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on the undergrowth, which is still further injured by the depredations of cattle; gradually the plants less able to resist changed conditions disappear, and with them many insects, lizards, and birds, which are unable to obtain their usual food in the new environment.

But the space occupied by the displaced plants is not long allowed to remain unoccupied. An army of encroaching weeds speedily takes possession of the vacancy: thistles, starthistles, docks, groundsels, brambles, briars, and a hundred other unattractive invaders make their appearance, and increase the severity of the struggle for the survivors of the indigenous flora. From sea-level to the highest points reached by the miner or shepherd, from the North Cape to the Antarctic Islands, their hosts press forward, ever seizing some new position, just as on a larger scale they have long since occupied the vicinity of the chief ports on the great lines of ocean travel from Britain to the Cape of Good Hope, from Yokohama to Cape Horn, so that wherever the traveller lands from his floating home he finds himself surrounded by familiar plants which have in a greater or lesser degree amalgamated with the vegetation of the country which they have invaded, and which to a large extent they will ultimately overcome.

And, most unhappily, this invasion is not restricted to phanerogamic plants. Numbers of injurious fungi accompany their hosts. Rust, mildew, and bunt blight the hopes of the wheat-grower at the moment of fruition. The grazier too often sees his pastures rendered useless by the ravages of smut and ergot; while the cultivators of edible fruits and vegetables can point to special enemies of almost every kind of plant grown for its value as an article of food. Nor is this all. Numbers of species, almost equally insidious in their development, are parasitic, not only on members of the indigenous flora, but on the naturalised weeds themselves; so that the circle of infection is constantly widening, while the scientific knowledge and practical skill of the cultivator are taxed to the utmost limit.

Further, the invading army of plants has brought in its train a still more dangerous host of animals; and as in the vegetable kingdom the most injurious forms were found amongst the less highly organized kinds, so in the animal kingdom the invaders whose agency is most dreaded are members of the Invertebrata: the mussel scale, the fluted scale, the black scale, and many others, together with numerous species of plant-lice, will occur to you as belonging to lowly-developed forms of Insecta. Higher in the scale, the Hessian fly, wire-worm, turnip-fly, and others; while numerous species of earth-worms, molluscs, birds,

tion may at once be directed to the earth-worms, of which several European species have become naturalised, and succeeded in replacing indigenous forms in various localities in both Islands. When recently travelling in the upper portions of the valleys of the Rangitikei and Turakina I found that in localities where a few years back native worms were plentiful the introduced Lumbricus terrestris (L.) had spread over large areas of grass-land to such an extent that it was impossible to find a single square foot of earth free from its castings, while in many places its burrows rendered the soil so spongy that it was dangerous to the passing horseman. As a rule, native worms are most frequent in unploughed land; a single ploughing destroys large numbers, and if the land is frequently ploughed the native kinds speedily disappear-a result invariably accelerated by the advent of introduced species, which quickly effect a complete replacement. It is stated that a large worm which, in the Kaipara, frequently attained a length of over 20in., and was used as food by the Maoris, has not been seen of late years: I believe it has not been described.

Amongst Arachnida the small introduced mite known as the red spider (Tetranychus telarius) has increased enormously in some districts, and is found on native and introduced shrubs alike; but my knowledge of the indigenous species of this group is not sufficient to enable me to state whether actual displacement may be observed or not. Many spiders of kinds usually found in or about dwelling-houses in Europe have been accidentally introduced, but it is not clear that they have succeeded in replacing indigenous species.

When the limited area to which many of our indigenous insects are restricted is considered in connection with the wide area over which clearing operations have extended, it will be difficult to evade the conclusion that many species, and possibly entire genera, have become extinct, their places being now occupied by introduced species, although under different conditions; but this can hardly be considered true replacement, and, so far as known to me, no instance has been observed of an introduced insect having extirpated an indigenous species, although not a few of the latter have become rare in districts where they were formerly plentiful, and in all probability the food-supply of others has been reduced by the agency of the honey-bee.

Amongst the indigenous insects which are now to be met with only in diminished numbers is the elephant beetle (Lasiorhynchus barbicornis, Fabr.), which was formerly plentiful in the vicinity of Wellington, as in other districts, but is now comparatively rare. Its high degree of specialisation invests it with exceptional interest, so that its diminution can only be witnessed with regret.

Amongst introduced insects are numerous Coccidæ, of which there are upwards of twenty species, many of them being highly injurious, the three most dangerous perhaps being the fluted scale (Icerya purchasi, Mask.), which affects many species of indigenous and cultivated trees and shrubs; the mussel scale (Mytilaspis pomorum, Bouché), the great pest of the apple, but also found on numerous shrubs and trees, both introduced and indigenous; and the black scale (Lecanium oleæ, Bern.), all of which are widely dispersed, and may be found intermixed with the indigenous Dactylopius glaucus (Mask.), and other native forms, which have increased to a large extent owing to the large supply of introduced plants available for food, and possibly to the absence of enemies. In the case of the Dactylopius, at least, this increase is occasionally accompanied by a partial abandonment of the native plants on which it formerly subsisted. There does not appear to be any instance of the replacement of a native scaleinsect by an introduced species. The number of naturalised aphidian insects is even larger than that of the Coccidæ; but, unlike the members of that group, they do not come into competition with indigenous species, as the family can scarcely be said to be represented in the indigenous fauna, a single undescribed species of doubtful affinity being the only form observed at present; it is small, apparently rare, and seems restricted in its choice of food to a purely herbaceous groundssel (Erechtites prenanthoides, DC.). The introduced kinds, however, have increased to a vast extent, and in many instances infest different kinds of plants to those on which they usually live in Europe. Amongst the most troublesome are Aphis pruni (Réaum), on the plum; A. amygdali (Fonsc), on the peach; A. mali (Fabr.), chiefly on pome fruits; Siphono- phora fragarieœ (Koch), on the strawberry; and Schizoneura lanigera (Hans.), on pome fruits: all of which are widely distributed; while Phylloxera vastarix (Planch.) is only found in the north.

Thrips appear to be in course of displacement by introduced species, but my knowledge of this group is insufficient to allow of details being given on this occasion.

Few New Zealand residents of the present day can form any accurate idea of the injury and annoyance inflicted upon the early settlers by the native flesh-fly, which was formerly most abundant in all districts. A spade or other implement used by a man with greasy hands would speedily become fly-blown. Newly-cooked fresh meat could scarcely be transferred from the camp-oven to the table before it was attacked, while blankets or woollen garments were speedily rendered useless when exposed. But this troublesome pest has practically disappeared, having been displaced by the introduced

of such pests as the stoat, weasel, and ferret, which are annihilating the surviving portions of one of the most remarkable collections of indigenous birds in the world.

The kakapo (Stringops habroptius, Gray) has suffered so severely from introduced agencies that it is now on the verge of extinction in many districts where it was formerly found in comparatively large numbers. Its eggs, being merely laid in holes at the base of trees, have been attacked by rats, the young birds by wild cats, and the old birds by dogs, stoats, weasels, and by pigs. It still lingers in the centre of the North Island, and is found in larger quantity on some parts of the west-coast of the South Island, but its extirpation throughout the colony at a near date seems absolutely certain.

It is not in all cases an easy matter to determine whether a given species has suffered more extensively from competition with naturalised forms or from the direct changes in environment effected by man himself. The destruction of the forest over wide areas at once deprives many organisms of both shelter and food, as in the case of the kaka (Nestor meridionalis, Gml.), which was formerly abundant where it is now rarely or never seen, a fact all the more to be regretted from its feeding largely upon insects. The kea (Nestor notabilis, Gould) has suffered but little from this cause, but numbers have been purposely destroyed on account of the ravages effected by them amongst sheep; still, in the high mountain districts inhabited by this bird it cannot be considered either rare or local. The parrakeets (Platycercus novœ-zealandiœ, Sparrm, and P. auriceps, Kuhl) occurred in large flocks, and were very destructive to the grain-crops of the early settlers; but under the combined attacks of rats, wild cats, and especially of man, they have become comparatively rare and local. One of the most interesting birds in the colony, the huia (Heteralocha acutirostris, Gould), restricted to the Ruahine and Tararua Ranges and their offshoots, partly, without doubt, from the ravages of cats, but especially from the more merciless attacks of collectors, has become extremely rare. Formerly a pair or two could usually be found at the back of the Wainuiomata without any great difficulty, but they seem to have disappeared from that locality. The migratory birds, the long-tailed cuckoo (Eudynamis taitensis, Sparrm) and the bronze-winged cuckoo (Chrysococcyx lucidus, Gml.), are becoming increasingly rare, but without any obvious cause, except possibly the decrease of Gerygone flaviventris (Gray), in whose nest both parasites usually deposit their eggs. It is worth while to remark that both the cuckoos may occasionally, be seen all through the winter seasons. The silver-eye (Zosterops lateralis, Lath.), although still to be seen in large numbers in nearly all parts of the colony, is less plentiful in many districts than formerly,

but the balance of evidence seems to point to its having been introduced from Australia by natural agencies.

The tui (Prosthemadera novœ-zealandiœ, Gml.), the bell-bird (Anthornis melanura, Sparrm), and the stitch-bird (Pogonornis cincta, Dubus) appear to have alike suffered from the diminution of their food-supply caused by the introduction of the honey-bee, while they have been incessantly attacked by cats and rats; the tui, however, shows the greatest power of resistance, as it is still to be found throughout the colony, although in greatly diminished numbers. The, bell-bird, which formerly existed in large numbers in both the North and South Islands, has become extremely rare and local in the North, although more plentiful in the South; while the stitch-bird. appears to have been driven to its last refuge in the Little Barrier Island, where it still forms the prey of the destructive collector. It has been suggested that one cause of the disappearance of the bell-bird from the North Island is the diminution of its food-supply caused by the honey-bee, which is plentiful in nearly all districts; but this would render it difficult to account for its preservation in the South Island, where bees are equally plentiful. It may possibly be found that the increase of bees has been injurious to certain indigenous insects, but at present there is no evidence to that effect.

The little bush-wren (Xenicus longipes, Gml.) is almost extirpated in localities where it was once plentiful, and the North Island, robin (Petroica longipes, Less.) is rarely to be seen even in sparsely-settled districts; while the little fermbird (Sphenœacus punctatus, Quoy and Gaim) has become comparatively rare in numerous swamps and reed-beds where it was once common. The ground-lark (Anthus novœ-zealandiœ, Gml.) maintains its ground in country districts, although it has become rare in the vicinity of towns, partly, perhaps, from its being attacked by cats and rats, or by boys still more merciless. So also the familiar forest-bird the fantail (Rhipidura flabellifera, Gml.), although its numbers have been greatly reduced in nearly all localities. All, or nearly all, the small native birds suffer alike from the attacks of rats and wild cats. The saddle-back (Creadion carunculatus, Gml.) has become very rare throughout the limited portion of the North Island to which it was naturally restricted, and is now in danger of extermination on the Little Barrier Island, where it was formerly plentiful. It is almost superfluous to mention the increasing scarcity of the beautiful native pigeon (Carpophaga novœ-zealandiœ, Gml.). Notwithstanding its former abundance throughout the colony, there is scarcely a single district in which it is to be found in large numbers at the present time. Although it has not escaped

the ravages of rats and wild cats, the injury effected by these agencies is but trivial when compared with the destruction wrought by settlers, who have shot it during all seasons, on account of its value for food. The native quail (Coturnix novœ-zealandiœ, Quoy and Gaim.), once common over large portions of the colony, is practically extinct; so far as I am aware, not a single specimen has been seen for some years past, although it is believed to survive in the district between Lake Wakatipu and the Cosmos Peaks. Birds of this class suffer perhaps from the progress of settlement more severely than any others; their food is diminished, and numbers are destroyed by the surface-burnings so frequent in the early stages of a pastoral district, while they are attacked by birds of prey, cats, rats, and dogs whenever they venture into the open, and their eggs are destroyed by the weka.

The great diminution in the numbers of the northern and southern wekas (Ocydromus earli, Gray, and O. australis, Sparrm) affords strong testimony to the intensity of the struggle for existence. Both formerly occurred in great abundance, both are hardy birds, and both are extremely wary; but under the changed conditions produced by the introduction of the sheep and rabbit the wekas have greatly diminished in numbers, and are now but seldom seen near settlements. The southern weka is more plentiful in mountain districts than the northern, but it has become more wary. Although both suffered to some extent from the attacks of rats, wild cats, and dogs, no appreciable diminution was observed until the introduction of stoats and ferrets, against which they are clearly unable to contend. The striped rail (Rallus philippensis, L.) does not seem to have diminished so largely as might have been expected, but owing to the excessively shy habits of this bird it is not easy to form an opinion. Hutton's rail (Cabalus modestus, Hutt.), of the Chatham Islands, one of the most remarkable, as it is one of the rarest, of ocydromine birds, is on the verge of extinction, if it be not already extinct. It has only been found on the Islet of Mangare, which, according to a valued correspondent, is now under settlement, the first act of the settler having been to capture all the specimens of the Cabalus that he could find, in order to realise their market value. It is a lamentable oversight that this small islet, the value of which could have been but trivial, was not purchased long ago in order to insure the preservation of this singularly interesting bird.

The swamp-hen (Porphyrio melanotus, Temm.) seemed for a time to increase with the progress of settlement rather than to diminish, but of late years there has been a marked diminution of its numbers, which may possibly be traced to the destruction of its eggs by the ubiquitous rat.

The small snipe (Gallinago pusilla, Buller) has become extemely rare in the few habitats where it has been observed, in all probability from its eggs having been destroyed by rats. Mr. James Baker informed me that in the early days of Auckland he had observed from twelve to twenty together on the shores of the Hauraki Gulf, but I believe it has not been observed in that locality since 1868.

The white heron (Ardea alba, L.) has long been, known to be extremely rare in the colony, but of late years it has almost disappeared, chiefly, it may be, from the rapacity of collectors, although it has doubtless suffered from the attacks of the large hawk, and from rats, &c. The blue heron (Ardea sacra, Gml.) appears to have suffered but little in comparison with its white relative, as there are but few suitable places on our coasts where one or two pairs may not be seen by a patient watcher. Of late years extensive inroads have been made amongst the Anatidæ, all of which are greatly diminished in numbers. About fifteen years ago the paradise-duck (Casarca variegata, Gml.) was very common on the east coast of the Wellington District, between Cape Palliser and Castlepoint, but at the present time the traveller may ride the entire distance without seeing a specimen. The eggs and young birds have suffered from the attacks of rats and wild cats, while stoats and weasels are said to have disposed of the adults, and numbers have been shot for mere sport. The same diminution of numbers has been observed in the South Island, where it was always more plentiful than in the North. The brown duck (Anas chlorotis, Gray), the grey duck (A. swperciliosa, Gml.) the little teal (Querquedula gibberifrons, Müller), and the black teal (Fuligula novœ-zealandiœ, Gml.), have been specially sought by the sportsman, with the result that where large numbers were formerly seen only a comparatively few individuals can be found to-day. They have also suffered severely from the depredations of rats.

Speaking generally, the oceanic birds that breed on the coasts of New Zealand appear to have suffered but little from introduced enemies, their breeding-places being usually out of reach of rats or wild cats. Captain Fairchild, of the Government steamer “Hinemoa,” is of opinion that the albatros and its allies are less numerous on the Auckland and Campbell Islands than formerly, but the diminution can only have been caused by the ravages of the collector. The feet of the larger kinds are in demand for tobacco-pouches, and the head is mounted for ornamental purposes. Some years ago the late Mr. Charles Traill informed me that large numbers had been killed on the Antarctic Islands for the sake of the wing-bones, which were in demand for pipe

stems. But nearly all the Procellaridæ, the Liaridæ, and the Pelicanidæ are still to be found in vast numbers. In 1891 I visited the Snares, and was filled with amazement at the number of petrels that made their appearance on the approach of evening. From the surface of the sea to the greatest height at which it was possible to distinguish them they were to be seen in myriads, and gave me such an idea of their vast numbers as I had never before been able to realise; while their rapid but graceful evolutions were a never-ending source of pleasure. The scene reminded one of the countless vistas of stars opened to the eye of the observer through a good telescope, or, perhaps better still, of the ever advancing and receding hosts of bacteria to be seen in infusions under a high power of the microscope. The vast assemblage of penguins to be seen on the Bounty Islands did not impress me with nearly such overwhelming ideas of the numbers of marine birds as that memorable aërial scene at the Snares.

The common shag (Phalacrocorax varius, Gml.), which was formerly frequent on the banks of fresh-water, and more rarely of tidal, rivers, has certainly diminished of late years, although there is no danger of its immediate extinction; but, on the whole, there seems very little, if any, diminution in the numbers of the marine cormorants.

Passing from the sea-birds to the Apterygidæ, a widely different state of affairs is found to prevail. Apteryx mantelli (Bartl.) of the North Island is in much the same position as A. australis (Shaw) and A. oweni (Gould) of the South Island (but also found sparingly in the North). All alike are extinct, or nearly extinct, over large districts in which they were formerly so plentiful that explorers and surveyors calculated on their furnishing a considerable portion of the food-supply; but this is now entirely out of the question, and every year brings the date of their complete extinction appreciably closer. Their supply of food is indirectly reduced by the rabbits, which in some cases have invaded their haunts; their eggs are destroyed by wekas and rats; and the adult birds are killed wholesale by stoats, weasels, wild cats, and occasionally by dogs which have escaped from domestication. The complete extinction of these interesting birds by agencies now in operation will not extend over a lengthened period.

It is not easy to determine the effects produced by introduced birds upon the indigenous birds of the colony, nor in all cases to trace the lines along which their influence has been exerted; but it is advisable to make brief mention of the kinds that have become most extensively naturalised. The Chinese pheasant (Phasianus torquatus, Gml.) is abundant in many districts, and by its superior vigour has almost completely

Gray) and the short-eared bat (Chalinolobus morio, Gray), which, although often local, are occasionally seen in considerable numbers. Both are less frequent than formerly, owing to the destruction of large areas of forest, and possibly to their food having been diminished by naturalised birds. The so-called Maori rat (Mus maorium, Hutton), and the Maori dog, long since extinct, were introduced by the Maoris, and used for food. For a long time the Maori rat was supposed to have been extirpated by the black rat (Mus rattus, L.), which is especially plentiful in certain parts of the North Island, and the grey rat (Mus decumanus, L.), which is established throughout the colony. The Maori rat is, however, still to be found on several islets in the North, and appears to be not uncommon in the northern parts of the South Island. The ravages of the grey rat upon native birds have been repeatedly mentioned, but its partiality for the freshwater bivalve Unio aucklandicus is not so well known. In tributaries of the Waikato, where this mollusc is abundant, small heaps of its shells may be seen on the banks with the front margins bitten through by the rodent, which, after extracting the animal, has left the empty shell as a mute witness to his voracity. The mouse (Mus musculus, L.) is to be found everywhere, and, when occurring in great abundance, often causes the grey rat to abandon the field. In country districts it feeds upon the seeds of sheep-sorrel, wireweed, and other prostrate plants during the winter season. The injuries effected by the wild cat are too well known to need further mention, and the same may be said of the dog escaped from domestication.

The domesticated ox and the horse can scarcely be said to have exercised any directly deleterious effects on the native fauna, except, perhaps, upon the earthworm; but the sheep, by devouring the food of other animals, has been only less injurious than the rabbit, and, like that unwelcome intruder, ranges from sea-level to the limits of perpetual snow. At present no serious damage has been sustained from the hare. The wild pig, however, has been a terrible enemy to young birds, and, in a few localities, the goat has assisted, by destroying the shrubs which formed their shelter.

In addition to the widespread destruction caused by bringing fern- and forest-land under cultivation, the indigenous fauna has suffered severely from naturalised worms, insects, birds, and mammals-partly through the diminution of the food-supply caused by the invaders; from their superior vigour; often from their predaceous habits; and from their rapid increase, which, in many cases has enabled them to crowd the native species off the field. With the exception of the sheep, rabbit, cat, and especially of the stoat, ferret, and

flocks, and, in any case, with the young bird it is “follow my leader.” The same remark may be made concerning the migratory habits of the Norwegian lemming, the salmon, and other animals. The periodical shifting of their places of abode by certain animals may be regarded as racial habits, in which the offspring are trained by their parents or seniors; and it is no more necessary to assume the existence of a special faculty to account for the habit than it would be to assume the existence of a special faculty in mankind to account for the custom of some human families to shift periodically from the town to the country.

The nest-building habits of birds may be similarly explained, and even such extraordinary habits as that of the Australian Megapodidæ, which build up immense mounds of vegetable and other matter and deposit their eggs in the middle, leaving them to be hatched by the heat evolved from the fermentation of the decaying mass. One member of this family-the Leipoa ocellata-forms a pile as much as 45ft. in circumference and 4ft. in height of leaves thickly covered with sand. It is assumed that these birds construct the mounds without teaching or knowledge acquired by observation; but I see no warrant for such a belief. How the racial habit was originally acquired is a fair subject for research; but, having once been acquired, and the propensity incorporated (so to speak) in the bird's mental system, it is easy to comprehend how the young megapod may acquire the art of building a mound, either from direct observation or from seeing other birds perform the work.

The beaver's remarkable habits of constructing dams and water-canals, which, if constructed by human beings, would be deemed proofs of considerable engineering skill, illustrate my proposition. The beavers dwell together in families in artificial habitations called “lodges,” which are tenanted by generation after generation. Some of the works constructed by the beaver, too, are of great antiquity, and there is an instance upon record of a beaver-dam which appeared, upon investigation, to be about a thousand years old, and was still in use. The young beaver remains in the parental lodge until the summer of its third year, when it starts housekeeping for itself; so that it has ample opportunity during its residence in the parental domicile for receiving instruction from its elders in the peculiar ways of beaverdom; and when it does begin life upon its own account it still enjoys opportunities of acquiring engineering skill by observing the labours of other beavers, and from its own experience. Probably its earlier works are less perfect than those which it executes when it grows older, just as the nests made by young birds are seldom as perfect as those made by older ones.

Cats and dogs instruct and correct their young; so do monkeys. Tigers and wolves teach their young how to hunt and kill their prey; and, speaking generally, the adult Carnivora train their offspring for the battle of life.

Some of the most remarkable so-called instincts displayed by animals can be accounted for in the same way, and when we come to analyse these instincts we find that they are nothing more nor less than tribal habits, passed on from generation to generation, and acquired in a similar way to that in which the racial habits of mankind are acquired. Let us take for example a singular instinct of the huanaco, or guanaco, a small camel-like animal found in South America. In the southern part of Patagonia there are dying-places of the huanaco, to which all individuals inhabiting the surrounding plains repair at the approach of death in order to yield up the ghost there. “The best known of these dying or burial places,” says Hudson in” The Naturalist in La Plata,” “are on the banks of the Santa Cruz and Gallegos Rivers, where the river-valleys, are covered with dense primeval thickets of bushes and trees of stunted growth. There the ground is covered with the bones of countless dead generations.” “The animals,” says Darwin, “in most cases must have crawled before dying beneath and among the bushes.” This peculiar habit of the huanaco seems to be of a local nature, restricted to South Patagonia. In Northern Patagonia, and on the Chilian and Peruvian Andes, where the huanaco is also found, no such instinct has been observed. Mr. Hudson endeavours to account for the origin of this habit by assuming that, in far distant ages, the huanaco “had formed a habit of congregating with its fellows at certain seasons at the same spot; further, that there were seasons of suffering to the animal- the suffering, or discomfort, or danger, having in the first place given rise to the habit. Assuming, again, that the habit had existed so long as to become a fixed immutable instinct, a hereditary knowledge, so that the young huanaco, untaught by the adults, would go alone and unerringly to the meeting-place from any distance, it is but an easy step to the belief that, after the conditions had changed, and the refuges were no longer needed, this instinctive knowledge -would still exist in them, and that they would take the old road when stimulated by the pain of a wound, or the miserable sensations experienced in disease, or during the decay of the lifeenergy, when the senses grow dim, and the breath fails, and the blood is thin and cold.” Mr. Hudson's theory is a not improbable explanation of the origin of the habit; but it seems to be an unwarranted assumption on his part that the young huanaco, about to die, proceeds to one of these dying-places without being taught by the adults to do so. The huanaco is

a gregarious animal, and usually goes about in small herds, each containing from half a dozen to thirty animals; but Mr. Darwin states that he saw one herd which must have contained at least five hundred huanacos. Inasmuch as the habit in question is only exercised once during the huanaco's life- time, and then just before death, and is not wanted as part of its daily round of occupations, it seems rather far-fetched to suppose that the habit is become so ingrained in the mental constitution of the animal that the memory of it invariably revives upon the approach of death, and leads the animal unerringly to a dying-place. Even if we assume that an irresistible desire to seek for a dying-place Seizes the animal upon the approach of death, it is difficult to understand how the knowledge of the whereabouts of a dying-place could be inherited. It is a far more likely supposition that if a young huanaco is in extremis the older members of the herd expel it from their ranks, as other sick and wounded animals are usually expelled by their fellows, and indicate to it whither it should go.

