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      Life of John Coleridge Patteson: by Charlotte Mary Yonge
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Project Gutenberg's Life of John Coleridge Patteson, by Charlotte M. Yonge

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Title: Life of John Coleridge Patteson

Author: Charlotte M. Yonge


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Last Updated: April 21, 2013

Language: English

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</pre>

    <div style="height: 8em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      LIFE OF JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON:
    </h1>
    <h2>
      MISSIONARY BISHOP OF THE MELANESIAN ISLANDS <br /> <br /> By Charlotte Mary
      Yonge
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Transcriber's note: This Etext of the Life of John Coleridge Patteson:
      Missionary Bishop of the Melanesian Islands, by Charlotte Mary Yonge was
      prepared by Sandra Laythorpe and others. More information about the
      history of the Anglican Church may be found at Project Canterbury A web
      page for Charlotte M Yonge may be found at www.menorot.com/cmyonge.htm.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <b>CONTENTS</b>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD AT HOME AND AT SCHOOL,
      1827-1838. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. BOYHOOD AT ETON. 1838&mdash;1845.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. UNDERGRADUATE LIFE AT BALLIOL AND
      JOURNEYS ON THE CONTINENT. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. FELLOWSHIP OF MERTON. 1852&mdash;1854.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. THE CURACY AT ALFINGTON. 1853-1855.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. THE VOYAGE AND FIRST YEAR. 1855-1856.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. THE MELANESIAN ISLES. 1856-1857.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE AND LIFU.
      1857-1859. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. MOTA AND ST. ANDREW'S COLLEGE,
      KOHIMARAMA. 1859-1862. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. THE EPISCOPATE AT KOHIMARAMA. 1866.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. ST. BARNABAS COLLEGE, NORFOLK ISLAND.
      1867&mdash;1869. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. THE LAST EIGHTEEN MONTHS. 1870-1871.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PREFACE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      There are of course peculiar advantages as well as disadvantages in
      endeavouring to write the life of one recently departed. On the one hand,
      the remembrances connected with him are far fresher; his contemporaries
      can he consulted, and much can be made matter of certainty, for which a
      few years would have made it necessary to trust to hearsay or probable
      conjecture. On the other, there is necessarily much more reserve; nor are
      the results of the actions, nor even their comparative importance, so
      clearly discernible as when there has been time to ripen the fruit.
    </p>
    <p>
      These latter drawbacks are doubled when the subject of the biography has
      passed away in comparatively early life: when the persons with whom his
      life is chiefly interwoven are still in full activity; and when he has
      only lived to sow his seed in many waters, and has barely gathered any
      portion of his harvest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus what I have written of Bishop Patteson, far more what I have copied
      of his letters, is necessarily only partial, although his nearest
      relations and closest friends have most kindly permitted the full use of
      all that could build up a complete idea of the man as he was. Many letters
      relate to home and family matters, such as it would be useless and
      impertinent to divulge; and yet it is necessary to mention that these
      exist, because without them we might not know how deep was the lonely
      man's interest and sympathy in all that concerned his kindred and friends.
      Other letters only repeat the narrative or the reflections given
      elsewhere; and of these, it has seemed best only to print that which
      appeared to have the fullest or the clearest expression. In general, the
      story is best told in letters to the home party; while thoughts are
      generally best expressed in the correspondence with Sir John Taylor
      Coleridge, to whom the Nephew seems to have written with a kind of
      unconscious carefulness of diction. There is as voluminous a
      correspondence with the Brother, and letters to many Cousins; but as these
      either repeat the same adventures or else are purely domestic, they have
      been little brought forward, except where any gap occurred in the
      correspondence which has formed the staple material.
    </p>
    <p>
      Letters upon the unhappy Maori war have been purposely omitted; and, as
      far as possible, such criticisms on living personages as it seemed fair
      towards the writer to omit. Criticisms upon their publications are of
      course a different thing. My desire has been to give enough expression of
      Bishop Patteson's opinions upon Church and State affairs, to represent his
      manner of thinking, without transcribing every detail of remarks, which
      were often made upon an imperfect report, and were, in fact, only written
      down, instead of spoken and forgotten, because correspondence served him
      instead of conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      I think I have represented fairly, for I have done my best faithfully to
      select passages giving his mind even where it does not coincide completely
      with my own opinions; being quite convinced that not only should a
      biographer never attempt either to twist or conceal the sentiments of the
      subject, but that either to apologise for, or as it were to argue with
      them, is vain in both senses of the word.
    </p>
    <p>
      The real disadvantage of the work is my own very slight personal
      acquaintance with the externals of the man, and my ignorance of the scenes
      in which the chief part of his life was passed. There are those who would
      have been far more qualified in these respects than myself, and, above
      all, in that full and sympathetic masculine grasp of a man's powerful
      mind, which is necessarily denied to me. But these fittest of all being
      withheld by causes which are too well known to need mention, I could only
      endeavour to fulfil the work as best I might; trusting that these
      unavoidable deficiencies may be supplied, partly by Coleridge Patteson's
      own habit of writing unreservedly, so that he speaks for himself, and
      partly by the very full notes and records with which his friends have
      kindly supplied me, portraying him from their point of view; so that I
      could really trust that little more was needed than ordinary judgment in
      connecting and selecting. Nor until the work is less fresh from my hand
      will it be possible to judge whether I have in any way been allowed to
      succeed in my earnest hope and endeavour to bring the statue out of the
      block, and as it were to carve the figure of the Saint for his niche among
      those who have given themselves soul and body to God's Work.
    </p>
    <p>
      It has been an almost solemn work of anxiety, as well as one of love. May
      I only have succeeded in causing these letters and descriptions to leave a
      true and definite impression of the man and of his example!
    </p>
    <p>
      Let me here record my obligations for materials&mdash;I need hardly say to
      the immediate family and relations&mdash;for, in truth, I act chiefly as
      their amanuensis; but likewise to the Bishop of Lichfield, Bishop Abraham.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Martin, the Rev. B. T. Dudley, the Rev. E. Codrington, and Captain
      Tilly, for their valuable aid&mdash;the two first mentioned by correction
      and revision, the others by contributions such as could only be supplied
      by eye-witnesses and fellow-workers. Many others I must thank for kindly
      supplying me with letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      CHARLOTTE MARY YONGE. ELDERFIELD, September 19, 1873.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD AT HOME AND AT SCHOOL, 1827-1838.
    </h2>
    <p>
      So much of a man's cast of character depends upon his home and parentage,
      that no biography can be complete which does not look back at least as far
      as the lives of the father and mother, from whom the disposition is sure
      to be in part inherited, and by whom it must often be formed. Indeed, the
      happiest natures are generally those which have enjoyed the full benefit
      of parental training without dictation, and have been led, but not forced,
      into the way in which they should go.
    </p>
    <p>
      Therefore it will not be irrelevant to dwell on the career of the father
      whose name, though still of great weight in his own profession, may not be
      equally known to the younger generation who have grown up since the words
      'Mr. Justice Patteson' were of frequent occurrence in law reports.
    </p>
    <p>
      John Patteson, father of the subject of the present memoir, was son to a
      clergyman of a Norfolk family, and was born at Coney Weston, on February
      11, 1790. He was educated at Eton, and there formed more than one
      friendship, which not only lasted throughout his life, but extended beyond
      his own generation. Sport and study flourished alike among such lads as
      these; and while they were taught by Dr. Groodall to delight in the
      peculiarly elegant and accurate scholarship which was the characteristic
      of the highest education of their day, their boyhood and youth were full
      of the unstained mirth that gives such radiance to recollections of the
      past, and often causes the loyalty of affectionate association to be
      handed on to succeeding generations. The thorough Etonian impress, with
      all that it involved, was of no small account in his life, as well as in
      that of his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      The elder John Patteson was a colleger, and passed on to King's College,
      Cambridge, whence, in 1813, he came to London to study law. In 1816 he
      opened his chambers as a special pleader, and on February 23, 1818, was
      married to his cousin, Elizabeth Lee, after a long engagement. The next
      year, 1819, he was called to the Bar, and began to go the Northern
      circuit. On April 3, 1820, Mrs. Patteson died, leaving one daughter,
      Joanna Elizabeth. Four years later, on April 22, 1824, Mr. Patteson
      married Frances Duke Coleridge, sister of his friend and fellow-barrister,
      John Taylor Coleridge. This lady, whose name to all who remember her calls
      up a fair and sweet memory of all that was good, bright, and beloved, was
      the daughter of James Coleridge, of Heath's Court, Ottery St. Mary, Devon,
      Colonel of the South Devon Volunteers. He was the eldest of the numerous
      family of the Rev. John Coleridge, Master of Ottery St. Mary School, and
      the poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was the youngest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The strong family affection that existed between all Colonel Coleridge's
      children, and concentrated itself upon the only sister among them, made
      marriage with her an adoption into a group that could not fail to exercise
      a strong influence on all connected with it, and the ties of kindred will
      be found throughout this memoir to have had peculiar force.
    </p>
    <p>
      John Coleridge Patteson, his mother's second child and eldest son, was
      born at No. 9, Grower Street, Bedford Square, on the 1st of April, 1827,
      and baptized on the 8th. Besides the elder half-sister already mentioned,
      another sister, Frances Sophia Coleridge, a year older than, and one
      brother, James Henry, nearly two years younger than Coleridge, made up the
      family.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three years later, in 1830, Mr. Patteson was raised to the Bench, at the
      unusually early age of forty.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is probable that there never was a period when the Judicial Bench could
      reckon a larger number of men distinguished not only for legal ability but
      for the highest culture and for the substantial qualities that command
      confidence and respect. The middle of the nineteenth century was a time
      when England might well be proud of her Judges.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was much in the habits of the Bench and Bar to lead to close and
      friendly intimacy, especially on the circuits. When legal etiquette
      forbade the use of any public conveyance, and junior barristers shared
      post-chaises, while the leaders travelled in their own carriages, all
      spent a good deal of time together, and it was not unusual for ladies to
      go a great part of the circuit with their husbands, especially when it lay
      in the direction of their own neighbourhood. The Judges' families often
      accompanied them, especially at the summer assize, and thus there grew up
      close associations between their children, which made their intimacy
      almost like that of relationship. Almost all, too, lived in near
      neighbourhood in those parts of London that now are comparatively
      deserted, but which were then the especial abodes of lawyers, namely,
      those adjacent to Bedford Square, where the gardens were the daily resort
      of their children, all playing together and knowing one another with that
      familiarity that childhood only gives.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir John Patteson's contemporaries have nearly all, one by one, passed
      away,' writes one of them, Sir John Taylor Coleridge. 'He has left few, if
      any, literary monuments to record what his intellectual powers were; and
      even in our common profession the ordinary course and practice are so
      changed, that I doubt whether many lawyers are now familiar with his
      masterly judgments; but I feel that I speak the truth when I describe him
      as a man of singularly strong common sense, of great acuteness,
      truthfulness, and integrity of judgment. These were great judicial
      qualities, and to these he added much simplicity and geniality of temper
      and manners; and all these were crowned by a firm, unhesitating, devout
      belief in the doctrines of our faith, which issued in strictness to
      himself and the warmest, gentlest charity to his fellow-creatures. The
      result was what you might expect. Altogether it would be hard to say
      whether you would characterise him as a man unusually popular or unusually
      respected.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the character of Mr. Justice Patteson, a character built upon the
      deep, solid groundwork of religion, such as would now be called that of a
      sound Churchman of the old school, thoroughly devout and scrupulous in
      observance, ruling his family and household on a principle felt
      throughout, making a conscience of all his and their ways, though
      promoting to the utmost all innocent enjoyment of pleasure, mirth, or
      gaiety. Indeed, all who can look back on him or on his home remember an
      unusual amount of kindly genial cheerfulness, fun, merriment, and freedom,
      i.e. that obedient freedom which is the most perfect kind of liberty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though this was in great part the effect of having such a head of the
      family, the details of management could not but chiefly depend upon the
      mother, and Lady Patteson was equally loved for her tenderness and
      respected for her firmness. 'She was, indeed,' writes her brother, 'a
      sweet and pious person, of the most affectionate, loving disposition,
      without a grain of selfishness, and of the stoutest adherence to principle
      and duty. Her tendency was to deal with her children fondly, but this
      never interfered with good training and discipline. What she felt right,
      she insisted on, at whatever pain to herself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She had to deal with strong characters. Coleridge, or Coley, to give him
      the abbreviation by which he was known not only through childhood but
      through life, was a fair little fellow, with bright deep-blue eyes,
      inheriting much of his nature from her and her family, but not by any
      means a model boy. He was, indeed, deeply and warmly affectionate, but
      troublesome through outbreaks of will and temper, showing all the ordinary
      instinct of trying how far the authorities for the time being will endure
      resistance; sufficiently indolent of mind to use his excellent abilities
      to save exertion of intellect; passionate to kicking and screaming pitch,
      and at times showing the doggedness which is such a trial of patience to
      the parent. To this Lady Patteson 'never yielded; the thing was to be
      done, the point given up, the temper subdued, the mother to be obeyed, and
      all this upon a principle sooner understood than parents suppose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There were countless instances of the little boy's sharp, stormy gusts of
      passion, and his mother's steady refusal to listen to his 'I will be good'
      until she saw that he was really sorry for the scratch or pinch which he
      had given, or the angry word he had spoken; and she never waited in vain,
      for the sorrow was very real, and generally ended in 'Do you think God can
      forgive me?' When Fanny's love of teasing had exasperated Coley into
      stabbing her arm with a pencil, their mother had resolution enough to
      decree that no provocation could excuse 'such unmanliness' in a boy, and
      inflicted a whipping which cost the girl more tears than her brother, who
      was full of the utmost grief a child could feel for the offence. No fault
      was lightly passed over; not that punishment was inflicted for every
      misdemeanour, but it was always noticed, and the children were shown with
      grave gentleness where they were wrong; or when there was a squabble among
      them, the mother's question, 'Who will give up?' generally produced a
      chorus of 'I! I! I!' Withal 'mamma' was the very life of all the fun, and
      play, and jokes, enjoying all with spirits and merriment like the little
      ones' own, and delighting in the exchange of caresses and tender epithets.
      Thus affection and generosity grew up almost spontaneously towards one
      another and all the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this disposition was grafted that which was the one leading
      characteristic of Coley's life, namely, a reverent and religious spirit,
      which seems from the first to have been at work, slowly and surely
      subduing inherent defects, and raising him, step by step, from grace to
      grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Five years old is in many cases an age of a good deal of thought. The
      intelligence is free from the misapprehensions and misty perceptions of
      infancy; the first course of physical experiments is over, freedom of
      speech and motion have been attained, and yet there has not set in that
      burst of animal growth and spirits that often seems to swamp the deeper
      nature throughout boyhood. By this age Coley was able to read, and on his
      birthday he received from his father the Bible which was used at his
      consecration as Bishop twenty-seven years later.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had an earnest wish to be a clergyman, because he thought saying the
      Absolution to people must make them so happy, 'a belief he must have
      gleaned from his Prayer-book for himself, since the doctrine was not in
      those days made prominent.' The purpose was fostered by his mother. 'She
      delighted in it, and encouraged it in him. No thought of a family being to
      be made, and of Coley being the eldest son, ever interfered for a moment.
      That he should be a good servant at God's altar was to her above all
      price.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course, however, this was without pressing the thought on him. He grew
      on, with the purpose accepted but not discussed, except from time to time
      a half-playful, half-grave reference to himself as a future clergyman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Reverence was strongly implanted in him. His old nurse (still his sister's
      valued servant) remembers the little seven years old boy, after saying his
      own prayers at her knee, standing opposite to his little brother,
      admonishing him to attention with 'Think, Jemmy; think.' In fact,
      devoutness seems to have been natural to him. It appears to have been the
      first strongly traceable feature in him, and to have gradually subdued his
      faults one by one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who can tell how far this was fostered by those old-fashioned habits of
      strictness which it is the present habit to view as repellent? Every
      morning, immediately after breakfast, Lady Patteson read the Psalms and
      Lessons for the day with the four children, and after these a portion of
      some book of religious instruction, such as 'Horne on the Psalms' or
      'Daubeny on the Catechism.' The ensuing studies were in charge of Miss
      Neill, the governess, and the life-long friend of her pupils; but the
      mother made the religious instruction her individual care, and thus upheld
      its pre-eminence. Sunday was likewise kept distinct in reading, teaching,
      employment, and whole tone of conversation, and the effect was assuredly
      not that weariness which such observance is often supposed to produce, but
      rather lasting benefit and happy associations. Coley really enjoyed
      Bible-reading, and entered into explanations, and even then often picked
      up a passage in the sermons he heard at St. Giles's-in-the-Fields from the
      Rev. J. Endell Tyler, and would give his home-oracles no peace till they
      had made it as clear to his comprehension as was possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      The love of his home may be gathered from the fact that his letters have
      been preserved in an unbroken series, beginning from a country visit in
      1834, after a slight attack of scarlet fever, written in the round-hand of
      a boy of seven years old, and finished off with the big Roman capitals
      FINIS, AMEN, and ending with the uncompleted sheets, bearing as their last
      date September 19, 1871.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy's first school was at Ottery St. Mary, in Devonshire, of which his
      great-grandfather and great-uncle had both been head-masters.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was much to make Ottery homelike to Coley, for his grandparents
      lived at Heath's Court, close to the church, and in the manor-house near
      at hand their third son, Francis George Coleridge, a solicitor, whose
      three boys were near contemporaries of Coley, and two of them already in
      the school.
    </p>
    <p>
      From first to last his letters to his parents show no symptom of
      carelessness; they are full of ease and confidence, outpourings of
      whatever interested him, whether small or great, but always respectful as
      well as affectionate, and written with care and pains, being evidently his
      very best; nor does the good old formula, 'Your affectionate and dutiful
      son,' ever fail or ever produce stiffness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shrinking from rough companions, and the desire to be with the
      homelike relatives around, proved a temptation, and the little boy was
      guilty of making false excuses to obtain leave of absence. We cannot
      refrain from giving his letter of penitence, chiefly for the sake of the
      good sense and kindness of his uncle's treatment:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 26, 1836.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Papa,&mdash;I am very sorry for having told so many falsehoods,
      which Uncle Frank has told mamma of. I am very sorry for having done so
      many bad things, I mean falsehoods, and I heartily beg your pardon; and
      Uncle Frank says that he thinks, if I stay, in a month's time Mr. Cornish
      will begin to trust me again. Uncle Frank to-day had me into his house and
      told me to reflect upon what I had done. He also lectured me in the Bible,
      and asked me different questions about it. He told me that if I ever told
      another falsehood he should that instant march into the school and ask Mr.
      Cornish to strip and birch me; and if I followed the same course I did now
      and did not amend it, if the birching did not do, he should not let me go
      home for the holidays; but I will not catch the birching...
    </p>
    <p>
      'So believe me your dear Son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      On the flap of the letter 'Uncle Frank' writes to the mother:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Fanny,&mdash;I had Coley in my room to-day, and talked to him
      seriously about his misdeeds, and I hope good has been done. But I could
      scarcely keep my countenance grave when he began to reduce by calculation
      the exact number of fibs he had told. He did not think it was more than
      two or three at the utmost: and when I brought him to book, I had much to
      do to prevent the feeling that the sin consisted in telling many lies.
      However the dear boy's confession was as free as could be expected, and I
      have impressed on his mind the meanness, cowardice, and wickedness of the
      habit, and what it will end in here and hereafter. He has promised that he
      will never offend in future in like manner, and I really believe that his
      desire to be away from the school and at ease among his friends induced
      him to trump up the invitations, &amp;c., to Mr. Cornish, in which
      consisted his first fibs. I shall watch him closely, as I would my own
      child; and Cornish has done wisely, I think, by giving the proper
      punishment of confining him to the school-court, &amp;c., and not letting
      him go to his friends for some time. The dear boy is so affectionate, and
      has so much to work on, that there is no fear of him; only these things
      must be looked after promptly, and he must learn practically (before his
      reason and religion operate) that he gains nothing by a lie... He is very
      well, and wins one's heart in a moment...
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your affectionate Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'F. G. C.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The management was effectual, and the penitence real, for this fault never
      recurred, nor is the boy's conduct ever again censured, though the
      half-yearly reports often lament his want of zeal and exertion. Coley was
      sufficiently forward to begin Greek on his first arrival at Ottery, and
      always held a fair place for his years, but throughout his school career
      his character was not that of an idle but of an uninterested boy, who
      preferred play to work, needed all his conscience to make him industrious,
      and then was easily satisfied with his performances; naturally comparing
      them with those of other boys, instead of doing his own utmost, and giving
      himself full credit for the diligence he thought he had used. For it must
      be remembered that it was a real, not an ideal nature; not a perfect
      character, but one full of the elements of growth.
    </p>
    <p>
      A childish, childlike boy, he was now, and for many years longer,
      intensely fond of all kinds of games and sports, in which his light active
      form, great agility, and high spirit made him excel. Cricket, riding,
      running-races, all the school amusements were his delight; fireworks for
      the 5th of November sparkle with ecstasy through his letters, and he was a
      capital dancer in the Christmas parties at his London home. He had
      likewise the courage and patience sure to be needed by an active lad.
      While at Ottery he silently bore the pain of a broken collar-bone for
      three weeks, and when the accident was brought to light by his mother's
      embrace, he only said that 'he did not like to make a fuss.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Consideration for others, kindness, and sweetness of nature were always
      his leading characteristics, making him much beloved by all his
      companions, and an excellent guardian and example to his little brother,
      who soon joined him at Ottery. Indeed, the love between these two brothers
      was so deep, quiet, and fervid, that it is hard to dwell on it while 'one
      is taken and the other left.' It was at this time a rough buffeting,
      boyish affection, but it was also a love that made separation pain and
      grief, and on the part of the elder, it showed itself in careful
      protection from all harm or bullying, and there was a strong underlying
      current of tenderness, most endearing to all concerned with the boys,
      whether masters, relations, friends, or servants.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER II. BOYHOOD AT ETON. 1838&mdash;1845.
    </h2>
    <p>
      After the Christmas holidays of 1837-8, when Coley Patteson was nearly
      eleven years old, he was sent to Eton, that most beautifully situated of
      public schools, whose delightful playing fields, noble trees, broad river,
      and exquisite view of Windsor Castle give it a peculiar charm, joining the
      venerable grandeur of age to the freshness and life of youth, so as to
      rivet the affections in no common degree.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was during the head-mastership of Dr. Hawtrey that Patteson became, in
      schoolboy phrase, an Eton fellow, being boarded in the house of his uncle,
      the Rev. Edward Coleridge, one of the most popular and successful Eton
      masters. Several of his cousins were also in this house, with other boys
      who became friends of his whole life, and he was thoroughly happy there,
      although in these early days he still felt each departure from home
      severely, and seldom failed to write a mournful letter after the holidays.
      There is one, quite pathetic in its simplicity, telling his mother how he
      could not say his prayers nor fall asleep on his first night till he had
      resolutely put away the handkerchief that seemed for some reason a special
      link with home. It illustrates what all who remember him say, how
      thoroughly a childlike being he still was, though a well-grown, manly,
      high-spirited boy, quite able to take care of himself, keep his place, and
      hold his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was placed in the lower remove of the fourth form, which was then 'up
      to' the Rev. Charles Old Goodford, i.e. that was he who taught the
      division so called in school.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy was evidently well prepared, for he was often captain of his
      division, and his letters frequently tell of successes of this kind, while
      they anticipate 'Montem.'
    </p>
    <p>
      That of 1838 was a brilliant one, for Queen Victoria, then only nineteen,
      and her first year of sovereignty not yet accomplished, came from the
      Castle to be driven in an open carriage to Salt Hill and bestow her Royal
      contribution.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the throng little Patteson was pressed up so close to the Royal
      carriage that he became entangled in the wheel, and was on the point of
      being dragged under it, when the Queen, with ready presence of mind, held
      out her hand: he grasped it, and was able to regain his feet in safety,
      but did not recover his perceptions enough to make any sign of gratitude
      before the carriage passed on. He had all a boy's shyness about the
      adventure; but perhaps it served to quicken the personal loyalty which is
      an unfailing characteristic of 'Eton fellows.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Royal custom of the Sunday afternoon parade on the terrace of Windsor
      Castle for the benefit of the gazing public afforded a fine opportunity
      for cultivating this sentiment, and Coley sends an amusingly minute
      description of her Majesty's dress, evidently studied for his mother's
      benefit, even to the pink tips of her four long ostrich feathers, and
      calling to mind Chalon's water-colours of the Queen in her early youth. He
      finishes the description with a quaint little bit of moralising. 'It
      certainly is very beautiful with two bands playing on a calm, blessed
      Sunday evening, with the Queen of England and all her retinue walking
      about. It gives you an idea of the Majesty of God, who could in one short
      second turn it all into confusion. There is nothing to me more beautiful
      than the raising one's eyes to Heaven, and thinking with adoration who
      made this scene, and who could unmake it again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days later the record is of a very different scene, namely, Windsor
      Fair, when the Eton boys used to imagine they had a prescriptive right to
      make a riot and revel in the charms of misrule.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On the second day the Eton fellows always make an immense row. So at the
      signal, when a thing was acting, the boys rushed in and pulled down the
      curtain, and commenced the row. I am happy to say I was not there. There
      were a great many soldiers there, and they all took our part. The alarm
      was given, and the police came. Then there was such a rush at the police.
      Some of them tumbled over, and the rest were half-knocked down. At last
      they took in custody three of our boys, upon which every boy that was
      there (amounting to about 450) was summoned. They burst open the door,
      knocked down the police, and rescued our boys. Meantime the boys kept on
      shying rotten eggs and crackers, and there was nothing but righting and
      rushing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A startling description! But this was nothing to the wild pranks that
      lived in the traditions of the elder generation; and in a few years more
      the boys were debarred from the mischievous licence of the fair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Coley had now been nearly a year at Eton, and had proceeded through the
      lower and middle removes of the fourth form, when, on November 23, he
      achieved the success of which he thus writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rejoice! I was sent up for good yesterday at eleven o'clock school. I do
      not know what copy of verses for yet, but directly I do, I will send you a
      copy.... Goodford, when I took my ticket to be signed (for I was obliged
      to get Goodford, Abraham, and my tutor to sign it), said, "I will sign it
      most willingly," and then kept on stroking my hand, and said, "I
      congratulate you most heartily, and am very glad of it." I am the only one
      who is sent up; which is a good thing for me, as it will give me forty or
      fifty good marks in trials. I am so splitting with joy you cannot think,
      because now I have given you some proof that I have been lately sapping
      and doing pretty well. Do not, think that I am praising myself, for I am
      pretty nearly beside myself, you may suppose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      One of his cousins adds, on the same sheet: 'I must tell you it is very
      difficult to be sent up in the upper fourth form, and still more so in the
      middle remove.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The subject of the Latin verses which obtained this distinction was a
      wreath or garland, and there must have been something remarkable in them,
      for Mr. Abraham preserved a copy of them for many years. There was
      something in the sweetness and docility of the boy, and in the expression
      of his calm, gentle face, that always greatly interested the masters and
      made them rejoice in his success; and among his comrades he was a
      universal favourite. His brother joined him at Eton during the ensuing
      year, when the Queen's wedding afforded the boys another glimpse of Royal
      festivity. Their tumultuous loyalty and audacity appear in Coley's letter:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'In college, stretching from Hexter's to Mother Spier's was a magnificent
      representation of the Parthenon: there were three pillars, and a great
      thing like this (a not over-successful sketch of a pediment), with the
      Eton and Royal arms in the middle, and "Gratulatur Etona Victoria et
      Alberto" It cost £150, and there were 5,000 lamps hung on it. Throughout
      the whole day we all of us wore large white bridal favours and white
      gloves. Towards evening the clods got on Long Walk Wall; and as gentle
      means would not do, we were under the necessity of knocking some over,
      when the rest soon jumped off. However, F&mdash;&mdash; and myself
      declared we would go right into the quadrangle of the Castle, so we went
      into the middle of the road and formed a line. Soon a rocket (the signal
      that the Queen was at Slough) was let off, and then some Life Guards came
      galloping along, and one of them ran almost over me, and actually trod on
      F&mdash;-'s toe, which put him into dreadful pain for some time. Then came
      the Queen's carriage, and I thought college would have tumbled down with
      the row. The cheering was really tremendous. The whole 550 fellows all at
      once roared away. The Queen and Consort nodding and bowing, smiling, &amp;c.
      Then F&mdash;&mdash; and I made a rush to get up behind the Queen's
      carriage, but a dragoon with his horse almost knocked us over. So we ran
      by the side as well as we could, but the crowd was so immensely thick, we
      could not get on as quick as the Queen. We rushed along, knocking clean
      over all the clods we could, and rushing against the rest, and finally F&mdash;&mdash;
      and myself were the only Eton fellows that got into the quadrangle. As we
      got there, the Queen's carriage was going away. You may fancy that we were
      rather hot, running the whole way up to the Castle, besides the exertion
      of knocking over the clods and knocking at doors as we passed; but I was
      so happy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Such is bliss at twelve years old!
    </p>
    <p>
      The first half-year of 1839 had brought Patteson into the Remove, that
      large division of the school intermediate between the fourth and fifth
      forms. The work was harder, and his diligence somewhat relaxed. In fact,
      the Coley of this period and of a good while later had more heart for play
      than work. Cricket, bathing, and boating were his delight; and though his
      school-work was conscientiously accomplished, it did not interest him; and
      when he imagined himself to have been working hard and well, it was a
      thunderbolt to him to find, at the end of the half-year, that a great deal
      more had been expected of him by his tutor. It shows how candid and sweet
      his nature was, that, just as when he was a little fellow at Ottery, his
      penitent letter should contain the rebuke he had received, without
      resentment against anyone but himself:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aunt has just called me down into the drawing-room and shown me my
      character. I am stupefied at it; it is so shocking just when I most wanted
      a good one on account of mamma's health. I am ashamed to say that I can
      offer not the slightest excuse; my conduct on this occasion has been very
      bad. I expect a severe reproof from you, and pray do not send me any
      money, nor grant me the slightest [favour?]. Whilst ....., who has very
      little ability (uncle says), is, by plodding on, getting credit, I, who
      (my tutor says) have abilities, am wickedly neglecting and offending both
      my heavenly and earthly Father by my bad use of them. Aunt called me into
      the drawing-room, and very kindly showed me the excessive foolishness of
      my conduct; but from this very moment I am determined that I will not lose
      a moment, and we will see what the next three weeks will produce.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor little fellow! his language is so strong that it is almost a surprise
      to find that he was reproaching himself for no more heinous fault than not
      having worked up to the full extent of his powers! He kept his promise of
      diligence, and never again incurred reproof, but was sent up for good
      again in November. His career through the school was above the average,
      though not attaining to what was expected from his capabilities; but the
      development of his nature was slow, and therefore perhaps ultimately the
      more complete, and as yet study for its own sake did not interest him;
      indeed, his mind was singularly devoid of pleasure in classical subjects,
      though so alert in other directions.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was growing into the regular tastes of the refined, fastidious Eton
      boy; wrote of the cut of his first tail-coat that 'this is really an
      important thing;' and had grown choice in the adorning of his room and the
      binding of his books, though he never let these tastes bring him into debt
      or extravagance. His turn for art and music began to show itself, and the
      anthems at St. George's Chapel on the Sunday afternoons gave him great
      delight; and in Eton Chapel, a contemporary says, 'I well remember how he
      used to sing the Psalms with the little turns at the end of the verses,
      which I envied his being able to do.' Nor was this mere love of music, but
      devotion. Coley had daily regular readings of the Bible in his room with
      his brother, cousins, and a friend or two; but the boys were so shy about
      it that they kept an open Shakespeare on the table, with an open drawer
      below, in which the Bible was placed, and which was shut at the sound of a
      hand on the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hitherto No. 33 Bedford Square had been the only home of the Patteson
      family. The long vacations were spent sometimes with the Judge's relations
      in the Eastern counties, sometimes with Lady Patteson's in the West.
      Landwith Rectory, in Cornwall, was the home of her eldest brother, Dr.
      James Coleridge, whose daughter Sophia was always like an elder sister to
      her children, and the Vicarage of St. Mary Church, then a wild, beautiful
      seaside village, though now almost a suburb of Torquay, was held by her
      cousin, George May Coleridge; and here the brothers and sisters climbed
      the rocks, boated, fished, and ran exquisitely wild in the summer
      holidays. Christmas was spent with the Judge's mother at Ipswich, amongst
      numerous cousins, with great merriment and enjoyment such as were never
      forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      Colonel Coleridge had died in 1836, his widow in her daughter's house in
      1838, and Heath's Court had become the property of Mr. Justice Coleridge,
      who always came thither with his family as soon as the circuit was over.
      In 1841, Feniton Court, about two miles and a half from thence, was
      purchased by Judge Patteson, much to the delight of his children. It was a
      roomy, cheerful, pleasantly-situated house, with a piece of water in the
      grounds, the right of shooting over a couple of farms, and all that could
      render boy life happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Feniton was a thorough home, and already Coley's vision was, 'When I am
      vicar of Feniton, which I look forward to, but with a very distant hope, I
      should of all things like Fanny to keep house for me till I am married;'
      and again, when relating some joke with his cousins about the law-papers,
      of the Squire of Feniton, he adds: 'But the Squire of Feniton will be a
      clergyman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether this were jest or earnest, this year, 1841, brought the dawn of
      his future life. It was in that year that the Rev. George Augustus Selwyn
      was appointed to the diocese of New Zealand. Mrs. Selwyn's parents had
      always been intimate with the Patteson family, and the curacy which Mr.
      Selwyn had held up to this time was at Windsor, so that the old Etonian
      tie of brotherhood was drawn closer by daily intercourse. Indeed, it was
      from the first understood that Eton, with the wealth that her children
      enjoyed in such large measure, should furnish 'nerves and sinews' to the
      war which her son was about to wage with the darkness of heathenism, thus
      turning the minds of the boys to something beyond either their studies or
      their sports.
    </p>
    <p>
      On October 31, the Rev. Samuel Wilberforce, then Archdeacon of Surrey, and
      since Bishop of Oxford and of Winchester, preached in the morning at New
      Windsor parish church, and the newly-made Bishop of New Zealand in the
      afternoon. Coley was far more affected than he then had power to express.
      He says: 'I heard Archdeacon Wilberforce in the morning, and the Bishop in
      the evening, though I was forced to stand all the time. It was beautiful
      when he talked of his going out to found a church, and then to die
      neglected and forgotten. All the people burst out crying, he was so very
      much beloved by his parishioners. He spoke of his perils, and putting his
      trust in God; and then, when, he had finished, I think I never heard
      anything like the sensation, a kind of feeling that if it had not been on
      so sacred a spot, all would have exclaimed "God bless him!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      The text of this memorable sermon was, 'Thine heart shall be enlarged,
      because the abundance of the sea shall be converted unto thee, the forces
      also of the Gentiles shall come unto thee.' (Is. lx. 5.) Many years later
      we shall find a reference to this, the watchword of the young hearer's
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Archdeacon's sermon was from John xvii. 20, 21: 'Neither pray I for
      these alone, but for them also which shall believe on Me through their
      word; that they all may be One, as Thou, Father, art in Me, and I in Thee,
      that they also may be One in Us: that the world may believe that Thou hast
      sent Me.' And here again we find one of the watchwords of Coley's life,
      for nothing so dwelt with him and so sustained him as the sense of unity,
      whether with these at home in England, or with those in the inner home of
      the Saints. When the sermon concluded with the words, 'As we are giving of
      our best, as our Church is giving of her best, in sending forth from her
      own bosom these cherished and chosen sons, so let there go forth from
      every one of us a consenting offering; let us give this day largely, in a
      spirit of self-sacrifice, as Christian men, to Christ our Lord, and He
      will graciously accept and bless the offerings that we make'&mdash;the
      preacher could little guess that among the lads who stood in the aisle was
      one in whom was forming the purpose of offering his very self also.
    </p>
    <p>
      For at that time Coleridge Patteson was receiving impressions that became
      the seed of his future purpose, and the eyes of his spirit were seeing
      greater things than the Vicarage of Feniton. Indeed, the subject was not
      entirely new to him, for Edward Coleridge was always deeply interested in
      missions, and had done his best to spread the like feeling, often
      employing the willing services of his pupils in copying letters from
      Australia, Newfoundland, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Bishop of New Zealand came to take leave, he said, half in
      earnest, half in playfulness, 'Lady Patteson, will you give me Coley?' She
      started, but did not say no; and when, independently of this, her son told
      her that it was his greatest wish to go with the Bishop, she replied that
      if he kept that wish when he grew up he should have her blessing and
      consent.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there was no further mention of the subject. The sisters knew what had
      passed, but it was not spoken of to his father till long after, when the
      wish had become purpose. Meantime the boy's natural development put these
      visions into the background. He was going on with ordinary work and play,
      enjoying the pageantry of the christening of the Prince of Wales, and
      cheering himself hoarse and half-frantic when the King of Prussia came to
      see the school; then on his father's birthday writing with a 'hand quite
      trembling with delight' to announce what he knew would be the most welcome
      of birthday presents, namely, the news that he had been 'sent up' for a
      very good copy of seventy-nine verses, 'all longs, on Napoleon e Seylhia
      profugus, passage of Beresina, and so forth.' His Latin verses were his
      strong point, and from this time forward he was frequently sent up, in all
      twenty-five times, an almost unprecedented number.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact he was entering on a fresh stage of life, from the little boy to
      the lad, and the period was marked by his Confirmation on May 26, 1842.
      Here is his account both of it and of his first Communion. The soberness
      and old-fashioned simplicity of expression are worth remarking as tokens
      of the quietly dutiful tone of mind, full of reverence and sincere desire
      to do right, and resting in the consciousness of that desire, while
      steadily advancing towards higher things than he then understood. It was a
      life and character where advancement with each fresh imparting of
      spiritual grace can be traced more easily than usual.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is observable too that the boy's own earnestness and seriousness of
      mind seem to have to him supplied the apparent lack of external aids to
      devotional feeling, though the Confirmation was conducted in the brief,
      formal, wholesale manner which some in after-life have confessed to have
      been a disappointment and a drawback after their preparation and
      anticipation:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will know that I have been confirmed to-day, and I dare say you all
      thought of me. The ceremony was performed by the Bishop of Lincoln, and I
      hope that I have truly considered the great duty and responsibility I have
      taken upon myself, and have prayed for strength to support me in the
      execution of all those duties. I shall of course receive the Sacrament the
      first time I have an opportunity, and I trust worthily. I think there must
      have been 200 confirmed. The Bishop gave us a very good charge afterwards,
      recommending us all to take pattern by the self-denial and true devotion
      of the Bishop of New Zealand, on whom he spoke for a long-while. The whole
      ceremony was performed with the greatest decorum, and in the retiring and
      coming up of the different sets there was very little noise, and not the
      slightest confusion. I went up with the first set, and the Bishop came
      round and put his hands on the heads of the whole set (about forty), and
      then going into the middle pronounced the prayer. The responses were all
      made very audibly, and everyone seemed to be impressed with a proper
      feeling of the holiness and seriousness of the ceremony. After all the
      boys had been confirmed about seven other people were confirmed, of whom
      two were quite as much as thirty, I should think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 5.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have just returned from receiving the Holy Sacrament in Chapel. I
      received it from Hawtrey and Okes, but there were three other ministers
      besides. There was a large attendance, seventy or eighty or more Eton boys
      alone. I used the little book that mamma sent me, and found the little
      directions and observations very useful. I do truly hope and believe that
      I received it worthily... It struck me more than ever (although I had
      often read it before) as being such a particularly impressive and
      beautiful service. I never saw anything conducted with greater decorum.
