Chapter VII: Part 7

The ride back to Launceston was more pleasant than the ride up had been. We started before seven a.m. At eight a.m. the sun appeared above the hills, and the hoar-frost began to disappear as clouds of mist. Every tree and flower and haystack smoked as if it was on fire. As far as Deloraine the country on either hand was chiefly an impenetrable bush; beyond that we were again back amongst the ferns and yellow furze.

That evening I spent in Launceston, being entertained by a number of gentlemen, who told me many stories about the great Bischoff. It had been discovered by a man named Smith.

Smith was a man who liked, and I believe still likes, to hide himself in the almost impenetrable Tasmanian bush. The way in which he lived necessitated his spending much of his time in thinking, rather than in talking, and he was therefore called Philosopher Smith. Philosopher Smith is generous and crotchety. He gave many of his shares in his discovery away, and finally, disgusted with the system in which the mine was being managed, eventually threw up his connection with it. Now he is not the millionaire he might have been. Not long ago the Tasmanian Government voted him a small pension for the benefits he had conferred on the colony by his discovery. Mr. Smith, however, I was told, rejected their offer. He deserves a good big pension, and if Tasmanians don’t give it to him, they ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Other people behaved very differently. Some of the lucky shareholders drew from £250 to £300 every three weeks. One man who in three weeks drew £3,000, just to show that he had a soul above worldly dross, bought an organ and a monkey, with which he amused people in the streets. How long he continued at this self-imposed employment I was not told. Another man was so inflated with the importance he expected to derive from his riches, that he imagined himself a duke, and gave birth to a drawl.

The usual way of reaching Hobart is by rail from Launceston. The scenery on the line is said to be very fine, and I regret that I did not see it. I reached Hobart direct from Melbourne. On this occasion Bass Straits had put on their best behaviour. The sun was shining and the sea was smooth. Weather of this sort would induce many to become sailors. The profession of navigators would be ruined by numbers, and what would a captain do then, poor thing? It was God’s weather. At the north end of Tasmania we saw many rocky islands. These islands have the same general character as the eastern coast of Tasmania itself, which is high and mountainous.

It was a cold, clear, fine morning when we entered the beautiful harbour of Hobart. I forgot to say that the people in Sydney when they wave their hand across their harbour, tell you that it would afford anchorage for all the navies in the world. I should think that the harbour at Hobart might do the same.

In all directions there are high hills to be seen. Some of these rise from the edge of the waters. The summits are rocky, and many of them were covered with snow. The highest is Mount Wellington. This is at the head of the harbour, and overlooks the town of Hobart. Between these hills there are many small bays and smaller hills covered with gums. On the lowest slopes green fields and farmhouses are visible. Over all these combinations of mountain, crag, snow, forest, grass slopes and water, there was a bluish haze, like a film of gauze.

At last we landed, and at once commenced our explorations. The streets are broad and well laid out. Here and there are some fine buildings. One is a museum, others are Government offices, and many are, naturally, the banks. One of the busiest streets, where there were a few people and some good shops, is called Liverpool Street. In the other streets all is quiet. Now and then a foot-passenger pauses to look at you, and makes you feel that you are a new chum. The cabs, some of which are curious arrangements like milk-carts, stand in rows. Dogs sleep upon the pavement. All is sunshine, cleanliness, and quiet. The houses in the suburbs face the street like so many antiquated walls with rectangular orifices for doors and windows. The brass door-handles shine like mirrors. The polishing has gone on so long until the paint around them in the wood-work has been worn away. Even a little brook that at one time babbled through the town has been constrained. A brook bustling along over an untidy gravel bed would be out of place in tidy little Hobart. It now runs over a concrete bed, something like a pipe. Poor little stream, even you have been compelled to change your clamorous nature.

At the corners of the streets there are neatly painted notices hung upon the lamp-posts--‘Keep to the right,’ ‘Walk round the corners.’ What a satire to treat orderly Hobart like a Fleet Street!

Although Hobart is so quiet, its very quietness gives to it a charm that makes me wish to be one of its inhabitants. About twelve o’clock I saw a little excitement in one of the main streets which I ought not to omit to mention. This was a football-match between a number of shop-boys. I watched it with considerable interest. In the afternoon I paid a shilling to enter a Juvenile Industrial Exhibition. Inside I found that I was in a Poultry Show. There were a great many cocks and hens. Nearly all of them had received a first prize, a second prize, or a certificate of merit. Some of them were interesting on account of their size and the nature of their feathers. One old rooster had feathers down his legs like trousers. This gave him an appearance of great stability. Some of his neighbours seemed to have very thin legs as compared with their bodies, which were unusually large. With the amount of standing they have to do, these latter must often feel very tired. All the cocks were crowing and the hens were clucking. The pigeons were in great force. There were Jacobins, runts, rollers, fantails, Antwerps, baldheads, Hamburgs, carriers, and a variety of others, the names of which can only be found in special treatises on this order of birds.

There were also a great number of parrots, which in true parrot fashion were looking preternaturally wise. The rest of the building was filled up with sausages, masses of brawn, corpses of animals like pigs and sheep, of cadaverous heads of cows, cheese, pots of yellow butter, and canaries.

To me the dead animals, which helped to give the place a charnel-house-like smell, were very horrible.

