December 9. Wellington. Ten hours from
Wanganui by the Fly. December 12. It is
a fine city and nobly situated. A busy place,
and full of life and movement. Have spent the
three days partly in walking about, partly in enjoying
social privileges, and largely in idling around the
magnificent garden at Hutt, a little distance away,
around the shore. I suppose we shall not see
such another one soon.
We are packing to-night for the return-voyage to Australia.
Our stay in New Zealand has been too brief; still,
we are not unthankful for the glimpse which we have
had of it.
The sturdy Maoris made the settlement of the country
by the whites rather difficult. Not at first—but
later. At first they welcomed the whites, and
were eager to trade with them—particularly
for muskets; for their pastime was internecine war,
and they greatly preferred the white man’s weapons
to their own. War was their pastime—I
use the word advisedly. They often met and slaughtered
each other just for a lark, and when there was no
quarrel. The author of “Old New Zealand”
mentions a case where a victorious army could have
followed up its advantage and exterminated the opposing
army, but declined to do it; explaining naively that
“if we did that, there couldn’t be any
more fighting.” In another battle one army
sent word that it was out of ammunition, and would
be obliged to stop unless the opposing army would
send some. It was sent, and the fight went on.
In the early days things went well enough. The
natives sold land without clearly understanding the
terms of exchange, and the whites bought it without
being much disturbed about the native’s confusion
of mind. But by and by the Maori began to comprehend
that he was being wronged; then there was trouble,
for he was not the man to swallow a wrong and go aside
and cry about it. He had the Tasmanian’s
spirit and endurance, and a notable share of military
science besides; and so he rose against the oppressor,
did this gallant “fanatic,” and started
a war that was not brought to a definite end until
more than a generation had sped.
There are several good protections
against temptations, but the surest is cowardice.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s New Calendar.
Names are not always what they seem.
The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwep is pronounced Jackson.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s New Calendar.
Friday, December 13. Sailed, at 3 p.m., in
the ‘Mararoa’. Summer seas and a
good ship-life has nothing better.
Monday. Three days of paradise. Warm and
sunny and smooth; the sea a luminous Mediterranean
blue . . . . One lolls in a long chair all
day under deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in measureless
content. One does not read prose at such a time,
but poetry. I have been reading the poems of
Mrs. Julia A. Moore, again, and I find in them the
same grace and melody that attracted me when they
were first published, twenty years ago, and have held
me in happy bonds ever since.