      Not a single fellow spoke except at the responses, which were well and
      audibly made, and really every fellow seemed to be really impressed with
      the awfulness of the ceremony, and the great wickedness of not piously
      receiving it, I do not know whether there will be another Sacrament here
      before the holidays, or whether I shall receive it with you at Feniton
      next time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      No doubt the whole family (except the yet unconfirmed younger brother) did
      so receive it in the summer holidays, the last that were to be spent in
      the full joy of an unbroken household circle, and, as has been already
      said, one of unusual warmth and kindliness, binding closely into it all
      who were connected therewith. Each governess became a dear friend; the
      servants were deeply attached, and for the most part fixtures; and one,
      the nurse already mentioned, says she never recollects a time when Master
      Coley had to leave Feniton for London without his offering the servants to
      take charge of their messages or parcels. All dependents and poor people,
      in fact whatever came under Judge Patteson's genial, broad-hearted
      influence, were treated with the like kindness, and everything alive about
      the place seemed full of happiness and affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      The centre of this bright home had always been the mother, fervently loved
      by all who came in contact with her, fragile in health, and only going
      through her duties and exertions so cheerily by the quiet fortitude of a
      brave woman. In the course of this year, 1842, some severe spasmodic
      attacks made her family anxious; and as the railway communication was
      still incomplete, so that the journey to London was a great fatigue to an
      invalid, her desire to spend Christmas in Devonshire led to her remaining
      there with her daughters, when her husband returned to London on the
      commencement of term.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been gone little more than a fortnight when, on November 17, a more
      severe attack came on; and though she was soon relieved from it, she never
      entirely rallied, and was firmly convinced that this was 'the beginning of
      the end.' Her husband was summoned home, Judge Coleridge taking a double
      portion of his work to set him at liberty, and the truth began to dawn on
      the poor boys at Eton. 'Do you really mean that there is anything so very,
      very dreadful to fear?' is Coley's cry in his note one day, and the next,
      'Oh, Papa, you cannot mean that we may never, unless we come down to
      Feniton, see mamma again. I cannot bear the thought of it. I trust most
      earnestly that it is not the case. Do not hide anything from me, it would
      make me more wretched afterwards. If it shall (which I trust in His
      infinite mercy it will not) please Almighty God to take our dearest mamma
      unto Himself, may He give us grace to bear with fortitude and resolution
      the dreadful loss, and may we learn to live with such holiness here that
      we may hereafter be united for ever in Heaven.' This letter is marked
      twice over 'Only for Papa,' but the precaution was needless, for Lady
      Patteson was accustoming all those about her to speak freely and naturally
      of what she felt to be approaching. Her eldest brother, Dr. Coleridge, was
      greatly comforting her by his ministrations, and her sons were sent for;
      but as she did not ask for them, it was thought best that they should
      remain at their Uncle Frank's, at Ottery, until, on the evening of Sunday,
      the 27th, a great change took place, making it evident that the end was
      drawing near.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sufferer was told that the boys were come, and was asked if she would
      see them. She was delighted, and they came in, restraining their grief
      while she kissed and blessed them, and then, throwing her arms round their
      father, thanked him for having brought her darling boys for her to see
      once more. It was not long before she became unconscious; and though all
      the family were watching and praying round her, she showed no further sign
      of recognition, as she gradually and tranquilly fell asleep in the course
      of the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      To his cousin, Mrs. Martyn, Coley wrote the following letter just after
      the funeral:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'We only came down from our rooms to go to church, and directly the
      beautiful service was over we went upstairs again. I need not tell you
      what we then felt, and now do feel. It is a very dreadful loss to us all;
      but we have been taught by that dear mother, who has been now taken from
      us, that it is not fit to grieve for those who die in the Lord, "for they
      rest from their labours." She is now, we may safely trust, a blessed saint
      in Heaven, far removed from all cares and anxieties; and, instead of
      spending our time in useless tears and wicked repinings, we should rather
      learn to imitate her example and virtues, that, when we die, we may sleep
      in Him as our hope is this our sister doth, and may be finally united with
      her in Heaven. Yesterday was a day of great trial to us all: I felt when I
      was standing by the grave as if I must have burst.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Papa bears up beautifully, and is a pattern of submission to us all.
      We are much more happy than you could suppose, for, thank God, we are
      certain she is happy, far happier than she could be on earth. She said
      once, "I wonder I wish to leave my dearest John and the children, and this
      sweet place, but yet I do wish it" so lively was her faith and trust in
      the merits of her Saviour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A deep and permanent impression was left upon the boy's mind, as will be
      seen by his frequent references to what he had then witnessed; but for the
      present he was thought to be less depressed than the others, and recovered
      his natural tone of spirits sooner than his brother and sisters. The whole
      family spent their mournful Christmas at Thorverton Rectory, with Dr. and
      Mrs. Coleridge and their daughter Fanny, their chief comforters and
      fellow-sufferers; and then returned to London. The Judge's eldest
      daughter, Joanna, who had always been entirely one with the rest, had to
      take her place at the head of the household. In her own words, 'It was
      trying for a lad of fifteen and a half, but he was very good, and allowed
      me to take the command in a way that few boys would nave done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has struck me as remarkable that friends and relations have again and
      again spoken of different incidents as 'turning-points' in Coley's life.
      If he had literally turned at them all, his would have been a most
      revolving career; but I believe the fact to have been that he never turned
      at all, for his face was always set the right way, but that each of these
      was a point of impulse setting him more vigorously on his way, and
      stirring up his faithful will. Such moments were those of admission to
      religious ordinances, to him no dead letters but true receptions of grace;
      and he likewise found incitements in sorrows, in failures, in reproofs.
      Everything sank deeply, and his mind was already assuming the
      introspective character that it had throughout the period of growth and
      formation. One of his Eton companions, four years younger, has since
      spoken of the remarkable impression of inwardness Patteson made on him
      even at this time, saying that whenever he was taken by surprise he seemed
      to be only ruminating till he spoke or was spoken to, and then there was
      an instant return to the outer world and ready attention to whatever was
      in hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spring found him of course in the full tide of Eton interests. The
      sixth and upper fifth forms, to the latter of which he had by this time
      attained, may contend in the public examination for the Newcastle
      scholarship, just before the Easter holidays, and it is a great testimony
      to a boy's ability and industry if his name appears among the nine select
      for their excellence. This time, 1843, Coley, who was scarcely sixteen,
      had of course but little chance, but he had the pleasure of announcing
      that his great friend, Edmund Bastard, a young Devonshire squire, was
      among the 'select,' and he says of himself: 'You will, as I said before,
      feel satisfied that I did my best, but it was an unlucky examination for
      me. It has done me a great deal of good in one way. It has enabled me to
      see where I am particularly deficient, viz. general knowledge of history,
      and a thorough acquaintance with Greek and Roman customs, law courts and
      expressions, and Greek and Roman writers. I do not find myself wanting in
      making out a stiff bit of Greek or Latin if I have time, but I must read
      History chiefly this year, and then I hope to be selected next time. My
      tutor is not at all disappointed in me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This spring, 1843, Patteson became one of the Eleven, a perilously
      engrossing position for one who, though never slurring nor neglecting his
      studies, did not enjoy anything so much as the cricket-field. However,
      there the weight of his character, backed by his popularity and
      proficiency in all games and exercises, began to be a telling influence.
    </p>
    <p>
      On November 2, 1843, when the anniversary of his mother's death was coming
      round, he writes to his eldest sister:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had not indeed forgotten this time twelvemonth, and especially that
      awful Sunday night when we stood round dear mamma's bed in such misery. I
      never supposed at that time that we could ever be happy and merry again,
      but yet it has been so with me; and though very often the recollection of
      that night has come upon me, and the whole scene in its misery has passed
      before me, I hope I have never forgotten, that though a loss to us, it was
      a gain to her, and we ought rather to be thankful than sorrowful.... By
      the bye, I do not really want a book-case much, and you gave me the "Irish
      Stories," and I have not yet been sent up. I would rather not have a
      present, unless the Doctor means to give me an exercise. Do not lay this
      down to pride; but you know I was not sent up last half, and if this
      passes, a blank again, I do not deserve any fresh presents.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This piece of self-discipline was crowned by joyous notices of being 'sent
      up for good' and 'for play' in the next half; when also occurs a letter
      showing a spirit of submission to a restriction not fully understood:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tuesday evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;Hearing that "Israel in Egypt" was to be
      performed at Exeter Hall on Friday night, I went and asked my tutor
      whether he had any objection to my running up that night to hear it, and
      coming back the next morning, quite early at six. My tutor said that,
      without any absurd feelings on the matter, he should not think himself of
      going to such a thing in Lent. "It was not," he said, "certainly like
      going to the play, or any of those sort of places," but he did not like
      the idea of going at all. Do you think that there was any harm in the
      wish?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not ask because I wish you to write and say I may go, but because I
      wish to learn whether my asking at all was wrong. Even if you have no
      objection, I certainly shall not go, because for such a trifling thing to
      act in opposition to my tutor, even with your consent, would be very
      foolish.
    </p>
    <p>
      '...Good-bye, my dearest Father. God bless you, says your affectionate and
      dutiful Son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      This year, 1844, the name of Patteson appeared among the 'select.' 'I
      shall expect a jolly holiday for my reward,' he merrily says, when
      announcing it to his sisters. He had begun to join the Debating Society at
      Eton, and for a while was the president. One of the other members says,
      'His speeches were singularly free from the bombast and incongruous matter
      with which Eton orators from fifteen to eighteen are apt to interlard
      their declamations. He spoke concisely, always to the point, and with
      great fluency and readiness. A reputation for good sense and judgment made
      his authority of great weight in the school, and his independent spirit
      led him to choose, amongst his most intimate friends and associates, two
      collegers, who ultimately became Newcastle scholars and medallists.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That the most popular oppidan of his day should have utterly ignored the
      supposed inferiority of the less wealthy section of the school, and looked
      on worth and high character as none the worse for being clothed in a
      coarse serge gown, is a fact seemingly trivial to ordinary readers, but
      very noticeable to Eton men. As a rank and file collegian myself, and well
      remembering the Jew and Samaritan state that prevailed between oppidans
      and collegers, I remember with pride that Patteson did so much to level
      the distinctions that worked so mischievously to the school. His
      cheerfulness and goodness were the surest guarantee for good order amongst
      his schoolfellows. There was no Puritanism in him, he was up to any fun,
      sung his song at a cricket or foot-ball dinner as joyfully as the youngest
      of the party; but if mirth sank into coarseness and ribaldry, that instant
      Patteson's conduct was fearless and uncompromising....'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here follows an account of an incident which occurred at the dinner
      annually given by the eleven of cricket and the eight of the boats at the
      hotel at Slough.
    </p>
    <p>
      A custom had arisen among some of the boys of singing offensive songs on
      these occasions, and Coley, who, as second of the eleven, stood in the
      position of one of the entertainers, gave notice beforehand that he was
      not going to tolerate anything of the sort. One of the boys, however,
      began to sing something objectionable. Coley called out, 'If that does not
      stop, I shall leave the room;' and as no notice was taken, he actually
      went away with a few other brave lads. He afterwards found that, as he
      said, 'fellows who could not understand such feelings thought him
      affected;' and he felt himself obliged to send word to the captain, that
      unless an apology was made, he should leave the eleven&mdash;no small
      sacrifice, considering what cricket was to him; but the gentlemanlike and
      proper feeling of the better style of boys prevailed, and the eleven knew
      their own interests too well to part with him, so the apology was made,
      and he retained his position. The affair came to the knowledge of two of
      the masters, Mr. Dupuis and Mr. Abraham, and they gratified their warm
      sense of approbation by giving Patteson a bat, though he never knew the
      reason why, as we shall see in one of his last letters to one of the
      donors.
    </p>
    <p>
      His prowess at cricket must be described in the words of his cousin,
      Arthur Duke Coleridge, who was at this time in college: 'He was by common
      consent one of the best, if not the best, of the cricketers of the school.
      The second year of his appearance at Lord's Cricket Ground was the most
      memorable, as far as his actual services were concerned, of all the
      matches he played against Harrow and Winchester. He was sent in first in
      the Harrow match; the bowling was steady and straight, but Patteson's
      defence was admirable. He scored fifty runs, in which there was but one
      four, and by steady play completely broke the neck of the bowling. Eton
      won the match easily, Patteson making a brilliant catch at point, when the
      last Harrow man retired. Full of confidence, Eton began the Winchester
      match. Victory for a long time seemed a certainty for Eton; but Kidding,
      the Winchester captain, played an uphill game so fiercely that the bowling
      had to be repeatedly changed. Our eleven were disorganised, and the
      captain had so plainly lost heart, that Patteson resolved on urging him to
      discontinue his change of bowling, and begin afresh with the regular
      bowlers. The captain allowed Patteson to have his way, and the game,
      though closely contested, was saved. His powers of defence were indeed
      remarkable. I saw the famous professional cricketer Lillywhite play once
      at Eton in his time, and becoming almost irritated at the stubbornness and
      tenacity with which Coley held his wicket. After scoring twenty and odd
      times in the first, and forty in the second innings, (not out), Lillywhite
      said, 'Mr. Patteson, I should like to bowl to you on Lord's Ground, and it
      would be different.' 'Oh, of course,' modestly answered Coley; 'I know you
      would have me out directly there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The next cricket season this champion was disabled by a severe sprain of
      the wrist, needing leeches, splints, and London advice. It was when fixing
      a day for coming up to town on this account that he mentioned the
      occurrence of the previous year in a letter to his father:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have a great object in shirking the oppidan dinner. I not only hate the
      idea of paying a sovereign for a dinner, but last year, at the cricket
      dinner, I had a great row, which I might possibly incur another time, and
      I wish very much to avoid.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, after briefly stating what had passed, he adds: 'At this dinner,
      where the captain of the boats manages it, I should be his guest, and
      therefore any similar act of mine would make matters worse. You can
      therefore see why I wish Tuesday to be the day for my coming up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The sprain prevented his playing in the matches at Lord's that summer,
      though he was well enough to be reckoned on as a substitute in case any of
      the actual players had been disabled. Possibly his accident was good for
      his studies, for this was a year of much progress and success; and though
      only seventeen, he had two offers of tutorship for the holidays, from Mr.
      Dugdale and the Marchioness of Bath. The question where his university
      life was to be spent began to come forward. Studentships at Christchurch
      were then in the gift of the Canons, and a nomination would have been
      given him by Dr. Pusey if he had not been too young to begin to reside, so
      that it was thought better that he should wait and go up for the Balliol
      scholarship in the autumn.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the October of 1844 he describes to his eldest sister the reception of
      King Louis Philippe at Eton, accompanied by the Queen, Prince Albert, and
      the Duke of Wellington:
    </p>
    <p>
      'The King wore a white great coat, and looked a regular jolly old fellow.
      He has white frizzle hair and large white whiskers. The former, I suspect,
      is a wig. The cheering was tremendous, but behind the royal carriage the
      cheers were always redoubled where the old Duke, the especial favourite
      hero, rode. When they got off their horses in the schoolyard, the Duke
      being by some mistake behindhand, was regularly hustled in the crowd, with
      no attendant near him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was the first to perceive him, and springing forward, pushed back the
      fellows on each side, who did not know whom they were tumbling against,
      and, taking off my hat, cheered with might and main. The crowd hearing the
      cheer, turned round, and then there was the most glorious sight I ever
      saw. The whole school encircled the Duke, who stood entirely alone in the
      middle for a minute or two, and I rather think we did cheer him. At last,
      giving about one touch to his hat, he began to move on, saying, "Get on,
      boys, get on." I never saw such enthusiasm here; the masters rushed into
      the crowd round him, waving their caps, and shouting like any of us. As
      for myself, I was half-mad and roared myself hoarse in about five minutes.
      The King and Prince kept their hats off the whole time, incessantly
      bowing, and the King speaking. He walked arm-in-arm with the Queen, who
      looked well and very much pleased. The Duke walked with that Grand Duchess
      whose name you may see in the papers, for I can't spell it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Very characteristic this both of Eton's enthusiasm for the hero, and of
      the hero's undemonstrative way of receiving it, which must have somewhat
      surprised his foreign companions.
    </p>
    <p>
      A week or two later, in November 1844, came the competition for the
      Balliol scholarship, but Coley was not successful. On the Saturday he
      writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The scholarship was decided last night; Smith, a Rugby man, got the
      first, and Grant, a Harrow man, the second.... I saw the Master
      afterwards; he said, "I cannot congratulate you on success, Mr. Patteson,
      but you have done yourself great credit, and passed a very respectable
      examination. I shall be happy to allow you to enter without a future
      examination, as we are all quite satisfied of your competency." He said
      that I had better come up to matriculate next term, but should not have
      another examination. We were in about nine hours a day, three hours in the
      evening; I thought the papers very hard; we had no Latin elegiacs or
      lyrics, which was rather a bore for the Eton lot. I am very glad I have
      been up now, but I confess it was the longest week I ever recollect. I
      feel quite seedy after a whole week without exercise.... The very first
      paper, the Latin Essay (for which we were in six hours), was the worst of
      all my papers, and must have given the examiners an unfavourable
      impression to start with. The rest of my papers, with the exception of the
      Greek prose and the critical paper, I did very fairly, I think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A greater disappointment than this was, however, in store for Coley. He
      failed in attaining a place among the 'select,' at his last examination
      for the Newcastle, in the spring of 1845. Before the list was given out he
      had written to his father that the Divinity papers were far too easy, with
      no opportunity for a pretty good scholar to show his knowledge, 'the
      ridicule of every one of the masters,' but the other papers very
      difficult.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Altogether,' he adds, 'the scholarship has been to me unsatisfactory. I
      had worked hard at Greek prose, had translated and re-translated a good
      deal of Xenophon, Plato, and some Demosthenes, yet to my disappointment we
      had no paper of Greek prose, a thing that I believe never occurred before,
      and which is generally believed to test a boy's knowledge well. My Iambics
      were good, I expect, though not without two bad faults. In fact, I cannot
      look back upon a single paper, except my Latin prose, without a multitude
      of oversights and faults presenting themselves to me... I almost dread the
      giving out of the select. Think if my name was not there. It is some
      consolation that Hawtrey, yesterday, in giving me an exercise for good,
      asked how I liked the examination. Upon my saying, "It was not such a one
      as I expected, and that I had done badly," he said "That is not at all
      what I hear," but this cannot go for much... I want exercise very badly,
      and my head is very thick and stupid, as I fear this last paper must show
      the examiners.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The omission of Patteson's name from among the select was a great
      mortification, not only to himself but his father, though the Judge kindly
      wrote:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not distress yourself about this unfortunate failure as to the
      Newcastle. We cannot always command our best exertions when we want to do
      so, and you were not able on this occasion to bring forward all you knew.
      It was not from idleness or want of attention to school business. Work on
      regularly, and you will do well at Oxford. I have a line from your tutor,
      who seems to think that it was in Juvenal, Cicero and Livy, and in
      Iambics, that the faults principally were. I cannot say that I am not
      disappointed; but I know so well the uncertainty of examinations and how
      much depends on the sort of papers put, and on the spirits and feeling one
      is in, that I am never surprised at such results, and I do not blame you
      at all.' Those who knew Coley best agree in thinking that this reverse
      took great effect in rousing his energies. This failure evidently made him
      take himself to task, for in the summer he writes to his father:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      There are things which have occurred during my stay at Eton which cannot
      but make me blame myself. I mean principally a want of continuous
      industry. I have perhaps for one half or two (for instance, last Easter
      half) worked hard, but I have not been continuously improving, and adding
      knowledge to knowledge, half by half. I feel it now, because I am sure
      that I know very little more than I did at Easter. One thing I am improved
      in, which is writing themes; and you will be pleased to know that Hawtrey
      has again given me the School Theme prize, worth 5L., which counts for
      another sent up exercise.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In reply, the Judge, on July 22, wrote in the midst of the circuit, from
      Stafford, a letter that might well do a son's heart good:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I rejoice in your finale, and shall be glad to see the exercise. You have
      gone through Eton with great credit and reputation as a scholar, and what
      is of more consequence, with perfect character as to truth and conduct in
      every way. This can only be accounted for by the assistance of the good
      Spirit of God first stirred up in you by the instructions of your clear
      mother, than whom a more excellent human being never existed. I pray God
      that this assistance may continue through life, and keep you always in the
      same good course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days more and the boy's departure from the enthusiastically loved
      school had taken place, together with his final exploits as captain in the
      cricket-field, where too he formed an acquaintance with Mr. C. S.
      Roundell, the captain of the Harrow eleven, which ripened into a lifelong
      friendship.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may suppose,' writes Coley, 'that I was really very miserable at
      leaving Eton. I did not, I assure you, without thanking God for the many
      advantages I have there enjoyed and praying for His forgiveness for my sin
      in neglecting so many. We began our match with Harrow yesterday, by going
      in first; we got 261 runs by tremendous hitting, Harrow 32, and followed
      up and got 55: Eton thus winning in one innings by 176 runs, the most
      decided beating ever known at cricket.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So ended Coleridge Patteson's school life, not reaching to all he saw that
      it might have been; but unstained, noble, happy, honourable, and full of
      excellent training for the future man. No sting was left to poison the
      fail-memory of youth; but many a friendship had been formed on foundations
      of esteem, sympathy, and kindness which endured through life, standing all
      tests of separation and difference.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III. UNDERGRADUATE LIFE AT BALLIOL AND JOURNEYS ON THE CONTINENT.
    </h2>
    <h5>
      1845&mdash;1852.
    </h5>
    <p>
      University life is apt to exert a strong influence upon a man's career. It
      comes at the age at which there is probably the most susceptibility to new
      impressions. The physical growth is over, and the almost exclusive craving
      for exercise and sport is lessening; there is more voluntary inclination
      to intellectual application, and the mind begins to get fair play. There
      is also a certain liberty of choice as to the course to be taken and the
      persons who shall become guides, and this renders the pupilage a more
      willing and congenial connection than that of the schoolboy: nor is there
      so wide a distance in age and habits between tutor and pupil as between
      master and scholar.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it is that there are few more influential persons in the country than
      leading University men, for the impress they leave is on the flower of
      English youth, at the very time of life when thought has come, but action
      is not yet required. At the same time the whole genius loti, the venerable
      buildings with their traditions, the eminence secured by intellect and
      industry, the pride that is taken in the past and its great men, first as
      belonging to the University, and next to the individual college, all give
      the members thereof a sense of a dignity to keep up and of honour to
      maintain, and a certainty of appreciation and fellow-feeling from the
      society with which they are connected.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Oxford of Patteson's day was yet untouched by the hand of reformation.
      The Colleges were following or eluding the statutes of their founders,
      according to the use that had sprung up, but there had been a great
      quickening into activity of intellect, and the religious influences were
      almost at their strongest. It was true that the master mind had been lost
      to the Church of England, but the men whom he and his companions had
      helped to form were the leaders among the tutors, and the youths who were
      growing up under them were forming plans of life, which many have nobly
      carried out, of unselfish duty and devotion in their several stations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Balliol had, under the mastership of Dr. Jenkyns, attained preeminence for
      success in the schools, and for the high standard required of its members,
      who formed 'the most delightful society, the very focus of the most
      stimulating life of the University,' within those unpretending walls, not
      yet revivified and enlarged.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Coleridge Patteson came to reside in the Michaelmas term of 1845;
      beginning with another attempt for the scholarship, in which he was again
      unsuccessful, being bracketed immediately after the fourth with another
      Etonian, namely, Mr. Hornby, the future head-master, His friend, Edmund
      Bastard, several of his relations, and numerous friends had preceded him;
      and he wrote to his sister Fanny:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'You cannot think what a nice set of acquaintance I am gradually slipping
      into. Palmer and myself take regular familiar walks; and Riddell, another
      fellow who is the pet of the College, came up the other evening and sat
      with me, and I breakfast with them, and dine, &amp;c. The only
      inconvenience attaching itself to such a number of men is, that I have to
      give several parties, and as I meant to get them over before Lent, I have
      been coming out rather strong in that line lately, as the pastry-cook's
      bill for desserts will show in good time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been asked to play cricket in the University eleven, and have
      declined, though not without a little struggle, but cricket here,
      especially to play in such matches as against Cambridge, &amp;c., entails
      almost necessarily idleness and expense.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The struggle was hardly a little one to a youth whose fame in the cricket
      field stood so high, and who was never happy or healthy without strong
      bodily exercise. Nor had he outgrown his taste for this particular sport.
      Professor Edwin Palmer (alluded to above) describes him as at this time 'a
      thorough public schoolboy, with a full capacity for enjoying undergraduate
      society and undergraduate amusements, though with so fond a recollection
      of Eton that to some of us he hardly seemed to appreciate Oxford
      sufficiently.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, Mr. Roundell (his late adversary at Lord's) says: 'He was a
      reluctant and half-interested sojourner was ever looking back to the
      playing-fields of Eton, or forward to the more congenial sphere of a
      country parish.' So it was his prime pleasure and glory that he thus
      denied himself, though not with total abstinence, for he played
      occasionally. I remember hearing of a match at Ottery, where he was one of
      an eleven of Coleridge kith and kin against the rest of Devon. His
      reputation in the field was such that, many years later, when he chanced
      to be at Melbourne at the same time with the champion English eleven, one
      of the most noted professional cricketers, meeting him in the street,
      addressed him confidentially, 'I know, sir, the Bishop of Melbourne does
      not approve of cricket for clergymen in public, but if you would meet me
      in private at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and let me give you a few
      balls, it would be a great satisfaction!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Some resolution thus was required to prevent cricket from becoming a
      tyrant, as so often befalls those whose skill renders them valuable.
      Tennis became Coley's chief recreation, enabling him to work off his
      superfluous energy at the expense of far less time than cricket matches
      require, and in this, as in everything active, he soon excelled.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the desserts upon which the young men in turn were spending a good
      deal out of mere custom, harmlessly enough, but unnecessarily; as soon as
      the distress of the potato famine in Ireland became known, Patteson said,
      'I am not at all for giving up these pleasant meetings, but why not give
      up the dessert?' So the agreement was made that the cost should for the
      present be made over to the 'Irish fund.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Another friend of this period, now well known as Principal Shairp of St.
      Andrews', was then in the last year of a five years' residence. He has
      been kind enough to favour me with the following effective sketch of Coley
      as an undergraduate:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Patteson as he was at Oxford, comes back to me, as the representative of
      the very best kind of Etonian, with much good that he had got from Eton,
      with something better, not to be got at Eton or any other school. He had
      those pleasant manners and that perfect ease in dealing with men and with
      the world which are the inheritance of Eton, without the least tincture of
      worldliness. I remember well the look he then had, his countenance massive
      for one so young, with good sense and good feeling, in fact, full of
      character. For it was character more than special ability which marked him
      out from others, and made him, wherever he was, whether in cricket in
      which he excelled, or in graver things, a centre round which others
      gathered. The impression he left on me was of quiet, gentle strength and
      entire purity, a heart that loved all things true and honest and pure, and
      that would always be found on the side of these. We did not know, probably
      he did not know himself, the fire of devotion that lay within him, but
      that was soon to kindle and make him what he afterwards became.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In truth he was taking deep interest in the religious movement, though in
      the quiet unexcited way of those to whom such doctrines were only the
      filling out of the teachings of their childhood. He was present at that
      sermon on the 'Entire Absolution of the Penitent,' with which, on the
      Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, 1846, Dr. Pusey broke his enforced silence
      of three years.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same evening Coley wrote to his sister Fanny:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have just returned from University sermon, where I have been listening
      with great delight to Pusey's sermon on the Keys for nearly two hours. His
      immense benevolence beams through the extreme power of his arguments, and
      the great research of his inquiry into all the primitive writings is a
      most extraordinary matter, and as for the humility and prayerful spirit in
      which it was composed, you fancied he must have been on his knees the
      whole time he was writing it. I went early to Christ Church, where it was
      preached, and, after pushing through such a crowd as usually blocks up the
      entrance into Exeter Hall, I found on getting into the Cathedral that
      every seat was occupied. However, standing to hear such a man was no great
      exertion, and I never was so interested before. It will probably be
      printed, so that you will have no occasion for any remarks of mine. It is
      sufficient that he preached the doctrine to my mind in an invincible
      manner.' The letter has a postscript&mdash;'Easter vacation will be from
      three weeks to a month. Hurrah! say I; now a precious deal more glad am I
      to leave Oxford for the holidays than Eton, though Feniton is better than
      either.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Even in the last undergraduate year, the preference for Eton remained as
      strong as ever. Coley intended to remain at Oxford to read for honours
      through great part of the Long vacation; and after refreshing himself with
      a run to Eton, he wrote:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now for a very disagreeable contrast, but still I shall find great
      interest in my work as I go on, and reading books for the second or third
      time is light work compared to the first stodge at them. I am, however,
      behindhand with my work, in spite of not having wasted much time here....
      I really don't see my way through the mass of work before me, and half
      repent having to go up for class.
    </p>
    <p>
      '...I went to the opera on Tuesday, but was too much taken up by Eton to
      rave about it, though Grisi's singing and acting were out and out; but, in
      sober earnest, I think if one was to look out simply for one's own selfish
      pleasure in this world, staying at Eton in the summer is paradise. I
      certainly have not been more happy, if so happy, for years, and they need
      no convincing there of my doting attachment to the place. I go down to
      Eton on Election Saturday and Sunday for my last enjoyment of it this
      year; but if I am well and nourishing in the summer of 1849, and all goes
      right with me, it is one of the jolliest prospects of my emancipation from
      the schools to think of a month at Eton. Oh! it's hard work reading for
      it, I can tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus Coley Patteson's work throughout his undergraduate three years was,
      so to speak, against the grain, though it was more diligent and determined
      than it had been at Eton. He viewed this as the least satisfactory period
      of his life, and probably it was that in which he was doing the most
      violence to his likings. It struck those who had known him at Eton that he
      had 'shaken off the easy-going, comfortable, half-sluggish habit of mind'
      attributed to him there, and to be earnestly preparing for the future work
      of life. His continued interest in Missions was shown by his assisting to
      collect subscriptions for the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.
      In fact, his charm of manner, and his way of taking for granted that
      people meant to do what they ought, made him a good collector, and he had
      had a good deal of practice at Eton in keeping up the boys to the
      subscription for the stained glass of the east window of the Chapel which
      they had undertaken to give.
    </p>
    <p>
      That Long vacation of study was a great effort, and he felt it tedious and
      irksome, all the more from a weakness that affected his eyelids, and,
      though it did not injure his sight, often rendered reading and writing
      painful. Slight ailments concurred with other troubles and vexations to
      depress his spirits; and besides these outward matters, he seems to have
      had a sense of not coming up to his ideal. His standard was pitched higher
      than that of most men: his nature was prone to introspection, and his
      constitutional inertness rendered it so difficult for him to live up to
      his own views, that he was continually dissatisfied with himself; and
      this, in spite of his sweet unselfish temper, gave his manner at home an
      irritability, and among strangers a reserve&mdash;the very reverse of the
      joyous merry nature which used to delight in balls, parties, and gaieties.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though an ardent friend, he became disinclined to enter into general
      society; nor was the distaste ever entirely overcome, though he never
      failed to please by the charm alike of natural manner and of Christian
      courtesy; the same spirit of gentleness and kindness very soon prevailed
      in subduing, even in family life, any manifestation of the tender points
      of a growing character.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the autumn of 1849, he obtained a second class in the school of Literae
      humaniores, a place that fairly represented his abilities as compared with
      those of others. When the compulsory period of study was at an end, his
      affection for Oxford and enjoyment of all that it afforded increased
      considerably, though he never seems to have loved the University quite as
      well as Eton.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he intended to take Holy Orders, he did not give up his residence
      there; but his first use of his leisure was to take a journey on the
      Continent with his brother and Mr. Hornby. It was then that, as he
      afterwards wrote, his real education began, partly from the opening of his
      mind by the wonders of nature and art, and partly from the development of
      his genius for philology. Aptitude for language had already shown itself
      when his sister Fanny had given him some German lessons; and even on his
      first halt at Cologne, he received the compliment, 'Sie sprechen Deutsch
      wohl' and he found himself talking to a German on one side and a Frenchman
      on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      His letters throughout his foreign travels are more copious than ever, but
      are chiefly minute descriptions of what he saw, such as would weary the
      reader who does not want a guide-book even full of individuality. Yet they
      cannot be passed by without noticing how he fulfilled the duty of study
      and endeavour at appreciation which everyone owes to great works of art,
      instead of turning aside with shallow conceit if he do not enter into them
      at first sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the wonders of Vienna and the mines of Salzburg, the mountain
      scenery of the Tyrol was an unspeakable pleasure, which tries to express
      itself in many closely written pages. Crossing into Italy by the Stelvio
      Pass, a sharp but passing fit of illness detained Coley at Como for a day,
      and caused him to call in an Italian doctor, who treated him on the
      starvation system, administered no medicines, and would take no fee. The
      next day Coley was in condition to go on to Milan, where his first
      impression of the Cathedral was, as so often happens, almost of
      bewilderment. He did not at first like the Lombardo-Gothic style, but he
      studied it carefully, and filled his letter with measurements and numbers,
      though confessing that no part pleased him so much as the pinnacles
      terminating in statues, 'each one a very beautiful martyr's memorial.' Two
      more visits of several hours, however, brought the untutored eye to a
      sense of the harmony of proportion, and the surpassing beauty of the
      carvings and sculpture.
    </p>
    <p>
      It did not need so much study to enjoy Lionardo da Vinci's great fresco,
      of which he wrote long and elaborately, and, altogether, Milan afforded
      him very great delight and was a new world to him. It was the farthest
      limit of his travels on this occasion. The party returned by way of
      Geneva; and Coley, alone with four guides, attempted the Col du Geant.
      Then following is his account of the danger in which he found himself:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Monday at 4.15 A.M. we started from the Montanvert, with our
      alpenstocks, plenty of ropes, and a hatchet to cut steps in the ice. We
      walked quickly over the Mer de Glace, and in about three hours came to the
      difficult part. I had no conception of what it would be. We had to ascend
      perpendicular walls of ice, 30, 40, 50 feet high, by little holes which we
      cut with the hatchet, and to climb over places not a foot broad, with
      enormous crevasses on each side. I was determined not to give in, and said
      not a word, but I thought that no one had a right to expose himself to
      such danger if known beforehand. After about three hours spent in this
      way, (during which I made but one slip, when I slid about twelve feet down
      a crevasse, but providentially did not lose my head, and saved myself by
      catching at a broken ridge of ice, rising up in the crevasse, round which
      I threw my leg and worked my way up it astride), got to the region of
      snow, and here the danger was of falling into hidden crevasses. We all
      five fastened ourselves to one another with ropes. I went in the middle,
      Couttet in front, then Payot. Most unluckily the weather began to cloud
      over, and soon a sharp hailstorm began, with every indication of a fog. We
      went very cautiously over the snow for about three hours, sinking every
      now and then up to our middles, but only once in a crevasse, when Couttet
      suddenly fell, singing out "Tirez! tirez!" but he was pulled out
      instantly. We had now reached the top, but the fog was so dense that I
      could scarcely see 30 feet before me, and the crevasses and mountains of
      snow looming close round us looked awful. At this moment the guides asked
      me if I must make the passage. I said instantly that I wanted to do so,
      but that I would sooner return at once than endanger the lives of any of
      them. They told me there was certainly great danger, they had lost their
      way, but were unwilling to give up. For an hour and a half we beat about
      in the fog, among the crevasses, trying every way to find the pass, which
      is very narrow, wet to the skin, and in constant peril; but we knew that
      the descent on the Chamouni side is far more difficult than that on the
      Courmayeur side. At last all the guides agreed that it was impossible to
      find the way, said the storm was increasing, and that our only chance was
      to return at once. So we did, but the fearful difficulties of the descent
      I shall never forget. Even in the finest weather they reckon it very
      difficult, but yesterday we could not see the way, we were numbed with
      intense cold, and dispirited from being forced to return.
