CHAPTER XXV.
BEWILDERING NEW SURROUNDINGS—THE MAORI DRAGON—BREAKFAST AT WAIROA—THE MISSION-HOUSE—THE HOT LAKE—WHITE TERRACES—SULPHUR AND MUD VOLCANOES—AN UNJUST CLAIM RESISTED—CHAMPIONS FROM THE ANTIPODES.
IN A TINY TENT NEAR THE WHITE TERRACES, ROTOMAHANA, _Tuesday Night, April 3, 1877_.
Now indeed I have found a land of wonders, such as, I fancy, has no equal, unless perhaps in the volcanic region of Hawaii, which, from all descriptions, must stand pre-eminent.[54] But all that I have seen here is truly amazing, and much as I had heard of it, the reality far surpasses my expectations. It is heaven and hell in alternate glimpses, so marvellous are some beauties, so dread the horrors.
I can hardly persuade myself that it is only four days since I left Tauranga, so infinitely varied are all the new impressions which hour by hour have crowded upon me. I seem to have lived in a bewildering maze of steam and steam-power gone mad—columns of steam puffing up from every bush, steam roaring as though all the engines in Europe were bellowing and snorting simultaneously, or steam rising in quiet mists and wreaths as it is now doing even in this tiny tent which the Maoris pitched for us on what they knew to be one of the very few safe spots. Yet even here the steam is rising through the ground; the sheet of American cloth, which I laid beneath my blanket, is wrinkled like the hands of a washer-woman, though our tent is floored with thick layers of fern and _manukau_, and the paper on which I am writing is quite damp, as is all my drawing-paper.
We have stood by to watch volcanoes being created, and then as quickly destroyed—volcanoes of mud and volcanoes of sulphur; we have watched geysers of every sort, active and quiescent, playing in green pools and in blue pools; and, above all, we have walked up and down, all over the wondrous marble stairways, till their loveliness has become a familiar thing; and oh, wonderful new sensation! new possibility in luxury! we have bathed in those perfect marble baths, selecting from among a thousand, the very pool of the exact temperature and depth that seemed most pleasant, and therein have lain rejoicing like true Maoris, till we ourselves were coated with a thin film of silica from the flinty water, so that we feel like satin, a delight to ourselves.
It is so strange to look out from this little tent and see clouds of white steam continually curling up from the thicket of dark _manukau_ scrub which lies between us and the blue lake, on the other side of which rise more dark hills, and another flight of terraces, not quite so large as these white ones, near which our tent is pitched, but in some respects even more beautiful. They are called the pink terraces, but are really of a pale salmon colour. You cannot think how lovely they are by moonlight! At the base of these pink terraces there is a great sulphur-volcano, which tinges all the land and water near it of a clear lemon colour. And from all the dark hills on every side rise columns of white steam, telling us how thin is the crust which divides us from the wonderful laboratory down below. Everything is so new and strange that I hardly know what to tell you first. Perhaps I had better begin in detail from the beginning.
I left Ohinemutu at 6 A.M. on Monday morning, and a coach-and-four brought me fourteen miles over a road (if I may so call it) like the bed of the wildest mountain torrent. How any springs in the world can stand it I cannot imagine. We passed Lakes Tikitapa, Roto Rua, and Roto Kahahi (the blue lake and the lake of shells).
Lake Tikitapa, which is overshadowed by steep wooded hills, is the scene of an old Maori legend, which tells how Tu-whare-toa, the St George of New Zealand, here did battle with Taniwha, the great dragon, which he conquered, but did not slay, only stipulating that it should thenceforth live quietly at the bottom of the lake. So now the only sign of life it gives is occasionally to trouble the dead calm of the deep blue waters, which rise in crested waves; and strangers think that this is the work of the mountain breeze, but the Maoris know that Taniwha is turning over restlessly, weary of his long captivity.
We reached Wairoa in time to breakfast at a comfortable well-kept little hotel, the present landlord of which is an Irish gentleman of good family—son of a general in her Majesty’s army. I sat at breakfast beside a private of the armed constabulary, in whom I recognised a member of one of the best old families in Suffolk. But having already found my coachman of the morning to be an agreeable and well-informed Oxford man, the son of an English vicar, who, like many another gentleman out here, has had his share of life’s ups and downs, I began to realise that I have reached a new world, in which every man must sink or swim on his own merits, or his own luck, as the case may be, but wholly irrespective of that of his forefathers.
