A long time ago, that is to say, in the twilight of Maori tradition, the chief Ngatoro and his wife, attended by a slave, landed on the shores of the Bay of Plenty. Thence they wandered inland through forests and over ferny downs, reaching at last a great central lake, beyond which high mountains stood sentry in the very heart of the island. One of these snow-clad summits they resolved to gain; but half-way on the climb the slave fell ill of sheer cold. Then the chief bethought him that in the Bay of Plenty he had noticed an island steaming and smoking, boiling with heat. Hot coals brought thence might warm the party and save the slave’s life. So Ngatoro, who was magician as well as chieftain, looked eastward and made incantations; and soon the fire rushing through the air fell at his feet. Another more prosaic version of the tale says that, Maori fashion, the kind-hearted hero despatched a messenger to bring the fire; he sent his wife. She, traversing land and sea at full speed, was soon back from White Island with a calabash full of [116]glowing embers. From this, as she hurried along, sparks dropped here and there on her track. And wherever these fell the earth caught fire, hot springs bubbled up, and steam-jets burst through the fern. All her haste, however, went for nought; the slave died. Furious at his loss, her lord and master flung the red embers down one of the craters of Mount Tongariro, and from that day to this the mountains of Taupo have been filled with volcanic fires, smouldering or breaking out in eruption.[1]Such is one of the many legends which have grown up round the lakes and summits of the most famous volcanic province of New Zealand. It indicates the Maori understanding that the high cones south-west of Lake Taupo are one end of a chain of volcanic forces, and that the other end is White Island (Whaka-ari), the isolated crater which lifts its head above the sea twenty-seven miles out in the wide Bay of Plenty. It is a natural sulphur factory. Seen from the shores of the bay it looks peaceful enough. Its only peculiarity seems to be a white cloud rising high or [117]streaming on the wind to leeward from the tip of its cone. At a distance the cloud appears not unlike other white clouds; but in the brightest weather it never vanishes away. I once spent three sunny spring days in riding round the great arc of the Bay of Plenty, often cantering for miles together along the sandy beach. There, out to sea, lay White Island always in view and always flying its white vapour-flag. In reality the quiet-looking islet seethes with fiery life. Seen at close quarters it is found to be a shell, which from one side looks comically like the well-worn stump of a hollow tooth. It is a barren crater near a thousand feet high, enclosing what was a lake and is now shrunk to a warm green pool, ringed with bright yellow sulphur. Hot springs boil and roar on the crater-lake’s surface, ever sending up columns of hissing and roaring steam many hundred feet into the air. At times, as in 1886, the steam has shot to the almost incredible height of fifteen thousand feet, a white pillar visible a hundred miles away. You may thrust a stick through the floor of the crater into the soft hot paste beneath. The walls of the abyss glow with heat, steam-jets hiss from their fissures, and on the outside is a thick crust of sulphur. The reek of the pit’s fumes easily outdoes that of the blackest and most vicious of London fogs. “It is not that soft smell of Roto-rua,” wrote Mr. Buddle, who smelt the place in 1906, “but an odour of sulphurous acid which sticks in one’s throat.” Yet commerce once tried to lay hands on White Island, and men were found willing to try and work amid its noisome [118]activities. Commerce, however, failed to make Tartarus pay. Not far away from White Island lies Mayor Island, which once upon a time must have been an even stranger spot. It also is a high crater. On the rim of its yawning pit are to be seen the ruins of a Maori stockade, which, perched in mid-air and approachable only over the sea, must have been a hard nut for storming parties to crack in the bygone days of tribal wars. All is quiet now; the volcano has died out and the wars have become old tales. [1] After writing this page I found that Mr. Percy Smith, formerly Surveyor-General, gives another version of the legend. He tells how the hero Ngatoro, landing on the shore of the Bay of Plenty, went inland, and, with a companion named Ngauruhoe, climbed Tongariro. Near the summit, Ngauruhoe died of cold, and Ngatoro, himself half-frozen, shouted to his sisters far away in the legendary island of Hawaiki to bring fire. His cry reached them far across the ocean, and they started to his rescue. Whenever they halted—as at White Island—and lit their camp fire, geysers spouted up from the ground. But when at length they reached Tongariro, it was only to find that Ngatoro, tired of waiting for them, had gone back to the coast.
