Beatrice was a year younger than Lucy, but from her being delicate and unable to leave home, had been kept under the care of a governess—the lady we mentioned—and who had only given up Lucy the year before, her father thinking a school likely to make her apply more steadily to her lessons, and learn that it was necessary to know something beyond reading and writing, a climax Miss Nott found it impossible to attain, Lucy preferring her pony and large dog, the boat on the river, and animals left in her keeping by her absent brothers, to any lesson her governess could put before her; and as her father and mother left the direction of the schoolroom entirely to this same governess, she was obliged to recommend the measure of sending Lucy to school. Beatrice was much quicker than her sister, and looked even older, while from her gentleness, and readiness to do anything her brothers wanted, she was applied to in every difficulty; Lucy, herself, while envying Beatrice the influence she held over the boys, owned the same herself, and voluntarily resigned to her what little girls are so fond of considering their rights as elder sisters. The entrance of Beatrice, in the present instance, accompanied as she was by the ‘two-year-old’, as Arthur was generally called, brought about a repetition of their intended emigration, a plan her father and mother had already so often discussed in her hearing that it caused no astonishment on her part, being only a confirmation of what she had expected. The quiet and cheerful manner in which the little girl spoke of the change, and the comfortable picture she drew of the delights of a new home, and all they could do for themselves, soothed away some lingering clouds; and when Mrs Graham sent to say tea was waiting, the little party in the dining-room were in full discussion as to the seeds, etc., it would be most advisable to take out with them. Poor Mrs Graham, who had been dreading to meet her children, was instantly relieved by the group of bright faces that gathered round the table, still keeping up their conversation. Beatrice alone had noticed her mother’s anxious looks, and, stealing up, kissed her as she whispered:—
‘We are all so glad, dear Mamma.’ Then settling Aps upon his high chair, she went off to her own, beside her father.
‘Aps wanty Cannibal,’ exclaimed the two-year-old, looking earnestly in his mother’s face, and giving evidence that he had been no inattentive listener to the conversation. A general laugh followed the child’s exclamation; but, nothing daunted, he repeated his question, and seemed almost inclined to refuse his slice of bread and jelly, until told by Tom it was a bit of a Cannibal.
This little incident, slight as it was, gave another tone to Mrs Graham’s feelings, and ere long she too joined in the merry conversation going on, and gave her opinion as to the relative merits of Spanish fowl or Cochin China, sweet peas or mignonette, etc., etc., rather startling Lucy by telling her she was determined not to take a servant with them, but meant to be cook herself, while Lucy and Beatrice should be housemaids. George proposed to make Lucy dairymaid, a post as he said best suited to her affection for cows. This made every one except the object of it laugh, it being a standing joke in the house, as to Lucy’s cowardice; and many were the stories of her climbing walls, scrambling through hedges, and once being nearly drowned by trying to cross the river, just because a poor old cow had thought she was the farm maid coming to milk her, and had galloped across a field towards her. Lucy did not at all like being laughed at for being frightened, and boldly declared she would like to be allowed to milk the cows, an assertion her brothers laughed loudly at, and even Aps, fixing his bright eyes upon his sister, stammered:—
‘Luce avy frighty; Luce avy great goose.’
Tea passed over, and then, the table being cleared, it was agreed by general vote to bring the Atlas, and hunt up the spot of their future home, while Papa read an account of it from one of the many books he had been consulting upon the important step he was taking; so, Aps was sent to bed, Mrs Graham settled at her work, and the rest, gathering round the table, listened eagerly to their father, as he read the extracts he had made, and commented now and then as to what they should do in such or such cases. Thus the evening wore away, and when the hour of retirement arrived, and the servants had left the room, after prayers, every one felt that, come what might, and go where they might, they would carry their home with them, and as long as they were all together, no change of country could really affect their happiness.
(1862)
Thomas Campbell, ‘Song of the Emigrants to New Zealand’
Steer, helmsman, till you steer our way
By stars beyond the line—
We go to found a realm—one day—
Like England’s self to shine.
Chorus:
Cheer up! cheer up! Our course we’ll keep
With dauntless heart and hand,
And when we’ve ploughed the stormy deep
We’ll plough a smiling land.
A land whose beauties importune
The Briton to his bowers,
To sow but plenty’s seeds and prune
Luxuriant fruits and flowers.
Chorus:
Cheer up! cheer up!
These tracts uncheered by human words,
Seclusion’s wildest holds,
Shall hear the lowing of our herds,
The tinkling of our folds.
Chorus:
Cheer up! cheer up!
Like rubies set in gold shall blush
Our vineyards, girt with corn,
And wine, and oil, and gladness gush
From Amalthœa’s horn.
Chorus:
Cheer up! cheer up!
Britannia’s pride is in our hearts,
Her blood is in our veins,
We’ll girdle earth with British arts,
Like Ariel’s magic chains.
Chorus:
Cheer up! cheer up!
Cheer up! cheer up! Our course we’ll keep
With dauntless heart and hand,
And when we’ve ploughed the stormy deep
We’ll plough a smiling land.