In the village of Wairoa a deserted church and school still stand to tell of the zeal of the early converts, whose Christianity proved as evanescent as the morning dew. At the outbreak of the war, they hanged one of their pastors, Mr Volkner; and the resident clergyman had to fly for his life.
Once more I have had the good fortune to find myself in the position of friend’s friend, for I had scarcely finished breakfast when Mr Way (to whom Mr Edgecumbe had written about me) came to escort me to his pretty home, the pleasant old mission station, now, alas! no longer used in its former capacity, but still held by a member of the family. For Mrs Way was a daughter of the house, born and bred here, loving both place and people, and marking with bitter pain the change that has crept over them since evil white influence has worked as a poisonous leaven to overthrow all the good that Christian teachers had so patiently striven to instil, with apparently such good result.
Greatly to my delight, Mrs Way volunteered to accompany me to the lakes, and to take with her a small tent, in which we might sleep for two or three nights. She herself speaks Maori like a native; and she has brought with her a dear old Maori nurse, who has been with her from her childhood, and who does our cooking. She also took a share in paddling our canoe.
Great was the noise and hubbub which arose when the Maoris learned that we purposed going in a different canoe to that which they had already determined on sending. No other travellers had arrived that morning, and so the whole village was contending for the fleecing of this one lamb. Horrible was the din which ensued. A happy thought at length struck Mrs Way. She determined to draw lots who should accompany us, and the novelty of the proceeding at once restored amity, and a pleasant set of cheery good-natured lads fell to our lot. They were all delighted with fate’s decision, though well aware that my companion would allow no rum in her canoe. The rum is an objectionable feature, which is insisted on as an extra in all canoes engaged at the hotel, and which does not tend to improve the efficiency of the crew. The Maoris of the district have been so thoroughly spoilt by the English, that they are now rapacious to a degree, and well it is for me that I have Mrs Way to protect me. I was much amused to hear the Maoris all address her by her Christian name—the natural result of having all grown up together since childhood.
The canoes are of the rudest description—merely a tree hollowed out—and, not being balanced by any outrigger, they are peculiarly liable to overturn on the shortest notice. The large canoes carry fourteen or fifteen persons sitting single file—two paddles for each passenger. We had a row of about eight miles across Lake Tarawara, a very beautiful lake at the foot of a mountain of the same name—a truncated cone of bare rock 2000 feet high, and so singularly symmetrical that it needs small imagination to behold in it the form of a vast tumulus; for it is the place of burial of the Arawa tribe, and is held so sacred that no traveller is allowed to set foot on it: the Maoris themselves consider it strictly _tapu_.
The lake is about five miles wide by seven in length. Its rocky shores are fringed with fine old trees, and the whole scenery is delightful. We passed close by a rock where custom demands that tribute be paid to the Atua or guardian spirit of the lake, to insure fair weather. It is an easily pleased spirit, for our offerings were only scraps of our luncheon; nevertheless, the weather has continued perfect—no trifling matter on such an expedition as this.
At the further side we ascended a creek with rapids, where we found the water quite warm; and in a few minutes we reached the hot lake, which lies about 900 feet above the level of the sea. I am told that many people say that their first feeling on arriving here is one of grievous disappointment. This, I confess, is to me incomprehensible, for though the general scenery round Rotomahana is not specially striking, it is certainly not ugly; and though the surrounding hills are only clothed with dark scrubby vegetation, they are relieved by countless wreaths of white vapour, marking the site of innumerable boiling springs and terraces, and suggesting the points of infinite interest, which lie hidden on every side.
The lake itself is very small—not a mile long, and less than half that width; and though it appears blue enough when seen from the land, its waters are turbid and greenish, and no fish or other creatures live in it, as you can well imagine, the boiling springs being as active below its surface as on its shores. But an immense number of wild-fowl of many sorts breed here, and are jealously preserved by the Maoris, who during the breeding season will not allow a canoe to pass up the creek, and under no circumstances will suffer a gun to be fired here. They do not, however, object to snaring, and the wild duck are so numerous that they are easily captured. Oyster-catchers also abound, as do also the Pukeho, a large and very handsome blue bird with scarlet head and feet.