A fourth version of the legend is contained in a paper by Mr. H. Hill in vol. xxiv. of the Transactions of the N.Z. Institute.
Needless to say, the scenes between Ruapehu and the sea-coast are not all as terrific as this. The main charm of the volcanic province is, indeed, its variety. Though in a sense its inhabitants live on the lid of a boiler—a boiler, too, that is perforated with steam holes—still it is a lid between five thousand and six thousand square miles in size. This leaves ample room for broad tracts where peace reigns amid apparent solidity and security. Though it is commonly called the Hot Lakes District, none of its larger lakes are really hot, that is to say hot throughout; they are distinctly cold. Roto-mahana before it was blown up in the eruption of 1886 was in no part less than lukewarm; but in those days Roto-mahana only covered 185 acres. At Ohinemutu there is a pool the water of which is unmistakably hot throughout; but it is not more than about a hundred yards long. Usually the hot lagoons are patchy in temperature—boiling at one end, cool at the other. Perhaps the official title, Thermal Springs District, is more accurate. The hot water comes [119]in the form of springs, spouts, and geysers. Boiling pools there are in numbers, veritable cauldrons. Boiling springs burst up on the beaches of the cold lakes, or bubble up through the chilly waters. The bather can lie floating, as the writer has, with his feet in hot and his head in cold water. Very agreeable the sensation is as the sunshine pours from a blue sky on to a lagoon fringed with ferns and green foliage. There are places where the pedestrian fording a river may feel his legs chilled to the marrow by the swift current, and yet find the sandy bottom on which he is treading almost burn the soles of his feet. The first white traveller to describe the thermal springs noted a cold cascade falling on an orifice from which steam was puffing at intervals. The resultant noise was as strange as the sight. So do hot and cold mingle and come into conflict in the thermal territory.
 
“THE DRAGON’S MOUTH”
The area of this hydro-thermal district, which Mr. Percy Smith, the best living authority on the subject, calls the Taupo volcanic zone, is roundly about six thousand square miles. As already said, part of it lies under the sea, above which only White Island, Mayor Island, and Whale Island rise to view. Its shape, if we could see the whole of it, would probably be a narrow oval, like an old-fashioned silver hand-mirror with a slender handle. In the handle two active volcanoes lift their heads—Ruapehu, and Tongariro with its three cones. At the other end of the mirror White Island stands up, incessantly at work. This exhausts the list of active volcanoes; but there are six or seven extinct [120]or quiescent volcanoes of first-class importance. Mayor Island, in the Bay of Plenty, is a dead crater rimmed by walls five miles round and nearly 1300 feet high, enclosing a terrible chasm lined with dark obsidian. Mount Edgecombe, an admirably regular cone, easily seen from the coast, has two craters in its summit; and the most appalling explosion ever known in the country occurred in the tract covered by Mount Tarawera and the Roto-mahana Lake. How terrific were the forces displayed by these extinct volcanoes in ages past may be judged by the vast extent of country overlaid by the pumice and volcanic clay belched forth from their craters. Not only is the volcanic zone generally overspread with this, only sparse patches escaping, but pumice is found outside its limits. Within these, it is, loosely speaking, pumice, pumice everywhere, dry, gritty, and useless,—a thin scattering of pumice on the hill-tops and steep slopes,—deep strata of pumice where it has been washed down into valleys and river terraces. Mingled with good soil it is mischievous, though two or three grasses, notably that called Chewing’s fescue, grow well in the mixture. Unmixed pumice is porous and barren. Fortunately the tracts of deep pumice are limited. They soak up the ample rainfall; grass grows, but soon withers; in dry weather a sharp tug will drag a tussock from the roots in the loose, thirsty soil. The popular belief is that it only needs a long-continued process of stamping and rolling to make these pumice expanses hold water and become fertile. Those who think thus point out that around [121]certain lonely lagoons, where wild horses and cattle have been wont to camp and roll, rich green patches of grass are found. Less hopeful observers hold that the destiny of the pumice country is probably to grow trees, fruit-bearing and other, whose deep roots will reach far down to the water. Already the Government, acting on this belief, has taken the work of tree-planting in hand, and millions of young saplings are to be found in the Waiotapu valley and elsewhere in the pumice land. Prison-labour is used for the purpose; and though a camp of convicts, with movable prison-vans like the cages of a travelling menagerie, seems a strange foil to the wonders of Nature, the toil is healthy for the men as well as useful to the country. From the vast extent of the pumice and clay layers it would seem that, uneasy as the thermal territory now is, it has, for all its geysers, steaming cones, and innumerable springs, become but a fretful display of slowly dying forces. So say those who look upon the great catastrophe of 1886 as merely the flicker of a dying flame.
