traveller. Three Weeks in Southland, N.Z.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIV, Issue 1973, 28 February 1885, Page 6 (Supplement)

traveller. Three Weeks in Southland, N.Z.

By Frank Morley.

(Continutd.') From Kingston to Queenstown the ecenery la comparatively tame for Lake Wakatip ; although, if the toumt were to limit his excursion to Queenstovvn, he would probably be under the impression that the gorges and mountains that he passed in review as the little Mountaineer steamed on its way were tolerable specimens of nature under difficulties. Every quarter of a mile or so a miniature cascade would come tumbling down from the mountains, and some of them never reaohed the Lake at all but were frozen in their coarse, and remained hanging like a silver thread partly lost amid the dense growth of cabbage palms, ferns, and scrub, which olothed the western slope of the mountains from the water's edge. Although Teunyson, so far as I know, never visited Lake Wakatip,, he has desoribed the appearance of those tiny rivulets to perfection in the Lotos Eaters — ' Like a silver thread the slender stream To fall, and pause, and fall again did seem."

About half-way between Kingston and Queenstown the river Loohy comes tumbling down a gloomy gorge, guarded by two snow capped mountains, which stand like sentinolg watching the river as it rnsheq over its shingly bed to mingle its watera with the mighty Wakatip. This is called Half-way Bay— a very prosaic name for the first romantic spot which greats the traveller on his way to the more gorgeons scenery at the head of the lake. In the meantime the little Mountaineer ia steaming along past the enow-capped mountains which appear to close in behind her, md in front present an impenetrable wall, whera " Hills peep o'er hill?, end Alp 3 on A3pa arise 1 " until the very grandeur of the scene becomes monotonous, and I descend into the littlo oabin, where I find my commercial friend (••ound asleep over a yellow back novel, on the crimson cushions of the cosy little saloon. I also endeavor to become intr rebted in a French novel which I had picked up promiscuously in a Sj^ney book-stall; and if the novel was not quite so enthralling as tlip title Of " La Femme do Ciro " would lead one t,o expect, it was certainly amusing to read a Frenchman's opinions of the " laditt and gentleman Ncio-York&iz," which were perhaps more original than correct. According to this veracious Frenchman the averago "gentleman New-Yorkais" marries one week and is divorced the next. His life is a choice mixture of true religion and brandy cock-tails, tempered " avec lo revolver." The hero of thi3 choice specimen of Gaelic literature is one James Gobson, who in the opening chapter playfully knocks ono of his wife's teeth out, and artistically cvts off her left ear. He then disappears into the Rocky mountain*, from whence he despatches a band of Bed Indians, wbo capture his wife from the centre of a circle of admiring friends who, at her invitation, are enjoying the delights of "un bal masque'!" Tho body of a woman is subsequently found floating in the river, and ia identified as Miss Idaßiokard (otherwise Mrs. Gobson). By the way, Mrs. Gobson is alway* oalled Mist Ida, which i" an additional proof of the author's familiarity with American manners and oustoms. James Gobson is luspected of being the murderer of his wife, whose supposed body has been identified ; and he is about to be arrested when he coolly walks into the detective office with a cigar in his mouth. In spite of his assertion! that Ida Bickard is still alive, he is about to be hanged, to the great satisfaction of a Yankee mob, who are yelling for his blood, when Ida Eickard hereelf turns up. The living Ida Bickard and the dead Ida Rickard are ai much alike as Crosar and Pompey ; and the new-comer is also minus a tooth and an ear in a precisely similar manner to the corpse. The supposed murderer, James Gobson, is now released amid the enthusiastic acclamation of the mob which, only five minutes before, was howling for his blood. Then the divorced Mr. and Mrs. Gobson are re-married, and the presumption is that the playful Gobson will now proceed to out off his wife's other ear and knock out another tooth or so, in the accustomed manner of the " gentlemen Neio-Yorkaix." But a I ret ?rnatu rally acute detective, William Dow, till persisti in believing that James Gobson has killed his wife ; no he has a oast of the dead Ida Bickard taken in wax; and this "Femme de Cire" plays a very important part in unravelling the mysteriea of the rather ghastly story. It appears that James Gobson, who must have been a very nice man for a small tea-party, had killed his wife, and married bis deceased wife's sister. Then he had out off his deceased wife's sister's ear, and knocked out one of his deceased wife's lister's teeth in order to make tho resemblance of the twin sisters more exact. Then he re-marries hia deceased wife's sinter, pretending that she is his deceased wife, whom he thus practically demonstrates not to be deceased at all. In the long run, of couise, James Gobson is hanged; but it would have been much better if he had been banged in the first chapter, both for tho writer and reader of this remarkable novel. But while my friend the commercial is snoring on one side of the little saloon, and I am trying to become interested in this gory tragedy on the other, the Mountaineer is speeding on her way to Queenstown, and from the littlo windows of the saloon I can see that we are still passing gloomy gorge 3 and snow-capped mountains, which appear to be getting wilder and more rugged the further ive proceed. We reach Queenstown about 1 o'clock, and a most charming little hamlet it looks with the little white houses, putting ono in mind of a township of Lihput, on the shores of a perfect little miniature bay, backed by mountains of brobdingnagian proportions. As our steamer slowly made for the little jetty we had time to take a good view of the little town and its surroundings before getting too close to loae the effect of the scene as a whole. To our right, as we steamed in, was a sort of little peninsula, planted with blue gums — a tree which seemo to flourish better in New Zealand than in Australia ; and, indeed, I question whether the Tasmanian blue gum is not quite as much at home in New Zealand as in its native island. As we stand on the deck of the steamer and look over the little peninsula which helps to form the little bay, our view is stopped by a rugged mountain mass which shoots straight up from the water, and looks like a gigantio cross-cut saw with teeth 6,000 feet high, pointing skyward, and over which some playful Titans had scattered flour in sport. These are " the Remarkable Mountains ; " but why they should be more remarkable than the ten thousand other mountains which are visible at the same time, it is hard to lay. They are certainly rugged and steep, and razor baoked ; with angry looking black teeth jutting out of the pure white snow which vainly tries to cling to the smooth, shining surface, springing up almost perpendicularly until lost in the olouds and mists. They are old and haggard looking ; scarred and seamed, and torn with the storms and tempests, and frosts of ten million years or more ; but they are no more remarkable than any one, or any ten thousand other mountains whioh crowd and jostle each other for standing room around Lake Wakatip. By this time we are at the Queenstown wharf, and a large proportion of the inhabitants of Queenstown, in the shape of two men and a boy, are thereto witness our disembarkation. Hall of the entire passenger list of the Mountaineer, from Kingston to Queenstown, leave the steamer at the latter port, when my friend the Commercial steps on shore. He is bound for the Arrow, a mining township about fifteen miles further on, and the centre of a considerable diggings, about which the name of the Shotover recalls familiar recollections. But before he goes we adjourn to Eichardt'e hotel, where we drink our first whisky since leaving the Elbow. The hospitable and motherly landlady welcomes my travelling companion ao an old acquaintance ; and as I have only a limited time at my command, she advises me to go on by the boat to the head of the Lake, and return to Queenstown by the Sarah- Jane, another of the Wakatip Bteamboats. At 5 o'clook, then, tho third whistle of the Mountaineer (which, by the way, sounds more Jike » fog horu) breaks the silence, and reverberates from the hills, and advises all passengers to embark. It was nearly dark when wo baoked away from the Queenstown wharf. The mists were gathering thick upon the mountains ; and these snow-draped giants looked like so many ghosts brooding over some blaok tarn in a gigantic spirit land. Now we are swallowed up in the darkness, and the last lights of Queonstown have disappeared, With nothing visible but the inky black water, of whioh one is only conscious by the perception of an added blackness, and un occasional glimpse of a ghostly something on our right, whioh, disappearing sternward, wo presume to be the rocky shore of the lake within reach, almost, of an outstretched hand; while high above our head, and apparently overarching tho lake, and reaching out to meet eaoh other in the gloom, are huge