Traditional and tribal memories, perpetuated by communication from old to young, will account for such habits as the hive-making habits of the bee and the domestic and military habits of the various species of ants, which are so commonly regarded as typical of the more wonderful development of instinct in the lower animals. Even Charles Darwin, calm philosopher as he is, writing about the intelligence of ants, rapturously observes, “The brain of an ant is one of the most marvellous atoms of matter in the world, perhaps more so than the brain of a man.” In point of fact, an ant does not possess a brain, although it does possess an assemblage of ganglia which in the higher animals develope into a brain. The large number of ants and social bees which dwell together in communities, and the rigour of their social organization, make the education of the young ant or bee a matter of comparative ease. It is born into the midst of an active community, living day after day on a system of unchanging routine, and the young ant or bee naturally falls into step with its fellows. A child born and bred in a camp would naturally acquire military habits. The young ant, nevertheless, seems to receive special instruction from, its elders. Romanes, summing up the results of the observations made upon this subject, says, “The young ant does not appear to come into the world with a full instinctive knowledge of all its duties as a member of a social community. It is led about the nest, and ‘trained in a knowledge of domestic duties, especially in the case of the larvæ. Later on the young ants are taught to distinguish between friends and foes. When an ants’ nest is attacked by foreign ants the young ants never join in the fight, but confine themselves to removing the

pupæ; and that the knowledge of hereditary enemies is not wholly instinctive in ants is proved by the following experiment, which we owe to Ford: He put young ants belonging to three different species into a glass case with pupæ of six other species, all the species being naturally hostile to one another. The young ants did not quarrel, but worked together to tend the pupæ. When the latter hatched out an artificial colony was formed of a number of naturally hostile species, all living together after the manner of the ‘happy families’ of the showman.”

Amongst the hive-bees, the younger ones are usually left at home with a small number of older bees to perform the internal work of the hive while the remainder of the older bees, go out to collect honey and bee-bread. What deduction can be drawn from this fact save that the younger bees are gradually trained to a knowledge of their duties as members of the community? Even bees of mature age seem to teach one another. Huber saw a bee building upon, the wax which had already been put together by her comrades. But she did not arrange it properly, or in a way to continue the design of her predecessors, so that her building made an undesirable corner with theirs. “Another bee,” says Huber, “perceived it, pulled down the bad work before our eyes, and gave it to the first in the requisite order, so that it might exactly follow the original direction.”

Of course, the fact that many so-called instinctive acts are really the products of education and experience does not clash with the view that animals may be, and probably are, born into the world with a hereditary predisposition to certain tribal habits which render instruction in the performance of those habits easier and more effective than it would otherwise be, just as some human families are endowed with musical gifts, and the children in such families more readily acquire the technical skill necessary for the efficient exercise of the musical art than children of families destitute of such special gifts. The mental like the bodily structure of any single animal is the sum and outcome of all its progenitors' faculties; and, just as its body is better fitted to perform certain acts than others, so its mental organization is better fitted for certain mental operations than it is for others. Body and mind are correlated, and work in unison. The web-building spiders secrete web-building material in their bodies, and possess highly-specialised organs enabling them to produce the material in such manner and abundance that it can be used in the construction of snares. And, as this specialised anatomical structure has gradually been evolved from simple beginnings, the mental faculty required for the construction of snares has been evolved with it. The spider

may be said to be endowed with mental as well as physical spinnerets. Those oft-repeated acts which are required for the preservation of the animal's life become so interwoven with its mental fabric as to be inseparable from it, and performed almost mechanically. Hence, the newly-born animal, inheriting a special bodily structure, and a mental endowment corresponding with it, is apt and ready to perform such acts even without special education. It may be taken for granted that any human being with his bodily organization intact would in process of time learn to walk of his own accord, even if placed in circumstances which had precluded him from seeing any other human creature walk, or from receiving any instruction in the art of walking.

If we eliminate all such habits as may have been acquired without teaching or observation, we shall find left comparatively few fixed habits of animals which, in the present state of our knowledge, cannot be accounted for by the individual having received instruction from its fellows or gained knowledge from its own observation; and it is to such habits that I propose to restrict the term “instinct.” For the purposes of this paper I will call them “true instincts.” These instincts are confined almost exclusively to insects. By way of illustration I will take the case of the caterpillar of a butterfly (Thekla) referred to in Darwin's “Posthumous Essay on Instinct,” printed as an appendix to Romanes' “Mental Evolution in Animals.” This caterpillar feeds within the pomegranate; but when full-fed gnaws its way out (thus making the exit of the butterfly possible before its wings are fully expanded), and then proceeds to attach with silk threads the point of the fruit to the branch of the tree, so that it may not fall before the metamorphosis of the insect is complete. Hence, the larva works on this occasion for the safety of the pupa and of the mature insect which it will never see; and there is apparently no means by which it can receive instruction, since no visible intercourse takes place between the butterfly which laid the eggs from which the caterpillar is produced and the caterpillar. When considering this problem we must firmly grasp the fact that, although the caterpillar, the pupa, and the mature insect—the butterfly—are, to outward seeming, three distinct animals, in reality they are but varying phases of the same animal; just as the infant, the boy, and the man are one and the same human being, but in different stages of existence. The difference in the outward aspect of the insect in the several phases of its existence is indeed the more striking, but the essential facts of the phenomenon are the same. The caterpillar, the pupa, and the imago form the various stages of the insect's life-cycle, just as the progress from early infancy to old age forms the life-

cycle of the human being. Therefore, if it be the case that the insect possesses the power of inheriting memories, we can understand how the memory of an inherited habit, useful and common to one phase of the animal's existence, may readily be transmitted from the perfect insect to its offspring through the various stages of that offspring's existence. The order in which these memories are transmitted will be the order in which they will manifest themselves in the new life-cycle. The question therefore is, Does the Thekla possess the power of transmitting the memory of that habit to which I have referred? Is it possible for a habit like this to become so ingrained in the mental constitution of the insect as to be capable of transmission from parent to offspring, in like manner to that in which the bodily structure is transmitted? It appears not unreasonable to suppose that such may be the case. The life of an insect is short and monotonous, and its range of locomotion limited. Its world is a small world—a fragment of the larger world in which man lives and moves and has his being; there is little scope for variation of habit, and the insect's habits of life must consequently tend to become stereotyped. Therein it differs from the higher animals, whose mental powers are kept active and mobile by being constantly exercised upon fresh subjects. As the mental nature of the animal grows more complex, instincts become more rare, because the animal exercises more choice in its actions. Even the minds of human beings, however, when kept within too narrow grooves, are apt to become largely mechanical in their actions, as is evidenced by certain Eastern nations, which follow the same habits and customs as were followed by their forefathers thousands of years ago. If, then, any particular habit became stereotyped upon the animal's mental system (of course, I use the term “stereotyped” in a strictly metaphorical sense, and for the purpose of rendering my meaning clearer) it would be transmitted from generation to generation in the same manner as the other mental qualities of the race were transmitted; for, whatever view we may take of the nature of mind, it cannot be denied that animals of the same race exhibit similar mental capacities; and hence we must conclude that the offspring owes its mental constitution to its parents just as much as it owes its bodily constitution to them, although the environment of any individual may develope mental as well as bodily peculiarities in that individual. Nor would the fact that the Thekla butterfly is the offspring of two parents affect the matter, because the habit or instinct above mentioned is common to both, and hence would be transmitted by both.

The fact that the nervous system of the Invertebrata is fundamentally different from that of the Vertebrata is full of

significance when we reflect that true instincts are almost confined to members of the former branch of the animal kingdom, seeing that it is through the nervous system that the mind of the animal finds expression.

Amongst true instincts I should class such acts of protective mimicry as those performed by the Phasmidæ. Here is a description by Professor Drummond of one of these creatures found by him in tropical Africa: “Take two inches of dried yellow grass-stalk, such as one might pluck to run through the stem of a pipe; then take six other pieces nearly as long and a quarter as thick; bend each in the middle, at any angle you like; stick them in three opposite pairs, and again at any angle you like, upon the first grass-stalk, and you have my Chirombo. When you catch him his limbs are twisted about at every angle, as if the whole were made of one long stalk of delicate grass, hinged in a dozen places, and then gently crushed up into a dishevelled heap. Having once assumed a position, by a wonderful instinct he never moves or varies one of his many angles by half a degree. The way this insect keeps up the delusion is indeed almost as “wonderful as the mimicry itself; you may turn him over and over and over, but he is mere dried grass, and nothing will induce him to acknowledge the animal kingdom by the faintest suspicion of spontaneous movement.” We know too little of the life-history of the Phasmidæ to assert positively that their practice of shamming death (which is Drummond's interpretation of their action, or rather inaction) is not taught the young by the adults, but it seems improbable. The insect has inherited its peculiar bodily structure from its ancestors, and this structure readily lends itself to the practice. The instinct seems to be brought into play not only in the presence of actual danger, but also as a precaution against possible danger; and it may be that it is done unconsciously, like those reflex actions so common amongst the higher animals, many of which seem to be relics of what were manifestations of active intelligence in the past, but are now become mechanical responses to outward stimuli. Moreover, we must not forget that some animals of low organization are of an extremely lethargic disposition, and will remain motionless for hours, or even longer periods—our New Zealand tuatara may be taken as an instance—and it is possible that the “mimicry” of Professor Drummond's “Chirombo” may be partly attributable to this cause.

We may also class as indications of true instincts the fear which young animals, including children, usually manifest towards what is really dangerous to them. Young children, for example, usually show signs of fear on being plunged into the sea. The late Dr. Romanes once turned loose a ferret into

an outhouse which contained a doe rabbit with a very young family. The doe left the young ones, and the latter, as soon as they smelt the ferret, began to crawl about in so energetic a manner as to leave no doubt that the cause of the commotion was fear, and not merely the discomfort arising from the temporary absence of the mother. This fear is not, however, universal amongst young animals, as is proved by the result of some experiments recently made by Professor Lloyd Morgan, and related by him in Nature (11th October, 1894). He put some young pheasants, about a day old, which had been artificially hatched out of the egg by means of an incubator, in close proximity to a fox-terrier; but, although the dog was keen to get at them, and trembling with excitement in every limb, the young birds exhibited no signs of fear. They also showed no fear of a large blindworm, but pecked at its forked tongue, its eye, and tail. Mr. Douglas Spalding made a number of interesting experiments upon the young of our domesticated animals, the result of which he published in Macmillan's Magazine, which went to show that chickens, young ducks, and pigs, and other newly-born animals, are capable of performing many acts apparently betokening intelligence without instruction. He found that very young chickens were able to pick up small specks of food and scrape in search of food; that newly-born pigs sought- the mother's teat almost immediately after birth; and that, on placing four ducklings a day old in the open air for the first time, one of them almost immediately snapped at and caught a fly on the wing: all of the experiments being conducted in such a manner as to preclude the possibility of the young animal having learned to do these things by imitation. In considering these experiments, however, it must be borne in mind, as I have pointed out in my treatise on “The Intelligence of Animals,” that the young fowl, duck, or pig comes into the world with its intelligence pretty fully developed—although it afterwards gains wisdom from experience—and all such acts as those just mentioned are intelligent acts, not acts performed in an unvarying fashion, but acts varying with the surrounding circumstances. There seems, indeed, nothing more remarkable in a chicken scraping up the ground in search of food than in its walkiing, and chickens do not require to be taught how to walk.

What I have denominated true instincts suggest an analogy with reflex actions. Herbert Spencer, indeed, regards instinct as compound reflex action, by which I understand him to mean a sequence of reflex actions manifested in immediate succession to one another; while Dr. Romanes regards such socalled instincts as the hive-making instinct of the honey-bee as being reflex actions into which is imported the element of consciousness. It seems to me, however, that singleness is of

with one of Kahungunu's people, who lived in Kakaparaoa Pa, on the Waikohu-Matawai Block, near Turanga. They had nothing but fern-root to eat, and Taneroa constantly repined for the abundant food at her brother's place at Opotiki; so her husband, Rongomainotai, one day said, “Well, if food is so plentiful there, let us go to Tutamure.” Accordingly they went, but on arrival were only given some cold kumara to eat. Rongomainotai exclaimed, “If this is all we can get here, better to have lived on the fern-root at Kakaparaoa.” He was very angry, and returned to his own place, stealing on the way some seed-kumara belonging to Tutamure. By-and-by, when Taneroa heard that he had an abundance of food, she followed him; but he, without speaking one word to her, went off to Turanga. Thither she followed, so he moved on to Nukutaurua. She overtook him there, and he fled towards Wairoa, telling his people to kill Taneroa if she persisted in following after him, and they did so.

When Tutamure heard of his sister's death he assembled a war party and killed a number of Kahungunu's people, even-tually attacking that chief in his pa, called Maungaakahia, at Nukutaurua. As the ope (war party) drew near, Kahungunu asked who was the leader, and Tutamure answered, “Tama i hongia te Whakarua ka rangaranga te muri, ka tere tamure” (When the north-east wind blows, and the sea-breeze drives the waves into ridges, then is the tamure (snapper) seen). The opposing parties fought, and Tutamure's wooden spear (huata) and taiaha were both broken, so he armed himself with a patu paraoa (a whale-bone weapon), exclaiming, “Taua i te huata, taua i te ake, tangohia i te ika nui a tu kanapa napa ana te paraoa ki runga o Maungaakahia, ka ora taua nei ka nenehu” (Having fought in vain with spear and taiaha, then seizing weapons made from the whale, the great fish of the war god, the whale-bone flashes over Maungaakahia, I triumph over my foes, who disappear). This boast or speech of Tutamure's passed into a proverb, and his descendants henceforward were known as Te Panenehu. After the fight Kahungunu sued for peace, and, Tutamure consenting, Kahungunu offered him his sister, Tauhei, to wife. Now, Tutamure, though an exceedingly brave man, was an ill-favoured and insignificant-looking person; and when he went to a spring close by to adorn himself and saw his reflection in the clear water his heart failed him lest Tauhei should not return his affection; so he said to his young brother Taipunoa, who was handsome, “Take you Kahungunu's sister Tauhei for your wife, so that peace may be established between us and them.” Taipunoa did so, and Tauhei bore him a son, whose name was Mahaki, who begat Ihu and Whakara, from whom are descended all the Hitangua, Mahaki, and Ngapotiki Tribes. The

spring where Tutamure looked on his plain features is called to this day “Te Waiwhakaata a Tutamure” (Tutamure's looking-glass).

Some time after this Ngaitai quarrelled with the Panenehu, defeating them at Waikurapa. The quarrel was about pigeon-preserves in Whitikau and Whakapaupakihi Blocks. Ngaitai again attacked them at Otaitahu and Waireporepo. Then the Panenehu gained a victory at Ruruarama. Ngaitai retaliated by murdering two chiefs named Tukuaterangi and Rongomaiaia. Again they defeated the Panenehu with great slaughter at Waikoni, driving the remnant to Turanga. Eventually they returned, defeating the Ngaitai at Aururangi and at Paripapoa. Ngaitai were obliged to flee to Hauraki, taking with them the body of a Panenehu man called Tarahamama to eat by the way. They were subsequently expelled from the Thames district for having bewitched the son of Tuterangianini. They were kindly received by the Panenehu, who had by this time adopted the name of Te Whakatohea. Having murdered a Whakatohea woman named Tohikirangi, they fled to Turanga, but had to leave on account of trouble with the wife of Toroa Apukai. The Whakatohea again gave them shelter, and gave them two women of rank in marriage—Hinepare and Waimarama. After this, and when Taraia was a young man, Tuterangianini, the great chief of Ngatimaru, came to seek payment for the death of his son. He fell upon the Whakatohea at Waiaua, killing many hundreds. The fight took place on the beach, and, as the incoming tide rolled the numerous slain about on the sands, the battle was called “Te Paengatoitoi” (the shoal of toitoi-fish cast ashore). The remnant of the Whakatohea escaped to Turanga, but, a number having been killed by Ngatikahungunu at Kakaparaoa and Waikohu, they returned to Opotiki to find that Ngaitai had occupied all their country.

So they were made to suffer for the sin of Ngaitai in bewitching the son of Tuterangianini; and then these people tried to take their lands. However, they gave battle to Ngaitai, killing many at Awahou, and at Ahitarakihi, where the Town of Opotiki now stands, and so regained possession of their ancestral lands.

The Panenehu used to deposit their dead in a very large pukatea tree called “Te Ahoroa,” which stood on the left bank of the Otara River. There was a hole in the top, 50ft. or 60ft. from the ground, and the dead were hoisted up and, thrown in.^*

I will give my genealogy from Ngatorohaka:—

^*

Cape and from Kaitaia. It was not, however, until the time of Kawharu, Hakiriri, and Te-Ati-a-kura, about six or seven generations ago, that they advanced so far south as Kaipara proper. Their advance was due to some murders committed by the Wai-o-hua Tribe—a branch of Nga-riki—and who at that time occupied Otakanini and the adjacent country. Amongst others who were killed by the Wai-o-hua people was Hau-mai-wharangi, and it was to avenge his death particularly that the expedition, which finally conquered Kaipara, left the Wairoa, where Ngati-whatua were then living. One part of this expedition was under the command of Pou-tapu-aka, Papa-karewa, and Ati-a-kura. They landed near Otakanini, and occupied the hill just above where Te Otene lived, at Papurona, in 1860. They found Otakanini Pa too strong to take by a rush, and so adopted a method of siege which was not at all uncommon in former days. It has been denied by a well-known authority on Maori matters that the Maoris ever used any projectile weapon: the following will prove the contrary. The description of the Siege of Otakanini was given to me by Te Otene, the most learned man of Ngati-whatua alive in those days, and one well acquainted with the tribal history. As we sat on the same hill his ancestors occupied, as described above, he explained that Hakiriri and his men plied the pa with spears from that position, thrown by means of the kotaha or kopere, and, although the distance is some 150 yards, the besiegers made it so hot for those within the pa that they dare not come outside. Under cover of this shower of spears an advance was made, and the Pa of Otakanini finally taken, with very great slaughter. It was explained to me that the spears used were made of long, straight manuka poles, cut on the bank of the creek just below where we were sitting, and that, after having their ends sharpened by burning in the fire, they were thrown by aid of the kotaha.

Many of Us have seen this method of propulsion, no doubt, as used by the Maori boys in play. The spear is struck into the ground on a slant, inclined towards the direction in which it is intended to fly. A short stick, about 18in. long, with a string at one end, is used to propel the spear. The short stick is, in fact, just like a whip. The string or thong of the whip is twisted round the spear in a peculiar manner, so that it will readily come undone. The operator, standing on one side, with a strong, jerk, draws the spear out of the ground, and propels it to a long distance. Te Otene told me that a spear cast in this manner was capable of piercing two men at once, especially if thrown so as descend at a high angle.

This siege occurred about six generations ago. Hakiriri was Te Otene's great grent grandfather. From estimating

so exceedingly poor that sometimes I thought she would die; yet her young ones are just balls of fat until about the end of May, when many of them are as heavy as the largest old males. But soon after she ceases to feed them they rapidly become poor. The fruit that they have been fed on is nearly all done, and I think that many of them die before they learn to forage for themselves. All this time the old males are very fat, which shows that they did not exert themselves to feed the young—more likely they took the best of everything for themselves. Resolution as a whole is not a good place for kakapos, because tutu and fuchsia are scarce; but there are many places on it where colonies will do well, where fig-trees are plentiful. I noticed that there were no “gages” where the kakapos were; in fact, I have seen none on the mainland, but plenty on all the islands, where there are no kakapos; and if the birds eat them they will have plenty on Resolution. I will have most trouble to get grey kiwi, for I have heard very few in all this place. When camped on Cooper Island we heard grey kiwi there—and it is a big island, perhaps eight square miles in extent; and, though it comes near the mainland at its eastern end, there is mostly a swift tide running there that will disturb the calculations of a swimmer. In November, kakas, tuis, and mokos were here in great numbers feeding on the honey of the rata-blossoms, but no pigeons until lately, when they have come for the berries, and the kakas are nearly all away. There was a kaka's nest, with two young ones, near our house on Pigeon Island. When we came here, in July, there were colonies of crested penguins at nearly every easy landing, and sometimes in caves, all busy nesting. They all went away for a while with their young, but came back in January and February for their moulting, and then cleared out again, and I do not think there is one left in Dusky. But many of the little penguins seem to remain here, and are always out fishing in the daytime, coming ashore at night and sleeping in holes under rocks and trees. We never saw one per cent. of the crested penguins out either day or night, and I do not understand them at all. Woodhens are on all the islands, and attend closely on the penguins when the young are just hatched, so that may have something to do with the penguins staying at home so much. Grey ducks are numerous at the head of Dusky, where they have a splendid breeding-place among creeks and swampy islands in the mouth of a great valley coming in from the north, and there are no swamp-hawks.

There is a fine river coming in from the east to Supper Cove. I went up it about three miles to a gorge, where I was stopped by a dangerous but passable place. There are

three rapids, but the portages are easy, and I intend to take a canoe up there next summer, for I could see a kindly-looking valley turning to the north-east, and I may be able to go a long way up it.

Paradise-ducks are very scarce here, because there is no grass for them. Even at Goose Cove—which may have got its name from them—where there is some level land, there is no grass, as it is all grown over with scrub; and there are neither ducks nor geese there now, only a few redbills and swans. Up in Wet Jacket it was quite pitiful to see a pair of paradise trying to rear a family on a few square yards of grass. If I had a few pairs of goats I think I could provide the ducks with grass-plots in suitable places at the ends of bays. It is not a heavy task to dispose of some of this scrub; and surface-sown rye-grass grows here more quickly and richer than I ever saw, but there are hundreds of seedling forest-trees and shrubs growing up among it, so that some animal is required to keep them in check that the grass may continue. In old England, Darwin mentions how pines and other forest-trees sprang up when the animals were excluded, and so it may be in any country as it is here. The scrub follows down the alluvial land at the mouths of creeks, covering every foot, and even reaching out over the tide, so that nothing else has a chance under present circumstances. There are often little natural clearings at landslips and uprooted trees, which seem insignificant, but great changes are often wrought by long-continued trifles. This mountain-bush, being of great extent and unknown resources, may contain room for another Switzerland, with its hardy mountaineers. But now, with its superfluity of damp and sandflies, it is about the most miserable and useless place that man ever set his foot in, and he cannot have the heart to start reclaiming it from its present state; but the quadrupeds may be the pioneers, as they have been in nearly every other country, and then the men can take it up. We often see where the sealers have rolled aside the stones on the beach to land their boats, and perhaps a level place with a grove of young trees on the site of their old camp, but not a yard of open ground; yet two of those parties lived here for about a year. And two vessels were built in Dusky Sound, but we have not yet found where their shipyards were, for perhaps not a trace remains. When we came into the little harbour on Pigeon Island the stones were rolled aside on the beach, but there was not room above high water to land our stores until we made a clearing. We thought that no one ever lived there before until we cleared and dug the ground, when we found it nearly paved with Maori ovens. In Cascade Harbour there is the site of a hut with an iron chimney which may have been ten or twelve years deserted, yet the floor of

the hut and its surroundings were covered with a tall grove of koromikos, some of them 3in. thick. Now, I think that if a hardy race of goats existed here they would have altered all this for the better; they would have kept many grassy openings, and made pathways in the bush, to the advantage of the explorer and prospector, and also to the advantage of the ground-birds—because those birds were plentiful at Te Anau for forty miles along the lake, but the best place for them was near grassy openings under Mount Luxmore. There on a quiet evening in 1880 there used to be a perfect din of their various calls, and the individuals were the best of their sort. However, the birds may only be temporary residents here on the mainland; but one would think that it is the duty of this generation to liberate some suitable animals in this bush. Deer might do, but I think they are too wild and shy, and that a well-clad, hardy race of goats would be best, to pave the way for more useful stock, and, in the meantime, to provide food and sport for the future pioneers. We have often seen goat-skins used as hearth-rugs; they would make good jackets for this climate, and would be valuable. Some people will object to goats or anything else, for fear of encouraging wild dogs; but the native dog died out here (though it could have lived well on kakapos), because every cave and den is damp and mouldy, and it would require a special breed of dogs to live here in a wild state.

We saw the king-fish up the sound. Three big fellows swam round our boat within arm's length, and I knew them. The same day we saw a great company of them right at the head of the sound: that was on the 5th February. The horse-mackerel and mullet were here all the summer in shoals; also another little fish, which I could not find in either of the books on fishes. They are of some importance, because they have been very plentiful all the time we have been here, and are very good to eat. I call them “latris” for want of a name.^* They will not take bait, but come into the shallow water at our door every evening, and just at the last of the light they are easily speared, so that I often get half a dozen in a few minutes; but with a suitable net they could be caught in thousands. But we only see them round Pigeon Island. Moki are very plentiful, but we only get a few trumpeter now and then. Of course, the cod and groper are plentiful, also butter-fish and barracouta. We were in want of a name for the little prawns like shrimps, and called them “squid.” All the fish are after them, and it is wonderful how they can stand it. When we see the mackerel splashing along we know they are after squid; the mullet, latris, and parrot-fish are

over it. At Puketitiri, Piko (a man) was the rahui; at Oingo (Hauhau) was Kauhourangi, another man. The whole of the land was thus made sacred, even the eel-weirs.” In the evidence of another witness, referring to a different portion of the land, some chiefs “impaled a woman there.” These points were specially dwelt on by Sir Robert Stout in his summary of the evidence. But no explanation was given as to what this ceremony consisted of, neither was it shown in what manner the above-named men were ultilised as rahui.

Of myself, I see no reason to doubt that these unfortunate men were buried at the foot of posts erected at certain places, perhaps even when still alive, or were lashed to the posts by the sacred cord; this being done to increase the tapu of those places, and to prevent by this tapu the removal of such posts at any future date.