The farmers, with their wives and daughters, appeared to find something very attractive in the exhibition. If I had been brought up as a butcher, the scraped pigs, covered with rosettes and holding apples in their mouths, might have been more beautiful than a Turner landscape.

The Museum was more interesting, as it contained many relics and drawings of the now extinct aboriginals of Tasmania.

* * * * *

At this point in my travels I said good-bye to Peter Dodd and the Major, who went to India, or somewhere, and I picked up new acquaintances whom I will presently introduce.

_NEW ZEALAND; OR, THE LAND OF THE MAORIS AND MOAS._

Japan and New Zealand are in many respects reflections of each other. The northern island of New Zealand corresponds in position and shape to Yezo, while the southern island is like the main island of this country. Nemuro is represented by Auckland, Hakodate by Wellington, Yokohama and Tokyo by Lyttelton and Christchurch, and Nagasaki by Dunedin. I ought to be paid for this suggestion, for it saves the buying of an atlas.

The northern island of New Zealand is the chief centre for the aboriginal Maoris, just as Yezo is the home of the aboriginal Aino. The mountains of New Zealand, like those of Japan, are chiefly on the western side of the island, and it is on this side of both countries that there is the greatest precipitation of rain and snow. Mount Cook, the highest mountain in New Zealand, is approximately the same height as Fujisan, the highest mountain in Japan. In both countries there are earthquakes, volcanoes, and hot springs, and each is equally celebrated for its beautiful scenery. In these and other respects New Zealand and Japan have a close resemblance to each other. That two distant countries should have so many points in common is certainly very remarkable. As with other countries, there are naturally many points of dissimilarity. New Zealand has an enormous foreign debt, a small population; it is a country practically without a history, and if we except the birds, a rat, a bat, and a lizard, it is without vertebrate animals. In all these and other respects Japan is exactly the reverse of New Zealand. Notwithstanding all this, the similarities between these two countries are so abnormally great that the attention of a resident in either of these lands cannot fail to have his attention attracted to them. Of course, neither New Zealand nor Japan are like Africa or Patagonia. For these reasons, and from the fact that many old residents from this country have settled in New Zealand, I venture to give an account of what I saw and did in that country. My notes in many instances may be taken _cum grano salis_.

My experience with New Zealand commenced on board the ship which took me to that country. This was one of the Union Steamship Company’s boats, which practically hold the monopoly of the New Zealand trade. I sailed from Melbourne _viâ_ Hobart. The larger of these boats are continually making circular trips from Melbourne to the Bluff and Dunedin, round the New Zealand ports, to Auckland and Sydney, and then back to Melbourne; or else, commencing at Sydney, they circulate in the opposite direction. The smaller boats trade hither and thither along the coast of New Zealand. The Union Company has done much for New Zealand, and New Zealand has done much for the Union Company. If you take a ticket for the round trip, which lasts about twenty days, you pay £21, or about £1 per day; but if you take a trip between two coast ports, only a few hours distant, you may pay £2 or £3. Some of the boats are extremely nice in their arrangements, having electric lights, a fair supply of bathing accommodation, and all the fixings and appliances found in modern steamships. Some go so far as Thomson’s sounders and compasses. It was sometimes interesting to hear discussions on these instruments. One day in the smoking-room, a naval officer was talking with one of the ship’s officers about Sir William’s inventions.

‘Oh,’ said the man of war, ‘I know Sir William. Once I was staying at a house, and they told me there was a very clever man coming. You wouldn’t think much of him to look at. One of these old men with specs. But he can do anything, you know. Want a compass? He just takes a bit of paper and a pencil and invents the best compass ever made; and does it all with _x_, you know. All the same with the sounder. Want a good electric light--and he does it with _x_ again, you know. He can’t do ordinary rule of three and that sort of thing. When he went to America to calculate about the electric cable, he took an old man to do his sums for him. The only time he is happy is when he is making fiddle-holes or chasing.’

This information, coming as it did from the commander of a ship in the British navy, carried some authority, and was received with silence and respect.

The day after we left Hobart, where we picked up a few passengers, we had a beam sea, which caused many of the passengers to seek the seclusion that a cabin grants. Next morning it was bright and sunshiny, and as the sea was more aft, the motion of the ship was a little less. One or two of us indulged in games of quoits, sometimes throwing them on pegs and sometimes into numbered squares chalked on the deck. Behind us there was always a flock of albatross, molly-hawks, and other sea-birds, on the look-out for the leavings of the table. These companions, which often flew close above our heads, were quite an interesting study. One great difficulty was to understand how they managed to fly so fast, and this with little or no apparent motion of their wings. We were going at a rate of at least ten knots per hour, and yet from the way in which our feathered friends circled about, and yet kept up to us, they must have gone at ten or twenty times the rate at which we were going. All that they appeared to do was to balance themselves and gently tip their wings up or down--there was no violent flapping, such as crows go in for when they wish to move. The albatross were very tame, and would often fly right over our decks until they appeared to be poised a few yards above our heads. Their build is the ordinary seagull pattern--a huge white body in shape like a soda-water bottle, furnished with two enormous angel-like pinions. MacTavish said that you could often see changes in the expression of their faces. When the dinner-bell sounded they would come charging up from all points of the horizon and arrange themselves astern, ready to pounce on the first fragments thrown from the rich company’s table. At these times we had the best view of our friends, and you could hear the big ones clucking, and now and then detect a little smile. They knew that they must keep pretty close, or some of the relics from the kitchen might sink. I suggested to Mac that the _menu_ ought to be thrown over a few minutes ahead of the breakfast. The molly-hawks would certainly be grateful, and the Union Company would Buddhistically be doing a good turn. If the theory of Pythagoras is true, the directors of the U.S.S. Co. may be turned into molly-hawks themselves when they die; and if they are, they will regret not having instituted this charitable custom. I do not think that captains and officers of the ships will ever become molly-hawks. They are too good. But the directors of a company who, in their scramble for dross, do not hesitate to have four sea-sick people crammed into a small cabin, ought certainly to prepare themselves for a hard time in the future. But more about molly-hawks and the directors of steamship companies by-and-by. I must here tell you that MacTavish, or, as I shall often call him, Mac, was a Scotchman from South Africa on a trip to see the colonies. As we did not know each other’s names, when we first met at dinner, a funny little man, who had seen more of London or Paris than Scotland, suggested names for the company. MacTavish was one of these names. MacTougal and MacAlister were two others. I was called the Major, and a quiet dignified gentleman with a black moustache, who was my neighbour, was known as the Colonel. In return, our black little friend, who some remarked might have seen more of Palestine than Scotland, was called MacCallum More. He was a lively fellow, and in spite of the weather kept us amused. I liked MacCallum.