    </p>
    <p>
      In many places the hail and sleet had washed out the traces we trusted as
      guides. After about four hours, we had passed the most dangerous part, and
      in another hour we were safely upon the Mer de Glace, which we hailed with
      delight: Couttet, who reached the point of safety first, jumping on the
      firm ice and shouting to me "Il n'y a plus de danger, Monsieur." Here we
      took off the ropes, and drank some more brandy, and then went as hard as
      we could, jumping across crevasses, which two days before I should have
      thought awkward, as if they were cart ruts. We reached Chamouni at 8.30
      P.M., having been sixteen and a quarter hours without resting. I was not
      at all tired; the guides thanked me for having given so little trouble,
      and declared I had gone as well as themselves. Indeed I was providentially
      unusually clear-headed and cool, and it was not till the danger was over
      that I felt my nerves give way. There was a good deal of anxiety about us
      at Chamouni, as it was one of the worst days ever seen here. Hornby had
      taken all my clothes to Geneva, so I put on a suit of the landlord's, and
      had some tea, and at 11 P.M. went to bed, not forgetting, you may be sure,
      to thank God most fervently for this merciful protection, as on the ice I
      did many times with all my heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On reviewing coolly, to-day, the places over which we passed, and which I
      shall never forget, I remember seven such as I trust never again to see a
      man attempt to climb. The state of the ice and crevasses is always
      shifting, so that the next person who makes the ascent may find a
      comparatively easy path. We had other dangers too, such as this: twice the
      guides said to me, "Ne parlez pas ici, Monsieur, et allez vite," the fear
      being of an ice avalanche falling on us, and we heard the rocks and ice
      which are detached by the wet falling all about. The view from the top, if
      the day is fine, is about the most magnificent in the Alps; and as in that
      case I should have descended easily on the other side, the excursion would
      not have been so difficult. I hope you will not think I have been very
      foolish; I did not at all think it would be so dangerous, nor was it
      possible to foresee the bad weather. My curiosity to see some of the
      difficulties of an excursion in the Alps is fully satisfied.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After this adventure, the party broke up, James Patteson returning home
      with Mr. Hornby, while Coley, who hoped to obtain a Fellowship at Merton,
      and wished in the meantime to learn German thoroughly in order to study
      Hebrew by the light of German scholarship, repaired to Dresden for the
      purpose; revelling, by the way, on the pictures and glass at Munich,
      descriptions of which fill three or four letters. He remained a month at
      Dresden, reading for an hour a day with a German master, and spending many
      hours besides in study, recreating himself with German newspapers at the
      cafe where he dined, and going to the play in the evening to hear
      colloquialisms. The picture galleries were his daily enjoyment, and he
      declared the Madonna di San Sisto fully equal to his anticipations. There
      is that about the head of the Virgin which I believe one sees in no other
      picture, a dignity and beauty with a mixture of timidity quite
      indescribable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Returning home for Christmas, Coley started again in January 1851, in
      charge of a pupil, the son of Lord John Thynne, with whom he was to go
      through Italy. The journey was made by sea from Marseilles to Naples,
      where the old regime was still in force. Shakespeare and Humboldt were
      seized; and after several hours' detention on the score of the suspicious
      nature of his literature, Mr. Patteson was asked for a bribe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The climate was in itself a great charm to one always painfully
      susceptible to cold; and, after duly dwelling on the marvels of Vesuvius
      and Pompeii, the travellers went on to Rome. There the sculptures were
      Coley's first delight, and he had the advantage of hints from Gibson on
      the theory of his admiration, such as suited his love of analysis. He
      poured forth descriptions of statues and pictures in his letters:
      sometimes apologising.&mdash;'You must put up with a very stupid and
      unintelligible sermon on art. The genius loci would move the very stones
      to preach on such a theme. Again: The worst is, that I ought to have
      months instead of days to see Rome in. I economise my time pretty well;
      but yet I find every night that I can only do a little of what I propose
      in the morning; and as for my Italian, an hour and a half a day is on an
      average more than I give to it. I suffer a good deal from weakness in the
      eyes; it prevents my working at night with comfort. I have a master every
      other day. I tried to draw, but it hurt me so much after looking about all
      day that I despair of doing anything, though I don't abandon the idea
      altogether.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There are many letters on the religious state of Rome. The apparently
      direct supplications to the Saints, the stories told in sermons of
      desperate sinners&mdash;saved through some lingering observance paid to
      the Blessed Virgin, and the alleged abuse of the Confessional, shocked
      Patteson greatly, and therewith he connected the flagrant evils of the
      political condition of Rome at that time, and arrived at conclusions
      strongly adverse to Roman Catholicism as such, though he retained
      uninjured the Catholic tone of his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was art which was the special attraction to Coley of all the many
      spells of old Rome. He spent much time in the galleries, and studied
      'modern painters' with an earnestness that makes Ruskinism pervade his
      letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Florence, Coley wrote as usual at much length of the galleries, where
      the Madonna del Cardellino seems to have been what delighted him most. He
      did not greatly enter into Michel Angelo's works, and perhaps hardly did
      their religious spirit full justice under the somewhat exclusive influence
      of Fra Angelico and Francia, with the Euskinese interpretation. The
      delight was indescribable. He says:&mdash; 'But I have written again and
      again on this favourite theme, and I forget that it is difficult for you
      to understand what I write, or the great change that has taken place in
      me, without seeing the original works. No one can see them and be
      unchanged. I never had such enjoyment.' His birthday presents were spent
      on a copy of the beloved Madonna del Cardellino, of which he says:&mdash;'though
      it does not reach anything like the intensity of feeling of the original,
      is still a very excellent painting, and will always help to excite in my
      imagination, and I hope to convey to you, some faint image of the
      exceeding beauty of this most beautiful of all paintings.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Readers chiefly interested in the subsequent career of the missionary
      would feel interrupted by the overflowing notes on painting, sculpture and
      architecture which fill the correspondence, yet without them, it is
      scarcely possible to realise the young man's intense enthusiasm for the
      Beautiful, especially for spiritual beauty, and thus how great was the
      sacrifice of going to regions where all these delights were unknown and
      unattainable. He went on to Venice, where he met a letter which gave a new
      course to his thoughts, for it informed him that the deafness, which had
      long been growing on his father had now become an obstacle to the
      performance of his duties as a Judge, and announcing his intention of
      retiring.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the fulness of his heart he wrote:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Venice, Hotel de la Villa: May 2, 1851.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;I have not been in Venice an hour yet, but
      little did I expect to find such news waiting for me as is contained in
      Jem's letter, and I can lose no time in answering it. It is indeed a heavy
      trial for you, that, in addition to many years of constant annoyance from
      your deafness, you should be obliged now, in the full vigour of your mind,
      and with the advantage of your experience, to give up a profession you so
      thoroughly delight in. I don't deny that I have often contemplated the
      possibility of such a thing; and I had some conversation with Uncle John
      last winter in consequence of my fancying your deafness was on the
      increase, though the girls did not perceive it; I hope with all my heart I
      was wrong. I told him what I know you feel, that, painful as it will be to
      you to retire from the Bench, if any dissatisfaction was expressed at your
      not hearing sufficiently what passed, you would choose rather to give up
      your seat than to go on under such circumstances. His answer, I remember,
      was that it was most difficult to know what to do, because it was no use
      concealing the fact that your infirmity did interfere with the working of
      the Court more or less, on Circuit especially, and at other times when
      witnesses were examined, but that your knowledge of law was so invaluable
      that it was difficult to see how this latter advantage could fail to
      outweigh the former defect; and everybody knew that they can't find a
      lawyer to fill your place, though another man might do the ordinary
      circuit work with greater comfort to the Bar; though therefore nobody is
      so painstaking and so little liable to make mistakes, yet to people in
      general and in the whole, another man would seem to do the work nearly as
      well, and would do his work, as far as his knowledge and conscientiousness
      went, with more ease;&mdash;this was something like the substance of what
      passed then, and you may suppose that since that time I have thought more
      about the possibility of your retirement; but as I know how very much you
      will feel giving up an occupation in which you take a regular pride, I do
      feel very sorry, and wish I was at home to do anything that could be done
      now. I know well enough that you are the last man in the world to make a
      display of your feelings, and that you look upon this as a trial, and bear
      it as one, just as you have with such great patience and submission (and
      dear Joan too,) always quietly borne your deafness; but I am sure you
      must, and do feel this very much, and, added to Granny's illness, you must
      be a sad party at home. I feel as if it were very selfish to be in this
      beautiful city, and to have been spending so much money at Florence.
      Neither did Joan, in her last letter, nor has Jem now, mentioned whether
      you received two letters from Florence, the first of which gave some
      description of my vetturino journey from Rome to Florence. I little
      thought when I was enjoying myself so very much there, that all this was
      passing at home.... Your influence in the Privy Council (where I conclude
      they will offer you a seat) might be so good on very important questions,
      and it would be an occupation for you; and I have always hoped that, if it
      should please God you should retire while still in the prime of life for
      work, you would publish some great legal book, which should for ever be a
      record of your knowledge on these subjects. However it may be, the
      retrospect of upwards of twenty years spent on the Bench with the complete
      respect and admiration of all your friends, is no slight thing to fall
      back upon: and I trust that this fresh trial will turn to your good, and
      even happiness here, as we may trust with safety it will hereafter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your very affectionate and dutiful Son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      In this winter of 1852, Mr. Justice Patteson's final decision to retire
      was made and acted upon. The Judge delighted in no occupation so much as
      the pursuit of law, and therefore distrusted his own opinion as to the
      moment when his infirmity should absolutely unfit him for sitting in
      Court. He had begged a friend to tell him the moment that the impediment
      became serious; and this, with some hesitation, was done. The intimation
      was thankfully received, and, after due consideration, carried out.
    </p>
    <p>
      On January 29, 1852, after twenty-two years on the Bench, and at the age
      of sixty-two, Mr. Justice Patteson wrote his letter of resignation to Lord
      Truro, then Lord Chancellor, petitioning for the usual pension. It was
      replied to in terms of warm and sincere regret; and on the 2nd of
      February, Sir John Patteson was nominated to the Privy Council, as a
      member of the Judicial Committee; where the business was chiefly conducted
      in writing, and he could act with comparatively little obstacle from his
      deafness.
    </p>
    <p>
      On February 10, 1852, he took his leave of the Bar. The Court of Queen's
      Bench was crowded with barristers, who rose while the Attorney-General,
      Sir Alexander Cockburn, made an address expressive of the universal
      heartfelt feeling of respect and admiration with which the retiring Judge
      was regarded.
    </p>
    <p>
      John Patteson's reply, read with a voice broken by emotion, is so touching
      in its manly simplicity and humility that a paragraph or two may well be
      quoted:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mine,' he said, 'is one of the many instances which I know that a public
      man without pre-eminent abilities, if he will but exert such as it has
      pleased God to bestow on him honestly and industriously, and without
      ostentation, is sure to receive public approbation fully commensurate
      with, and generally much beyond, his real merits; and I thank God if I
      shall be found not to have fallen entirely short in the use of those
      talents which He has entrusted to me.' Then, after some words on the
      misfortune that necessitated his withdrawal, he continued, 'I am aware
      that on some, and I fear too many, occasions I have given way to
      complaints and impatient expressions towards the Bar and the witnesses in
      Court, as if they were to blame when, in truth, it was my own deficiency;
      and heartily sorry have I been and am for such want of control over
      myself. I have striven against its recurrence earnestly, though not always
      successfully. My brethren on the Bench, and you, and the public, have been
      very kind and indulgent to me; the recollection of which will remain with,
      and be a great solace to me for the rest of my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now, gentlemen, I bid you farewell most affectionately. I wish you
      many years of health and happiness, of success and honour in your liberal
      profession; the duties of which have been and are and I trust ever will be
      performed, not only with the greatest zeal, learning, and ability, but
      with the highest honour and integrity, and a deep sense of responsibility
      to God and to man, and which being so performed, are, in my humble
      judgment, eminently conducive, under the blessing of God, to maintain the
      just prerogative of the Crown, and the true right, liberties, and
      happiness of the people.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He then rose from the Judges' seat, and bowed his farewell to the
      assembly, who stood respectful and silent, except for some suppressed
      tokens of emotion, for in truth to many the parting was from an old
      familiar and much trusted friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Private letters poured in, expressive of deep regret, esteem, and
      affection, and not only were gratefully read at the time, but became to
      the family valuable memorials of the heartfelt appreciation gained by a
      high-minded and upright course of life, and evidences that their father
      had done that which is perhaps the best thing that it is permitted to man
      to do here below, namely, 'served God in his generation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV. FELLOWSHIP OF MERTON. 1852&mdash;1854.
    </h2>
    <p>
      In the summer of 1852 Coleridge Patteson stood for a fellowship of Merton,
      obtained it, and moved into rooms there. Every college has a distinctive
      character; and Merton, if not actually the eldest, is at least one of the
      oldest foundations at Oxford, and is one of the most unchanged in outward
      aspect. There is a peculiar charm in the beauty and seclusion of the
      quadrangle, in the library, still mediaeval even to the fittings; and the
      church is above all impressive in the extraordinary loveliness of the
      early decorated architecture, and the space and loftiness of the choir.
      The whole, pre-eminently among the colleges, gives the sense of having
      been unaltered for five hundred years, yet still full of life and vigour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Coley attached himself to Merton, though he never looked to permanent
      residence there. The Curacy in the immediate neighbourhood of his home was
      awaiting him, as soon as he should be ordained; but though his purpose was
      unchanged and he was of full age for Holy Orders, he wished for another
      year of preparation, so as to be able to study both Hebrew and theology
      more thoroughly than would be possible when pastoral labour should have
      begun. What he had already seen of Dresden convinced him that he could
      there learn Hebrew more thoroughly and more cheaply than at home, and to
      this he intended to devote the Long Vacation of 1852, without returning to
      Feniton. There the family were settling themselves, having given up the
      house in Bedford Square, since James Patteson had chambers in King's Bench
      Walk, where the ex-Judge could be with him when needed in London. There
      had some notion of the whole family profiting by Sir John's emancipation
      to take a journey on the Continent, and the failure of the scheme elicited
      the following letter:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Merton: June 18.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Fan,&mdash;I can, to a certain extent, sympathise with you
      thoroughly upon this occasion; the mere disappointment at not seeing so
      many interesting places and things is a sharp one, but in your instance
      this is much increased by the real benefit you hoped to derive from a
      warmer climate; and no wonder that the disappearance of your hopes coupled
      with bodily illness makes you low and uncomfortable. The weather too is
      trying to mind and body, and though you try as usual to shake off the
      sense of depression which affects you, your letter is certainly sad, and
      written like the letter of one in weak health. Well, we shall see each
      other, please GOD, at Christmas now. That is better than passing nearly or
      quite a year away from each other; and some other time I hope you will be
      able to go to Italy, and enjoy all the wonders there, though a tour for
      health's sake cannot be too soon. It is never too soon to get rid of an
      ailment....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I find that I am getting to know the undergraduates here, which is what I
      wanted to do; it is my only chance of being of any use. True, that I have
      to do it at the expense of two half-days' cricketing, which I have quite
      ceased to care about, but I know that when I went up to Balliol, I was
      glad when a Fellow played with us. It was a guarantee for orderly conduct,
      and as I say, it gives me an opportunity of knowing men. I hope to leave
      London for Dresden on Monday week; Arthur is gone thither, as I find out
      from Jem, and I hope the scheme will answer. If I find I can't work, from
      my eyes, or anything else, preventing me, I shall come home, but I have no
      reason to expect any such thing. My best love to Joan and all friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The 'Arthur' here mentioned was the youngest son of Mr. Frank Coleridge,
      and became Coley's companion at Dresden, where he was studying German. He
      writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Patteson spoke German fluently, and wrote German correctly. He had
      studied the language assiduously for about two years previously, and so
      successfully that whilst we were at Dresden, he was enabled to dispense
      with a teacher and make his assistance little more than nominal.
      Occasionally he wrote a German exercise, but rather as an amusement than a
      discipline, and merely with the view of enlarging his German vocabulary. I
      remember his writing an elaborate description of Feniton Court, and
      imagining the place to be surrounded with trees belonging to all sorts of
      climates. The result was very amusing to ourselves, and added to the
      writer's stock of words on particular subjects. When our master Schier
      appeared, the conversation was led by a palpable ambuscade to the topic
      which had been made the subject of Patteson's exercise, and conversation
      helped to strengthen memory. After looking over a few of Patteson's German
      exercises, Mr. Schier found so little to correct, in the way of
      grammatical errors, that these studies were almost relinquished, and gave
      way to Arabic and Hebrew. Before we left Dresden, Patteson had read large
      portions of the Koran; and, with the aid of Hurwitz's Grammar and
      Bernhard's Guide to Hebrew Students, books familiar to Cambridge men, he
      was soon able to read the Psalms in the original. I remember the
      admiration and despair I felt in witnessing Patteson's progress, and the
      wonder expressed by his teacher in his pupil's gift of rapid acquirement.
      We had some excellent introductions; amongst others, to Dr. &mdash;&mdash;,
      a famous theologian, with whom Patteson was fond of discussing the system
      and organisation of the Church in Saxony. Up to the time of his leaving
      England he was constantly using Olshausen's Commentary on the New
      Testament, a book he was as thoroughly versed in as Archbishop Trench
      himself. I think that he consulted no other books in his study of the
      Gospels, but Olshausen and Bengel's Gnomon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In our pleasures at Dresden there was a mixture of the utile with the
      dulce. Our constant visits to the theatre were strong incentives to a
      preparatory study of the plays of Goethe, Schiller, and Lessing. What
      noble acting we saw in that Dresden theatre!
    </p>
    <p>
      'With regard to the opera, I have never seen Weber or Meyerbeer's works
      given so perfectly and conscientiously as at Dresden. Patteson's chief
      delight was the Midsummer Night's Dream, with Mendelssohn's music. He had
      a tuneful baritone voice and a correct ear for music. We hired a piano for
      our sitting-room; and, though I failed to induce him to cultivate his
      voice, and join me in taking lessons, he sang some of Mendelssohn's Lieder
      very pleasingly, and knew most of the bass music from the Messiah by
      heart. He began to play a few scales on the piano, and hoped to surprise
      his sisters on his return to England by playing chants, but the Arabic and
      Hebrew studies proved too absorbing; he grudged the time, and thought the
      result disproportioned to the sacrifice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In our daily walks we talked constantly of Church matters. Some sharp and
      sad experiences in the loss of more than one of his Eton and Oxford
      friends, who had abandoned the Church of England, failed to shake his
      confidence in the Church he was to serve so faithfully and to die for so
      gloriously. His faith and daily practice seem to me a protest and warning
      against the folly, if not the falsehood, of extremes. Moderation, quiet
      consistency of life, and unswerving loyalty to a faith which had been the
      joy and comfort of his dear mother, whose loveable nature he inherited and
      reflected, a blameless life and unfailing charity enabled him when the
      time came to live a life of incessant toil, and face a martyr's death. I
      remember the present Bishop of Carlisle inciting Cambridge undergraduates
      to become, by virtue of earnestness, gentleness, and toleration, "guides
      not judges, lights not firebrands." He drew a perfect description of
      Patteson, who came more completely up to that ideal than anyone I ever
      knew. Here was a man capable of the purest and most tender friendship,
      with an exquisite appreciation of all that is noblest in life, and he was
      ready to give up all, and content to lead the forlorn hope of
      Christianity, and perish in the front ranks of the noble army. "And having
      been a little tried he shall be greatly rewarded, for God proved him, and
      found him worthy for Himself."'
    </p>
    <p>
      I have given this letter almost entire, because it shows the impression
      Coley made on one, little his junior, in the intimate associations of
      cousin, neighbour, and schoolfellow, as well as travelling companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      This year seems to have been a marked stage of development. He was now
      twenty-five, and the boyish distaste for mental exertion which had so long
      rendered study an effort of duty had passed into full scholarly enjoyment.
      The individuality and originality of his mind had begun to awaken, and
      influenced probably by the German atmosphere of thought in which he was
      working, were giving him that strong metaphysical bent which characterised
      his tone through life, and became apparent in his sermons when he
      addressed an educated audience.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here is a letter to his eldest sister: 'The weather has been better suited
      for work, and I feel pretty well satisfied with my Hebrew. What makes it
      so difficult is principally this, that as it is an Oriental language, it
      is entirely different in structure, and in its inflections, &amp;c., from
      any language I ever came across. I can't fall back upon anything already
      learnt to help me; but I see my way pretty clear now, and shall soon have
      little more than a knowledge of the meaning of the words to learn, which
      is only a matter of patience, and can be learnt with a good dictionary and
      practice. A real complete knowledge of the grammar is of course the great
      thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The great Dresden fair, called the Vogelschiesser, is going on; it began
      last Sunday and ends next Sunday. About half a mile from the town there is
      a very large meadow by the river, where a small town of booths, tents,
      &amp;c., is erected, and where shooting at targets with wooden darts, sham
      railway-trains and riding-horses, confectionery of every kind, beer of
      every name, strength, and colour, pipes, cigars, toys, gambling,
      organ-grinding, fiddling, dancing, &amp;c., goes on incessantly. The great
      attraction, however, is the shooting at the bird, which occupies the
      attention of every Saxon, and is looked upon as the consummation of human
      invention and physical science. A great pole, nearly 80 feet high, is
      erected with a wooden bird, about the size of a turkey, at the top; to hit
      this with a crossbow from a regular stand, about 50 feet from the foot of
      the pole, is the highest ambition of this great people. The accompaniments
      are rich in the extreme: cannon firing, drums rolling, for a successful
      shot, the shooting society, who exist only for the sole honour and glory
      of hacking this bird to pieces, the presence of the King, I think to-day,
      and the intense interest taken in the amusement by the whole population;
      certainly the Germans are satisfied with less than any people I ever saw
      (barring two things, smoke and beer, in which they are insatiable). I went
      out to see it all, but it rather bored me after an hour or so. Tom F&mdash;&mdash;
      and I threw some dice for a pair of braces for Arthur, which we presented
      in due form; and we had some shots at the targets&mdash;mine were
      eminently unsuccessful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last night we had a great treat. Emil Devrient, who has been acting in
      London, you know, came back, and acted Marquis Posa in "Don Carlos." The
      play acts very much better than it reads. Schiller certainly has great
      dramatic genius; only I agree with Goethe that there is always a longing
      for exhibiting cruelty in its most monstrous form, and refinement of
      cruelty and depravity overstepping almost the natural conditions of
      humanity. I always thought Iago about the most awful character in
      Shakspeare; but Schiller's Philip II. is something beyond even this,
      without perhaps so much necessity for the exhibition of this absolute
      delight in evil. It is long since I have been so excited in a theatre. I
      was three rows from the stage, heard and understood everything, and was so
      completely carried away by the grandeur and intense feeling of Devrient
      (who was well supported by the Don Carlos), that I had some difficulty to
      keep quiet, and feel to-day rather odd, shaken, as it were, from such a
      strain upon the feelings.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here is a letter, enclosed within one to his sister Fanny on September 9,
      written on a scrap of paper. The apologetic tone of confession is amusing:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;I have not before told you that I have been at
      work for just three weeks upon a new subject; reading, however, Hebrew
      every day almost for three hours as well. Schier is not a great Hebraist;
      and I found the language in one sense easier than I expected, so that with
      good grammar and dictionary I can quite get on by myself, reading an easy
      part of the Bible (historical books, e.g.) at the rate of about
      twenty-five verses an hour. Well, I began to think that I ought to use the
      opportunities that Dresden affords. I know that Hebrew is not a rich
      language; that many words occur only once, and consequently have an
      arbitrary meaning attached to them, unless they can be illustrated from
      cognate languages. Now I have a taste for these things, and have in three
      weeks progressed so far in my new study as to feel sure I shall make it
      useful; and so I tell you without fear I am working at Arabic. I hope you
      won't think it silly. It is very hard, and for ten days was as hard work
      as I ever had in my life. I think I have learnt enough to see my way now,
      and this morning read the first chapter of Genesis in three-quarters of an
      hour. It is rich, beyond all comparison, in inflexions; and the difficulty
      arises from the extreme multiplicity of all its forms: e.g. each verb
      having not only active, middle, and passive voices, but the primitive
      active having not less than thirty-five derivative forms and the passive
      thirteen. The "noun of action,"&mdash;infinitive with article (to akonein)
      of the Greek&mdash;is again different for each voice or form; and the
      primitive can take any of twenty-two forms, which are not compounded
      according to any rule. Again, there are twenty-eight sets of irregular
      plurals, which are quite arbitrary. No grammarian has ever given any
      explanation about them. All mere matters of memory. The very alphabet
      shows the richness of the language. There are twenty-nine letters, besides
      vowel points; and each letter is written in four different ways, so that
      it is different when isolated, when in the beginning, middle, or end of a
      word. It took me some hours to learn them. In very many respects, it is
      closely allied to the Hebrew, so that everybody who writes Hebrew grammars
      and lexicons necessarily has much to do with Arabic; and a knowledge of it
      may be of great use in clearing up difficulties in the Bible. My year in
      Oxford will enable me to go on with it, for in three weeks more I hope to
      be able to go on alone. To-morrow I begin the Koran. My lessons will not
      in all exceed 31; and I really should have gone on, perhaps, not much
      faster with Hebrew if I had worked it exclusively; and it is hard to read
      so many hours at one thing: and I may say, now without doubt, that I have
      laid the foundation for a study of Oriental languages, if I have time and
      opportunity that may be fairly given to them. Think what one hour a day
      is, and the pleasure to me is very great, and I feel that I have a knack
      rather (if I may say so) of laying hold of these things. Don't mention it
      to anyone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There the fragment breaks off; and in a letter of August 29 there occurs
      this reply to a message from his eldest sister:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank dear Joan for her caution: I know I need it sadly, especially now
      when I am at work upon somewhat out-of-the-way subjects, and feel the
      danger of forgetting that if I mistake the means for the end, and feel
      gratified with the mere intellectual amusement, I am doing very wrong,
      even when I am working very hard at very difficult matters. I like these
      things, I must confess, and the time is so well adapted to work here, and
      now that the weather is cool I can secure every day a good long time to
      myself.' In the enclosed letter he announces that he shall leave Dresden
      in another three weeks. He says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have had a steady working time of it here; and as I know some members
      of the family rather discourage these Continental flights, I just sum up
      the advantages thereof. Being naturally endowed with a love of music, the
      probability is, that when you, Clara, and Miss Horsley are together in the
      house, as soon as a Lied or Sonata began, away would go my books, or at
      all events my thoughts. You know well that the piano goes at all hours,
      and always in the morning at home. Then riding, walking with Father, long
      sitting after dinner, &amp;c. do not improve the chances for reading. In
      fact, you know that what with visitors from without, friends within,
      parties, &amp;c., I should have had very little reading in the vacation,
      and that not through my own fault&mdash;not a Stilbehen in the house could
      protect me from music. Here I make my own time, and last week my eyes were
      troublesome. I walked twice every day, exactly at the hour when I most
      wanted it; and without nonsense, I may say that I have in two months done
      really a great deal more than I could have done at home even with masters.
      This all applies to Arthur just as much. He has read German exclusively
      most of the time, and knows as well as I do that it is not possible to
      work at home. If I could go on just as well as with Mendelssohn ringing in
      my ears, it would be different, but I can't. You remember how pleasant,
      but how very idle, last vacation was, and especially the last six weeks of
      it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, after much about family matters, commissions, and little gifts which
      he was collecting for all at home&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      I should like to get something for everybody, but that is not possible.
      Luckily, my lessons are less expensive than I expected, and, considering
      the work, wonderfully cheap. I make good progress, I can say; but the
      difficulty is great enough to discourage any but a real "grinder" at such
      work. I have written a scrap for Father, and you will see that I am
      working away pretty well. I have finished my introductory book, consisting
      of forty-one fables; and though difficulties present themselves always to
      really good scholars from time to time, the Bible is not one of the
      hardest books, not so hard, e.g. as the Koran. Now I can at any future
      time, if the opportunity comes, go on with these things, and I hope find
      them really useful. I know you like to hear what I am doing; but be sure
      to keep it all quiet, let no one know but Father and Joan. You might
      carelessly tell it to anyone in fun, and I don't wish it to be known.
      Especially don't let any of the family know. Time enough if I live out my
      Oxford year, and have really mastered the matter pretty well. Remember
      this is taken up with a view to elucidate and explain what is so very hard
      in Hebrew. Hebrew is to be the Hauptsache, this the Hulfsmittel, or some
      day I hope one of several such helps. It is very important to accustom
      one's mind to the Denk and Anschauungswerk of the Orientals, which is so
      different from that of Europeans or their language. How hard are the
      metaphors of the Bible for this reason!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is something in all these long apologies and strenuous desire for
      secrecy about these Arabic studies that reminds one that the character was
      a self-conscious introspective one, always striving for humility, and
      dreading to be thought presumptuous. A simpler nature, if devoid of
      craving for home sympathy, would never have mentioned the new study at
      all; or if equally open-hearted, would have let the mention of it among
      home friends take its chance, without troubling himself as to their
      possible comments. Indeed, it is curious to observe how elaborate he was
      at this period about all his concerns, meditating over the cause of
      whatever affected him. It was a form of growth; and dropped off when the
      time of action arrived, and his character had shaped itself. It must be
      remembered, too, that his habit of pouring out all his reflections and
      feelings to his sisters, and their preservation of his letters, have left
      much more on record of these personal speculations than is common.
    </p>
    <p>
      His father made a much simpler matter of the Arabic matter, in the
      following characteristic letter:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton Court: September 14, 1852,
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Coley,&mdash;So far from thinking you wrong in learning
      Arabic, I feel sure that you are quite right. However, we shall keep your
      secret, and not say anything about it. I am heartily glad that you should
      acquire languages, modern as well as ancient. You know I have often
      pressed the former on your and Jem's notice, from myself feeling my
      deficiency and regret at it. I can well understand that Arabic, and I
      should suppose Syriac also, must be of the greatest use towards a true
      understanding of much of the Old Testament: a great deal of which is
      doubtless not understood by those who understand only our translation, or
      even the Septuagint, which I suspect to have many passages far from a
      faithful vehicle of the meaning of the original. I was greatly delighted
      with your theological letter, so to speak, as well as with the first, and
      look to have some jolly conversations with you on such subjects.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have many more partridges than our neighbours, and Jem shoots
      uncommonly well. Three double shots yesterday. I shoot worse than usual;
      and cannot walk without much fatigue and frequent pain, so that I shall
      not be able to work enough to get much sport. I got through the Mary
      Church affair very well&mdash;that is, not making a fool of myself&mdash;and
      if I did not do much good, I think I did no harm. The Bishop of Exeter
      [Phillpotts] is mightily pleased, and wrote me a letter to that effect. Of
      course I cannot tell you what I said, it would be too long, nor are you
      likely to see it. It was fully inserted in "Woolmer," and from him copied
      into the "Guardian."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I live in hopes to see you well and hearty at Oxford on the 14th of
      October, till when, adieu, God bless you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Father,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The interview with the Bishop of Sydney never took place, for the
      excellent Bishop Broughton arrived with health shattered by his attendance
      on the sufferers from fever in the ship which brought him from St. Thomas,
      and he did not long survive his landing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The 'Mary Church affair' here referred to was the laying the
      foundation-stone of the Church, built or restored, it is hard to say
      which, on the lines of the former one, and preserving the old tower, at
      St. Mary Church, near Torquay. Though the death of the Rev. Gr. M.
      Coleridge had broken one tie with the place, it continued to be much
      beloved by the Patteson family, and Sir John had taken so much share in
      the church-building work as to be asked to be the layer of the
      corner-stone. The speech he made at the ensuing luncheon excited much
      attention and the sisters took care that their brother should not miss
      reading it. The stay at Dresden was drawing to an end; and he was
      preparing to return through Berlin, intending to go direct to Oxford and
      reside there till the summer, when he meant to seek ordination and enter
      on the Curacy at Alfington. He says to his sister Joanna:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a long time to pass without seeing you, but I hope, if it please
      God that we all live on together, that it will be long before such another
      interval occurs. I have not grown out of an occasional fit of home
      sickness yet; and on these occasions Arthur and I talk incessantly about
      domestic matters, and indulge our fancies in conjecturing what you are all
      doing, and so forth. I followed Joan and Clara's trip, step by step, from
      the Den at Teignmouth to St. Mary Church, Oddiscombe, Rabbicombe, Anstey's
      Cave, Meadfoot, &amp;c. How I remember every inch of the dear old places!
      Better than the mud banks at Felixstowe, are they not, Clara? I shall keep
      always the scrap from the "Guardian" with Father's speech. I don't think I
      remember any speech on a similar occasion so thoroughly good, and so
      likely to do good. Plain, sensible, and manly, no question of words and
      unimportant differences of opinion; no cant, high or low, just like
      himself. I pray I may have but a tenth part of his honesty and freedom
      from prejudice and party spirit. It may come, under God's blessing, if a
      man's mind is earnestly set on the truth; but the danger is of setting up
      your own exclusive standard of truth, moral and intellectual. Father
      certainly is more free from it than any man we ever knew. He tells me in
      his letter that the Bishop of Sydney is coming home to consult people in
      England about Synodical Action, &amp;c., and that he is going to meet him
      and explain to him certain difficulties and mistakes into which he has
      fallen with regard to administering the Oath of Abjuration and the like
      matters. How few people, comparatively, know the influence Father
      exercises in this way behind the scenes, as it were. His intimacy with so
      many of the Bishops, too, makes his position really of very great
      importance. I don't want to magnify, but the more I think of him, and know
      how very few men they are that command such general respect, and bear such
      a character with all men for uprightness and singleness of purpose, it is
      very difficult to know how his place could be supplied when we throw his
      legal knowledge over and above into the scale. I hope he will write: I am
      quite certain that his opinion will exercise a great influence on very
      many people. Such a speech as this at Mary Church embodies exactly the
      sense of a considerable number of the most prudent and most able men of
      the country, and his position and character give it extra weight, and that
      would be so equally with his book as with his speech. How delightful it
      will be to have him at Oxford. He means to come in time for dinner on the
      14th, and go away on the 16th; but if he likes it, he will, I daresay,
      stop now and then on his way to town and back. Jem will not be back in
      town when he goes up for the Judicial Committee work, so he will be rather
      solitary there, won't he. I am not, however, sure about the number of
      weeks Jem must reside to keep his term....'
    </p>
    <p>
      The enjoyment of the last few days at Dresden 'was much marred by a heavy
      cold, caught by going to see an admirable representation of 'Egmont,' the
      last of these theatrical treats so highly appreciated. The journey to
      Berlin, before the cold was shaken off, resulted in an attack of illness;
      and he was so heavy and uncomfortable as to be unable to avail himself of
      his opportunities of interesting introductions.
    </p>
    <p>
      He returned to his rooms at Merton direct from Germany. Like many men who
      have come back to Oxford at a riper age than that of undergraduate life,
      he now entered into the higher privileges and enjoyments of the
      University, the studies, friendships, and influences, as early youth
      sometimes fails to do. He was felt by his Oxford friends to have greatly
      developed since his Balliol terms had been over and the Eton boy left
      behind. Study was no longer a toil and conscientious effort. It had become
      a prime pleasure; and men wondered to find the plodding, accurate, but
      unenthusiastic student of three years back, a linguist and philologist of
      no common power and attainment. Mr. Roundell says, 'He had become quite
      another person. Self-cultivation had done much for him. Literature and art
      had opened his mind and enlarged his interests and sympathies. The moral
      and spiritual forces of the man were now vivified, refined, and
      strengthened by the awakening of his intellectual and esthetic nature.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ever reaching forward, however, he was on his guard against, as he said,
      making the means the end. Languages were his pleasure, but a pleasure held
      in check as only subservient to his preparation for the ministry. He did
      not mean to use them to the acquirement of academical honour nor
      promotion, nor did he even rest in the intellectual delight of
      investigation; he intended them only as keys to the better appreciation of
      the Scriptures and of the doctrines of the Church, unaware as yet that the
      gift he was cultivating would be of inestimable value in far distant
      regions.
    </p>
    <p>
      In February, while Sir John Patteson was in London, his son James was the
      cause of much alarm, owing to a mistake by which he swallowed an
      embrocation containing a large amount of laudanum. Prompt measures,
      however, prevented any ill effects; and all danger was over before the
      letter was sent off which informed Coley of what had happened; but the
      bare idea of the peril was a great shock to one of such warm affections,
      and so deeply attached to his only brother. He wrote the two following
      letters to his father and sisters on the first impulse on the receipt of
      the intelligence:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shrove Tuesday.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;I believe I speak truly when I say that I never
      in my life felt so thoroughly thankful and grateful to God for His great
      mercy as I did this morning, on reading of dear Jem's danger and safety.
      He is less accustomed to talk about his feelings than I am, in which I see
      his superiority, but partly because our tastes are in several respects
      different, chiefly because of his exceeding amiability and unselfishness.
      I am sure we love each other very dearly. Ever since his illness at
      Geneva, I have from time to time contemplated the utter blank, the real
      feeling of loss, which anything happening to him would bring with it, and
      the having it brought home close to me in this way quite upset me, as it
      well might. I pray God that no ill effects may follow, and from what you
      say I apprehend none. I have often thought that it is much better when two
      brothers propose to themselves different objects in life, and pursue them
      with tastes dissimilar on unimportant matters. They act better upon one
      another; just as I look to Jem, as I have more than once told him, to give
      me a hint when he sees a want of common sense in anything I take up,
      because I know I act a good deal from impulse, and take an interest in
      many things which are perhaps not worth the time I spend on them. It is a
      mercy that I hope I shall never forget, never cease to be thankful for.
      Many and many a time, if it please God, I shall look to him in
      difficulties, and remember how nearly once he was lost to me. I can get
      away with the greatest ease for a few days on Thursday if desirable, and
      perhaps old Jem will feel low after this, when you have left him. I think
      this very likely, from what I know of him, and if you think it too,
      without asking him if he would like it, I will come up for some other
      reason. You will not go, I know, unless he is perfectly well; but he
      might, and I think would, like to have some one with him just at first.
      Let me know what you think.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, my dearest father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your affectionate and dutiful son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Merton, Shrove Tuesday.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Joan and Fan,&mdash;How we must all have united this morning
      in pouring out our thanks to God for His great mercy! You will not suspect
      me of being wanting in love to you, if I say that the contemplation of
      what might have happened presented such a scene of desolation, such a
      void, that it would have required all the strength I possess to turn to
      God in resignation and submission to His will. I have often, very often,
      thought of that illness at Geneva, but this brought it home to me, perhaps
      closer still; and I hope I shall never cease to be mindful of, and
      thankful for, this special providence. Father seems pretty confident that
      all mischief is prevented; and Jem wrote six hours after he took the
      laudanum, and had then felt no drowsiness to speak of, and Dr. Watson said
      there was no fear of anything happening after two hours had elapsed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should like to join with you in showing our gratitude by some deed of
      charity, or whatever you think right. Something that without any show
      might be a thank-offering to God for His signal act of mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.
    </h5>
    <p>
      '5.30. I wrote this quite early this morning. I can hardly think yet what
      it all means. Now, I feel only a sense of some very heavy affliction
      removed. Poor dear Father, and all of us! what should we have been without
      him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter to the brother himself was written under the same impulse, even
      more tenderly affectionate, but so deep and intimate, that it would almost
      be treason to give it to the world. The next letter was written soon after
      the alarm had passed, but is undated:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Fan,&mdash;Yesterday I was unluckily too seedy with headache to
      go on the ice, and this morning I have been skating for half an hour, but
      the ice is spoilt. Very jolly it is to be twisting and turning about once
      more. I thought of writing to old Jem to come down for it, as I should
      think the frost is not severe enough to freeze any but the shallow water
      of the floods, but it was not good enough to reward him for the trouble of
      coming so far.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The constant sense of his preservation from that great danger really
      prevents my feeling so acutely perhaps as I ought to do the distress of
      others. I really think I ought to be less cheerful and happy than I feel
      myself to be. I had a pleasant little talk with Dr. Pusey on Monday: he
      was recommending me two or three books for Hebrew reading, but they would
      be of no use to me yet; the language is difficult to advance far into, and
      you know my shallow way of catching a thing at first rather quickly
      perhaps, but only superficially. I find my interest increasing greatly in
      philological studies. One language helps another very much; and the
      beautiful way in which the words, ideas, and the whole structure indeed,
      of language pervades whole families, and even the different families,
      (e.g., the Indo-Germanic and Semitic races,) is not only interesting, but
      very useful. I wish I had made myself a better Greek and Latin scholar,
      but unfortunately I used to hate classics. What desperate uphill work it
      was to read them, a regular exercise of self-denial every morning! Now I
      like it beyond any study, except Divinity proper, and I try to make up for
      lost time. There are admirable books in my possession which facilitate the
      acquisition of critical scholarship very much, and I work at these,
      principally applying it to New Test. Greek, LXX, &amp;c. But my real
      education began, I think, with my first foreign trip. It seems as if there
      was not time for all this, for I have Hebrew, Arabic, &amp;c., to go on
      with (though this is a slow process), Pearson, Hooker, Blunt on the
      Reformation (a mere sketch which I read in a day or two at odd times),
      Commentaries, Trench's Books on Parables and Miracles, which are in my
      room at home, and would in parts interest you; he is a writer of good
      common sense, and a well-read man. But I of course want to be reading
      history as well, and that involves a good deal; physical geography,
      geology, &amp;c., yet one things helps another very much. I don't work
      quite as methodically as I ought; and I much want some one to discuss
      matters with relating to what I read. I don't say all this, I am sure you
      know, as if I wanted to make out that I am working at grand subjects. I
      know exceeding little of any one of them, so little history, e.g., that a
      school girl could expose my ignorance directly, but I like to know what we
      are doing among ourselves, and we all get to know each other better
      thereby. I felt so much of late with regard to Jem, that a natural reserve
      prevents so often members even of the same family from communicating
      freely to each other their opinions, business, habits of life, experiences
      of sympathy, approval, disapproval, and the like; and when one member is
      gone, then it is felt how much more closely such a habit of dealing with
      each other would have taught us to know him.... Nothing tests one's
      knowledge so well as questions and answers upon what we have read, stating
      difficulties, arguments which we can't understand, &amp;c., to each other.
