NEW ZEALAND; OR, THE LAND OF THE MAORIS AND MOAS. (continued 2)

When returning, we took a look at the Cemetery. From the ages indicated on the tombstones it would appear that the climate of New Zealand is good for the human species. One noticeable thing was the number of people who had been killed by falls from horses. Is there more riding in New Zealand than in other places, or are the horses more frisky, or are the people more clumsy? No doubt there is a reason, if it could be discovered.

One afternoon I went to see a review of the various rifle corps which have been raised in Auckland. There were six companies, all in different uniforms, with a grizzly old general commanding the lot. For a long time they stood in rows doing nothing. The old general, however, kept capering up and down, while two aides-de-camp struggled to keep behind him. Now and then a man would gallop across the field with his sword up and his horse’s tail whirling round and round, as if it was the motive power that made it go.

I thought he was going to have a sham fight with the general; but when he reached him he suddenly put his sword up to his nose, then stuck it in his sheath, whirled round, and went scampering away to where he had come from.

It was a nice warm afternoon, and as I had nothing to do, I did not object to these military manœuvres.

By-and-by they began to move. The idea was to make the six companies march in oblique lines until at certain points they stopped and wheeled to form one long line. They tried it a lot of times, but the line they made had always big gaps left in it.

The crowd said it was the fault of the sergeants, who had to run ahead and mark out the wheeling-points.

The number of Volunteers is about 300, and as that is a number which history tells us can get back safely from the jaws of death, we hope they may do well. The Aucklanders are proud of their Volunteers, and they may well be so.

After this I took a cruise in the domain, where I saw a lovely cricket ground, where eighteen cricket-matches can be played simultaneously. Outside the cricket ground two or three football-matches were going on. I sat down upon the side of a volcano to watch them. The place where the play was going on was in the hollows between several small volcanoes, or, at least, volcanic slopes. It was all fresh and green, and round the sides of the grounds were clumps of oaks and other trees bursting into summer costume. Beyond this arcadian scene came islands, islets, more volcanoes, and then the ocean.

With Italian scenery and warm sunshine I felt as comfortable as a tom-cat sunning itself on a red-tile roof.

On the most distant island, away out in the blue ocean, Sir George Grey lives. Sir George is a great man in New Zealand, a lover of the Maori, and generally original in his conceptions. Anyone would be original if they lived the Robinson-Crusoe-like life that Sir George endures. They say that he does not get many callers.

Everything in Auckland was very nice, excepting my hotel. I was told that it was the best in the place, but the statement made it no better. The bedrooms were like boxes, and everything was untidy and badly managed. The arrival of some passengers by the American mail quite demoralized the establishment. The waiters were bewildered with the orders, and to get anything to eat you had to forage for yourself. I remember that I contented myself with a salt-spoon to stir my coffee.

I spent one afternoon on the north shore, where there is a race-course and some pretty walks. I was rather struck with one house, called Rangitoto View. Rangitoto is a volcanic island lying off Auckland, the view of which is exceedingly striking. Any house that faces Rangitoto has before it a picture. Now, this house faced a stone quarry on the side of a hill, Rangitoto being out of sight.