In Tregear's Maori-Polynesian Dictionary is given, “Rahui —To protect by a rahui—i.e., by a mark set up; to prohibit persons from taking birds, fruit, &c., or to prevent them from trespassing on lands, &c, made tapu.” For good instances of tribal rahui, see “Maori Customs and Traditions,” by John White, bound up with “History and Traditions of the Maori,” by T. W. Gudgeon.

We find the following definitions in a Paumotuan dictionary by E. Tregear: “Rahui—A defence, forbidden; Maori, rahui, to prohibit; Hawaiian, lahui, to forbid.”

In “Traditions and Superstitions of the New-Zealanders,” Dr. Shortland, at page 316, gives whaka-ihi, he tapu, he rahui, as of the one meaning. At page 265: “Having matured his plans, Heke came suddenly, cut down the obnoxious flagstaff without opposition, and then went home again. Afterwards, when Governor Fitzroy set up a new one, Heke appealed to this act as a further argument in support of his cause. ‘See,’ said he, ‘the flagstaff does mean a taking-possession, or why else should they persist in re-erecting it?’ This remark referred to a common practice in New Zealand—namely, that of setting up a post on a spot of land which any one desires to claim as his own. When two tribes contest the right to any place, one of them will set up their post, their antagonists will soon after come and cut it down; but, probably, either party will take care not to meet the other on the disputed ground till the post has been cut down and re-erected several times; when, if neither party will yield, the dispute at last ends in a fight.”

Nothing is said here as to utilising a man as a rahui; and this remarkable evidence of Noa Huke remains unaccounted for. Will none of our members of the Hawke's Bay Institute search this matter out before those who might explain are alike “gathered to their fathers”?

There are four place - names in the district which may possibly owe their origin to the aforesaid setting-up of rahui on the land, two of which—Puketitiri and Titiokura—were mentioned by Noa Huke. The other two are Waititirau, the site on which stands Mr. J. H. Coleman's house, and Wakatu, or, as I suppose it to be rightly spelt, Whakatu, near Tomoana.

The name Puke-titi-ri has no reference to the bird titi, a large petrel, generally spoken of as the “mutton-bird.” Different varieties of these petrels are often heard and dimly seen when passing overhead on a summer evening in the gloaming on the way from the sea to their nests in holes excavated in the light pumice soil of the mountain-ranges far inland—possibly a distance of forty miles or more. They mostly travel in pairs, somewhat apart, and must return again to the sea before daylight, yet I have never detected them on the return journey. These birds also nest in great numbers on the small islands near the Bluff, Southland, and also those near Stewart Island.

The Southern Maoris visit the islands each season and collect the young birds from the nests, at which time they are extremely fat. They are partially cooked, and then packed away in the large bladder-like portions of a kelp or coarse seaweed, and are, as it were, imbedded in their own fat, which aids in their preservation. This industry is a yearly harvest to the southern Maori.

To return to my subject: We have Puke, “a hill”; titi, “of the setting-up”; ri, “of the mark” which no person dare to pass over. Surely this must be one of the places where rahui was set up. Why are we unable to discover the exact spot where this special rahui was erected? The second word mentioned by Noa Huke was Titiokura, which divides thus: Titi, “the setting-up”; o “of”; kura. This word kura has a variety of meanings, as “red in colour,” “a wreath or head-dress,” &c.; and the painting the posts supporting a house with red-ochre was a symbol indicating the tapu or sacredness of such building. We find the word Whare-kura used by the Polynesians to denote the sacred building where the young priest-chiefs (ariki) were taught mythology, history, agriculture, astronomy, &c. This house was very tapu: no women were allowed to come near it, food was cooked at a distance and brought by special messengers. I have no doubt kura in this instance was an allusion to the chief supports of the building being painted red, as an indication of its sacred character.

In support of this theory I quote the following from “Traditions of the New-Zealanders,” by Dr. Shortland (page 112): “In former days the huts used in travelling by sacred

persons were always distinguished by their posts being daubed with red-ochre, to prevent the law of tapu being inadvertently broken; and for the same reason sacred persons painted their bodies and clothes with the same red substance, that they might leave a mark behind them where they rested.”

I think we may safely conclude that the name Titiokura was given to that place at the setting-up of rahui there. Waititirau is rather a difficult word to decide upon. Some might take it thus: Wai, “the water”; titi, “of the mutton-birds”; rau, “in number a hundred.” But, taking the evidence of the two place-names already deciphered, it seems that we may safely claim it as a site of a rahui, making it Wai, “the water” (near which); titi, “was set up”; tirau, “the peg”: or, “the water of the sticking-in of the peg.” In this word I suppose that there should originally have been a third repetition of the syllable ti, as Wai-titi-tirau, and so including the terminal tirau, “a peg.”

My fourth name, Whakatu, would seem to be related to the remarkable word tutututu, “to stand erect”; and is a compound of whaka, which is called a prefixed causative, and mostly indicates “to cause,” or “to make to do”: therefore, Whakatu means, “to cause to stand”; or, more correctly, “to erect or set up; a place where something was erected or set up”; and in all probability indicates “the place where rahui was set or put up.” It is not reasonable to make waka, “a canoe,” tu, “standing erect,” as the original meaning of the name.

Dr. Shortland says, “The word tapu is used in the same sense in the Sandwich Islands, in the Society Islands, and, as far as is known, in the other islands of Polynesia. It is probably derived from the word ta, ‘to mark,’ and pu, an adverb of intensity. The compound word tapu, therefore, means no more than ‘marked thoroughly,’ and only came to signify ‘sacred’ or ‘prohibited’ in a secondary sense, because sacred things and places were commonly marked in a peculiar manner, in order that every one might know that they were sacred. The fundamental law on which all their superstitious restrictions depend is that if anything tapu is permitted to come in contact with food, or with any vessel or place where food is ordinarily kept, such food must not afterwards be eaten by any one, and such vessel or place must no longer be devoted to its ordinary use, the food, vessel, or place becoming tapu from the instant of its contact with an object already tapu.”—(“Traditions and Superstitions of the New-Zealanders,” page 101.)

At first sight I was taken with the likeness of the placename Motiti (“Flat Island” of Cook) to those mentioned above, and even thought that it might mean “the place of

the mutton-bird” (petrel); but on further consideration it became apparent that the word Motiti was an abbreviation for Motu-iti, “the small island.” Such being the case, we have here a warrant to suppose that certain other place-names may also be clipped or shortened—notably, the name Wai-titi-rau, already spoken of as originally in its full significance being Wai-titi-tirau.

At the same time, it may be that this name has been imperfectly written and understood by the pakeha. Possibly it might be Wai-titiro, “the water of looking at”—i.e., a looking-glass to reflect the image of a person—or “the place of the distant view.” As I am unacquainted with this spot, and its position or history, this question must be left open, and might be decided by some one consulting the Maoris in that district.

A remarkable use of the word rahui, together with a tragical incident of early pakeha days, is given by Dr. Shortland in “Traditions and Superstitions of the New-Zealanders,” page 234:—

“In the more lawless and savage days of the New-Zealanders a trading vessel came into the harbour of Tauranga to purchase a cargo of flax…. No cargo was at the time procurable, and the captain was persuaded by one of the chiefs of Ngapuhi Tribe to take his ship to Whakatane, about forty miles distant, being led to believe he would there obtain plenty of flax without any difficulty. The chief sent one of his men in the vessel, ostensibly as a guide, but he was really the bearer of a message as fatal as that contained in the letter given to Bellerophon, for it was a hint to the chief of Whakatane to seize the vessel and all the property in it.

“The Ngapuhi chief knew that he could attempt nothing against this ship while at Tauranga, for it was there under the protection of the natives of the place, who carried on a profitable trade with foreigners, which would have been ruined completely by an act of violence. He therefore conceived the idea of making both ship and cargo a present to the less scrupulous natives of Whakatane, in order that he might claim a share of the spoil. The captain fell into the trap, and, attempting to defend his vessel, he and his crew were all killed, and the vessel was then plundered and destroyed.

“A secret is seldom, if ever, well kept by the people of this country. With the news of the fate of the unfortunate ship, its cause, and the very words of the message, ‘Tenei tou rahui poaka,’ were reported at Tauranga…. Nini, after expressing his resentment against the perpetrators of the deed, demanded of the chief of Ngapuhi, who was present, if it was true that he had sent the message to Whakatane which led to the catastrophe. The chief did not deny it. ‘Then,’ said

having the necessary powers conferred on them by Acts of Parliament, and thus the railways of the country became private property, and the carrying business a large monopoly. It is true that the traffic is divided among many companies, but, so far as the people at large are concerned, the railway system is a real and irresistible monopoly, having enormous power, which has often been exercised to the serious injury of local interests. There is every reason to believe that this was, in the nature of things, at first quite unavoidable, and therefore is not to be regarded as a just occasion of blame to those courageous men by whose energy and ability, and at whose cost, the great advantages of safe and rapid transit were provided. The idea of a railway was new to the world. It could not be put to the test of practical experience without a large expenditure. It was never for a moment supposed to be within the sphere of a political government to carry out; there was therefore no alternative but to do it by private means. All that the governing power of the nation, represented by Parliament, appears to have thought it had to do was to exercise a sort of arbitrary control over what the engineers proposed. And in many instances this was so done as to cause an enormous and wholly unnecessary expenditure in parliamentary costs before a shilling could be expended in the actual making of the line. Thus it came to pass that the idea of private property in a railway was quite natural; and the consequent idea that every railway was to be looked upon as a concern wherewith to provide dividends for the owners was also perfectly natural. Of course, when we came to these new lands as immigrants we brought these old ideas with us, and it is not to be wondered at that they have proved of sufficient force to keep us from seeing how entirely inapplicable they are to any country in which railways are, as they ought always to be, the property of the people. By slow degrees a truer view of the function of railways has been perceived, and it is more and more recognised that, in this country at least, railways are and must ever be the chief highways of traffic, and therefore should be, like all other highways, free to all who require to use them. Free highways should ever be found in the country of a free people. What do the words “free highways” mean? They mean that the person who uses the highway should not have to pay toll every time he uses it; that no one should be able to say to us, “Before you walk or ride or drive or carry your goods on this road you must pay toll.” Now, all this is quite plain and easy to understand when applied to an ordinary road in the country, or to a street or lane in a town; but how does it apply to a railway? I think it is not difficult to make it plain. When any one uses an ordinary road, he either walks

or provides himself with an animal or a carriage of some sort by which he may be conveyed to the place at which he wishes to arrive. It matters not whether he uses a conveyance of his own or hires one for the journey, the transit is effected at his own expense either of labour or money; but the road along which he travels is free—it has been provided for him by the officers of the State, who are appointed and provided with public funds for that special purpose. It matters not whether they are Road Boards, Town or City or County Councils, or Commissioners, or officers of the General Government, their work is public work carried out with public funds, and for the use of every individual of the community.

How, then, is it with a railway? The only difference is that which the nature of the railway traffic renders necessary. There is absolutely no difference in principle. The user must still pay for the cost of transit of himself and his goods, but the road must be free.

Railway transit, from its very nature, must always be carried on under a special system of management. The iron road cannot possibly be used in the same manner as the ordinary road. The propelling force, whether steam, electricity, or hydrocarbon, requires special engines and skilled drivers; the carriages, whether for passengers or goods, must be specially constructed; and everything connected with the traffic must be specially devised and directed in perfect order for the safety and convenience of those who use the road. For these reasons, no such private use of the road can be permitted as that which is the universal rule of the common road. It follows, therefore, that the cost of the rolling-stock and station-buildings, as well as the current expenditure of every kind necessarily incurred in carrying on the traffic, must be provided by the payments of those who use the road, and to this end such fares and rates of freight must be charged as will amply cover all such expenditure, but not more.

To put it shortly, then, there should be a complete separation in the railway accounts between the cost of forming and maintaining the line and that of the traffic over the line. The cost of the line or public highway should be paid by the owner —that is, the whole people, under the name of the State; and the cost of the traffic by the user—that is, every one who travels or has goods carried upon the line. It seems to me that when the time comes that the true idea of the railroad as the chief highway of the nation shall be generally accepted, as I think it will, there ought not to be more difficulty in carrying it out than there is now with all other highways.

It is not within the scope of this paper to discuss the question of management, but it seems to me obvious that it must necessarily be entirely independent of what is known as

they went on to say they “arrive at this conclusion, however, with sincere regret, and would have been glad to have co-operated with the Australian Colonies in an enterprise having something more than a merely commercial purpose. Perhaps, however, my Lords may be allowed to regard the present proposal as an indication that if any like expedition be undertaken hereafter by the Imperial Government some of the British colonies more closely interested in it might not be unwilling to contribute to its cost.”

This proposed expedition, therefore, was abandoned, and the subject dropped out of notice, until it was revived by Dr. John Murray, one of the distinguished members of the late “Challenger” expedition, in a paper read by him before the Royal Geographical Society on the 27th November, 1893.

In this most valuable and exhaustive paper he related the history of antarctic explorations. He showed that Captain Cook was the first to penetrate within the antarctic circle, having reached lat. 71° 10′ S., at a point to the south-west of Patagonia, “when he probably saw the ice-barrier and the mountains beyond.” This was in his second voyage, in 1774, after his circumnavigation of New Zealand in his first voyage. Since then two navigators have penetrated further south than Cook: “Weddell, in 1823, reached 74° S., but saw no land. Sir James Clark Ross, in 1841 and 1842, reached the 78th parallel, and discovered Victoria Land, south of New Zealand. No other explorers have passed beyond the 70th parallel of south latitude.”

In the course of his paper Dr. Murray referred to the explorations carried out under Smith in 1819, who discovered the South Shetland Islands, and the consequent seal-fishery which sprang up, and resulted in the extermination of the seals. Bellingshausen discovered the island named Peter the Great, and Alexander the First Land; D'Urville discovered Adélie Land; the United States Exploring Expedition discovered Wilkes Land; Powell discovered the South Orkneys; Briscoe discovered Enderby's Land; Balleny discovered the Balleny Islands and Sabine Land; and Dallman, more re-rently, discovered Kaiser Wilhelm Islands and Bismarck Strait, to the north of Graham's Land. Dr. Murray gave unstinted praise to the good work done by these and other explorers, who, with vessels unstrengthened to resist ice, and with imperfect means, have added so much to our knowledge of antarctic regions; but he pointed out that Ross's expedition, which was better provided, and the vessels well strengthened, was, under its splendid commander, able to do more than any other; and his observations on the geology, meteorology, and magnetic phenomena of those regions, as

well as his soundings and dredgings, and observations on currents and sea-temperatures at different depths, threw a flood of new light on the physical and biological conditions within the antarctic circle; but his ships were unprovided with steam-power, like those of all other antarctic explorers; and this is extremely disadvantageous, because the vessels are unable to make progress during the all-too-scanty periods of fine, calm weather; contrary winds in ice-encumbered waters are very perplexing and dangerous, and to anchor near an icebound coast while exploring parties are sent ashore is too risky for sailing-vessels.

The “Challenger” is the only steam-vessel that has crossed the antarctic circle, and, as she was not strengthened to bear the blows and pressure of ice, she could do little in the way of exploration through the pack, and was obliged to confine the observations to deep-sea soundings.

Putting together all the various results of the observations that have been made, Dr. Murray has prepared various maps of the southern pole (partially reproduced), in which he has shown what parts of the coast-line of antarctic land have been fixed, and these he has connected by dotted lines indicating the probable shape of the great antarctic continent which, from all indications, he presumes to exist, surrounding the south pole, about 3,500 miles long by 1,500 miles broad, and covered with perpetual snow and ice. He indicates also the approximate position assigned to the magnetic pole or poles, and the known and supposititious mean barometric pressures—the lowest (28.9in.) being in February, off Victoria Land, near Mounts Erebus and Terror. From the observed preponderance of southerly winds he assumes that a region of high barometric pressure exists around the South Pole.

The depths of the ocean, as far as they are known, are also figured, and in his paper he draws attention to the remarkable fact that the temperature at the bottom, even at the depth of over 2,000 fathoms, is not below 33° Fahr., while at the surface it may fall to 29°, and at an intermediate depth may be as high as 40°. The abundance of life now existing in these Antarctic-Ocean depths is very notable, and specimens of fossils, apparently of Tertiary age, obtained on Seymour Island by a Norwegian whaler indicate that at one period of the world's history a more genial climate must have prevailed in those regions.

Dr. Murray's maps further give the oceanic deposits in the different areas of the south polar seas; the ice-limits and currents; the mean temperatures or isotherms, and the isobars and winds, for February; the annual mean rainfall; and the magnetic phenomena (after Neumayer).

Owing to the snowcap which envelopes the great antarctic land mass, the nucleus of rock is only revealed in off-lying islands or on the faces of high and bold escarpments, or by the fragments of rock carried seawards by icebergs, and either obtained directly from them or dredged from the sea-bottom where they have been dropped by the icebergs as they melted. Thus the geology of the country is mainly concealed from view; but the outlines and larger features of the mountain-ranges are not obliterated in the high lands near the coasts, for peak after peak with varied contours are seen to rise one behind another towards the interior. The snow which accumulates on these mountain-ranges in Victoria Land forms a vast glacier, which moves continually outwards, and presents on the coast-line a solid perpendicular wall of ice, probably from 1,200ft. to 1,500ft. in thickness, of which 150ft. to 200ft. is above the surface of the water and 1,100ft. to 1,400ft. below. When the front of this great glacier reaches depths of 300 to 400 fathoms large stretches break off and float away, forming the perpendicular-faced, horizontally-stratified, table-topped icebergs of the Antarctic and Southern Oceans. Fragments broken from these great ice-islands by collisions, mixed with salt-water ice, and accumulations of snow, form what is known as the “pack,” which at favourable times and places can be penetrated by properly-protected vessels; but the great ice-wall, along which Ross coasted for three hundred miles east and west, is an absolute barrier to ships, although there are places where a landing might be effected and a winter station be formed, and one such place was noted by Ross, near Mount Erebus, and within a comparatively short distance of the magnetic pole, or where we have reason for supposing that pole to be.

Dr. Murray refers to the results of the deep-sea dredging carried out by the “Challenger” expedition, and states, “All over the floor of the Antarctic Ocean there is a most abundant fauna, apparently more abundant than in any other region of the ocean's bed. In one haul made by the “Challenger,” in a depth of two miles, in lat. 47° S., the trawl brought up (excluding Protozoa) over two hundred specimens belonging to eighty-nine species of animals, of which seventy-three were new to science, including representatives of twenty-eight new genera.” He says, “It is most probable—indeed, almost certain—that the floor of the ocean as well as all pelagic waters have been peopled from the shallow waters surrounding continental land, and here in the deep waters of the Antarctic we appear to have very clear indications of the existence of the descendants of animals that once inhabited the shallow waters along the shores of Antarctica, while in other regions of the ocean the descendants of the shallow-

water organisms of the northern continents prevail. This is a subject of great interest to all biologists, and can best be studied by a more efficient exploration of these southern latitudes.”

The objects for which a renewed effort to explore the unknown regions in the vicinity of the southern pole should now be undertaken were summarised by Dr. John Murray as follows:—

“To determine the nature and extent of the Antarctic Continent; to penetrate into the interior; to ascertain the depth and nature of the ice-cap; to observe the character of the underlying rocks and their fossils; to take magnetical and meteorological observations, both at sea and on land; to observe the temperature of the ocean at all depths and seasons of the year; to take pendulum observations on land, and possibly also to make gravity observations at great depths in the ocean; to bore through the deposits on the floor of the ocean at certain points to ascertain the condition of the deeper layers^*; to sound, trawl, and dredge, and study the character of marine organisms—all this would be the work of a modern antarctic expedition. For the more definite determination of the distribution of land and water on our planet; for the solution of many problems concerning the Ice Age; for the better determination of the internal constitution and superficial form of the earth; for a more complete knowledge of the laws which govern the motions of the atmosphere and the hydrosphere; for more trustworthy indications as to the origin of terrestrial and marine plants and animals—all these observations are earnestly demanded by the science of our day.”

Dr. Murray's paper was fully discussed, and in a most favourable manner. All agreed that there was no probability of any commercial advantages resulting from antarctic explorations in the way of seal-hunting or whaling; but that the scientific knowledge to be gained would be of the very greatest value. The words of the President in summing up the discussion embody the feelings of the Council and members of the Royal Geographical Society. He said,—

“I consider that Dr. Murray's paper, and the important discussion which has followed it, will form a new starting-point in the advocacy of a renewal of antarctic discovery. We must not forget the valuable work that was done by Admiral Sir Erasmus Ommaney and the committee of the British Association five years ago. Sir Erasmus enlisted the

sympathies of the Royal Society, and even of the more enlightened members of the late Government. We owe him our warmest thanks for his exertions. Nor must we forget the zealous labours of Baron von Mueller, Captain Pascoe, and our other friends in Australia. They have long worked for the good cause of antarctic discovery, and I am confident that they will continue to exert all their influence in its favour. Our illustrious gold-medallist, Baron Nordenskiöld, the discoverer of the North-east Passage, has but now written me a cheery and encouraging letter, from which the following is an extract: ‘We shall follow the proceedings of an English expedition to those regions with the utmost interest, and with our best wishes for its success. It seems to me that the most important geographical problem for the moment is a systematic exploration of the hydrographic, meteorological, geological, and biological conditions of the antarctic regions. The arctic regions are in this respect now tolerably well known; but almost every scientific result gained from thence has given rise to new problems of the utmost importance for the better knowledge of our globe, which can only be satisfactorily answered by corresponding discoveries in the far south.’

“These inspiriting words will cheer us on in our task—a task from which I for one will never swerve until it is completed. I have pleasure in announcing to you that our Council has this day appointed a committee for the purpose of reporting on the best means of achieving the objects of antarctic exploration. The whole question will be thoroughly examined and discussed, and it will be our business to convince the Press and the public of its importance. We are, of course, devoted to geographical research and to the interests of science, and we look upon these objects as a chief reason for despatching an expedition. But, as an Englishman, I feel that the great result of all will be the encouragement of that spirit of maritime enterprise which has ever distinguished the people of this country, and the keeping - alive of our glorious naval traditions. We are well assured that as soon as the country is with us in the advisability of despatching an antarctic expedition the Government will concur. We may therefore work on full of confidence and hope. We shall look on this evening as our starting-point. Dr. Murray has given us the route—he has done so in a way we shall not soon forget; and I speak the sentiments of every one present in this great assembly when I offer to him our most sincere and hearty thanks for his very able and important address.”

The Antarctic Committee above alluded to reported that “the importance of antarctic research, and the desirability of its renewal, are recognised by all scientific bodies at Home and

abroad”; that “one of the most important requirements is the taking of magnetic observations, as it is known that a considerable change has occurred in the magnetism of the earth during the last fifty years, and the exact position of the south magnetic pole is hardly even approximately ascertained.” “Other objects of an antarctic expedition would be deep-sea soundings, the temperature of the ocean at all depths, dredgings, the study of the character and distribution of marine organisms, meteorology, and pendulum observations, if considered necessary; to explore the land as far as possible; to determine the limits of freezing in antarctic regions in the summer, and the direction of winds and currents, and the consequent formation and movements of the pack ice.”

They observed that our knowledge is still very incomplete of the antarctic winds and currents. South of 40° S. there is very low atmospheric pressure, with strong westerly winds and a large rainfall and snowfall, all round the globe. Such observations as we possess show that the winds in higher southern latitudes are, on the contrary, generally from the south and south-east, and the surface-currents are in the same direction, so that in the summer the pack and the bergs are continually drifted northwards. They showed the immense advantages which steamers would have over sailing-vessels in these investigations, and gave their opinion that the operations should be carried out by the Royal Navy in two vessels as well strengthened as were the “Erebus” and “Terror,” fitted with steam-power, and specially protected aft to guard the rudder and propeller.

The Royal Society, to whom the subject was referred, also appointed a special Antarctic Committee, who reported strongly in favour of an exploring expedition.

With regard to pendulum experiments, which were recommended (with reserve) by the Royal Geographical Society, but not directly alluded to by the Royal Society, it is to be observed that they were recommended by Dr. Murray; and in an appendix to his paper appears a communication from Dr. Neumayer, of the Hamburg Naval Observatory, who, after showing how exceedingly important are an examination and a survey of the magnetic properties of the antarctic region, goes on to note that the determination of the constant of gravity has never been carried out in that region, and but a very small number of determinations have been made even in the Southern Hemisphere south of lat. 33°. He gives a table containing all that is known with respect to this important question within the assigned region. To this table I have added the value of gravity corresponding with the lengths of the seconds-pendulum, as given in his table, and a few comparative values in the Northern Hemisphere:—

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Dr. Neumayer goes on to say that, “as far as present evidence goes, there is an accordance of facts between the Northern and Southern Hemispheres with regard to the gravity determinations; but we must not forget that from within the

south, polar circle not a single determination has been consulted, because there are none.” The accordance of gravity determinations obtained in the two hemispheres alluded to above has reference to the third column of the table, in which the length of the seconds-pendulum for each place, obtained by experiment, is used to calculate what should be the length of a seconds-pendulum in lat. 45° on the assumption that the earth is an ellipsoid of which the equatorial radius is 3962.802 miles and the polar radius is 3949.555 miles, and that the centre of gravity is at the centre of form. The values so obtained do not differ widely, and give a mean of 0.993577 metres—not far different from the computed length for 45°, nor from the ascertained length at Kerguelen, lat. 49° 8′ 9″. But it will be observed that there is a very notable difference in the values of G. at about the same latitudes in the two hemispheres, the force of gravity being greater in the Northern than in the Southern Hemisphere.

