sort of bodyguard to look after this wonderful visitant. Mysterious
dangers, not to be explained, are darkly hinted at, in order that cause
may be shown for their attendance. They are necessary as porters to look
after her traps, as purveyors to fetch her milk and fruit, and so on.
Miss Ada may not unnaturally be a little timid at first, but she soon
gets over that, finding that these big, bearded men are a good deal more
timid of her. Some of them actually colour up when she looks at them.
She discovers that she is a wit; her little jokes being applauded
uproariously, and repeated by one of her bodyguard to another. Every eye
is upon her, gazing at her with undisguised admiration; and every ear is
humbly bent to catch the slightest whisper that falls from her lips.
Really, these bushmen are very nice fellows, after all, in spite of
their rough looks. Quite different from the affected young fops of the
city.
As the young lady journeys onward her train swells, like a snowball
gathering snow. Somehow or other, it seems that the whole district is
meditating a visit to the place that is her destination. And everybody
is so polite to her, so embarrassingly attentive, and so determined she
shall enjoy her trip, that she begins to think the bush is the most
delightful part of the habitable globe; while the scenery grows more and
more enchanting every minute.
By-and-by the end of the journey is reached. The settler's wife comes
out to meet her guest, while a long procession files up from the river,
actually quarrelling for the privilege of carrying Miss Ada's various
impedimenta. The ladies are embracing and kissing with effusion, to the
manifest discomfiture and perturbation of the crowd, who try to look
indifferently in opposite directions.
"_So_ good of you to come, dear, to these far away solitudes; so _kind_
of you, and so _disinterested_, for I'm sure there's nothing here to
attract you in the _least_!"
"Oh, I think you've got a _charming_ place! And the gentlemen have been
_so_ kind. I didn't mind the journey at _all_, I assure you. And, of
course, I would come to keep _you_ company, you poor, banished thing!"
Thus do these innocent creatures chatter to each other in their
hypocritical fashion. But the wife just glances slyly at her husband,
and he looks guiltily away at the far horizon; for the dear schemer has
been making a confidant of him, for want of a better.
And Miss Ada's tail makes itself at home, after the free hospitable
manner of the bush. And the men are received with greater unction than
ever on the part of their hostess; albeit they profess to have called
casually, on some mysterious business or other with her husband. And
they are housed for the night, at least, and to each of them separately
the good little woman finds an opportunity of saying--
"Isn't she a sweet, pretty girl? And such a capital manager, I do assure
you. Be sure you come up on Sundays, and every other day you can spare,
while she is with us. It will be so dull for her, you know, coming from
all the gaieties of the city!"
Rumour flies about the country, apprising it of the fact that a young
lady visitor is stopping at So-and-so's. The district incontinently
throws itself at her feet, and worships Beauty in her person. Each of
the few married ladies round invites the stranger to come and stop with
_her_, after a bit, and to lighten _her_ heavy load of solitude, and
_her_ craving for a companion of her own sex. And Miss Ada finds it
impossible to refuse these invitations; and so the district entraps her,
and keeps her in it.
What wonder that when she does return to the city, it is only to make
ready for an impending event; for she was really obliged to take pity
on one of those poor bachelors, you understand. And the bush is so
charming! And she will be near her dear friend! And so--it comes about
that there will be one "husband-hunter" the less.
One season there had been an entire dearth of lady visitors. In our
shanty people were going melancholy mad. The district was losing its
charm for us. We had not set eyes upon any young lady of flirtable
estate for months and months. Old Colonial and the Saint had taken to
making their cattle-hunting expeditions invariably lead them to Tanoa;
where they said they went to talk to Mihake about stock, but where, it
was remembered, too, pretty Rakope and her sisters dwelt. O'Gaygun's
conversation was burdened with constant reference to "purty gurls," whom
he had seen in former days; and he became so violently attentive to the
wife of one of our neighbours, that, we began to think he would have to
be seriously expostulated with. Dandy Jack was restless, betraying less
interest than usual in his personal appearance, and talking of going to
Auckland for a spell. All of us were getting gloomy and dispirited. Our
life didn't seem to be so glorious a one as usual. But relief came at
last.
