Under such able management I had no hesitation to leave the property under the charge of one of my sons, and under medical advice, have sought the bracing atmosphere of the South Island of New Zealand, to complete the cure of ailments which, after all, were more mental than physical.
The Commissioners for the New Zealand Exhibition wanting a manager, it was thought that the experience I have acquired in such matters might prove of service. Combining business with pleasure, I have moved my camp once more.
What the result of the New Zealand Exhibition will be is as yet a blank page in the history of the near future, but based, as this great venture has been, on the soundest of principles—principles that the Governments of New South Wales and Victoria declined to follow—I may predict that the New Zealand Jubilee Exhibition will be a most thorough success, in every way, practically and financially.
Coming back to New Zealand, fifty years after I first landed on its shores, has been a source of great gratification to me.
I cannot bring this narrative to a close without mentioning a most extraordinary coincidence, which occurred a few months ago, while on a visit to Christchurch.
A landslip had occurred at Akaroa a few days previous to my arrival in Christchurch. This slip unearthed a number of cannon balls, imbedded deep into the side of a hill, above what is called the “Frenchman’s Garden.” These 32-pounders were all in a cluster, bar one, which by some unaccountable reason was found some forty yards off from the spot, where a target must have been placed, the hypothesis being that some “duffer” had fired this truant shot.
When I saw the rusty old “ball” I at once recognised the shape (now obsolete) of the old 32lb. shot used in the French navy. Coupling the locality with the old familiar projectile, I at once remembered that in September, 1840, when on board the Aube at Akaroa, Captain Lavaud had ordered shot practice, and when the target had been placed on the hillside on shore, he invited me to fire the first shot, which went some fifty yards off the mark, much to the merriment of the crew, who very justly pronounced me a “duffer”—the very epithet which I heard applied to the unknown gunner, after the lapse of fifty years.
This old “friend,” found imbedded in the New Zealand soil at Akaroa, now stands before me on top of my écritoire, and from it I draw many comparisons.
Here we meet once more after fifty years! I have “rolled” all over the world. It has remained buried in the earth in New Zealand. Yet we are both very much alike—old-looking, rusty; still hard, tough, and fit for service if need be. The rust is only superficial; under it the old metal has all its natural properties.
This “find” at Akaroa has been a most appropriate one, inasmuch as it has enabled me to conclude as I began, by the history of a “Stray Shot,” which really should have been the title of this book.