On entering the lake, we found ourselves at the foot of the white marble terraces, which the Maoris call Te Tarata. I confess I quite despair of being able, by any words, to give you such a description as will enable you to form a true idea of their dreamlike beauty. They are in nature what the Taj Mahal at Agra is in architecture,—a thing indescribable—a fairy city of lace carved in pure marble,—a thousand waterfalls suddenly frozen and fringed with icicles. Perhaps you will best picture it to yourself as a steep hillside, artificially terraced so as to form hundreds of tiny fields—flooded rice-fields, such as we see in mountainous parts of India, and elsewhere; but the stone-work enclosing and sustaining each little lake is of white marble, fringed with stalactites resembling the most creamy-white coral, which, if it escapes the barbarous hands of tourists, should grow more beautiful year by year, as the ever-trickling water drips over it. So rapid is the deposit, that fern-leaves and sticks which drop into the water are in a few days so thickly incrusted, that they look as if they had been crystallised by a confectioner; and sometimes a dead bird falls in, and is apparently petrified while its flesh is still quite fresh.
So there are feathers and ferns enough to supply travellers with harmless mementoes, if only they would be content with these; but I regret to say that the method of proving the rapidity of this deposit which finds most favour with the snobs of all nations, is that of writing their names in pencil on the smooth porcelain surface, where, within a few hours, it is rendered indelible by a thin transparent coating of silica. One crime against good taste leads to another; and some ugly scars on the fair white surface show where curiosity hunters have taken the trouble to cut out and appropriate certain names of note.
To our shame be it spoken, this practice has called forth a grave rebuke from the Maoris, who have had a notice printed, in English, imploring visitors to abstain from defacing the beautiful terraces, either by writing their names or by breaking off stalactites, the slow deposit of ages.
The total height of the white terraces is only about 150 feet, and the width at the base about 300 feet; but the amount of beauty of detail crowded into this space defies description. While some of the terraces are so deep and bold as to suggest marble battlements of fairy citadels, others resemble gigantic clam-shells, filled to the brim with the most exquisite blue water, sometimes tinged with violet, which, as it drips from the lip of the shell, forms a deep fringe of the loveliest stalactites, generally pure white, but sometimes tinged with other colours. Each great shell-like bath partly overhangs the one below it, so that in some the bather can find shelter from the sun beneath this wonderful canopy with its dripping gems. All the lovely forms of frost crystals are here produced in enduring material, which alternately suggests rare mosses and fine lace-work, all alike carved in white alabaster.
The source of all this beauty is a large boiling pool, situated about 150 feet above the lake. It is about 30 feet in diameter, and lies in a crater of about 260 feet in circumference, enclosing it on three sides with steep reddish cliffs, while on the fourth side, whence the marble terraces descend to the lake, there is a rocky island about 12 feet high, which seems to suggest that the walls of the crater may once have formed a complete circle, and have gradually been decomposed by the action of steam. By watching the ebb and flow of the boiling waves, it is generally possible to reach this island and look into the water-crater. Here, from unfathomable depths, wells a fountain of the most exquisite turquoise blue, and through the crystalline waters you discern the coral-like border which fringes both the inner and outer lip of the great porcelain basin which lines the crater.
When the wind blows from the south, the water sinks far down into the depths of the crater, and then, instead of the ordinary cream colour, the dazzling whiteness of the basin, and of the whole series of terraces, is like that of driven snow. At such times you can look right down the funnel, which measures about eight feet across: its sides are smooth, and as perpendicular as the shaft of a well. But such a sight cannot be obtained without risk; for occasionally, without a moment’s notice, a vast column of water shoots far into the air, with a tremendous explosion, and the whole stairway becomes the bed of one wide waterfall. Generally, however, it is pretty safe to venture while the wind is southerly. But so soon as it changes, the water rises at the rate of three or four feet in an hour, heaving and roaring as it does so, till at length it shoots heavenward in a dazzling column sixty feet high and above twenty in diameter, and descends in blue ripples which overflow the terraces. The ordinary condition of the pool is tolerably equable, and only a slight upheaval of the centre, like that of a boiling, bubbling pot, marks it as a geyser. Its temperature is about 210° Fahr.; but the water gradually cools in its descent, and the basins near the level of the lake are comparatively cool. So this wonderful series of shell-shaped baths are not only of all sizes and depths, but also of every shade of temperature; and the height of luxury in bathing is to revel in each by turn, increasing in warmth as you approach the summit, or decreasing as you descend towards the lake.
