The old-fashioned township of
Kororarika, or Port Russell, is a case very much in point. As we
sailed in between the many islets from which the magnificent bay
takes its name, for all appearances to the contrary, we might
have been the first, discoverers. Not a house, not a sail, not a
boat, broke the loneliness and primeval look of the placid waters
and the adjacent shores. Not until we drew near the anchorage,
and saw upon opening up the little town the straight-standing
masts of three whale-ships, did anything appear to dispel the
intense air of solitude overhanging the whole. As we drew
nearer, and rounded-to for mooring, I looked expectantly for some
sign of enterprise on the part of the inhabitants--some
tradesman's boat soliciting orders; some of the population on the
beach (there was no sign of a pier), watching the visitor come to
an anchor. Not a bit of it. The whole place seemed a maritime
sleepy hollow, the dwellers in which had lost all interest in
life, and had become far less energetic than the much-maligned
Kanakas in their dreamy isles of summer.
Yet this was once intended for the capital of New Zealand. When
the large and splendidly-built city of Dunedin, Otago, was a
barren bush, haunted only by the "morepork" and the apteryx,
Russell was humming with vitality, her harbour busy with fleets
of ships, principally whalers, who found it the most convenient
calling-place in the southern temperate zone.
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