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"The old order changed"—A fine farming country—A
literary pedlar—Otago scenery—Wealth of water—The
Clutha country—A colonial manse—The minister's lot a hard
one—Kindly relations between pastor and people
—Tree-planting—Slovenly farming—An angler's paradise—Gore township—The
Waimea Valley—A night ride.
We started from
Timaru on a bright sunny day, and passed first through a
magnificent farming district. Ploughing was being actively
pursued, and myriads of friendly gulls were following the
plough, and finding fat delicacies in the upturned
furrows. My eye follows the old track, along which I have
galloped "many a time and oft," astride "the old
chestnut," in the golden days of my youth. At that time
there were only two houses between "the head station " and
the town. Now, villages, hamlets, and farms stud the
countryside as thick as blackberries. The fight was just
beginning then, "Sheep v. Settlers," and sheep have lost
the day. Settlement here is most complete, and the
evidences of rural wealth are everywhere abundant.
At Makikiki, for instance, I find a snug
village. A steam threshing-machine is at work in a field
close to the railway station, and as far as the eye can reach, it
follows farm after farm, and takes in cottages,
corn-ricks, trim plantations, hedge-rows, and busy
ploughing teams in its comprehensive survey.
When I was last here, Makikiki was purely a
flax swamp, with not a human habitation within
miles of it; and it was only famous as being a grand
shooting ground for ducks.
Waimate too! I remember when there was but
the home station here, one "bush pub," and forge,
and a few sawyers' huts. Now the dense bush has all been
cut away. Waimate is the terminus of a branch railway, and
can boast stores, hotels, and buildings equal to most
country towns—verily "the former things have passed
away, and lo, now all things have become new."
We cross the Waitaki, one of the snow-fed
rivers, by another lengthy bridge, and I recall to
my mind the old punt which used to convey passengers
precariously across in the olden time. Oamaru presents the
same amphitheatre of grassy knolls, but the tussocks on
the heights are gone. Villas and gardens have taken their
place. The town looks gay and lively, the white stone
giving it quite a palatial look. What enormous stores!
What mills! woollen factory! cheese factory! saw mills!
&c. In fact, a repetition of Timaru. Another breakwater in
the bay. All this since I was here last.
Ascending the steep incline, we emerge upon
a succession of broken, tumbled slopes. Grand farms
here. The farmers are lifting their potatoes and the long
rows of well-filled sacks testify to the fertility of the
soil. We pass the famous quarries of white stone, and
looking over the surrounding country, can see numerous
evidences of volcanic action in the circular mounds which
stud the landscape. Sites of extinct fumaroles and geysers
these.
Away to the left the Pacific reflects the rays
of the afternoon sun. Moeraki Lighthouse glistens
in the warm light, and the sheen sparkles on lovely
bays, and glistens along the wavy line of great curling
breakers on the beach.
Yonder is Shag Point jutting out into deep
water. There is a colliery at work at the extreme
verge of the headland. Otago is rich in minerals, and her
coalfields are important and extensive.
Palmerston is a pretty town in a hollow,
surrounded by hills, low and undulating. The Salvation Army has been doing
a great work here. The leaders were two lasses, and they
have succeeded in enlisting a large following, and have
shut up several hotels. So we are informed by a
polite, though pale young gentleman, who makes himself
very pleasant, gives us much unsolicited information, and
winds up by wanting to sell us a few celluloid cuffs and
collars.
In self-sacrificing gratitude, we pass him on to
a burly farmer, who eventually, on our recommendation,
purchases a set, and doubtless made a very good bargain.
This peripatetic peddling we find to be a feature of the
railways here. The pedlar is generally employed by the
leading newspapers to secure lists of passengers and odd
items of news; but he will sell you books, periodicals,
refreshments, wild ducks, and other game shot by himself,
and, as in this case, celluloid collars and cuffs. I
daresay the young gentleman would have insured our lives,
or taken our portraits had we been so disposed ; and he
possibly would have been able to arrange for our funerals
in case of an accident. We live and learn. Literature,
commerce, and sport, here go hand in hand.