The reason that we had so many Scotch names was that about half the passengers were really Scotchmen, and we were going to Southern New Zealand, which is Scotch in its looks, Scotch in its climate, and has a population of Macs. From what I shall say about parts of it, it will be seen that it is a country where only cast-iron Scotchmen, and a few other human abnormalities, could thrive. Not long ago tenders for a Government contract were handed in to the authorities at a town in the south end of New Zealand. The one accepted was from a Mr. John MacDougal. When Mr. John MacDougal turned up, he was found to be a Chinaman. ‘But how is this, John?’ said the authorities; ‘you are a Chinaman.’ ‘You callee me John, and s’pose I no talkee Mac, no can catchee contract this side,’ was John’s reply. The Macs are certainly a powerful clan in their new home.

As we went surging along, one by one, new faces appeared at the top of the companion. Many of them had a blue bonnet above them. Those who hadn’t blue bonnets faintly smiled, and then retired again.

On the evening of the second day it was blowing harder than ever. Sails had to be taken in, and we went along through a seething sea in the dark. How ever Captain Cook found New Zealand is a mystery. If an angel had told me where it was, I don’t think I would have gone to look for it; the irregularities of the approaches to New Zealand are too unpleasant. It has often been remarked that you do not get sufficient exercise on board ships; your liver gets out of order, and you may suffer dyspepsia. On our ship we certainly had considerable exercise--not so much of the muscles which come into play when walking, as with those which are used when holding on. When a man goes to New Zealand, and it is rough, he ought to have claws and long toe-nails. Rubber shoes, with patent soles for suction, might be good, but claws, toe-nails, or spiked boots, would perhaps be better.

I had a great deal of exercise in picking up convalescents. One heap which I sorted consisted of two ladies, a Yank, two ’possum-rugs and some pillows, several chairs, a couple of cups of beef-tea, sundry biscuits, a cockatoo, and a lot of bird-seed. This helped me to make friends with the ladies. I always like ladies to be just a leetle sea-sick. It gives you a chance of being agreeable. I shall have more to say about the Yank. He was very droll, and did a little to remind the officers of the U.S.S. Co. that their directors had failings. While talking about the inmates of our village, for a Union boat is always like an overcrowded floating hamlet, I must not forget our worthy skipper--Captain Popham. Captain Popham was a big man, and he was never sea-sick; I don’t think he could be sea-sick. He had a good square head, he wouldn’t stand humbug, and he was always pleasant and agreeable. I used to sit with Popham when all the rest had fled. Sometimes he would be raised up about ten feet, and would be looking down at me. On these occasions I was able to read the inscription on the bottom of Popham’s soup-plate. The next moment I would be up ten feet, and looking down on Popham. On these occasions I had to hold my soup-plate edgeways up, as if it had been a mirror in which I was examining my back teeth. Everybody liked Popham, and voted him a good man. There was one exception, however. This was a sea-sick Blue Ribbonite. Blue Ribbon’s occupation, when not engaged with a bucket, was to bemoan the immorality of the world. Edinburgh was his pet aversion. ‘Eh, mon, there are nae bigger slums than in Edinboro. It’s a fearful place.’ Now and again he would try and convert the ship to Blue Ribbonism.

By perseverance he managed to stir up a little animosity before he left us. One Sunday, between his fits of indisposition, whilst prowling round the ship, he seems to have discovered four passengers playing cards in one of the ship’s cabins, which he promptly reported to the captain. As the captain either did not, or else would not, know anything of the matter, Blue Ribbon promised to report him to the directors for non-attention to duty--he spent too much time talking to the ladies on the quarter-deck instead of attending to his duty. Poor Popham! We supposed Blue Ribbon wanted him to be either reefing topsails or else snuffing round passengers’ cabins.