masses of darknesa visible; these wo inninctively accept as the mountains everlastingly towering to the sky, and now only visible because more blackly invisible than the murky vault above them. In D iuh a «eene as this it must have been that Ed<?ar Allen Poe conceived his mystical poem, Ulalume: — "The sHioi thry wore ashen and sober; The lewes they were criap6<l and sere — The leaves they were withering and Bore ; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year. It was h?rd by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir — It was down by the dark tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." In such a scene a* this tho poet wandered " through an alley Titanic of cypress " with Psyche his soul. But it requires the soul of a poet to extract the hidden beauties of such a scene as this. Hidden they are indeed ; for them is absolutely nothing but darkness visible, unless what may ba visiblo " to the mind's eye, Horatio." But here comes the captain, who, up to this point, has been upon the bridge, and we get into conversation About things in general and Lako Navigation in particular. The ship's certificate, hanging at the head of the companion-way, gives us the following information about our captain and his vessel : — Name of the steamer : Mountaineer. Port of registry : Dunedin. Name of master : El ward Thomas Wing. Reaistered tonnage : 66. And I may as well acknowledge at once that I wag very much exercised in my mind as to the reason why such a good seaman who, like Captain Corcoran, has " sailed the ocean blue ;" and who, moreover, is a genial, woithy gentleman, should be content to navigate Lake Wakatip in a toy steamer. But Captain Thomas Wing knows what he is about, and doubtless he has good and potent reasons for sticking to a post which is certainly less profitable than others that he might easily aspire to. It is not to be supposed that navigating Lake Wakatip is less difficult than intercolonial navigation. Under certain conditions, I should think it would bo much more hazardous. Hero we are now steaming along full speed in pitchy darkness without a solitary light or land mark visible. On our right is a rocky wall plunging down into unfathomable depths. We cannot see the rocky shore, but we know, or at least suppose, it is within say four hun dred yards of our starboard bow. On our left is another rocky wall, springing from equally unfathomable depths. Thee two rocky wallH are constantly altering their position in ac cordance with thp serpentine twists of the lake — or rather the lake alters to suit thair contortions. Bight in front of us, and across tho lake from wall to wall — we cannot say from shore to shore, as there is practically no shore — are a series of rooky islands, through which, in the blackness of darkness, the captain, by some sort of blood instinct or inspiration, has to thread his way, Ocean navigation is mere child's play to this. Here, ten minutes' steaming in a wrong direction, or past a certain point (wnich point in the darkness oan only be guessed at), and the vessel is hurled upon a wall of rock ; and if sha were the Great Eastern herself she would be swallowed up, and leave not a ripple on the surface in less than five minutes. There, out in the high eeas, if the captain is dubious of his position, he can turn his vessel's head towards the South Pole, or wherever he likes into illimitible waters, and steam away with safety until daylight. (To be continued.)