At Puketeraki there is a small native settlement
of about fifty adults, and here we pass the first
native bush we have seen to-day. This is one of the very
few remaining native settlements in Otago. There are only
now some six or eight families. "How are the mighty
fallen!" No more war dances and freebooting forays, ending
with a cannibal feast nowadays. The men farm a little now,
and subsist on the keep of a few sheep.
We are now nearing Dunedin. Through the
gathering gloom we can see the white gleam of
curling breakers on the cliffs beneath us. We are dashing
along at a breakneck pace above the moaning sea, midway up
the cliffy heights. The scenery here, we are told, is very
grand and awe- inspiring. We can well believe it, but alas
for the veil of darkness which hides each charm from
view. Soon we see the motley heights of Port
Chalmers; anon, the long serried rows of lamp lights in
the steep streets of the great city itself. They look like
the watch-fires of a great army, bivouacking among the
hills. The train rolls into the station. We are in
Dunedin. Hey ! for the comforts and luxuries of the Grand
Hotel ; and, as we are very tired, we hurry off to bed.
Dunedin is worthy of a chapter to itself, and we will not
pause now, but continue our trip to the lakes, and return to Dunedin
later on.
* * * * * * *
Leaving the straggling station, the city opens
out towards the sea, at Ocean Beach. A great flat
of reclaimed land is here being rapidly built upon, and at
Cavcrsham there are many good shops, and nice houses.
Forbury Fort, one of the new
defences, is rapidly approaching completion, and will protect the city from
any bombardment by a hostile cruiser seaward. Above the fort the most
prominent landmark is the stately mansion of Mr. E. B. Cargill, whose father
was one of the pioneers of Otago, and founders of Dunedin. A monument to his
memory graces the great space in the centre of the city. We dash rapidly,
with a shrill scream from the engine, through a long tunnel, and on the
farther side come in view of the numerous buildings of the New Zealand Drug
and Chemical Works. The country around consists of open grassy downs, and
at the foot of a high conical wooded hill nestles the neat little village of
Burnside. It is a typical Otago village. There is a very pretty church, a
large tannery, a fellmongery, a wool mill, with its long flume or water-race
on high trestles, carrying water to the noisy, sparkling wheel. All the
valleys and slopes around are dotted with bright houses. A sluggish creek
meanders through the marshy reaches of the lower valley, broadening as it
goes, till near the beach it widens into a lake, which gleams like silver in
the morning rays.
Another long tunnel leads us now into a richly
cultivated valley with numerous farms, the thin
scraping of snow on the low-lying hills betokening that
winter is at hand.
In this valley lies Mossgiel. Its tweed factory
is favourably known all over Australasia, and the
products of its looms have achieved a reputation for
excellence, equal in its way to those of the famous West
of England fabrics. Beyond the tidy trim-looking village
rise bold hills, white with their winter vestments. The
whole scene, with its snug farms, peaceful herds,
clean-cut stubble, trim hedge-rows, and smiling village in
the plain, and the white solitary grandeur of the lone
silent mountains beyond, affords one of those sharp
enjoyable contrasts which are so characteristic of New
Zealand scenery.
As we move still further south, evidences of the
abnormal rigour of an exceptionally early and
severe snowstorm are everywhere apparent. The valleys are
all flooded. Shattered trees with broken branches
cumbering the ground, give the orchards a mournful look.
The very flax and raupo clumps have been broken and
flattened, and in many straths the stooks are rotting in
the sodden fields. And this is only the early part of May.
Now we skirt Lake Waihola,
generally a ckar shallow bed of water, averaging a depth of about twelve
feet. It is now muddy and turbid, and swollen with the floods from a branch
of the Taieri River, which flows into it. A piercing wind comes whistling
over the Taieri plains, and lashes the lake into mimic mountains.