(1839)
Thomas Bracken, ‘New Zealand Hymn’
God of nations! at thy feet
In the bonds of love we meet,
Hear our voices, we entreat,
God defend our Free Land.
Guard Pacific’s triple star
From the shafts of strife and war,
Make her praises heard afar,
God defend New Zealand.
Men of every creed and race
Gather here before Thy face,
Asking Thee to bless this place,
God defend our Free Land.
From dissension, envy, hate,
And corruption guard our State,
Make our country good and great,
God defend New Zealand.
Peace, not war, shall be our boast,
But, should foes assail our coast,
Make us then a mighty host,
God defend our Free Land.
Lord of battles, in Thy might,
Put our enemies to flight,
Let our cause be just and right,
God defend New Zealand.
Let our love for Thee increase,
May Thy blessings never cease,
Give us plenty, give us peace,
God defend our Free Land.
From dishonour and from shame
Guard our country’s spotless name,
Crown her with immortal fame,
God defend New Zealand.
May our mountains ever be
Freedom’s ramparts on the sea,
Make us faithful unto Thee,
God defend our Free Land.
Guide her in the nations’ van,
Preaching love and truth to man,
Working out Thy glorious plan,
God defend New Zealand.
(1876)
Robert Browning, from ‘Waring’
What’s become of Waring
Since he gave us all the slip,
Chose land-travel or seafaring,
&n
bsp; Boots and chest or staff and scrip,
Rather than pace up and down
Any longer London town?
Who’d have guessed it from his lip
Or his brow’s accustomed bearing,
On the night he thus took ship
Or started landward?—little caring
For us, it seems, who supped together
(Friends of his too, I remember)
And walked home thro’ the merry weather,
The snowiest in all December.
I left his arm that night myself
For what’s-his-name’s, the new prose-poet
Who wrote the book there, on the shelf—
How, forsooth, was I to know it
If Waring meant to glide away
Like a ghost at break of day?
Never looked he half so gay!
(1842)
Anne Brontë, from Agnes Grey
Having shut the door upon their retiring footsteps, and unpacked a few of my things, I, at length, betook myself to rest, gladly enough, for I was weary in body and mind.
It was with a strange feeling of desolation mingled with a strong sense of the novelty of my situation, and a joyless kind of curiosity concerning what was yet unknown, that I awoke the next morning feeling like one whirled away by enchantment, and suddenly dropped from the clouds into a remote and unknown land, widely and completely isolated from all he had ever seen or known before; or like a thistle-seed borne on the wind to some strange nook of uncongenial soil, where it must lie long enough before it can take root and germinate, extracting nourishment from what appears so alien to its nature, if indeed, it ever can; but this gives no proper idea of my feelings at all; and no one, that has not lived such a retired, stationary life as mine, can possibly imagine what they were—hardly even if he has known what it is to awake some morning and find himself in Port Nelson in New Zealand, with a world of waters between himself and all that knew him.
I shall not soon forget the peculiar feeling with which I raised my blind and looked out upon the unknown world—a wide, white wilderness was all that met my gaze, a waste of—
Deserts tossed in snow,
And heavy-laden groves.
(1847)
The World to Hand
Mary Taylor, Letter to Charlotte Brontë
About a month since I received and read Jane Eyre. It seemed to me incredible that you had actually written a book. Such events did not happen while I was in England. I begin to believe in your existence much as I do in Mr Rochester’s. In a believing mood I don’t doubt either of them. After I had read it I went on to the top of Mt Victoria and looked for a ship to carry a letter to you. There was a little thing with one mast, and also HMS Fly, and nothing else. If a cattle vessel came from Sydney she would probably return in a few days and would take a mail, but we have had east wind for a month and nothing can come in.—July 1 The Harlequin has just come from Otago and is to sail for Singapore when the wind changes and by that route (which I hope to take myself sometime) I send you this. Much good may it do you.
Your novel surprised me by being so perfect as a work of art. I expected something more changeable and unfinished. You have polished to some purpose. If I were to do so I should get tired and weary everyone else in about two pages. No sign of this weariness is in your book—you must have had abundance, having kept it all to yourself!
You are very different from me in having no doctrine to preach. It is impossible to squeeze a moral out of your production. Has the world gone so well with you that you have no protest to make against its absurdities? Did you never sneer or declaim in your first sketches? I will scold you well when I see you.—I don’t believe in Mr Rivers. There are no good men of the Brocklehurst species. A missionary either goes into his office for a piece of bread, or he goes from enthusiasm, and that is both too good and too bad a quality for St John. It’s a bit of your absurd charity to believe in such a man. You have done wisely in choosing to imagine a high class of readers. You never stop to explain or defend anything and never seem bothered with the idea—if Mrs Fairfax or any other well intentioned fool gets hold of this what will she think? And yet you know the world is made up of such, and worse. Once more, how have you written through 3 vols. without declaring war to the knife against a few dozen absurd do[ct]rines each of which is supported by ‘a large and respectable class of readers’? Emily seems to have had such a class in her eye when she wrote that strange thing Wuthering Heights. Ann too stops repeatedly to preach commonplace truths. She has had a still lower class in her mind’s eye. Emily seems to have followed th[e b]ookseller’s advice. As to the price you got it [was] certainly Jewish. But what could the people do? If they had asked you to fix it, do you know yourself how many cyphers your sum would have had? And how should they know better? And if they did, that’s the knowledge they get their living by. If I were in your place the idea of being bound in the sale of 2! more would prevent from ever writing again. Yet you are probably now busy with another. It is curious to me to see among the old letters one from A[unt] Sarah sending a copy of a whole article on the currency question written by Fonblanque! I exceedingly regret having burnt your letters in a fit of caution, and I’ve forgotten all the names. Was the reader Albert Smith? What do they all think of you? I perceive I’ve betrayed my habit of writing only on one side of the paper. Go on to the next page.