A comparison of the values in the two Shetlands, North and South, however, is the last that is at present available towards the poles, and it therefore appears of great scientific interest that further pendulum experiments should be made within the antarctic circle to determine the law of diminution of the force of gravity in the Southern Hemisphere.

The present state of our knowledge leads to the belief that the centre of gravity of the earth lies about three-tenths of a mile to the north of the equator. Such a condition of unsymmetrical balance of the earth, if it be established as a fact, may enable us to account for that slow gyration of the earth round an axis which is not the axis of the plane of the ecliptic, which has now been discovered to be the case; and I earnestly hope that pendulum experiments may form an integral part of the duties of the next antarctic expedition.

The centre of gravity being north of the equator, the plumb-line will be deflected there about 15″ from the true vertical, and astronomical observations by means of zenith distances will need correction. This additional means of measurement of the position of the centre of the earth's mass will, no doubt, be resorted to, so that astronomical observations may check those made by the pendulum.

The papers connected with the subject of a renewal of antarctic research have been forwarded by the President of the Royal Geographical Society to Sir James Hector for the consideration of the Council of the New Zealand Institute, with the expressed hope that they will use their influence with the New Zealand Government to give favourable consideration to the letters which have been addressed to their Agent-General by the Royal Geographical Society, and referring to

be more correct, as, although these clouds, as seen generally rather low down in the eastern sky, seem like fishes with smooth hog backs, yet no doubt they would present somewhat the same appearance if viewed sideways from any other point.

The peculiarity of these clouds is that they are very smooth and regular in their upper curved surfaces, and comparatively flat below—quite different from the bubbling surface of a cumulus cloud, or from the straightly-drawn-out forms of stratus clouds, and also widely differing from the delicate feathery forms of the high cirrus clouds.

The fish clouds belong to the class cirrostratus generally, and I should estimate that their normal level is at least 10,000ft. above the sea. Generally, the barometer is high when they begin to appear. It then begins to fall, and a northerly blow follows, sometimes within six hours, more generally after about twelve hours; but occasionally it is delayed for twenty-four hours, or even more.

The appearance of these fish clouds may be that of small, delicately-shaped, scattered fishes, in which case the following north wind is generally not strong, and there is little or no rain. If the fish-clouds be more massive, or if, as often happens, they are joined together so as to form undulating, eel-shaped clouds, with the characteristic smooth, hard, curved outline above, then probably the northerly blow will be strong, with rain. Sometimes the fish clouds are superimposed one on another, so as to form, as it were, a pile or piles of fishes. This form is not so common, but I think it also is followed by bad weather.

So far I have merely dealt with observed facts, which I hope others will also observe, if they have not done so already; and it will be specially valuable to have instances when northerly blows with rain have not been preceded by fish clouds, or when fish clouds have not been followed by the wind or rain. But, admitting that my observations are correct, and that this form of cloud usually is seen before a strong northerly wind, can we in any way account for it? We know that the great system of circulation in our atmosphere, produced by the joint action of the sun's heat and the daily rotation of the earth, gives rise to vast eddies in the air, known as cyclones and anticyclones—the cyclones, or “lows,” if viewed from above, being like great saucers, rotating in this hemisphere as the hands of a watch; the anticyclones, or “highs,” like inverted saucers, rotating the other way. But it is with the cyclones, or “lows,” we are now concerned, as they give us our strong winds and storms. The motion of the air in a cyclone is very complicated: it is drawn inwards below, it is poured outwards above, it ascends in a spiral course,

son, of Canada; and many others. So much so that, if any system of philosophy can be said to be dominant in England at present, it is the system of Hegel. Hegelianism, however, is with us a general name for the philosophy which at the beginning of the century sprang up in Germany, contemporaneously with the development of the poetic spirit that gave birth to Goethe and Schiller—and was, indeed, another aspect of the same movement—rather than for the special characters which distinguish the philosophy of Hegel from that of his contemporaries Schelling and Fichte. It has been remarked, indeed, with some truth, that Hegelianism, having lost its birthright in Germany, is sojourning now in the tents of England and America. What is true and valuable in Hegelianism, however, still survives in Germany in the systems of other thinkers, even of one so widely removed from his special standpoint as Lotze, and yet more notably in the system of Von Hartman.

It is not now my intention to-night to attempt to add to the number of his expositors, or to deal with any of the details of his system. What it seems to me is the imperishable truth it contains lies in its emphatic repudiation of the right of Kant or any one else to set bounds in advance to the subjects of human inquiry, and the confident assertion of the adequacy of the grounds that we possess for the belief that behind the developments of nature and history are visible the operations of a guiding intelligence, of which our own is the offshoot and the image.

For those who incline to the opinion that mind can be adequately accounted for as something that exists in the universe only as a product of cerebral organization, a class of phenomena which manifest themselves as the result of the operations of the collective and continuous thought of a race or a community are worthy of due consideration. Take such a phenomenon as the British Constitution: We have in it a well-defined, fully-organized system, capable of being adopted by other States besides the State which originally developed it, and, in essential matters, by no means easy to improve upon. The founders of the American Republic, sharing the fancy prevalent in those days that innovation could not be other than improvement, thought that they could alter it easily for the better by separating the legislative from the executive functions. How profound was their mistake has been very conclusively made out by Mr. Bagehot. We find according to that writer that European States which have since had to adopt Constitutions have adhered much more closely to the English model than the American Convention did. If we ask, however, to what English lawgiver, statesman, or philosopher the salient characteristics of the English

Constitution are due we find at once that we might as well ask to which of the primeval men were due the first germs of the moral faculty. The separation of the legislative and executive functions, subsequently carried out with such manifold disastrous results in America, was the favourite project of reform in England at the period of the revolution of 1688, and only escaped being carried into effect owing to circumstances that present the appearance of being accidental. We see only the impulse towards freedom and self-government pervading many generations of Englishmen, and the apparently chance survival of expedients that fell in with the aim of this impulse.

A phenomenon of the same sort is the growth of Gothic architecture. “No one,” as Emerson says, “can walk in a road cut through the pine-woods without being struck with the architectural appearance of the grove, especially in winter, when the barrenness of all other trees shows the low arch of the Saxons…. Nor can any lover of nature enter the old piles of Oxford and the English cathedrals without feeling that the forest overpowered the mind of the builder.” Yet, if we turn to the history of architecture, we find apparently no one architect who had the design consciously in view of reproducing in stone the image of the forest. We can trace, on the contrary, the various stages by which the basilica became transformed into the cathedral, and can only interpret the ideal that fully realised itself in the fourteenth century as one that more or less unconsciously dominated the mind of many generations. The collective continuous mind thus seems to have in it something that cannot be accounted for offhand as the mere sum of the conscious thoughts and wishes of various individual minds.

If we glance at a widely-different department of life from the politics and art of man, other illustrations, perhaps even more interesting and more marvellous, present themselves. When Mr. Darwin writes of sexual selection there are plainly two very distinct principles before his mind. One is the survival of the strongest or best-armed males in their struggle for the possession of the females: this involves no presupposition essentially different from that involved in natural selection. The other, that to which the continuous increase in the beauty of the bird-world is due, does involve a presupposition, the full purport of which Mr. Darwin himself does not appear to have clearly realised. He thinks it sufficient to assume that the hens appreciate beautiful forms and colours to account for the fact that the cocks of many species become from generation to generation more and more beautiful. This indefinite increase in some abstract characteristic called “beauty,” however, does not at all adequately represent the facts in individual instances. The “more and more” that

is spoken of can hardly be otherwise regarded than as an approximation towards something in the nature of an ideal existing in some mind that did not itself cease to exist with the passing-away of any single generation. How otherwise can we represent to ourselves the gradual evolution of the ocelli on the peacock's tail, or the still more wonderful ocelli which with such incredible accuracy reproduce the effect of light shining on a convex surface on the wing-feathers of the argus-pheasant? In the difference between the upper and lower ocellus in his illustration (“Descent of Man,” p. 149, vol. ii.) we seem to see the very last finishing-touch being given to the picture. We need hardly, however, resort to isolated and remarkable instances like this to discover the operations of a general mind underlying the operations of individual minds in the lower world. It seems to gleam through every instance of the exercise of an untaught instinct. The mere fact of the discrimination by birds of the pitch of musical notes and the varieties of colour, though so obvious and familiar, if rightly considered, brings us vividly in view of the supernatural in nature. We know that the relations between notes and between colours both rest on exact numerical relations between vibrations and undulations, and that when we discriminate notes and colours we may be said, in a fashion, to perceive these numerical relations; we know that the discovery of them is, at any rate, implicit in our immediate perception, and waits only for reasoning thought to make it explicit. If the birds have, in this respect, the same perceptions that we have, can we interpret the fact otherwise than by the hypothesis that we and they alike share in the operations of a vaster mind?

We are accustomed to view all the organized and systematized products of human intelligence under the category of “things made,” often with much inaccuracy. If a man builds a house or constructs a machine he has a plan, either on paper or in his mind, which he follows out in detail. The mental process as the result of which a poem is written is widely different. Burns tells us that he composed his songs often by humming an air to himself and waiting till the words came. If one could have viewed the process from the outside, without knowing anything of the mind behind it, it might have seemed to him as if there were a struggle for existence between the words, and the survival of those best fitted to meet the exigencies of the rhythm and at the same time to call up ideas that were interesting and inspiriting. The Herbartian psychology has familiarised us with the conception of a contest between ideas for a place in consciousness, and the survival of such only as fall in with the needs of a dominant apperceptive system. Survival of its constituent factors under the influence

of an ideal is indeed applicable to the genesis of all that is organized or constructed by us, even to those things that we ordinarily look upon as being made offhand in accordance with a copy. It is only the last stage that is thus accomplished. One can set himself nowadays to construct a triple-expansion engine, and need no other equipment for his task than care and patience and ordinary intelligence. But could any one have done it fifty years ago? The steps in engine-construction between that day and this have been achieved by a mental process analogous to that by which poems are written and Constitutions are developed. We are becoming daily more and more fully conscious of this fact. We can perceive that though Brunel could not build a “Great Eastern” that would work, the progress of naval construction since his time renders it probable that our descendants will build vessels of vastly greater magnitude than it. We do not set ourselves now to make wings and, having made them, leap into space, but we are still further from laying it down as beyond question that aerial navigation is for ever impossible. Rather we set ourselves to estimate what progress has been made over a period of ten or twenty years past in diminishing the proportion which the weight of engines must bear to the motor-power that they can develope, and on this basis to calculate what progress the next ten or twenty years are likely to see made in the direction of the solution of our problem. Similarly, in matters political, we have travelled far since the days when Locke or Rousseau saw in the relation between king and people the result of some conscious bargain deliberately “made” at the dawn of history; or since the days when the sages of the Directory had religions in their pigeon-holes, ready to be made actual by an edict from head-quarters. Even socialism—at any rate Fabian socialism—recognises now that it must reckon more or less with nature and its gradual processes. We are beginning to find out that there are many things in the world that are organized and systematized yet which cannot be said to be “made.” “Making” is a deductive process only: it gives effect in the real world to an abstract rule. The process by which the rule itself has been obtained belongs also to thought, but to the province of induction. It is induction that we find taking place whenever the evolution of anything is the result.

A theory of the reason that would adequately define the separate provinces of induction and deduction is still a desideratum in logic. Mr. Mill's theory is by no means consistent with itself. In the body of his work he treats the two as co-ordinate processes, which achieve the same end by different means. In the chapter on “Deduction,” on the contrary, we find him maintaining that every deduction has in it three stages

—an induction, a ratiocination, and a verification. That is the true account, I think, of every process of conscious reasoning. We can only draw a line that will afford the basis for consistent treatment between induction and deduction by regarding the former, substantially as Whewell does, as “the light that goes up”—the happy thought, the illuminating generalisation to which no methods are applicable; and the latter as the process by which such generalisations are in the end either confirmed or rejected. The so-called inductive methods can be applicable only to ratiocination and the verification. This view corresponds with Mr. Mill's own description, in the earlier part of his work, of reasoning from particulars to generals as the process of mother-wit of the shrewd, untaught intelligence. It may be possible thus to see some truth in the striking thought of Emerson: “Generalisation is always a new influx of divinity into the mind—hence the thrill that attends.” The deductive process of “making” could, then, very plainly be only the process of human minds, whose workings are based on abstraction; and it seems, moreover, that it only corresponds to one aspect even of their processes, and that not a universal one. It may thus, I think, yet become possible for us to comprehend that, though we must give up the conception of “making” as applicable to the genesis of the world, we may still hold to the belief that it is the work of mind, and even of that description of mind of which our own is an imperfect image.

The philosophy of Hegel has familiarised us with the thought of pairs of complementary conceptions, one of which is and must be implicit in the other—though those who are loudest in affirming either of the two are often farthest from recognising that they at the same time affirm its complement. “People have only to know what they say,” as he observes, “in order to find the infinite in the finite.” The category of complementary conceptions is applicable to many others besides those of the infinite and the finite. The conception, for example, of the possible illusoriness of vision, of which Hume made so much use, plainly postulated the possession by us of some trustworthy standard by comparison with which the information that vision gave us might be pronounced either illusory or valid; yet with the recognition of this fact his theory of subjective idealism must necessarily have vanished. In the history of the world, indeed, as we find it, it often takes many generations for a thought that is there already as implicit to become explicit. Hence it is the rule rather than the exception with intellectual movements that they stop short at a stage that seems to us, on looking back at them, to be very obviously only an intermediate one. One wonders how, in the sixteenth century, the assertion of

the right of private judgment stopped short at the precise point that it did; and how, in the eighteenth, the Eclaircissement, in the main hostile to Christianity, identified itself with what is, in truth, a Christian doctrine—the equal rights of all men.

Applying this point of view to theories of the nature and genesis of the world, it seems, on reflection, sufficiently manifest that the conception of it as a mechanical system is a complementary one to the belief in the existence of a mechanician outside it. Yet the philosophies which most vehemently assert the necessary invalidity of the belief in a God who made the world as a man makes a watch are those which, with equal assurance, assert the possibility of our remaining satisfied with the conception of the world as a watch, but without any maker. Such a standpoint, however, can be only a transitional one. If there is no mechanician, then the world, it is plain, is something very different from a mechanical system. “The brain secretes thought,” we are told, “as the liver secretes bile.” Let us suppose that it does: the question next arises, How does the liver secrete bile? It plainly will not do to conceive of it as secreting it in anything like the same way or manner as that in which the steam-engine converts heat into motion. It must be conceived of rather as secreting it in the manner in which the engine, plus the man endowed with conscious will and intelligence who attends it, effects this end. If there be nothing to take the place of the man alongside the organism, then the organism itself cannot be viewed except in one of two ways—either as something that has an independent life of its own, or as something that shares the life of some wider existence.

We speak freely of some things in the world as “living,” and of others as “dead” and “inert”; but if we force ourselves to consider what it is we really say when we use such expressions we will find that we can never combine the predicates of “deadness” and “inertia” with the predicates of motion and change as applicable to any subject without having in the background of our minds the thought of some cause outside such a subject that moves and changes it. Once convince us fully that no such cause exists, and its motion becomes at once for us sufficient evidence of its life. If there were nothing in the universe, we are told, but two drops of water, and they were millions of miles apart, they would not rest where they are, but would at once begin to move in a straight line towards each other. We can conceive of such a fact under the category of mechanism only, because in the semiconscious background of our minds there is the traditional thought of a God who moves them. Blot out that thought completely and the drops of water become at once

things endowed not only with some sort of life, but also with some sort of unconscious knowledge of each other's existence and position. We have been accustomed in the past to make use of the categories of the material world to express, as best we can, the facts of mind. A tendency, however, is noticeable in recent science to reverse the process. We speak naturally now of the refracted light-ray as seeking the least circuitous route to its goal that is in the circumstances possible to it. It comes naturally, too, to Mr. Darwin to ask, with reference to a reversion like the occasional appearance of the double uterus, how could it “know,” as it were, what course it had to follow, unless we assume its connection by descent with some form in which it was normal.

Hence, even if we are old-fashioned enough to be desirous of finding adequate reasons for believing intelligence to be the guiding principle of the universe, we can look on with equanimity at the Kantian criticism engaged in demolishing the ontological, cosmological, and physico-theological arguments for the being of a God. The very statement of such arguments involves the conception of two subjects—nature and God—the existence of the latter of which has to be proved from qualities perceivable in the former. Let us conceive the work to be thoroughly done, and the God of the old natural theology to be extinguished. We are left alone then with nature—with the totality of things, including ourselves, as the percipients of them all. This is, then, the one subject in the universe; and we are driven at once to ask, What are its predicates? That one of them is life is a self-evident conclusion; and that others are organic unity, and in some sense the manifestation of intelligence, are further conclusions which every fresh discovery in science emphasizes. By the time we have assimilated them, however, we find that the very fact of getting rid of the God of the old natural theology has brought us back many steps in the direction of a conception which, after all, closely approximates to the conception of God in the natural mind. So far, Hume would be with us. With the common-sense of English thought, which does not let its theories run away with it, he allows his doctrine of causation to go by the board, and does not hesitate to say that there can never be any doubt as to the being of a God—the only questions that can arise are questions in reference to his nature. It is here, indeed, that the true difficulty begins. If we can go no further in assigning predicates to the one great subject than to affirm of it life, unity, and some sort of intelligence, there is much truth in Hume's contention that our belief can never be the ground “either of any action or of any forbearance.” It is plain that we can find these predicates in no other manner than by casting our glance on the world

about us, and back over its history. In doing so it will be all in vain for us to attempt to shut our eyes to the manifold miseries and bitternesses of human life. Nor does it assist us to tell us, as Hegel does, that all this exists merely that the Absolute Spirit may become conscious of himself. Rather, the heart rebels at the suggestion that human misery should have been devised for the attainment of an end that cannot be represented as either noble or unselfish. There is nothing in self-consciousness that is, in itself, admirable or attractive: as Goethe profoundly remarks, humility, the sweetest of womanly virtues, can never know anything of its own existence. It is idle, too, to tell us, in any phraseology, that evil is negation—that it is something that does not really exist. He who uses such phraseology does not alter the facts, he merely confuses for himself the connotation of such words as “reality,” “existence,” and “evil.” Shutting our eyes to nothing, we may, however, still ask ourselves the question, Does it not, in spite of everything, seem clear that “the real tendency of things is good”? This much, at any rate, was the intense conviction of one who was even more alive than most of us are to the darker side of human things. Without prejudging the question whether it is a conclusion capable of being scientifically established, it may be said that, if it can, we cannot, I think, escape from the further conclusion that there is an ideal which the Universal Mind is endeavouring to realise in the world—that this ideal is nothing else but the amelioration of its condition.

The question, at any rate, of any belief in God which is more than a formal and unmeaning one appears to be bound up with that other question whether or not the real tendency of things is good—that is to say, whether or not there is, in spite of all fluctuations, a progress, steady on the whole, towards a higher and better state of things perceptible in mundane affairs, and whether such tendency is not the necessary outcome of the laws of life and development.

Though Hegel, in his abstract formalisation of his doctrine, places the goal of existence in the realisation of itself in consciousness by the Absolute Spirit—a conception which, whatever aspect of the truth it may present, does not in any way commend itself to human love and admiration—when he comes to show us his principle at work on the stage of the world's history, we find that what it seems to mean is that there is some intelligent principle behind human affairs, or immanent in them, which converts the fall of empires, the decadence of civilisations, the inroads of barbarism—everything, in short, that seems at first merely evil and disastrous—into the starting-point for the development of new eras, charac

terized by greater happiness and greater liberty than those which preceded them. He treads with firm and certain step—here and there, perhaps, riding his theory of triplicities to death, as when he divides even the continents and their physical features into triads—but, on the whole, arriving at a conception of historical development which largely anticipates the conclusions that the progress of science and research has since made inevitable. Schlegel's conception of a primitive universal civilisation, from which barbarism is a retrogression, is, for example, dismissed as hardly worth considering; yet its validity was maintained by very competent thinkers until quite recently in England. Altogether, his conclusions present a remarkable parallelism with those which Mr. Bagehot, in his “Physics and Politics,” bases on the established doctrine of evolution. If speculation in regard to first principles is, from a practical point of view, so valueless as many would have us believe, it is strange that metaphysics anticipated science by at least half a century with reference to a matter so fertile in practical bearings as national development. What is least formal and abstract in Hegel's line of thought is probably what will be found in the long-run to be of most permanent value. His doctrine that conceptions, as soon as they become explicit, go over into their opposites, appears to be transfixed by Lotze's criticism that conceptions never alter, though the things of the finite world pass from the sphere of one conception into that of another. If the process, too, had the absolute universality which he asserts for it, it is hard to understand how rational freedom itself could be an exception. If the alleged principle were universally valid, should we not be forced to conclude that, as soon as rational freedom itself became explicit in the world, it must pass over into irrational bondage? It is hard to see also how from the absolute equivalence of the elementary opposites—from the theory that “being” and “nothing” are the same—anything but a see-saw between these opposites could result. If the negative element is to be conquered in the end, must we not conclude that it was never from the beginning the full equivalent of the affirmative? The Eleatic doctrine, adopted by Spinoza, that evil is negation, though, if taken as it stands, it is little better than a barren paradox, is yet much nearer the truth than the doctrine of the identity or full equivalence of opposites. It is, indeed, an approximate statement of a truth that has played a great rφle in philosophy, and is destined, perhaps, yet to play a still greater one. If evil is not literally non-existent, it at any rate, as Spinoza very clearly recognised, carries within it a self-destructive element. If reason, as he says, even persuaded us to lie for our own advantage, or even in order to save ourselves from imminent danger, it would persuade all

men always to do the same, and then social existence would become impossible; and thus the principle of lying, if carried to its full length, destroys itself. Hence reason, he concludes, can never persuade us to lie. We have in this the germ and more than the germ of the Kantian doctrine, “Let the maxim of your conduct be that which can be made into law universal.” A further consequence naturally flows from it—viz., that, in as far as any nation, any theory, or any institution contains elements of moral baseness, in so far also does it contain elements of weakness; that whatever survives in the world survives in virtue of that in it which is true and valuable. This is the kernel of the doctrine that has been preached in our day with much energy of conviction by Thomas Carlyle, and has vividly impressed the English-speaking world. Referring to the rise of Mahometanism, for example, he says, “I will allow a thing to struggle for itself in this world, with any sword or tongue or implement it has, or can lay hold of. We will let it preach, and pamphleteer, and fight, and to the uttermost bestir itself, and do, beak and claws, whatsoever is in it, very sure that it will, in the longrun, conquer nothing which does not deserve to be conquered.” If the real tendency of things were not good this could not be so. As it is, “All that is right,” he contends, “includes itself in this, of co-operating with the real tendency of the world.” If, however, we can recognise the truth that this view of life contains, we must also recognise that the intelligence which guides the universe is working out by degrees the realisation of an ideal that is also our own.

Carlyle's doctrine is plainly a doctrine of the survival of the fittest among theories, religions, and institutions; and here again we find speculation on first principles anticipating the conclusions of science. It differs from Mr. Darwin's survival of the fittest, however, in this: that in it the “fittest” has the definite meaning of the best and the worthiest. With reference to Mr. Darwin's formula, it has frequently been pointed out that the survival of the fittest can mean only the survival of what is best adapted to survive. Like the Hegelian theory, however, it appears to more advantage in action than its formulas. When we see how it is applied we can perceive in it another meaning. Mr. Darwin himself finds in it a principle which must necessarily lead to the development of the social instincts, the unselfish side of our nature. It seems clear to him, too, both that the struggle for existence cannot fail to develope intellect in the race, and also that the development of intellect must secure the development of morality pari passu with it. We arrive thus by another à priori road at the same conclusion—that the real tendency of things cannot be otherwise than good.

Perhaps the greatest difficulty that presents itself to the acceptance of this conclusion is that which flows from the doctrine of the equivalence of opposites. It needs little reflection to discover that the biblical conception of the knowledge of good as having entered the world together with the knowledge of evil shadows forth a truth of wide-spreading significance. It is plain enough that the hero and the martyr could never have appeared in the world without the tyrant and the bigot. The delights of success for one man must, it always seems, bear a tolerably exact proportion to the agony of possible disappointment for himself, and of real disappointment for others similarly situated. If by what we fancy as the fiat of Omnipotence pain were at once completely done away with, we might find that the principle of consciousness, perhaps of vitality itself, had perished. We are thus sometimes driven to question the very possibility, in the nature of things, of any fuller realisation of happiness in the world than we find there now. It must be conceded, I think, that the negative principle must always be manifested there in some shape. Without the possibility of disappointment there could be no such thing as the serious pursuit of any purpose, and the possibility of disappointment itself involves pain, and pain often of the acutest sort. It may be that we are dreaming altogether idly in dreaming of a painless golden age ahead of us. This much, however, is observable: that the negative principle can assume very different forms in different stages of the world's development. In nature, the only remedy for failure or imperfection is the prompt destruction of the forms that manifest defects. When consciousness dawns, the place of destruction can be taken by the instinctive association of pain with what is injurious. With the civilised man, again, the mental representation of pain—say of starvation—some time in the future can take the place of the actual pangs of hunger in the present. A further stage sees the approval of our fellows largely substituted for every other motive of action. The worst of all pains for us, then, is to be found in the fact of being shunned and despised by our neighbours; and, at a still further stage, we can feel that even this is endurable so long as we are not forced to agree with our neighbours in detesting and despising ourselves, that being the one pain at all hazards to be avoided. If thus even we are forced to hold that pain can never be got rid of, there is ample room for the amelioration of the world in the substitution of the more refined for the grosser forms of it.

