THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume III, Issue 228, 5 December 1874, Page 2

THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Captain Cook must have had the gift of double, or even, I may say, treble sight, when he first set eyes on this place, and called it Poverty Bay ; no doubt, at that time on account of Maori obstinacy, in refusing his crews supplies of pigs and potatoes, as well as for other reasons not mentioned by the great circitm-navigator. If, at the present time, the individual above mentioned could only obtain a ticket-of-leave to revisit his happy hunting grounds (excuse this lapsus lingua, I should have said sailing grounds) he would find a magical alteration in this Eden of sand hills, (by the bye it reminds me of Dickens’ Eden in America, barring the dismal swamp, fever and ague.) If Brigham Young would send w-r some of his enterprising surplus stock, they might continue, by doing their level best, conjoined with a fair sprinkling of Yankees, with their national go-a-head impulsiveness, to turn it into a second Salt Lake City, Si. Fata volebat which, turned into classical English, means if the Fates would only allow of it. But, I imagine the shade of the renowned importer of pigs and potatoes into this then terra incognita, would turn his back slightly disgusted at things in general. The primceval Maori in his day, and the manufactured article of the present, would slightly open his eyes ; the step would be a retrograde one in more respects than one. The civilised colored biped of the period has caught the Bacchanalian epidemic inherent in his while brethren. The Darwinian theory was not expounded in those days, or the navigator before mentioned would, perhaps, have found the lost link that Mr. Darwin has been so assiduously seeking after. No Gisborne in those days; provinces and statesmen did not flourish in those primoeval times. In certain instances, provinces and statesmen are like mushrooms, rapid of growth, and fade as quickly ; can this be the fate of this Bacchanalian oasis ? If so, make most of the full grown mushroom ; but the “ Arcana ’’ of the bates is a knotted skein, hard to unravel. Looking at the town, (named after this insula statesman of lapid growth, who sprung up during the Fox Ministry, and became a full grown mushroom in a single day) on approaching it from the sea reminds me of a boy building houses with cards, some large, some small, some square, some round, some oblong, all mixed up in happy confusion, with no approach todesign mostremote. A “Cubitt” would stand amazed amidst this architectural chaos ; mixed colors agree with the mixed population. Bacchus here reigns supreme; everyone seems as dry as a lime kiln, or a lime burner’s hat; a Bacchanalian epidemic pervades the community, embracing in its “ Laoeoon " folds slack and white, accelerated no doubt by the sand, heat, and above all the pleasing idea of having nothing to do ; a species of mental, physical and commercial ennui.

The entrance to this oasis is what might be termed Scotch sailing ; it would tax the ingenuity of a channel, or even a mud pilot; to steer between Scylla, and Charybdis, would be easy work comparatively speaking, to getting into safe anchorage in the Gisborne river. If there is not, happily, a whirlpool to be met with here, by all accounts there is a sunken Scylla rather to be avoided; we may safely say in the words of tiA Virgilian poet, it is a maZa fida carinis, which, translated from bog latin into classical English means a rather doubtful anchorage for keels. To “ paddle yonr own canoe,” here, is, in more senses than one, an herculean task ; at any rate, (speaking sympathetically) I am stranded, keel uppermost. That’s whats the matter with Anna Maria !

Another rather pleasing feature is, that everyone knows you here in little less than two hours ; together with your business, present, fut ure, and past; it shows a certain amount of inquisitiveness which is extremely racy; no doubt this failing arises from the bliss of having nothing to do. If you will only stand in the street for the first half-hour of your arrival, perhaps, naturally, you may be deluded into thinking every one is on business bent. One individual rushes frantically out of a public-house bar, wiping his mouth and forehead at the one operation ; he seizes a friend’s hand and gasps, “How are you, bld boy? Have a liquor?” dives back again ; the heat and excitement are two much for his constitutional debility ; he requires his old medicine, receives the same, lies torpid for a short space, sees another friend, takes another dive, and another liquor up, and so ad inf initum. Trade seems rather brisker in the buying line, on the dusky homo’s side, than on that of his white brother; he seems to drive some rather hard bargains ; I rather guess he has complete]}' mastered the rule of profit and loss by this time; no buying land from him iu these days, as in those glorious times of old, so many acres for a bottle of rum, a blanket, a broken three-legged go-a-shore, or maybe a small tooth comb; no doubt the report is correct; many a one has enriched himself at. the expense of his dusky friend’s ignorance of relative and intrinsic values; more the shame, to barter his land away for a few paltry Brummagem baubles. Au revoir for the present. Palmam Qui Meruit Ferat.