Half the charm of these natural baths consists in the exquisite colour of the water, which is a chemical turquoise blue, so vivid that it is even reflected on the cloud of white steam which for ever rises from the crater. The tone of the sky has no influence whatever in imparting this hue, which never varies, and looks strangely incongruous with a primrose or daffodil sunset, or when, as this morning, the grey clouds were flushed with rose-colour, but not a bit of blue was in the sky. Perhaps I may best describe the colour as cobalt dissolved in milk, but then it is perfectly transparent, and in some pools the water is tinged with amethyst, in others it is like liquid opals. I am quite at a loss to account for these varied colours, as all the pools are filled from one source, and the lovely cream-coloured basins in which the water lies are all formed by the continual deposit from the water itself.
I think the most plausible theory I have heard suggested as to the formation of these terraces is, that before the wall of the crater gave way, and allowed the imprisoned waters to escape, the hillside was clothed with the same scrub of dark _ti_ tree or _manukau_ and fern as covers all the country round; but as year by year the fluid flint flowed over and incrusted it, the whole became the basis for the series of pools, irregular in shape, size, and depth as we now behold them. You can imagine readily enough how a shrub like a gigantic heather-bush, thus bent forward by the pressure of water, would eventually become the rim of a very deep pool, in which swimmers would find ample room to move, while reeds and ferns would form only a shallow basin,—a fit bath for children. This theory, too, would account for the lip of some basins being smooth, or like a coil of rope carved in marble, while others are in just such clusters of stalactite as might be formed were a huge _manukau_ bush the foundation on which the deposit was commenced. So delicate and apparently brittle is this nature-carved lace-work, that at first I felt compelled to tread lightly so as not to injure it; but I soon saw that this caution was needless, so I now reserve all my care to avoid stepping unnecessarily into the hot pools. I need scarcely tell you that such walking as this makes short work of the strongest boots!
With the rashness of a “new chum” (which is the colonial term to express a very green new arrival), I determined to ascend to the red cliff overlooking the crater, much to the disgust of the Maori who had taken charge of me, and whose experience had taught him a wholesome dread of the thin treacherous crust over which we had to climb. Finding his remonstrances were vain, he contented himself with cutting branches of brushwood with which to cover the most doubtful spots on which we had to tread. This acted in the same manner as huge Canadian snow-shoes, in diminishing the risk of the thin crust of soil giving way beneath our footsteps. But certainly the peril is greater than I at first realised; for the whole rock is so undermined and disintegrated by the perpetual action of subterranean steam, that there is always danger of its crumbling away on the slightest pressure. When I rejoined Mrs Way, she heard my guide tell his companions that it was now their turn to escort the rash white woman, but that he would not risk his life again by accompanying her on such expeditions.
It seems that not long ago a gentleman persisted in thus exploring, though the Maoris positively refused to follow him. In a very few minutes a patch of apparently firm grass gave way, and he sank up to the waist; most fortunately it proved to be only a steam-hole. However, it was a sufficient warning, and he was happily able to scramble out by himself, and quickly retraced his steps.
It was difficult to turn away from anything so fascinating as the fairy-like white terraces; but my companion told me of other wonders in store. So she led me by a narrow path through the low gloomy bush, with countless boiling springs bubbling and steaming on every side of us,—some so veiled by overhanging ferns as to be dangerously invisible, while others throw up jets of water which at certain seasons attain a height of from thirty to forty feet—their steam, of course, rising far higher. One of these forms a small, clear, sea-green lake, which it lashes into boiling waves—literally boiling—and ceaselessly breaking on the shore in white foam. The temperature of the pool is 210° Fahr.
A few steps farther our path lay along a high ridge of rock, not two feet wide, separating two water-craters. In one lies a dark indigo-coloured pool, from which rises an upright column of dazzling white; while on the other side the water shoots out in a horizontal jet. Both are intermittent, and they play alternately. The colour of the volcanic rocks at that point is wonderful. The most vivid metallic gold, chrome yellow, green, brown, and red, appear mingled as in some strange patchwork, and the whole is traversed by myriad golden tubes of crystallised sulphur, through which the scalding steam issues in little white puffs.