      Ladies who have no profession to prepare for, in spite of a very large
      correspondence and numerous household duties, may (in addition to their
      parochial work as curates!) take up a real course of reading and go into
      it thoroughly; and this gives girls not only employment for the time, but
      gives the mind power to seize every other subject presented to it. If you
      are quite alone, your reading is apt to become desultory. I find it useful
      to take once or twice a week a walk with Riddell of Balliol, and go
      through a certain period of Old Testament history; it makes me get it up,
      and then between us we hammer out so many more explanations of difficult
      passages than, at all events, I should do by myself. He is, moreover,
      about the best Greek scholar here, which is a great help to me. You have
      no idea of the light that such accurate scholarship as his throws upon
      many disputed passages in the Bible, e.g., "Wisdom is justified of her
      children," where the Greek preposition probably gives the key to the whole
      meaning, and many such. So you see, dear old Fan, that the want of some
      one to pour out this to, for it sounds fearfully pedantic, I confess, has
      drawn upon you this grievous infliction.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My kindest love to Father and dear Joan,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your loving
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Fanny Patteson answered with arguments on the other duties which hindered
      her from entering on the course of deep study which he had been
      recommending. He replies:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feb. 25, 1853.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Fan,&mdash;I must answer your very sensible well-written
      letter at once, because on our system of mutual explanation, there are two
      or three things I wish to notice in it. First, I never meant that anything
      should supersede duties which I am well aware you practise with real use
      to yourself and those about you, e.g., the kindness and sympathy shown to
      friends, and generally due observance of all social relations. Second, I
      quite believe that the practical application of what is already known,
      teaching, going about among the poor, is of far more consequence than the
      acquisition of knowledge, which, of course, for its own sake is worth
      nothing. Third, I think you perfectly right in keeping up music, singing,
      all the common amusements of a country life; of course I do, for indeed
      what I said did not apply to Joan or you, except so far as this, that we
      all know probably a great deal of which each one is separately ignorant,
      and the free communication of this to one another is desirable, I think.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My own temptation consists perhaps chiefly in the love of reading for its
      own sake. I do honestly think that for a considerable time past I have
      read, I believe, nothing which I do not expect to be of real use, for I
      have no taste naturally for novels, &amp;c. (without, however, wishing to
      deny that there may be novels which teach a real insight into character).
      Barring "I Promessi Sposi" which I take up very seldom when tired, I have
      not read one for ages: I must except "Old Mortality," read last Vacation
      at Feniton; but I can't deny that I like the study of languages for its
      own sake, though I apply my little experience in it wholly to the
      interpretation of the Bible. I like improving my scholarship, it is true,
      but I can say honestly that it is used to read the Greek Testament with
      greater accuracy: so of the Hebrew, Syriac, Arabic. I feel, I confess,
      sometimes that it is nice, &amp;c., to know several languages, but I try
      to drive away any such thoughts, and it is quite astonishing how, after a
      few weeks, a study which would suggest ideas of an unusual course of
      reading becomes so familiar that I never think of myself when pursuing it,
      e.g., I don't think that after two hours' grind at Arabic the stupid wrong
      feeling of its being an out-of-the-way study comes upon me now, it is
      getting quite natural. It comes out though when I talk or write perhaps
      with another, but I must try and get over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe it to be a good thing to break off any work once or twice a day
      in the middle of any reading, for meditating a little while and for
      prayer. This is more easily done at College than elsewhere; and is, I
      hope, a preventive against such thoughts. Then, as I jog on I see how very
      little I know, what an immense deal I have to learn to become ordinarily
      well acquainted with these things. I am in that state of mind, perhaps,
      when Ecclesiastes (which I am now reading) puts my own case exactly before
      me. I think, What's the good of it all? And the answer comes, it may be
      very good properly used, or very mischievous if abused. I do indeed look
      forward to active parochial work: I think I shall be very happy so
      employed, and I often try to anticipate the time in thought, and feel with
      perfect sincerity that nothing is so useful or so full of comfort as the
      consciousness of trying to fulfil the daily duties of my situation. Here
      of course I need do nothing; I mean there is nothing to prevent my sitting
      all day in an arm-chair and reading "Pickwick.".... One word about the way
      languages help me, that you may not think what I am doing harder than it
      really is. These three bear the same kind of relation to each other (or
      rather say these five, Arabic, Syriac, Hebrew, Chaldee, Ethiopia; but of
      the last I know nothing whatever, and of Chaldee only so much as that it
      is a dialect of Hebrew in the same character, and consequently anyone who
      knows Hebrew knows something about it), as German to English, e.g., Bahlom
      (Arab.), Beel (Syr.), Baal (Heb.), are the same word, as you can see, only
      written in different characters, and all mean "a lord," so Baal,
      Beelzebub, or Baalzebeb. Baal Peor, which means, literally, "the Lord of
      the ravine," viz., the idol worshipped at the Pass in the wilderness.
      Consequently, in reading any one of these languages, the same word keeps
      on occurring in all; and the chief use is of course that often a word
      which occurs only once or twice in Hebrew perhaps is in common use in the
      others, and so its meaning is fixed. Add to all this, that the Syriac
      version of the New Testament was made (as all agree) early in the second
      century, if not at the end of the first, and thus is the very best
      exponent of the New Testament where the Greek is doubtful; and the
      additional fact, that though a mixture of Chaldee and Syriac was the
      language of Palestine in our Lord's time, yet He certainly sometimes spoke
      what is now our Syriac (e.g., Talitha cumi, &amp;c.), and the importance
      of it is apparent. Surely to read the language that our Blessed Lord
      himself used is no small profit as well as delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I think we may each go on in our several pursuits, each helping each,
      and each trying to do so without a foolish affectation of learning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My best love to dear Father and Joan,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your affectionate Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Fenelon has said that in a certain stage of piety there is much of self,
      and Coley was evidently in that stage. His own figure was the primary
      object before his eyes, neither indulged, nor admired, but criticised,
      repressed, and by his very best efforts thrust aside, whenever he was
      conscious that his self-contemplation was self-complacency. Still it was
      in his nature to behold it, and discuss it, and thus to conquer and
      outgrow the study in time, while leaving many observations upon
      self-culture and self-training, that will no doubt become deeply valued as
      the result of the practical experience of one who so truly mastered that
      obtrusive self.
    </p>
    <p>
      Patteson was one of the most decided workers for the admission of
      improvements and reduction of abuses within his own college, with which
      each Oxford foundation was endeavouring to forestall compulsory
      reformation by a University Commission. Mr. Roundell says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'His early years as Fellow of Merton coincided with the period of active
      reform at Oxford which followed upon the Report of the Commission in 1852.
      What part did the future Missionary Bishop take in that great movement?
      One who worked with him at that time&mdash;a time when University reform
      was as unfashionable as it is now fashionable&mdash;well remembers. He
      threw himself into the work with hearty zeal; he supported every liberal
      proposal. To his loyal fidelity and solid common sense is largely due the
      success with which the reform of Merton was carried out. And yet in those
      first days of college reform the only sure and constant nucleus of the
      floating-Liberal majority consisted of Patteson and one other. Whatever
      others did, those two were always on the same side. And so, somehow, owing
      no doubt to the general enlightenment which distinguished the senior
      Fellows of Merton under the old regime&mdash;an enlightenment
      unquestionably due to the predominance in that College of the lay
      non-resident element&mdash;the new reforming spirit found itself in the
      ascendency. It is to the honour of Patteson, and equally to the honour of
      the older Fellows of the College at that time, that so great an inroad
      upon old traditions should have been made with such an entire absence of
      provocation on the one side, or of irritation on the other. But Patteson,
      with all his reforming zeal, was also a high-bred gentleman. He remembered
      what was due to others as well as to himself. His bearing was one of
      respect for authority, of deference towards those who were his superiors
      in age. He knew how to differ. He showed towards others the considerate
      courtesy which others in return so abundantly showed towards him. And this
      generous forbearance of the seniors had its reward. It entailed upon the
      juniors a reciprocity of respect. It was felt by them at the time to be an
      additional incentive to moderation, to sobriety, to desistance from
      extreme views. The result was that the work got done, and what was done
      left no heartburnings behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet it would be delusive to pretend to claim Bishop Patteson as a Liberal
      in the political sense of the word. He was no such thing. If anything, his
      instincts, especially in Church matters, drew him the other way. But those
      who knew the man, like those who have seen the Ammergau Play, would as
      soon think of fastening upon that a sectarian character, as of fixing him
      with party names. His was a catholic mind. What distinguished him was his
      open-mindedness, his essential goodness, his singleness and simplicity of
      aim. He was a just man, and singularly free from perturbations of self, of
      temper, or of nerves. You did not care to ask what he would call himself.
      You felt what he was, that you were in the presence of a man too pure for
      party, of one in whose presence ordinary party distinctions almost ceased
      to have a meaning. Such a man could scarcely be on the wrong side. Both
      the purity of his nature and the rectitude of his judgment would have kept
      him straight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Coley remained at Merton until the Long Vacation of 1853; when his Oxford
      life terminated, though not his connection with the University, for he
      retained his Fellowship until his death, and the friendships he had formed
      both at Balliol and Merton remained unbroken.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V. THE CURACY AT ALFINGTON. 1853-1855.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Preparation for ordination had become Patteson's immediate object. As has
      been already said, his work was marked out. There was a hamlet of the
      parish of Ottery St. Mary, at a considerable distance from the church and
      town, and named Alfington.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some time previously, the family of Sir John Kennaway had provided the
      place with a school, which afterwards passed into the hands of Mr. Justice
      Coleridge, who, in 1849, there built the small church of St. James, with
      parsonage, school, and house, on a rising ground overlooking the valley of
      Honiton, almost immediately opposite to Feniton; and, at the same time,
      took on himself the expenses of the curacy and school, for the vicar of
      the parish, the Rev. Dr. Cornish, formerly master of Ottery School.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first curate of Alfington was Judge Coleridge's son Henry, the
      well-known author of the beautiful Life of St. Francis Xavier. On his
      leaving our communion, it was his father's wish that Coleridge Patteson
      should take the cure; and, until his ordination, it was committed
      temporarily to other hands, in especial to the Rev. Henry Gardiner, who
      was much beloved there. In the spring of 1853, he had a long and dangerous
      illness, when Coley came to nurse him, and became so much attached to him,
      that his influence and unconscious training became of great importance.
      The church was served by such clerical friends as could give their
      assistance on Sunday, and the pastoral care, attention to the school,
      cottage visiting, &amp;c., became the employment of the candidate for Holy
      Orders, who thus began his work under the direction of his disabled
      friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter to his sister shows how he plunged into the drudgery of the
      parish, doing that which always cost him most, namely, administering
      rebukes; so that it was no wonder that he wrote with a sort of elation at
      having lashed himself up to the point of giving a thorough warning:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton: July 19, 1853.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Fan,&mdash;I am going to Thorverton to-day to stay till
      Thursday. Gardiner came downstairs on Sunday, and again yesterday, and is
      making very rapid strides towards perfect recovery. He even went out
      yesterday for a few minutes. So I don't mind leaving him in the least; and
      indeed he is going to Sidmouth himself, probably at the end of the week. I
      have seen him every day without one exception, and have learnt a very
      great deal from him. He has studied very closely school work, condition of
      the labourer, boys' homes, best method of dispensing charity, &amp;c., and
      on all these points his advice has been really invaluable. I feel now that
      I am quite to all intents working the district. People ask me about their
      children coming to school. I know almost all the people in the village,
      and a good many out of it, and begin to understand, in a very small way,
      what a clergyman's life is. A mixture of sorrow and pleasure indeed! There
      are many very sad cases of hypocrisy, filthiness, and wickedness (as I
      suppose there are in every district); and yesterday I had a very
      hard-working and in one case most painful day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some people had asked me to take their boy, three years and a half old,
      to school&mdash;a wretched pair, with a little savage for a son. I said I
      would speak to Miss Wilkins, and put plainly before her the character of
      parents and child. However, she wished to have him, and I knew it was so
      far well to get the boy away from home. But such a scene ensued! The boy
      was really like a little savage; kicked, dashed his head against the wall,
      and at length, with his nose bleeding violently, exhausted with his
      violence, fell asleep. Next day, he is so bad, he is sent home; when the
      mother drives him back to school, cursing and swearing, telling Miss
      Wilkins she may kill him if she pleases! Unluckily, I was not in school.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yesterday he was in school and more quiet, but did not kneel down at
      prayers, and seemed like a little beast beginning to be tamed. So, after
      school, I called him to me, and putting him before my knees asked him some
      questions very kindly: "Did he know who God was? Had he never been taught
      to kneel down and say his prayers? Of course he had not, but it gave me
      the proper opportunity of speaking to his parents. So having now
      considered the matter for two or three days previously, having ascertained
      all the facts about the people, after an hour among some others in the
      village, I went right into their cottage, and luckily found father and
      mother and grandmother at home, besides one or two more (who are lodgers)
      in a room adjoining, with the door open. 'I am come to talk to you about
      William,' I began, whereupon I saw the woman turn quite red. However, I
      spoke for about ten minutes slowly and very quietly, without any
      appearance (as I believe) of anger or passion at all, but yet speaking my
      mind quite plainly. "I had no idea any child could be so neglected. Did
      they suppose the school was a place where any parent might send a child
      merely to get it out of the way (of course they do, you know, most of
      them)? Was it possible that a child could be made good as if by magic
      there, when it learns nothing but wicked words at home? Do you think you
      can or ought to get rid of the duties you owe your child? Do you suppose
      that God will not require from you an account of the way you have behaved
      towards him, you who have never taught him to know who God is, what God
      is, what is prayer, what is the church, who have taught that little mouth,
      which God created for praise and blessings, to curse and blaspheme? I know
      that many children do and say wicked things, but it is in most cases owing
      to the neglect of their parents, who do not speak kindly to their
      children, and do what they can to keep them out of temptation, but this is
      a different case. Your boy is not fit to come into the company of little
      Christians! Awful as it is to think of, he is already, at his early age,
      the very dread of the parents who live near you."
    </p>
    <p>
      'They had not a word to say, not a syllable beyond the objection which I
      had already met, that other children were bad too. I did not say what I
      might have said with truth, because it is only from Gardiner's report, not
      from my own knowledge&mdash;viz., that neither father nor mother ever come
      to church, and that their house is the centre of evil to the young people
      of the village.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Now," I said, in conclusion, "I fully meant to send back your boy, and
      tell you I would examine him six months hence, to see if he was fit to be
      brought into the school, but as I do trust he may behave better, and that
      this may be the means of recovering him from this sad state, I shall take
      him still, unless he behaves again very badly. But remember this&mdash;this
      is the turning point in the boy's life, and all, humanly speaking, depends
      on the example you set him. What an awful thing it would be, if it pleased
      God to take him away from you now, and a fit of measles, scarlatina, or
      any such illness, may do it any day! Remember that you are responsible to
      a very great extent for your child; that unless it sees you watchful over
      your thoughts, words, and actions; unless it sees you regular and devout
      in prayer at home (I don't believe they ever think of such a thing&mdash;God
      forgive me, if I am wrong); unless it sees you habitually in your place in
      God's house, you are not doing your duty to yourselves or your child, you
      are not laying up any hope or comfort whatever for the day of your
      sickness and death. Now I hope you clearly understand me. I have spoken
      plainly&mdash;exactly what I think, and what I mean to act upon. You know
      now the sort of person you have to deal with. Good morning,"&mdash;and
      thereupon I marched out, amazed at my own pluck, and heartily glad that I
      had said what I wished, and felt I ought to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I need hardly tell you that this left me in a state of no slight
      excitement, and that I should be much comforted by hearing what you and
      Father and Joan think of my behaviour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Meanwhile, there are some very nice people; I dearly love some of the
      boys and girls; and I do pray that this plan of a boys' home may save some
      from contamination. I, seated with Sanders last night, found him and his
      wife very hearty about it. I have only mentioned it to three people, but I
      rather wish it to be talked about a little now, that they may be curious,
      &amp;c., to know exactly what I mean to do. The two cottages, with plenty
      of room for the Fley's family and eight boys, with half an acre of garden
      at £11. 5s. the year. I shall of course begin with only one or two boys&mdash;the
      thing may not answer at all; but everyone, Gardiner, several farmers, and
      two or three others, quite poor, in different places, all say it must work
      well, with God's blessing. I do not really wish to be scheming away,
      working a favourite hobby, &amp;c., but I do believe this to be absolutely
      essential. The profligacy and impurity of the poor is beyond all belief.
      Every mother of a family answers (I mean every honest respectable mother
      of a family): "Oh sir, God will bless such a work, and it is for want of
      this that so much misery and wretchedness abound." I believe that for a
      year or so it will exhaust most of my money, but then it is one of the
      best uses to which I can apply it; for my theory is, that help and
      assistance is wanted in this way, and I would wish to make most of these
      things self-supporting. Half an acre more of garden, thoroughly well
      worked, will yield an astonishing return, and I look to Mary as a person
      of really economical habits. It is a great relief to have poured all this
      out. It is no easy task that I am preparing for myself. I know that I
      fully expect to be very much disappointed, but I am determined to try it.
      I am determined to try and make the people see that I am not going to give
      way to everybody that asks; but that I am going to set on foot and help on
      all useful industrial schemes of every kind, for people of every age. I am
      hard at work, studying spade husbandry, inspectors' reports of industrial
      schools, &amp;c. I am glad you are all so happy. I am so busy. Best love
      to all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Coley was thus already serving a vigorous apprenticeship in pastoral work,
      while preparing himself for receiving deacon's orders. It was a trying
      time both to his family and himself, for, as before said, his standard was
      very high, and his own strong habit of self-contemplation made his
      dissatisfaction with himself manifest in his manner to those nearest to
      him. He was always gentle and unselfish; not showing temper, but
      unhappiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here are letters showing a good deal of his state of mind: the first only
      dated 'Saturday evening,' but evidently written about this time, in reply
      to the cautions with which his sister had replied to the above letter of
      eager plans of improvement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Fan,&mdash;Your letter has just reached me from Honiton, and I
      have read it with very great interest. I liked it better on a second
      perusal of it, which showed in itself that I wanted it, for it is quite
      true that I require to be reminded of the only true principle upon which
      one ought to work; and I allow quite willingly that I trace interested
      motives&mdash;e.g., love of self-approval or applause in actions where
      such feelings ought least of all to enter. I certainly did feel pleased
      with myself for speaking plainly to those people, and I often find myself
      indulging the notion that I am going to be a very hard-working clergyman,
      with a remedy for all the evils of the age, &amp;c. If I was to hunt about
      for an excuse, I might perhaps find one, by saying that I am in that state
      of mind which attends always, I suppose, the anticipation of any great
      crisis in a person's life; sometimes hard work and hard thought, sometimes
      (though alas! very seldom) a real sense of the very awful responsibility
      of ministering in the Church, sometimes a less natural urging of the mind
      to contemplate and realise this responsibility. I was for some time
      reading Wilberforce's new book, and this involved an examination of the
      question in other writers; but lately I have laid all controversial works
      aside almost entirely, and have been reading Pearson, Bull, and the
      Apostolical Fathers, Clement and Ignatius. I shall probably read Justin
      Martyr's Apologies, and some treatises of Tertullian before next month is
      over. I have read some part already. There is such a very strong practical
      element in these very early writings that they ought to soothe and calm
      the mind; but I cannot honestly conceal the fact that the theological
      interest for the most part outweighs the practical teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My light reading is of a new and very amusing and interesting character&mdash;viz.,
      books on school economy, management of school farms, allotments, the
      modern dairy, spade husbandry, agricultural chemistry. K, W, F, C, and G,
      and I have great talks; and as they all agree with me, I think them
      capital judges.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think at all that my present state of mind is quite natural. You
      quite repeat my own words when you say it is transitory. A calm
      undisturbed spirit of prayer and peace and contentment is a great gift of
      God, and to be waited for with patience. The motto of "The Christian Year"
      is very beautiful. I sent the roses on Tuesday. My best love to dear
      Father and Joan.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      These words 'love of self-approval' perfectly analysed that snare of
      Coley's early life, against which he so endeavoured to guard&mdash;not
      self-conceit, but love of self-approval.
    </p>
    <p>
      So the Easter week drew on, and during it he writes to his cousin:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Friday, Wallis Lodgings, Exeter: September, 1853.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Sophy,&mdash;We have had a good examination, I think; perhaps
      rather harder than I expected. Woolecombe and Chancellor Harrington spoke
      to me this morning, thanking me for my papers, and telling me to read the
      Gospel at the Ordination.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did feel very nervous last Sunday and Monday, and the Ember Prayer in
      the morning (when I was at Ottery) fairly upset me, but I don't think
      anybody saw it; now, I am thankful to say, I am very well, and feel
      thoroughly happy. I shall be nervous, no doubt, on Sunday, and especially
      at reading the Gospel, but not I think so nervous as to break down or do
      anything foolish; so when you know I am reading&mdash;for you won't hear
      me, if you are in the stalls, don't distress yourself about me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't tell what it was that upset me so on Sunday and Monday&mdash;thinking
      of dear Mamma and how she had wished for this, the overwhelming kindness
      of everybody about me, dear Father's simple words of very affectionate
      comfort and advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I walked into Exeter, and on the way got quite calm, and so I have
      been ever since. It is not strange that the realising the near approach of
      what I have for years wished for, and looked forward to, should at times
      come upon me with such force that I seem scarcely master of myself; but it
      is only excitement of feeling, and ought, I know, to be repressed, not for
      a moment to be entertained as a test of one's religious state, being by no
      means a desirable thing. I am very glad the examination is over. I did not
      worry myself about it, but it was rather hard work, and now I have my time
      to myself for quiet thought and meditation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever, dear Sophy, your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The next evening he writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Saturday, 5.45 P.M.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;I must write my last letter as a layman to you.
      I can't tell you the hundredth part of the thoughts that have been passing
      through my mind this week. There has been no return of the excitement that
      I experienced last Sunday and Monday, and I have been very happy and well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To-day my eyes are not comfortable, from I know not what cause, but as
      all the work for them is over, it does not matter so much. I am glad to
      have had a quiet time for reflection. Indeed, I do not enough realise my
      great unworthiness and sinfulness, and the awful nature of the work I am
      undertaking. I pray God very earnestly for the great grace of humility,
      which I so sadly need: and for a spirit of earnest prayer, that I may be
      preserved from putting trust in myself, and may know and forget myself in
      my office and work. I never could be fit for such work, I know that, and
      yet I am very thankful that the time for it has come. I do not feel
      excited, yet I am somewhat nervous because it requires an effort to
      meditate steadily. I have thought so much of my early life, of dearest
      Mamma. What a snare it seems, so full of transitory earthly plans and
      pursuits; such a want of earnestness of purpose and steady performance of
      duty! God grant my life as a clergyman may be more innocent to myself, and
      more useful to others! Tell dear Joan the gown came this morning. My kind
      love to her, Fan, and Jem.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever, my dearest Father,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and dutiful Son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      On the ensuing day, Sunday, September 14, 1853, John Coleridge Patteson
      received the Diaconate at the hands of the venerable Bishop Phillpotts, in
      Exeter Cathedral. His being selected to read the Gospel was the proof of
      his superiority in the examination&mdash;no wonder, considering the two
      additional years that he had spent in preparation, and the deep study and
      searchings of heart of the last few months.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was established in a small house at Alfington&mdash;the usual
      habitation of the Curate. And of his first sermon there, his uncle, Sir
      John Coleridge, gives the following touching description from his diary:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'October 23, 1853.&mdash;Yesterday morning Arthur and I went to Alfington
      Church, to be present at Coley's first sermon. I don't know when I have
      been so much delighted and affected. His manner of saying the prayers was
      exceedingly good: his voice very sweet and musical; without seeming loud,
      it was fully audible, and gave assurance of more power if needed: his
      manner quite unaffected, but sweet and devout. His sermon was a very sound
      and good one, beautifully delivered; perhaps in the early parts, from the
      very sweetness of his voice, and the very rapid delivery of his words, a
      little more variety of intonation would have helped in conveying his
      meaning more distinctly to those who formed the bulk of his congregation.
      But when he came to personal parts this was not needed. He made a kind
      allusion to me, very affecting to me; and when I was in this mood, and he
      came to the personal parts, touching himself and his new congregation,
      what he knew he ought to be to them and to do for them, what they should
      do for themselves, and earnestly besought their prayers, I was completely
      overcome, and weeping profusely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fanny Patteson and Arthur Coleridge were sitting with the Judge, and were
      equally overcome. When the service was over, and the congregation
      dispersed, Coley joined these three in the porch, holding out his hands,
      taking theirs and shedding tears, and they with him&mdash;tears of warm
      emotion too deep for words. He was evidently surprised at the effect
      produced. In fact, on looking at the sermon, it does not seem to have been
      in itself remarkable, but as his cousin Arthur says: 'I suppose the deep
      spirituality of the man, and the love we bore him for years, touched the
      emotional part of us.' The text was significant: 'We preach not ourselves,
      but Christ Jesus the Lord; and ourselves your servants for Jesus' sake' (2
      Cor. iv. 5).
    </p>
    <p>
      The services that the newly-ordained Deacon undertook were the ordinary
      Sunday ones, and Wednesday and Friday Matins and Litany, Saints'-day
      prayers and lecture, and an Advent and Lent Evensong and lecture on
      Wednesdays and Fridays. These last had that great popularity which attends
      late services. Dr. Cornish used to come on one Sunday in the month to
      celebrate the Holy Communion (which is given weekly in the mother Church);
      and when Mr. Grardiner was able to be at Sidmouth, recovering from his
      illness, he used to come over on the second Sunday in the month for the
      same purpose; and the next Lent, the Matins were daily, and followed by a
      lecture.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this time Patteson's constitutional shrinking from general society was
      in full force, and he also had that dislike to 'speaking to' people in the
      way of censure, which so often goes with tender and refined natures,
      however strong; so that if his housekeeper needed a reproof, he would make
      his sister administer it, and creep out of reach himself; but this was one
      of the deficiencies with which he was struggling all his life, and
      fortunately it is a fact that the most effective lectures usually come
      from those to whom they cost the most.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the hardest part of his ministry. Where kindness and attention
      were needed, nothing could be more spontaneous, sweet, or winning than his
      ways. One of his parishioners, a farmer's daughter, writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our personal knowledge of him began some months before his Ordination,
      owing, I suppose, to Mr. Gardiner's severe illness; and as he was very
      much respected, Mr. Patteson's attentions won from the first our
      admiration and gratitude, which went on and on until it deepened into that
      love which I do not think could have been surpassed by the Galatians for
      their beloved St. Paul, which he records in his Epistle to them (chap. iv.
      15). All were waiting for him at his Ordination, and a happy delusion
      seemed to have come over the minds of most, if not all, that he was as
      completely ours as if he had been ordained expressly for us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not his own feeling, for he knew that when his apprenticeship
      should be past, the place was too small, and the work too easy, for a man
      in full force and vigour, though for the sake of his father he was glad to
      accept it for the present, to train himself in the work, and to have full
      time for study; but he at that time looked to remaining in England during
      his father's lifetime, and perhaps transferring himself to Manchester,
      Liverpool, London, or some large city, where there was need of mission
      work among the neglected.
    </p>
    <p>
      His father was on the City of London Charter Commission, and was in London
      from November to February, the daughters joining him there, but there was
      no lack of friends around Alfington. Indeed it was in the midst of an
      absolute clan of Coleridges, and in Buckerell parish, at Deerpark, that
      great old soldier, Lord Seaton, was spending the few years that passed
      between his Commissioner-ship in the Ionian Isles and his Commandership in
      Ireland.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was connected with the Coleridges through the Yonge family, and the
      young people were all on familiar cousinly terms. Coley was much liked by
      him; and often joined in the rides through the lanes and to the hills with
      him and his daughters, when there were many conversations of much
      interest, as there could not fail to be with a man who had never held a
      government without doing his utmost to promote God's work in the Church
      and for education; who had, moreover, strong opinions derived from
      experience of the Red Indians in Upper Canada&mdash;namely, that to
      reclaim the young, and educate them was the only hope of making
      Christianity take root in any fresh nation.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was at Deerpark, at a dinner in the late autumn of this year 1853, that
      I saw Coley Patteson for the second and last time. I had seen him before
      in a visit of three days that I made at Feniton with my parents in the
      September of 1844, when he was an Eton boy, full of high spirits and
      merriment. I remember then, on the Sunday, that he and I accompanied our
      two fathers on a walk to the afternoon service at Ottery, and that on the
      way he began to show something of his inner self, and talked of his mother
      and her pleasure in Feniton; but it began to rain, and I stayed for the
      night at Heaths Court, so that our acquaintance ceased for that time. It
      was not a formal party at Deerpark, and the evening was chiefly spent in
      playing at games, thread paper verses and the like, in which Coley took
      his part with spirit. If I had guessed what he was to be, I should have
      observed him more; but though, in after years, our intercourse in letters
      makes us feel intimate with one another, these two brief meetings comprise
      the whole of my personal acquaintance with one in whom I then only saw a
      young clergyman with his heart in his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps this is the best place to mention his personal appearance, as the
      portrait at the beginning of this volume was taken not more than a year
      later.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was tall and of a large powerful frame, broad in the chest and
      shoulders, and with small neat hands and feet, with more of sheer muscular
      strength and power of endurance than of healthiness, so that though seldom
      breaking down and capable of undergoing a great deal of fatigue and
      exertion, he was often slightly ailing, and was very sensitive to cold.
      His complexion was very dark, and there was a strongly marked line between
      the cheeks and mouth, the corners of which drooped when at rest, so that
      it was a countenance peculiarly difficult to photograph successfully. The
      most striking feature was his eyes, which were of a very dark clear blue,
      full of an unusually deep earnest, and so to speak, inward, yet far away
      expression. His smile was remarkably bright, sweet and affectionate, like
      a gleam of sunshine, and was one element of his great attractiveness. So
      was his voice, which had the rich full sweetness inherited from his
      mother's family, and which always excited a winning influence over the
      hearers. Thus, though not a handsome man, he was more than commonly
      engaging, exciting the warmest affection in all who were concerned with
      him, and giving in return an immense amount of interest and sympathy,
      which only became intensified to old friends while it expanded towards new
      ones. Here is a letter to his father, undated, but written not long after
      his settling down at Alfington. After expressing his regret that his voice
      had been inaudible to his sister Joanna at a Friday evening service, he
      proceeds:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did not speak very loud, because I don't think I could do so and at the
      same time keep my mind at work and thoughts collected. Anything which is
      so unnatural and unusual as to make me conscious of myself in a peculiar
      manner would prevent, I fear, my getting on with my oration at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am glad you think I could not have acted otherwise with E&mdash;-. I
      quite expect ere long to find something going on which may call for my
      interference, and I specially guarded myself on this point. It is
      distinctly understood that I shall speak to him quite plainly whenever and
      wherever I think it necessary to do so. I do not suppose it very likely
      that he can go on long without my being forced to take some step; but I
      really feel so very unequal to expressing a decided opinion upon the great
      question of Bible readers, that I am certainly glad I have not taken up a
      hostile position hastily. As a matter of fact, he reads in very few
      cottages in my district; tracts he distributes almost everywhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now I see of course the distinction between a man making it his business
      to read the Bible and neighbours dropping in occasionally to read a
      chapter to one who is unable to read, but where you are distinctly told
      that the wish is most decidedly to support the clergyman, and answers not
      unsatisfactory are given upon main points, what difference remains between
      the two cases I have put that can furnish matter for fair argument, with a
      man from education, &amp;c., disposed to take a different view of the
      whole question? Add to this, that I cannot appeal to the universal
      practice of the clergy. "Why," might it be said, "do you, as a clergyman
      find a difficulty where Mr. H. finds none? You are, after all, acting on
      your own private opinion, though you lay claim to authority for it." I
      cannot successfully appeal to the distinctive teaching of our Church,
      clear and manifest as it is, for the very words I think conclusive contain
      no such evidence for him, and so on ad infinitum. Besides, to speak quite
      what I feel at present, though only so perhaps because my view is
      necessarily unformed, the natural order of things in such a district as
      this seems to be: gain the affections of the people by gentleness and
      showing real interest in their welfare, spiritual and temporal; show them
      in the Bible such teaching as the Church considers necessary (but not as
      yet upon the authority of the Church, or at least not so expressed to
      them); lead them gradually to the acknowledgment of such truths as these:
      that Christ did found a society called the Church, and appoint to certain
      persons whom he sent the Ministry of reconciliation; that if we have no
      guide but mere opinion, there will be thousands of conflicting opinions in
      the world even among good men, whereas Truth can be but one, and that
      practically this is found to be so; that it is no argument to say, that
      the Spirit so operated as to enlighten the reason of each individual to
      this extent, viz., that it may compose a Creed for him or herself; that
      the Spirit acts now in the ordinary, though not less real and heavenly
      manner; and that the infinite divisions among sectaries proves the fact to
      be as I state it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thus I imagine the want of that external and visible Church will be felt
      as necessary to fix the Creeds pasa katadike.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But to reverse this process, to cram positive teaching down their throats
      upon the authority of the Church before they know what the Church is, or
      feel the need of any power outside (so to speak) their own minds to guide
      them, does seem to me in a place like this (humanly speaking) suicidal. I
      cannot, of course, tell how much preparatory teaching they have received,
      but I must judge from what I see and hear, and deal accordingly in each
      cottage. Some few there are to whom I can speak, as to Church people in
      the real sense of the word, but these are as two or three in a hundred.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One line to say whether you think me right or wrong, would be a great
      comfort to me. I feel no tendency to latitudinarianism, but only to see
      much good in systems unrecognised by your very highflyers. I believe that
      the Church teaching is represented in an unfavourable, often offensive,
      light to many of our poor, because they hear words and see things which
      find no response in their hearts; because they are told, ordered almost,
      to believe things the propriety of believing which they do not recognise;
      because the existence of wants is implied when they have never been felt,
      and a system for supplying them introduced which finds no room in the
      understanding or affections of the patient.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you know, dear Father, what I mean, without more dusky attempts at
      explaining myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not many High Churchmen want a little more "experimental religion" in
      Bishop Jebb's sense of the terms: not a religion of the feelings, but a
      religion brought home to the heart, and truly felt so as to prohibit any
      systematic criticism of the feelings?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am late this week with my sermons, I have not begun either of them, and
      may have one to-morrow evening if my voice will do its part. I write very
      long washy concerns, and find it difficult to do otherwise, for it is a
      good pull upon me week after week, and latterly I have not been able to
      read very much. I shall look out two or three that I think fair specimens,
      and ask you by-and-by to run your eye over them, that you may point out
      the defects.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My ignorance of the Bible astonishes me, though not so much as it ought
      to do. I purpose, D.V., to commence a thorough study of the original
      texts. I must try to become something of a scholar, at all events, to make
      any progress in the work. I sometimes hope that, in spite of my many
      backslidings and broken resolutions, some move is taking place within,
      where most it is wanted; but I live here so quietly, that I have little
      (comparatively) food for some special faults. Good-bye, my dear Father,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and dutiful Son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Some move taking place within!' It is impossible not to pause and observe
      how as Confirmation and Communion had almost palpably strengthened the
      boy's struggles with his inherent faults, so the grace conferred with the
      Deacon's orders is now felt to be lifting him higher, and enabling him to
      see further than he has yet seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sermons were, however, never Patteson's forte. Though his pen flowed so
      freely in letters, and he could pour out his heart extemporaneously with
      great depth, fervour and simplicity, his sermons were laboured and
      metaphysical, as if he had taken too much pains with them as it were, and
      he could not speak to the abstract, as he could to the individual, or when
      he saw the effect of his words. It was perhaps owing to the defective
      system which threw two sermons a week upon a young deacon at a time when
      his mind was working through such an experimental course of study and
      thought. Yet his people, who had learnt to believe in little but
      preaching, would not have come to prayers alone; and the extemporary
      addresses, in which he would probably have been much more successful,
      would have seemed to him at his age and at that period&mdash;twenty years
      back&mdash;too presumptuous to be attempted, at any rate till he had
      better learnt his ground. How his system would have succeeded, we cannot
      tell. The nature of the peasantry of the county he had to deal with is, to
      be quick-witted, argumentative, and ready of retort; open to religious
      impressions, but with much of self-opinion and conceit, and not much
      reverence, and often less conscientious in matters of honesty and morality
      than denser rustics of less apparent piety. The Church had for a
      long-period been at a peculiarly low ebb in the county, and there is not a
      neighbourhood which has not traditions of incredibly ignorant, careless
      and underbred&mdash;if not dissipated&mdash;clergy; and though there were
      grand exceptions, they were only respected as men; faith in the whole
      system, as a system, was destroyed. Bishop Phillpotts, coming down on such
      elements as these, was, in spite of his soundness of faith and grand
      trenchant force of character, better as a warrior than as a shepherd, and
      the controversial and political sides of his character, though invaluable
      to the Church, did not recommend him to the affections of the people of
      his diocese, who could not understand the points of the debate, and wanted
      the direct evidence of spirituality which they could appreciate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cholera of 1832 had been especially terrible in the unwholesome
      precincts of the Devonshire seaports, and the effect was a great craving
      for religion. The Church was in no condition to avail herself of it; in
      fact, she would have viewed it with distrust as excitement. Primitive
      Methodism and Plymouth Brethrenism supplied the void, gave opportunities
      of prayer, and gratified the quickened longing for devotion; and therewith
      arose that association of the Church with deadness and of Dissent with
      life, which infected even the most carefully tended villages, and with
      which Patteson was doing his best to contend at Alfington. The stage of
      gaining the people's affection and confidence, and of quickening their
      religious life, he had attained; and the further work of teaching them
      that the Church alone gives security of saving union with Christ, was yet
      to come when his inward call led him elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 12th of December he says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yesterday was a very happy day; Gardiner came to help me and he
      administered the Holy Communion to twenty-seven or twenty-eight of my own
      people. This is nearly double the average before I came, and two regular
      attendants are prevented by sickness from being at Church. I trust I have
      not urged the necessity of communicating unwisely upon them. I preach on
      it once a month, as you know, and in almost every sermon allude to it, and
      where occasion offers, speak about it to individuals at home; but I try to
      put before them the great awfulness of it as well as the danger of
      neglecting it, and I warn them against coming without feeling really
      satisfied from what I read to them, and they read in the Bible concerning
      it. Six came yesterday for the first time.... Old William (seventy-five
      years of age), who has never been a communicant, volunteered on Thursday
      to come, if I thought it right. He is, and always has been (I am told), a
      thoroughly respectable, sober, industrious man, regular at Church once a
      day; and I went to his cottage with a ticket in my pocket to urge him to
      consider the danger of going on as if content with what he did and without
      striving to press onwards, &amp;c. But, after a long conversation on other
      matters, he said; "I should like, Sir, to come to the Sacrament, if you
      have no objection;" and very happy and thankful I felt, for I had prayed
      very earnestly that this old man might be led thither by God's grace, and
      now it was done without any urging on my part, beyond what he heard in
      Church and what I had said to his daughter about him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The next of his letters is occupied with the pecuniary affairs of his
      lodging house for farm boys, and the obtaining of ground where they might
      grow vegetables for their own use.
    </p>
    <p>
      In February his family returned home, and his sister Fanny thus speaks of
      him to a friend:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'He does not look well; and at first we were quite uneasy, for his eyes
      were heavy and puffed, but he is much better, and confesses that dinners
      and evenings here do him good, though he quite denies the starving, and
      Mrs. Knowles also. She says he gets over anxious in mind, and was
      completely chilled the week he sat in the hall. No doubt his house is
      still both cold and damp, and the Church the same, and therefore the
      labour of reading and preaching is very great. We are by degrees
      interesting him in our winter life, having heard all his performances and
      plans; and he is very glad to have us back, though much too busy to have
      missed us when we were away. Now he has daily morning service, with a
      lecture; and if it lasts, the impression he has made is really
      extraordinary. We may well pray that he should not be vain of his works.
      There are men whose whole lives seem changed, if I am to believe what I
      hear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the young Deacon's early success. With an affectionate brother
      close at hand, and friends within easy reach, his Fellowship preserving
      his connection with Oxford, his father's and brother's profession with
      London, in fact, all England could offer; and he would easily have it in
      his power to take fresh holidays on the Continent and enjoy those delights
      of scenery, architecture, art and music, which he loved with an
      appreciation and enthusiasm that could easily have become an absorbing
      passion. Who could have a smoother, easier, pleasanter career open to him
      than the Rev. John Coleridge Patteson at six and twenty?