Oh, could I but transport this wealth of water
to poor drought-smitten Australia. "Water, water,
everywhere" here. Lakes, streams, standing pools.
Great shallow meres, with crowds of wild ducks, stooks
standing in water in many of the fields. The bare brown
hills, and cheerless stubbles, all dank and sodden with
the plashing rain. All the noses in the carriages are
blue. Our feet feel like lead, and it is very hard,
indeed, to resist the depressing influence of the cold.
At and about Stirling there is a lakelet
in'every hollow, and the snow is lying very low down on
the hills. Near by, at Kaitangata, there are some
rather famous coal-mines, which are being vigorously opened out and worked.
We are now in the Clutha district. All the
settlers are Scotch here, with but a few exceptions. They are deep-chested,
big-headed, ruddy- faced people. Kindly hearted and keenly
intelligent, they are the right stamp of men to found a
noble nation.
The Clutha country is prettily diversified and
more wooded than the long ranges of dun hills and
undulating slopes we have been passing hitherto. The
Clutha River is a broad stream, swift and brown with
flood. The town of Bal- clutha is unhappily situated on a
flat, which is liable to inundations from the river. Four
years ago the bridge was washed away. The churches
are very ornamental, and form a noticeable feature here, as indeed
they do in every settlement in Otago. The early fathers
evidently did "not forsake the assembling of themselves
together as the manner of some is."
A few more miles, and we alight at a quiet
little wayside station, where we are hospitably met by
the minister of the parish, a younger brother, whom
I have not seen for several years. We are soon snugly
ensconced in the cosy little country manse, and the
evening is devoted to asking and answering such questions
as the reader can well imagine embrace a wide range of
subjects.
I spent the greater part of a pleasant week with
the good young minister and his comely, buxom wife
and bonny black-eyed bairnie. The quiet, homely atmosphere
of the manse, the hearty greetings of the kindly, simple
country folks; the peace and quiet of the secluded "pairish"
were inexpressively grateful, after the hurry and bustle
of city life ; and yet a little of such life would go a
long way with me. A country pastor's life is no bed
of roses in the colonies. The roads in winter are
shockingly bad. The parish generally is of great extent,
and the mere physical labour involved, in faithfully discharging pastoral
duties, such as ministering to the sick and sorrowing,
would tax severely the energies of a strong, robust
man. He has to preach three times on Sundays, in three
different centres, and must keep up his studies if he is
to -be a faithful and successful minister. He is often
called upon to undertake duties outside his own parish,
and the cares of schools, church organizations, presbytery
and synod meetings, are exacting and incessant. He
must take an active part in all social movements in
his neighbourhood, and beside his own immediate daily troubles, must have a
ready ear and sympathizing heart for every tale of sorrow
or distress that may be brought to him. With the
education and tastes of a gentleman, he must be
ever among the people—of the people—a ministering, comforting source of
strength and enlightenment to his people, reflecting the temper and
character of the Master whose servant he is. And,
alas! how often is he fated to have his motives
misinterpreted; his best and purest intentions misrepresented; his
brightest and holiest aspirations sneered at and maligned.
The wonder is that so many highly cultured, sensitive men
are found for the office of the ministry, when worldly
callings offer so much more tempting and tangible
inducements.
It was peculiarly gratifying to me to see the
cordial relations that existed between my good
young brother and his flock. The stipend of an Otago
clergyman is but 220/. a year, no more than the salary of
a good clerk; but this sordid view of their position does
not present itself to the young fellows I was privileged
to meet, and the kindly regard and affectionate esteem of
the farmers and their young folks are immeasurably
above all money value. The relations subsisting
between people and pastor were much more like the old home
life than anything I had yet seen in the Australian
colonies.
A great spiritual work is being done in these
remote little country places. A really pretty new
church had been built in the south half of this parish,
and opened free of debt. The young people especially had
been wakened up to a lively interest in the higher life,
and both by precept and example the young ministers I met
in this part of New Zealand were approving themselves
"good workmen, needing not to be ashamed." They take
an active, intelligent part in secular matters, as well
as sacred, and are a credit to the good old true
blue Presbyterian stock.
