apparently doing a good trade. Thalassa! I behold the sea once more; it dashes moaning on the surf-beaten shores, which in the old days made the West Coast a name of terror to navigators. We cross the Arahura by a broad bridge. A small Maori settlement is here. The natives all live in wooden frame houses, and subsist on the rents of the reserved land set apart for them. They are the remains of the tribes which lived here, who put on considerable airs because the precious greenstone is found in their district. Pride had its fall, for the Maoris from the north came down and spoiled them of their treasure, and generally cleaned them out by killing and eating. Now there are only 50 natives in all Westland, and they are comparatively wealthy. The women wear blue dresses and smoke the strongest tobacco. A few more miles along a good road, and we bowl into Hokitika.”
Speaking of Mr Arthur Davis, the driver of Cobb & Co.’s coach between the Bealey and Hokitika, “The Vagabond” says:—“Over the singles where there is no defined road, our driver takes us without the slighest hesitation. Night seems to him all the same as day. Suddenly the snow begins to fall, and it freezes as it falls. Such cold I have, perhaps, felt before, but it seems like a dream. Snow, snow, snow, it falls, all around us; it fills every corner in our rugs and clothing. We are snowed up behind and before. We can hardly see the leaders. The flakes come in heavy drifts striking in our faces, stinging and blinding. Up the hillsides, along the banks of the Bealey river by a perilous track, the danger of which we cannot see, high mountains above us, the gorge beneath us. For myself, I am one mass of icy snow, a frozen witness. Everything is white and chilly looking. Yet all the while Arthur Davis sings cheerily and encourages his horses; he seems perfectly happy and doesn’t swear. A real ‘gilt-edged driver’ this. Of all the whips by whom I have sat in the colonies, he is the best. He ‘takes the cake.’ The other day Davis drove 150 miles in 23 hours without any rest, and then came in fresh and smiling. It is indeed true of him, ‘a merry heart goes all the day; a sad heart dies in a mile.’”
Though somewhat apart from the subject of this chapter, we feel constrained to give “The Vagabond’s” first impression of the West Coast, its climate, and its people. He proceeds:—“We are in another climate. The mildness of the air is charming after the cold of Otago and the ranges. A lovely place this Hokitika. The long stretch of surf-bound shore, crested billows everywhere save the entrance to the harbour in the Hokitika River, the town backed by the primeval forest, not like the Australian bush, but varying in colour and shade; far beyond is the range of the Alps towering to the skies, culminating in the monarch of New Zealand, Mount Cook. How lovely, how grand this looks in the clear atmosphere! And how surprising is this same clearness after the fogs and mist I have experienced around Wakitipu and Wanaka. I have an idea that, after all, this West Coast is the place to come for scenery. Mr Mueller, the chief surveyor, who is courtesy itself to me, points out on the map how Mount Cook can be reached in one day’s journey from the sea, and he shows also the routes to the ‘Franz Joseph’ and other grand glaciers, which are miles in length, and which contain caverns
