This year I went to Wellington by sea. Australian steamers call at Hokitika, and thence proceed to other New Zealand ports; but their hour of arrival is uncertain, and if they arrive at night, anchoring in the roadstead ready to proceed at daylight, it is necessary at any hour to cross the bar in a tug steamer, and join the ship. This happened in my case on a Sunday night. Some of my choir boys, sleeping on the floor of my study, roused me up at 4 a.m., and then, trundling my luggage in a barrow down to the wharf, saw me on board, together with a few passengers, including a Bank clerk, in charge of several small but very heavy boxes of gold bullion, each box holding 250 ounces; very responsible work, for the boxes have to be hauled up on deck from the tug-boat, which is bobbing about in rough water. All the cabins were full, their occupants asleep until some, at daylight, should leave for the shore; all that the steward could do for me was to arrange mattress and blankets on the saloon table, with which I coiled myself up for a few hours' sleep. Presently down from the deck came two commercial travellers, and I was roused by their talk. "Who's this on the table? Is he a passenger?" "Yes, he came aboard by the tug, and they say he's an Archdeacon." "Don't believe it. I'll bet you a bottle of champagne he isn't. I'll ask him." "Excuse me, sir, but are you an Archdeacon?" "Sorry to disappoint you, I am, and I shall be much obliged to you for a glass of that champagne!"
En route to Wellington, we lay off Westport, in the Province of Nelson, for a few hours. Like all settlements on the West Coast, the town is close to the sea, backed up by forest-clad hills. Gold in the neighbourhood at first attracted population, but