Out of such reflections on the nature of pain there dawns dimly on us the suspicion that we may be in error in the fancy that Omnipotence could make all men happy and

swimming, in the water there, that looked in the distance like a young colt^* with its head and neck above the surface.

The place itself is isolated, surrounded by high, broken, cliffy banks that are deeply wooded, and rather difficult of access, the water having a narrow outlet into the River Manawatu.

This newly-repeated narration of that strange event of 1893, together with the simple, honest, unpretending manner in which it was told, and the knowledge the residents had of the character of the relator, made such an impression on the minds of some of my friends who heard it, that three of them (strong and determined, and used to heavy bush-travelling) arranged to visit that out-of-the-way spot the next day, the weather, too, being fine at the time. They did so, and, after much and heavy exertion, descended the cliffs, and explored pretty much of the shores and surroundings of the lagoon, but saw nothing of any strange animal, and, after extricating themselves with some difficulty, they returned late at night to Dannevirke.

While we were conversing with Mr. Slade, I expressed my opinion that the animal seen by him in the water might be one of the seals of the New Zealand seas, which I had seen in former years on our sea-shores, and whose hair was also of that colour described by him; but how a marine mammal should have found its way so far inland, and particularly through and against the current of the rough and rapid waters of the notorious Manawatu Gorge (the only way of access), seemed an insurmountable obstacle. However, I offered him a good round sum for the animal, or for any pretty large portion of it. Mr. Robertshawe, also present, related the capture of one of those seals far up in the River Waikato several years ago.

In writing to Sir James Hector shortly afterwards (on other matters) I mentioned this phenomenon, and, in reply, Sir James says, “Your taniwha is no doubt Stenorhynchus leptonyx. Several years ago I heard the same tale from the same district, and on inquiry found it to be so. Ten years ago a taniwha was captured in a lagoon near Hamilton on the Waikato, and exhibited in a butcher's shop, and it proved to be a Stenorhynchus.”

An instance of the capture of one of these marine animals I may mention, as it came under my own observation, and the circumstances attending its seizure were strange, if not unique. It happened early in the forties. I was then residing at Waitangi, on the immediate southern shore of Hawke's

Bay, and close by the Maori pa (village) Awapuni. One morning there was a great outcry, and a big movement of a body of natives from the village on to the beach. I went thither to see what was the matter, and I found they had captured a large greyish-blue hairy seal, and this in a peculiar way. Some children were playing on the beach, and they saw at a little distance what they supposed to be a woman asleep on the warm and dry shingle, a short distance above high-water mark. By-and-by they went towards her, when they soon found out their mistake, and immediately raised a cry, not knowing what it was. The chief, Karaitiana,^* who happened to be walking on the beach not far off, ran up and saw the big seal; and now the creature, alarmed, was scuttling away fast towards the sea. Karaitiana had nothing in his hands with which to bar its progress, while the animal, turning its head from side to side, snapped its jaws fiercely; so he threw himself down flat on the beach and grasped the seal with his two hands just above the tail and held on firmly, and, being a tall and stout man, the seal could not draw him along the beach, but in its exertions threw up stones and gravel with its flippers, and knocked Karaitiana about pretty considerably. In a little while, however, other Maoris came running up to the spot armed with axes, hatchets, and clubs, and soon put an end to the struggle, carrying off the seal in triumph to their village; and some time after, while the earth-ovens were being prepared for cooking the animal, I was astonished at seeing its jaws open and snap loudly several times, although its skull had been broken into with axes and brains protruding, the head not yet being severed from the body. I was also struck with the appearance of its large and formidable 3-cuspidate molar teeth in both jaws, which also regularly locked into each other. I obtained the head as my perquisite, and buried it in my garden pro tem. as a step towards preserving the bones; but long after, when I frequently sought it, after submerging floods, I never could find it.

On several occasions I have had the dried skins of these animals (taken on the outer coast, as at Waimarama, near Cape Kidnappers, and further south) brought to me for sale, but, not having any use for them, I only purchased one. They were all nearly alike in general appearance as to size, hairiness, and colour of their hair, quite dry and hard, having been carefully flayed from the animal, and stretched out and dried on a hollow frame of sticks, according to the ancient Maori manner of drying their dog and other skins. Of course, they were all captured by the Maoris when on shore.

As seals are known by us to be of gregarious habits, a peculiar proverbial saying of the ancient Maoris respecting these animals may be fitly adduced here as showing their also having had some knowledge of that kind: “No, to tamahine kapai i takina mai ai tenei kekeno ki konei” = “It was thy exceedingly pretty and willing daughter which drew this seal to land here.” “This speaks for itself, and would be doubly suitable for such a chief to say coming by sea—along the coas: in the olden times nearly all peaceful visits were made by water.” “N.B.—The verb taki (pass. takina), here used, means to forcibly draw a captured fish to land out of the water.”^*

To return to the taniwha, or ngarara (water-monster), or crocodile and dragon: During my long residence in this country (now considerably more than half a century) I have repeatedly heard from old Maoris of somewhat similar, though much more marvellous, occurrences; I have also been shown the lairs and “bones” (calcite), and the remains and signs of the wonderful doings of such monstrous creatures = ngataniwha (in the big slips of earth from the hill- and mountain-sides, caused by their sudden throes and emergence from beneath or within the solid earth); but of the creatures themselves I have found nothing, not even the slightest remains.

And here, I think, I may properly call your attention to those transcendent Maori stories and legends of the olden time, in which the taking and destroying of several huge and hideous animals of the reptilian class and of the saurian (or crocodile) order by some of their valorous and skilful ancestors is graphically and clearly related. To them I would refer you, my audience, this night; I have faithfully translated them, and you will find them recorded in the Transactions of our Institute^†; and I assure you they are well worthy your perusal, and in reading them it should ever be borne in mind that the Maoris firmly believed in their truth; hence, too, it was that they did not care to venture into strange, unfrequented places, from fear of those immense ngarara infesting them: this is nicely shown by Dieffenbach, in his quaint relation of the opposition made by the Maoris against his ascending Mount Egmont, lest he should be destroyed by the ngararas.^‡

But, while those ancient Maori stories partake so very largely of the marvellous, and are also mere relations, orally handed down from generation to generation—

Till their own tales at length deceive 'em,

And oft repeating they believe 'em^§

—obscured in the night or twilight of the dim past there are similar and well-authenticated European narrations contained in written history. Some of them, being but little known, I purpose bringing to your notice this evening.

My first is from ancient Roman history, originally recorded by the able Latin historian Livy (though that portion of his works containing it has long been lost), and is thus related by Valerius Maximus from Livy, by whom it is said to have been recorded at greater length. It is the account of that enormous reptile which spread dismay even through a powerful and disciplined Roman army. Valerius says,—

“We may here mention the serpent so eloquently and accurately recorded by Livy, who says that near the River Bagrada, in Africa, a snake was seen of so enormous a magnitude as to prevent the army of Attilius Regulus from the use of the river; and, after snatching up several soldiers with its enormous mouth and devouring them, and killing several more by striking and squeezing them by the spine of its tail, was at length destroyed by assailing it with all the force of military engines and showers of stones, after it had withstood the attack of their spears and darts; that it was regarded by the whole army as a more formidable enemy than even Carthage itself; and that, the whole adjacent region being tainted with the pestilential effluvia proceeding from its remains, and the waters with its blood, the Roman army was obliged to move its station. He also adds that the skin of the monster, measuring 120ft. in length, was sent to Rome as a trophy.” Pliny also relates this story, saying, “It is a well-known fact that during the Punic war, at the River Bagrada, a serpent 120ft. in length was taken by the Roman army under Regulus, being besieged, like a fortress, by means of balistæ and other engines of war. Its skin and jaws were preserved in a temple at Rome down to the time of the Numantine war.”^* That wonderful encounter took place B.C. 256.

My second narration is a much more modern one, though happening five hundred years ago. It is well and fully authenticated, and, I think, very interesting, particularly as several of its prominent features are curiously in close accord with the Maori tales; and, as I have only met with it in a valuable and scarce old folio of the last century, I have made a copious extract of it, deeming it worthy to be brought before you.

In the “History of the Knights of Malta,” by the Abbé Vertot, is the following relation: “In 1340 A.D. the Grand Master of the Order, Helion de Villeneuve, from charity and prudential motives, forbade all the knights, on pain of degradation, to offer to fight a serpent or crocodile. This crocodile was of monstrous size, did a vast deal of mischief in the Island of Rhodes, and had even devoured some of the inhabitants. For the better understanding so extraordinary an incident, we shall barely relate what history says on the subject.

“The haunt of this furious animal was in a cavern on the edge of a marsh at the foot of Mount St. Stephen, two miles from the city. He went often out to seek his prey. He ate sheep, cows, and sometimes horses when they came near the water and edge of the marsh; the inhabitants complained, likewise, that he had devoured some young shepherds that were keeping their flocks. Several of the bravest knights of the convent, at different times, and unknown to each other, went singly out of the city to endeavour to kill him, but none of them ever came back. As the use of firearms was not then invented, and the skin of this kind of monster was covered with scales that were proof against the keenest arrows and darts, the arms, if we may so say, were not equal, and the serpent soon despatched them. This was the motive which engaged the Grand Master to forbid the knights attempting any more an enterprise that seemed above human strength.

“They all obeyed him except one knight, of the language of Provence, named Dieu-donné de Gozon, who, in breach of this prohibition, and without being daunted at the fate of his brother companions, formed secretly the design of fighting this voracious beast, resolving to perish in it or deliver the Isle of Rhodes. This resolution is generally ascribed to the intrepid courage of the knight, though others pretend that he was likewise pushed on to it by the stinging invectives with which his courage had been insulted at Rhodes, because, having gone several times out of the city to fight the serpent, he had contented himself with taking a view of it at a distance, and had thereby employed his prudence more than his valour.

“Whatever were the motives that determined the knight to try this adventure, he, to begin the execution of his project, went into France and retired to the castle of Gozon, which is still standing, in the Province of Languedoc. Having observed that the serpent had no scales under the belly, he formed the plan of his enterprise upon that observation.

“He caused a figure of this monstrous beast to be made in wood or pasteboard, according to the idea he had preserved of it, and took particular care to imitate the colour of it. He

afterwards taught two young bulldogs to run when he cried out and throw themselves under the belly of that terrible creature, whilst he himself, mounted on horseback, clad in armour, with his lance in his hand, pretended at the same time to strike at it in several places. The knight spent several months using this exercise every day, and as soon as he found his dogs perfect in this way of fighting he returned to Rhodes. He was scarce arrived in the island when, without communicating his design to anybody whatsoever, he made his arms be carried privately near a church situated on the top of the mountain of St. Stephen, where he came attended by only two servants, whom he had brought from France. He went into the church, and, after recommending himself to God, took his arms, mounted on horseback, and ordered his servants, if he perished in the combat, to return to France, but to come up to him if they perceived he had either killed the serpent or was wounded himself. He then went down the mountain with his two dogs, advanced straight to the marsh and the haunt of the serpent, who, at the noise that he made, ran with open mouth and eyes darting fire to devour him. Gozon gave it a stroke with his lance, which the thickness and hardness of its scales made of no effect. He was preparing to redouble his stroke, but his horse, frightened with the hissing and smell of the serpent, refuses to advance, retires back, and leaps aside, and would have been the occasion of his master's destruction if he, with great presence of mind, had not thrown himself off; and then, taking his sword in hand, and attended by his two faithful dogs, he immediately comes up to the horrible beast, and gives him several strokes in different places, but the hardness of the scales hindered them from entering. The furious animal, with a stroke of his tail, threw him on the ground, and would infallibly have devoured him if his two dogs, according as they had been taught, had not seized the serpent by the belly, which they tore and mangled with their teeth, without his being able, though he struggled with all his strength, to force them to quit their hold. The knight, by the help of this succour, gets up, and, joining his two dogs, thrust his sword up to the hilt in a place that was not defended by scales; he there made a large wound, from whence a deluge of blood flowed out. The monster, wounded to death, falls upon the knight and beats him down a second time, and would have stified him by the prodigious weight and bulk of its body if the two servants, who had been spectators of the combat, had not, seeing the serpent dead, run in to the relief of their master. They found him in a swoon and thought him dead, but when they had with great difficulty drawn him from under the serpent to give him room to breathe, in case he was alive, they took off

his helmet, and, after throwing a little water upon his face, he at last opened his eyes. The first spectacle, and the most agreeable one that could offer itself to his sight, was that of seeing his enemy slain, which was attended with the satisfaction of having succeeded in so difficult an enterprise, in which many of his brother companions had lost their lives.

“No sooner was the fame of his victory and the serpent's death proclaimed in the city but a crowd of inhabitants thronged out to meet him. The knights conducted him in triumph to the Grand Master's palace; but in the midst of their acclamations the conqueror was infinitely surprised when the Grand Master, looking on him with indignation, demanded of him if he did not know the orders he had given against attacking that dangerous beast, and if he thought they might be violated with impunity. Immediately this strict observer of discipline, without vouchsafing to hear him, or being moved in the least by the intercession of the knights, sent him directly to prison. He next convened the Council, where he represented that the Order could by no means dispense with inflicting a rigorous punishment on so notorious a disobedience, that was more prejudicial to discipline than the life of several serpents would have been to the cattle and inhabitants of that quarter of the island; and, like another Manlius, he declared his opinion was that that victory should be made fatal to the conqueror. But the Council prevailed that he should be only deprived of the habit of the Order: in short, the unfortunate knight was ignominiously degraded, and there was but a short interval between his victory and this kind of punishment, which he found more cruel and severe than death itself.

“But the Grand Master, after having by this chastisement performed the obligations due to the preservation of discipline, returned to his natural temper, which was full of sweetness and good-nature. He was pleased to be pacified, and managed things in such a manner as to make them entreat him to grant a pardon, which he would have solicited himself if he had not been at the head of the Order. At the pressing instances made him by the principal commanders, he restored him to the habit and his favour, and loaded him with kindnesses. All this was not to be compared to the unfeigned praises of the people, who dispose absolutely of glory, whilst princes, how potent soever they may be, can only have the disposal of the honours and dignities of the State.

“They set up the head of this serpent or crocodile over one of the gates of the city, as a monument of Gozon's victory. Thevenot, in the relation of his travels, says that it was there in his time—or, at least, the effigies of it; that he himself had seen it there; that it was much bigger and

larger than that of a horse, its mouth reaching from ear to ear; big teeth, large eyes, the holes of the nostrils round, and the skin of a whitish-grey—occasioned perhaps by the dust which it gathered in course of time.”

Vertot goes on to remark, “We shall be less surprised at so extraordinary an incident if we reflect that the Isle of Rhodes was anciently called Ophiusa, from the Greek word ó̕φis, which signifies a serpent, from the great number of those reptiles that infested that island. Hyginus, a Greek historian, relates, upon the testimony of Polyzelus, a Rhodian, that a Thessalian, son of Triopas, or of Lapithas according to Diodorus Siculus, having been thrown by a storm on the coast of Rhodes, happily exterminated those mischievous animals; that Phorbas, among the rest, killed one of them of a prodigious bigness, which devoured the inhabitants. The learned Bochart pretends that the Phœnicians called the island by the name of Gesirath-Rod—i.e., “the isle of serpents”—Gesirath, according to that author, being a term common to the Phœnicians, Syrians, Arabians, and Chaldeans for signifying an island, and Rod, in the Phœnician tongue, signifying a serpent; so that, joining these two words together, they formed that of Gesirath-Rod, whence the Greeks afterwards made that of Rhodes, which the isle has preserved to this day.”

Then Vertot goes on to relate “a like event which happened in Africa, while Attilius Regulus commanded the Roman army there” (given more briefly by me above); and then he remarks, “I do not maintain that there has been no exaggeration in the length of the African serpent, nor assert everything that is told of the monstrous bulk of the crocodile of Rhodes; but what appears certain from the historians of that time, from tradition, and even from inscriptions and from authentic monuments, is that Gozon killed a terrible animal, and by that means acquired a great reputation, especially with the people of Rhodes, who looked upon him as their deliverer.

“The Grand Master, to make him some amends for the mortification he had given him, conferred rich commandries upon him. He took him afterwards to be near his person, and, finding a prudence in him equal to his bravery, he made him at last his lieutenant-general in the government of the island.”

About the year 1346 the Grand Master Helion de Villeneuve died, and the knights met in solemn conclave to elect his successor; and our author states, “The Commander de Gozon was one of the electors. When it came to his turn to give his voice he said, ‘When I entered this conclave I made a solemn oath that I would not propose any one but such a knight as I should judge most deserving of this great dignity,

and to have the best intentions for the general good of the whole Order; and, after having seriously considered the matter,…I declare that I find nobody better qualified for the government of our Order than myself.’ He then made a fine harangue upon his own virtues; the fight against the serpent was not forgotten, but he insisted chiefly on his conduct from the time that the Grand Master Villeneuve had made him his lieutenant”; and in the end he was elected to that high dignity, and, the historian adds, “he was solemnly acknowledged as Great Master to the satisfaction of the convent, and especially of the citizens of the Town of Rhodes and the inhabitants of the island, who, since his victory over the serpent, looked upon him as the hero of the Order.”

There are several pages in this work showing how well he presided and wrought. He died suddenly in December, 1353; on which Vertot says, “If that term ‘sudden’ may be allowed with regard to so good a man, who had always been more watchful over his own conduct than over that of the knights under his care. His funeral was celebrated with the just eulogiums of his brother knights, and the tears of all the inhabitants of the isle, and of the poor especially, to whom he was indeed a father. All the inscription put on his tomb was this: ‘Here lies the Vanquisher of the Dragon.’” (L.c., vol. i., pp. 249–263.)

While engaged in writing this paper I have thought that, on hearing this clearly-written and plain statement concerning the knight Gozon and the dragon, two main thoughts or ideas were likely to arise within your minds—one, the great similarity in several circumstances between this narration and those ancient Maori stories concerning the slaying of monstrous dragons or crocodiles; and the other, the likeness and suitability of much of the relation to illustrate the old English story of “St. George and the Dragon.” This tale of the patron saint of England is, perhaps, just as truthful as those Maori recitals; for it has baffled all antiquarian research—I mean with reference to his terrible fight with the monster, with which (it is just barely possible) Gozon's combat with the dragon may have had something to do by way of embellishment, as the date of the fight was during the time of the Crusades, in which, of course, the knights of Malta were largely occupied. Moreover, we are told in history how St. George came to be the patron saint of England; which I may also briefly state, as it is a kind of evidence in support of my notion just mentioned:—

“When Robert, Duke of Normandy, son to William the Conqueror, was prosecuting his victories against the Turks, and laying siege to the famous City of Antioch, which was like to be relieved by a mighty army of the Saracens, St.

such he will inevitably be led to “reflect on the nature of the State, the functions of government, the nature and authority of civil obligation.” Nor will he stop there. He will proceed to apply the most searching and exact methods of investigation, and draw conclusions. Thus slowly but surely a science of politics is growing up, based on ever-widening knowledge, and marked by logical exactness.

It is well to remember that the science of politics is not entirely or even mainly a creation of our day. Aristotle was its real founder, and his special service was to separate politics from ethics. Since his time many of the world's foremost thinkers and teachers have laboured in the same field, amongst them being, in our own country, Hobbes, Locke, Burke, Bentham, the Mills, Herbert Spencer, and several others. Each of these has contributed something definite of his own to the elucidation of the subject, or has helped to correct mistaken notions. Wild speculation there has been, and hasty generalisations; but these have in many cases been refuted or rectified. The materials for sound political theory are accumulating. It only needs that intelligent use shall be made of these by the statesman and legislator. We may reasonably hope that the diffusion of general knowledge, and acquaintance with the methods and results of science, will gradually dispose men to make political changes with caution, and only on sufficient ground.

In politics, whether theoretical or practical, problems of the most perplexing nature present themselves, and the discussion of these reveals irreconcilable differences of opinion, and gives rise often to some bitterness of feeling. This is to be expected. Uncertainty as to the goal towards which human society is moving, and doubt as to the right road to take, would alone, even under otherwise favourable circumstances, raise questions of great difficulty. But the difficulty is vastly increased by the conflicting social ideals and aspirations of men and their defective morality. Accordingly, the history of human society is a checquered one. Man has hitherto advanced by blundering. Dearly-bought experience has taught him his errors in the sphere of politics as elsewhere. We cannot hope that the path of social progress will ever be easy to find or free of difficulties. Politics, therefore, can never be child's play.

Again, as accounting for the estrangement between citizens in regard to matters of State policy, it is to be recognised that the effects of political action are very grave and far-reaching, and profoundly concern the community, both collectively and individually. It is the duty of every man, therefore, to be on the alert, and to guard that which is essential to his welfare. All legislative proposals should be subjected

to the closest scrutiny, and discussed as fully and openly as possible. Only in this way can citizens preserve their liberty and advance socially. Now, it must happen that when men's interests are menaced, or supposed to be menaced, sides will be taken, and every effort made to defeat what are thought to be obnoxious measures. Even political theories, wild and impracticable though they may seem to be, cannot safely be ignored. They are not got rid of by simply calling them “fads.” Theory has a strong tendency to translate itself into fact, and politics afford a favourable arena for the experiment.

The existence through long centuries of organized parties in the State, and the rise of new ones in more recent times, witness to wide and persistent divergence of opinion, method, and ideals in the sphere of politics. Rival policies, embodied in party organizations, are thought to be justified on the ground that they serve to correct one another by material criticism, and thus to assure progress. But the mere mention of the party names—Conservative, Liberal, Radical, Socialist, Anarchist, and the like—indicates how complicated political questions have grown, and how greatly the decision of them is embarrassed. It is difficult for any statesman or party nowadays to hold on a steady course in politics. The older political parties are failing to satisfy the demands of electors, and the old political creeds have been variously modified, and are loosely held. The rearrangement of parties and sections of parties by mutual compromise is a familiar spectacle. These and the like changes show what mighty transforming forces are at work in the body politic.

Man, it would seem, must ever be a framer of polities, impelled thereto by necessity of nature and social exigencies. The State is, in germ, involved in the very constitution of man. Endowed with social instincts, man must have fellowship with his kind. He cannot live in solitude: he must therefore enter into relations with his fellows. Man, as far as we know him, has always lived in society, and hence his actions must be brought under some regulation. In the case of civilised man, his thought is ever growing wider and clearer, his sympathies more comprehensive, his life more complex. Added to this, man has shown in all stages of his history a capacity for conceiving ideals—artistic, religious, moral, social, political—and his destiny is to devote his energies, even to lay down his life, to realise his ideals.

He has not been uniformly successful in his efforts for this realisation. At best, his steps have been slow and painful; but often he has failed, missed the way altogether, or come back to his starting-point. He has learned to do right by blundering.

On the whole, however, he has made progress. He has undoubtedly made progress in knowledge, industrial arts, and military discipline. He has improved his surroundings—made them more favourable to his self-development. The easier, ruder forms of social life must have preceded the more complex and polished forms. Modern political communities of the advanced type have been evolved out of much simpler associations of human beings. But the progress has always been partial. There has never been, nor is there now, an advance—certainly not an equal advance—of the whole race of man. As a matter of fact, we find the more advanced portions of mankind grouped in well-defined entities, called States. What does this term “State” denote? Unfortunately, the word is used somewhat loosely. It signifies sometimes the government—that is, the governing authorities, in contradistinction to the governed. Sometimes it denotes the governed as opposed to the government. A common usage makes the word stand for the secular authorities as distinguished from the ecclesiastical. Yet another usage makes the word denote the nation as a subject of government. This variable usage is the more to be regretted because the term stands for an essential conception of political science. The State may be defined as a large group of men, occupying a considerable area of the earth's surface, speaking for the most part the same language, and united under a single government. Professor Amos, in his book on the “Science of Politics,” says, “The State, in the modern acceptation of the term, carries with it the ideas of territorial limitation, of population, past, present, and to come, and of organization for the purposes of government.” In Canada and the United States of America we see a very extensive territory, inhabited by men of the same race and speaking the same language, who yet do not form a State because they lack political unity.

Altogether different from our conception was the Greek conception of a State. “There was in the Greek mind,” says Professor Freeman, “a distinct idea of a Greek nation, united by common origin, speech, religion, and civilisation…. But that the whole Greek nation, or so much of it as formed a continuous or nearly continuous territory, could be united into one political community never came into the mind of any Greek statesman or Greek philosopher. The independence of each city was the one cardinal principle from which all Greek political life started. The State, the commonwealth, was in Greek eyes a city, an organized society of men dwelling in a walled town as the hearth and home of the political society, and with a surrounding territory not too large to allow all its free inhabitants habitually to assemble within its walls to discharge the duties of citizens.”

It must not be inferred that this system of city-states existed in Greece from the beginning. It is certain that there, as elsewhere, ruder types of political organization preceded that which was so characteristic of Greek civilisation at its best. Wandering tribes do not build towns. The hill-fort and the unwalled village came before Athens in order of time, and left some faint traces of themselves in historic times.