One Saturday, the Fiend had been over to the township, taking our weekly
consignment of butter, and bringing back such news as there was, and
such stores as we required. He returned with intelligence that set our
shanty in a ferment. A young lady had come up from Auckland on a visit!
The Fiend had found a note at the township, left there for our community
generally. It was from the wife of a settler whom we speak of as the
Member. She informed us that her friend. Miss ---- Fairweather, let it
be, was on a visit to her; and she invited us to go there on Sunday, the
next day, and whenever else we could. The epistle concluded with some
adroit reference to the charms and graces of her guest, conveyed in that
vague and curiosity-exciting manner so peculiarly feminine.
Full parliament of the shanty was instantly summoned, and we proceeded
to discuss the matter. It was decided, without opposition, that we
should accept the invitation, and should spend the following day at the
Member's. Not a dissentient voice so far as that was concerned. The
whole parliament would pay its respects to Miss Fairweather, somehow or
other; no question about _that_. And then we had to take into
consideration the important subject of dress.
Every one wished to make the best appearance he possibly could, and Old
Colonial peremptorily commanded that we should turn out in our best
attire. But our best was a poor thing.
The common wardrobe of the shanty was overhauled; and it became evident
that we were worse off than we had at first supposed. Under ordinary
circumstances, not more than two or three of us would require a
go-to-meeting rig-out at one and the same time. Even a full change of
garments was scarcely ever called for by the whole party at once.
Commonly, when going to visit one of our married neighbours, we thought
it enough to clean ourselves a bit and put a coat over our shirts; that
was all. But something more killing was needful on this occasion; and,
to our consternation, we found we had not got a square change of clothes
to go round.
It was too late to go to the township to buy some additional clothes;
besides, we could not afford such extravagances just then. Three or four
of us might have turned out pretty decently, perhaps, but not the whole
crew. And no one would hear of any plan that might keep him at home. We
would all go, making shift as well as we could.
All other work was at once put aside, and we were soon briskly at it,
washing out shirts and trousers. A roaring fire was kindled outside the
shanty, for the purpose of quickly drying the cleansed integuments; for,
some two or three were reduced to the temporary necessity of draping
themselves in blankets, _a la_ Maori, while the only clothes they had
were being washed and dried.
Two of the boys had canvas breeches, that were supposed to be white when
they were clean. Now canvas goes hard and stiff when wet, and is
therefore not readily washed. Our chums were dissatisfied with the
stained and discoloured appearance their nether garments presented,
after all the washing they could give them. Pipeclay was suggested, but
of pipeclay we had none. In lieu of it the boys got some white
limestone, which they first calcined, and then puddled up into a paste
with water. This mixture they rubbed into the fabric of their breeches.
The effect of this could not be very well made out by firelight, and
next morning there was no time to alter it if it did not suit. However,
the ingenious whitewashes were satisfied. They had what Dandy Jack
called "stucco breeches," which had a dazzling effect at a distance,
certainly. The worst of it was that the plaster cracked and peeled off
in flakes, and that the four whitewashed legs left visible traces upon
everything else they touched. Still, we do not go courting every day,
you know, and some little variation from conventional routine is
excusable when we do.
We had all to take to tailoring, sewing, mending, and cobbling.
Everything we had was tattered and torn; and had to be patched and
repaired somehow. We could not confront the gaze of Beauty with great
rents in our shirts. This was a fearful business, the materials for
effecting it being exceedingly limited, and our fingers unused to the
work. It was a sight to see O'Gaygun, his philosophy and gallantry at
war with one another, sewing blue flannel patches on a red shirt, and
groaning lamentably over the task.
Old Colonial officiated as barber, and, one by one, we all passed under
his hands, he himself being operated upon by the Saint. With a pair of
wool-shears, and the relics of the common comb, he clipped our flowing
tresses close to our heads, reducing the unruly touzles to something
like order; and he trimmed our beards to a uniform pattern, such as he
considered was neat and becoming. We did not want to look like savages,
he said.
