that, like a Guardsman strolling the West End in
mufti, stalks the sea with never an item of her smart rig deviating by a
shade from its proper set or sheer.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE BAY OF ISLANDS AND NEW ZEALAND COAST

In a comparative new colony like New Zealand, where the marvellous
growth of the young state can be traced within living memory, from
the privations of the pioneer to the fully developed city with all
the machinery of our latest luxurious civilization, it is exceedingly
interesting to note how the principal towns have sprung up arbitrarily,
and without any heed to the intentions of the ruling powers. The
old-fashioned township of Kororarika, or Port Russell, is a case very
much in point. As we sailed in between the many islets from which the
magnificent bay takes its name, for all appearances to the contrary, we
might have been the first, discoverers. Not a house, not a sail, not a
boat, broke the loneliness and primeval look of the placid waters and
the adjacent shores. Not until we drew near the anchorage, and saw
upon opening up the little town the straight-standing masts of three
whale-ships, did anything appear to dispel the intense air of solitude
overhanging the whole. As we drew nearer, and rounded-to for mooring,
I looked expectantly for some sign of enterprise on the part of the
inhabitants--some tradesman's boat soliciting orders; some of the
population on the beach (there was no sign of a pier), watching the
visitor come to an anchor. Not a bit of it. The whole place seemed a
maritime sleepy hollow, the dwellers in which had lost all interest in
life, and had become far less energetic than the much-maligned Kanakas
in their dreamy isles of summer.

Yet this was once intended for the capital of New Zealand. When the
large and splendidly-built city of Dunedin, Otago, was a barren bush,
haunted only by the "morepork" and the apteryx, Russell was humming with
vitality, her harbour busy with fleets of ships, principally whalers,
who found it the most convenient calling-place in the southern temperate
zone. Terrible scenes were enacted about its "blackguard beach," orgies
of wild debauchery and bloodshed indulged in by the half-savage and
utterly lawless crews of the whaleships. But it never attained to any
real importance. As a port of call for whalers, it enjoyed a certain
kind of prosperity; but when the South Sea fishery dwindled, Russell
shrank in immediate sympathy. It never had any vit