The noise of all these roaring fountains was something deafening,—vulgarly suggestive of a crowded railway junction, with high-pressure engines puffing and blowing on every side. Each moment we were enveloped in clouds of steam which hid everything from our view; and in places the fumes of sulphur almost choked us. Occasionally there was a pause—a moment of awful silence, followed by a subterranean rumbling of sulphureous gases, and then came a deafening explosion. It was a weird scene, yet so fascinating in its horror that only the recollection of how much there was still to see urged us onward.
There are other geysers scattered all over the hill, each having its own Maori name, which is generally descriptive—such as “the sighing fountain,” “the quiet pool,” “the long water,” &c. Some spout three or four times a-day, others at regular intervals of so many minutes.
I believe there are about twenty-five terraces of the same sort as the one I have described to you—not on so large a scale, but still of some importance; and besides these there are an immense number of smaller ones in this immediate neighbourhood. Some of the geysers which produce these, occasionally throw up jets to the height of from twenty to thirty feet.
We halted a long time near an intermittent spring, which was playing in wild excitement, sometimes from one side of the basin, then the other, dashing its boiling waves against the enclosing rock walls with a mighty uproar. Sometimes for a few moments it seemed weary, and the clear transparent waters lay still and calm; then it uprose more turbulent than before, lashing itself into fury, and tossing up jets of solid water to a height of from twenty to thirty feet. Not far from this pool, there is a singular blowpipe on the side of the hill. It is only about a foot in diameter, but from it rushes a ceaseless column of steam, working at high-pressure, and shrieking like some distressed spirit.
Still hurrying on through the dark _manukau_ scrub, we next found ourselves beside a lake of half-cooled liquid grey mud, dotted all over with small mud volcanoes, each a perfect model of Vesuvius. From every cone issued puffs of white steam, shortly followed by a discharge of boiling clay, which, trickling down the cone, gradually increased its size. So liquid was the mud, that each miniature volcano was perfectly reflected in the pool.
On every side of us lay craters in which masses of thick boiling mud were being slowly upheaved—rising and falling with a dull muffled gurgle, and finally bursting in one huge bubble. It was a hideous sight, and gave me a more horrible feeling of repulsion than anything I ever remember. Dante might here have borrowed a new phase of horror for his ‘Inferno.’ The bare idea, that by the slipping of a foot one might be hopelessly engulfed in so appalling a tomb, was too dreadful, and I confess I turned away shuddering.
As we crossed a bed of dried-up cracked mud, our footsteps echoed as if the ground below was hollow, and it gave me a thrill of horror to think where we might land if that thin crust should give way! All the ground hereabouts is just steaming mud, but there are diversities in the degrees of horror. One mud-pool differs essentially from another. Many of them throw out a greasy clay of an ashen grey hue, which the Maoris eat with the greatest relish, not merely to appease hunger, but as a delicacy. A greedy man will swallow a pound weight of this edible clay immediately after a very good meal, and seems none the worse of his peck of dirt. Other mud-pools are full of dark slime, almost as black as pitch, and very hot: it is these which gurgle and burst in huge bubbles. Others, again, throw up enormous lumps of soft black mud, which fall back, to be again thrown up, as if the earth-spirits were indulging in a grim game at ball.
Though bewildered by the clouds of steam which encompassed us on every side, we still pressed on, but in a few moments were brought to a standstill by so deafening a roar that no thunder-crash you ever heard could equal it. It proceeded from a deep fissure in the rocks, whence rose blinding clouds of steam. We approached this Devil’s Caldron as near as we dared, not able to hear a word either of us uttered; then, fairly stupefied, we turned away, thankful for the power of flight, and agreeing that we had surely been standing at the very mouth of hell.
Two minutes later we paused beside a perfectly cold calm green lake. Its water, though not clear, is green in itself, and, moreover, reflects the green scrub and ferns which clothe the encircling hills. It is not particularly pretty, but so very calm and peaceful that it contrasted wonderfully with the appalling scene of turmoil and noise we had just left.
Evening was now closing in, and it was time to think of supper, so retracing our steps past the horrible mud-lake, and threading our way cautiously among the craters, where we could hear the boiling mud giving great gulps (_wallops_ seems the only descriptive word), we emerged from the dark copse, and found ourselves on the shore of the lake just as the wonderful sunset tints shed their glory on the bare volcanic mountains round us, lending them a beauty not their own.