Unfortunately, the Saint was not such a good hand at the hair-cutting
business, so Old Colonial looked rather singular, the white scalp
showing in patches among his raven curls. But the boss could not see
this himself, and no one mentioned the matter to him, out of merciful
consideration for the Saint.
Then Old Colonial manufactured pomatum out of lard and beeswax, scenting
it with lemon-peel and a sweet-smelling leaf. This stuff he styled "Te
Pahi Brilliantine," and with it he plentifully bedaubed our hair and
beards.
As a customary thing we never dream of cleaning our boots. It is
altogether a waste of time, and it would be entirely useless to do it.
Moreover, our boots are of rough hide, and not adapted for blacking. We
merely scrape the mud off them with a shingle; that is quite enough.
But, on this unusual occasion, it was decreed that we should black our
boots and leggings. The tide would be full when we started in our boat,
therefore we could get on board in the creek; and, not being under the
necessity of plodging through the deep mud that is laid bare at low
tide, we should reach our destination with passably clean feet.
Blacking we had none, of course; that had to be made. We did not know
exactly how to do it, so we tried various experiments. We prepared
charcoal, and we scraped soot out of the top of the stove. We mixed
these with kerosene oil, and, as some one said there ought to be
sulphuric acid in blacking, we put in some vinegar instead of it. This
mess was held to be the most effective, and was consequently used. Our
foot and leg-gear was ridded of the mud of many weeks, and was smeared
with the newly invented blacking.
Behold us next morning ready to start! A line of nine ruffianly-looking
scarecrows, under review by Old Colonial, head-master of the ceremonies.
Our shirts are clean, though elaborately embroidered in many colours.
Our trousers ditto. Our boots, whether high ankle-jacks, or lace-ups and
leggings, are black, if not polished. Each man wears a coat. Rather
ragged, rather ancient are these coats, originally of very varied kinds.
But the etiquette of the bush does not demand much in coats. So long as
your shirt is clean and whole, your coat may be a little off colour, so
to put it. People are not so particular about the coat. It is an
excrescence, not an essential garment like the shirt and breeches.
There is one coat short, but Dandy Jack gracefully waives any claim he
might have had, and goes without. He can well do so. Such is the force
of habit, that, somehow or other, he looks more elegant than any of us.
He is even well dressed, as we estimate that condition. It is
aggravating, because----But no matter!
There is one garment that has been the cause of introducing "hatred,
malice, and all uncharitableness" among us. It is a coat of brown
hemp-cloth, faced with leather. A coat of English make, with many
pockets, such as sportsmen and gamekeepers wear sometimes. It had been
thought too good to be used, and had been stowed aside in the library.
Such as it is, it is the best garment we have got. After much wrangling
we had to draw lots for it, and, much to his satisfaction, Old Colonial
acquired the right to wear it.
A box of paper collars had been discovered, so our unaccustomed necks
are all tightly throttled in them. They do not fit, of course, and have
to be fixed up with string and slips of flax; still, the effect is
dazzling. The wet had got into the box, however, and a brown patch
appears on the left side of each collar. This does for a trade mark, or
badge of the shanty. Scarves or neckties we have none, nor any
substitute or apology for them.
Our newly-cropped and pomatumed heads are thatched with strangely
ancient and weather-worn hats. These are of three general varieties, or
were, when they were new. First, come soft felt wide-awakes,
broad-brimmed and steeple-crowned, now presenting every diversity of
slouch. Next, are hats of the same original shape, made of coarse
plaited straw or reeds, now very much broken and bent. Finally, there
are the remains of one or two pith helmets and solar topees.
We have striven to make our head-gear look as jaunty and fresh as was
possible. We have blacked the hats or whitewashed them, and have stuck
feathers and flowers in them to give an air of gaiety to our otherwise
sombre and sedate aspect. And thus we stand, while Old Colonial examines
the regiment, giving a finishing touch here and there, where he deems it
requisite. Then he draws back and proudly surveys us, and, bearing in
mind the contrast we present to our customary everyday appearance, he
says--
"We shall do, boys! Proceed to victory, my Pahi lady-killers!"