A good impulse, for instance, had been given to
tree-planting in the parish, the minister having
set the example by adorning the bare spaces round the
manse and church; but many other good impulses were working far beneath the
surface, and producing good fruits of unselfish acts and
purer lives.
Amid all the crudities and falsities of modern
infidelity, the sneerings and scoffings of indifferentists, and
contemptuous isolation of Pharisaic sectarians, it was
positively refreshing to get into this warm atmosphere of
Christian-loving regard for each other between pastor and
flock, and I can never forget the heartiness of the
welcome I received from these shrewd yet simple farmers,
just because I was the brother of their minister.
The roads were awful, as I have said, but
equestrianism is the favourite mode of progression here. Every
youngster has his horse, and is usually followed by a
motley retinue of dogs, who wage incessant vendetta
against the ubiquitous rabbits. Ploughing was general over all the
downs. Potatoes were being dug up, and stored in
winter pits. Occasionally the smoke from a peripatetic
threshing-machine would darken the air round some busy
farm, and at times can be noticed another less pleasing
smoke, as some slovenly farmer adopts the wasteful agency
of fire to get rid of his surplus straw. Frequent
cropping of the same cereal, either oats or wheat
without rotation, has produced its inevitable result in
some places here, as it will elsewhere ; but why farmers
anywhere will disregard the plain teachings of experience
and common sense, goes beyond my comprehension. The straw
which is so foolishly burnt might be used in an
open courtyard to give comfort and warmth to the farm
animals in winter. It could be cut up into chaff and mixed
with chopped roots and a little salt, and in this way form
a valuable fodder. Mixed with lime and earth, and allowed
to rot, it forms a valuable fertilizer. But to burn it is
a sinful waste, and I was surprised that douce, steady,
thrifty Scotchmen should adopt such an insane method with
so valuable a material.
The University of Otago has
recently taken a new departure in a most sensible and practical direction,
in sending travelling professors to lecture to the mining population on the
chemistry and technology of rocks, ores, &c. They might well enlarge their
field, and give lectures to farmers on chemistry of soils, rotation of
crops, adaptations of mechanics to farming processes, and on other subjects
of practical importance to farmers.
But of this more anon.
We left the peaceful manse of Warepa with many
regrets, and passing through a bare pastoral and
agricultural country, with little of interest in the
scenery, reached Gore, the bustling little town where the
Waimea cross-roads railway branches off through the
fertile but bare Waimea plains, to join the Lakes line at
Lumsden.
All the burns and streams in this part of the
country are well stocked with trout, and in the
season this is quite an angler's paradise. The Mataura
River, a stream of some magnitude, traverses the Waimea plains, and runs
past Gore. It is full of trout. The price of a fishing
licence is twenty shillings for the season.
Gore, eighteen years ago, had not even a house
to boast of. It was only a police camp, and a few
canvas tents constituted the township. It is now the busy
centre of a fine farming district. It has a great
saw-mill, a flour-mill or two, and some capital stores,
hotels, banks, and other buildings lining its
well-laid-out streets.
It lies at the mouth of the wide Waimea Valley.
On both sides we see stretching away to the far
horizon, like gleaming barriers of marble, tier on
tier, terrace on terrace, peak on pinnacle, and pinnacle
on peak, of the cold, glittering, alpine Cordilleras,
every point being glorified by the slanting rays of a
declining sun, glinting down from between bars of gold and
amber and purple, until at length he sinks suddenly behind
a Sierra, and the valley is rapidly enswathed in the
sombre veil of a wintry night.
Intensely cold, and very hungry and weary, we
bowl along through the darkness; and at length,
about ten o'clock, are rejoiced to see the red lights of
the Mountaineer gleaming on the waters of Lake Wakatipu as
she floats alongside the wooden wharf at Kingston. |