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet even then, the wish breathed to his mother, at fourteen, that he might
      devote himself to the cause of the heathen, lay deep in his heart;
      although for the present, he was, as it were, waiting to see what God
      would have him do, whether his duty to his father required him to remain
      at hand, or whether he might be called to minister in some great English
      manufacturing town.
    </p>
    <p>
      Early in 1854, it became known that the Bishop of New Zealand and Mrs.
      Selwyn were about to spend a year in England. Coley's aspirations to
      mission work were renewed. The thoughts excited by the sermons he had
      heard at Eton twelve years previously grew in force. He remembered his
      mother's promise of her blessing, and seriously considered of offering
      himself to assist in the work in the Southern Hemisphere. He discussed the
      matter seriously with his friend, Mr. Gardiner, who was strongly of
      opinion that the scheme ought not to be entertained during his father's
      lifetime. He acquiesced; but if his heart and mind were convinced, his
      soul and spirit were not, and the yearnings for the forefront of the
      battle were not quenched, though there was no slackening of zeal over the
      present little flock, to make them suspect that he had a thought beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old ties of friendship already mentioned made the Bishop and Mrs. Selwyn
      promise to spend a few days at Feniton; and on the 19th of August the New
      Zealand guests arrived at Feniton. After joining in the family welcome,
      Coley went apart, and gave way to a great burst of tears, due, perhaps,
      not so mueh to disappointed ardour, as to the fervent emotion excited by
      the actual presence of a hero of the Church Militant, who had so long been
      the object of deep silent enthusiasm. The next morning, Coley walked from
      Alfington to breakfast at home, and afterwards went into the garden with
      the Bishop, who led him to talk freely of his present work in all its
      details. By-and-by the question arose, Did it satisfy him?
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, the being near his father satisfied him that it was right for the
      present, but at some future time, he hoped to do more, go perhaps to some
      great manufacturing town, or, as he could not help going on to say, what
      he should like would be to go out as a missionary, only the thought of his
      father withheld him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But,' replied the Bishop, 'if you think about doing a thing of that sort,
      it should not be put off till you are getting on in life. It should be
      done with your full strength and vigour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then followed an endeavour on both sides to ascertain whether the
      inclination was a real earnest desire, or only fancy for the romance of
      mission work. The test might be whether he were willing to go wherever he
      might be sent, or only where he was most interested. Coley replied, that
      he was willing to work anywhere, adding that his sister Fanny could
      testify whether his desire were a real one of long standing or the mere
      outcome of a fit of enthusiasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Therewith they separated, and Coley, going straight to Fanny, told her
      what had passed: 'I could not help it,' he said:&mdash;'I told the Bishop
      of my wish.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You ought to put it to my father, that he may decide it,' she answered;
      'he is so great a man that he ought not to be deprived of the crown of the
      sacrifice if he be willing to make it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So Coley repaired to his father, and confessed his long cherished wish,
      and how it had come forth to the Bishop. Sir John was manifestly startled;
      but at once said: 'You have done quite right to speak to me, and not to
      wait. It is my first impulse to say No, but that would be very selfish.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Coley explained that he was 'driven to speak;' he declared himself not
      dissatisfied with his present position, nor he hoped, impatient. If his
      staying at home were decided upon, he would cheerfully work on there
      without disappointment or imagining his wishes thwarted. He would leave
      the decision entirely in the hands of his father and the Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      Luncheon brought the whole family together; and Sir John, making room for
      his younger daughter beside him, said, 'Fan, did you know this about
      Coley?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She answered that she had some idea, but no more could pass till the meal
      was ended; when her father went into another room, and she followed him.
      The great grief broke out in the exclamation: 'I can't let him go;' but
      even as the words were uttered, they were caught back, as it were, with&mdash;'God
      forbid I should stop him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The subject could not be pursued, for the Bishop was public property among
      the friends and neighbours, and the rest of the day was bestowed upon
      them. He preached on the Sunday at Alfington, where the people thronged to
      hear him, little thinking of the consequences of his visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not till afterwards were the Bishop and the father alone together, when
      Sir John brought the subject forward. The Bishop has since said that what
      struck him most was the calm balancing of arguments, like a true Christian
      Judge. Sir John spoke of the great comfort he had in this son, cut off as
      he was by his infirmity from so much of society, and enjoying the young
      man's coming in to talk about his work. He dwelt on all with entire
      absence of excitement, and added: 'But there, what right have I to stand
      in his way? How do I know that I may live another year?'
    </p>
    <p>
      And as the conversation ended, 'Mind!' he said; 'I give him wholly, not
      with any thought of seeing him again. I will not have him thinking he must
      come home again to see me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      That resolution was the cause of much peace of mind to both father and
      son. After family prayers that Sunday night, when all the rest had gone
      upstairs, the Bishop detained the young man, and told him the result of
      the conversation, then added: 'Now, my dear Coley, having ascertained your
      own state of mind and having spoken at length to your father and your
      family, I can no longer hesitate, as far as you recognise any power to
      call on my part, to invite you most distinctly to the work.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The reply was full acceptance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then taking his hand, the Bishop said, 'God bless you, my dear Coley! It
      is a great comfort to me to have you for a friend and companion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the outward and such the inward vocation to the Deacon now within
      a month of the Priesthood. Was it not an evident call from Him by whom the
      whole Church is governed and sanctified? And surely the noble old man, who
      forced himself not to withhold 'his son, his firstborn son,' received his
      crown from Him who said: 'With blessing I will bless thee.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And he wrote to his brother:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 21.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear old Jem,&mdash;I have news for you of an unexpected and startling
      kind; about myself: and I am afraid that it will cause you some pain to
      hear what I am to tell you. You must know that for years I have felt a
      strong leaning toward missionary work, and though my proceedings at
      Alfington and even the fact of going thither might seem to militate
      against such a notion, yet the feeling has been continually present to me,
      and constantly exercising an increasing influence over me. I trust I have
      not taken an enthusiastic or romantic view of things; my own firm hope and
      trust is that I have decided upon calm deliberate conviction, and it is
      some proof of this, that Fanny and Joan have already guessed my state of
      mind, and months ago anticipated what has now taken place.... And so, dear
      Jem, you must help them all to bear what will of course be a great trial.
      This is my trial also; for it is hard to bear the thought that I may be
      giving unnecessary pain and causing distress without really having
      considered sufficiently the whole matter. But then I think God does not
      call now by an open vision; this thought has been for years working in my
      mind: it was His providence that brought me into contact with the Bishop
      in times past, and has led me to speak now. I cannot doubt this. I feel
      sure that if I was alone in the world I should go; the only question that
      remains is, "am I bound to stay for my dear Father's sake, or for the sake
      of you all?" and this has been answered for me by Father and the Bishop.
      And now, my dear Jem, think well over my character, sift it thoroughly,
      and try to see what there is which may have induced me to act wrongly in a
      matter of so much consequence. This is the kindest thing you can do; for
      we ought to take every precaution not to make a mistake before it is too
      late. Speak out quite plainly; do tell me distinctly as far as you can see
      them my prevailing faults, what they were in boyhood at Eton, and at
      College. It may help me to contemplate more clearly and truly the prospect
      before me. We shall have many opportunities, I trust, of discussing all
      this by-and-by. I shall tell Uncle John, because some arrangements must be
      made about Alfington as soon as may be. My tutor knows something about it
      already; it will soon be known to more. But do not suppose that I imagine
      myself better qualified for this work than hundreds of others more
      earnest, and infinitely more unselfish, and practically good; but I have
      received an invitation to a peculiar work, which is not offered to many
      others. We must all look onwards: we must try to think of this world as
      but a short moment in our existence; our real life and home is beyond the
      grave. On September 24th I hope to be ordained Priest; think of me and
      pray for me, my dear old fellow, that God will give me more of your own
      unselfishness and care and interest for others, and teach me to act not
      according to my own will and pleasure, but solely with a view to His
      honour and glory. God bless you, my dear old Jem, my dear, dear brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your most loving brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.
    </h5>
    <p>
      From that moment the matter was treated as fixed; and only three days
      later, the intention was announced to the relations at Thorverton.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is the letter to the little fatherless cousin, Paulina Martyn, who
      had always been devoted to Coley, and whom he loved with a triple portion
      of the affection children always gained from him. She was only eight years
      old, but had the precocity of solitary children much attended to by their
      elders:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton: August 24, 1854.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My darling Pena,&mdash;I am going to tell you a secret, and I am afraid
      it is one which will make you feel very sorry for a little while. Do you
      remember my talking to you one day after breakfast rather gravely, and
      telling you afterwards it was my first sermon to you? Well, my darling, I
      was trying to hint to you that you must not expect to go on very long in
      this world without troubles and trials, and that the use of them is to
      make us think more about God and about Heaven, and to remember that our
      real and unchangeable happiness is not to be found in this world, but in
      the next. It was rather strange for me to say all this to a bright happy
      good child like you, and I told you that you ought to be bright and happy,
      and to thank God for making you so. It is never right for us to try to
      make ourselves sad and grieve. Good people and good children are cheerful
      and happy, although they may have plenty of trials and troubles. You see
      how quietly and patiently Mamma and Grandpapa and Grandmamma take all
      their trouble about dear Aunty; that is a good lesson for us all. And now,
      my darling, I will tell you my secret. I am going to sail at Christmas, if
      I live so long, a great way from England, right to the other end of the
      world, with the good Bishop of New Zealand. I dare say you know where to
      find it on the globe. Clergymen are wanted out there to make known the
      Word of God to the poor ignorant people, and for many reasons it is
      thought right that I should go. So after Christmas you will not see me
      again for a very long time, perhaps never in this world; but I shall write
      to you very often, and send you ferns and seeds, and tell you about the
      Norfolk Island pines, and you must write to me, and tell me all about
      yourself, and always think of me, and pray for me, as one who loves you
      dearly with all his heart, and will never cease to pray God that the
      purity and innocence of your childhood may accompany you all through your
      life and make you a blessing (as you are now, my darling) to your dear
      mother and all who know you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your most affectionate,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      To the child's mother the words are:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I pray God that I may have chosen aright, and that if I have acted from
      sudden impulse too much, from love of display, or from desire to raise
      some interest about myself, or from any other selfish and unholy motive,
      it may be mercifully forgiven.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, at all events, I must pray that with a single honest desire for
      God's glory, I may look straight onwards towards the mark. I must forget
      what is behind, I must not lose time in analysing my state of mind to see
      how, during years past, this wish has worked itself out. I trust the wish
      is from God, and now I must forget myself, and think only of the work
      whereunto I am called. But it is hard to flesh and blood to think of the
      pain I am causing my dear dear Father, and the pain I am causing to others
      outside my own circle here. But they are all satisfied that I am doing
      what is right, and it would surprise you, although you know them so well,
      to hear the calmness with which we talk about outfits.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A heavy grief was even now on the family. The beloved, 'Uncle Frank,' so
      often affectionately mentioned, had been failing for some time. He had
      taken a journey abroad, with one of his daughters, in hopes of refreshment
      and invigoration, but the fatigue and excitement were more than he could
      bear; he returned home, and took to his bed. He suffered no pain, and was
      in a heavenly state of mind indeed, a most blessed death-bed, most
      suggestive of comfort and peace to all who survive as a most evident proof
      of what the close of life may be, if only 'that life is spent faithfully
      in doing our duty to God'&mdash;as Patteson wrote to his old friend, Miss
      Neill.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now one word about myself, which at such a time I should not obtrude
      upon you, but that the visit of the Bishop of New Zealand made it
      necessary for me to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am going with him to work, if all is well, at the Antipodes, believing
      that the growing desire for missionary work, which for years has been
      striving within me, ought no longer to be resisted, and trusting that I am
      not mistaken in supposing that this is the line of duty that God has
      marked out for me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may be sure that all this is done with the full consent and
      approbation of my dear Father. He and the Bishop had a great deal of
      conversation about it, and I left it entirely for them to determine. That
      it will be a great trial to us all at Christmas when we sail, I cannot
      conceal from myself; it is so great a separation that I cannot expect ever
      to see my dear Father, perhaps not any of those I love best, again in this
      world. But if you all know that I am doing, or trying to do, what is
      right, you will all be happy about me; and what has just been taking place
      at the Manor House teaches us to look, on a little to a blessed meeting in
      a better place soon. It is from no dissatisfaction at my present position,
      that I am induced to take this step. I have been very happy at Alfington;
      and I hope to be ordained Priest, on the 24th of September, with a calm
      mind. I trust I am not following any sudden hasty impulse, but obeying a
      real call to a real work, and (in the midst of much self-seeking and other
      alloy) not wholly without a sincere desire to labour for the honour and
      glory of God.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this purpose full in view, Coleridge Patteson received Ordination as
      a Priest in the ensuing Ember Week, again at the hands of Bishop
      Phillpotts, in Exeter Cathedral; where a beautiful marble pulpit is to
      commemorate the fact.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wrench from home and friends could not but be terrible. The sisters,
      indeed, were so far prepared that they had been aware from the first of
      his wish and his mother's reception of it, and when they told their
      Father, he was pleased and comforted; for truly he was upheld by the
      strength of willing sacrifice. Those were likewise sustained who felt the
      spirit of missionary enterprise and sympathy, which was at that time so
      strongly infused into the Church; but the shock was severe to many, and
      especially to the brother who had been devoted to Coley from their
      earliest infancy, and among his relations the grief was great.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the district of Alfington, the distress was extreme. The people had
      viewed Mr. Patteson as their exclusive property, and could not forgive the
      Bishop of New Zealand for, as they imagined, tempting him away. 'Ah! Sir,'
      was the schoolmistress's answer to some warm words from Mr. Justice
      Coleridge in praise of Bishop Selwyn, 'he may be&mdash;no doubt he is&mdash;a
      very good man. I only wish he had kept his hands off Alfington.' 'It would
      not be easy,' says the parishioner from whom I have already quoted, 'to
      describe the intense sorrow in view of separation. Mr. Patteson did all he
      could to assure us that it was his own will and act, consequent upon the
      conviction that it was God's will that he should go, and to exonerate the
      Bishop, but for some time he was regarded as the immediate cause of our
      loss; and he never knew half the hard things said of him by the same
      people who, when they heard he was coming, and would preach on the Sunday,
      did their utmost to make themselves and their children look their very
      best.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, the affectionate writer seems to have shared the poor people's
      feeling that they had thus festally received a sort of traitor with
      designs upon their pastor. She goes on to tell of his ministrations to her
      mother, whose death-bed was the first he attended as a Priest.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be impossible for me to say all he was to her. Not long before
      her death, when he had just left the room, she said, 'I have not felt any
      pain or weakness whilst Mr. Patteson has been here.' I was not always
      present during his visits to her, and I think their closer communings were
      only known to Him above, but their effects were discernible in that deep
      confidence in him on her part, and that lasting impression on him, for you
      will remember, in his letter last April, he goes back in memory to that
      time, and calls it&mdash;'a solemn scene in my early ministry.' Solemn,
      indeed, it was to us all that last night of her life upon earth. He was
      with her from about the middle of the day on Monday until about four
      o'clock on Tuesday morning; when, after commending her soul to God, he
      closed her eyes with his own hands, and taking out his watch, told us the
      hour and moment of her departure. He then went home and apprised Miss
      Wilkins of her death in these words: 'My soul fleeth unto the LORD before
      the morning watch, I say before the morning watch,' and at the earliest
      dawn of day, the villagers were made aware that she had passed away by the
      tolling bell, and tolled by him. This was not the only death during his
      ministry among us; but it was the first occasion where he gave the
      Communion of the Sick, also when he read the Burial Service. Cases of
      rejoicing with those that rejoiced as well as of weeping with those that
      wept, the child and the aged seemed alike to appreciate his goodness. In
      him were combined those qualities which could inspire with deep reverence
      and entire confidence. Many, many are or will be the stars in the crown of
      his rejoicing, and some owe to him under God, their deeper work of grace
      in the heart and their quickening in the divine life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A remarkable testimony is this to the impression remaining after the lapse
      of sixteen years from a ministry extending over no more than seventeen
      months. 'Our Mr. Patteson' the people called him to the last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, in the face of all this grief, the parting till death, the work
      broken off, the life cut short midway, the profusion of needs at home for
      able ministers, is it to be regretted that Coleridge Patteson devoted
      himself to the more remote fields abroad? I think we shall find that his
      judgment was right. Alfington might love him dearly, but the numbers were
      too small to afford full scope for his powers, and he would have
      experienced the trials of cramped and unemployed energies had he remained
      there beyond his apprenticeship. Nor were his gifts, so far as can be
      judged, exactly those most requisite for work in large towns. He could
      deal with individuals better than with masses, and his metaphysical mind,
      coupled with the curious difficulty he had in writing to an unrealised
      public, either in sermons or reports, might have rendered him less
      effective than men of less ability. He avoided, moreover, the temptations,
      pain, and sting of the intellectual warfare within the bosom of the
      Church, and served her cause more effectually on her borders than he could
      in her home turmoils. His great and peculiar gifts of languages, seconded
      by his capacity for navigation, enabled him to be the builder up of the
      Melanesian Church in so remarkable a manner that one can hardly suppose
      but that he was marked out for it, and these endowments would have found
      no scope in an ordinary career. Above all, no man can safely refuse the
      call to obey the higher leadings of grace. If he deny them, he will
      probably fall below that which he was before, and lose 'even that which he
      seemeth to have.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days later, he wrote to his cousin Arthur Coleridge an expression of
      his feelings regarding the step he had taken in the midst of the pain it
      was costing to others:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton: November 11, 9 A.M.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Arthur,&mdash;Your letter was very acceptable because I am, I
      confess, in that state of mind occasionally when the assurance of my being
      right, coming from another, tends to strengthen my own conviction.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not really doubt as I believe; and yet, knowing my want of
      consideration for others, and many other thoughts which naturally prevent
      my exercising a clear sound judgment on a matter affecting myself, I
      sometimes (when I have had a conversation, it throws me back upon
      analysing my own conduct) feel inclined to go over the whole process
      again, and that is somewhat trying.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On the other hand, I am almost strangely free from excitement. I live on
      exactly as I did before: and even when alone with Father, talk just as I
      used to talk, have nothing more to tell him, not knowing how to make a
      better use of these last quiet evenings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By-and-by I shall wish I had done otherwise, perhaps, but I do not know
      now, that I have anything specially requiring our consideration: we talk
      about family matters, the movements in the theological and political
      world, &amp;c., very little about ourselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One of all others I delight to think of for the music's sake, and far
      more for the glorious thought that it conveys. "Then shall the righteous,"
      not indeed that I dare apply it to myself (as you know), but it helps one
      on, teaches what we may be, what our two dear parents are, and somehow the
      intervening, space becomes smaller as the eye is fixed steadily on the
      glory beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless you, my dear fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your affectionate
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The Mission party intended to sail immediately after Christmas in the
      'Southern Cross,' the schooner which was being built at Blackwall for
      voyages among the Melanesian isles. In expectation of this, Patteson went
      up to London in the beginning of December, when the admirable crayon
      likeness was taken by Mr. Richmond, an engraving from which is here given.
      He then took his last leave of his uncle, and of the cousins who had been
      so dear to him ever since the old days of daily meeting in childhood; and
      Miss Neill, then a permanent invalid, notes down: 'On December 13, I had
      the happiness of receiving the Holy Communion from dear Coley Patteson,
      and the following morning I parted from him, as I fear, for ever. God
      bless and prosper him, and guard him in all the dangers he will
      encounter!' He wrote thus soon after his return:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton: December 22, 1854.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Miss Neill,&mdash;I began a note to you a day or two ago, but I
      could not go on with it, for I have had so very much to do in church and
      out of it, parochializing, writing sermons, &amp;c. It makes some little
      difference in point of time whether I am living here or at Alfington, and
      so the walking about from one house to another is not so convenient for
      writing letters as for thinking over sermons.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not tell you what a real happiness and comfort it is to me to have
      been with you again and to have talked so long with you, and most of all
      to have received the Communion with you. It is a blessed thought that no
      interval of space or time can interrupt that Communion of the Spirit, and
      that we are one in Him, though working in different corners of the Lord's
      field.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want to look you out a little book or two; and Fanny has told you that
      if ever my picture is photographed, I have particularly desired them to
      send you a copy with my love. Your cross I have now round my neck, and I
      shall always wear it; it will hang there with a locket containing locks of
      hair of my dear Father and Mother, the girls, and Jem.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will be glad to hear that they all seem cheerful and hearty. Fan is
      not well, but I do not see that she is depressed or unhappy. In fact, the
      terrible events of the war prove a lesson to all, and they feel, I
      suppose, that it might be far worse, and that so long as I am doing my
      duty, there is no cause for sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Still there will be seasons of loneliness and sadness, and it seems to me
      as if it always was so in the case of all the people of whom we read in
      the Bible. Our Lord distinctly taught His disciples to expect it to be so,
      and even experienced this sorrow of heart Himself, filling up the full
      measure of His cup of bitterness. So I don't learn that I ought exactly to
      wish it to be otherwise, so much is said in the Bible about being made
      partaker of His, sufferings, only I pray that it may please God to bear me
      up in the midst of it. I must repeat that your example is constantly
      before me, as a witness to the power that God gives of enduring pain and
      sickness. It is indeed, and great comfort it gives me. He is not indeed
      keeping you still in the world without giving you a work to do, and
      enabling you from your bed of sickness to influence strongly a circle of
      friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless you for all your kindness to me, and watchfulness over me as a
      child, for your daily thought of me and prayers for me, and may He grant
      that I may wear your precious gift not only on but in my heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always your very affectionate
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'P.S.&mdash;I do not expect to sail for three weeks; this morning I had a
      line about the ship, and they say that she cannot be ready for a
      fortnight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On Christmas-day, he was presented with a Bible subscribed for by the
      whole Alfington population. Here is a sentence from his letter of
      acknowledgment:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'If these poor needy souls can, from love to a fellow creature whom they
      have known but a few months, deny themselves their very crumb of bread to
      show their affection, what should be our conduct to Him from whom we have
      received all things, and to whom we owe our life, strength, and all that
      we possess?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The farewell service was said by one of these poor old people to be like a
      great funeral. Sexagesima Sunday was Sir John's sixty-sixth birthday, and
      it was spent in expectation that it would be the last of the whole party
      at home, for on the Monday Sir John was obliged to go to London for a
      meeting of the Judicial Committee. The two notes his son wrote during his
      absence are, perhaps to prove good spirits, full of the delights of
      skating, which were afforded by the exceptionally severe frost of February
      1855, which came opportunely to regale with this favourite pastime one who
      would never tread on solid ice again. He wrote with zest of the large
      merry party of cousins skating together, of the dismay of the old
      housekeeper when he skimmed her in a chair over the ice, sighing out, in
      her terror, 'My dear man, don't ye go so fast,' with all manner of
      endearing expressions&mdash;of the little boys to whom he threw nuts to be
      scrambled for, and of his own plunge through the thinner ice, when,
      regardless of drenched garments, he went on with the sport to the last,
      and came home with clothes frozen as stiff as a board.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not gone when his father and brother came home on the twenty-sixth,
      prepared to go with him to Southampton.
    </p>
    <p>
      The note to his cousin Arthur written at this time thus ends: 'We worked
      together once at Dresden. Whatever we have acquired in the way of
      accomplishments, languages, love of art and music, everything brings us
      into contact with somebody, and gives us the power of influencing them for
      good, and all to the glory of God.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Many were touched when, on the first Sunday in Lent, as Sir John Patteson
      was wont to assist in Church by reading the Lessons, it fell to him to
      pronounce the blessing of God upon the patriarch for his willing surrender
      of his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      After all, the 'Southern Cross' was detected in leaking again, and as she
      was so small that the Mission party would have been most inconveniently
      crowded for so long a voyage, the Bishop was at length persuaded to
      relinquish his intention of sailing in her, and passages were taken for
      himself, Mrs. Selwyn, Mr. Patteson, and another clergyman, in the 'Duke of
      Portland,' which did not sail till the end of March, when Patteson was to
      meet her at Gravesend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus he did not depart till the 25th. 'I leave home this morning I may
      say, for it has struck midnight,' he wrote to Miss Neill. 'I bear with me
      to the world's end your cross, and the memory of one who is bearing with
      great and long-tried patience the cross that God has laid upon her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He chose to walk to the coach that would take him to join the railway at
      Cullompton. The last kisses were exchanged at the door, and the sisters
      watched him out of sight, then saw that their father was not standing with
      them. They consulted for a moment, and then one of them silently looked
      into his sitting room, and saw him with his little Bible, and their hearts
      were comforted concerning him. After that family prayers were never read
      without a clause for Missionaries, 'especially the absent member of this
      family.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He went up to his brother's chambers in London, whence a note was sent
      home the next day to his father:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I write one line to-night to tell you that I am, thank God, calm and even
      cheerful. I stayed a few minutes in the churchyard after I left you,
      picked a few primrose buds from dear mamma's grave, and then walked on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At intervals I felt a return of strong violent emotion, but I soon became
      calm; I read most of the way up, and felt surprised that I could master my
      own feelings so much.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How much I owe to the cheerful calm composure which you all showed this
      morning! I know it must have cost you all a great effort. It spared me a
      great one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 27th the brothers went on board the 'Duke of Portland,' and
      surveyed the cabins, looking in at the wild scene of confusion sure to be
      presented by an emigrant ship on the last day in harbour. A long letter,
      with a minute description of the ship and the arrangements ends with: 'I
      have every blessing and comfort. Not one is wanting. I am not in any
      excitement, I think, certainly I do not believe myself to be in such a
      state as to involve a reaction of feeling. Of course if I am seedy at sea
      for a few days I shall feel low-spirited also most likely, and miss you
      all more in consequence. But that does not go below the surface. Beneath
      is calm tranquil peace of mind.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 28th the two brothers joined the large number of friends who went
      down with the Mission party, among them Mr. Edward Coleridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Parting notes were written from on board to all the most beloved; to
      little Paulina, of bright hopes, to Miss Neill of her cross; to Arthur the
      German greeting, 'Lebe wohl, doch nicht auf Ewigkeit,'&mdash;to Mr.
      Justice Coleridge:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'March 28, 1855.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Uncle,&mdash;One line more to thank you for all your love and to
      pray for the blessing of God upon you and yours now and for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We sail to-day. Such letters from home, full of calm, patient, cheerful
      resignation to his will. Wonderfully has God supported us through this
      trial. My kind love to Arthur. Always, my dear Uncle, Your affectionate,
      grateful Nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Perhaps the frame of mind in which Coley left England can best be gathered
      from the following extract from a letter to his father from his uncle
      Edward:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'While on board I had a good deal of quiet talk with him, and was fully
      confirmed by his manner and words, of that which I did not doubt before,
      that the surrender of self, which he has made, has been put into his heart
      by God's Holy Spirit, and that all his impulses for good are based on the
      firm foundation of trust in God, and a due appreciation of his mortal, as
      well as professional condition. I never saw a hand set on the plough stead
      with more firmness, yet entire modesty, or with an eye and heart less
      turned backwards on the world behind. I know you do not in any way repine
      at what you have allowed him to do; and I feel sure that ere long you will
      see cause to bless God not only for having given you such a son, but also
      for having put it into his heart so to devote himself to that particular
      work in the Great Vineyard.'
    </p>
    <p>
      About 5 P.M. the 'Duke of Portland' swung round with the tide, strangers
      were ordered on shore, Coleridge and James Patteson said their last
      farewells, and while the younger brother went home by the night-train to
      carry the final greetings to his father and sisters, the ship weighed
      anchor and the voyage was begun.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI. THE VOYAGE AND FIRST YEAR. 1855-1856.
    </h2>
    <p>
      When the See of New Zealand was first formed, Archbishop Howley committed
      to the care of the first Bishop the multitudinous islands scattered in the
      South Pacific. The technical bounds of the diocese were not defined; but
      matters were to a certain degree simplified by Bishop Selwyn's resolution
      only to deal with totally heathen isles, and whatever superiority the
      authorised chief pastor might rightfully claim, not to confuse the minds
      of the heathen by the sight of variations among Christians, and thus never
      to preach in any place already occupied by Missions, a resolution from
      which he only once departed, in the case of a group apparently
      relinquished by its first teachers. This cut off all the properly called
      Polynesian isles, whose inhabitants are of the Malay type, and had been
      the objects of care to the London Mission, ever since the time of John
      Williams; also the Fiji Islands; and a few which had been taken in hand by
      a Scottish Presbyterian Mission; but the groups which seem to form the
      third fringe round the north-eastern curve of Australia, the New Hebrides,
      Banks Islands, and Solomon Isles, were almost entirely open ground, with
      their population called Melanesian or Black Islanders, from their having
      much of the Negro in their composition and complexion. These were regarded
      as less quick but more steady than the Polynesian race, with somewhat the
      same difference of character as there is between the Teuton and the Kelt.
      The reputation of cannibalism hung about many of the islands, and there
      was no doubt of boats' crews having been lost among them, but in most
      cases there had been outrage to provoke reprisals.
    </p>
    <p>
      These islands had as yet been little visited, except by Captain Cook,
      their first discoverer, and isolated Spanish exploring expeditions; but of
      late whalers and sandal wood traders, both English and American, had been
      finding their way among them, and too often acting as irresponsible
      adventurous men of a low class are apt to do towards those whom they
      regard as an inferior race.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mission work had hardly reached this region. It was in attempting it that
      John Williams had met his death at Erromango, one of the New Hebrides; but
      one of his best institutions had been a school in one of the Samoan or
      Navigators' Islands, in which were educated young men of the native races
      to be sent to the isles to prepare the way for white men. Very nobly had
      these Samoan pupils carried out his intentions, braving dislike, disease
      and death in the islands to which they were appointed, and having the more
      to endure because they came without the prestige of a white man. Moreover,
      the language was no easier to them than to him, as their native speech is
      entirely different from the Melanesian; which is besides broken into such
      an extraordinary number of different dialects, varying from one village to
      another in an island not twenty miles long, that a missionary declared
      that the people must have come straight from the Tower of Babel, and gone
      on dividing their speech ever since. Just at the time of the formation of
      the See of New Zealand, the excitement caused at home by Williams's death
      had subsided, and the London Mission's funds were at so low an ebb that,
      so far from extending their work, they had been obliged to let some of it
      fall into abeyance.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this came to the knowledge of the Bishop of New Zealand while he was
      occupied with the cares of his first seven years in his more immediate
      diocese, and in 1848, he made a voyage of inspection in H.M.S. 'Dido.' He
      then perceived that to attempt the conversion of this host of isles of
      tropical climate through a resident English clergyman in each, would be
      impossible, besides which he knew that no Church takes root without native
      clergy, and he therefore intended bringing boys to New Zealand, and there
      educating them to become teachers to their countrymen. He had lately
      established, near Auckland, for the sons of the colonists, St. John's
      College, which in 1850 was placed under the Reverend Charles John Abraham,
      the former Eton master, who had joined the Bishop to act as Archdeacon and
      assist in the scheme of education; and here it was planned that the young
      Melanesians should be trained.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop possessed a little schooner of twenty-two tons, the 'Undine,'
      in which he was accustomed to make his expeditions along the coast; and in
      August 1849, he set forth in her, with a crew of four, without a weapon of
      any sort, to 'launch out into the deep, and let down his nets for a
      draught.' Captain Erskine of H.M.S. 'Havannah' readily undertook to afford
      him any assistance practicable, and they were to cruise in company, the
      'Undine' serving as a pilot boat or tender on coasts where the only guide
      was 'a few rough sketches collected from small trading vessels.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They met near Tanna, but not before the Bishop had been in Dillon's Bay,
      on the island of Erromango, the scene of Williams's murder, and had
      allowed some of the natives to come on board his vessel as a first step
      towards friendly intercourse. The plan agreed on by the Bishop and the
      Captain was to go as far north as Vate, and return by way of the Loyalty
      Isles, which fringe the east coast of New Caledonia, to touch at that
      large island, and then visit the Island of Pines, at its extreme south
      point, and there enquire into a massacre said to have taken place. This
      was effected, and in each place the natives showed themselves friendly.
      From New Caledonia the Bishop brought away a pupil named Dallup, and at
      two of the Loyalty Islands, Nengone or Mare, and Lifu, where Samoan
      teachers had excited a great desire for farther instruction, boys eagerly
      begged to go with him, and two were taken from each, in especial Siapo, a
      young Nengone chief eighteen or nineteen years old, of very pleasing
      aspect, and with those dignified princely manners which rank is almost
      sure to give. The first thing done with such lads when they came on board
      was to make clothes for them, and when they saw the needle employed in
      their service, they were almost sure to beg to be taught the art, and most
      of them soon became wonderfully dexterous in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the Island of Pines, so called from the tower-like masses of the
      Norfolk pine on the shores, was at that time the French Bishop of New
      Caledonia, the Oul, as the natives called him and his countrymen, for whom
      they had little love. After an interview between the two bishops, the
      'Undine' returned to New Zealand, where the native boys were brought to
      St. John's College. The system of education there combined agricultural
      labour and printing with study, and the authorities and the boys shared
      according to their strength in both, for there was nothing more prominent
      in the Bishop's plan than that the coloured man was not to be treated as a
      mere hewer of wood and drawer of water, but, as a Maori once expressed the
      idea: 'Gentleman&mdash;gentleman thought nothing that ought to be done at
      all too mean for him; pig-gentleman never worked.' The whole community,
      including the ladies and their guests, dined together in hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      The five boys behaved well, Siapo being a leader in all that was good, and
      made advances in Christian knowledge; but it was one of the Bishop's
      principles that none of them should be baptized till he had proved whether
      his faith were strong enough to resist the trial of a return to his native
      home and heathen friends. The climate of New Zealand is far too chilly for
      these inhabitants of tropical regions, and it was absolutely necessary to
      return them to their homes during the winter quarter from June to August.
      The scheme therefore was to touch at their islands, drop them there,
      proceed then further on the voyage, and then, returning the same way,
      resume them, if they were willing to come under instruction for baptism
      and return to the college. In the lack of a common language, Bishop Selwyn
      hoped to make them all learn English, and only communicate with one
      another in that.
    </p>
    <p>
      The 'Undine,' not being large enough for the purpose, was exchanged for
      the 'Border Maid;' and in the course of the next three years an annual
      voyage was made, and boys to the number of from twelve to fourteen brought
      home. Siapo of Nengone was by far the most promising scholar. He was a
      strong influence, when at home, on behalf of the Samoan teachers, and
      assisted in the building of a round chapel, smoothly floored, and
      plastered with coral lime. In 1852 he was baptized, together with three of
      his friends, in this chapel, in his own island, by the Bishop, in the
      presence of a thousand persons, and received the name of George. When the
      'Border Maid' returned, though he was convalescent from a severe illness,
      he not only begged that he might come back, but that the young girl to
      whom he was betrothed might be taken to New Zealand to be trained in
      Christian ways. Ready consent was given, and the little Wabisane, and her
      companion Wasitutru (Little Chattering Bird), were brought on board, and
      arrayed in petticoats fashioned by the Bishop's own hands, from his own
      counterpane, with white skirts above, embellished with a bow of scarlet
      ribbon, the only piece of finery to be found in the 'Border Maid.' The
      Rev. William Nihill had spent the period of this trip at Nengone, and had
      become deeply interested in the people. The island was then thought likely
      to become a centre whence to work on adjacent places; but to the grief and
      disappointment of all, George Siapo did not live through the summer at St.
      John's. He had never recovered his illness at home, and rapidly declined;
      but his faith burnt brighter as his frame became weaker, and his heart was
      set on the conversion of his native country. He warmly begged Mr. Nihill
      to return thither, and recommended him to the protection of his friends,
      and he wished his own brother to become scholar at St. John's. His whole
      demeanour was that of a devoted Christian, and when he died, in the
      January of the year 1853, he might be regarded as the firstfruits of the
      Melanesian Church. Since Mr. Nihill was about to return to Nengone, and
      there was a certain leaven of Christianity in the place, the girls were
      not subjected to the probation of a return before baptism, but were
      christened Caroline and Sarah, after Mrs. Abraham and Mrs. Selwyn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another very satisfactory pupil was little Umao. An English sailor in a
      dreadful state of disease had been left behind by a whaler at Erromango,
      where the little Umao, a mere boy, had attached himself to him, and waited
      on him with the utmost care and patience, though meeting with no return
      but blows and rough words. The man moved to Tanna, where there are mineral
      springs highly esteemed by the natives, and when the 'Border Maid' touched
      there, in 1851, he was found in a terrible condition, but with the little
      fellow faithfully attending him. The Englishman was carried to Sydney, and
      left in the hospital there; but Umao begged not to be sent home, for he
      said his parents cruelly ill-used him and his brothers, and set them to
      watch the fire all night to keep off evil spirits; so, when New Zealand
      became too cold for him, he was sent to winter at the London Society's
      station in Anaiteum. His sweet friendly nature expanded under Christian
      training, but his health failed, and in the course of the voyage of 1853
      he became so ill that his baptism was hastened, and he shortly after died
      in the Bishop's arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two more boys, cousins, from Lifu, also died. There never was any
      suspicion or displeasure shown among the relatives of these youths. Their
      own habits were frightfully unhealthy; they were not a long-lived people,
      and there was often great mortality among them, and though they were
      grieved at the loss of their sons, they never seemed distrustful or
      ungrateful. But it was evident that, even in the summer months, the
      climate of New Zealand was trying to these tropical constitutions, and as
      it was just then determined that Norfolk Island should no longer be the
      penal abode of the doubly convicted felons of Botany Bay, but should
      instead become the home of the descendants of the mutineers of the
      'Bounty' who had outgrown Pitcairn's Island, the Bishop cast his eyes upon
      it as the place most likely to agree alike with English and Melanesian
      constitutions, and therefore eminently fitted for the place of
      instruction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The expenses of the voyages in the 'Border Maid' had been met partly by
      the Eton Association, and partly by another association at Sydney, where a
      warm interest in these attempts had been excited and maintained by the
      yearly visits of Bishop Selwyn, who usually visited Australia while the
      lads were wintering at their homes. But the 'Border Maid' was
      superannuated, nor had she ever been perfectly fitted for the purpose; and
      when, in 1853, the Bishop was obliged to come to England to take measures
      for dividing his diocese, he also hoped to obtain permission to establish
      a Melanesian school on Norfolk Island, and to obtain the means of building
      a schooner yacht, small enough to be navigated in the narrow, shallow
      creeks separating the clustered islets, and yet capacious enough for the
      numerous passengers. In the meantime Mr. Nihill went to Nengone with his
      wife and child. His lungs were much affected, but he hoped that the
      climate would prolong his power of working among the Christian community,
      who heartily loved and trusted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other fellow-labourers the Bishop hoped to obtain at home, though it was
      his principle never to solicit men to come with him, only to take those
      who offered themselves; but all the particulars of the above narration had
      been known to Coley Patteson through the Bishop's correspondence with Mr.
      Edward Coleridge, as well as by the yearly report put forth by the Eton
      Association, and this no doubt served to keep up in his heart the flame
      that had burnt unseen for so many years, and to determine its direction,
      though he put himself unreservedly at the Bishop's disposal, to work
      wherever he might be sent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The means for the mission ship 'Southern Cross' were raised. She was built
      at Blackwall by Messrs. Wigram, and, after all the delays, sailed on the
      very same day as the 'Duke of Portland.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime here are a few extracts from Patteson's journal-letter during the
      voyage. Sea-sickness was very slightly disabling with him; he was up and
      about in a short time, and on the 8th of April was writing:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a day this has been to me, the twenty-eighth anniversary of my
      baptism to begin with, and then Easter Day spent at sea!