We found that the Maori lads had pitched our little tent and made all ready for the night, and that some previous traveller had here built a tiny hut, of which the men took possession as their own quarters. Old Mary had cooked our food in a boiling pool close by, using a flax basket (exactly like those you so commonly see in England) as her cooking-pot. Presently the lads lighted a fire, and formed a picturesque group on the edge of the lake, while we sat listening to the mingled sounds of the night,—the rush of steam from the larger and more distant springs, the bubbling of those close round, and the shrill cries of the wild-fowl.
It had been a day of new sensations, and full of interest from dawn till night. One more new experience remained, on which good old Mary strongly insisted—namely, that we should bathe in a pool of warm liquid mud. It is an artificially-constructed tank on the edge of the lake, to which the Maoris have brought water from a boiling spring by a small conduit. The old woman led the way cautiously along a path beset with dangers even in broad daylight. Finding the bath too hot, she dashed away the surface water, when we found the lower portion comparatively cool, whence we inferred that the water of the sulphureous hot spring must be lighter than that of the lake.
Though not inviting to the eye, we found our mud-bath so enjoyable that it was with the utmost reluctance we at length left it, and plunged into the cold lake to avoid any fear of chill. It was very calm and beautiful in the quiet moonlight. The night air was keen, and we were glad of all our warm wraps, though the steam which stole up through the ground below us must have somewhat warmed the tent.
The Maoris have the greatest faith in mud-baths; and there are certain pools to which they bring their sick from far and near. Coming up the creek to Rotomahana, we passed a native house built over a pool, in which a sick lad lives permanently. He was carried there several months ago, suffering from some aggravated hip-disease, and experienced considerable relief from lying in the water. But having been left there for some hours he very naturally fainted on being removed, so his kindred resolved to keep him permanently in the water, and there he has lain week after week, and will probably remain until he dies.
At early dawn this morning we started in the canoe in search of fresh wonders, leaving the tent and our goods to take care of themselves. We took most of our food with us, but the men, having implicit trust in the honesty of all Maoris, left a piece of mutton, which Mrs Way had given them, to cook itself in a boiling spring, and on their return they found it had been stolen, contrary to all custom.
We rowed first to the little isle Puai, part of which is actually a small volcano, and the rest soft mud and fissured rock, through which the steam comes hissing and puffing: nevertheless the existence of a small native hut shows that some travellers have selected this dangerous spot for their night-quarters. It certainly has the advantage of commanding a capital view all round; and as we looked back to our own camping-ground we saw the dark mountains veiled by a thousand columns of white steam, which also rose from the surface of the lake, mingling with the wreaths of morning mist. Had time allowed we might have visited fresh groups of geysers, terraces, fumaroles, and solfataras. As it was, we devoted the morning to the pink terraces, which, I think, would be the most fascinating place for camping, though the Maoris prefer our site, as offering superior culinary advantages. But such vulgar considerations would be outweighed by the charm of having perfect command, at all hours, of this, the very queen of all baths, and also by the beauty of the general view of the lake from the hill overlooking this terrace.
This flight of marble basins differs from the others in that they have none of the sharp coral-like stalactites which, while they so greatly enhanced the beauty of the white terraces, do detract somewhat from the comfort of bathing in them, especially to foolish people who, like myself, cannot swim, and so dare not venture into the deeper pools. The pink terrace has no such drawback, its marble being so polished that you may walk barefooted over it, or strike yourself against the curved edges of the basins without the slightest discomfort. Rock and water are alike smooth and warm and pleasant, and you can prolong the delight of the bath to any extent, passing from one pool to another, sometimes receiving a gentle shower as the sparkling drops trickle from the overhanging rim of a pool, perhaps eight or ten feet above you, or else lying still in passive enjoyment, and watching the changing lights that flit across lake and hill, and all the time the kindly water is coating you with a thin film of that silica which makes the bath so smooth and the bather so silky.
I wonder how it would pay to start a “Silica Bath Company” in London? We have certainly enough of flint in the old country, so silica cannot be lacking.
These salmon-coloured terraces are subject to the same variations as their white neighbours. They, too, are formed by a geyser which plays in a basin about sixty feet above the lake. This lovely blue pool is also encircled on three sides by high bare cliffs of many colours. The pool is nearly fifty feet in diameter, and is surrounded by a marble platform about twenty feet in width, where you can generally walk in safety, but are always liable to a sudden rise and overflow of boiling water. We walked all over the terraces dry-shod this morning, but later in the day they were flooded to the depth of five inches.