 
HUKA FALLS
As already said, the volcanic zone is a land of lakes, many and beautiful. Four of the most interesting—Roto-rua, Roto-iti, Roto-ehu, and Roto-ma—lie in a chain, like pieces of silver loosely strung together. South of these Tarawera sleeps in sight of its terrible mountain, and south again of Tarawera the hot springs of Roto-mahana still draw sight-seers, though its renowned terraces are no longer there. Lake Okataina is near, resting amid unspoiled forest: and there is Roto-kakahi, the green lake, and, hard by, Tikitapu, the blue lake, [122]beautiful by contrast. But, of course, among all the waters Taupo easily overpeers the rest. “The Sea” the Maori call it; and indeed it is so large, and its whole expanse so easily viewed at once from many heights, that it may well be taken to be greater than it is. It covers 242 square miles, but the first white travellers who saw it and wrote about it guessed it to be between three and five hundred. Hold a fair-sized map of the district with the eastern side uppermost and you will note that the shape of Taupo is that of an ass’s head with the ears laid back. This may seem an irreverent simile for the great crater lake, with its deep waters and frowning cliffs, held so sacred and mysterious by the Maori of old. Seldom is its surface flecked by any sail, and only one island of any size breaks the wide expanse. The glory of Taupo—apart from the noble view of the volcanoes southward of it—is a long rampart of cliffs that almost without a break hems in its western side mile after mile. At their highest they reach 1100 feet. So steep are they that in flood-time cascades will make a clean leap from their summits into the lake; and the sheer descent of the wall continues below the surface, for, within a boat’s length of the overhanging cliff, sounding-leads have gone down 400 feet. Many are the waterfalls which in the stormier months of the year seam the rocky faces with white thread-like courses. On a finer scale than the others are the falls called Mokau, which, dashing through a leafy cleft, pour into the deep with a sounding plunge, and, even from a distance, look [123]something broader and stronger than the usual white riband.
By contrast, on the eastern side of the lake wide strips of beach are not uncommon, and the banks, plains, and terrace sides of whitish pumice, though not inconsiderable, are but tame when compared with the dark basaltic and trachytic heights overhanging the deep western waters. Many streams feed Taupo; only one river drains it. It is not astonishing, then, that the Maori believed that in the centre a terrible whirlpool circled round a great funnel down which water was sucked into the bowels of the earth. A variant of this legend was that a huge taniwha or saurian monster haunted the western depths, ready and willing to swallow canoes and canoemen together. The river issuing from Taupo is the Waikato, which cuts through the rocky lip of the crater-lake at its north-east corner. There it speeds away as though rejoicing to escape, with a strong clear current about two hundred yards wide. Then, pent suddenly between walls of hard rock, it is jammed into a deep rift not more than seventy feet across. Boiling and raging, the whole river shoots from the face of a steep tree-clothed cliff with something of the force of a horizontal geyser. Very beautiful is the blue and silver column as it falls, with outer edges dissolving into spray, into the broad and almost quiet expanse below. This waterfall, the Huka, though one of the famous sights of the island, does not by any means exhaust the beauties of the Upper Waikato. A little lower down the Ara-tia-tia Rapids furnish a [124]succession of spectacles almost as fine. There for hundreds of yards the river, a writhing serpent of blue and milk-white flecked with silver, tears and zig-zags, spins and foams, among the dripping reefs and between high leafy rocks, “wild with the tumult of tumbling waters.”
Broadly speaking, the Taupo plateau is a region of long views. Cold nights are more often than not followed by sunny days. The clear and often brilliant air enables the eye to travel over the nearer plains and hills to where some far-off mountain chain almost always closes the prospect. The mountains are often forest-clad, the plains and terraces usually open. Here will be seen sheets of stunted bracken; there, wide expanses of yellowish tussock-grass. The white pumice and reddish-brown volcanic clay help to give a character to the colouring very different to the black earth and vivid green foliage of other parts of the island. The smooth glacis-like sides of the terraces, and the sharply-cut ridges of the hills, seem a fit setting for the perpetual display of volcanic forces and an adjunct in impressing on the traveller that he is in a land that has been fashioned on a strange design. Nothing in England, and very little in Europe, remotely resembles it. Only sometimes on the dusty tableland of Central Spain, in Old or New Castile, may the New Zealander be reminded of the long views and strong sunlight, or the shining slopes leading up to blue mountain ranges cutting the sky with clean lines.