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 20th, lat, 4° N., long. 25° W.&mdash;Rather hot. It is very fine to
      see all the stars of the heavens almost rise and pass overhead and set&mdash;Great
      Bear and Southern Cross shining as in rivalry of each other, and both
      hemispheres showing forth all their glory. Only the Polar Star, that
      shines straight above you, is gone below our horizon; and One alone knows
      how much toil, and perhaps sorrow, there may be in store for me before I
      see it again. But there is and will be much happiness and comfort also,
      for indeed I have great peace of mind, and a firm conviction that I am
      doing what is right; a feeling that God is directing and ordering the
      course of my life, and whenever I take the only true view of the business
      of life, I am happy and cheerful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 10.&mdash;It is, I find, quite settled, and was indeed always, that I
      am to go always with the Bishop, roving about the Melanesian department,
      so that for some years, if I live, I shall be generally six months at sea.
      And not little to my delight, I find that the six winter months (i.e. your
      summer months) are the ones that we shall spend in sailing about the
      islands within or near the tropics, so that I shall have little more
      shivering limbs or blue hands, though I may feel in the long run the
      effect of a migratory swallow-like life. But the sea itself is a perpetual
      tonic, and when I am thoroughly accustomed to a sea life, I think I shall
      be better almost on board ship.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This seems the place for Bishop Selwyn's impression, as written to a
      friend at this very time. 'Coley Patteson is a treasure which I humbly set
      down as a Divine recompense for our own boys*. He is a good fellow, and
      the tone of his mind is one which I can thoroughly enjoy, content with the
      'to aei' present, yet always aiming at a brighter and better future.'
    </p>
    <p>
      *(Footnote: Left at home for education.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 18.&mdash;You must think of us at 8 P.M. on Sundays&mdash;just at
      8.20 A.M. before you come down to prayers. The Bishop has a service in the
      College chapel; then, after all the "runners" (clergy who have district
      chapels) have returned, chanting Psalms, and reading collects, which bear
      especially on the subject of unity, introducing the special Communion
      thanksgiving for Whitsunday, and the Sanctus, and the Prayer for Unity in
      the Accession Service. I feel that it must be an impressive and very happy
      way of ending the Sunday, and you will be at Sunday prayers at the other
      end of the world praying with us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 3.&mdash;Still at sea. As soon as we rounded the North Cape on
      Friday, June 29, a contrary wind sprang up, and we have been beating
      about, tacking between North Cape and Cape Brett ever since. Fine sunny
      weather and light winds, but always from the south. To me it is a matter
      of entire indifference; I am quite ready to go ashore, but do not mind a
      few more days at sea. The climate is delightful, thermometer on deck 55°
      to 60°, and such glorious sunsets! There is really something peculiar in
      the delicacy of the colours here&mdash;faint pink and blue, and such an
      idea of distance is given by the great transparency of the air. It is full
      moon too now, and I walk the deck from eleven to twelve every night with
      no great-coat, thinking about you all and my future work. Last night the
      Bishop was with me, and told me definitely about my occupation for the
      time to come. All day we have been slowly, very slowly, passing along from
      the north headland of the Bay of Islands to Cape Brett, and along the land
      south of it. A fine coast it is, full of fine harbours and creeks, the bay
      itself like a large Torbay, only bolder. Due south of us is the Bream
      headland, then the Barrier Islands. We are only about a mile from the
      shore, and refreshing it is to look at it; but as yet we have seen no
      beach; the rock runs right into the sea. Such bustle and excitement on
      board! emigrants getting their things ready, carpenters making the old
      "Duke" look smart, sailors scrubbing, but no painting going on, to our
      extreme delight. It is so calm, quite as smooth as a small lake; indeed
      there is less perceptible motion than I have felt on the Lake of Como. No
      backs, no bones aching, though here I speak for others more than for
      myself, for the Bishop began his talk last night by saying, "One great
      point is decided, that you are a good sailor. So far you are qualified for
      Melanesia."'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this may be added that Patteson had been farther preparing for this
      work by a diligent study of the Maori language, and likewise of
      navigation; and what an instructor he had in the knowledge of the coasts
      may be gathered from the fact that an old sea captain living at Kohimarama
      sent a note to St. John's College stating that he was sure that the Bishop
      had come, for he knew every vessel that had ever come into Auckland
      harbour, and was sure this barque had never been there before; yet she had
      come in the night through all the intricate passages, and was rounding the
      heads without a pilot on board. He therefore concluded that the Bishop
      must be on board, as there was no other man that could have taken command
      of her at such a time, and brought her into that harbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop and Mrs. Selwyn went on shore as soon as possible; Patteson
      waited till the next day. Indeed he wrote on July 5 that he was in no
      hurry to land, since he knew no one in the whole neighbourhood but
      Archdeacon Abraham. Then he describes the aspect of Auckland from the sea:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'It looks much like a small sea-side town, but not so substantially built,
      nor does it convey the same idea of comfort and wealth; rude warehouses,
      &amp;c., being mixed up with private houses on the beach. The town already
      extends to a distance of perhaps half a mile on each side of this cove, on
      which the principal part of it is built. Just in the centre of the cove
      stands the Wesleyan chapel. On the rising ground on the east of the cove
      is the Roman Catholic chapel, and on the west side is St. Paul's Church,
      an Early English stone building, looking really ecclesiastical and
      homelike. The College, at a distance of about five miles from the town, on
      some higher ground, northwest of it, is reached from the harbour by a boat
      ascending a creek to within a mile of the buildings, so that we shall not
      go into the town at all when we land. By water too will be our shortest,
      at all events our quickest way from the college to the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 9, St. John's College.&mdash;Though we reached harbour on July 5,
      and landed the next day, I have scarcely found a minute to write a line.
      Imagine my feelings as I touched land and jumped ashore at a creek under
      Judge Martin's house, in the presence of Rota Waitoa, the only native
      clergyman in the diocese; Levi, who is perhaps to be ordained, and four or
      five other natives. Tena ra fa koe e ho a? "How are you, my friends?" (the
      common New Zealand greeting), said I as I shook hands with them one by
      one. We walked up from the beach to the house. Roses in full flower, and
      mimosa with a delicate golden flower, and various other shrubs and flowers
      in full bloom. Midwinter, recollect. The fragrance of the air, the singing
      of the birds, the fresh smell (it was raining a little and the grass was
      steaming) were delicious, as you may suppose. Here I was, all at once,
      carrying up baggage, Maoris before and behind, and everything new and
      strange, and yet I felt as if it were all right and natural. The Bishop
      and Mrs. Selwyn had landed the day before, and we were heartily welcomed.
      Mr. Martin took me into his study. "I am thankful to see you as a fresh
      labourer among us here; a man of your name needs no introduction to a
      lawyer." Nothing could exceed his kindness. He began talking of at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We dined at about 12.30. Clean mutton chops, potatoes and pumpkin (very
      good indeed), jam pudding, bread, and plenty of water (beer I refused). It
      did taste so good, I am quite ashamed of thinking about it. About two
      o'clock I started with the Bishop for the College, nearly six miles from
      Auckland.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop is at a kind of collegiate establishment on the outskirts of
      Auckland, where Mr. Kissling, a clergyman, is the resident, and thither I
      go on Wednesday, to live till October 1, when we start, please God, in the
      "Southern Cross" for the cruise around New Zealand. Here, at Mr.
      Kissling's, I shall have work with Maoris, learning each day, I trust, to
      speak more correctly and fluently. Young men for teachers, and it may be
      for clergymen, will form at once my companions and my pupils, a good
      proportion of them being nearly or quite of my own age. I am to be
      constantly at the Judge's, running in and out, working on Sundays anywhere
      as I may be sent. So much for myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The College is really all that is necessary for a thoroughly good and
      complete place of education; the hall all lined with kauri pine wood, a
      large handsome room, collegiate, capable of holding two hundred persons;
      the school-room, eighty feet long, with admirable arrangements for holding
      classes separately. There are two very cosy rooms, which belong to the
      Bishop and Mrs. Selwyn respectively, in one of which I am now sitting....
      On the walls are hanging about certain tokens of Melanesia in the shape of
      gourds, calabashes, &amp;c., such as I shall send you one day; a spade on
      one side, just as a common horse halter hanging from Abraham's bookshelf,
      betokens colonial life. Our rooms are quite large enough, bigger than my
      room at Feniton, but no furniture, of course, beyond a bedstead, a table
      for writing, and an old bookcase; but it is never cold enough to care
      about furniture... I clean, of course, my room in part, make my bed, help
      to clear away things after meals, &amp;c., and am quite accustomed to do
      without servants for anything but cooking. There is a weaving room, which
      used to be well worked, a printing press (from C. M. S.) which has done
      some good work, and is now at work again&mdash;English, Maori, Greek and
      Hebrew types. Separate groups of buildings, which once were filled with
      lads from different Melanesian isles&mdash;farm buildings, barns, &amp;c.
      Last of all, the little chapel of kauri wood, stained desk, like the
      inside of a really good ecclesiastical building in England, porch S.W.
      angle, a semicircular apse at the west, containing a large handsome stone
      font, open seats of course. The east end very simple, semicircular apse,
      small windows all full of stained glass, raised one step, no rails, the
      Bishop's chair on the north side, bench on the south. Here my eye and my
      mind rested contentedly and peacefully. The little chapel, holding about
      seventy persons, is already dear to me. I preached in it last night at the
      seven o'clock service. We chanted the Unity Psalms CXXII, CXXIII, CXXIV,
      and CL, heartily, all joining to a dear old double chant in parts. I felt
      my heart very full as I spoke to them of the blessedness of prayer and
      spiritual communion. I was at Tamaki in the morning, where I read prayers,
      the Archdeacon preaching. A little stone church, very rude and simple, but
      singing again good, and congregation of fifty-one, attentive. At Panmure,
      about three miles off, in the afternoon, a tiny wooden church&mdash;where
      Abraham took all the duty. In the evening, in the chapel, he read prayers,
      and I preached to about thirty-five or forty people. We left the chapel
      just as you were getting ready for breakfast, and so passed my first
      Sunday in New Zealand. To-day I have had hard work; I walked with Abraham
      to Auckland&mdash;six miles of rough work, I promise you, except the two
      last.
    </p>
    <p>
      I believe it was in the course of this walk that Patteson experimented on
      his Maori, a native whom they visited, and who presently turned upon the
      Archdeacon, and demanded, 'Why do you not speak like Te Pattihana?' Such a
      compliment has seldom been paid on so early an attempt at colloquialism in
      a new language. Journal continues:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lugged down boxes, big empty ones, from the Judge's house to the beach.
      Went with the Bishop to the old ship, packed up books, brought away all
      our things almost, helped to pack them in a cart and drag, and then walked
      back to the College, which I reached in the dark at 7.30. It is delightful
      to see the delight of the natives when they see the Bishop. "E&mdash;h te
      Pikopa!" and then they all come round him like children, laughing and
      talking. Two common men we met on Friday from Rotoma, 150 miles off, who
      said that their tribe had heard that the Queen of England had taken away
      his salary, and they had been having subscriptions for him every Sunday.
      They are of various shades of colour, some light brown, some nearly black,
      and some so tattooed all over that you can't tell what colour they are. I
      was talking to-day to the best of my power with a native teacher upon
      whose face I could not see one spot as big as a shilling that was not
      tattooed, beautifully done in a regular pattern, one side corresponding to
      the other. Each tribe, as it is said (I know not how truly), has a pattern
      of its own; so they wear their coats-of-arms on their faces, that is all.
      The young Christian natives are not tattooed at all, and I have been
      to-day with Sydney, whose father was the great fighting man of Honghi
      (miscalled Shanghi) who was presented to George IV. This young man's
      father helped to exterminate a whole tribe who lived on a part of the
      College property (as it is now), and he is said to be perhaps the first
      New Zealander who was baptized as an infant. I find it hard to understand
      them; they speak very indistinctly&mdash;not fast, but their voices are
      thick in general. I hope to learn a good deal before October. My first
      letter from the ends of the world tells of my peace of mind, of one sound
      and hearty in body, and, I thank God, happy, calm, and cheerful in
      spirit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 11, 1855; St. John's College, Auckland.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Fan,&mdash;I do not doubt that I am where I ought to be; I do
      think and trust that God has given me this work to do; but I need earnest
      prayers for strength that I may do it. It is no light work to be suddenly
      transplanted from a quiet little country district, where every one knew
      me, and the prestige of dear Father's life and your active usefulness
      among the people made everything smooth for me, to a work exceeding in
      magnitude anything that falls to the lot of an ordinary parish priest in
      England&mdash;in a strange land, among a strange race of men, in a newly
      forming and worldly society, with no old familiar notions and customs to
      keep the machine moving; and then to be made acquainted with such a mass
      of information respecting Church government and discipline, educational
      schemes, conduct of clergy and teachers, etc., etc. It is well that I am
      hearty and sound in health, or I should be regularly overwhelmed with it.
      Two texts I think of constantly: "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it
      with thy might." "Sufficient for the day," etc. I hardly dare look forward
      to what my work may be on earth; I cannot see my way; but I feel sure that
      He is ordering it all, and I try to look on beyond the earth, when at
      length, by God's mercy, we may all find rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That I have been so well in body and so cheerful in mind ever since I
      left home&mdash;I mean cheerful on the whole, not without seasons of
      sadness, but so mercifully strengthened at all times&mdash;must, I think,
      without any foolish enthusiasm, be remembered by me as a special act of
      God's goodness and mercy. I was not the least weary of the sea. Another
      month or two would have made very little difference to me, I think. I am
      very fond of it, and I think of my voyages to come without any degree of
      dread from that cause, and I have no reason to expect any great discomfort
      from any other. I have my whole stock of lemon syrup and lime juice, so
      that the salt meat on the "Southern Cross" will be counteracted in that
      way; and going round those islands we shall be ashore every few days. But
      what most surprises me is this: that when I am alone, as here at night in
      a great (for it is large) cheerless, lonely room, as I should have thought
      it once; though I can't help thinking of my own comforts at home, and all
      dear faces around me, though I feel my whole heart swelling with love to
      you all, still I am not at all sad or gloomy, or cast down. This does
      surprise me: I did not think it would or could be so. I have indeed prayed
      for it, but I had not faith to believe that my prayer would be so granted.
      The fact itself is most certain. I have at Alfington, when alone of an
      evening, experienced a greater sense of loneliness than I have once done
      out here. Of this hitherto I feel no doubt: it may be otherwise any day of
      course; and to what else can I attribute this fact, in all soberness of
      mind, but to the mercy of God in strengthening me for my work? Much of it
      may be the effect of a splendid climate upon my physique, that is true;
      for indeed to find flowers in full blossom, green meadows, hot suns, birds
      singing, etc., in midwinter, with a cool, steady breeze from the sea
      invigorating me all the while, is no doubt just what I require; but to-day
      we have a north-easter, which answers to your south-west wind, with
      pouring rain, and yet my spirits are not going down with the barometer.
      All the same, the said barometer will probably soon recover himself; for I
      believe these heavy storms seldom last long. There is no fire in the room
      where I sit, which is the Bishop's room when he is here; no fire-place
      indeed, as it opens into Mrs. Selwyn's room. The thermometer is 58°, and
      it is midwinter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To Miss Neill, on the same day, after repeating his conviction that he was
      in the right place, he says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have written to them at home what I ought not perhaps to have said of
      myself, but that it will give them comfort&mdash;that from all sides my
      being here as the Bishop's companion is hailed as likely to produce very
      beneficial results. But I must assure you that I fully know how your love
      for me and much too high opinion of me makes you fancy that I could be of
      use at home. But we must not, even taking this view, send our refuse men
      to the colonies. Newly forming societies must be moulded by men of energy,
      and power, and high character; in fact, churches must be organised, the
      Gospel must be preached by men of earnest zeal for God's glory in the
      salvation of souls. To lower the standard of Christian life by exhibiting
      a feeble faint glimmering instead of a burning shining light is to stamp
      upon the native mind a false impression, it may be for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Remember, we have no ancient customs nor time-hallowed usages to make up
      for personal indifference and apathy; we have no momentum to carry on the
      machine. We have to start it, and give it the first impulse, under the
      guidance of the Spirit of God; and oh! if it takes a wrong direction at
      first, who can calculate the evil that must follow? It is easy to steer a
      vessel in smooth water, with a fair breeze; but how are you to keep her
      head straight in a rolling sea with no way on her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This letter, with two or three more, went by the first mail after his
      arrival. From that time he generally kept a journal-letter, and addressed
      it to one or other of his innermost home circle; while the arrival of each
      post from home produced a whole sheaf of answers, and comments on what was
      told, by each correspondent, of family, political or Church matters.
      Sometimes the letter is so full of the subject of immediate interest as
      absolutely to leave no room for personal details of his own actual life,
      and this became more the case as the residence in New Zealand or Norfolk
      Island lost its novelty, while it never absorbed him so as to narrow his
      interests. He never missed a mail in writing to his father and sisters,
      and a letter to his brother was equally regular, but these latter were
      generally too much concerned with James's own individual life to be as
      fully given as the other letters, which were in fact a diary of facts,
      thoughts, and impressions.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 12, St. Stephen's, Mr. Kissling's School-house.&mdash;You know I am
      to live here when not on the "Southern Cross," or journeying in the Bush;
      so I must describe, first, the place itself, then my room in it. The house
      is a large one-storied building of wood, no staircase in it, but only a
      succession of rooms.... There are at present fourteen or sixteen girls in
      the school, boarding here, besides Rota, who is a native deacon, spending
      a month here; Levi, who is preparing for ordination, and three other men.
      The house stands on table-land about four hundred yards from the sea,
      commanding glorious views of the harbour, sea, and islands, which form
      groups close round the coast. It is Church property all round, and the
      site of a future cathedral is within a stone's throw of it.... Now for my
      room. Plenty large enough to begin with, not less than sixteen feet long
      by twelve wide, and at least eleven high, all wood, not papered or
      painted, which I like much, as the kauri is a darkish grained wood; no
      carpet of course, but I am writing now at 10 P.M., with no fire, and quite
      warm. The east side of the room is one great window, latticed, in a wooden
      frame; outside it a verandah, and such a beautiful view of the harbour and
      bay beyond. I will tell you exactly what I have done to-day since two
      o'clock, as a sample of my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      '2 P.M., dinner, roast mutton; my seat between the Bishop and Eota. Fancy
      the long table with its double row of Maoris. After dinner, away with the
      Bishop to the hospital, a plain wooden building a mile off, capable of
      taking in about forty patients in all. I am to visit it regularly when
      here, taking that work off the parish clergyman's shoulders, and a great
      comfort it will be. I went through it to-day, and had a long talk with the
      physician and surgeon, and saw the male patients, two of them natives. One
      of them is dying, and so I am to be now talking as well as I can, but at
      all events reading and praying, with this poor fellow, and a great
      happiness it is to have such a privilege and so on. Came back to tea, very
      pleasant. After tea made Eota, and Sydney, a young-man who knows English
      pretty well, sit in my room (N.B., there is but one chair, in which I
      placed Eota), and then I made them read Maori to me, and read a good deal
      myself, and then we talked as well as we could. At 6.15, prayers, the
      whole party of Maoris assembled. Mr. Kissling read the first verse of the
      chapter (Joshua vi.), and we each read one verse in turn, and then he
      questioned them for perhaps fifteen minutes. They were very intelligent
      and answered well, and it was striking to see grown-up men and young women
      sitting so patiently to be taught. Then the evening service prayers; and
      so I knelt with these good simple people and prayed with them for the
      first time. Very much I enjoyed all this. Soon after came supper, a little
      talking, and now here am I writing to you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you could see the tree-ferns; some are quite twenty feet high in
      the trunk, for trunk it is, and the great broad frond waves over it in a
      way that would make that child Pena clap her hands with delight. Then the
      geraniums and roses in blossom, the yellow mimosa flower, the wild moncha,
      with a white flower, growing everywhere, and the great variety of
      evergreen trees (none that I have seen being deciduous) make the country
      very pretty. The great bare volcanic hills, each with its well-defined
      crater, stand up from among the woodlands, and now from among pastures
      grazing hundreds of oxen; and this, with the grand sea views, and shipping
      in the harbour, make a very fine sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 14.&mdash;I write to-night because you will like a line from me on
      the day when first I have in any way ministered to a native of the
      country. I was in the hospital to-day, talked a little, and read St. Luke
      xv. to one, and prayed with another Maori. The latter is dying. He was
      baptized by the Wesleyans, but is not visited by them, so I do not scruple
      to go to him. Rota, the native deacon, was with me, and he talked a long
      while with the poor fellow. It is a great comfort to me to have made a
      beginning. I did little more than read a few prayers from the Visitation
      Service, but the man understood me well, so I may be of use, I hope. He
      has never received the Lord's Supper; but if there is time to prepare him,
      the Bishop wishes me to administer it to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 20.&mdash;Yesterday in sailed the "Southern Cross" with not a spar
      carried away or sail lost, perfectly sound, and in a fit state to be off
      again at once. She left England on the same day that we did, and arrived
      just a fortnight after us, and this is attributable to her having kept in
      low latitudes, not going higher than 39°; whereas we were in 51° 30',
      which diminished the distance and brought us in the way of more favourable
      winds. I saw from my windows about 9 A.M. a schooner in the distance, and
      told the Bishop I thought it might be the "Southern Cross" (she has no
      figure-head and a very straight bow). Through the day, which was very
      rainy, we kept looking from time to time through our glasses. At 3 P.M.
      the Bishop came in: "Come along, Coley; I do believe it is the 'Southern
      Cross.'" So I hurried on waterproofs, knowing that we were in for some
      mudlarking. Off we went, lugged down a borrowed boat to the water, tide
      being out. I took one oar, a Maori another, and off we went, Bishop
      steering. After twenty minutes' pull, or thereabouts, we met her, jumped
      on board, and then such a broadside of questions and answers. They had a
      capital passage. Two men who were invalided when they started died on the
      voyage&mdash;one of dysentery, I think&mdash;all the rest flourishing, the
      three women respectable and tidy-looking individuals, and two children
      very well. After a while the Bishop and I went off to shore, in one of his
      boats, pulled by two of the crew, Lowestoft fishermen, fine young fellows
      as you ever saw. Then we bought fresh meat, onions, bread, etc., for them,
      and so home by 7 P.M. "Mudlarking" very slight on this occasion, only
      walking over the flat swamp of low-water marsh for a quarter of a mile;
      but on Tuesday we had a rich scene. Bishop and I went to the "Duke of
      Portland" and brought off the rest of our things; but it was low-water, so
      the boats could not come within a long way of the beach, and the custom is
      for carts to go over the muddy sand, which is tolerably hard, as far into
      the water as they can, perhaps two and a half or three feet deep when it
      is quite calm, as it was on Tuesday. Well, in went our cart, which had
      come from the College, with three valuable horses, while the Bishop and I
      stood on the edge of the water. Presently one of the horses lost his
      footing, and then all at once all three slipped up, and the danger was of
      their struggling violently and hurting themselves. One of those in the
      shafts had his head under water, too, for a time. Instanter Bishop and I
      had our coats off, my trousers were rolled over my knees, and in we rushed
      to the horses. Such a plunging and splashing! but they were all got up
      safe. This was about 4 P.M., and I was busy about the packages and getting
      them into the carts, unloading at Mr. Kissling's till past 8; but I did
      not catch cold. Imagine an English Bishop with attending parson cutting
      into the water up to their knees to disentangle their cart-horses from the
      harness in full view of every person on the beach. "This is your first
      lesson in mudlarking, Coley," was the remark of the Bishop as we laughed
      over our respective appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 21.&mdash;I was finishing my sermon for the soldiers to-morrow at
      11.30, when Mr. Kissling came in to say that the schooner just come into
      the harbour was the vessel which had been sent to bring Mr. and Mrs.
      Nihill from Nengone or Mare Island. He was in very bad health when he went
      there, and great doubts were entertained as to his coming back. I was
      deputed to go and see. I ran a good part of the way to the town on to the
      pier, and there heard that Mr. Nihill was dead. An old acquaintance of
      Mrs. Nihill was on the pier, so I thought I should be in the way, and came
      back, told Mrs. Kissling, and went on to the Judge's, and told Mrs. Martin
      and Mrs. Selwyn. Whilst there we saw a boat land a young lady and child on
      the beach just below the house, and they sent me down. Pouring with rain
      here on the beach, taking shelter in a boat-house with her brother, I
      found this poor young widow; and so, leaning on my arm, she walked up to
      the house. I just waited to see Mrs. Selwyn throw her arms round her neck,
      and then walked straight off, feeling that the furious rain and wind
      chimed in with a violent struggle which was just going on in my own mind.
      I go through such scenes firmly enough at the time, but when my part is
      over I feel just like a child, and I found the tears in my eyes; for the
      universal sympathy which has been expressed by everyone here for the
      lonely situation of the Nihills at Nengone made me feel almost a personal
      interest in them. He was a good linguist, and his loss will be severely
      felt by the Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 14.&mdash;I marked out to-day some pretty places for the two
      wooden houses for the "Southern Cross" sailors at Kohimarama (Focus of
      Light), a quiet retired spot, with a beautiful sparkling beach, the
      schooner lying just outside the little bay a third of a mile off. Forty or
      fifty acres of flat pasturage, but only sixteen properly cleared, and then
      an amphitheatre of low hills, covered with New Zealand vegetation. I
      passed fine ferns to-day quite thirty feet in the stem, with great
      spreading-fronds, like branches of the Norfolk Island pine almost.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On the 17th of August came the welcome mail from home. "Oh what a delight
      it is to see your dear handwriting again!" is the cry in the reply.
      Father's I opened first, and read his letter, stopping often with tears of
      thankfulness in my eyes to thank God for enabling him not to be
      over-anxious about me, and for the blessing of knowing that he was as well
      as usual, and also because his work, so distasteful to him, was drawing to
      a close. Then I read Fan's, for I had a secret feeling that I should hear
      most from her about Alfington.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the evening of that day he wrote to Fanny. In answer to the expression
      of the pain, of separation, he says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is One above who knows what a trial it is to you. For myself, hard
      as it is, and almost too hard sometimes, yet I have relief in the variety
      and unceasing-multiplicity of my occupations. Not a moment of any day can
      I be said to be idle. Literally, I have not yet had a minute to untie my
      "Guardians;" but for you, with more time for meditating, with no change of
      scene, with every object that meets you at home and in your daily walks
      reminding you of me, it must indeed be such a trial as angels love to look
      upon when it is borne patiently, and with a perfect assurance that God is
      ordering all things for our good; and so let us struggle on to the end.
      All good powers are on our side, and we shall meet by the infinite mercy
      one day when there shall be no separation for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I read on in your letter till I came to "Dear Coley, it is very hard to
      live without you,"&mdash;and I broke down and cried like a child. I was
      quite alone out in the fields on a glorious bright day, and it was the
      relief I had longed for. The few simple words told me the whole story, and
      I prayed with my whole heart that you might find strength in the hour of
      sadness. Do (as you say you do) let your natural feelings work; do not
      force yourself to appear calm, do not get excited if you can help it; but
      if your mind is oppressed with the thought of my absence, do not try to
      drive it away by talking about something else, or taking up a book, etc.;
      follow it out, see what it ends in, trace out the spiritual help and
      comfort which have already, it may be, resulted from it, the growth of
      dependence upon God above; meditate upon the real idea of separation, and
      think of Mamma and Uncle Frank.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 26, 1855, 10.40 P.M.: S. Stephen's, Auckland. 'My dear Arthur,&mdash;I
      am tired with my Sunday work, which is heavy in a colony, but I just begin
      my note on the anniversary of your dear, dear father's death. How vividly
      I remember all the circumstances of the last ten days&mdash;the peaceful,
      holy, happy close of a pure and well-spent life! I do so think of him, not
      a day passing without my mind dwelling on him; I love to find myself
      calling up the image of his dear face, and my heart is very full when I
      recollect all his love for me, and the many, many tokens of affection
      which he used to pour out from his warm, generous, loving heart. I can
      hardly tell you what an indescribable comfort it is to me now I think of
      these things, cut off from the society and sympathy of friends and the
      associations of home; the memory is very active in recalling such scenes,
      and I almost live in them again. I have very little time for indulging in
      fancies of any kind now; I begin to get an idea of what work is; but in my
      walks or at night (if I am awake), I think of dear Mamma and your dear
      father, and others who are gone before, with unmixed joy and comfort. You
      may be quite sure that I am not likely to forget anybody or anything
      connected with home. How I do watch and follow them through the hours of
      the day or night when we are both awake and at our work! I turn out at
      6.45, and think of them at dinner or tea; at 10, I think of them at
      evening prayers; and by my own bed-time they are in morning church or
      busied about their different occupations, and I fancy I can almost see
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So it goes on, and still I am calm and happy and very well; and I think I
      am in my place and hope to be made of some use some day. I like the
      natives in this school very much. The regular wild untamed fellow is not
      so pleasant at first&mdash;dirty, unclothed, always smoking, a mass of
      blankets, his wigwam sort of place filthy; his food ditto; but then he is
      probably intelligent, hospitable, and not insensible to the advantage of
      hearing about religion. It only wants a little practice to overcome one's
      English feelings about dress, civilisation, etc., and that will soon come.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But here the men are nice fellows, and the women and girls make capital
      servants; and so whereas many of the clergy and gentry do not keep a
      servant (wages being enormous), and ladies like your sisters and mine do
      the whole work of the housemaid, nursery-maid, and cook (which I have seen
      and chatted about with them), I, on the contrary, by Miss Maria (a
      wondrous curly-headed, black-eyed Maori damsel, arrayed in a "smock,"
      weiter nichts), have my room swept, bed made, tub&mdash;yes, even in New
      Zealand&mdash;daily filled and emptied, and indeed all the establishment
      will do anything for me. I did not care about it, as I did all for myself
      aboard ship; but still I take it with a very good grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In about six weeks I expect we shall sail all round the English
      settlement of New Zealand, and go to Chatham Island. This will occupy
      about three months, and the voyage will be about 4,000 miles. Then we
      start at once, upon our return, for four months in the Bush, among the
      native villages, on foot. Then, once again taking ship, away for
      Melanesia. So that, once off, I shall be roving about for nearly a year,
      and shall, if all goes well, begin the really missionary life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is late, and the post goes to morrow. Good-bye, my dear Arthur; write
      when you can.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your affectionate
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      'August 27.&mdash;I have just been interrupted by Mrs. Kissling, who came
      to ask me to baptize privately the young son of poor Eota, the native
      deacon, and his wife Terena. Poor fellow! This child was born two or three
      days after he left this place for Taranaki with the Bishop, so he has not
      seen his son as yet. He has one boy about four, and has lost three or four
      others; and now this little one, about three weeks old, seems to be dying.
      I was almost glad that the first time I baptized a native child, using the
      native language, should be on Fan's birthday. It was striking to see the
      unaffected sympathy of the natives here. The poor mother came with the
      child in her arms to the large room. A table with a white cloth in the
      centre, and nearly the whole establishment assembled. I doubt if you would
      have seen in England grown-up men and women more thoroughly in earnest. It
      was the most comforting private baptism I ever witnessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Henri has been for an hour or more this morning asking me questions which
      you would seldom hear from farmers or tradesmen at home, showing a real
      acquaintance with the Bible, and such a desire, hunger and thirst, for
      knowledge. What was the manna in the wilderness? he began. He thought it
      was food that angels actually lived upon, and quoted the verse in the
      Psalm readily, "So man did eat angel's food." So I took him into the whole
      question of the spiritual body; the various passages, "meats for the
      belly," etc., our Lord's answer to the Sadducees, and so on to 1 Cor. xv.
      Very interesting to watch the earnestness of the man and his real pleasure
      in assenting to the general conclusion expressed in 1 John iii. 2
      concerning our ignorance of what we shall be, not implying want of power
      on God's part to explain, but His divine will in not withdrawing the veil
      wholly from so great a mystery. "E marama ana," (I see it clearly now):
      "He mea ngaro!" (a mystery). His mind had wholly passed from the carnal
      material view of life in heaven, and the idea of food for the support of
      the spiritual body, and the capacity for receiving the higher truths (as
      it were) of Christianity showed itself more clearly in the young New
      Zealander than you would find perhaps in the whole extent of a country
      parish. I think that when I know the language well enough to catechize
      freely, it will be far more interesting, and I shall have a far more
      intelligent set of catechumens, than in England. They seem especially fond
      of it, ask questions constantly, and will get to the bottom of the thing,
      and when the catechist is up to the mark and quick and wily in both
      question and illustration, they get so eager and animated, all answering
      together, quoting texts, etc. I think that their knowledge of the Bible is
      in some sense attributable to its being almost the only book printed that
      they care much about.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The 11th of September produced another long letter full of home feeling,
      drawn forth in response to his sister. Here are some extracts:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sometimes I cannot help wishing that I could say all this, but not often.
      There is One who understands, and in really great trials even, it is well
      to lean only on Him. But I must write freely. You will not think me moody
      and downhearted, because I show you that I do miss you, and often feel
      lonely and shut up in myself. This is exactly what I experience, and I
      think if I was ill, as you often are, I should break down under it; but
      God is very merciful to me in keeping me in very good health, so that I am
      always actively engaged every day, and when night comes I am weary in
      body, and sleep sound almost always, so that the time passes very rapidly
      indeed, and I am living in a kind of dream, hardly realizing the fact of
      my being at half the world's distance from you, but borne on from day to
      day, I scarcely know how. Indeed, when I do look back upon the past six
      months, I have abundant cause to be thankful. I never perhaps shall know
      fully how it is, but somehow, as a matter of fact, I am on the whole
      cheerful, and always busy and calm in mind. I don't have tumultuous bursts
      of feeling and overwhelming floods of recollection that sweep right away
      all composure. Your first letters upset me more than once as I re-read
      them, but I think of you all habitually with real joy and peace of mind.
      And I am really happy, not in the sense that happiness presents itself
      always, or exactly in the way that I used to feel it when with you all, or
      as I should feel it if I were walking up to the lodge with my whole heart
      swelling within me. It is much more quiet and subdued, and does not
      perhaps come and go quite as much; but yet in the midst of all, I half
      doubt sometimes whether everything about and within me is real. I just
      move on like a man in a dream, but this again does not make me idle. I
      don't suppose I ever worked harder, on the whole, than I do now, and I
      have much anxious work at the Hospital. Such cases, Fan! Only two hours
      ago, I left a poor sailor, by whose side I had been kneeling near
      three-quarters of an hour, holding his sinking head and moistening his
      mouth with wine, the dews of death on his forehead, and his poor emaciated
      frame heaving like one great pulse at each breath. For four days that he
      has been there (brought in a dying state from the Merchantman) I have been
      with him, and yesterday I administered to him the Holy Communion. He had
      spoken earnestly of his real desire to testify the sincerity of his
      repentance and faith and love. I have been there daily for nine days, but
      I cannot always manage it, as it is nearly two miles off. The
      responsibility is great of dealing with such cases, but I trust that God
      will pardon all my sad mistakes. I cannot withhold the Bread of Life when
      I see indications of real sorrow for sin, and the simple readiness to obey
      the command of Christ, even though there is great ignorance and but little
      time to train a soul for heaven. I cannot, as you may suppose, prepare for
      my Sunday work as I ought to do, from want of time. Last Sunday I had
      three whole services, besides reading the Communion Service and preaching
      at 11 A.M., and reading Prayers at 5 P.M. I should have preached five
      times but that I left my sermon at Mr. T.'s, thinking to go back for
      it.... Mrs. K. gave me an old "Woolmer" the other day, which gladdened my
      eyes. Little bits of comfort come in, you see, in these ways. Nothing can
      be kinder than the people here, I mean in Auckland and its neighbourhood&mdash;real,
      simple, hearty kindness. Perhaps the work at Kohimarama is most irksome to
      me. It is no joke to keep sailors in good humour ashore, and I fear that
      our presence on board was much needed during the passage out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With reference to his sister's reading, he continues:&mdash;'Take care of
      Maurice, Fan; I do not think it too much to say that he is simply and
      plainly "unsound" on the doctrine of the Atonement; I don't charge him
      with heresy from his stand-point, but remember that you have not been
      brought into contact with Quakers, Socinians, &amp;c., and that he may
      conceive of a way of reconciling metaphysically difficulties which a far
      inferior but less inquisitive and vorsehender geist pronounces for itself
      simply contrary to the word of God. There are two Greek prepositions which
      contain the gist of the whole matter, huper, in behalf of, and anti,
      instead of, in the place of. Maurice's doctrine goes far to do away with
      the truth of the last, as applied to the Sacrifice of Christ. I have an
      exceedingly high regard for him, and respect for his goodness no less than
      his ability. His position has exposed him to very great difficulties, and
      therefore, if he is decidedly wrong, it is not for us to judge him. Read
      his "Kingdom of Christ," and his early books; but he is on very slippery
      and dangerous ground now. It is indeed a great and noble task to propose
      to oneself, viz.&mdash;to teach that God is our Father, and to expose the
      false and most unhappy idea that has at times prevailed of representing
      God as actuated by strong indignation, resentment, &amp;c., against the
      human race, so that men turned from Him as from some fearful avenging
      power. This is the worst form of Anthropomorphism, but this is not the
      Scriptural idea of a just God. We cannot, perhaps, conceive of absolute
      justice; certainly we are no judges of God's own revealed scheme of
      reconciling Justice with Law, and so I call Maurice's, to a certain
      extent, human teaching, more philosophy than religion, more metaphysics
      than revelation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 22nd the Ordination took place, and the second Maori deacon was
      ordained, Levi (or according to Maori pronunciation, Eivata) Ahea, a man
      of about thirty-eight, whose character had long been tested. Immediately
      after, the Bishop, Mrs. Selwyn, Mr. Patteson, and the new deacon, set
      forth on a coasting expedition in the new vessel.
    </p>
    <p>
      The language of the journal becomes nautical, and strong in praise of the
      conduct of the little ship, which took the party first to Nelson, where
      Sunday, the 7th of October, was spent, the Bishop going ashore while
      Patteson held a service for the sailors on board, first going round to the
      vessels anchored in the harbour to invite the men's attendance, but
      without much success. On the 10th he wrote:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Already I feel to a certain extent naturalized. I do not think I should
      despair of qualifying myself in three months for the charge of a native
      parish. I don't mean that I know the niceties of the language so as to
      speak it always correctly, but I should be able to communicate with them
      on ordinary subjects, and to preach and catechize. But, after all,
      Melanesia is becoming more and more a substantial reality.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The history of Bishop Selwyn's visitation hardly belongs to Patteson's
      life; but after one Sunday morning's ministration at Queen Charlotte's
      Sound, Patteson was thus entreated: 'At 2.30 I was on shore again, and
      soon surrounded by some thirty or forty natives, with whom I talked a long
      while about the prospect of a clergyman being settled among them. "We want
      you! You speak so plainly, we can understand you!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No, I am going to the islands, to the blacks there." (N.B. The Maoris
      speak of the Blacks with a little touch of contempt.)
    </p>
    <p>
      '"You are wanted here! Never mind the blacks!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Ought not the Gospel to be preached to them, too? They have no teacher.