I got a large very careful drawing from the ridge overlooking these terraces, with our tent and the white terraces on the other side of the lake. From this point I observed a great cloud of primrose-coloured steam rising from a cone—so returning to the canoe, we rowed round to this spot, and found a large active volcano of the purest sulphur. The whole of the crater is pure yellow, and so are many of the rocks, and also the water of the lake for a considerable distance, making a strange foreground to the vivid blue of the distant lake and sky. In the afternoon we retraced much of the ground we went over yesterday, as of course I am anxious to secure drawings of some of the most striking scenes. One might work here for months and find strange new subjects every day. It certainly is not comfortable sketching-ground, as there are few spots where it would be possible to sit down, and it is no easy matter to hold a large block and work standing, even when a faithful Maori stands by to hold your colour-box. One man, Hémé, is very good and helpful, but the others rather hold aloof, being greatly awed by a number of their countrymen, who have arrived with other canoes, and are making themselves odious.
It seems that, at the instigation of a white man (who, for his own reasons, was anxious to curry favour with the Maoris), they have issued a printed notice, to the effect that no one shall take photographs in this district without paying them a tax of £5 for that privilege. From the first moment of my arrival at Wairoa, my sketching-blocks became a source of keen interest to the natives, who therein scented a possibility of extortion. From that moment they have returned to the attack again and again; and though, happily for me, they consider it useless to attack a stupid woman who cannot understand them, they have never ceased to annoy Mrs Way, whom they consider bound to take their part, and are very angry indeed because she tries to make them understand that water-colour painting and photography are distinct arts. They have decided that I ought, on the contrary, to pay them a larger sum, because the coloured drawings give a truer idea of the place, and must therefore be more valuable. It was quite in vain to suggest that the sight of these pictures would induce fresh visitors to come and spend their much-coveted gold in the district. This only added fresh fuel to the fire. They said it was certain I should make a fortune by showing those pictures in Auckland, perhaps even in Britain, while they, owners of the place, would have no share in the profits. Of course I was determined not to pay the money, both from a natural aversion to being done, and also because such a precedent would have settled the question, to the detriment of all future sketchers. But you can imagine the annoyance which these noisy talkers have caused us: happily they are all camped at the other side of the lake.
Now I am thoroughly tired, and am going to repeat the mud-bath of last night, and then turn in for a good night’s rest.
* * * * *
OLD MISSION STATION, WAIROA, _April 5_.
We were aroused at 4 A.M. by Mr Way, who had ridden all the distance from Wairoa to bring us a loaf of bread, and to announce the unexpected arrival at his house of a party of friends, who purposed joining us in the course of the day. He had waded across the creek at the head of the lake; and having thus provided us with breakfast, he returned to rejoin his party at home.
Being now thoroughly awake, and dear old Mary being equally so, we stole quietly out of the tent and went off to bathe at the white terraces. It was a lovely sunrise; the water was delicious—temptations to linger manifold. Altogether it was a good deal later than we thought, when we returned along the shore, gracefully draped in our plaids and blankets, but by no means fully attired. To my dismay I perceived a large party of Maoris assembled round our cooking-spring, and another canoe lying beside ours. Mary recognised the party as being with two Scotch gentlemen, who had arrived on the other side of the lake the previous day, and with whom we had fraternised by small exchanges of fish and bread, matches, and pepper and salt. Fortunately they had gone off to the mud volcanoes; so having dressed with all speed, we were able on their return to invite them to share our breakfast, just taken out of the hot spring. Their arrival was most opportune; for the Maoris, having talked themselves into great excitement, just then came up _en masse_ to inform Mrs Way that I must either at once pay them the coveted £5, or leave the place instantly. They were so very stormy and decided, that it would have been extremely unpleasant had we been alone. Happily the quiet determination of our new friends overawed them, and they fell back grumbling.