I mention the book to no one and hear no opinions. I lend it a good deal because it’s a novel and it’s as good as another! They say ‘it makes them cry’. They are not literary enough to give an opinion. If ever I hear one I’ll embalm it for you.
As to my own affair I have written 100 pages and lately 50 more. It’s no use writing faster. I get so disgusted I can do nothing. I have sent 3 or 4 things to Joe for Tait. Troup (Ed.) never acknowledges them though he promised either to pay or send them back. Joe sent one to Chambers who thought it unsuitable in which I agree with them.
I think I told you I built a house. I get 12/- a week for it. Moreover in accordance with a late letter of John’s I borrow money from him and Joe and buy cattle with it. I have already spent £100 or so and intend to buy some more as soon as War. [i.e., her brother Waring] can pay me the money.—perhaps as much by degrees as £400, or £500. As I only pay 5 per Ct interest I expect [to] profit much by this. viz. about 30 per Ct a year—perhaps 40 or 50. Thus if I borrow £500 in two years’ time (I cannot have it quicker) I shall perhaps make £250 to £300. I am pretty certain of being able to pay principal and interest. If I could command £300 and £50 a year afterwards I would ‘hallack’ about NZ for a twelvemonth then go home by way of India and write my travels which would prepare the way for my novel. With the benefit of your experience I should perhaps make a better bargain than you. I am most afraid of my health. Not that I shd die but perhaps sink into state of betweenity, neither well nor ill, in which I shd observe nothing and be very miserable besides.—My life here is not disagreeable. I have a great resource in the piano, and a little employment in teaching. Then I go in to Mrs Taylor’s and astonish the poor girl with calling her favorite parson a spoon. She thinks I am astonishingly learned but rather wicked, and tries hard to persuade me to go to chapel, though I tell her I only go for amusement. She would have sense but for her wretched health which is getting rapidly worse from her irrational mode of living.
I can hardly explain to you the queer feeling of living as I do in 2 places at once. One world containing books England and all the people with whom I can exchange an idea; the other all that I actually see and hear and speak to. The separation is as complete as between the things in a picture and the things in the room. The puzzle is that both move and act, and I must say my say as one of each. The result is that one world at least must think me crazy. I am just now in a sad mess. A drover who has got rich with cattle dealing wanted me to go and teach his daughter. As the man is a widower I astonished this world when I accepted the proposal, and still more because I asked too high a price (£70) a year.
Now that I have begun the same people can’t conceive why I don’t go on and marry the man at once which they imagine must have been my original intention. For my part I shall possibly astonish them a little more for I feel a great inclination to make use of his interested civilities to visit his daughter and see the district of Porirua.
If [I] had a little more money and could afford a horse (she rides) I certainly would. But I can see nothing til’ I get a horse, which I shall have if I am lucky in 2 or 3 years.
I have just made acquaintance with Dr and Mrs Logan. He is a retired navy doctor and has more general knowledge than anyone I have talked to here. For instance he had heard of Phillippe Egalité—of a camera obscura; of the resemblance the English language has to the German etc etc. Mrs Taylor Miss Knox and Mrs Logan sat in mute admiration while we mentioned these things, being employed in the meantime in making a patchwork quilt. Did you never notice that the women of the middle classes are generally too ignorant to talk to?, and that you are thrown entirely on the men for conversation? There is no such feminine inferiority in the lower. The women go hand in hand with the men in the degree of cultivation they are able to reach. I can talk very well to a joiner’s wife, but seldom to a merchant’s.
I must now tell you the fate of your cow. The creature gave so little milk that she is doomed to be fatted and killed. In about 2 months she will fetch perhaps £15 with which I shall buy 3 heifers. Thus you have the chance of getting a calf sometime. My own thrive well and possibly I [shall] have a calf myself. Before this reaches England I shall have 3 or 4.
It’s a pity you don’t live in this world that I might entertain you about the price of meat. Do you know I bought 6 heifers the other day for £23? and now it is turned so cold I expect to hear one half of them are dead. One man bought 20 sheep for £8 and they are all dead but 1. Another bought £1.50 and has 40 left; and people have begun to drive cattle through a valley into the Wairau plains and thence across the Straits to Wellington. etc etc. This is the only legitimate subject of conversation we have the rest is gos[sip] concerning our superiors in station who don’t know us in the road, but it is astonishing how well we know all their private affairs, making allowance always for the distortion in our own organs of vision.
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 10