      Is it not right they should be taught as you have been?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Ke rae tika ana. Yes, yes, that is right!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      The settlements, then new, of Canterbury and Dunedin were visited, and
      then, the Bishop remaining on shore on other work, the 'Southern Cross'
      started for the Chatham Isles, gaining high commendation for all the good
      qualities of which a schooner could be supposed capable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was pretty to see the little, vessel running away from the great
      broad-backed rollers which rolled over the shore far above. Every now and
      then she shipped a sea, and once her deck was quite full of water, up to
      the gunwale nearly.' And as for her future skipper, he says, 'I had plenty
      of work at navigation. It really is very puzzling at first; so much to
      remember&mdash;currents, compass, variation, sun's declination, equation
      of time, lee way, &amp;c. But I think I have done my work pretty well up
      to now, and of course it is a great pleasure as well as a considerable
      advantage to be able to give out the true and magnetic course of the ship,
      and to be able from day to day to give out her position.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Chatham Islands are dependencies of New Zealand, inhabited by Maoris,
      and as it has fallen to the lot of few to visit them, here is this extract
      concerning them:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I buried a man there, a retired sea captain who had spent some twenty
      years of his life in China, and his widow was a Chinese woman, a little
      dot of a thing, rather nice-looking. She spoke a little English and more
      Maori. We walked through the Pa to the burial-ground, some twenty natives
      all dressed in black, i.e. something black about them, and many in a good
      suit, attending the funeral. Levi had spent the day before (Sunday) with
      them and had told them about me. As I approached the Pa before the funeral
      they all raised the native cry of welcome, the "Tangi." I advanced,
      speaking to them collectively, and then went through the ceremony of
      shaking hands with each one in order as they stood in a row, saying
      something, if I could think of it, to each. After the funeral they all
      (according to native custom) sat down in the open air, round a large cloth
      on the ground, on which were spread tins of potatoes, fish, pork, &amp;c.
      The leader came to me and said, "This is the Maori fashion. Come, my
      friend, and sit with us," and deposited three bottles of beer at my feet,
      while provisions enough for Dan Lambert were stored around&mdash;a sort of
      Homeric way of honouring me, and perhaps they made a Benjamin of me.
      However, I had already eaten a mouldy biscuit and had a glass of beer at
      the house of the Chinawoman, so I only said grace for them, and after
      talking a little while, I shook hands all round and went off. Their hands,
      being used as knives and forks, were not a little greasy; but of course
      one does not think of that.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I passed the end of the Pa I heard a cry, and saw a very old man with a
      perfectly white beard, too old to come to the feast, who had crawled out
      of his hut to see me. He had nothing on but a blanket, and I was sorry I
      had not known of his being there, that I might have gone to the old
      gentleman, so we talked and shook hands, and I set off for my eight miles
      walk back. The whole island is one vast peat field, in many places below
      in a state of ignition; then the earth crumbles away below and pits are
      formed, rank with vegetation, splendid soil for potatoes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Christmas-day was spent at Wellington, in services on shore, the Christmas
      dinner eaten on board, but the evening spent at the Governor's in blind
      man's buff and other games with the children, then evening prayers on
      board for the crew. The stay at Wellington was altogether enjoyable, and
      it ended by Mr. Patteson taking the command of the vessel, and returning
      with Mrs. Selwyn to Auckland, while the Bishop pursued his journey by
      land, no small proof of the confidence inspired by so recent a mariner. He
      was sorry to lose the sight of the further visitation, and in his New
      Year's letter of 1856, written soon after receiving a budget from home,
      there is one little touch of home sickness:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really it is a fine land, with wonderful facilities for large
      manufacturing, commercial, and agricultural interests; worth visiting,
      too, merely for the scenery, but somehow enjoying scenery depends a good
      deal upon having one's own friends to enjoy it with. One thing I do enjoy
      thoroughly, and that is the splendid sunsets. I don't remember anywhere to
      have seen such fine soft golden sunsets; and they are not wanting in
      variety, for occasionally he goes to bed among red and crimson and purple
      clouds, with wild scuds flying above, which suggest to me the propriety of
      turning up my bed and looking out for a good roll in the night. But there
      is certainly a peculiar transparency in the air which makes the distances
      look distant indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This trip, so cheerfully described, was rather a pull on the frame which
      had yet to become seasoned to the heat of the southern midsummer, and
      there was a languor about the outward man, the last remnant of the
      original sluggishness, which, if ever a doubt arose of the fitness of the
      instrument for the work, awoke it during the voyage. There was depression
      likewise, in part, no doubt, from the spending the first Christmas away
      from home and friends, and partly from a secret disappointment at the
      arrangement which made him for a time acting-master, not to say steward,
      of the ship, so that he had to live on board of her, and make himself
      useful on Sundays, according to need, in the churches on shore, a
      desultory life very trying to him, but which he bore with his usual quiet
      determination to do obediently and faithfully the duty laid on him,
      without picking or choosing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The journal-letters continue on the 17th of January: 'Wrote a Maori sermon
      this morning, not feeling able yet to preach extempore in the native
      language, though it is much better to do so as soon as I can. Now I must
      stick to the vessel again. I have been quite frisky, really, for two days
      past, and have actually slept on shore, the fourth time since September
      24. The sensation is exceedingly pleasant of firm ground underneath and
      clean water, a basin, &amp;c., to wash in. And yet I almost like coming
      back to my ship home: it is really very comfortable, and you know I always
      liked being a good deal alone. I am reading, for lightish reading, the
      first part of the third volume of Neander's Church History, which is all
      about Missions. It is the fifth volume in the way his works are usually
      bound up, and came out in this box the other day. It is very interesting,
      especially to me now, and it is curious to observe how much the great men
      insisted upon the necessity of attending to the more secular part of
      missionary work,&mdash;agriculture, fishing, and other means of humanizing
      the social condition of the heathen among whom they lived. Columbanus and
      Boniface, and his pupil Gregory, and others (all the German Missionaries,
      almost) just went on the plan the Bishop wants to work out here.
    </p>
    <p>
      '2. P.M. I am off to Otaki to see my native parishioners. What different
      work from calling in at S. W.'s and other good Alfingtonians! The walk
      will be pleasant, especially as I have been grinding away at navigation
      all the morning. My stupid head gets puzzled at that kind of work; and yet
      it is very good for me, just because it requires accuracy.
    </p>
    <p>
      '29th. Just as I am beginning to get some hold of the Maori, so as to make
      real use of it, the Island languages are beginning to come into work. I
      have a curious collection here now&mdash;some given by the Judge, who is a
      great philologist, others belonging to the Bishop&mdash;a MS. grammar
      here, one chapter of St. Mark in another language, four Gospels in a
      third, a few chapters of Kings with the Lord's Prayer in a fourth, besides
      Marsden's Malay grammar and lexicon. Mrs. Nihill has given me some few
      sheets of the Nengone language, and also lent me her husband's MS.
      grammar. One letter, written (&mdash;);, but pronounced a sort of rg in
      the throat, yet not like an ordinary guttural, she declares took two years
      to learn. You may fancy I have enough to do, and then all my housekeeping
      affairs take up a deal of time, for I not only have to order things, but
      to weigh them out, help to cut out and weigh the meat, &amp;c., and am
      quite learned in the mysteries of the store-room, which to be sure is a
      curious place on board ship. I hope you are well suited with a
      housekeeper: if I were at home I could fearlessly advertise for such a
      situation. I have passed through the preliminary steps of housemaid and
      scullerymaid, and now, having taken to serving out stores, am quite
      qualified for the post, especially after my last performance of making
      bread, and even a cake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This seems to be the right place for the description which the wife of
      Chief Justice Martin gives of Mr. Patteson at this period. The first
      meeting, she says, 'was the beginning of an intimate friendship, which has
      been one of the great blessings of our lives. After a short stay at St.
      John's College, he came into residence at St. Stephen's native
      institution, of which Archdeacon Kissling was then the Principal. He
      learned rapidly to read and speak Maori, and won all hearts there by his
      gentle unassuming manners. My husband was at that time a great invalid,
      and as our dear friend was living within five minutes' walk of our house
      he came in whenever he had a spare half-hour. He used to bring Archer
      Butler's sermons to read with us, and I well remember the pleasant talks
      that ensued. The two minds were drawn together by common tasks and habits
      of thought. Both had great facility in acquiring languages, and interest
      in all questions of philology. Both were also readers of German writers on
      Church history and of critical interpretation of the New Testament, and I
      think it was a help to the younger man to be able to discuss these and
      kindred subjects with an older and more trained mind. I had heard much of
      our dear friend before he arrived, and I remember feeling a little
      disappointed at first, though much drawn to him by his gentle affectionate
      thoughtfulness and goodness. He said little about his future work. He had
      come obedient to the call and was quietly waiting to do whatever should be
      set him to do. As my husband a few months later told Sir John Patteson,
      there was no sudden flame of enthusiasm which would die down, but a steady
      fire which would go on burning. To me he talked much of his home. He used
      to walk beside my pony, and tell me about "his dear father"&mdash;how
      lovingly his voice used to linger over those words!&mdash;of the struggle
      it had been to leave him, of the dreariness of the day of embarkation.
      Years after he could hardly bear to recall it to mind. I remember his
      bright look the first day it became certain that we must visit England.
      "Why, then you will see my dear father, and tell him all about me!" I knew
      all his people quite well before, and when I went to visit his little
      parish of Alfington I seemed to recognise each cottage and its humble
      inmates, so faithfully had he described his old people and haunts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One thing that specially impressed me was his reverent appreciation of
      the good he had gained from older friends. He certainly had not imbibed
      any of the indifference to the opinion of elders ascribed to the youth of
      this generation. "Dear old tutor," his uncles, Sir John Coleridge and Dr.
      Coleridge, to whom he looked up with almost filial reverence, the beloved
      Uncle Frank, whose holy life and death he dwelt on with a sort of awe, how
      gratefully and humbly he spoke of the help he had got from them! He was
      full of enthusiasm about music, painting, and art in general. He would
      flow on to willing listeners of Mendelssohn and other great composers, and
      when he found that we hoped to visit Italy he was just as eager about
      pictures. He owned that both at Dresden and at Rome he had weakened his
      eyes by constant study of his favourite masters.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Altogether he gave me the impression of having had a very happy youth and
      having enjoyed it thoroughly. His Eton and Oxford life, the society of men
      of thought at his father's house, home interests, foreign travel, art,
      happy days with his brother Jem in the Tyrol, were all entertained as
      pleasant memories, and yet he was able without conscious effort or
      struggle to put them all aside for his work's sake.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop kindly gave us a passage to Wellington in the "Southern
      Cross," and Mr. Patteson went with us in charge of the vessel. We were
      five days at sea. I used to lie on the deck, and watch with amused
      interest the struggle going on between his student habits and his
      practical duties, which were peculiarly distasteful to him. He was never
      quite well at sea, but was headachy and uncomfortable. He was scrupulously
      neat and clean, and the dirt and stiffness displeased him&mdash;how much
      we never knew, till he spoke out one day when very ill at our house in
      1870. He was not apt at teaching, but he used conscientiously to hear a
      young lad spell and read daily. He would come up with some book of thought
      in his hand, and seemed buried in it, till he suddenly would remember he
      ought to be directing or overlooking in some way. This would happen half a
      dozen times in an afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He shrank at this time from finding fault. It was a positive distress to
      him. At Wellington we parted. He seemed a little depressed, I remember, as
      to what use he would be. I said: "Why, you will be the son Timothy! This
      was after some years of partially failing health, when these feelings had
      become habitual. I do not think they existed in his earlier voyages so
      long waited for." His face brightened up at the thought. "Yes, if I can
      release the Bishop of some of his anxieties, that will be enough."'
    </p>
    <p>
      No doubt he was depressed at parting with the Chief Justice and Mrs.
      Martin, who were thoroughly home-like friends, and whose return was then
      uncertain. His success as a sea-captain however encouraged him, and he
      wrote as follows on his return:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: March 6, 1856.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Southern Cross."
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Miss Neill,&mdash;How kind of you to write to me, and such a nice
      long letter. It cost you a great effort, I am sure, and much pain, I fear;
      but I know it was a comfort to you that it was written, and indeed it was
      a great happiness to me to read it. Oh, these letters! The intense
      enjoyment of hearing about you all at home, I know no pleasure like it
      now. Fond as I always was of reading letters and papers, the real
      happiness of a mail from England now is quite beyond the conception of any
      but a wanderer in foreign parts. Our mail went out yesterday at 2 P.M.,
      rather unluckily for me, as I only returned from a very rapid and
      prosperous voyage to Wellington yesterday morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I took the Chief Justice and Mrs. Martin (such dear, excellent people) to
      Wellington to meet the "Seringa-patam," homeward bound from that port; and
      I brought back from Wellington the Governor's sick wife and suite. Only
      absent a fortnight for a voyage of 1,100 miles, including three days' stay
      at Wellington. The coast of New Zealand is so uncertain, and the corners
      so many in coasting from Auckland to Wellington, that the usual passage
      occupies seven or eight days; and when the "Southern Cross" appeared
      yesterday morning in harbour, I was told by several of the officers and
      other residents that they feared we had put back from foul weather, or
      because the Judge could not bear the motion of the vessel. They scarcely
      thought we could actually have been to Wellington and returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Most thankful am I for such a fine passage, for I had two sets of
      invalids, the Judge being only now (as we trust) recovering from a severe
      illness, and Mrs. Martin very weakly; and I felt the responsibility of
      having the charge of them very much. This was my second trip as
      "Commodore," the Bishop still being on his land journey; but we expect him
      in Auckland at the end of the month. As you may suppose, I am getting on
      with my navigation, take sights, of course, and work out errors of
      watches, place of ship, &amp;c.; it is pretty and interesting work, and
      though you know well enough that I have no turn for mathematics, yet this
      kind of thing is rendered so easy nowadays by the tables that are
      constructed for nautical purposes, that I do not think I should feel
      afraid of navigating a ship at all. The "seamanship" is another thing, and
      that the master of the ship is responsible for.... You ask me, dear Miss
      Neill, where I am settled. Why, settled, I suppose I am never to be: I am
      a missionary, you know, not a "stationary." But, however, my home is the
      "Southern Cross," where I live always in harbour as well as at sea, highly
      compassionated by all my good friends here, from the Governor downwards,
      and highly contented myself with the sole possession of a cosy little
      cabin nicely furnished with table, lots of books, and my dear father's
      photograph, which is an invaluable treasure and comfort to me. In harbour
      I live in the cabin. It is hung round with barometers (aneroids),
      sympie-someters, fixed chest for chronometers, charts, &amp;c. Of course,
      wherever the "Southern Cross" goes I go too, and I am a most complete
      skipper. I feel as natural with my quadrant in my hand as of old with a
      cricket bat. Then I do rather have good salt-water baths, and see glorious
      sunsets and sunrises, and star-light nights, and the great many-voiced
      ocean, the winds and waves chiming all night with a solemn sound, lapping
      against my ear as I lie in my canvas bed, six feet by two and a half, and
      fall sound asleep and dream of home. Oh! there is much that is really
      enjoyable in this kind of life; and if the cares of the vessel, management
      of men, &amp;c., do harass me sometimes, it is very good for me; security
      from such troubles having been anxiously and selfishly pursued by me at
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If it please God to give success to our mission work, I may some day be
      "settled" (if I live) on some one of the countless islands of the South
      Pacific, looking after a kind of Protestant Propaganda College for the
      education of teachers and missionaries from among the islanders, but this
      is all uncertain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now good-bye, my dear Miss Neill. I never doubt that in all your
      sufferings God does administer abundant sources of consolation to you.
      Even my life, so painless and easy, is teaching me that we judge of these
      things by a relative standard only, and I can conceive of one duly trained
      and prepared for heaven that many most blessed anticipations of future
      rest may be vouchsafed in the midst of extreme bodily pain. It is in fact
      a kind of martyrdom, and truly so when borne patiently for the love of
      Christ.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always, my dear Miss Neill,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your very affectionate,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The Sundays were days of little rest. Clergy were too scarce for one with
      no fixed cure not to be made available to the utmost, and the undeveloped
      state of the buildings and of all appliances of devotion fell heavily and
      coldly on one trained to beauty, both of architecture and music, though
      perhaps the variety of employment was the chief trial. His Good Friday and
      Easter Sunday's journal show the sort of work that came on him:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Taurarua, Good Friday.&mdash;I am tired, for walking about in a hot sun,
      with a Melanesian kit, as we call them, slung round the neck, with clothes
      and books, is really fatiguing. Yesterday and to-day are just samples of
      colonial work. Thursday, 7.30, prayers in chapel; 10.30, Communion service
      in chapel. Walked two miles to see a parishioner of the Archdeacon's.
      1.30, dinner; 2.30, walked to Taurarua, five and a half miles, in a
      burning sun; walked on to Mr. T.'s and back again, three miles and a half
      more. 7, tea, wrote a sermon and went to bed. To-day, service and sermon,
      for 600 soldiers at 9; Communion service and preached at 11. Back to
      Taurarua after three miles' walk, on to the College, and read prayers at
      7. Not much work, it is true, but disjointed, and therefore more
      fatiguing. I do sometimes long almost for the rest of English life, the
      quiet evening after the busy day; but I must look on to a peaceful rest by
      and by; meanwhile work away, and to be sure I have a grand example in the
      Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Easter Day.&mdash;I was at Tamaki chapel, a cold, bare, barn-like
      building of scoria, all this country being of volcanic origin. Fifty
      persons present perhaps: two or three faint female voices, two or three
      rough most discordant male voices, all the attempt at singing. No
      instrument of any kind. The burthen of trying to raise the tone of the
      whole service to a really rejoicing thankful character wholly, I suppose,
      upon myself, and I so unequal to it. But the happy blessed services
      themselves, they gradually absorbed the mind, and withdrew it from all
      relative and comparative ideas of externals of worship. What a training it
      is here for the appreciation of the wondrous beauty of our Church
      services, calming all feeling of excitement and irreverent passionate
      zeal, and enabling one to give full scope to the joy and glory of one's
      heart, without, I hope, forgetting to rejoice with reverence and
      moderation. Here, at Tamaki, you have nothing but the help the services
      themselves give, and I suppose that is very good for one in reality,
      though at the time it makes one feel as if something was wanting in the
      hearty sympathy and support of earnest fellow-worshippers. The College
      chapel nicely decorated.
    </p>
    <p>
      '1st Sunday after Easter: Taurarua.&mdash;I walked in from the College
      yesterday afternoon, took the soldiers' service at 9.15 A.M., Communion
      service and sermon at St. Matthew's at 11, Hospital at 2.30. Preached at
      St. Paul's at 6 P.M., reminding me of my Sunday's work when I was living
      at St. Stephen's. It is a comfort to have a Sunday in Auckland
      occasionally&mdash;more like a Sunday, with a real church, and people
      responding and singing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So passed that first year, which many an intending missionary before
      Patteson has found a crucial test which he has not taken into his
      calculations. The soreness of the wrench from home is still fresh, and
      there is no settled or regular work to occupy the mind, while the
      hardships are exactly of the kind that have not been anticipated, and are
      most harassing, though unsatisfying to the imagination, and all this when
      the health is adapting itself to a new climate, and the spirits are least
      in time, so that the temper is in the most likely condition to feel and
      resent any apparent slight or unexpected employment. No one knows how many
      high hopes have sunk, how many intended workers have been turned aside, by
      this ordeal of the first year.
    </p>
    <p>
      Patteson, however, was accepting whatever was distasteful as wholesome
      training in the endurance of hardships, and soon felt the benefit he
      reaped from it. The fastidiousness of his nature was being conquered, his
      reluctance to rebuke forced out of being a hindrance, and no doubt the
      long-sought grace of humility was rendered far more attainable by the
      obedient fulfilment of these lowly tasks.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII. THE MELANESIAN ISLES. 1856-1857.
    </h2>
    <p>
      And now, in his twenty-ninth year, after all the unconscious preparation
      of his education, and the conscious preparation of two years, Coleridge
      Patteson began the definite work of his life. Bishop Selwyn was to sail
      with him in the "Southern Cross," making the voyage that had been
      intermitted during the expedition to England, introducing him to the
      Islands, and testing his adaptation to the work there. The first point
      was, however, to be Sydney, with the hope of obtaining leave to use
      Norfolk Island as the headquarters of the Mission. They meant to touch
      there, weather permitting, on their way northward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ascension Day was always Bishop Selwyn's favourite time for starting, so
      that the charge might be ringing freshly in his ears and those of his
      companions, 'Go ye and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of
      the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was morning service and Holy Communion at the little College chapel
      on the 1st of May, Ascension Day of 1856; then the party went on board,
      but their first start was only to Coromandel Bay, in order that the Bishop
      might arrange a dispute with the Maoris, and they then returned to
      Auckland to take up Mrs. Selwyn. The crew were five in number, and Mr.
      Leonard Harper, son of the future Bishop of Lyttelton, likewise
      accompanied them, and relieved Patteson of his onerous duties as steward.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first adventure was such a storm as the little vessel had never yet
      encountered. The journal-letter thus describes it:&mdash;'On Saturday
      morning it began to blow from the north-east, and for the first time I
      experienced a circular gale or hurricane. Mrs. Somerville, I think,
      somewhere describes the nature of them in her "Physical Geography." The
      wind veered and hauled about a point or two, but blew from the north-east
      with great force, till about seven P.M. we could do no more with it and
      had to lie to. Ask old D. what that means, if you can't understand my
      description of it. The principle of it is to set two small sails, one fore
      and one aft, lash the rudder (wheel) amidships, make all snug, put on
      hatches, batten everything down, and trust to ride out the storm. As the
      vessel falls away from the wind by the action of one sail, it is brought
      up to it again by the other-sail. Thus her head is always kept to the
      wind, and she meets the seas, which if they caught her on the beam or the
      quarter would very likely send her down at once. About midnight on
      Saturday the wind suddenly chopped round to W.S.W., so that we were near
      the focus of the gale; it blew harder and harder till we took down the one
      sail forward, as the ropes and spars were enough for the wind to act upon.
      From 1 P.M. to 7 P.M. on Sunday it blew furiously. The whole sea was one
      drift of foam, and the surface of the water beaten down almost flat by the
      excessive violence of the wind, which cut off the head of every wave as it
      strove to raise itself, and carried it in clouds of spray and great masses
      of water, driving and hurling it against any obstacle, such as our little
      vessel, with inconceivable fury. As I stood on deck, gasping for breath,
      my eyes literally unable to keep themselves open, and only by glimpses
      getting a view of this most grand and terrible sight, it seemed as if a
      furious snow-storm was raging over a swelling, heaving, dark mass of
      waters. When anything could be seen beyond the first or second line of
      waves, the sky and sea appeared to meet in one cataract of rain and spray.
      A few birds were driving about like spirits of the storm. It was, as
      Shakspeare calls it, a regular hurly. Add to this the straining of the
      masts, the creaking of the planks, the shrill whistle of the wind in the
      ropes and cordage, the occasional crash of a heavy sea as it struck us
      with a sharp sound, and the rush of water over the decks, down the
      companion and hatches, that followed, and you have a notion of a gale of
      wind. And yet this was far from all the wind and sea can do, and we were
      never in any danger, I believe. That is, an unlucky sea at such a time may
      be fatal, and if anything about the schooner had been unsound it might
      have been awkward. At prayers, the Bishop read the prayer to be used in a
      storm, but I never myself entertained the idea of our being really in
      peril, nor did I suffer anything like the anxiety that I did when we were
      rounding Cape Palliser on our way to Wellington with the Judge. Here we
      had sea room and no fear of driving upon rocks. It is blowing a good deal
      now, as you see by my writing. I have a small ink-bottle of glass, made
      like an eel-pot (such as tax-gatherers use), tied to my buttonhole, and
      with this I can scribble away in almost any sea. Dear me! you could not
      sit still a minute, even now. I was qualmish on Saturday, and for a minute
      sick, but pretty comfortable on Sunday, though wearied by the constant
      pitching and rolling.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The day after this, namely May 15, the Bishop and Mr. Patteson rowed into
      Cascade Bay, Norfolk Island, amid a heavy surf, but they saw no cascade,
      as there had been no rain for a long time; and there were only rocks
      surmounted by pine trees, no living creature, no landing-place, as they
      coasted along. At last they saw a smooth-looking rock with an iron staple,
      and concluding that it was the way of approach, they watched their time,
      and through the surf which broke over it they leapt on it, and dashed
      ashore before the returning swell caught them. They walked inland, and met
      a man, one of twelve convicts who had been left behind to receive the
      Pitcairners, who had not yet arrived, but were on their way from their
      original island in H.M.S. 'Juno.' The vegetation and climate struck them
      as beautiful; there were oranges, lemons, sweet potatoes, and common
      potatoes, and English vegetables, and the Norfolk Island pine growing to a
      great height: 'but,' writes Coley, 'it is coarser in the leaf and less
      symmetrical in shape than I had expected. I thought to have seen the tree
      of Veitch's nursery garden on a scale three or four times as large, and so
      I might have done in any of the gardens; but as they grow wild in the
      forest, they are not so very different from the more common fir tribe.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They saw one house, but had little time, and getting down to the smooth
      rock, stood there, barefooted, till the boat could back in between the
      rollers; the Bishop leapt in at the first, and the boat made off at once,
      and till it could return, Patteson had to cling to the clamps to hinder
      himself from being washed off, as six or seven waves broke over him before
      the boat could come near enough for another spring. These difficulties in
      landing were one of the recommendations of the island, by isolating the
      future inhabitants from the demoralising visits of chance vessels.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then followed some days of great enjoyment of the calm warmth of the
      semi-tropical winter, chiefly varied by catching a young shark, and
      contrasting him with his attendant pilot, as the ugliest and prettiest of
      fish. Patteson used the calm to write (May 30) one of his introspective
      letters, owning that he felt physical discomfort, and found it hard to
      banish 'recollections of clean water, dry clothes, and drink not tasting
      like medicine; but that he most of all missed the perfect unconstrained
      ease of home conversation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he continues:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'But now, don't you see, Fan, how good this is for me? If you think
      impartially of me, as you recollect me, you will see how soft and indolent
      I was, how easily I fell into self-indulgent habits, how little I cared to
      exert myself and try and exercise the influence, etc., a clergyman may be
      supposed to possess; there was nothing about me to indicate energy, to fit
      me for working out a scheme and stamping my own mind upon others who came
      in contact with me. Perhaps there is no one person who can trace any
      sensible influence to anything I ever did or said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now I don't of course venture to say that this is otherwise now; but I
      think that this is the best training to make it so. I think that I ought
      to be gaining strength of purpose, resolution, energy of character, under
      these circumstances. And observe, what should I be without some such
      change pressing on me? Just imagine me, such a one as I was at Alfington,
      alone on an island with twenty-five Melanesian boys, from half as many
      different islands, to be trained, clothed, brought into orderly habits,
      &amp;c., the report of our proceedings made in some sort the test of the
      working of the Mission; and all this to be arranged, ordered, and worked
      out by me, who found H. B&mdash;&mdash; and W. P&mdash;&mdash; a care too
      great for me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you see that I must become very different from what I was&mdash;more
      of a man; to say nothing of the higher and religious side of this
      question? While then there is much that my carnal self-indulgent nature
      does not at all like, and while it is always trying to rebel, my better
      sense and the true voice within tells me that, independently of this
      particular work requiring such a discipline, the discipline itself is good
      for the formation of my own character.... Oh! the month of June at
      Feniton! the rhododendrons, azaleas, and kalmias, the burst of flowers and
      trees, the song of thrush and blackbird (both unknown to New Zealand). The
      green meadows and cawing rooks, and church towers and Sunday bells, and
      the bright sparkling river and leaping trout: and the hedges with primrose
      and violet (I should like to see a hedge again); and I am afraid I must
      add the green peas and beans, and various other garden productions, which
      would make salt pork more palatable! Yes, I should like to see it all
      again; but it is of the earth after all, and I have the "many-twinkling
      smile of Ocean," though there is no soft woodland dell to make it more
      beautiful by its contrast. Well, I have had a happy hour scribbling away,
      and now to work.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am less distressed now,' he adds, a few days later, in the same strain,
      'at the absence of all that is customary in England on these occasions
      (great festivals), though I dare not say how far the loss of all these
      privileges produces a bad effect upon my heart and character. One often
      loses the spirit when the form is withdrawn, and I still sorely long for
      the worship of God in the beauty of holiness, and my mind reverts to
      Ottery Church, and college chapels and vast glorious cathedrals.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 10th of June the 'Southern Cross' was in Sydney harbour, and
      remained there a fortnight, Bishop Barker gladly welcoming the new
      arrivals, though in general Bishop Selwyn and his Chaplain announced
      themselves as like the man and woman in the weather-glass, only coming-out
      by turns, since one or other had to be in charge of the ship; but later an
      arrangement was made which set them more at liberty. And the churches at
      Sydney were a great delight to Patteson; the architecture, music, and all
      the arrangements being like those among which he had been trained.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A Sunday worth a dozen gales of wind!' he exclaims, 'but you can hardly
      judge of the effect produced by all the good substantial concomitants of
      Divine worship upon one who for fourteen months has scarcely seen anything
      but a small wooden church, with almost all the warmth of devotion resting
      on himself. I feel roused to the core. ...I felt the blessing of
      worshipping the Lord with a full heart in the beauty of holiness. A very
      good organ well played, and my joy was great when we sang the long 78th
      Psalm to an old chant of itself almost enough to upset me, the
      congregation singing in parts with heart and voice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His exhilaration showed itself in a letter to his little cousin, Paulina
      Martin:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Southern Cross," Sydney Harbour: June 18, 1856.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My darling Pena,&mdash;Are you so anxious to have a letter from me, and
      do you think I am going to forget all about you? However, you have had
      long before this two or three letters from me, I hope, and when I write to
      grandpapa or grandmamma or mamma, you must always take it as if a good
      deal was meant for you, for I have not quite so much time for writing as
      you have, I dare say, in spite of music and French and history and
      geography and all the rest of it. But I do dearly love to write to you
      when I can, and you must be quite certain that I shall always do so as I
      have opportunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you ever talk to me about any of your English watering-places and
      sea-port towns! No one knows anything about what an harbour can be for
      perfect beauty of earth, air, and sea, for wooded banks and rocky heights,
      and fine shipping and handsome buildings, and all the bustle and stir of a
      town of 80,000 inhabitants somehow lost and hidden among gum trees and
      Norfolk Island pines and parks and gravel walks; and everywhere the
      magnificent sea view breaking in upon the eye. Don't be angry, darling,
      for I love Dawlish very much, and would sooner go and sail the "Mary Jane"
      with you in some dear little basin among the rocks at low tide, and watch
      all the little crabs and other creatures with long Latin names, than walk
      about Sydney arm-in-arm with the Bishops of New Zealand and Newcastle, to
      call on the Governor. But I must say what I think about the natural
      scenery of places that I visit, and nowhere, even in New Zealand&mdash;no,
      not even in Queen Charlotte's Sound, nor in Banks's Peninsula, have I seen
      anything so completely beautiful as this harbour&mdash;'"heoi ano" "that's
      enough." The Governor told us yesterday that when he was at Hobart Town,
      he made the convicts cut a path through one of the deep gullies running
      down from a mountain 4,500 feet high to the sea. The path was two miles
      long, and all the way the tree-ferns, between twenty and thirty feet high,
      formed a natural roof arched and vaulted like the fretted roofs of our
      Tudor churches and chapels. There is a botanical garden here with a very
      good collection of all the Australian trees and shrubs, and with many New
      Zealand and many semi-tropical plants besides. All the English flowers and
      fruits grow here as well, so that in the warmer months it must look
      beautiful. It is close to the sea, which runs here in little creeks and
      bays close up among the public walks and buildings; and as the shore is
      all rocky and steep at low water, there is no mud or swamp or seaweed, but
      only clear green water quite deep and always calm and tranquil, because
      the harbour is so broken up and diversified by innumerable islets, gulfs,
      &amp;c., that no wind can raise any sea of consequence in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just now it is winter time&mdash;slight frost at night, but no appearance
      of it after the sun is up; bright hot days, and bracing cold nights, the
      very perfection of a climate in winter, but in summer very hot. It is so
      funny to me to see regular stone and brick houses, and shops, and
      carriages, and cabs, &amp;c., all quite new to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To-night there is a great missionary meeting. Bishops of Sydney, New
      Zealand, and Newcastle present. Bishop of Newcastle and a Mr. King
      advocate the cause of the Australian blacks, and the Bishop of New Zealand
      and unfortunate I have to speechify about Melanesia. What on earth to say
      I don't know, for of course the Bishop will exhaust the subject before me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'However, I must try and not be in a great fright; but I would sooner by
      half be going to have a talk with a parcel of Maoris. Now, you must get
      Fanny Patteson to tell you all about our voyage from New Zealand, our
      adventure at Norfolk Island, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We sail on Monday, 23rd, for Norfolk Island again, as it is in our way to
      the Solomon group, because we shall get the S.E. trades just about there,
      and so run away in style to the Solomon Islands, and perhaps farther north
      still, but that is not probable this time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always, my darling,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      This meeting was called by the Australian Board of Missions to receive
      information or propositions concerning the missions to the Australians and
      Melanesians. Bishop Barker of Sydney was in the chair, and the Bishop of
      Newcastle, who had made one Melanesian cruise in the 'Border Maid,' was
      likewise present. The room was crowded to excess, and from 900 to 1,000
      were certainly present, many more failing to get in. Afterwards Patteson
      writes to his father:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop of New Zealand, in introducing me to the meeting, spoke before
      all these people of you and me in a way that almost unnerved me, and I had
      to speak next. What he said is not reported, or very badly&mdash;calling
      me his dear friend, with his voice quivering&mdash;I never saw him more,
      or so much affected&mdash;"I ought to be most thankful to God for giving
      me so dear a companion, &amp;c." But he spoke so of you, and people here
      seemed to know of you, coming up to me, and asking about you, after the
      meeting. The Bishop of Newcastle spoke of you most kindly, and really with
      very great feeling. An evening I had dreaded ended happily. Before I dined
      with the three Bishops; last night with Chief Justice Sir Alfred Stephen,
      and met the trio again, Bishop everywhere speaking of me as one of his
      family. "No, my boys are not with me; but we have my dear friend Mr.
      Patteson." Of course all this exhibition of feeling never comes out when
      we are alone, we know each other too well. And now the romance of Mission
      work is over, and the real labour is to begin. There has been bad work
      among the islands lately, but you know in whose hands we are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The collections both at the door and on the following Sunday were very
      large, and a strong warm feeling was excited in Sydney which has never
      since died away. Mr. Patteson was much beloved there, and always met with
      kind welcome and ready assistance from all classes. But there was one
      great disappointment. The Bishop of New Zealand, on formally setting
      before Sir William Denison, Governor-General of Australia, his plan for
      making Norfolk Island the site of a school for training Melanesian
      teachers, and eventually the seat of a bishopric, received a refusal, and
      was not permitted even to place a chaplain there. Sir William, as he tells
      us in his published diary, had heard from some quarter or other rumours
      respecting the Melanesian scholars which made him suppose that their
      presence might have a bad effect upon the Pitcairners; and repeated that
      his instructions were that the islanders should be left as much as
      possible to themselves. The request to be permitted to place Mr. Patteson
      there was refused on the ground that Norfolk Island belonged to the see of
      Tasmania, and not to that of New Zealand. But the Bishop of Tasmania could
      hardly visit it without great inconvenience, and he had therefore placed
      it under the care of his brother of New Zealand, full in whose track it
      lay. The matter was referred to the Colonial Secretary, and in the
      meantime Bishop Selwyn adhered to his purpose of visiting it on leaving
      Sydney, and though he could not place his chaplain there, leaving Mrs.
      Selwyn to assist in the work of training the new comers to the novelties
      of a more temperate climate and a more genial soil than they had known on
      the torrid rock of Pitcairn's Island.
    </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, on the 4th of July, the 'Southern Cross' again approached the
      island, and finding that the Pitcairners had come, and that their
      magistrate and Mr. Nobbs, their clergyman, would gladly welcome
      assistance, the Bishop brought Mrs. Selwyn on shore, and left her there to
      assist Mr. Nobbs in preparing the entire population to be confirmed on his
      return. But the Pitcairners have been amply written about, and as
      Coleridge Patteson's connection with them was only incidental, I shall not
      dwell on them or their history.
    </p>
    <p>
      The 'Southern Cross' reached Anaiteum on the 14th of July. This island was
      occupied by Mr. Inglis and Mr. Greddie, of the Scottish Presbyterian
      Mission, who had done much towards improving the natives. Small canoes
      soon began to come off to the vessel, little craft consisting of no more
      than the trunk of a tree hollowed out, seldom more than a foot broad, and
      perhaps eighteen inches deep, all with outriggers&mdash;namely, a slight
      wooden frame or raft to balance them, and for the most part containing two
      men, or sometimes three or four. Before long, not less than fifteen or
      twenty had come on board, with woolly hair and mahogany skins, generally
      wearing a small strip of calico, but some without even this. They were
      small men, but lithe and supple, and walked about the deck quite at ease,
      chattering in a language no one understood except the words 'Missy
      Inglis,' as they pointed to a house. Presently another canoe arrived with
      a Samoan teacher with whom the Bishop could converse, and who said that
      Mr. Geddie was at Mare. They were soon followed by a whale boat with a
      Tahitian native teacher, a Futuma man, and a crew of Anaiteans.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Futuma man had expended his energies upon his hair, which was
      elaborately dressed after a fashion that precluded the possibility of any
      attention being bestowed upon the rest of his person, which was
      accordingly wholly unencumbered with any clothing. The perfection of this
      art apparently consisted in gathering up about a dozen hairs and binding
      them firmly with grass or fine twine of cocoa-nut fibre plastered with
      coral lime. As the hair grows, the binding is lengthened also, and only
      about four or five inches are suffered to escape from this confinement,
      and are then frizzed and curled, like a mop or a poodle's coat. Leonard
      Harper and I returned in this boat, Tahitian steering, Samoan, Futuman,
      and Anaiteans making one motley crew. The brisk trade soon carried us to
      the beach in front of Mr. Inglis's house, and arrived at the reef I rode
      out pick-a-back on the Samoan, Leonard following on a half-naked Anaitean.
      We soon found ourselves in the midst of a number of men, women and
      children, standing round Mr. Inglis at the entrance of his garden. I
      explained to him the reason of the Bishop's being unable to land, that he
      alone knew the harbour on the other side of island, and so could not leave
      the vessel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, having delivered the boxes and letters we had brought for him from
      Auckland, we went into his house, gazing with delight at cocoanut trees,
      bananas, breadfruit trees, citrons, lemons, taro, &amp;c., with bright
      tropical colouring thrown over all, lighting up the broad leaves and thick
      foliage of the trees around us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The house itself is built, after the fashion of these islands, of wattle
      plastered with coral lime, the roof thatched with the leaves of the
      cocoa-nut and pandana; the fences of the garden were made of cane,
      prettily worked together in a cross pattern; the path neatly kept, and
      everything looking clean and tidy. We sat down in a small, well-furnished
      room, and looked out upon the garden, verandah, and groups of men and
      women standing outside. Presently Mrs. Inglis came into the room, and
      after some discussion I was persuaded to stay all night, since the
      schooner could not reach her anchorage before dark, and the next day the
      water-casks were to be filled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'An excellent dinner was provided: roast fowl with taro, a nutritious root
      somewhat like potato, rice and jam, bananas and delicious fruit, bread and
      Scotch cheese, with glasses of cocoa-nut milk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Afterwards he showed us the arrangements for boarding young men and women&mdash;twelve
      of the former, and fourteen of the latter. Nothing could well exceed the
      cleanliness and order of their houses, sleeping rooms, and cooking rooms.
