Perhaps I have devoted overmuch space to Mr. Seddon in a work like this, but really the event has caused so great a sensation out here that it seemed impossible to pass it over in a few casual words.
My stay in Auckland is drawing rapidly to a close, to my regret, although, as I am repeatedly assured, the country is not to be compared, as far as appearance goes, to what it is like in the summer. Which seems so strange to me, for, as I am never weary of repeating, the climate now seems to be almost ideal to a Briton: the air has just enough freshness in it to dispel languor, while the sun's heat at noon is tempered enough to make the genial warmth enjoyable and the wearing of even the lightest of overcoats an absurdity. This ideal climate condition makes me wonder why it is that so many of the flowering plants and shrubs do not bloom all the year round. The conditions are never even sub-tropical, being more like Cornwall than anything else, yet there is no approach to the wealth of bloom that may be seen in our far western counties all the year round. And many of the trees, having shed their leaves, look absolutely dead, as if nothing could ever induce them to burgeon again. Even the verdure on the hills does not look fresh and green as it does in our southern counties during our much-maligned winter. But appearances are proverbially deceitful, and nowhere more so than here, for they tell me that the sheep find excellent pasturage all the year round, and are never in need of any special care, while the cool air induces the luxuriant growth of wool.
But I must bid farewell to Auckland. The Tarawera waits for me, and we are presently spinning southward down the Gulf towards Gisborne, my next halting-place. This is a coast to test seamanship. From Auckland round to Wellington there is no real shelter, and when the mighty Southern swell rolls up the steamers must either put out to sea and breast it, not daring to attempt a landing at any of the ports, or pass on with their disgruntled passengers to the shelter of one of the safe harbours aforesaid. As happened to the ship which passed us on her way North—for although the weather was not what a seaman would call bad—she had, owing to the enormous Pacific (?) swell breaking in on the coast, to give up all idea of landing her passengers, to say nothing of her cargo, at Gisborne, and take them on to Auckland. When we passed East Cape the weather was sublime, the sea like oil, and the sky above cloudless, serene; but that terrible swell tossed us about like a cork in a mill-race. However, we came into Gisborne, Poverty Bay, on Sunday, and anchored quite close to what has been ironically termed the harbour, rolling and tumbling about there in strangely bewildering fashion. Presently I saw some small steam vessels making their way apparently through the land, but behaving as we were doing, that is, rolling and tumbling about with wonderful agility. They soon emerged from behind what I could then discern was the horn of a breakwater, and immediately became easier in their movements. When, however, the tender, a fine, stout-built steamer of about 200 tons, got alongside it was possible to see how great was the motion on this calm day and to imagine what an impossibility it would be to carry on any work if the wind was blowing into this unprotected bay instead of, as it was now, blowing out. The master of the tender being an old shipmate of mine invited me on the bridge to see the entrance to the harbour, for which I was very grateful, for it was a revelation to me.
This little community of less than 9,000 souls, being in possession of a magnificent sheep country and having built up for themselves the largest frozen meat export trade in New Zealand, felt themselves most severely and painfully handicapped by their want of a harbour. Not, be it understood, for vessels of any size—that they could hardly hope to effect—but one from which they might carry out their produce to ships at anchor in the bay. So they consulted Sir John Coode on the construction of a breakwater, behind which the small steamers might come down from the little river Waimata in safety and emerge into the bay. He gave his opinion, indicating the best position for, and the mode of construction of, the breakwater, which apparently did not coincide with their wishes. In the result they disregarded his advice and built the present breakwater, which, for a time, served fairly well, but alas! the channel behind it began to silt up from the scour of the river, which, as rivers are wont to do in all mountainous countries, occasionally ran in spate, overflowing its banks and bringing down enormous quantities of detritus. In the hope of obviating this the local authorities built a groyne running parallel with the breakwater and making a sort of canal running out into the harbour. But unhappily they extended this groyne until it was equal in length to the breakwater. Then when the prevalent swell rolled in, it struck the end of the groyne, rebounding up the channel, and making such mighty turmoil that it was impossible to get in or out except at very great risk. On my journey up, as I said, the weather was exceptionally fine, but this tiny steamer required two men at the wheel, which was spun hard up and hard down continuously as the great swell rolling in after her swung her from side to side.
I need not labour this point, but may say briefly that it is one of those blunders easily made but most difficult to repair; and now this small, energetic community, having burdened itself with a debt of a quarter of a million in order to facilitate the shipment of its produce, finds itself in a rather worse position than before. It is, as may be imagined, a very sore point indeed with the townsfolk, who do not know who to blame, and who do not see what good blaming would do after all. Yet in spite of all this it is, by all accounts, the most prosperous in proportion to its size of any town in New Zealand. The ranges of hills hereabouts form, so I am told, ideal pasturage for sheep when they have been treated in the following fashion. The natural surface growth is burned off and grass seed is sown among the ashes. This presently, under the beneficent skies of this beautiful country, clothes those heretofore barren ranges with living green of such succulent nutritiousness that it will "carry" two sheep to the acre—sheep who fatten and breed with scarcely any attention, in such fashion as we in England have had ample demonstration of, and who find within easy reach a ready market. I confess that it was difficult at first to realise the value of those lofty ranges of hills where cultivation is quite out of the question, but in the light of this expert information and of what I saw of the flocks of sheep streaming down to the freezing works to be presently dealt with in exhaustive fashion, I began to understand how and why it was that New Zealand ranked so very high among the countries of the world as regards her export trade, £9 per head as against £2 8s. from the United States by the admission of one of their own experts.
XV MUTTON, THE MASTER
Gisborne is, historically speaking, almost the most interesting place in the whole of New Zealand. Close to the site of the present town is where Captain Cook made his first landing in the country, and named it, on the spur of the moment, Poverty Bay—a name which it still holds, because the natives take a delight in the irony of the appellation in contrast to that of the Bay of Plenty, which, though only the next bay northward, has done nothing so far to justify its grand title. This little place was also the scene of the Poverty Bay massacre, wherein between thirty and forty whites were slaughtered by the Maories under the redoubtable Te Kooti, as a direct result of the inevitable, invariable blundering of the home authorities. It is not a little remarkable, however, that it should have taken so long for this place to attain its present dimensions, even when the limitations of the harbour (?) have to be taken into consideration. But since that is a feature of every part of Australasia that I have revisited, I need not do more than allude to it in passing.