The first sight of New Zealand in winter weather was not very inviting. Here and there were black cast-iron-looking rocks, their summits capped with clouds, and their bases fringed with foam. After this we rounded some rough-edged hills, covered with scraggy scrub and dripping rocks. This was the entrance to the Bluff. There were no trees. Scotchmen can live beyond the limit of trees. At the head of the bay near to the waters, there were a few paddocks, two or three cottages, and clumps of yellow furze. It was so like bonny Scotland, especially the canopy of fog. You felt that you were on one of the selvages of the habitable world, and that just behind the hills you might find the eternal snows of the Antarctic regions. The end of the bay was like the edge of a Scotch moor with a wharf on the shore of a loch. Matters certainly looked a little brighter as the day advanced, and the dull appearance of the Bluff, for it certainly was as bleak as Orkney when I saw it, may have been due partly to the weather, and partly to my indisposition. One indication that the Bluff may at times be bright and shiny, was a number of little bungalows, which I was told were summer retreats for the Invercargillites. There were also several hotels, and, of course, a place of worship.

Here MacTavish, MacCallum More, and several of the other Macs, and myself, took train for Invercargill. The first part of the country was very marshy, and was covered with great green bushes, called Ti-trees, and tussocks of grass, any bunch of which would hide a herd of cattle. There were a number of plants like flags. These a New Zealander, who gave us much information about the country, whom for variety I will call Robinson, told us were the New Zealand flax. The Maoris made bags and string out of it, but Europeans had not yet invented the proper method of making it clean. The bunches of flax were about as big as the tussocks of grass. Now and again we saw some tame-looking birds, with red legs and blue heads, like guinea-fowls. They simply looked at the train, and either couldn’t or else wouldn’t fly away. Robinson said that they would fly quickly enough if we went after them with a gun. A lot of the New Zealand birds, however, are unable to fly. In this respect they resemble their predecessors, which together constituted the family of Moas. Robinson said that some of the Moas were forty feet high, and in speed could eclipse the winner of the Melbourne Cup. Sometimes they would breakfast at Invercargill and then trot off 565 miles north to the plains of Canterbury for their dinner. Their eggs weighed fifty-six pounds. They were all dead now, and globe-trotters often felt disappointed at not getting any sport amongst these animals. As I don’t believe all that Robinson said, I will reserve my own observations on these remarkable birds until I come to the place where I interviewed their remains. I will then tell you the truth.

A curious bird that still exists is the Maori hen, or the Weka. From its simplicity it might be called the ‘Weak’un.’ It suffers from inquisitiveness. If you clap two sticks together, it will come to investigate the reason of the disturbance. To catch it, you place a bit of red rag on one stick and a noose on the other. While the ‘Weak’un’ is picking at the red rag on one stick you put the noose on the other stick round its neck. This sounds like the salt dodge, and although you may not believe it, it is perfectly true. Another bird--a hairy-looking beast called the Kiwi--suffers from sleeplessness, and therefore has become a night-walker. There are lots of these birds in the streets of London. A charming pet for a farmyard is the Kiau. This dear little bird has retained its powers of flight. Its chief amusement is to sit on the back of a sheep and pick out its kidneys. It is a wonderful anatomist, and never fails in striking the spot where it will obtain its favourite morsel. After the operation the sheep invariably die, and the kiau flies off to another little lamb to institute a new investigation.

Everywhere in New Zealand, as in all the South Sea Islands, there are wild pigs. All of these, or at least their ancestors, were brought out by Captain Cook.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said MacTavish; ‘he would have required Noah’s Ark.’ After this, whenever Mac saw a pig, he used to call out, ‘Hello! there goes Captain Cook.’

Invercargill is a nice town, with one large wide street lined with good buildings and furnished with tramcars. We saw it at its worst, for it was drizzling, and the roads were wet and muddy. One puzzle to a stranger in Invercargill was how so small a place could support such enormous stores and shops. That all of them did not pay was clear from an advertisement we saw. It was in big letters, and ran as follows:

‘Great Bankrupt.

‘Certified copy of telegram.

‘Creditors have accepted your offer of 8s. 8d. in the pound.
Amount, £2,627 12s. 6d.

‘(Signed) J. R. and S. M.’

After this followed sheets of advertisements about the low price at which you could purchase various articles. If ever I start a store at Invercargill I shall sell rubber boots, mackintoshes and umbrellas. Over the door I shall write ‘Great Bankrupt Compulsory Sale.’

As the climate was against an investigation of the suburbs, MacTavish and MacCallum More found a place where they could play billiards with tipless cues, while I went off in search of a museum I had been told about.

‘It’s at the Athenæum,’ said my informant. ‘It isn’t much of a place just yet--only commencing. You’ll find it very interesting. The second door in the third block.’

I found it without difficulty; and as future visitors to Invercargill may possibly like to read up special works on its exhibits, I give the following catalogue of everything I saw:

No. 1. was the skull of a gigantic cetacean. This was in the
hall. Before examining this remarkable relic, students may with
advantage refresh their memories by again referring to the
terrible trials of the adventurous Jonah.

No. 2. Two frowsy deer in a glass case. These were in a passage
upstairs. The attitude of these animals reminds you of the
well-known Psalm: ‘As pants the hart for cooling streams.’

No. 3. A mangy marsupial, probably from Australia. This
interesting specimen is near the frowsy deer. The skin of this
creature, which in every respect, bar building nests and laying
eggs, is a connecting link between the sheep and the ostrich,
cannot fail to impress the thoughtful visitor that moth and
rust corrupt the treasures which we lay up for ourselves on
earth.