We have a good distance to go, for the Member's place is fully twenty
miles off; but we have plenty of rowers, and have wind as well as tide
in our favour. Locomotion by water being our customary means of getting
about, we think nothing of the distance, and get over it in fair time.
The Member's place is a very different style of thing to ours. He has
been some years longer here than we have on the Pahi; and has had plenty
of means to enable him to do as he liked. In former times some of us
worked for him, and we are all very good friends. But it is a year or
two since most of us visited here, and so we are much struck with the
improvement that has been effected since we last saw the place.
To begin with, we land upon a little wharf or causeway of planks laid
upon piles, which runs out over the mud to low-water mark, and enables
people to land or embark at any time, without struggling through the mud
first of all. For, on all these rivers, mud is the general rule. Shingle
and sand appear in places, and there is often a belt of either above
high-water mark; but below that, and as far as the ebb recedes, is
almost invariably a stretch of greenish-grey sticky ooze. It is in this
that the mangroves flourish, and it contains the shell-fish which the
Maoris largely eat. Our boats are usually built flat-bottomed, so that
they may be readily hauled up from, or shoved down to the water on the
slippery surface of the mud, as may be required.
The Member's house stands close to the beach, but on a little elevation
just above it. It is placed in an irregularly shaped basin, that opens
out upon the river. Round the basin run low ranges, covered still with
their original bush. But all the undulating extent between them and the
river, some seven hundred acres or so, is under grass or cultivation. It
is all enclosed with a boundary fence of strong pig-proof
post-and-rail, and divided off by well cared for hedges, or wire fences.
There are other and newer clearings beyond the ranges and out of sight,
but here all that is visible is very much trimmer and neater in
appearance than our farm.
Over three parts of the basin the plough has passed. About one-half is
under wheat, maize, and other crops, while the grass on the remainder
looks wonderfully rich, freed as it is from stumps, drained, and, to a
measurable extent, levelled. Cattle, sheep, horses, and pigs are feeding
in the paddocks.
We eye the scene with great admiration, and even envy. This is the sort
of thing our farm ought to be, and will be. It is what it might have
been already, perhaps, if we had been capitalists. But then we weren't.
The Member has got beyond the stage where we are still stuck. He is
scarcely a pioneer farmer any longer. He has made his home, and a
beautiful home it is, though shut out, seemingly, from all the world
beside. The ranges, dark with woods, sweep round the fertile fields, the
river flows below, and beyond it the untouched virginity of forest is
again picturesquely apparent.
But we are in a hurry to get up to the house, and so we walk at once
from the landing-place. A well-made gravelled path leads up from the
waterside, not straight to the house, which is rather to the right, but
along a neat paling, which encloses the gardens round it. On the left is
an orchard of some extent, within which we see a great many more
fruit-trees than we possess ourselves; they have been grown with care,
and the varied produce of that fruit-yard would be a mine of wealth in
Covent Garden.
Beyond the orchard, which is divided from the path by a hedge of orange,
lemon, and quince, cut down into a dense shrubbery, we catch a glimpse
through the trees of several labourers' cottages, and some barns or
wool-sheds. The path is shaded by an avenue of fine trees, very large
considering how young they are. Among them may be seen English oaks and
beeches, American maples and sumachs, Spanish chestnuts, Australian
blue-gums, Chinese and Japanese trees and shrubs, tropic palms, and some
of the indigenous ornaments of the bush.
A hundred yards up this avenue, and we pass to the right through a gate
in the garden paling. There we find ourselves in enchanted ground, for
there is surely no garden in the North, except, perhaps, that of the
Horticultural Society at Auckland, which is superior to this. It is
beautifully laid out, and to us, fresh from the uncouth barbarism of our
shanty and its surroundings, this place seems to breathe of the "Arabian
Nights." And is there not a certain princess within, into whose
seraphic presence we are now entering? We inhale a new atmosphere, and
tread lightly, almost on tiptoe, speaking unconsciously in whispers, and
with the blood running quicker through our veins.