 
ARA-TIA-TIA RAPIDS
Some of the finest landscape views in the central [125]North Island are to be seen from points of vantage on the broken plateau to the westward of Ruapehu. On the one side the huge volcanic mass, a sloping rampart many miles long, closes the scene; on the other, the land, falling towards the coast, is first scantily clothed with coarse tussock-grass and then with open park-like forest. The timber grows heavier towards the coast, and in the river valleys where the curling Wanganui and the lesser streams Waitotara and Patea run between richly-draped cliffs to the sea. Far westward above the green expanse of foliage—soon to be hewn by the axe and blackened by fire—the white triangle of Egmont’s cone glimmers through faint haze against the pale horizon.
Between Taupo and the eastern branch of the Upper Wanganui ran a foot-track much used by Maori travellers in days of yore. At one point it wound beneath a steep hill on the side of which a projecting ledge of rock formed a wide shallow cave. Beneath this convenient shelf it is said that a gang of Maori highwaymen were once wont to lurk on the watch for wayfarers, solitary or in small parties. At a signal they sprang out upon these, clubbed them to death, and dragged their bodies to the cave. There these cannibal bush-rangers gorged themselves on the flesh of their victims. I tell the story on the authority of the missionary Taylor, who says that he climbed to the cave, and standing therein saw the ovens used for the horrid meals and the scattered bones of the human victims. If he was not imposed upon, the story [126]supplies a curious exception to Maori customs. Their cannibalism was in the main practised at the expense of enemies slain or captured in inter-tribal wars; and they had distinct if peculiar prejudices in favour of fair fighting. I have read somewhere that in the Drakensberg Mountains above Natal a similar gang of cannibal robbers was once discovered—Kaffirs who systematically lured lonely victims into a certain remote ravine, where they disappeared.
One of the curiosities of the Taupo wilderness is the flat-topped mountain Horo-Horo. Steep, wooded slopes lead up to an unbroken ring of precipices encircling an almost level table-top. To the eyes of riders or coach-passengers on the road between Taupo and Roto-rua, the brows of the cliffs seem as inaccessible as the crown of Roraima in British Guiana in the days before Mr. Im Thurn scaled it. The Maori own Horo-Horo, and have villages and cultivations on the lower slopes where there is soil fertile beyond what is common thereabout. Another strange natural fortress not far away is Pohaturoa, a tusk of lava, protruding some eight hundred feet hard by the course of the Waikato and in full view of a favourite crossing-place. Local guides are, or used to be, fond of comparing this eminence with Gibraltar, to which—except that both are rocks—it bears no manner of likeness.
The Japanese, as we know, hold sacred their famous volcano Fusiyama. In the same way the Maori in times past regarded Tongariro and Ruapehu as holy ground. But, whereas the Japanese show reverence to [127]Fusi by making pilgrimages to its summit in tens of thousands, the Maori veneration of their great cones took a precisely opposite shape,—they would neither climb them themselves nor allow others to do so. The earlier white travellers were not only refused permission to mount to the summit, but were not even allowed to set foot on the lower slopes. In 1845 the artist George French Angas could not even obtain leave to make a sketch of Tongariro, though he managed to do so by stealth. Six years earlier Bidwill eluded native vigilance and actually reached the summit of one of the cones, probably that of Ngauruhoe, but when, after peering down through the sulphurous clouds of the inaccessible gulf, he made his way back to the shores of Lake Taupo, the local chieftain gave him a very bad quarter of an hour indeed. This personage, known in New Zealand story as Old Te Heu Heu, was one of the most picturesque figures of his race. His great height—“nearly seven feet,” says one traveller; “a complete giant,” writes another—his fair complexion, almost classic features, and great bodily strength are repeatedly alluded to by the whites who saw him; not that whites had that privilege every day, for Te Heu Heu held himself aloof among his own people, defied the white man, and refused to sign the treaty of Waitangi or become a liegeman of the Queen. His tribesmen had a proverb—“Taupo is the Sea; Tongariro is the Mountain; Te Heu Heu is the Man.” This they would repeat with the air of men owning a proprietary interest in the Atlantic Ocean, Kinchin [128]Junga, and Napoleon. He was indeed a great chief, and a perfect specimen of the Maori Rangatira or gentleman. He considered himself the special guardian of the volcanoes. Like him they were tapu—“tapu’d inches thick,” as the author of Old New Zealand would say. Indeed, when his subjects journeyed by a certain road, from one turn of which they could view the cone of Ngauruhoe, they were expected at the critical spot to veil their eyes with their mats so as not to look on the holy summit. At any rate, Bidwill declares that they told him so. Small wonder, therefore, if this venturesome trespasser came in for a severe browbeating from the offended Te Heu Heu, who marched up and down his wharé breaking out into passionate speech. Bidwill asserts that he pacified the great man by so small a present as three figs of tobacco. Of course, it is possible that in 1839 tobacco was more costly at Taupo than in after years. The Maori version of the incident differs from Bidwill’s.