A special catalogue of this interesting and valuable collection has not previously been printed. The council of the institution are at liberty to reprint my notes in full. Although I have written the catalogue from memory, I must say that I have often had greater difficulty in remembering the contents of a shark’s stomach. I trust that there are no mistakes.

When I meet the gentleman who sent me through the rain to interview these treasures, it would be well if he had either a suit of armour, or else a bottle of arnica, or other preparation for the relief of bruises.

From Invercargill we went by train to Kingston, on Lake Wakatipu. The whole journey was, on account of the drizzly, mizzly, foggy, sleety, snowy weather, a failure. The Alps of New Zealand in summer-time may be enjoyable, but in winter they are about as enjoyable as the Arctic regions. Polar bears might like the trip, but it was even too much for Scotchmen. The first part of the journey was over swampy brown plains. Here and there are a few farms and furze fences. The bush we saw was of a very scraggy second-class description. The trees were stunted, weather-beaten, covered with moss, and half dead. Beneath them was a tangle of impenetrable scrub. Mixed in with the latter are tangles of a vine-like plant called a lawyer, the underside of the leaves of which are fish-hook-like thorns. It looks innocent, but it is a fearful plant when it seizes you. I can’t say more, or the profession might institute an action for libel. The only cheering sight in the murky landscape was the yellow bushes of furze. There was also a little pleasure derived from the absence of the monotonous Australian gums. At a place called Lumsden, big mountains came in sight, the more distant of which were white with snow. With the exception of a tropical-looking plant called a cabbage palm, the trees had disappeared. On the hillsides we saw thousands of rabbits. At one small station we saw a professional rabbiter with a pack of some twenty dogs, and a horse loaded with rabbit-skins. A rabbiter may get about twopence for each rabbit-skin. In the market these skins are worth from 1s. to 1s. 10d. per lb., and there are about eight skins to a pound. At one station of 80,000 acres near Lumsden, they employed about 500 dogs, and caught about 300,000 rabbits per year. The total export of rabbit-skins from New Zealand amounts to several millions per year. In 1881, 8,514,685 skins, valued at £84,744, were exported.

On the day the first rabbit was let loose in this part of the country, a great dinner was given to commemorate the successful introduction of this useful little animal. Shortly after this a law was passed for the protection of Bunny, whereby it was enacted that any person shooting a rabbit should be fined--I think Mac said £20. Now the law is that the man who does not shoot Bunny, but protects and cherishes him, is the person who is fined. Half the time of the Colonial legislators is spent in considering how Bunny shall be dealt with. This year the Queensland Government made a special appropriation of £100,000 to carry on the rabbit warfare. As a war was imminent with Russia, the same Government considered that the taxation might be increased £90,000. How indignant Russians ought to feel if they knew that they had to play second fiddle to a parcel of rabbits. But what is to be done with Bunny? Bunny in the Colonies is different to Bunny in the home country. In the Colonies he can climb walls, run up hollow trees, and swim creeks. Instead of breeding like the proverbial rabbit, he changes his home habits and breeds all the year round. He begins when he is six months old, and continues until he dies.

Any respectable rabbit ought to be ashamed of such a family tree.

One small army of rabbits having started, they breed larger and larger armies at an increasing rate, which advance like a browsing herd.

‘The rabbits are coming’ is a more alarming cry for the owners of a station than any cry about a Russian invasion.

In the Cape a question about the vine grub (Phylloxera) threw out a Government. Rabbits not legislated for would throw out forty Governments in the Colonies. The Rabbit Nuisance Act of New Zealand is against poor Bunny, but protects tiger-cats, stoats, ferrets, the mongoose, native cats, and other vermin, the value of which is doubtful.

In some districts foxes have been introduced to destroy rabbits, but it is found that Reynard very quickly develops a taste for young sheep. Weasels and the ichneumon (mongoose) have also been tried, but it is feared that they may increase like the rabbits, and it is known that weasels, when in numbers, will even sometimes attack men and horses. In the Auckland district rabbits have died out partly by natural causes, a disease called tuberculosis having broken out amongst them. This has led to the idea that a few rabbits might be inoculated with an infectious disease, and then turned loose. Pasteur might be consulted on this point. One way of getting them out of their holes is to smoke them out with the fumes of certain chemicals ejected by a fan. The ordinary methods of destruction are, to use phosphorized oats (which unfortunately kill pheasants and other valuable game), to trap, to hunt with dogs, and to shoot. To keep back an approaching invasion, wire-netting partly sunk obliquely in the ground has proved good, and Government and private individuals have put up lengths of such barricading only comparable with the Great Wall of China.

We expected to find Kingston, as it was described in a trade report by an American consul, a flourishing little township. All that we did find was a solitary house, on the edge of a black-looking lake, surrounded by precipitous mountains covered with snow. This house was the hotel. Of course there were no visitors. New Zealanders are wiser than strangers. At Queenstown, which you reach by a small steamer, the accommodation is much better. But still, even if you had the Palace Hotel from San Francisco, Lake Wakatipu is not the place for weather such as we had. The scenery of ragged peaks whitewashed with snow, and black cliffs frowning upon a blacker lake, may be fine in summer weather, but it was sufficient to make us fly away from it at the first opportunity. At the Kingston end of the lake, there are to be seen some very remarkable terrace formations marking the ancient level of the lake. These are cut in glacial moraine, indicating that Wakatipu at one time may have been the basin of a huge glacier.