Closely connected with our ideas of the State is our conception of government. We have seen that the State, in the modern sense of the term, implies the existence of a governing body. Even in barbarous communities we find some kind of rule established, and deference and obedience paid to some authority raised above the mass of the people. Immemorial nobility is to be met with in all branches of the human race; but how the distinction of rank arose in the first instance seems to be a matter of mere conjecture. It is possible, of course, to have distinctions of rank without such distinctions conferring any right of government. But, in practice, those who enjoy special honours usually secure posts of authority. As States advance in civilisation the organization of government becomes greatly developed, owing to the social needs of each community. But from whom is the authority to govern ultimately derived? Can the claim to rule or occupy official positions be based in the last resort upon inheritance, rank, caste, or divine right? Some answers given to these questions have in the past disturbed the peace of nations, and given rise to numerous changes in the constitutions of States. They have, however, now been answered virtually in one way, for the general conviction seems to be that no government ever existed which did not derive its power really from the consent of the governed. “Government,” says Huxley, “is the corporate reason of the community.” Where the sovereign is a compound body, as is the case now in every civilised government, the practical sovereignty rests with the people. In the British Constitution the three Estates of the Realm must agree before any measure can become law. A complicated but effective system of checks has been devised regulating the exercise of power by the monarch. But with whom does supremacy rest? Bagehot has shown that the British Constitution has given the sovereignty to the majority of the House of Commons. This seems to agree with the political genius of the Teutonic race in all times. Speaking of the Teutonic Assemblies, Professor Freeman says, “So in our land our ancient Witenagemots not only made laws, not only chose and deposed kings, ealdormen, and bishops, but sat in judgment on State offenders, and pronounced sentences of outlawry and confiscation…We must

remember that, carefully as we now distinguish the functions of legislator, judge, juror, and witness, it was only by slow degrees that they were distinguished. All grew out of the various attributes of an Assembly which, as being itself the people, exercised every branch of that power which the people has, at sundry times and in divers manners, intrusted to the various bodies which directly or indirectly draw their authority from that one sovereign source. In all times and in all places power can have no lawful origin but the grant of the people. The difference between a well- and an ill-ordered common wealth lies in this: Have the people wisdom and self-control enough to see that in reverencing and obeying the powers of the State in their lawful exercise they are in truth doing homage to themselves, and giving the fullest proof of their fitness to discharge the highest right of men and citizens?”

The State is a natural institution. It takes form according to the special wants and circumstances, the innate qualities and spiritual aims of this or that people. We cannot forbear asking, What higher purpose, if any, does the State serve? Can the State be a factor in individual and social development ? The State is concerned with human conduct, and its action is distinctly moral in character, and enforces morality. Although it is quite true that we “cannot make men good in the best sense of the word by Act of Parliament,” yet for all that the State does exercise a great influence in maintaining and improving morality. It lays down a minimum of duty in many matters, and punishes when there is any wilful neglect of its regulations. For example, the State asserts that it is the duty of parents not only to support but to educate their children, and requires parents to act accordingly. But all this only confirms the account given long ago of the function of the State by the greatest of statesmen. Pericles, in his famous funeral oration, describes what Athens aims at doing for her sons, and what claims she has upon their devotion. It is a city-state of which he speaks: “We have a form of government which, from its not being administered for the benefit of the few but of the many, is called a democracy…We cultivate taste without extravagance, and study philosophy without effeminacy; wealth is with us a thing not for display but for reasonable use; the acknowledgment of poverty we do not consider disgraceful; but only the want of effort to escape from it.” (Thuc., ii., 37–40.) All through the speech, says Pollock, runs the idea of the city-state being much more than a source of protection. It exists for the culture of men; it is the sphere of the citizen's higher activity. The glory of Athens is that she aims at producing, by means of a free

and generous education, the highest type of man. Aristotle also says, “The State was founded to protect life: it continues to improve it.” In the words of Herbert Spencer, “complete life in the associated state” is the end of the social organism which we call “the State.”

The account given not long ago of what the Glasgow City Council had done and intended to do for the benefit of the citizens of that important town shows that the spirit of the old Greek democracy still lives in the Aryan race. Indeed, what we see done in our midst for the improvement of civic life — the recreation - grounds, parks, library, art gallery, museum, and the like set apart for public use—the splendid benefactions of public-spirited citizens—are all an acknowledgment that the city is more than a mere dwelling-place, that we are all under an obligation to do what we can for the culture of men.

There are signs, however, not a few that men intend to use increasingly the larger powers of the State for the same end. It is considered by multitudes part of the proper business of the State to abolish abuses and grievances, and to promote the greatest happiness of the greatest number by direct legislation. That was the doctrine of Bentham, and it has taken hold of the mind of millions. It has become an article of belief that “the State has no excuse for being backward in well-doing.”

We come now to that form of government which, after ages of struggle, has established itself in all the leading States of the world. Democracy is in possession of the field. The fact has been heralded in some such fashion as this: “The rule of the many seems now to be regarded as the final and inevitable form of government for all the civilised communities of men: that is held for a fact which may either be eagerly embraced or sullenly accepted. The few misgoverned because it was their interest to do so; the many will govern well because it will be their obvious gain.” Whether these high hopes and confident predictions will be fulfilled the future will show. It will most probably be in the future as in the past, that the course of human progress will not be without lets and hindrances, disappointments and failures. It is easy and pleasant to cherish rosy imaginations, but an “unreined” democracy will unquestionably have its own peculiar difficulties.

The word “democracy” comes to us from the Greeks, and was used by Greek political writers with great exactness. But in the modern usage of the word a vulgarism has crept in which is wholly inexcusable. It is used sometimes to express a class of society with some connotation of opprobrium. In strict propriety it denotes a form of government in which all the

citizens who enjoy civil rights also enjoy political rights. Two great Greek thinkers, Plato and Aristotle, have left us lists of forms of government, classified as “normal” and “corrupt,” and in each case democracy takes rank as a corrupt form. In Aristotle's view, democracy is the rule of the poor for their own advantage—an anticipation, by the way, of a rather widely-held modern opinion. Later writers, however, have given it a more favourable position.

Reference has already been made to Greek democracy as exemplified at Athens. It must be carefully remembered that the Greek political communities were small, and possessed a large slave population. The inhabitants of a single town constituted a State. Foreigners and slaves were not counted as citizens, and therefore could take no part in legislation or in the administration of justice. In Greece, then, democracy was exhibited on a limited scale, and under conditions totally unlike those of a modern democratic State. Modern statecraft has set itself a problem of formidable complexity. Whether it succeeds or fails the aim is undoubtedly high.

What does history teach as to the merits of a purely democratic government ? It is sometimes charged against democracy that it is necessarily fatal to individual development, to robustness and originality of thought, to spontaneity of action. Its tendency, we are told, is to level down. Such was not the case at Athens. Professor Freeman says on this point, “Pure democracy—the government of a whole people and not of a part only—is a form of government which works up the faculties of man to a higher pitch than any other; it is the form of government which gives the freest scope to the inborn genius of the whole community and of every member of it…The democracy of Athens raised a greater number of human beings to a higher level than any government before or since it gave freer play than any government before or since to the personal gifts of the foremost of mankind.” This is high praise. There is but one drawback to it: it is that democracy at Athens appears to have been too forcing, and therefore lacked the quality of durability. But, however this may be, there is little room for doubting that a strong admixture of the democratic spirit in a government is necessary if a people is to achieve the highest results.

If we turn from Greece to Italy, there too we find the independent city the leading political idea, but Rome, by means of concessions to allies and subjects, was nearer becoming a nation in the modern sense than Greece. The history of the long struggle at Rome between the aristocracy and democracy is highly instructive from every point of view, chiefly from the close parallel it presents to what has taken

place in England since the Revolution. One thing is proved by it—namely, that the just demands of the people cannot in the long-run be resisted. A special good which resulted from the victory of the plebeians was that out of the patrician and plebeian elements of the body social was formed an assembly —the Roman Senate—which has been described as “the first political corporation of the world.”

In our day the more advanced stages of democracy are represented mainly by the Republics of France, Switzerland, and the United States, and by the Australasian Colonies. Each of these types is well worthy of the closest study, but probably the one that will reach the most important lessons and have the greatest interest for mankind will be that of the United States. Here we have the sturdy, self-reliant AngloSaxon, long trained in the difficult art of self-government, applying on a vast scale the principles of democracy. This great social experiment, if such it must be regarded, is entitled to the most kindly and hopeful sympathy of all lovers of their species. We are hardly justified in predicting the failure of democracy in the modern world, and as exhibited in the Teutonic race, because of the breakdown of the two ancient republics. Teutonic democracy has been developed on different lines. Unlike the Greeks and Romans, the Teutonic did not pass through the urban commonwealth to the stage of national existence. “The nations of the Teutonic race,” says Freeman, “alike in Germany, in Britain, and in Scandinavia, grew from tribes into nations without ever going through the Greek stage of a system of isolated cities.” Where the process of development has been so diverse, the resulting type of democracy, if less brilliant, may prove more permanent. It is certainly less concentrated and stimulating than that of Greece, and on this ground alone might be expected to be more lasting. A widely - scattered population, with most diverse interests, must exercise much coolness and consideration in order to carry on government with any degree of success. It is in just such circumstances and under such conditions that modern democracy lives and acts.

The innate tendency of the Aryan race to self-government has already been touched upon, but in the Teutonic branch the system of representation has enabled the people at large, when unable to be present in person at the law-making body, to have a voice in the government of themselves. Ancient democracies had no representative system. This happy device is distinctive of Teutonic democracy, more especially in recent times; but science has aided and abetted the genius of the race, and rendered the modern development of democracy possible and inevitable. By the telegraph and other means of rapid communication contagious thought is enabled to travel

from the centre to the most distant extremities of the body politic. Political changes in England may be known in New Zealand in a few hours., The Press, too, exerts its mighty force in fostering and stimulating the democratic spirit. Through it the people can make their thoughts and wishesknown, and so influence and guide their representatives. In this way the community at large becomes a kind of parliament. Political topics and measures are discussed and criticized from a hundred points of view. The spread of education and consequent enlightenment of the people, tending as it does to equalise social conditions, is also a contributory force in the same direction. Acted on by all these agencies, the civilised world itself seems to be in process of unification.

In some such way as this modern democracy is to be accounted for, and under conditions of this kind it is operative. But there is one other cause, very powerful and persistent in its action, which has also, in my opinion, helped to produce the social development going on in our civilisation—I mean the Christian ethic. There can be no question at all as to the existence and potency of this force. Has it also played an important part in the evolution of our democracy ? Contradictory answers will probably be given to this question. But, without making the Christian ethic responsible for all the doings of democracy, or for what may be called the accidents of the movement, the uplifting of the people may be said to be essentially its work. The opinion of the author of “Social Evolution” is, I think, sound in the main: “All anticipations and forebodings as to the future of the incoming democracy founded upon the comparisons with the past are unreliable or worthless. For the world has never before witnessed a democracy of the kind that is now slowly assuming supreme power amongst the western peoples. To compare it with democracies which held power under the ancient empires is to altogether misunderstand both the nature of our civilisation and the character of the forces that have produced it. Neither in form nor in spirit have we anything in common with the democracies of the past, The gradual emancipation of the people and their rise to supreme power has been in our case the product of a slow ethical development, in which character has been profoundly influenced, and in which conceptions of equality and of responsibility to each other have obtained a hold on the general mind hitherto unparalleled. The fact of our time which overshadows all others is the arrival of democracy. But the perception of the fact is of relatively little importance if we do not also realise that it is a new democracy.

The advance of democracy, whether we approve or deplore it, is an undeniable fact. The unmistakable signs or proofs

of the sovereignty of the people are—(1) The extension of the parliamentary franchise so as to include all citizens except children, criminals, and the insane; (2) the eligibility of citizens of all ranks for nearly all offices of State; (3) the supremacy of legislation.

What are some of the principles of the new democracy ? Amongst these we must enumerate “equality of rights”—a somewhat vague phrase, but which I take to mean that all men are equal before the law or in respect to prohibition and restriction, and that every man has a right to be heard in all matters that affect him. Another principle is that majorities must rule—or, in other words, that the majority for the time being represents the will of the people. A third principle is an increased and increasing use of the machinery of the State in the interests of the masses of mankind. This is done chiefly in the way of compulsory, permissive, or other kinds of legislation. As regards the intervention or limits of the State the greatest diversity of opinion prevails. There are those who would limit the function of the State to the protection of life and property, and there are those who would fly to Government on any and every occasion. Between these two extremes there are many varieties of opinion. The truth seems to be that no hard-and-fast rules can be laid down on the subject. “As to the question in its general bearing,” says Sir Frederick Pollock, “I do not think it can be fully dealt with except by going back to the older question, What does the State exist for ? And, although I cannot justify myself here at length, I will bear witness that for my own part I think this is a point at which we may well say, ‘Back to Aristotle.’ The minimisers tell us that the State exists only for protection. Ariscotle tells us that it was founded on the need for protection, but exists for more than protection—γıνομένη μ∊̀ν ου͊ν του̑ ζη̑ν ἕνεκεν, ου͊σα δὲ του̑ ευ͊ ζη̑ν. Not only material security, but the perfection of human and social life, is what we aim at in that organized co-operation of many men's lives and works which is called the State. I fail to see good warrant of either reason or experience for limiting the corporate activity of a nation by hard-and-fast rules.” It seems to me that the doctrine of pure individualism is as much opposed to what may be called municipal socialism as to State interference. Be this, however, as it may, in this country the State has established an insurance department, and has undertaken the construction and management of railways—and yet the world goes round.

As regards the programmes of democratic legislation, we find economical and social questions mixed up with those which are purely political. Land-nationalisation, co-operation, profit-sharing, limitation of the hours of labour, loans of

public money to settlers, and the like, frequently appear as matters for special legislation. The fact that large numbers of people have come to think that questions of this kind should be dealt with in the way proposed shows how the beliefs of men as to the powers and duties of the State have been revolutionised.

The new democracy is not quite satisfied with the Constitution as it stands, but it shrinks, very wisely I think, from making any sweeping and sudden changes. The existence of a second Chamber not directly responsible to the people is sometimes felt to be a grievance, more especially when the offending Chamber is in opposition to the popular will. Loud cries are heard from time to time for its reform or abolition, but in cooler moments extreme measures find no supporters.

In all democratic communities the greatest interest is taken in education. It is curious to note that in this respect the modern democratic State is but following in the steps of Aristotle. About one-eighth of his treatise on politics is occupied with the theory of education. One of the marvels of the age is the sacrifice made by the State to provide education for its citizens. Young and small communities, equally with the old and strong, are impressed with the importance of education. In England, France, America, Australia, and New Zealand, primary and higher education takes almost the first place in the consideration of the State. It is a true and healthy instinct that prompts this care for education; and no greater service can be rendered to the community than that of helping to improve and develope the system and methods of education. The theory or ideal of education as held by the State is still very imperfect, and the results of such education as is given are not all that could be desired. Our great men differ on the subject, so it is no wonder if lesser folk are perplexed and make mistakes. Froude relates somewhere that Lord Brougham once said he hoped a time would come when every man in England would read Bacon, but that William Cobbett said he would be contented if a time came when every man would eat bacon. The proper combination of the literary and practical elements in education is still a matter of uncertainty and “hopeful blundering.”

What does the democratic form of government require from the citizens? The political machine is not self-acting. If it is worked by selfish, unprincipled people the results are sure to be disastrous. The well-balanced intelligence, superior to passion and prejudice, such as is required for the best government is very rare. We may safely say that unless the people as a whole are intelligent, thrifty, enterprising, industrious, and above all moral, their efforts at self-government will utterly fail. Mr. Bryce has well said in his reflec

tions on American democracy, “It is an old saying that monarchies live by honour and republics by virtue. The more democratic republics become, the more the masses grow conscious of their own power, the more do they need to live not only by patriotism, but by reverence and self-control, and the more essential to their well-being are those sources whence reverence and self-control flow.”

It would be fatal to ignore the fact that democracies are liable to special difficulties and dangers. The objection sometimes urged against popular government, that the people at large lack the requisite training and ability, may be met by saying that “it is not necessary they should be competent the essential thing is that they should be interested.” True as this may be, there are, notwithstanding, grave abuses to which democracy as such is peculiarly subject. Experience proves this beyond dispute. To take but one point, the administration of the law: It is of vital importance to a democratic community that when laws are made they should. be strictly and impartially enforced. The stability of the community rests upon this. Any disposition and effort on the part of an orderly people to shield offenders from the due reward of their deeds are wholly mischievous, and tend towards anarchy. It cannot be too often repeated that the firm and just administration of the law is of the first moment to any State.

Does not a danger also Iurk in the change that is coming over the “representative”? He is turning into the paid delegate, a sort of salaried official. We all know the reason given for the payment of members of Parliament. The reason is probably sound, but the danger remains. The candidate for parliamentary honours would now be laughed at who should venture to say, as Burke did to the electors of Bristol, “It ought to be the happiness and glory of a representative to live in the strictest union, the closest correspondence, with his constituents. Their wishes ought to have great weight with him; their opinions high respect; their business unremitted attention. It is his duty to sacrifice his repose, his pleasure, his satisfaction to theirs; and, above all, ever find in all cases to prefer their interest to his own. But his unbiassed opinion, his mature judgment, his enlightened conscience he ought not to sacrifice to you, to any man, or to any set of men living…Authoritative instructions, man dates issued which the member is bound blindly and implicitly to obey, to vote, and to argue for, though contrary to the clearest convictions of his judgment and conscience, these are things utterly unknown to the laws of this land, and which arise from a fundamental mistake of the whole order and tenour of our Constitution.” Any candidate ven

turing to assert himself thus nowadays, and to speak in this strain to the electors, would probably hear the word “Fudge!”

But, if democracy has its peculiar risks, it has some safeguards in modern life. Whether these will prove completely effective remains to be seen. The first of these is freedom of discussion—the fullest freedom, within reasonable limits, to express opinions. “Experience and discussion may be trusted to make error find its level.” Another safeguard is the decentralisation of power by means of local government. There are many things which local bodies, acting under the delegated authority of the State, can do better than the central Government. Mismanagement on the part of such bodies is more easily discovered and rectified than when the central Government is at fault. Considerations of party and struggle for political power and place do not embarrass the actions of local bodies as they do those of the central Government.

Suppose the success of democracy assured, what benefits may we hope to derive therefrom? Is democracy itself the final form of government, or is there a beyond ? The late Dr. Pearson, in his book on “National Life and Character,” maintains that democracy will find its consummation in State socialism, that the leading nations of the world are tending towards a condition of stationary civilisation, and that the increased importance of the State will prove disastrous to the energy and independence of thought of the individual. “It is now more than probable,” he says, “that our science, our civilisation, our great and real advance in the practice of government, are only bringing us nearer to the day when the lower races will predominate in the world; when the higher races will lose their noblest elements; when we shall ask nothing from the day but to live, nor from the future but that we may not deteriorate.” This is a sufficiently dismal vision of the future. After the fierce struggles and stern discipline of the ages, what more pitiful issue than hopeless, irresistible decay of character? In this connection it is a little pathetic to remember that here in New Zealand there is no one left to whom we may give a vote, and that we are thought to have gone a long way in the direction of State socialism.

It is proverbially hard to confute a prophecy, and most people prefer to speak after the event. But Dr. Pearson's anticipation is not shared by all who venture to forecast the future of man upon earth. A greater teacher than he cherished a very different belief. Tennyson, while he wisely bids us not “deal in watchwords overmuch,” never loses hope in the progress of mankind towards a better and happier condition upon earth:-

We are far from the noon of man: there Is time for the race to grow.

democracy, in its many phases, may claim to be realising the dream and wish of the poet:-

O for the coming of that glorious time
When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth
And best protection, this imperial realm,
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit
An obligation, on her part, to teach
Them who are born to serve her and obey.

The foremost countries of the world at the present day are those in which the common school has most widely and deeply rooted itself. Backward and stationary civilisations, if they wish to fall into line and keep step with progressive societies, have to adopt some system of universal and compulsory education. “Education in Japan is plentiful, good, and cheap,” says Sir E. Arnold. A Turkish statesman and patriot, on his death-bed, recently urged his royal master to establish schools throughout Turkey, and thus introduce one of the most potent factors of Western greatness.

Few will question that the State, in thus charging itself with the work of elementary education, is acting well within its rights. The instinct of self-preservation would alone impel the modern democratic State to educate. To avoid relapse into barbarism, to prevent the growth of “a savage horde among the civilised,” the State must make due provision for the enlightenment and moral culture of its citizens.

And, as the State has the right, so it is under the obligation to provide universal education in the interests of healthy and intelligent citizenship. This function and duty cannot be relegated by it to any other organization, or to private enterprise, for the simple reason that the State alone possesses the coercive power required to make a system of popular education effective. While the co-operation of all organizations and individuals is desired and encouraged in the work of national culture, the general conviction is that the control of elementary education must be reserved exclusively for the State. The education thus provided is not a charity. All have a right to it, because all help to pay for it. Hence it is that education, like religion, is now everybody's concern.

Now, the training of teachers for their work is the most essential part of any proper scheme of education. The day has gone by when any one was thought good enough to teach an elementary school. Men who had failed in other occupations had always teaching to fall back upon. “When a man's the sport of heaven, to keep a school the wretch is driven.” People in reduced circumstances thought it right to apologize for earning their living by teaching. All this has been changed. Teaching is now commonly regarded as a serious and honourable occupation or profession—an occupa-

tion demanding knowledge, skill, enthusiasm, and good moral character. The day is at hand, perhaps, when moral worth will be regarded as of even greater value than knowledge and technical attainments.

The careful training of the teacher should, I think, occupy the first place in the national programme of education. Without duly-qualified and self-devoted teachers, fine buildings and costly appliances will be of little worth. Apart from the service which the able and zealous teacher renders to the intellectual and moral life of the nation, his training is of importance as a kind of national investment. From every point of view it is necessary to have capable men in charge of our schools; and the more capable they are the better.

As regards the preparation of teachers for their work, two points are to be distinguished—namely (a) their general knowledge; and (b) their professional training. If their general knowledge is sound and ample they are more able to profit by their technical instruction, and have more time for practice.

Let us see what provision has been made for the training of teachers in one of the old countries of the world. Germany has led the way in the work of popular education, and there from the time of the Reformation the training of the elementary-school master has been steadily kept in view. There we find the training-school and the training-college for teachers in the highest state of efficiency. The whole course of training, usually extending over six years, is divided into two periods—two or three years being spent in the training-school, and the remainder in the training-college. The object of the training-school is thus set forth: “To provide that kind of general training which is calculated to afford a sure foundation for the technical training of the elementary-school teacher.” In other words, the training-school provides such instruction and training as are supplementary to the elementary school and preparatory to the training-college. With respect to the latter institution, “the object of the instruction given there is to confirm the knowledge acquired in the preparatory course and to give it progressive development, to insure familiarity with the principles of the theory of education and instruction, and to give theoretical and practical directions as to the correct treatment of the separate subjects of an elementary school.” The theoretical training comprises four principal subjects: (a) Pedagogy; (b) theory of instruction; (c) psychology; (d) special method. The practical training consists chiefly of lessons given in the practising-school under the supervision of a master of method. These lessons are afterwards criticized both by the master and by fellow-students.

But, good as the German training institutions are, they do not fully satisfy the aspirations of the teachers themselves. It should be noted in passing that all the more important educational reforms in Germany have originated with the teachers. Their suggestions have seldom been at first acceptable to the Government, but, in the end, reasonable changes have been made, and the substantial justice of their demands acknowledged.

The report of the United States Bureau of Education published last year contains a historical review of the German and other systems of training for teachers. In the sixth section of the review a summary is given of the opinions of leading educators on training institutions. The German Teachers' Union, a body sixty thousand strong, had submitted certain inquiries to forty-two of the ablest directors of normal schools. Seventeen of those addressed answered all the questions put to them. The rest declined to answer, chiefly to avoid what appeared to them criticism of the Government.

The first question was as follows: “Is it advisable to organize the normal schools in such a way that they can offer professional—that is, pedagogical—training exclusively, or should they also offer academic instruction and general education, which must be the basis of professional work ?” Thirteen of the seventeen replies were in favour of the separation of general education from purely professional training. Among the reasons given were the following: “The purpose of a teachers' training-school is to prepare its students for their profession; the art it has to teach is the art of teaching; the school can accomplish this task satisfactorily only if the general education of its students has to a certain extent been completed before they are admitted; the mixture of general preparation and professional training now existing is the chief obstacle to progress in the training of teachers, because it necessitates a low degree of requirements for the general education—lower than is desirable in the interest of popular education.”

The second question was, “In what manner, in case the first question be answered in the affirmative, shall the general preparatory education be obtained ? Is it desirable to (a) establish special preparatory schools for teachers, or (b) should the existing normal schools be extended downwards by establishing preparatory courses, or (c) is attendance at secondary schools to be commended ? If so, which one—the classical (gymnasium), or the modern (real gymnasium), or the citizens' high school (without Latin) ?” Six replies were in favour of the existing high schools, and all recommended the citizens' high school as the most suitable.

These are the only questions that concern us in New

Zealand. The section concludes thus: “These opinions, rendered as they are by the foremost normal-school educators of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, have made a profound sensation among teachers and Government authorities. The educational Press has reproduced them and commented upon them. Even the political Press in Germany has considered them the most authoritative and important contribution to the question of teachers” training of late years, and expressed the hope that the provincial as well as the central Government will base future reforms on the advice of these gentlemen.

“The further fact that this symposium was called for and published by the National Union of Teachers—a union that has nearly sixty thousand members—is most significant, and proves that the teachers themselves are not satisfied with the professional education the State offers them.”