After this little episode we fell into home talk, and one of them asked me if I was any relation to Colonel G. C. of Auchintoul. On hearing I was his sister, he proceeded to tell me how, last year, he was fishing on the Deveron, and, much to his embarrassment, had hooked a seven-pound trout with a very light trout-line, when happily Colonel G. C. espied him, came to the rescue, and gaffed the fish. Strange, was it not, that Bill should have rescued a stranger from a wild fish in Banffshire, and that in the following season the fisher should come to the antipodes, just in time to rescue me from the wild Maoris! Thanks to this seasonable reinforcement, I was able to do a good deal of steady work for several hours.
In the course of the day, the other party of friends arrived, and included two ladies. Arthur Fisher also arrived. The day I left Tauranga he had been obliged to return to Kati Kati on business, which entailed a walk of forty miles. He walked back to Tauranga, which made forty more, before he was able to start on the actual trip to Rotomahana. Unfortunately he arrived so late that he had but a hurried glimpse of all the wonders.
Then we all started to row back here, and all the canoes raced down Lake Tarawara. It was very amusing, and the rowers became immensely excited. Arriving here, our kind hosts insisted on giving up their own room to the other two ladies and me, and we all had a very cheery evening. Early this morning, however, the Maoris returned to the charge with renewed vigour, determined to extort that wretched £5. They tell Mary that my pictures shall never leave the district: that they will seize my portfolios and destroy them all. Mary says it is only bluster, but Mrs Way is not so sure; and as I should have no redress if irreparable damage is done, we have packed the precious sketches securely in the middle of a huge bundle of plaids and pillows, so as to escape attention, and the faithful Hémé will carry it to the coach.
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MRS WILSON’S HOTEL, OHINEMUTU, 10 P.M.
Victory! we have triumphed! By good luck a large party of Europeans happened to come up by coach, so we enlisted them, and formed altogether a party of fourteen whites, with the baggage in the middle. Then we marched through the village to the hotel, just as the coach-and-four was ready to start. The foe mustered strong, but apparently thought further attack undesirable, so we drove off in safety. But I confess I am glad to know that we are here on the territory of another tribe, who are not likely to sympathise with the people of Wairoa. Mrs Wilson has welcomed me back with the cordiality of an old friend, as have all the residents and visitors in the house—kind, hearty people.
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AUCKLAND, _Feb. 8_.
Before daybreak the following morning I was out sketching the steaming graveyard in the Old Pah; and after a very early breakfast started by coach for Tauranga, leaving the little village still shrouded in thick clouds of white steam, which sparkled in dewy beads on the webs of myriads of gossamer spiders. A light fire had passed over the ferny hills—so light that the skeletons of the brackens were left standing; and it seemed as if each branch of scorched fern, far as the eye could reach, was veiled with one of these fairy webs. Arriving at Tauranga, I found that kind Mrs Edgecumbe had, with her own hands, prepared a capital tea-dinner for me, her maid having, according to colonial custom, gone off suddenly, leaving her quite alone on her own resources, with four children to look after!
An hour later I embarked in the coasting-steamer, where, much to my delight, I found Mrs Ferguson coming up from her remote station to see her sweet little daughter, who for the present is left in Auckland. We spent the night together, lying on a sky-light, tucked in beneath a pile of blankets, by the good old Scotch captain, who had previously administered to us a most comfortable glass of real hot toddy! It proved a dirty night of storm and rain; but we were quite cosy, and Ella filled me with amazement by accounts of the rides which she constantly has to do alone, often in the dark, to get nails or anything else required by the builders of her future home, and of the dangerous fords she has to cross, sometimes swimming her horse. She makes very light of all the hardships of her tent-life, which include cooking and baking for the party. It is wonderful what fragile and delicate ladies can do when they resolve to face colonial life!
We arrived here safely, and I found Lady Gordon and the children and Colonel Pratt all ready for our return to Fiji, on board the Zealandia, which sails next Thursday. Mr Maudslay is expected from Wellington, just in time to accompany us. We all feel much better for our trip here: and though I greatly regret having seen nothing of the Southern Isle, we are not sorry to be going back to our island home.... It is rather aggravating, both to Lady Gordon and myself, that every one we meet insists on congratulating us on our very fortunate investments in the lucky Moanatairi mine. It is quite useless for us to assert that we only wish we had had such good luck, but that, unfortunately, the idea never entered our minds. The fact of my having been there is quite sufficient, and we are now looked upon as millionaires! We only wish it had been true! Poor Fiji stands greatly in need of such. Good-bye.—Your loving sister.