In returning, at Lumsden we branched off across the Waiwea Plains, on a private line. The ground over which we ran was for the most part flat and uncultivated. To the right and left there were snow-clad hills. We were now on the way to Dunedin. The farther we went the more cultivated became the country. There were no forests. All was laid out in fields, and much of the ground had been turned over by the plough. I suppose this was for wheat. As we went along the passengers continued to increase. Most of the men wore long leggings, and were very muddy. Although our companions were farmerish and muddy, I was told that some of them were very rich. Scotchmen can make money in any country. One old millionaire that I heard about was a ferryman. His name was Fergusson. Wet or fine, Fergusson was always at his post, ready to pass the time of day with a farmer’s wife, or to answer the ‘Hallo’ of a belated traveller. For a long time it was supposed that Fergusson was poor, and to add a copper or two, or even a shilling, to his usual fare was looked upon as quite the proper thing. Fergusson was always pleasant, and touched his hat to all who came. At last it got rumoured that every week the postman delivered a big envelope at Fergusson’s door, and there was a good deal of speculation as to what this correspondence was about. The big red seal on the envelope indicated that Fergusson’s business was important. This went on for two years, and Fergusson’s business was as great a secret as ever. But there is an end to all things, and so there was to the mystery of big envelopes. It seems that Fergusson could not read, and being as desirous of solving the secret of the envelopes as other people, he called in a friend. Shortly afterwards we heard that the weekly correspondence was Fergusson’s banking account. How many stations he owns we are afraid to say, but he still keeps the ferry. People call him Mr. Fergusson now. Some time before we reached Dunedin, a boy passed through the carriages, and collected our names to be telegraphed ahead for the Dunedin papers. It was a long ride of over twelve hours, and we were glad to find ourselves, about 8 p.m., once more back again in civilization.

The Rabbit Difficulty Explained.

Seeing and hearing so much about rabbits when in New Zealand made me anxious to discover the law or laws which governed their multiplication. When I was in the train on my way to Dunedin, I, MacTavish, and MacCallum More tried to investigate the question, but I am sorry to say that we signally failed. MacTavish tried to illustrate it with a pack of cards he carried, beginning by dealing out a king and queen to represent a pair of rabbits. Under each of these he would place six more cards to represent their offspring. But at this point a controversy arose as to how many should be males and how many females. But work as we would, we never seemed to have enough cards to illustrate the thing properly.

After an hour or two of argument, our ideas were so hopelessly entangled, that for relaxation MacCallum tried to teach us a game he called poker.

The rabbit question, however, was only dormant. At Dunedin we were told an intercolonial congress had sat upon the rabbit question. One outcome of their labours was to recommend the various Colonial Governments who had found it impossible to legislate against an enemy they did not understand, to offer a handsome sum to the first person who successfully placed the rabbit question on an intelligent basis.

The prize was won by a Mr. Macalister, a schoolmaster in Dunedin. His treatise on the subject, which is known as ‘The Bunnyian Calculus,’ has since been recommended as a text-book for the junior classes in the various Government schools.

We called on Mr. Macalister when in Dunedin, who, when he heard that we were interested in the important question to which he had devoted so much attention, gave us a pressing invitation to hear the children at their rabbit exercises.

‘Noo, sir,’ said he, ‘ye wad aiblins like to hear the laddie bairns dae their Bunnyian Calculus; it’s jist wonnerfu.’

We said we ‘aiblins would.’

‘Well, ye maun ken then,’ continued he, addressing himself, chalk in hand, to his blackboard, ‘that a guid deal depends on the assoumptions even in the exawct scieences. Ane is that the doe rabbit litters aucht times in the twalmonth; and anither, that her feemly consists o’ twa he and four she anes. Monnie mae assoumptions maun be made that it wadna jist a’ thegither dae to explain to the callants. Ho’someever, we’ll reckon the term o’ life to be sax years, and start wi ae bonnie winsome doe rabbit. It is evident there will be--

(1 + 4) she rabbits at the end of the first term.
(1 + 4)² ” ” ” ” second term.
(1 + 4)⁴⁸ ” ” ” ” sax years.

Here we should soobtrawct ane, for the auld doe will e’en noo dee, while the first four o’ her offspring’ll be hirplin, and maun be deducted at the end o’ the next term, belike. But as we maun ca’ cannie wi’ the bairns, an’ no ding them doited a’ thegither, we’ll just pay no kind of attention whatever to the deed anes; for weel I wat, it maks sma’ difference in the result, those that dee by natural means, and won’t affect the first few significant figures. Nae doot ye see, that it’s jist compownd interest payable aucht times in the twalmonth, and if we further aloo’ for the deed anes, that is exactly as if a brokerage, as it were, were soobtrawcted at the end o’ each payment after the aucht and twa score. I’ll just show ye the exact formula wi’ r for the number o’ she rabbits and R: r the ratio of total rabbits to she ones at a litter, n being the number o’ years that elawpsed.’

And consulting his book, this is what he wrote on another board:

R
N = ---(1 + r)⁸ⁿ⁻¹ [(1 + r){(1 + r)⁴⁸ - 8n - 1} + 8n]
r

with the most evident satisfaction, and artistically chalking the whirrlies with the greatest care. It gave me a twinge of toothache, I must say.