The Member has money, as I have mentioned, and here, as elsewhere, money
is a magician's rod that will work wonders. To the Member labour and the
cost of it bear other relations than they do to us. He is able to look
on life in a different light, and may expend toil on other matters than
such as are of bare utility. And he has done so, wisely and lavishly,
and so his home is what a home should be in this fair land--an Eden of
natural beauty.
In this garden there are smooth lawns and dainty flower-beds, winding
walks and blossomy banks, trellised arbours and shady groves. Taste and
elegance are manifest all round us, from the scented rosery to the
well-kept melon-patch. The rich and splendid hues of countless flowers
delight our eyes, while their unwonted sweetness sends a mild
intoxication into us with every breath we draw. We pass up to the house
along a straight, broad path, smooth and white with shell-gravel. The
path divides the garden in a part of its length, and has a hedge on
either side. But these hedges are of ornamental rather than useful kind.
One is of geranium and the other of fuchsia. Here those beautiful
plants, which are guarded so carefully in English conservatories, grow
into trees in the open air. These geranium and fuchsia hedges are
composed of many varieties of both. They are about eight or ten feet in
height, and are constantly and carefully pruned to keep down their too
exuberant tendencies. They are loaded with blossom, while the fuchsia
fruit is a palatable addition to the many dainties of garden and
orchard.
The house before us carries about it the same air of comfort and ease as
the garden, not to speak of elegance. It is a large villa, similar to
some of the mansions one may see about colonial cities. Of what style
its architecture may be I cannot say. It appears to partake of the
character, externally, both of a Swiss chalet and a Norwegian country
house.
Of course, the material of the building is entirely kauri timber, with
the exception of the chimneys, which are of brick, and the piles, hidden
from sight, which are of puriri wood. There are many angles, corners,
gables, wings, and outputs, designed for utility as well as appearance.
Round the whole house runs a broad verandah, following the
irregularities of the edifice. Above it is a balcony, forming a verandah
for the upper storey, and the high, steep roof extends evenly over this.
Between the pillars of the verandah is a light rail or trellis, upon
which flowering creepers are twined, passion-flowers, with their
handsome blossoms and refreshing fruit, conspicuous among them. Openings
give admittance from the garden here and there; while light staircases
connect the upper and lower verandahs outside the house.
There has been some care in the ornamentation and finish; suitable
carvings and mouldings adding beauty to the general design. The walls
are painted white, picked out with green, while the shingled roof, being
coloured red, looks passably like tiling. Altogether, the Member is to
be congratulated on his domicile. It is a very different affair to ours.
It would be honestly called a mansion in any country.
This is the sort of house _we_ intend to have, we say, as we walk up to
it. And this is the kind of garden we will have round it, too. O'Gaygun
sniffs at the flowers with pretended disrespect, and mutters something
about "taters" being more useful and to the purpose. But even he is a
little quelled by the surroundings, and we hear no more of his barbaric
philosophy for a time.
Still, mark this, there is an air about the place that makes it
different from so many old-country habitations. You do not feel that you
may look but mustn't touch. You are not reminded that everything is for
show, and not for use. There is no primness in the garden. There is an
honest degree of orderly disorder, and an absence of formality. You do
not feel as if you ought not to walk on the grass for fear of hurting
it. There is no artificiality apparent; no empty pretences whatsoever.
The house partakes of the same characteristic. It looks homely, and as
if it was meant to be lived in. As we reach the verandah we notice a
saddle or two carelessly slung over the rail; we see a hammock hung in
one corner; and some clothes drying on lines in another. A couple of
colley dogs come barking to meet us from their kennels on a shady side;
and various other slight details betoken that we are still in the
unsophisticated bush.
We tramp heavily along the verandah, a formidable gang of uncouth
barbarians. Old Colonial, at our head, gives a gentle coo-ee to intimate
our arrival. Then out pops our hostess from somewhere. A merry,
bright-eyed little woman is she, such as it does one's heart good to
behold. She comes forward, with two of her children beside her, not a
whit dismayed at the invasion. She gives us a hearty welcome, shaking
hands religiously all along our lengthy line.