It will seem like an instance of anticlimax when we turn from these high themes to the arrangements made for the training of teachers in New Zealand. We have adopted, probably from motives of convenience and economy, the pupil-teacher system from the Mother-country. This system, which is really formed on the model of apprenticeship in trade, was long ago tried in Germany and abandoned. Even in England it seems to be showing signs of weakness, and is undergoing modification. Her Majesty's Senior Chief Inspector of Schools in the Metropolitan Division, in his report last year, thus wrote: “The training of teachers in the science of teaching still lags far behind the training of teachers in Germany or France. In England we are still dependent for our supply of teachers in elementary schools almost exclusively upon the pupil-teacher system, and it seems that the sources of supply as regards men-teachers are failing…People interested in elementary education look upon this difficulty as one which will at no distant day have to be faced, and the recruiting of elementary teachers from scholars who have enjoyed the advantages of a good secondary education, as in foreign countries, is a matter well worthy of consideration.” So much as regards failure. That the system is being modified will be obvious from the following extract from an article on our voluntary schools which appeared in the Contemporary of February, 1895. The writer (Archdeacon Wilson), himself a highly distinguished schoolmaster, says, “A School Board can not only provide special instruction for its pupil-teachers, but can afford to duplicate its staff of such teachers, and thus give them full leisure for private study.” And in a note the Archdeacon says, “If the Education Department would recognise two pupil-teachers, each working half-time in school and half-time in central classes, as equivalent to one pupil, the

difficulty of properly educating pupil-teachers in voluntary schools would be diminished.”

What, then, is done by the Education Department of New Zealand, and the educational authorities of Auckland in particular, for the training of teachers? The department holds two examinations annually for Classes E and D, and grants certificates of competency to successful candidates; it recognises the University degree by creating for it the three higher grades—C, B, A; it also recognises the matriculation examination and the Junior and Senior Civil Service examinations, and makes certain concessions in favour of those who have passed these tests; it has framed certain regulations concerning the employment and training of pupil-teachers; lastly, it has made regulations respecting normal schools. Subject to the general provisions of the Education Act and to the regulations of the department, the Education Boards have done what they could to keep up the supply of qualified teachers.

A number of young people are taken on year by year; after a brief period of probation and on the favourable report of a head teacher they are indentured as pupil-teachers, appointed to some school, and generally put in charge of standards. They are required to work five hours daily in school, and are entitled to receive, out of school-hours, five hours' instruction per week from head teachers or their deputies. They are examined annually, and are expected to present themselves as soon as possible for examination in Class E or D. This, I think, is all that is done to aid them by the educational powers that be.

The fact that their qualifications, as shown by examination and Inspectors' marks, are rising, only proves capacity and desire for improvement on the part of the teachers themselves. To get through the different grades they must have recourse to outside help.

The objections to a scheme of this kind are obvious and weighty. Young people, from fifteen to seventeen years of age, whose training is avowedly nil or very incomplete, whose stock of knowledge is very meagre, are put to teach—the very work for which they are least fitted. As our schools are staffed and organized it is impossible for head teachers to exercise any adequate and effective supervision over the teaching of their junior subordinates. The system, if such it can be called, is unfair alike to the young teacher and to the scholar. It is indefensible except on the ground of want of means. It has been tried elsewhere under favourable circumstances and deliberately rejected. This being so, it would be surely well for us to take advantage of the experience of others and avoid repeating educational blunders.

With respect to the general education of the teacher, the

an account of the Journal generally, of the circumstances under which it was written, and of Tasman himself. During the latter part of the sixteenth and the earlier part of the seventeenth century the Dutch were pre-eminently the rulers of the sea. They had superseded the Spanish and the Portuguese, who so long had been in the van of maritime discovery and adventure. Their ships were better built, found, and commanded than had ever been the case before. Their navigation, laws, and rules were for the time of quite an advanced kind; and, with that quiet perseverance and sturdy courage which, under the name of Dutch phlegm, have always been characteristic of the nation, their merchants had secured and held the trade of the world. England's day was then but in high dawn; and, though now she is, and for long has been, the mistress of the seas, at that time she held but a second if not a third place. Early in the seventeenth century Holland penetrated into the Indian Archipelago, and amidst its numberless fertile islands developed amazingly the wealth of her trade. In 1610 she founded the capital of Batavia on the Island of Java, and, though surrounded by hostile native princes or chiefs, she maintained her position and security in this centre. The affairs of this Dutch East India Company were managed by a Governor-General and Council, who, by persistent courage and enterprise, maintained in those parts of the world that renown which their countrymen had won elsewhere. At no period in its history was the company so prosperous and flourishing as between the years 1630 and 1680. That half-century closed, it became involved in the quarrels and politics of the native Javanese States, and then commenced its commercial ruin. In 1636 Antony van Diemen was appointed Governor-General, retaining office for nearly ten years; and no Governor equalled him in energy and sagacity. It was during his rule that Tasman's voyage, of which we are now to speak, was undertaken.

Tasman was born in 1602 or 1603, at Hoorn, in the north of Holland, a town on the borders of the Zuyder Zee, where so many bold sailors were bred, and where, it has been stated, descendants of his family still remain. But, indeed, we know little of Tasman's personal history beyond that contained in his Journal. In this he has truly bequeathed us his monument, though underneath it lies little more than a shadow. An old engraving of him is to be seen in the Christchurch Museum; and it would seem that some personal description is given by M. Dozy in “Bijdragen de Taal Land en Volkenkunde van Nederlandsch-Indie” (“Contributions to the Language, Country, and People of Dutch India”), 5th series, vol. ii., p. 308; but of this I know nothing. He died at Batavia in 1659. By direction of Van Diemen he was despatched in 1639,

and soon after his arrival in the settlement, under the command of Captain Matthys Kwast, who was instructed to proceed through the Western Pacific to the Philippines, and there to make search for the fabled Gold and Silver Islands. These are now known as the Bonin Islands, east of Japan. This was most probably Tasman's first voyage under the auspices of the company; at its close he sailed in the Indian seas until 1642, and then commenced his great voyage of discovery.

Here it will be interesting to contrast the mode of present-day sailing with that whereby those who went down to the sea in ships in Tasman's time made their truly perilous voyages. Now navigation has been reduced to a fine art, as well as to a precise science—so fine and so precise that it may be generally affirmed that disaster at sea is the result of carelessness, often of gross carelessness. Those floating palaces which now cross the waste of waters in every direction are timed to reach their destination with the punctuality and almost the speed of a railway-train. A few days, or weeks at most, of safe and pleasant travel now represent the weary months of discomfort, dangers real and imaginary, and the scourges of scurvy and dysentery which were too often the lot of those who led the way. All this was first rendered possible by the invention of those instruments, the sextant and chronometer, which now daily tell the sailor his exact position on the trackless ocean. Add to these his accurate chart and nautical tables, and what evil can befall him, unless through great neglect or rare misfortune? When undertaking early voyages of discovery it was usual that two, three, or more vessels should form the fleet. This was a precaution in all ways wise, contributing as it did to mutual courage, safety, and companionship. The commanders and officers formed a committee, or council as they termed it, and whenever any difficulty or dilemma arose the members of this council were summoned by signal aboard the principal vessel of the expedition, and there decided what course was best to follow. These occasions seem to have been frequent, as we can well fancy. The vessels, with their high poop, high forecastle, and round bows must have looked picturesque enough. They were greatly foreshortened, too, for it was considered that a vessel whose length much exceeded its breadth was absolutely unsafe and not unlikely to capsize. Four or five knots an hour was good average sailing; much more frequently the distance traversed in a day did not exceed fifty or sixty miles. The tonnage of those early vessels varied much: some measured 300 or even 400 tons; but the perils of many a long voyage were encountered in little vessels of no more than 40, 60, or 120 tons burthen. The dietary scale in Tasman's

time was something as follows: To each man—one good cheese for the whole voyage; three pounds of biscuit, a quartern of vinegar, and half a pound of butter per week; on Sunday, three-quarters of a pound of meat; on Monday and Wednesday, 60z. of salted cod; on Tuesday and Saturday, a quarter of a pound of stock-fish; on Thursday and Friday, three-quarters of a pound of bacon with grey peas; and at all times as much oatmeal as could be eaten. Those were not the days of coffee, tea, or teetotalism, but of strong rum and arrack, which were regularly distributed; and whoever was so lucky as first to descry land from the masthead had his ration doubled. The instruments and methods used for determining the position at sea—the latitude and longitude—were of the most primitive and, one might say, ineffective kind. Cartography was in its infancy, and the few charts that were placed in the sailor's hands were projected on principles so regardless of the proportions of the sphere as to be absolutely misleading and dangerous. The simple device of the log for measuring the rate of sailing through the water was introduced but twenty years prior to Tasman's time. Before that it was usual to estimate the amount by guess. The sun's altitude, and the relative position of the heavenly bodies, which are now calculated with such accuracy by means of the sextant, and which, with the chronometer, give the true position, were then ascertained by very crude instruments—the astrolabe, and, later, the cross-staff; specimens of which I exhibit. The astrolabe was made of a circular piece of metal, 7in. in diameter, divided into quadrants, one of which was divided into degrees, and suspended freely, as one might suspend a watch by its ring. A broad pointer or index, 1 ½in. wide, traversed the face of the instrument, and was divided through the exact middle of its length by a line termed “the line of confidence.” Close to each extremity of the index, and perpendicular to it, a small plate was fixed, with two small holes, one larger than the other, but both being exactly over the line of confidence. These were sights, and when the object viewed was seen in exact line through them—the sun or moon, or a star—the angle was read off. The cross-staff, which was probably used by Tasman, was a squared rod of wood, 3ft. in length, upon which were denoted angles or degrees, and having a sight at the eye-end. Upon this, by means of a slot, slid at right angles a second rod of wood, about 2ft. in length, having a sight at each terminal, and through these sights the object was viewed, the object-rod, if we may so call it, being adjusted upon the other, which was pointed plane to the horizon, and the angle read off. In this rough way was the sun's altitude taken, and probably a rough attempt was often made to take what

sailors call a lunar distance. An improvement was made on this cross-staff by adding one or two shorter transoms for reading smaller angles. On some of those odd frontispieces which embellish ancient atlases or geographies may be seen a sweet little cherub holding aloft an emblem of the cross apparently, but really this cross-staff. A hundred years after the introduction of the cross-staff came Dr. Hadley's quadrant (about 1731), which has developed into the perfect sextant of to-day. But with his tables of declinations, which were even then calculated, and this simple instrument, Tasman and his brethren succeeded in taking their latitudes with remarkable accuracy, as is evident by inspecting the coast-line of his Staten Land, which I have placed side by side with that of our New Zealand. But how he succeeded with his longitudes is quite a different matter. As we well know, longitudes can only be calculated perfectly by knowing the difference of time at two meridians, and this must be gained by the aid of accurate timekeepers. In Tasman's day, the very few clocks and watches in existence were but of little use in keeping the time. The problem of longitudes at sea was always considered of the utmost importance amongst maritime nations. Even at the beginning of this century it was thought that it would never be solved, owing to the difficulty or impossibility of ever constructing watches that would keep perfect time. As indicating this sentiment, the so-called Board of Longitude advertised, at the beginning of last century, in Queen Anne's reign, that they would give rewards of £10,000, £20,000, and £30,000 respectively to him who should discover a means of taking longitudes at sea to within sixty, forty, and thirty geographical miles. Precision within these limits was not thought of or expected. This liberal offer stimulated invention, and Dr. John Harrison, an ingenious mechanician, who for years devoted himself to making improvements in clocks and watches, succeeded in 1764 in gaining the prize of £20,000 with a watch—or chronometer, as we should now call it—which was twice carried on a voyage to the West Indies. The time kept was admirable, and insured an accuracy of longitude to within ten or twelve miles. One of Harrison's watches, which, by-the-by, cost from £80 to £100 apiece, was carried by Captain Cook on his first great voyage of discovery. Messrs. Wales and Bayly, who accompanied Cook's second expedition, state, in their astronomical observations of the voyage, published in 1777, that the longitude could then be computed to within the fifth or sixth of a degree—that is, to ten or twelve geographical miles. The earliest account I can discover of the use of timekeepers at sea is in 1663, when two watches were used together on the same vessel. The result was not satisfactory, as may be

learned from the manuscript in the Sloane collection of the British Museum. It is but within the last few years, comparatively speaking, that chronometers have been in universal use.

The last antiquated marine instrument to which I shall refer as used in Tasman's time is the sand-glass. These were constructed of different sizes, so as to measure periods of four hours, one hour, and half an hour. The survival of them at sea is to be seen in the 28-second log-glass, used when the log is taken; and on the kitchen mantelpiece, for boiling eggs. Hour-glasses were used in the last century in churches, placed on the pulpit-ledge in view of the congregation, where they regulated the length of the sermon. Much improvement has been effected in this direction during the last few years, the regulation length of sermons now being about twenty minutes. The time at sea was roughly kept by the half-hour glass, which was always in sight of the steersman. When the last grains of sand had run out he reversed the glass, striking a bell at the same time as a mark of the time. This was repeated until the glass had been turned eight times, and the bell struck eight times. Thus four hours had elapsed, the watch was completed, and the new watch took charge of the ship. And so Tasman, in denoting time, speaks of so many glasses in such-and-such a watch: thus, three glasses in the morning watch would be three half-hours past 4 a.m.—that is, 5.30. These sandglasses were made with the greatest care and accuracy. The upper and lower sections were separated by a thin metallic plate, perforated with a fine pin-hole, through which the sand ran. The sand was carefully selected and dried—iron-sand, I think, being preferred, as being a rounder, more regular grain, and therefore affording the least friction. When the running of this sand through the pin-hole had been adjusted and timed the whole was hermetically closed by lashing, and was further protected by a wooden framework. Now, it is quite possible, and not unlikely, that, conjointly with dead-reckoning, Tasman took his longitude by the help of a four-hour glass of this description, set agoing at noon when about to leave port. Of course, there would be some error, due to the expansion or contraction of the glass, or to failure in turning at the exact moment when the last grains of sand had disappeared. Still, with all faults, this was the only method of securing any reasonable approach to a fixed meridional time. If Tasman did not adopt it, then his only other way of estimating his daily longitude was by means of dead-reckoning—that is, by reckoning the number of miles sailed over an east or west course in twenty-four hours. This rough method has been used by sailors for centuries, and is used at the present

time whenever a clouded sky interferes with a due observation of the sun. It is untrustworthy at the best, from causes which are very evident. A vessel may make much lee or lost way from some ocean current, which insensibly drifts her out of her course; and there are other sources of error. Hence we shall not be surprised to find that, whilst Tasman's latitudes are very correct, his longitudes are often considerably at fault, even so much as three or four degrees. As will be observed in this map of New Zealand, upon which I have projected his daily course, he is wrong on the average about 3° W.—that is, about 170 miles from the coast. This vast discrepancy will exhibit very clearly the imperfection of nautical methods two hundred and fifty years ago, and that Queen Anne's Board of Longitude might well be content with any means whereby the position at sea might be known within thirty or forty miles of the true one.

Before the discovery of America — the so-called New World—the westernmost point of the then known world was the Island of Ferro, one of the Canaries, and it was therefore selected by old geographers as the prime meridian from which all other meridians were calculated. Afterwards, and somewhat before Tasman's time, the Peak of Teneriffe, also in the Canaries, was selected, probably because of its conspicuous height. It is from this meridian, then, that Tasman gives his longitudes. In the present day all nations agree as a matter of great convenience to calculate from Greenwich, with the exception of the French, who, whilst notating their parallels from Paris, nevertheless add the Greenwich equivalent. Whilst Tasman gives, in both his chart and Journal, his positions as deduced from the Peak of Teneriffe, they must really be computed from the Island of Mauritius, which, as we shall presently see, was his final point of departure after leaving Batavia. So that, to reduce his longitudes to those of Greenwich, we must subtract, say, 21° 2′ from them—made up of, say, 16 ½° for Teneriffe and 4 ½° error for Mauritius. We then have remaining what may be called “personal errors,” caused by inability to calculate his position exactly, and which, as has been seen, often amount to three or four degrees. Another explanation should here be made. The distances sailed are in Dutch miles, fifteen of which are equal to one degree. A Dutch mile is equal to about four English, so that if Tasman gives as his day's work twenty miles we should reckon that he had sailed eighty. In making this translation I have preferred to give Tasman's own unaltered details; those who desire to make the corrections can do so from the data I have given.

In a paper read before this Institute last year I gave some account of Tasman's Journal, and showed that it had never

been edited and published in its entirety until so recently as the year 1860, when Heer Jacob Swart, of Amsterdam, gave it to the world in the original old Dutch, which not only differs greatly from modern Dutch but is apparently a dialect. From this edition this translation has been made, and I think it may be truly said that it is the first full translation hitherto made. It was with great pleasure I learnt a few weeks ago that the firm of Heinrich Müller, of Amsterdam, is now preparing to publish a limited number of copies of the full text in English. This will be as valuable as interesting. Then, as good things sometimes come together, I saw recently a few sheets of what apparently is to be the future New Zealand Reader for use in our primary schools. These sheets contained some parts of Tasman's Journal, evidently translated from the Swart edition. The portion relating to New Zealand ended, unfortunately, with the massacre in Murderers' Bay. I do not know who the translator is, but his work has been done in the most competent and accomplished way, and it is to be hoped that he will complete it. The translation is sometimes not quite literal, and that in parts which would not be obscured by a literal rendering. Nor do I understand the principle adopted in giving the longitudes: these are not Tasman's, even with the data for corrections above given, nor are they the true longitudes. The distances run are given in English miles. So, then, all the previous renderings of Tasman's Journal prior to that of Jacob Swart in 1860 have been incorrect in various particulars, the chief one being that of excessive abridgment. As regards the bibliography of these, I cannot do better than refer to my paper in the “Transactions of the New Zealand Institute” for 1894, pages 619, 620.

In his edition Jacob Swart prefixes to the Journal a publication of all the documents relating to it. These are of considerable value and interest, and were discovered in the old foliants and letter-books of the company, presumably at the same time that the long-lost Journal was found and forwarded from Batavia to Amsterdam. They consist—first, of a letter from Governor Van Diemen and his Council to the Council of Seventeen at Amsterdam, apprising them of Tasman's departure on his important expedition; second, of a Letter of Instructions to Tasman and his chief officers; and, third, of other letters and papers giving an account of previous discoveries and directions, which it was no doubt thought important that Tasman should have with him. The Instructions are far too lengthy to lay before you here, but they testify most favourably to the wisdom and foresight of Governor Van Diemen and his Council in all matters relating to the geographical knowledge of the time, in fitting out the ships, in suggesting suitable measures in case of accident or failure, and generally in their

fullness of sagacious advice and command. Even to-day they would well serve as models to copy. The vessels of the expedition were two—the ship or yacht Heemskerck, and a smaller vessel, the flyboat Zeehaen, the former having a crew of sixty, the latter of fifty men. They were victualled for twelve months.

Towards the better understanding of the Journal, I would here explain that Tasman begins and ends his day at midnight—that is, it is the same as our civil day. He reckons his course and the distance run from noon to noon, at which time he took his latitude and longitude. His watches were—the day or morning watch, from 4 to 8; the forenoon or noon watch, from 8 to 12 noon; the afternoon watch, from 12 to 4; the flatfoot, or, as we call them, the dog watches, from 4 to 6 and 6 to 8; the first watch, 8 to 12 midnight; and the second or hound watch, 12 midnight to 4 in the morning. It is curious that of all Teutonic-speaking sailors the English alone use the term “dog-watch” as signifying the hours between 4 and 8 p.m. Other Teutons use the equivalent hund-, hunde-, or honde-wacht, as signifying the second watch—that between midnight and 4 a.m.; and to express their dog-watches, between 4 and 8 p.m., they use plattfuss, plattfoden, or platvoet, meaning “flatfoot.” The neo-Latin or Italic speaking sailors had no such words as “dogwatch” or “flat-foot,” but spoke of the second watch, or of the watch from 4 to 6 or 6 to 8 in the evening. I do not know the underlying meaning of these words, but can fancy they contain the idea of the most restful part of a ship's day, when a dog would be sufficient guard, and when any work on deck would be done without running—all heel and toe, as the pedestrians have it—a flat foot.

The vessels sailed from Batavia on the 14th August, 1642, with instructions to make in the first instance for the island Mauritius, where they were to take in fresh provisions and otherwise refit. At this time Mauritius belonged to the Dutch, and was a convenient recruiting-place for their vessels as they sailed to and fro between Holland and the Batavian settlement. Tasman commences thus: “Journal or description by me, Abel Jansz. Tasman, of a voyage made from the City of Batavia, in the East Indies, for making discoveries of the unknown South Land, in the year 1642, the 14th August. May God Almighty be pleased to give hereto His blessing. Amen.” Mauritius, a distance of about 3,000 miles, was reached, after a splendid run for those days, on the 5th September. This would give an average of about 120 miles a day sailed. Here a month's stay was made, during which the vessels were thoroughly refitted, and pigs, goats, wild-fowl, firewood, and fresh water were brought on

board. Thus fortified at all points, they left Mauritius on the 8th October, “for which,” says Tasman, “the Lord be praised and thanked.” The course was now south and southeast. On the 27th a considerable quantity of weed was seen, which indicated proximity to land. A council was held, and it was determined to keep a man constantly at the topmast-head on the look-out, and whoever first discovered land, rocks, or shoals should be rewarded with three reals and an extra pot of arrack or rum. Nothing further, however, was seen for nearly a month, and until the 24th November, when Tasman made his first discovery, that of Van Diemen's Land, so called by him after his patron the Batavian Governor. The distance thus run from Mauritius was nearly 6,000 miles, the average daily run being about 140 miles. He named many of the bays and headlands—names retained to this day, such as Frederick Henry and Storm Bay, Maria Island, &c. He explored here until the 4th December, and saw at a distance some of the inhabitants, smoke rising in the woods, steps cut into the trees with flint axes, whereby the natives climbed up them to search for birds' nests; specimens of gum, and so on. Before leaving Van Diemen's Land, on the 5th December, a fort was erected in Frederick Henry Bay, with a flag flying on it. The vessels were again at sea on the 5th December. A council was called, when it was agreed that the course held should still be one due east, and that it should be kept for twenty-six degrees of further longitude; if no further land was fallen in with, a northerly course should be shaped for home. Eight days later, on the 13th December, Staten Land, or New Zealand, was discovered. As the distance run from Van Diemen's Land was about 1,000 miles, it is evident that the average sailing-rate of 125 miles a day had been still maintained.

It will save interruption in Tasman's narrative, and render it more intelligible, if at this point I preface a few further words of explanation. The land—“the great high land,” as Tasman calls it—he would first see between Hokitika and Okarito; and it is not too fanciful to say that that great mountain which two hundred and fifty years later was called by his name was one of the first sights he saw on the wild west coast. Somewhat further north he describes that low point known to us as Captain Cook's Cape Foul-wind, with its outlying steep rocks or cliffs, the Steeples. Westport is not far from this point. “North of this,” as Tasman says, “the land makes a great bight”: this is the Karamea Bight. Then came the “furthermost point, which stood out so boldly that we had no doubt it was the extreme point.” This is now Captain Cook's Cape Farewell, with

the long spit of sand running from it, upon which is a lighthouse. Next in order is that bay of tragic interest called by Tasman “Murderers',” but now known as Golden Bay, in which is the Township of Collingwood. The scene of tragedy lies close to Parapara, where at this moment a new and far different interest has arisen in the fact that a great and peaceful trade is expected to spring up in connection with the masses of hæmatite which lie around the shore. Thankfully escaping from this dreadful spot, Tasman tacked about in what he called “Zeehaen's Bay,” but which in truth was the north-west portion of Cook Strait. As we shall presently see, Tasman himself suspected that there was a passage through. Proceeding north, Cape Egmont was seen, and was named Cabo Pieter Boreels, after one of the Dutch East Indian Council. No reference is made to the mountain. The high mountain seen on the 27th in lat. 38°, and taken at first for an island, would probably be Mount Karioi, bounded as it is to the north by Whaingaroa Harbour, and south by Kawhia and Aotea Harbours. The Three Kings Islands were Tasman's point of departure from New Zealand. This name was given from the fact that the vessels anchored there on the 5th January, the eve of the Epiphany. You may remember the incidents connected with this religious festival which commemorated the meeting of the three Magi or Wise Men of the East with the infant Christ. Their names were Kaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar. The fable says that their bones were removed to the cathedral at Cologne, where they still rest, and where, as in Tasman's time, they are still venerated by all faithful observers of old Christian legends. I may here remark that in all probability the interesting process of name-giving did not take place until after Tasman's return to Batavia. The best description of the Three Kings known to me is that given by Mr. Cheeseman, the curator of the Auckland Museum, in the volumes for 1887 and 1890 of the New Zealand Transactions. Mr. Cheeseman made many additions to our natural-history knowledge of these islands, and he also recognised that part of the Great King upon which Tasman's crew attempted to land when searching for water and vegetables. It is much to be regretted that Swart does not reproduce Tasman's sketches. In a provoking way he says that these are to be found in “Valentijn.” Valentijn's abridged copy of the Journal was published in 1726, and to this rare work the reader is referred. It is to be hoped that this omission will be rectified in Müller's forthcoming edition. Tasman's intercourse with the natives was but of a few hours' duration; yet it was sufficiently long to enable him to give a good personal description. It is, therefore, curious to find that he makes no reference to the adornment of the tattoo.

calm, and not to go nearer the land we anchored in the dog-watch [4 to 8 a.m.] with a stream-anchor, and waited for the land-wind.