He then completed his numerical example, saying:

‘At the end o’ a score o’ years the number of rabbits descended frae one doe is

6
N = ---(1 + 4)¹⁶⁰
4
= 684 × 10¹¹².’

‘No wonder,’ says my friend to me, who seemed to understand it--‘aiblins,’ ‘hirplin,’ ‘doited,’ and all--‘no wonder the Society for the Protection of Rabbits congratulated themselves; and,’ he added, ‘all the unnatural ways since tried to decrease these rabbits don’t affect the practical result either.’

All the time Macalister’s demonstration had gone on, Mac and I were giving significant nods, and grunting assent to all he said.

‘Noo,’ says Macalister, ‘the children will do a few practical exercises.’

We were rather tired, and, as it was nearly one o’clock, somewhat hungry; but not wishing to offend the scholar, we said we were delighted.

‘Jock,’ said he, pointing to the board, ‘hoo mony muckle is that?’

‘Six hundred and eighty-four,’ said the boy.

‘Sax hunner an auchty-four, my braw bairn; but whaat? Tell me whaat? dinna be blate and skirl a’ thegither.’

With that each child drew a long breath, clutched the back of a bench, shut his eyes, and began, ‘Of millions of millions of millions of millions of millions,’ as if they were never going to stop.

Suddenly the schoolmaster lifted his hand, and the noise ceased.

‘How many times did ye say millions of millions of millions?’ asked the teacher.

‘Five score and twelve times,’ was the answer.

‘Quite correct, you see,’ said Macalister. ‘It’s only an application of the formula. The rabbits which die don’t affect the answer.’

It was now one o’clock, and Mac was shuffling his feet to get away.

‘Just one more problem,’ said Macalister; and before we had time to make any excuse about catching our steamer, Macalister said to the school: ‘With the same conditions as before, assume that Captain Cook had landed a pair of rabbits in New Zealand instead of a pair of pigs, how many would there now be in the country? Before stating the answer, half of you can go to your dinners, but mind and be back by two o’clock.’

Half the school had no sooner gone than the remainder of the children commenced saying, ‘Millions of millions of millions of millions,’ in a monotonous sort of rhythm. When they were going to stop we could not tell.

At two o’clock those who had been to their dinner came back, and as they dropped into their places struck up the millions of millions tune. The detachment who had commenced the answer, being in this way relieved, retired to their dinners.

‘It’s a gey lang answer,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘isn’t it?’ Mac looked black. ‘Better take a seat; you will appreciate the children’s intelligence much better.’

It was then close on three o’clock, and still the children kept on singing ‘Millions of millions of millions.’

‘Wonderful children,’ I remarked. ‘How many more times will they say “Millions of millions of millions”?’ I inquired.

‘Oh,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘the number of times they will say it will be millions of millions of millions of millions of millions.’

Mac looked furious. Millions of millions of millions. ‘The old fool’s mad,’ he whispered.

‘Civility costs nothing,’ I replied; ‘his tongue will get tired in time.’

But still the schoolmaster kept repeating, ‘Millions of millions of millions.’

‘Ask him how many years he will be before he gets to the end of his answer?’

As it was now four o’clock, and the lamps were being lighted, I ventured to ask the schoolmaster how many days it would be before he had finished his answer.

His face lighted up with a smile, and he said, ‘Well, perhaps in millions of millions of millions of millions,’ and there he was off again.

‘How many years will it be before the children have finished?’ I broke in.

‘Oh, in millions of millions of millions,’ he again went on.

‘Well, then, we’ll come and hear some more of the answer to-morrow,’ said Mac.

‘Thank you very much for your entertainment, Mr. Macalister; your children are very intelligent, and so are you. Good-bye, Mr. Macalister, good-bye.’ But said I, at the door, ‘What were the other assumptions you alluded to?’

‘Well, well,’ says he, ‘these rabbits maun hae nae haevings at a’, sic as scruples o’ conscience or regard to the laws o’ the Kirk o’ Scotland.’

The landlord of our hotel was delighted when he heard that we had interviewed Macalister on the rabbit question. Some of the members of the legislature who have not been blessed with the gift of the gab have found the schoolmaster’s calculations quite valuable. When they want to block proceedings one of them asks a question about rabbits. It doesn’t matter much what it is. How many tons of phosphorus will it require to clear the rabbits out of New Zealand? How many tons of grass do the rabbits in New Zealand eat every year? How many rabbits would it take to fill the Pacific Ocean? Anything will do.

No sooner is the question asked, than up jumps a member, and from an equation in the Bunnyian Calculus, which he shows to be correct, begins to say ‘Millions of millions of millions,’ until everybody has left the house.

They have now brought forward a Bill compelling those who speak on rabbits to express time intervals as geological periods.

After our experiences at Dunedin, Mac and I were cautious when we asked questions about the rabbit plague.

Dunedin is a fine city, and is in every way creditable to its founders. It is certainly hilly, but these difficulties are overcome with tramcars moved by an underground wire rope similar to that which has been for so many years successfully used in San Francisco. The banks and churches are of course noticeable, and so are the shops.

At the meeting of four streets in the centre of the town, there is a miniature of Sir Walter Scott’s monument in Edinburgh. This is to the memory of a Mr. Cargill, an energetic gentleman and pioneer in the earlier days of Dunedin.

On the night of our arrival we were entertained with a torchlight procession, and the howlings of the Salvation Army.