In the uneasy year of 1845 Te Heu Heu marched down to the Wanganui coast at the head of a strong war-party. The scared settlers were thankful to find that he did not attack them. He was, indeed, after other game, and was bent on squaring accounts with a local tribe which had shed the blood of his people. Bishop Selwyn, who happened to be then in the neighbourhood, saw and spoke with the highland chieftain, urging peace. The interviews must have been worth watching. On the one side stood the typical barbarian, eloquent, fearless, huge of limb, with [129]handsome face and maize-coloured complexion, and picturesque in kilt, cloak, and head-feather. On the other side was a bishop in hard training, a Christian gentleman, as fine as English culture could furnish, whose clean-cut aquiline face and unyielding mouth had the becoming support of a tall, vigorous frame lending dignity to his clerical garb. Here was the heathen determined to save his tribe from the white man’s grasping hands and dissolving religion; there the missionary seeing in conversion and civilisation the only hope of preserving the Maori race. Death took Te Heu Heu away before he had time to see his policy fail. Fate was scarcely so kind to Selwyn, who lived to see the Ten-Years’ War wreck most of his life’s work among the natives.
As far as I know, Te Heu Heu never crossed weapons with white men, though he allied himself with our enemies and gave shelter to fugitives. His region was regarded as inaccessible in the days of good Governor Grey. He was looked upon as a kind of Old Man of the Mountain, and in Auckland they told you stories of his valour, hospitality, choleric temper, and his six—or was it eight?—wives. So the old chief stayed unmolested, and met his end with his mana in no way abated. It was a fitting end: the soil which he guarded so tenaciously overwhelmed him. The steep hill-side over his village became loosened by heavy rain and rotted by steam and sulphur-fumes. It began to crack and slip away. According to one account, a great land-slip descending in the night [130]buried the kainga and all in it save one man. Another story states that the destruction came in the day-time, and that Te Heu Heu refused to flee. He was said to have stood erect, confronting the avalanche, with flashing eyes, and with his white hair blown by the wind. At any rate, the soil of his ancestress the Earth (he claimed direct descent from her) covered him, and for a while his body lay there. After some time his tribe disinterred it, and laying it on a carved and ornamented bier, bore it into the mountains with the purpose of casting it down the burning crater of Tongariro. The intention was dramatic, but the result was something of an anticlimax. When nearing their journey’s end the bearers were startled by the roar of an eruption. They fled in a panic, leaving the remains of their hero to lie on the steep side of the cone on some spot never identified. There they were probably soon hidden by volcanic dust, and so, “ashes to ashes,” slowly mingled with the ancestral mass.[2]
[2] The accepted tradition of Te Heu Heu’s funeral is that given above. After these pages went to the printer, however, I lighted upon a newspaper article by Mr. Malcolm Ross, in which that gentleman states that the bier and the body of the chief were not abandoned on the mountain-side, but were hidden in a cave still known to certain members of the tribe. The present Te Heu Heu, says Mr. Ross, talks of disinterring his ancestor’s remains and burying them near the village of Te Rapa.