15th.—In the morning, a light land-breeze. We weighed anchor, and did our best to get off the land a little to sea. Course north-west by north. We then had the northerly low point of the day before north-north-east and north-east by north from us. This land consists of high, double mountains, not lower than Formoza Island. At noon found latitude 41° 40′ and longitude 189° 49′. Course held north-north-east, and sailed eight miles. The point of the previous day lay south-east from us. Two and a half miles from this point stretches north a large reef. Here, above water, on this reef some high, steep cliffs, like steeples or sails. Past this point, moreover, a mile to west, there was no bottom. From here also we saw the high land stretch north-north-east from us. We set our course due north, with fine, dry weather and slack water. From this aforesaid low point, with the cliffs, to the north-east the land makes a great bight, and stretches first due east and then again due northerly. This aforenamed point lies under the southern latitude of 41° 50′. The wind west. Here it was easy to see that in this country to the water it seemed a barren land. Besides, we saw no men nor any smoke in the least, and we also saw that they could have no boats there, as we could see no signs of them. In the evening, var. 8° north-easterly.

16th.—Six glasses before the day [2.30 a.m.] we sounded at 60 fathoms, good anchor-ground. At that time the northerly point in sight lay north-east by east from us three miles, and the nearest land from us lay south-east a mile and a half. We drifted in the calm, with good weather and still water. At noon got latitude 40° 58′, and longitude 189° 54′; course held north-north-east, and sailed eleven miles. Drifted through the calm all afternoon. In the evening, at sunset, var. 9° 23′ north-easterly. Got the wind south-west, with increasing breeze. We took the bearing of the furthermost point from us we could see, which was east by north from us. It stood out so boldly that we had no doubt it was the extreme point. We called our council, with the second mates, whereupon we resolved to go north-east and east-north-east to the end of the first watch [8 to 12 p.m.], and then, weather and wind not changing, to sail near the wind, as is further to be seen by the resolution of this date. At night, at the sixth glass [11 p.m. (?)], the weather became calm, so that we remained by the east-north-east course, although in the fifth glass of the dog-watch [second watch, 2.30 a.m.] the point of the previous evening lay south-east of us. From the sharpness

of the wind we could sail no higher than east-north-east a trifle east. In the first watch [8–12 p.m.] we had one, and in the dog-watch [second watch, 12–4 a.m.] another, sounding in 60 fathoms: fine grey sand. In the second glass of the morning watch [4–8 a.m., say 5 o'clock] we got a breeze from the south-east, and we then tacked again for the shore.

17th.—In the morning at sunrise we were about a mile from the land. We saw in different places smoke rising where fire had been made by the inhabitants. The wind, south from the land, went round to the eastward. At noon we worked out the latitude 40° 32′, longitude 190° 47′. We held a course north-east by east, and sailed twelve miles. In the afternoon, wind west, course east by south along a low sand-hill shore, with fine, dry weather. Soundings, 30 fathoms, black sand; so that by night we might easily sound along the ground to this shore. So we ran towards this sand-point up to 17 fathoms, where, because of the calm, we anchored at sundown. We then had the northernmost of the dry sand point west by north from us, also high land stretching east by south, and the point of the reef south-east from us. Within this narrow point of sand we saw a large, open bay, quite four to three miles wide. East of this narrow sand-point there is a sand-bank which stretches quite a mile east-south-east, 6ft., 7ft., and 8ft. to 9ft. deep. In the evening, 9° north-easterly [variation].

18th.—In the morning weighed anchor, with calm weather. At noon, latitude worked out 40° 49′, longitude 191° 41′. Course held east-south-east, and sailed eleven miles. In the morning, before weighing anchor, we had resolved with the officers of the Zeehaen that we should endeavour to land and find a convenient harbour, and when near shore should send the shallop in advance, as is further amplified in the resolution of this date. In the afternoon our shipmaster, Ide Tiercxsz, and pilot-major, Francoys Jacobsz, with the shallop, besides the Zeehaen's boat with the supercargo Gilsemans and one of their second mates, went on before to seek for an anchorage and watering-place. At sunset, it being calm, we anchored in 15 fathoms, good holding-ground. In the evening, about an hour after sundown, we saw several lights on the land, and four boats along the shore, of which two came towards us, and the other two—our own—returned on board. They reported that they had found not less than 13 fathoms water, and that they had been about half a mile from the shore at the setting of the sun (which sank behind the high land). About one glass after they had returned on board the people in the two prows began to call to us, and that with a coarse, rough voice, but we could not understand in the

least what they said. However, we called to them again in answer, whereupon they cried again several times, but came no nearer than a stoneshot. They also repeatedly blew on an instrument which was like a Moorish trumpet. We let one of our sailors (the one who could play on the trumpet) play some pieces in answer. Those on the Zeehaen made their second mate do the same. (He had formerly been a trumpeter on shore, and had been made at Mauritius a second mate by the Council of the Port and Shipping). After this had been repeated on both sides several times, and as the evening shade was falling more and more, those in the boats finally cleared and went away. We ordered our people (for security, and to be well on guard) to keep entire quarterly watch (as is usual at sea), and that the munitions of war, such as muskets, pikes, and cutlasses, should be got ready. We let off some pieces on the top deck and reloaded, so that all accidents might be forestalled and we might defend ourselves in case these people might attempt anything. Var., 9° north-easterly.

19th.—This morning early a boat of these people, having thirteen men, came about a cast away from our ship. They called out several times, which we could not understand, the speech having no resemblance to the vocabulary given to us by their Highnesses the Governor-General and Council of India. But this is not to be wondered at, as it was the language of the Salomon Island. These people were (so far as we could see) of ordinary height, but coarse of voice and strong, their colour between brown and yellow. They had black hair, fast bound right up on the crown of their heads, in manner and fashion of the Japanese on their heads, but with a long, thick tuft of hair in which was stuck a large, thick white feather. Their boats were two long narrow prows fastened together, over which were placed some boards or other seats, so that those above can see through the water under the canoes; their paddles were a full fathom long, and sharp at the end. With these boats they could obtain great speed. Their clothing (so it appeared) was some of mats, others of cotton, whilst most were naked to the waist. We pointed out to them many times that they should come on board, showing white linen and some knives from those given us in our cargo. But instead of coming nearer they returned at last to shore. Meanwhile the officers of the Zeehaen came on board us (by order of the previous evening), and a council was held, when it was resolved to go as near shore as we could, as there was good anchorage, and these people (as it seemed) sought our friendship. Soon after taking this resolution we saw another seven boats come from the shore, whereof one (high in front, and pointed), manned with seventeen men, pulled behind the

Zeehaen, and a second (wherein were thirteen stout men) came up not half a cast from our ship, who called to each other several times. We showed them (as before) white linen, &c., yet they remained still. The master of the Zeehaen sent his quartermaster with his boat and six sailors back to the ship, to direct the mate, in case these people should come alongside, not to allow too many on board, but to be prudent, and well on his guard. Just as the Zeehaen's boat put off, the natives in the nearest prow to us called out and signalled with their paddles to those who were behind the Zeehaen, but what their meaning was we could not understand. Just as the Zeehaen's boat pushed off again, that one lying between the two ships began to pull furiously towards it, and when about half-way from us struck the Zeehaen's boat furiously with their stems, making it lurch greatly at the same time; whereupon the foremost man in this villainous prow thrust the quartermaster, Cornelis Joppen, several times fiercely in the neck with a long, blunt pike, so that he fell overboard. Whereupon the others of them attacked the boat's crew with short, thick pieces of wood (which we at first took to be blunt parangs) [a kind of chopping-knife used by the Malays for cutting wood, &c.] and with their paddles, and overcame the boat, in which fray three of the Zeehaen's people were killed and a fourth mortally wounded through hard blows. The quartermaster and two sailors swam towards our ship, and we sent our shallop to them and picked them up alive. After this outrageous and detestable affair the murderers let the boat drift. They had one of the dead dragged into their prow, and another drowned. We, and those on the Zeehaen, seeing this, shot briskly with muskets and cannon, but, however, probably did not hit any, as both returned to shore out of shot. We fired many shots from our fore-upper-deck and bow guns near and amongst their boats, but did not strike. Our master, Ide Tercxsen Holman, rowed with our shallop, well manned and armed, to bring back the Zeehaen's boat (which, luckily, these cursed men had let drift), and presently returned on board with it, finding in it one of the dead and one mortally wounded. We weighed anchor and got under sail, as we judged we could not establish any friendship with this people, nor could get water or refreshments. Our anchors weighed, and being under sail, we saw twenty-two prows alongshore, whereof eleven, swarming with men, came off to us. We kept quiet until some of the first were within shot, when with our pieces we fired one or two shots from the gunners' room, but without effect. The Zeehaen fired too, and hit, in the largest prow, one who stood with a white flag in his hand, so that he fell down. We also heard the grape-shot

strike in and against the prow, but what further happened is unknown to us, as after getting this shot they returned speedily to land, two of them setting up sails fashioned like tinganghs [a Malay boat: our “dingy” is derived from this]. They remained quiet alongshore without visiting us again. About noon the master, Gerrit Jansz, and Sr. Gilsemans again came on board us. We sent also for their chief mate, when we called the council, and resolved as follows: That the detestable deed of these natives that morning on four of the Zeehaen's men should teach us to hold the inhabitants of this land as enemies; that we shall therefore keep easterly along the shore, following the coast-line, to see if we can find a convenient spot to obtain water and refreshments, as is further mentioned in the resolutions. At this place of murderers (to which, moreover, we have given the name of Murderers' Bay) we lay anchored in south latitude 40° 50′, longitude 191° 30′. We steered our course from here east-north-east. At noon reckoned latitude 40° 57′, longitude 191° 41′. Held a southerly course, and sailed two miles. In the afternoon the wind was from west-north-west. We then steered, on the advice of our steersmen, and our approbation, north-east by north. At night we went on, as the weather was fine; but about an hour after midnight we had soundings in 25 to 26 fathoms; hard, sandy ground. Soon after the wind was north-west. Had soundings in 15 fathoms. We immediately steered our course west, in the contrary direction from that by which we had entered, awaiting the day. Var., 9° 30′ north-easterly. This is the second land sailed about and discovered by us. We have given it the name of Statenlandt, in honour of their High Mightinesses the States-General. Thus it is possible that this land is part of the great Statelandt, but it is uncertain. This same land seems to be a very fine country, and we trust that it is part of the great coast of the unknown Zuytlandt (South Land). We have given this course the name of Abel Tasman course, because he is the first to navigate it.

[In this place, in Tasman's Journal, are found the drawings of the plates which Valentijn has given us on pp. 49, &c., under No. 6F, No. 5E, No. 5Eb, and No. 7G. The plate No. 6F is not so complete as that of the manuscript journal. The reader, of course, knows that the name of Staten-land has since been changed to that of New Zealand, and it consists of two large islands, which are separated by a strait or passage now named Cook Strait. It was in the opening to the westerly entrance of this strait that Tasman lay anchored with his two ships when the New - Zealanders, without the slightest warning, fell upon his shallops, wherefore in the account he named that part Murderers' Bay. That portion

of the sea found between the islands of Van Diemen's Land and New Zealand was named by him Tasman's Track, a name which remains to this day, and serves to remind us all of that brave man who was the first to sail round New Holland, and to accomplish the voyage between New Holland and New Zealand.—Jacob Swart.]

20th.—This morning we saw land lying all around us, so that we have sailed perhaps thirty miles into a bay. We had at first thought that the land where we anchored was an island, not doubting that we should find a passage into the great South Sea. But to our great disappointment it proved otherwise. The wind being westerly, we endeavoured to get back through the same passage by which we had before sailed in. At noon found ourselves in south latitude 40° 51′, and longitude 192° 55′. We held our course east-half-north and sailed fourteen miles. In the afternoon it was calm; the sea ran strong into the bay, so that we could not advance, but drifted back with the tide. At noon we turned northwards and saw a round, high island^* about eight miles from us west by north, which we had sailed by the previous day. This little island lies about six miles east of the place where we were anchored. In the same latitude in this bay, into which we had sailed so far by mistake, the land seemed everywhere fine and good: on the sea-coast low, barren land; moderately high inland. Sailing along the coast there is anchorage from 60 to 50 fathoms to 15 fathoms, becoming dry about a mile and a half to two miles from the shore. At 3 in the afternoon got light breezes from the south-east, but, as the sea ran very rough, we made but little or no progress. In the night we drifted along calmly; in the second watch [12–4 a.m.] the wind was west, going round to the northwards.

21st.—At night in the dog-watch [12–4] had a westerly wind with a strong breeze. Steered to the north, in the hope that the land, which the day before was north-west from us, should there fall away to the north, but it extended to the north-west. After the cook had dished we tacked and turned again from the land. It began to blow stronger, so we ran south-west over towards the south shore. At noon found latitude 40° 31′ and longitude 192° 55′. Held a northerly course, and sailed five miles. It was foggy, so that we could see no land. Late in the afternoon again saw the south coast, and had the island, which the day before was about six miles west from us, about four miles south-west by south. We sailed towards it, bringing it to bear north-north-west from us, and anchored by some cliffs in 33 fathoms, sandy ground, mixed with shells. Here it is full of islands and rocks. We struck our sail-yards,

for a storm threatened from the north-west and west-north-west.

22nd.—Wind north-west by north, and blowing so hard that there was no appearance of going on under sail, and it was difficult enough for the anchor to hold. We made our ship snug. We here lay in south latitude 40° 50′ and longitude 192° 37′. Course held south-west by south, and sailed six miles. At night we got the wind so hard from the north-west that we struck the topmasts and let go another anchor. The Zeehaen did the same.

23rd.—Still dark, foggy, drizzling weather, the wind north-west to west-north-west, and that with such a storm that to our great regret we could not advance.

24th.—Still hard, unsteady weather; the wind still north-west, and stormy. In the morning had a calm interval. Hoisted a white flag and got the officers of the Zeehaen on board us, and it was proposed that, as the flood came from the south-east, there might probably be a passage through, and whether it would not be best, wind and weather permitting, to search for this, and to see if we could not get fresh water there: as may further be seen by the resolutions drawn up thereupon.

25th.—In the morning we reset our topmast and yards, but it still looked so gloomy that we dare not lift anchor. Towards the evening it became calmer, so that a portion of our cable was shortened.

26th.—In the morning, two hours before day, we got the wind east-north-east, a light breeze. We weighed anchor, got under sail, and steered towards the north, intending to sail northward by this land. With the day it began to rain, and the wind went round to the south-east, and then south to south-west with a stiff breeze. Had soundings in 60 fathoms. We set our course by the wind to the west. At noon, latitude 40° 13′, longitude 192° 7′. Held a north-north-west course, and sailed ten miles. Var., 8° 40′. At night lay-to with easy sail.

27th.—In the morning made sail at daybreak, and steered north; the wind south-west, with a strong breeze. At noon found latitude 38° 38′, and longitude 190° 15′. Course held north-west, and sailed twenty-six miles. Set our course at noon north-east. At night lay-to, with little sail. Var., 8° 20′.

28th.—In the morning made sail at daybreak; set our course to the east, so as to get sight of the land which we had previously seen in 40°; it stretched still further to the north, and then to the east. At noon we saw, east by north from us, a high mountain. We took it at first to be an island, but afterwards saw it was part of the mainland. We were

about five miles from shore. We threw the lead in 50 fathoms, fine sand mixed with clay. This high mountain [Mount Karioi?] lies in south latitude 38°. This coast stretches, so far as I could see, south and north. It became calm, with a light air from north-north-east; we tacked to the north-west. At noon anchored, latitude 38° 2′ and longitude 192° 23′. Course held north-east by east, and sailed sixteen miles. Towards evening the wind came north-east and north-east by east, and began to blow harder and harder, so that at the end of the first watch [8–12 p.m.] we had to take in our topsails. Var., 8° 30′.

29th.—In the morning, at daybreak, we took off our bonnet-sails [small sails beneath the foresail], so that we had to take in our foretopsails. At noon we computed the latitude to be 37° 17′ and longitude 191°, and we ran over to the westward. Course held north-west, and sailed sixteen miles.

30th.—In the morning the weather was something more moderate. We set our topsails, rigged our bonnet-sails. Had the Zeehaen to lee of us. Wind west-north-west, with a topsails breeze. At noon found the latitude 37° and longitude 191° 55′. Course held north-east, and sailed seven miles. Towards evening again saw the land north-east and north-north-east from us. We therefore ran north and north-east. Var., 8° 40′ north-easterly. [Tasman here gives two sketches of the Staten-land (New Zealand)—first, as it appeared in 38° 30′ south latitude, and second, in 36° south latitude.—Jacob Swart.]

31st.—At noon we tacked about to the north, and the wind west-north-west, a slack breeze. Noon, found latitude 36° 45′, and longitude 191° 46′. Course held north-west, and sailed seven miles. In the evening we were about three miles from the shore. Four glasses of the first watch [10 p.m.], again tacked to the north. In the night sounded in 80 fathoms. This coast here stretches south-east and north-west. The land is in some places high, and in others sandhills. Var., 8°.

January 1st [1643].—In the morning drifted in the calm along this coast, which here stretches north-west and south-east. It is an even coast, without shoals or sandbanks. At noon had latitude 36° 12′, and longitude 191° 7′. Course held north-west, and sailed ten miles. About noon the wind came south-south-east and south-east. We steered our course west-north-west to be further off shore, and here a heavy surf was running. Var., 8° 30′ north-easterly.

2nd.—Calm weather. In the middle of the afternoon a breeze came from the east. We steered north-north-west at the end of the first watch [12 p.m.], course north-west, so as not to come too near shore, and to avoid any accident, as in

the evening we had the land north-north-west from us. At noon, latitude 35° 55′, and longitude 190° 47′. Course held north-west to west, and sailed seven miles. Var., 9°.

3rd.—In the morning saw the land about six miles from us east by north, and were astonished to find ourselves so far from shore. At noon found latitude 35° 20′, longitude 190° 17′. Course held north-west to north, and sailed eleven miles. At noon got the wind south-south-east, and steered our course east-north-east, so as to run again towards the shore. In the evening we had the land north and east-south-east from us.

4th.—In the morning we were near a cape, and had an island north-west by north from us, whereupon we hoisted the white flag for the officers of the Zeehaen to come aboard us, and resolved with each other to stand for the said island and see if we could not get there fresh water, vegetables, &c. At noon found latitude 34° 35′, longitude 191° 9′. Course held north-east, and sailed fifteen miles; the wind south-east. Towards noon we sailed calmly. We found ourselves here in a very strong current, setting us to the west. There was also a heavy sea drawing from the north-east, which gave us not a little hope that there might be a passage here. We had this point east-north-east from us lying in south latitude 34° 30′. The land here fell away to the east. In the evening the pilot-major, with the secretary of the Zeehaen, went close by the island, and could not observe that what we wanted was to be had there. Agreed with the officers of the Zeehaen that if we got a good wind in the night it would be best to go on. Var., 8° 40′ north-easterly. [Here is found in the manuscript the chart and representation of No. 8H and No. 9J, but without the ships, which Valentijn added here to give a little adornment.—Jacob Swart.]

5th.—This morning still drifted in the calm, but about 9 o'clock had a light breeze from the south-east. We agreed with our friends of the Zeehaen to steer for the island. About noon we sent our shallop with the pilot-major, and the Zeehaen's boat with Gilsemans, the supercargo, to inspect the island, and see if water was to be had there. In the evening they returned on board and reported that they had gone close to land, being always on the watch that none of the natives should fall upon them, and had entered a small, safe bay, where fine fresh water was found, which fell from steep hills in great abundance; but, from the surf on the shore, it was dangerous and troublesome to water there; so they rowed further round the island, seeking if they could find any other convenient place. On this land in various places, and on the highest hills, were about thirty to thirty-five

persons, men of tall stature, so far as they could see, with staves or clubs, who called to them in gruff, loud voices which they could not understand. In walking they took great steps and strides. In rowing round they saw a few more people on the hills, whereupon they resolved (as may well be believed) to be well on their guard, and to hold their boats and small weapons in readiness. On this island they reckoned there would not be more people than had shown themselves, for on rowing round our people saw no dwellings, nor cultivated land except that near the fresh water. Here, on both sides of the waterfall, there were everywhere square enclosures after the manner of our country, green and pleasant. But what kind of vegetables they could not tell from the distance. It was quite possible their dwelling-places were round here on account of the fresh water. In this aforesaid bay there were two prows lying, hauled upon shore—one navigable, the other broken. They saw no other boats any where. Our people then returned. We immediately endeavoured to get under the land, and about evening anchored a short pedereroe [a piece for firing stones and gravel] shot from shore in good ground. We at once made preparations for taking in water next day. The island lies in south latitude 34° 25′, and longitude 190° 40′.

6th.—At early morning we sent both boats—to wit, ours and the Zeehaen's—to the watering-place with casks to get water. Each one mounted with two pedereroes, six musketeers. The rowers had pikes and side - weapons. With one shallop were Pilot-major Francoys Jacobsz, and the master, Gerrit Jansz. As they rowed towards the land they saw, standing in different places on the heights, big men, each with a long stick like a pike, who seemed to be watching us, and, as our people passed by, called loudly to them. But when they had got about half-way to the watering-place, between a safe point and another great high crag or little islet, the current ran so strongly against the wind that the boats could scarcely stem it; whereupon the pilot-major and Gerrit Jansz, master of the Zeehaen, with the other officers, held counsel, resolving not to imperil the boats and men, as they had a long voyage before them, and the ships could not afford their loss; and so they returned on board, the more so as a heavy surf was rolling on the land near where the watering-place was, and, the breeze beginning to increase, they would have found it difficult to reach land. We signalled from our ship by hoist-the flag and firing a cannon that they should come back; but they were then near us, and seen to approach. The pilot-major, with our boats, came on board, reporting that, from the wind and the innumerable hard rocks all around, without any sandy ground, it was too dangerous, and they would be subject to the peril of being attacked by the natives, and of having

the water-casks injured and broken to pieces. We immediately ordered the officers of the Zeehaen and the second mates to come aboard us, when we summoned the council, and resolved to lift the anchors, and with an easterly course to run to latitude 22°. Following the foregoing resolution, that we should keep due north to south latitude 17°, and then should steer a due-west course, and run straight in right on the Coques [Cocos] and Hoorense [Horne] Islands, and there obtain water and refreshments; or, if we should earlier come upon any other island, that we should endeavour to do the same there: as is specified in the resolution of this date, lately referred to. Near noon we got under sail, having the island at noon about three miles from us due south. In the evening, at sunset, it was six to seven miles south-south-west from us, the rocks and the island lying south-west and north-east from each other. At night, pretty calm, wind east-south-east. Held our course by the wind north-north-east, the sea running from the north-east.

Such, then, is the entire and literal translation of that part of Tasman's Journal which relates to his discovery of New Zealand. Time forbids that I should give more than the briefest account of his continued voyage, which is full of interest. Steering north-east, he discovered in succession Pylstaart, now Tropic-bird Island, where are found those birds (Phaethon rubricauda), which occasionally make for the very north of New Zealand, and whose tail-feathers are so highly prized by the Maoris as an ornament for the hair; then three islands of the Tongan Group—Tongatabu, Ana-moka, and Eoa—which he called Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Middelburg. The stay in this group was lengthy and grateful, and made some amends for the inhospitable reception in New Zealand. Here fruit, water, and provisions were procured in abundance from the friendly natives. On the 6th of February Prince Willem's Islands—the Fijis—were discovered. The general course then maintained was west-north-west. Several islands were passed, and the coast of New Guinea reached on the 14th April. For more than a month he sailed along the northern coast, and gives an exceedingly interesting description of the country and natives. Well-recognised points and islands were then fallen in with, and on the 15th June, 1643, the vessels dropped anchor at Batavia, after an absence of two years save two months. “God be praised and thanked for a safe voyage. Amen!” is Tasman's last entry. His Journal is written in a plain, quaint, intelligible style, and abundantly shows that the writer was a bold and accomplished seaman as well as a fortunate discoverer.

ture is laid, is now better known as the peaceful settlement of Otago; the reader will therefore read ‘Otago’ for ‘Daniel.’ The ‘Sophia’ (Mr. James Kelly, master) sailed from Hobart Town on the 12th November, 1817, on a sealing voyage, and anchored at Port Daniel, on the south-east side of the southern part of New Zealand, on the 11th December (a place only known to Europeans within the last seven years). The master, Mr. Kelly, with his boat's crew, went on shore the same day, and met with a friendly reception from the natives, which they attributed to the knowledge the latter had of one of the crew, named W. Tucker, who had been well treated by them, and engaged their apparent friendship on former visits, and who was called by these people ‘Wioree.’ On the following day Mr. Kelly went in his boat with six men (amongst them Tucker) to Small Bay,^* outside of the harbour's mouth, and distant from the vessel about two miles. The natives here also received them kindly, and to them Tucker appeared equally well known, being challenged generally by name, ‘Wioree.’

“Mr. Kelly made the chief of the village a small present of iron, and proceeded to his-dwelling to barter for potatoes,^† leaving one man to look after the boat. On reaching the house of the chief Mr. Kelly was saluted by a Lascar, who told him that he had been left there by the brig ‘Matilda,’ Captain Fowler. During a long conversation Mr. Kelly inquired after a boat's crew that was said to have been lost near Port Daniel, and learned