LETTER No. 5,

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume II, Issue 118, 25 May 1863, Page 2

LETTER No. 5,

Being a true and unvarnished narrative of the incidents and adventures which J>efel a trustworthy, truthful, and veracious traveller in his journeyings and discoveries in the unknown regions of Hawke's Bay. Dear Sir, — I stated at the close of my last that I bad “turned in,” but where, when, or why, I had performed that feat I felt myself quite unequal at that late hour to relate. But now being invigorated with slumber, and rising like a giant refreshed, to run my race, I shall at once without further prelude, inform you and my inestimable readers that I turned in beneath the time-honoured roof of my friend Captain S . If time and space permitted I should give you a slight topographical sketch of this remarkable man} but I must content you with the statement that that naval hero is a remarkable man, which statement alone I need barely say, speaks volumes. The hospitality and cheerful courtesy of my friend the Captain, stamps him with the indelible stamp of a free-born Briton, an idea of which is conveyed in the sublime lines of the sublime song, “ Britannia! Britannia rules the waves; And Britons never—never— shall be slaves.” The company I fell in with on the evening of my arrival was greatly enlivened, and rendered in fact perfectly enchanting by the presence of the newly-appointed Resident Magistrate, of this little known, and less frequented, but highly-favoured spot of earth — the Wairoa Valley. That gentleman, l am delighted to say is a keen observer of nature;, and a keener administrator of the Governor’s notions of justice. He had no sooner commenced business in the lucrative and fashionable trade of R.M. than he at once laid hands on a monster in human shape, one Sir, whom to the disgrace of his family was accused of killing in cold blood an unoffending pig, the property of certain Maories, somewhere about the year of Grace, 1855. Thus you see that this highly-gifted and properly-appreciated gentleman went about his business in a manner which at once places him in the first rank of Magistrates of the ‘present-day, for he ferreted out and condemned to three months’ residence in Napier gaol, there to be provided for at the expense of the country, that disgrace to his species, who had set at nought the laws of God and of man, and had massacred an innocent porker at a remote period in the history of Wairoa. Here thenwe see that the strong and long arm of the law stretches forth and clutches in its unrelenting fingers offenders who fancied that their injustice was hidden by the veil of time. What a blessing this gentleman (the, R. M. to wit) will prove to the generations in which his lot is cast is beyond my small powers to-' conceive ! But to my tale— ’ “ Phoebus gilding the brow o’morning Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning.” Here I stand on the banks of the beautiful, Wairoa River. This river, I remarked, and now record for the special information of the Provincial Council, is situated somewhere in the latitudes between Napier and Table Cape, and is entirely owned, and its banks and the surrounding country inhabited by the Aboriginal Maories. A very astonishing people these Maories are,; truly, and they are much admired by Sir George Grey, as you are probably aware. One -remarkable feature in the language of this curious people appears in the frequent recurrence of the word “ utu,” which I at first, in the innocence of my heart, thought to mean “ goodness and love,” these two words being very favorite expressions of the amiable, but somewhat mawkish Sir George, and ’ which expression, by all accounts, both written and verbal, he is continually letting off when talking to his children the Maories. I was still further confirmed in my belief upon this subject, by reflecting that these Natives always associate the magnificent little word “ utu” with the name of their great benefactor. What then was my chagrin and disappointment, after having for many hours remained under this happy delusion, to discover that this soft-sounding and euphonious utu was equivalent, after all, to nothing more or less than the expression most common among ourselves, viz., “ pay, pay, pay !!” or “ how

much ?” What a shock my sensitive nature sustained on making this hideous discovery, I cannot find words to express, suffice it to say that I felt most accurately the accuracy of the immortal Will Shakspeare’s remark, — “ Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” My eyes being thus early opened to the appalling fact that these children of Nature who inhabit this fertile valley had an acute and desperate love of filthy lucre, I became at once sensible that the charm which had before surrounded them and the land of their abode was broken, and that I could no longer join my friend Sir George in his apparently unsophisticated admiration of these people. A finer piece of country, watered by a finer river, or enjoying finer natural advantages, I have never seen, than this Wairoa Valley. The river is wide and deep enough to admit of its navigation by vessels of considerable tonnage. The land is rich, fat, alluvial; abundance of excellent timber is to be found growing in detached clumps all over the valley, and, in short, it is as choice a spot for forming a European settlement as any man would wish to see. With the exception of a few scattered white settlers or squatters, the whole of this fine valley remains in the hands of the Maories, and excluding the limited cultivations undertaken by that people it is also in a state of natural wilderness. But after deducting that insignificant moiety of cultivated laud, there yet remains of this splendid valley about from 15,000 to 20,000 acres of the best land conceivable, unreclaimed, but easily reclaimable, calling loudly for men and means so turn it to some profitable account. On the North side of the River about two miles up from the sea, is the dilapidated remains of the Mission Station, a sad sight—a house falling into decay, and the handiwork of man gradually but surely going back into the dust from which it sprung, is a sad and mournful sight, even in an old and thicklypopulated country. But in the midst of a wilderness, where the works of man are few and far between, to mark the desolating hand of Time working in the deserted walls of a house, the roof of which probably once echoed to the joyous laugh of merry childhood, or to the voice of age and wisdom, giving admonition and advice ; to look on such a picture of desolation as this, is to my mind the most truly sorrowful one which can be seen. But so it is, and it is my duty as a faithful historian of the sights and sounds, both grave and gay, which met my wandering vision and ears, to state the "fact as I found it. Round about the house may be traced the remains of a fine garden, once, no doubt carefully and affectionately tended, but

now, alas ! grown over with grass and weeds, and presenting the picture of desolation. Hard by the rapidly-decaying house of the Missionary, may be seen the roofless remnants of a once fine large church, built after the approved Maori style of architecture. Close to that again is reared a new and improved structure intended for the same purpose as the old one, viz., a place of worship; but whether any worship is carried on in it, or what sort of worship it is (if any) which is carried on within the walls, I could not discover. I heard something of the worship of Mammon, or something of that sort, but this aspersion on the well-known, but not easily described piety of the Maories, I indignantly spurned, ag an equally downright insult to my particular friend Sir George Grey, and as casting a slur upon that acute statesman’s judgment and discernment, and this cruel attack upon the righteousness of the people and the wisdom of the Governor, is, I need hardly say, to be attributed to those evil disposed persons, who, for excellent reasons, love darkness better than light. “ Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man’s sinking age. Which rarely ventures in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies collecting lumber in the rear ! Long has it palsied every grasping hand, And greedy spirit through this bartoringfland ; ■ Turned life to traffic, set the demon Gold To look abroad, that Virtue’s self is sold, And Conscience, Truth, and Honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.” Thus sang Tom Moore, the best of English poets, and the wittiest of Ireland’s witty sons. How appropriate, and how true ! The Modern Mercury.