At the Museum Mac and I had our first interview with the remains of the moa. We saw some of their feathers, and a mummified larynx of one of these animals. I am not sure whether the moa could sing, but anyhow he had a larynx. What was more, he had a gizzard. In one corner of a glass case there were about a coal-scuttleful of white pebbles, which had been removed from the gizzard of a moa. The moa had therefore a taste for mineralogy.

‘We shall get some valuable facts about this animal before we have done,’ remarked Mac.

Then, turning to the director of the Museum, who kindly accompanied us round the show, he blandly inquired whether the moa ever attacked travellers.

‘It is an extinct bird, sir,’ said the director, looking very much disgusted at Mac.

‘Oh, it’s extinct, is it?’ was the reply.

Birds are in great force in the Museum, especially the extinct ones. One blue-looking fellow, almost as big as a small goose, fetches £250 apiece at the British Museum.

Besides the birds there were the usual lot of stuffed sharks and whales which museums provide themselves with. I really believe that a good-sized whale is the best bit of furniture that can be bought for a juvenile museum. You get such a lot for your money, and it’s very attractive to visitors, especially to the nursemaids and children.

There was certainly enough in the Dunedin Museum to occupy a student for a lifetime, and the curator deserves great credit for what he has done towards educating the young New Zealanders about the animal kingdom. A New Zealander, if left to himself, must necessarily conclude that the inhabitants of the world, are few in number. All that New Zealand possessed prior to the introduction of ‘Captain Cook’ was a bat and a rat.

There are no snakes in the country, and if ever any man introduces one he is threatened with an immediate lynching. One felt inclined to tell the Iceland story when I heard that there were no snakes, but I judiciously refrained. It might make a New Zealander cross.

Another interesting place to visit is the University; but the best of all things is to take a ride in a tramcar to the top of one of the mountains, and have a look at the panorama of bay and island down below. Everywhere we went--to railway stations, to hotels, in trains or on trains--we were sure to see half a dozen people called Mac. This led my friend at every opportunity into conversation with his neighbours as to whether there were many Scotchmen in New Zealand.

‘Eh, no, mon; maybe thurs a wee sprinkle o’ Scotus,’ was a typical reply.

This always enabled Mac to tell them that was what he thought. He had been looking out for his countrymen, and was sorry to find that they were so poorly represented. One or two of the casual acquaintances saw the joke, and gently snorted.

We joined our ship at Port Chalmers, which is about eight miles’ ride in the train from Dunedin. Looking back, we saw the hills and valleys of the city we were leaving. One thing which was very striking, was the number of houses built on the top of the highest hills. Judging from the thousand-foot climb that the people who live in these houses must often indulge in, they cannot be very lazy. To live on a pinnacle is indicative of a romantic nature, and I thought Scotch folks were only practical.

At Port Chalmers we began to load up with passengers and assume the character of a coaster. The wharf was crowded, and so were our decks.

‘Good-bye, Mac. Tell Maggie I’ll be up by next boat.’ ‘Mind that hawser there.’ ‘Give my love to Charlie, and send me word how baby is,’ and a thousand other private communications, mixed up with the blustering of sailors, was what we heard. Then there was a lot of crying, and a great deal of kissing. Mac wanted to know how it was that the girls never kissed us when the steamer left.

At seven o’clock next morning, we were steaming between the high grassy hills, about 2,000 feet in height, which bound the harbour of Lyttelton. Everything looked big and grand. A passenger who had travelled said it looked like Madeira. Instead of trees there were a few patches of snow.

Lyttelton is a quiet little town on the side of a steep hill. From here you go by train to Christchurch. You are hardly out of the town before you drive into a tunnel, which is a mile or more in length. Before making this tunnel, which cost a fabulous sum of money, the good folks of Christchurch could only reach their harbour by climbing the high hills, which we saw as we steamed into Lyttelton. These hills consist of volcanic rock, and the driving of the tunnel through them proved that they were not so solid as they appeared, for here and there large cavernous spaces were met with.

On emerging at the other side, we were amongst the green fields and furze fences of the famous Canterbury Plains. Christchurch is a large town conducted on strictly moral principles. Its streets are wide and numerous. Notwithstanding the existence of steam-trams, good shops, and a fair amount of traffic, it appeared to be dull. Perhaps it was the general flatness which created this impression. The only shop which had unusual attractions was an establishment for the sale of music and musical instruments. It seemed to contain everything, from a Jew’s harp to a church organ. It must be a musical depôt for the Colonies.

Christchurch has many churches and a cathedral. From the spire of the latter, which you are allowed to ascend on paying a shilling, an extensive view of this portion of New Zealand may be obtained.

The pride of the place is, however, the Museum, which is reckoned by its energetic curator, Dr. Von Haast, to rank amongst the best in the world. It is certainly the best museum within a radius of many thousands of miles. It contains something of everything, from the autograph of Nelson to a sewing-machine. There is a fine gallery of paintings and statuary. Antiquities, from mummies to mediæval armour, galleries of geological specimens, rooms full of birds and stuffed animals, other chambers filled with bones, a Maori house chock-a-block with Maori treasures, and finally a room full of moas. In the Moa room we met a Chinaman.

‘Good-morning, John,’ said Mac; ‘you live at Christchurch?’

‘No, I come this side all samee you; my wantchee see moa. S’pose can catchee moa, can catchee plenty dolla.’