As It Is, The Country Is A
Sort Of A Cross Between The Plains Of Lombardy And The Fens Of North
Cambridgeshire.
At night, a lot of Nelson and Wellington men came to the club.
I was
amused at dinner by a certain sailor and others, who maintained that the
end of the world was likely to arrive shortly; the principal argument
appearing to be, that there was no more sheep country to be found in
Canterbury. This fact is, I fear, only too true. With this single
exception, the conversation was purely horsy and sheepy. The fact is,
the races are approaching, and they are the grand annual jubilee of
Canterbury.
Next morning, I rode some miles into the country, and visited a farm.
Found the inmates (two brothers) at dinner. Cold boiled mutton and
bread, and cold tea without milk, poured straight from a huge kettle in
which it is made every morning, seem the staple commodities. No
potatoes - nothing hot. They had no servant, and no cow. The bread,
which was very white, was made by the younger. They showed me, with
some little pleasure, some of the improvements they were making, and
told me what they meant to do; and I looked at them with great respect.
These men were as good gentlemen, in the conventional sense of the word,
as any with whom we associate in England - I daresay, de facto, much
better than many of them. They showed me some moa bones which they had
ploughed up (the moa, as you doubtless know, was an enormous bird, which
must have stood some fifteen feet high), also some stone Maori battle-
axes.
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