There were one or two visitors at the hotel. One of them told us that he had been out all day exploring mud-holes and hot springs.
‘Took a hammer, a magnifying-glass, and a bottle of vitriol acid, you know.’
‘And what was that for?’ we asked.
‘Just a lark, you know. Testing the waters.’
He only wanted a pair of spectacles to become a complete savant.
Another visitor told us of his experiences. The Lobster bath was a terror. But according to him everything was a terror—the roads were terrors, the lake was a terror, some of the women were terrors (I believed this). Terror is a New Zealand adjective. Shilling knives are advertised as ‘perfect terrors.’ You can’t go wrong if you call a thing a terror.
A young Englishman, however, called everything and everybody ‘a Johnny.’ Mac thought him as big an ass as the other visitors.
That night it was cold, and in the morning the ground was white with frost.
There are many Maoris at Ohinemutu, and we had good opportunities to see both them and their houses. They are physically fine, but with coarse, broad features. They are tolerably honest, fearful beggars, consummate liars, and dreadfully lazy.
Their hardest work is to plant and dig potatoes, smoke, and occasionally go in search of kauri gum, which they sell to foreign merchants.