This is one of those women who always make you feel gratified and
contented with yourself and all the world, after you have shaken hands
with or spoken to her. "Magnetic," some people call it. She is every
one's sister, and you feel an instinctive affection for her, of that
sober and yet warm kind which may be termed loyalty. She is queen in the
Kaipara; and all of us think it the greatest pleasure in life to obey
her behests.
Chatting gaily, our hostess leads us through an open French window into
the drawing-room, and we follow her, with a pleased and yet bashful
sense of expectancy. Into the drawing-room, mark you! and a real
drawing-room, too; not a visible make-believe, like the library in our
shanty. This is a large room, furnished as people do furnish their best
reception-chamber in civilized lands. Pictures hang on the varnished
walls; books and book-cases stand here and there; tables loaded with
knick-knacks, vases of flowers, workboxes, albums, and so forth; chairs
and sofas and lounges; ornaments, statuettes, brackets, and various
etcetera, betoken a life of greater ease than that of our shanty.
We sit around in an uncouth semicircle, awkward and somewhat ill at
ease, for we feel ourselves a little out of place in that room. One
cannot live the life that we have lived for years past, without feeling
strange and uncomfortable when once again brought within the influence
of refinement. So we look at our boots with a sense that our hobnails
do not match with the white Japanese matting that covers the floor; and
we sit on the edge of our chairs just as other rustics would do at home.
Our hats removed, the results of Old Colonial's tonsorial operations are
made fully apparent. Our hostess surveys us with a puzzled air. I think
she is struggling with a desire to laugh at the quaint simplicity of the
communal wardrobe of our shanty, as it is now displayed on our persons
before her.
We have been petting the children, and, like other children, these are a
trifle too observant. One of them, who is sitting on Old Colonial's
knee, suddenly becomes aware of the state of his poll, and, pulling his
beard to attract attention, asks--
"What made you cut your hair off?"
Old Colonial looks across at the Saint; and then, catching Mrs. Member's
eye, he and she and all of us go off into peals and roars of laughter.
In the midst of this the door opens, we catch sight of another lady
entering, and we stumble confusedly to our feet. It is _she_!
Miss Fairweather comes forward, escorted by the Member, and followed by
a straggling crowd of half a dozen men, similar barbarians to ourselves,
who have got here before us. She is a pretty girl, a very pretty girl,
would be considered so anywhere. Here, in her dainty elegance of
costume, to our rude senses she appears almost too beautiful. She
dazzles us altogether; we know no longer whether we are standing on our
heads or our heels.
We are being severally introduced with all due ceremony. The little
beauty is not by any means disconcerted at the ordeal; she is evidently
used to the position she occupies; used to being regarded with awe as a
superior being by ranks and regiments of bearded bushmen. She receives
our reverential bows with an amused expression in her blue eyes, and
shakes hands with us, one by one, with the air of a princess according
gracious favours to her subjects. And a funny little incident occurs.
Miss Fairweather remarks to the Little'un that she thinks she has met
him before; in Auckland, probably. Either she is mistaken, or, the
Little'un has forgotten, and is shamefaced. He blushes the colour of
beet-root. His huge frame wobbles in confusion; and, awkwardly trying to
shrink out of sight, as his bashful habit is, he steps backward, and
plants a giant heel upon O'Gaygun's toe. That outraged individual
startles the assemblage with the sudden exclamation, "Gosh!"
Endeavouring to extricate himself, he lumbers against the Saint and Dark
Charlie, whom he sends flying into a centre-table. The table overturns,
of course, and Dark Charlie's short, thick person sprawls and flounders
heavily over it.
The ice is now thoroughly broken. The ladies fall into seats, fairly
screaming with laughter, and all of us, except the unlucky ones, begin
to feel more at home. Then Mrs. Member tells her friend all sorts of
wild legends about our shanty, such as obtain among the feminine public
of the district. She says we are just a pack of overgrown schoolboys,
who are rapidly turning into absolute savages. And they banter us
deliciously to their hearts' content.
But we are not noisy visitors, you know, on such occasions as these. On
the contrary, the ladies do most of the talking, as some of us are
absolutely tongue-tied. We can do nothing but sit and gaze at the young
lady in our midst with all our eyes. She is a houri straight from
Paradise, and we poor mortals just get a glimpse from beyond the gate,
as it were.