 
LAKE TAUPO
The chiefs of the Maori were often their own minstrels. To compose a panegyric on a predecessor was for them a worthy task. Te Heu Heu himself was no mean poet. His lament for one of his forefathers has beauty, and, in Mr. James Cowan’s version, [131]is well known to New Zealand students. But as a poem it was fairly eclipsed by the funeral ode to his own memory composed and recited by his brother and successor. The translation of this characteristic Maori poem, which appeared in Surgeon-Major Thomson’s book, has been out of print for so many years that I may reproduce some portions of it here:—
See o’er the heights of dark Pauhara’s mount
The infant morning wakes. Perhaps my friend
Returns to me clothed in that lightsome cloud.
Alas! I toil alone in this lone world.
Yes, thou art gone!
Go, thou mighty! go, thou dignified!
Go, thou who wert a spreading tree to shade
Thy people all when evil hovered round!
Sleep on, O Chief, in that dark, damp abode!
And hold within thy grasp that weapon rare
Bequeathed by thy renownéd ancestor.
Turn yet this once thy bold athletic frame,
And let me see thy skin carved o’er with lines
Of blue; and let me see again thy face
Beautifully chiselled into varied forms!
Cease, cease thy slumbers, O thou son of Rangi!
Wake up! and take thy battle-axe, and tell
Thy people of the coming signs, and what
Will now befall them. How the foe, tumultuous
As are the waves, will rush with spears uplifted,
And how thy people will avenge their wrongs.
No, thou art fallen; and the earth receives
Thee as its prey! But yet thy wondrous fame
Shall soar on high, resounding o’er the heavens
[132]
Loosely speaking, New Zealand is a volcanic archipelago. There are hot pools and a noted sanatorium in the Hanmer plains in the middle of the Middle Island. There are warm springs far to the north of Auckland, near Ohaeawai, where the Maori once gave our troops a beating in the early days of our race-conflict with them. Auckland itself, the queen of New Zealand towns, is almost a crater city. At any rate, it is surrounded by dead craters. You are told that from a hill-top in the suburbs you may count sixty-three volcanic cones. Two sister towns, Wellington and Christchurch, have been repeatedly taken and well shaken by Mother Earth. Old Wellington settlers will gravely remind you that some sixty years ago a man, an inoffensive German baron, lost his life in a shock there. True, he was not swallowed up or crushed by falling ruins; a mirror fell from a wall on to his head. This earthquake was followed in 1855 by another as sharp, and one of the two so alarmed a number of pioneer settlers that they embarked on shipboard to flee from so unquiet a land. Their ship, however, so the story runs, went ashore near the mouth of Wellington harbour, and they returned to remain, and, in some cases, make their fortunes. In 1888 a double shock of earthquake wrecked some feet of the cathedral spire at Christchurch, nipping off the point of it and the gilded iron cross which it sustained, so that it stood for many months looking like a broken lead-pencil. A dozen years later, Cheviot, Amuri, and Waiau were sharply shaken by an earthquake that [133]showed scant mercy to brick chimneys and houses of the material known as cob-and-clay. Finally, in the little Kermadec islets, far to the north of Cape Maria Van Diemen, we encounter hot pools and submarine explosions, and passing seamen have noted there sheets of ejected pumice floating and forming a scum on the surface of the ocean. As might be supposed, guides and hangers-on about Roto-rua and Taupo revel in tales of hairbreadth escapes and hair-raising fatalities. Nine generations ago, say the Maori, a sudden explosion of a geyser scalded to death half the villagers of Ohinemutu. In the way of smaller mishaps you are told how, as two Maori children walked together by Roto-mahana one slipped and broke through the crust of silica into the scalding mud beneath. The other, trying to lift him out, was himself dragged in and both were boiled alive. Near Ohinemutu, three revellers, overfull of confidence and bad rum, stepped off a narrow track at night and perished together in sulphurous mud and scalding steam. At the extremity of Boiling Point a village, or part of a village, is said to have been suddenly engulfed in the waters of Roto-rua. At the southern end of Taupo there is, or was, a legend current that a large wharé filled with dancers met, in a moment, a similar fate. In one case of which I heard, that of a Maori woman, who fell into a pool of a temperature above boiling-point, a witness assured me that she did not appear to suffer pain long: the nervous system was killed by the shock. Near Roto-rua a bather with a weak heart was picked up dead. He [134]had heedlessly plunged into a pool the fumes and chemical action of which are too strong for a weak man. And a certain young English tourist sitting in the pool nicknamed Painkiller was half-poisoned by mephitic vapour, and only saved by the quickness of a Maori guide. That was a generation ago: nowadays the traveller need run no risks. Guides and good medical advice are to be had by all who will use them. No sensible person need incur any danger whatever.
Among stories of the boiling pools the most pathetic I can recall is of a collie dog. His master, a shepherd of the Taupo plateau, stood one day on the banks of a certain cauldron idly watching the white steam curling over the bubbling surface. His well-loved dog lay stretched on the mud crust beside him. In a thoughtless moment the shepherd flung a stick into the clear blue pool. In a flash the dog had sprung after it into the water of death. Maddened by the poor creature’s yell of pain, his master rushed to the brink, mechanically tearing off his coat as he ran. In another instant he too would have flung himself to destruction. Fortunately an athletic Maori who was standing by caught the poor man round the knees, threw him on to his back and held him down till all was over with the dog.
 
IN A HOT POOL
Near a well-known lake and in a wharé so surrounded by boiling mud, scalding steam, hot water, and burning sulphur as to be difficult of approach, there lived many years ago two friends. One was a teetotaller and a deeply religious man—characteristics not universal in the Hot Lakes district at that precise epoch. The [135]other inhabitant was more nearly normal in tastes and beliefs. The serious-minded friend became noted for having—unpaid, and with his own hands—built a chapel in the wilderness. Yet, unhappily, returning home on a thick rainy evening he slipped and fell into a boiling pool, where next day he was found—dead, of course. In vain the oldest inhabitants of the district sought to warn the survivor. He declined to be terrified, or to change either his dangerous abode or his path thereto. He persisted in walking home late at night whenever it suited him to do so. The “old hands” of the district shook their heads and prophesied that there could be but one end to such recklessness. And, sure enough, on a stormy night the genial and defiant Johnnie slipped in his turn and fell headlong into the pool which had boiled his mate. One wild shout he gave, and men who were within earshot tore to the spot—“Poor old Johnnie! Gone at last! We always said he would!” Out of the darkness and steam, however, they were greeted with a sound of vigorous splashing and of expressions couched in strong vernacular.
“Why, Johnnie man, aren’t you dead? Aren’t you boiled to death?”
“Not I! There’s no water in this —— country hot enough to boil me. Help me out!”
It appeared that the torrents of rain which had been falling had flooded a cold stream hard by, and this, overflowing into the pool, had made it pleasantly tepid.
 
NGONGOTAHA MOUNTAIN
Needless to say, there is one fatal event, the story of [136]which overshadows all other stories told of the thermal zone. It is the one convulsion of Nature there, since the settlement of New Zealand, that has been great enough to become tragically famous throughout the world, apart from its interest to science. The eruption of Mount Tarawera was a magnificent and terrible spectacle. Accompanied as it was by the blowing-up of Lake Roto-mahana, it destroyed utterly the beautiful and extraordinary Pink and White Terraces. There can be no doubt that most of those who saw them thought the lost Pink and White Terraces the finest sight in the thermal region. They had not the grandeur of the volcanoes and the lakes, or the glorious energy of the geysers; but they were an astonishing combination of beauty of form and colour, of what looked like rocky massiveness with the life and heat of water in motion. Then there was nothing else of their kind on the earth at all equal to them in scale and completeness. So they could fairly be called unique, and the gazer felt on beholding them that in a sense this was the vision of a lifetime. Could those who saw them have known that the spectacle was to be so transient, this feeling must have been much keener. For how many ages they existed in the ferny wilderness, seen only by a few savages, geologists may guess at. Only for about twelve years were they the resort of any large number of civilised men. It is strange how little their fame had gone abroad before Hochstetter described them after seeing them in 1859. Bidwill, who was twice at Roto-rua in 1839, never mentions [137]them. The naturalist Dieffenbach, who saw them in 1842, dismisses them in a paragraph, laudatory but short. George French Angas, the artist, who was the guest of Te Heu Heu in 1845, and managed, against express orders, to sketch Tongariro, does not seem to have heard of them. Yet he of all men might have been expected to get wind of such a marvel. For a marvel they were, and short as was the space during which they were known to the world, their fame must last until the Fish of Maui is engulfed in the ocean. There, amid the green manuka and rusty-green bracken, on two hill-sides sloping down to a lake of moderate size—Roto-mahana or Warm Lake,—strong boiling springs gushed out. They rose from two broad platforms, each ab............