Then more arrivals keep dropping in by twos and threes, neighbouring
settlers and chums of ours. So at last a circle of some thirty more or
less rough-looking men form a court about those two ladies. Then we go
to dinner in another room. Most of us dine chiefly off Miss Fairweather,
devouring her with our admiring gaze, listening enraptured to her chat,
and pulsating with wild joy if she do but smile or speak to us
personally. Many can hardly eat anything; they are too love-sick
already.
After dinner our shyness has disappeared, and our native manhood
re-asserts itself. The men of the Pahi must not be cut out by rivals
from other rivers. They must do all they know to find favour in those
beautiful eyes. We go strolling about the place in little knots,
admiring the garden, eating fruit in the orchard, visiting the paddocks
to see the stock and the crops, and generally enjoying ourselves after
our manner.
Each of our ladies has a little group around her, which goes off
separately. The component parts of Miss Fairweather's immediate train
may change from time to time; men may come and men may go, as it pleases
her; but the gallant O'Gaygun, the devoted Dandy Jack, the obliging Old
Colonial, and the fascinating Fiend are ever hovering around her,
deferent, attentive, and adoring. Whether she is strolling or sitting,
walking or talking, one or all of them seem to be by her side. They will
not leave the field open to their numerous rivals, not for one minute,
if they know it.
How it was managed I cannot tell, but I have the fact on the best
authority, Mrs. Member's in good sooth, that something happened very
much. That is to say, my informant tells me that the young lady
received no less than sixteen distinct proposals of marriage that day,
nearly all of which were renewed on subsequent occasions. It can only
have been for the barest fraction of a minute that any gentleman could
find himself alone with her. But, whenever any one did get the chance,
he must have jumped at the opportunity.
You see, it is the custom of the country, of the bush at all events. We
have no time for courting, scarcely any opportunity for it. We propose
first--marry first if we can--and do the courting afterwards. We have to
be spry about these things if we ever intend to get wedded at all. It is
the result of competition. A great many men are hungering and yearning
for wives, and there are very few girls for them to choose among. So
matches are made without very extensive preliminaries. The ladies appear
to like this celerity. Perhaps they are unwittingly philosophic, and
reflect that, with months of courting, they can really know little more
of a man than they did the first hour they met him, because he is
naturally on his best behaviour then. Marriage is a lottery any way you
can work it. It is only afterwards that each partner can obtain a true
knowledge of the other. And I am bound to say that you will not find
better wives or better husbands anywhere, than you will in the bush.
So, as I have said, Miss Fairweather received sixteen offers that day.
In point of fact she took all hearts by storm. Not a man in the Kaipara
who would not have laid down and died for her. Not a bachelor among us
who would not have felt exalted to the seventh heaven if he could have
won her for his wife. But I dare say no more on this topic, and no more
about the dear little beauty either, lest the too fortunate and
ever-to-be envied gentleman, who now calls himself her husband, should
come after me with his stock-whip.
When the sun has set and evening has come, supper over, we sit in the
lamp-lit drawing-room, enjoying the sweet intoxication of the ladies'
presence. Or we lounge on the verandah outside the open windows,
listening to the chat within, hearing around us the whispers of the
forest, or the ripple and risp of the moonlit river, gazing at the
profound shadows of the wooded ranges opposite, and inhaling the
fragrant sweets of the sleeping garden. Peaceful and silent is that
starlit night in the bush.
Then, it being Sunday, the Member gives us service. And as the piano
sounds, and we all join in singing the 23rd Psalm--
"In pastures green, He leadeth me,
The quiet waters by,"
I think, that to even the most irreligious or most careless among us,
the words, under the influences of our situation, come fraught with
homely inspiration.
Later, we are rowing back home with the tide. But we carry with us
renewed hope and energy for our daily toil; for we have had, as it were,
a foretaste of what is to be ours, some day, not so very far hence.
We, too, shall have a home like that, as a reward for years of toil and
hardship. And, God willing, it shall be graced for each of us with a
wife like--_her_.