      The houses, wattled and plastered, had floors covered with native mats,
      beds laid upon a raised platform running round the inner room, mats and
      blankets for covering, and bamboo cane for a pillow. The boys were, some
      writing, some making twine, some summing, when we went in; the girls just
      putting on their bonnets, of their own manufacture, for school.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They learn all household work&mdash;cooking, hemming, sewing, &amp;c.;
      the boys tend the poultry, cows, cultivate taro, make arrowroot, &amp;c.
      All of them could read fluently, and all looked happy, clean, and healthy.
      The girls wear their native petticoats of cocoa-nut leaves, with a calico
      body. Boys wear trousers, and some had shirts, some waistcoats, and a few
      jackets.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We walked about a small wood adjoining the house, through which a small
      fresh-water stream runs. In the wood we saw specimens of the various trees
      and shrubs, and flowers of the island, including those already noticed in
      Mr. Inglis's garden, and the breadfruit tree and sugar-cane, and a
      beautiful bright flower of scarlet colour, a convolvulus, larger than any
      I had ever seen elsewhere; also a tree bearing a very beautiful yellow
      flower.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We then returned to the house, and shortly afterwards went to the church,
      which is at present used also as the school-house, though the uprights of
      a larger school-house are already fixed in the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Men, women, and children to the number of ninety-four had assembled in a
      large oblong building, wattled and plastered, with open windows on all
      sides; mats arranged on the floor, and a raised platform or bench running
      round the building for persons who prefer to sit after the English,
      instead of the native fashion,
    </p>
    <p>
      'All that were called upon to read did so fluently; the singing was harsh
      and nasal enough, but in very good time; their counting very good, and
      their writing on slates quite equal to the average performance, I am
      satisfied, of a good English parish school. They listened attentively when
      Mr. Inglis spoke to them, and when at his request I said a few words,
      which he translated. The most perfect order and quiet prevailed all the
      time we were in the school. At the end of the lessons they came forward,
      and each one shook hands with Leonard Harper and myself, smiling and
      laughing with their quick intelligent eyes, and apparently pleased to see
      strangers among them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By this time it was dusk, and we went back to the Mission House, and
      spent a pleasant evening, asking and answering questions about Anaiteum
      and the world beyond it, until 8 P.M., when the boarders came to prayers,
      with two or three persons who live about the place. They read the third
      chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel in turns, verse by verse, and then a
      prayer from Mr. Inglis followed. At 8.30 we had private family prayers,
      and at 9 went to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 16.&mdash;We got up at four, and were soon ready for our walk to the
      south side of the Island; Mr. Inglis came with us, and ten or twelve
      natives. For the first half-mile we walked along the beach among cocoa-nut
      trees, bananas and sugar-canes, the sun, not yet above the horizon,
      tingeing the light clouds with faint pink and purple lines, the freshness
      of the early dawn, and the soft breeze playing about us, gladdening at
      once our eyes and our hearts. Soon we struck off to the south, and passing
      through taro plantations, began to ascend the slopes of the island. As we
      walked along we heard the sound of the logs beaten together, summoning the
      people to attend the various schools planted in every locality, under the
      management of native teachers, and we had a good opportunity of observing
      the careful system of irrigation adopted by the natives for the
      cultivation of the taro plant. Following the course of a small mountain
      stream, we observed the labour with which the water was brought down from
      it upon causeways of earth, carried in baskets from very considerable
      distances; occasionally the water-course is led round the head of various
      small ravines; at other times the trunk of a tree is hollowed out and
      converted into an aqueduct; but no pains have been wanting to make
      provision for the growth of the staple food of the island.'
    </p>
    <p>
      From this scene of hope and encouragement the 'Southern Cross' sailed on
      the sixteenth, and passing Erromango, came in sight of Fate, also called
      Sandwich, a wooded island beautiful beyond description, but with a bad
      character for cannibalism, and where the Samoan teachers had been
      murdered. So the approach was cautious, and the vessel kept a mile from
      the shore, and was soon surrounded with canoes, one of them containing a
      native who had been instructed in Samoa, and was now acting as teacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The first canoe that came had five men on board. Girdles of beautifully
      plaited cocoa-nut fibre round their waists were their only clothing, but
      some had wreaths of flowers and green leaves round their heads, and most
      of them wore mother-of-pearl shells, beads, &amp;c., round their necks and
      in their ears. They do not tattoo, but brand their skins. All five came,
      and presently three more, and then another; but seeing a large double
      canoe with perhaps twenty men in her coming close, we stood away. Two of
      our visitors chose to stay, and we have them on board now: Alsoff, a man
      of perhaps forty-five, and Mospa, a very intelligent young man from whom I
      am picking up words as fast as I can. F. would have laughed to have seen
      me rigging them out in calico shirts, buttoning them up. Mospa gave me his
      wooden comb, which they push through their hair, as you ladies do coral or
      gold pins at parties. Another fellow whose head was elaborately frizzled
      and plastered with coral lime, departed with one of my common calico
      pocket-handkerchiefs with my name in Joan's marking. This is to adorn his
      head, and for aught I know, is the first, and certainly the best specimen
      of handwriting in the island. We hope to call at all these islands on our
      way back from the north, but at present we only dodge a few canoes, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 20.&mdash;I suppose you like to know all little things, so I tell
      you that our Fate friends, being presented each with a blanket, just wound
      themselves up on the cabin floor, one close to Leonard and me, and slept
      away in style; that I soon taught them to eat with a knife and fork, and
      to-day have almost succeeded in making them believe that plum pudding (our
      Sunday dish) is a fine thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 21.&mdash;All day we have been very slowly drifting along the west
      side of Espiritu Santo. A grand mountainous chain runs along the whole
      island, the peaks we estimate at 4,000 feet high. This alone is a fine
      sight&mdash;luxuriant vegetation to nearly the top of the peaks, clouds
      resting upon the summit of the range, from the evaporation caused by the
      vast amount of vegetable matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As we were lying to, about half-way along the coast, we espied a brig at
      anchor close on shore. Manned the boat and rowed about two miles to the
      brig, found it was under the command of a notorious man among the
      sandal-wood traders for many a dark deed of revenge and unscrupulous
      retaliation upon the natives. At Nengone he shot three in cold blood who
      swam off to his ship, because the people of the place were said to be
      about to attempt to take his vessel. At Mallicolo but lately I fear he
      killed not less than eight, though here there was some scuffling and
      provocation. For the Nengone affair he was tried for his life at Sydney,
      Captain Erskine and the Bishop having much to do with his prosecution. He
      is now dealing fairly (apparently) with these people, and is certainly on
      very friendly terms with them. The Bishop has known him many years, and
      baptized some years ago his only child, a son. We are glad to let these
      men see that we are about in these seas, watching what they do; and the
      Bishop said, "Mr. Patteson is come from England on purpose to look after
      these islands," as much as to say, Now there will be a regular visitation
      of them, and outrages committed on the natives will probably be
      discovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, on we rowed, half a mile to shore&mdash;such a lovely scene. A bend
      in the coral reef made a beautiful boat harbour, and into it we rowed.
      Clear as crystal was the water, bright as tropical sun at 2.30 P.M. could
      make it was the foliage on the shore. Numbers of children and boys were
      playing in the water or running about on the rocks and sands, and there
      were several men about, all of course naked, and as they lead an
      amphibious life they find it very convenient. They work little; breadfruit
      trees, cocoa-nut trees, and bananas grow naturally, and the yam and taro
      cultivations are weeded and tended by the women. They have nothing to do
      but eat, drink, and sleep, and lie on the warm coral rock, and bathe in
      the surf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was no shyness on the part of the children, dear little fellows
      from six to ten clustering round me, unable to understand my coat with
      pockets, and what my socks could be&mdash;I seemed to have two or three
      skins. The men came up and soon shook hands, but did not seem to know the
      custom. A Nengone man was ashore, and with him I could talk a little. Soon
      I was walking on shore arm-in-arm with him, stark naked, and he was asking
      me about Mrs. Nihill and her child. A little boy of the island held the
      other hand, and so, leaving the boat, we walked inland into the bush to
      see a native village. Ten minutes' walk brought us to it&mdash;cottages
      all of bamboos tied together with cocoa-nut fibre, thatched with leaves, a
      ridge-pole and sloping roof on either side reaching to the ground. No
      upright poles or side-walls; they were quite open at the two ends, perhaps
      20, 30, or even 40 feet long; the general appearance clean and healthy.
      Their food was kept on raised stages as in New Zealand, and they had
      plenty of earthenware pots and basins, some of good shape, and all
      apparently strong and serviceable. Large wooden or earthenware platters
      are used for stirring up and pounding the yams with a heavy wooden pestle,
      and they have a peculiar way of scraping the yam, on a wooden board
      roughened like a grater, into a pulp, and then boiling it into a fine
      dough.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They have plenty of pigs and dogs, which they eat, and some fowls. Spears
      I saw none, but bows and arrows. I took a bow out of a man's hand, and
      then an arrow, and fitted it to the string; he made signs that he shot
      birds with it. Clubs they have, but as far as I saw only used for killing
      pigs. There is a good deal of fighting on the island, however. Recollect
      with reference to all these places, that an island fifty or sixty miles
      long, one mass of forest with no path, is not like an English county. It
      may take months to get an accurate knowledge of one of them; we can only
      at present judge of the particular spots and bays we touch at. But there
      is every indication here of friendliness, of a gentle, soft disposition,
      and I hope we shall take away some of the boys when we return. I never saw
      children more thoroughly attractive in appearance and manner,&mdash;dear
      little fellows, I longed to bring off some of them. You would have liked
      to have seen them playing with me, laughing and jumping about. These
      people don't look half so well when they have any clothes on, they look
      shabby and gentish; but seeing them on shore, or just coming out of a
      canoe, all glistening with water, and looking so lithe and free, they look
      very pleasant to the eye. The colour supplies the place of clothing. The
      chief and most of the men were unfortunately absent at a great feast held
      a few miles off, but there were several women and many children.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We went to their watering place, about a quarter or half a mile from the
      beach, a picturesque spot in a part of the wood to which the water from
      the hills is carried in canes of bamboo, supported on cross sticks. The
      water was very clear and sweet, and one of our little guides soon had a
      good shower-bath, standing under the shoot and then walking in the sun
      till in a few minutes his glistening skin was dry again. Coming back we
      met a man carrying water in cocoa-nut shells, six or eight hanging by
      strings two feet long at each end of a bamboo cane slung across over his
      shoulder, nicely balanced and very pretty. One of our party carried
      perhaps two and a half gallons of water in a bamboo stuffed at the end
      with grass. About five P.M. we went back to the schooner and made sail for
      Bauro (San Cristoval).'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this place there was a great disappointment at first in the
      non-appearance of William Diddimang, an old baptized scholar at St.
      John's; and though he came at last, and dined on board, he had evidently
      so far fallen away as to be unwilling to meet the Bishop. The canoes here
      were remarkably beautiful, built of several pieces, fastened with a kind
      of gum. The shape was light and elegant, the thwarts elaborately carved
      with figures of birds or fish, and the high prow inlaid with
      mother-of-pearl let into black wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a Sunday at sea was preferable to one among curious visitors who must
      be entertained, the schooner put out to sea to visit one to two other
      neighbouring islets, and then to return again to Bauro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennell Island, where she touched on the 27th, proved to be inhabited by
      Maoris. One man, who swam alone to the vessel, offered the salutation of
      rubbing noses, New Zealand fashion, and converse could be held in that
      language. Two more joined him, and spent the night on board in singing a
      kaka or song of love for their visitors. Next day the island was visited.
      'Oh the beauty of the deep clefts in the coral reef, lined with coral,
      purple, blue, scarlet, green, and white! the little blue fishes, the
      bright blue starfish, the little land-crabs walking away with other
      people's shells. But nothing of this can be seen by you; the coral loses
      its colour, and who can show you the bright line of surf breaking the
      clear blue of this truly Pacific Ocean, and the tropical sun piercing
      through masses of foliage which nothing less dazzling could penetrate. Our
      three friends, with two more men, their wives and children, form the whole
      population of the south end of the island at all events, perhaps twenty in
      all. I trod upon and broke flowering-branches of coral that you would have
      wondered at.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Bellona likewise had a Maori-speaking population. There was no passage
      through the reef, so the Bishop and Patteson took off their coats, one
      took two hatchets and the other two adzes, and with a good header, swam
      ashore. Walking up the beach, they found a place in the bush with nine
      beautiful canoes, with nets, and large wooden hooks in them, but at first
      no people; and they were leaving their presents in the canoes when
      Patteson spied two men, and advanced to them while the Bishop went back to
      fetch the goods. After a rubbing of noses and a Maori greeting, the men
      were reassured, and eleven more came up, one a chief with a spear in his
      hand. 'I had my straw hat fastened by a ribbon, which my friend coveted,
      so I let him take it, which he did by putting his adze (my gift) against
      it, close to my ear, and cutting it, off&mdash;not the least occasion to
      be afraid of them.' A characteristic comment, certainly! But there was no
      foolhardiness. The Bishop was on the alert, and when presently he saw his
      companion linger for a moment, a quick 'Come along,' was a reminder that
      'this was not the beach at Sidmouth.' The peculiar quickness of eye&mdash;verily
      circumspect, though without the least betrayal of alarm or want of
      confidence, which was learnt from the need of being always as it were on
      guard, was soon learnt likewise by Patteson, while the air of suspicion or
      fear was most carefully avoided. The swim back to the boat was in water
      'too warm, but refreshing,' and ended with a dive under the boat for the
      pure pleasure of the thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, as before arranged, Bauro was revisited on another part of the
      coast, where Iri was ready with a welcome, but Diddimang appeared no more.
      He had returned to native habits, and had made no attempt at teaching, but
      the visits he had made to New Zealand were not lost, for the Bishop had
      acquired a knowledge of the language, and it was moreover established in
      the Bauro mind that a voyage in his ship was safe and desirable. 'This
      part of Bauro was exceedingly beautiful:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here were coral crags, the masses of forest trees, the creepers literally
      hundreds of feet long, crawling along and hanging from the cliffs, the
      cocoa-nut trees and bananas, palms, &amp;c., the dark figures on the edge
      of the rocks looking down upon us from among the trees, the people
      assembling on the bright beach&mdash;coral dust as it may be called, for
      it was worn as fine as white sand&mdash;cottages among the trees, and a
      pond of fresh water close by, winding away among the cliffs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here a visit was paid to Iri's boathouse, which contained three exquisite
      canoes, beautifully inlaid; then to his house, long, low, and open at the
      ends, like those formerly described, but with low wattled side walls.
      Along the ridge-pole were ranged twenty-seven skulls, not yet blackened
      with smoke, and bones were scattered outside, for a fight had recently
      taken place near at hand. 'In this Golgotha,' the Bishop, using his little
      book of Bauro words, talked to the people, and plainly told them that the
      Great God hated wars and cruelty, and such ornaments were horrible in his
      sight. Iri took it all in good part, and five boys willingly accepted the
      invitation to New Zealand. One little fellow about eight years old had
      attached himself to Coley, clinging about his waist with his arms, but he
      was too young to be taken away. Iri came down to the beach, and waded up
      to his waist in the water as the boat put off.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the night Gera, or Guadalcanar, was reached, a fine mountainous island,
      with a detached reef. Numerous canoes surrounded the vessel, bringing
      yarns for barter. Fish-hooks were of no account; it was small hatchets
      that were in request, and the Bauro boys could hold some sort of converse
      with the people, though theirs was quite another dialect. They were gaily
      decked out with armlets, frontlets, bracelets, and girdles of shell, and
      almost all of them wore, not only nose-rings, but plugs of wood or
      mother-of-pearl in the tip of the nose. One man in particular had a shell
      eyelet-hole let into his nose, into which he inserted his unicorn
      decoration. The Bishop amused himself and Coley by saying, as he hung a
      fishhook on this man's nose-hook, 'Naso suspendis adunco.' Others had six
      or eight pieces of wood sticking out from either side of the nose, like a
      cat's whiskers. Two young men were taken from hence, and more would have
      gone, but it was not thought well to take married men.
    </p>
    <p>
      The isle of Mara or Malanta had a very shy population, who seemed to live
      inland, having probably been molested by the warlike Gera men. It had been
      supposed that there was a second islet here, but the 'Southern Cross'
      boat's crew found that what had been taken for a strait was only the mouth
      of a large river, where the casks were filled.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wondrous beauty of the scene, sea and river alike fringed with the
      richest foliage, birds flying about (I saw a large blue bird, a parrot, I
      suppose), fish jumping, the perfectly still water, the mysterious smoke of
      a fire or two, the call of a man heard in the bush, just enough of novelty
      to quicken me to the full enjoyment of such a lovely bay as no English
      eyes save ours have ever seen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      No communication with the native inhabitants was here accomplished, but at
      four little flat, cocoanut-covered islets, named after Torres, were the
      head-quarters of an English dealer in cocoa-nut oil. The native race were
      Maori-speaking, but their intercourse with sailors had given them a
      knowledge of the worst part of the English language, and as usual it was
      mournfully plain how much harm our countrymen instil.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next group, sighted on the 17th of August, had already a remarkable
      history, to which Patteson refers in his journal, with no foreboding of
      the association those reefs and bays were to acquire for him, and far more
      through him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alvaro de Mendana had, in 1567, gone forth from Peru on a voyage of
      discovery in the Pacific, and had then found, and named, most of the
      Solomon Isles. Grera and Bauro owed their names of Guadalcanar and San
      Cristoval to him. In 1594, he obtained permission to found a colony on San
      Cristoval, and set forth with his wife and four ships. But the Bauro
      people were spared that grievous misfortune of a Spanish settlement;
      Mendana missed his way, blundered into the Marquesas first, and then came
      upon a cluster of islands, one large and beautiful, two small, and one a
      volcano in full action.
    </p>
    <p>
      He called the large island Santa Cruz, and fancied the natives of the same
      race he had seen in Bauro, but they knew nothing of the language he had
      learnt there, and though courteous at first, presently discharged their
      arrows. However, he found a beautiful harbour on the other side of the
      island, and a friendly and dignified old chief called Malope, who in South
      Sea fashion exchanged names and presents with him. Mendana and his wife
      Dona Ysabel seem to have wished to be on good terms with the natives, and
      taught them to sign the cross, and say amigos, and they proceeded to found
      their intended city, but neither Mendana nor Malope could restrain their
      followers; there were musket-shots on one side and arrow-shots on the
      other, and at last, the chief Malope himself fell into the hands of some
      Spanish soldiers, who murdered him. Mendana punished them with death; but
      his own health was fast failing, he died in a few weeks, and his widow
      deserted the intended city, and returned home with the colonists, having
      probably bequeathed to the island a distrust of white men.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this was in Patteson's mind, as he shows by his journal, as the lovely
      scenery of Santa Cruz rose on him. The people came out in canoes with
      quantities of yams and taro, of which they knew the full value; but the
      numbers were so large that no 'quiet work' could be done, and there was
      little to be done but to admire their costume, armlets, necklaces, plates
      of mother-of-pearl, but no nose ornaments. They had strips of a kind of
      cloth, woven of reed, and elaborate varieties of head-gear, some
      plastering their hair white with coral lime, others yellow, others red;
      others had shaved half the head with no better implement than a sharp
      shell, and others had produced two lines of bristles, like hogs' manes, on
      a shaven crown. Their decorations made a great sensation among the Solomon
      Islanders, who made offers of exchange of necklaces, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evening the schooner made for the volcano, about three miles off.
      It was a magnificent sight&mdash;a perfect cone, the base of the mountain
      and all except the actual cone being under water. The cone was apparently
      about 2,000 feet high, clouds hanging about it near the top, lurid and
      fiery, increasing the grandeur of the glow at the summit. Every minute
      streams of fire, falling from the top or sides, rushed down the mount, so
      that for a space of perhaps half a mile in breadth the whole cone was
      always streaked, and sometimes covered with burning-masses of stones,
      cinders, &amp;c. Bumbling noises were heard only a few times.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About 7 to 9 A.M. we sailed quite round the island, and saw there that
      the fiery appearance at night is not actually fire or flame, but caused by
      hot burning stones and masses of scoria, &amp;c., constantly falling down
      the sides of the cone, which on the lee side are almost perpendicular. On
      the weather side are cocoa-nut trees, and one small house, but we could
      see no people. It was grand to see the great stones leaping and bounding
      down the sides of the cone, clearing 300 or 400 feet at a jump, and
      springing up many yards into the air, finally plunging into the sea with a
      roar, and the splash of the foam and steam combined.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was on the 12th of August, and here is the ensuing note, how full now
      of significance, which it would be faithless to term melancholy:&mdash;'We
      then went on to Nukapu, an island completely encircled by a coral reef.
      The natives soon came off in canoes, and brought breadfruit and
      cocoa-nuts. They spoke a few words of Maori, but wore their hair like the
      people of Santa Cruz, and resembled them in the character of their
      ornaments and in their general appearance. They had bows and clubs of the
      same kind, tapa stained with turmeric, armlets, ear-rings and nose-rings
      of bone and tortoiseshell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Returning to Santa Cruz, a large supply of the produce was obtained by
      barter, but the people were still in such noisy crowds that nothing could
      be effected beyond these commercial transactions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tubua was the next ensuing island, a lovely spot within its encircling
      ring, over which the Bishop and Patteson waded, and found thirteen men on
      the beach. Patteson went up to the first, tied a bit of red tape round his
      head, and made signs that he wanted a cocoa-nut in exchange for a
      fish-hook. Plenty were forthcoming; but the Bishop, to his companion's
      surprise, made a sudden sign to come away, and when the boat was regained
      he said: 'I saw some young men running through the bush with bows and
      arrows, and these young gentry have not the sense to behave well like
      their parents.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Vanikoro was the next stage. This too had its history, encircled as it is
      with a complete reef of coral, in some parts double. In the year 1785, two
      French vessels, which were commanded by Count La Perouse, and named 'La
      Boussole' and 'L'Astrolabe,' had set forth from Brest on a voyage of
      discovery in the Pacific. They made a most discursive survey of that
      ocean, from Kamtschatka southwards, and at the end of 1787 were at the
      Samoan Isles, then unconverted, and where their two boats' crews were
      massacred, and the boats lost. The ships came to Port Jackson, in
      Australia, to build fresh boats, left it in February 1788, and were never
      heard of more. One or two attempts were made to ascertain their fate, but
      none succeeded till, in 1826, a sandal-wood trader named Dillon found in
      the possession of a European, who had lived since 1813 in Ticopia, the
      silver guard of a sword, and ascertained from him that the natives had
      several articles, such as china, glass, and the handle of a silver fork,
      which evidently came from a ship. He had been told that these articles had
      been procured from another isle called Vanikoro, where two large ships had
      been wrecked.
    </p>
    <p>
      His intelligence led to the fitting out of a vessel, in which he was sent
      to ascertain the fate of the Frenchmen, and by the help of the man who had
      been so long in Ticopia, he was able to examine a Vanikoran chief. It
      appeared that the two ships had run aground on the parallel reefs. One had
      sunk at once, and the crew while swimming out had been some of them eaten
      by the sharks, and others killed by the natives; indeed, there were sixty
      European skulls in a temple. The other vessel had drifted over the reef,
      and the crew entrenched themselves on shore, while building another
      vessel. They went out and foraged for themselves in the taro fields, but
      they made no friends; they were ship-spirits, with noses two hands long
      before their faces (their cocked hats). Articles were recovered that
      placed the fact beyond a doubt, and which were recognised by one of the
      expedition who had left it in Kamtschatka, the sole survivor. Of the fate
      of the two-masted vessel built by the shipwrecked crew, nothing was ever
      discovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Mission party landed here, but saw nobody. They sent a black boy up a
      tree for cocoa-nuts, and left a tomahawk beneath it as payment. That there
      were inhabitants somewhere there was horrible proof, for a frightful odour
      led to search being made, and the New Zealander Hoari turning up the
      ground, found human bones with flesh hanging to them. A little farther off
      was a native oven, namely, a pit lined with stones.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was Patteson's nearest contact with cannibalism, and it left a deep
      impression of horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Banks group of islands came next&mdash;Great Banks Isle, or in the
      native language Vanua Lava, Valua or Saddle Isle, a long narrow ridge of
      hills, Mota or Sugarloaf Island, an equally descriptive name; Star Island,
      and Santa Maria. These places were to become of great importance to the
      Mission, but little was seen of them at this time&mdash;the walls of coral
      round them were remarkably steep and difficult of access.
    </p>
    <p>
      Valua had no beach and no canoes, and such swarms of natives clustering
      upon the cliffs that the Bishop did not think it prudent to land. In Mota,
      though the coast for the most part rises up in sheer crags, forty or fifty
      feet above the sea, with a great volcanic cone in the centre, a little
      cove was found with a good beach, where a number of inhabitants had
      assembled. They were entirely without clothing or ornament, neither
      tattooed nor disfigured by betel-nut, and their bright honest faces
      greatly attracted Patteson, though not a word of their language could be
      then understood. He wanted to swim ashore among them, but the Bishop would
      not allow it, lest it should be difficult to escape from the embraces of
      so many without giving offence. Great numbers swam out to the boat, and
      canoes brought fruits of all kinds, and bamboos decked with leaves and
      flowers. 'I crammed native combs in my hair,' says Patteson, 'picked up
      what words I could, and made up the rest by a grand display of
      gesticulation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At Santa Maria, the next day, there was the like scene around the boat,
      only the sight of a bit of striped calico caused immense excitement. At
      other islands it had been unheeded, but here the people were mad to get
      it, and offered their largest yams for strips of it, and a pair of scarlet
      braces were purchased for two beautiful bows.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Vanua Lava, or Great Banks Island, on the 20th, a large canoe with
      seven men came alongside, three-quarters of a mile from shore. They would
      not, however, venture on board till Patteson had gone into the water, and
      placed himself in their canoe, after which they were induced to come on
      deck, were 'decorated with the order of the tape,' and received axes. No
      weapon was seen among them, and there was reason to think them the
      tractable and hopeful race they have since proved.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bligh Island, the next visited, plainly revealed itself as the cone of an
      enormous submerged volcano, the water forming a beautiful and extensive
      bay where numbers of people could be seen. There was a landing and a
      little trading for yams, and then, after the like intercourse with some of
      the inhabitants of the cluster of small islets named after Torres, the
      vessel steered for Espiritu Santo, but wind and time forbade a return to
      the part previously visited, nor was there time to do more than touch at
      Aurora, and exchange some fish-hooks for some bows.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Malicolo, in 1851, the Bishop and his party, while fetching water, had
      been assailed with stones and arrows, and had only escaped by showing the
      utmost coolness. There was, therefore, much caution shown in approaching
      this bay, called Port Sandwich, and the boat stopped outside its
      breakwater coral reef, where numerous canoes flocked round, the people
      with their bows and arrows, not attempting to barter. Their faces were
      painted some red, some black, or yellow. An old chief named Melanbico was
      recognised by the Bishop, and called by name into the boat. Another old
      acquaintance named Nipati joined him, and it was considered safe to row
      into the harbour. The Bishop had learnt a little of the language, and
      talked to these two, while Patteson examined Nipati's accoutrements&mdash;a
      club, a bow, arrows neatly made, handsomely feathered, and tipped with a
      deadly poison, tortoiseshell ear-rings, and a very handsome shell armlet
      covering the arm from the elbow eight or nine inches upward, his face
      painted red and black. The Bishop read out the list of names he had made
      on the former visit, and to several the answer was 'dead, or 'shot,' and
      it appeared that a great mortality had taken place. Large numbers,
      however, were on the beach, and the Bishop and Patteson landed among them,
      and conversed with them; but they showed no disposition to trade, and
      though some of the lads seemed half-disposed to come away with the party,
      they all changed their minds, and went back again. However, all had
      behaved well, and one little boy, when offered a fish-hook, at once showed
      that he had received one already. It was plain that a beginning had been
      made, which might lead to further results.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two whales were seen while rowing back to the ship. One&mdash;about a
      third of a mile off&mdash;leapt several times fairly out of the water, and
      fell back on the sea 'with a regular crack,' dashing up the spray in
      clouds. There was now very little time to spare, as the time of an
      ordination at Auckland was fixed, and two important visits had yet to be
      paid, so the two Fate guests were sent ashore in the canoes of some of
      their friends, and the 'Southern Cross' reached Nengone on the 1st of
      September. The Bishop had left a boat there some years before, and the
      Samoan teacher, Mark, who had been Mrs. Nihill's best friend and
      comforter, came out in it with a joyful party full of welcome. The Bishop
      and Patteson went ashore, taking with them their two Bauro scholars, to
      whom the most wonderful sight was a cow, they never having seen any
      quadruped bigger than a pig. All the native teachers and their wives were
      assembled, and many of the people, in front of the house where Mr. Nihill
      had died. They talked of him with touching affection, as they told how
      diligently he had striven to bring young and old to a knowledge of his
      God; and they eagerly assisted in planting at his grave a cross, which the
      Bishop had brought from Auckland for the purpose, and which bore the
      words: 'I am the Resurrection and the Life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The coral lime church and the houses of the teachers among the cocoa-nut
      trees gave the place a civilised look, and most of the people had some
      attempt at clothing. Here several passengers were taken in. The two girls,
      Caroline Wabisane and Sarah Wasitutru, were both married&mdash;Caroline to
      a Maori named Simeona, and Sarah to a man from her own isle called Nawiki.
      All these and two more men wished to go to St. John's for further
      instruction, and were taken on board, making up a party of fourteen
      Melanesians, besides Sarah's baby. 'Mrs. Nihill will be glad to have the
      women,' writes Coley, 'and I am glad to have the others&mdash;not the
      baby, of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Close quarters indeed, but not for very long, for on the 3rd of September
      the schooner again put into Norfolk Island, and on the next Sunday Coley
      was present at the confirmation of the whole population, excepting the
      younger children, and at the subsequent Communion. Strong hopes were then
      entertained that the Pitcairners, standing as it were between the English
      and the islanders, would greatly assist in the work of the Gospel, but
      this plan was found only capable of being very partially carried out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Off Norfolk Island, he wrote to his brother an account of the way of life
      on the voyage, and of the people:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are generally gentle, and seem to cling to one, not with the very
      independent goodwill of New Zealanders, but with the soft yielding
      character of the child of the tropics. They are fond, that is the word for
      them. I have had boys and men in a few minutes after landing, follow me
      like a dog, holding their hands in mine as a little child does with its
      nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My manner of life on board is as I described it before. I eschewed shoes
      and socks, rather liking to be paddling about all day, when not going on
      shore, or otherwise employed, which of course made up eight or ten out of
      the thirteen hours of daylight. When I went ashore (which I did whenever
      the boat went), then I put on my shoes, and always swam in them, for the
      coral would cut my feet to pieces. Usual swimming and wading attire&mdash;flannel
      shirt, dark grey trousers, cap or straw hat, shoes, basket round my neck
      with fish-hooks, or perhaps an adze or two in my hand. I enjoyed the
      tropical climate very much&mdash;really warm always in the water or out of
      it. On the reefs, when I waded in shallow water, the heat of it was
      literally unpleasant, more than a tepid bath.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 13th of September, the little missionary vessel came safe into
      harbour at Auckland, and Coley and his boys&mdash;they were considered
      especially as his&mdash;took up their quarters at St. John's College. All
      through the voyage he had written the journals here followed for the
      general benefit of his kindred, and at other leisure moments he had
      written more personal letters. On his sister Fanny's birthday, when the
      visit to Malicolo was just over, after his birthday wishes, he goes on:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now, how will you be when this reaches Feniton? I think of all your
      daily occupations,&mdash;school, garden, driving, &amp;c.&mdash;your
      Sunday reading, visiting the cottages, &amp;c., and the very thought of it
      makes me feel like old times. When occasionally I dream, or fall into a
      kind of trance when awake, and fancy myself walking up from the lodge to
      the house, and old forms and faces rise up before me, I can scarcely
      contain the burst of joy and happiness, and then I give a shake and say,
      "Well, it would be very nice, but look about the horizon, and see how many
      islands you can count!" and then, instead of thoughts of home for myself,
      I am tempted to induce others to leave their homes, though I don't really
      think many men have such a home to leave, or remain so long as I did, one
      of the home fire-side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been reading one or two of the German books you sent out.
      "Friedrich der Grosse" is interesting, but henceforth I don't think I
      shall have time for aught but a good German novel or two for wet days and
      jumping seas; or such a theological book as I may send for.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The effect of the voyage seems to have shown itself in an inflamed leg,
      which was painful, but not disabled for some time. There was a welcome
      budget of letters awaiting him,&mdash;one from his uncle Dr. Coleridge, to
      which this is the reply:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 15, 1856: St. John's College.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your letter of March 26 was awaiting my arrival here. How thankful I am
      that (as Fan says) in little as in great things God is so good to us.
      Letters from me arriving on the anniversary of my departure! and all at
      Thorverton!
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are clearly right in what you say about my post in the S. X. I did
      not like it at first, just as a schoolboy does not like going back to
      school; but that it was good for me I have no doubt; and now see! here I
      am on shore for seven or eight months, if I live so long&mdash;my
      occupations most interesting, working away with twelve Melanesians at
      languages, etc., with the highest of all incentives to perseverance,
      trying to form in them habits of cleanliness, order, decency, etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last night (Sunday&mdash;their first Sunday in New Zealand), after
      explaining to the Solomon Islands boys, seven in number, the nature of the
      Lord's Prayer as far as my knowledge of their language would carry me, I
      thought myself justified in making them kneel down round me, and they
      uttered with their lips after me (i.e. the five most intelligent) the
      first words of prayer to their Father in Heaven. I don't venture to say
      that they understood much&mdash;neither does the young child taught at his
      or her mother's knees&mdash;neither do many grown persons perhaps know
      much about the fulness of the Prayer of Prayers&mdash;(these scenes teach
      me my ignorance, which is one great gain)&mdash;yet they knew, I think,
      that they were praying to some great and mighty one&mdash;not an
      abstraction&mdash;a conscious loving Being, a Father, and they know at
      least the name of His Son, Jesus Christ.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Their first formula was: "God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy
      Ghost, only One God." I can't yet explain that our Blessed Lord came from
      heaven and died for our sins; neither (as far as human thought may reach)
      does the power of God's Spirit as yet work in their hearts consciousness
      of sin, and with that the sense of the need of a Redeemer and Saviour. I
      asked in my sermon yesterday the prayers of the people for the grace of
      God's Holy Spirit to touch the hearts and enlighten the understandings of
      these heathen children of a common Father, and I added that greatly did
      their teachers need their prayers that God would make them apt to teach,
      and wise and simple in endeavouring to bring before their minds the things
      that belong unto their peace. You too, dear Uncle, will think I know of
      these things, for my trust is great. In this cold climate, 26° or 27° of
      latitude south of their own island, I have much anxiety about their bodily
      health, and more about their souls.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The four youngest, sixteen to eighteen, sleep in my room. One is now on
      my bed, wrapped up in a great opossum rug, with cold and slight fever;
      last night his pulse was high, to-day he is better. I have to watch over
      them like a cat. Think of living till now in a constant temperature of
      84°, and being suddenly brought to 56°. New Zealand is too cold for them,
      and the College is a cold place, wind howling round it now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island is the place, and the Pitcairners themselves are most
      co-operative and hearty; I trust that in another year I may be there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you for all your kind wishes on my birthday. I ought to wish to
      live many years, perhaps, to try and be of use; especially as I am so
      unfit to go now, or rather I ought not to wish at all. Sometimes I feel
      almost fainthearted, which is cowardly and forgetful of our calling "to
      fight manfully under Christ's banner." Ah! my Bishop is indeed a warrior
      of the Cross. I can't bear the things Sophy said in one of her letters
      about my having given up.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seems mock humility to write it; but, dear Uncle, if I am conscious of
      a life so utterly unlike what all you dear ones fancy it to be, what must
      it be in the sight of God and His holy angels? What advantages I have
      always had, and have now! and not a day goes by and I can say I have done
      my duty. Good-bye, dear dear Uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always your affectionate and grateful nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Love to dear Aunt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Almost the first experience after settling in at St. John's College was a
      sharp attack of fever that fell on Kerearua, one of the Bauro lads. Such
      illnesses, it seemed, were frequent at home and generally fatal. His
      companion Hirika remarked, 'Kerearua like this in Bauro ah! in a few days
      he would die; by-and-by we go back to Bauro.' The sick boys were always
      lodged in Coley's own room to be more quiet and thoroughly nursed.
      Fastidiousness had been so entirely crushed that he really seemed to take
      pleasure in the arrangement, speaking with enthusiasm of the patient's
      obedience and gratitude, and adding, 'He looks quite nice in one of my
      night-shirts with my plaid counterpane, and the plaid Joan gave me over
      it, a blanket next to him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Melanesians readily fell into the regular habits of short school, work
      out of doors, meals in hall and bed-time, and they were allowed a good
      deal of the free use of their limbs, needful to keep them happy and
      healthy. Now and then they would be taken into Auckland, as a great treat,
      to see the soldiers on parade, and of course the mere living with
      civilization was an immense education to them, besides the direct
      instruction they received.
    </p>
    <p>
      The languages of Nengone and Bauro were becoming sufficiently familiar to
      Mr. Patteson to enable him to understand much of what they said to him. He
      writes to Miss Neill (October 17):&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I talk with them about common things, and learn a great deal of their
      wild savage customs and habits, but I can do but little as yet in the way
      of real instruction. Some ideas, I trust, they are beginning to acquire
      concerning our Blessed Lord. Is it not a significant fact that the god
      worshiped in Gfera, and in one village of Bauro, is the Serpent, the very
      type of evil? I need not say that these dear boys have won their way to my
      heart, they are most docile and affectionate. I think some will really, if
      they live, leave their own island and live with me at Norfolk Island, or
      here, or wherever my dwelling may be whenever I am not in the "Southern
      Cross."
    </p>
    <p>
      'But of course I must not dwell on such notions. If it come to pass that
      for some years I can retain a hold upon them, they may be instructed
      sufficiently to make them teachers in their turn to their own people. But
      all this is in the hands of God. My home journal will tell you particulars
      of our voyage. Don't believe in the ferocity, &amp;c., of the islanders.
      When their passions are excited, they do commit fearful deeds, and they
      are almost universally cannibals, i.e. after a battle there will be always
      a cannibal feast, not otherwise. But treat them well and prudently, and I
      apprehend that there is little danger in visiting them, meaning by
      visiting merely landing on the beach the first time, going perhaps to a
      native village the next time, sleeping on shore the third, spending ten
      days the fourth, &amp;c., &amp;c. The language once learnt from the pupils
      we bring away, all is clear. And now good-bye, my dear Miss Neill. That I
      think of you and pray for you, you know, and I need not add that I value
      most highly your prayers for me. When I think of my happiness and good
      spirits, I must attribute much, very much, to God's goodness in accepting
      the prayers of my friends.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After the old custom of telling the home party all his doings, the
      journal-letter of the 27th of November goes through the teaching to the
      Bauro boys:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I really think they comprehend thus much, that God, who made all things,
      made man, Adam and Eve, very good and holy; that Adam and Eve sinned, that
      they did not listen to the word of God, but to the Bad Spirit; that God
      found them out, though they were afraid and tried to hide (for He sees and
      knows all things); that He drove them out of the beautiful garden, and
      said that they must die; that they had two sons, Cain and Abel; that Cain
      killed his brother, and that all fighting and killing people, and all
      other sins (I mention all for which I have names) came into the world
      because of sin; that God and man were far apart, not living near, no peace
      between them because men were so evil. That God was so good that He loved
      men all the time, and that He promised to save all men who would believe
      in His Son Jesus Christ, who was to die for them (for I can't yet express,
      "was to die that men might not go down to the fire, but live for ever with
      God "); that by and by He sent a flood and drowned all men except Noah and
      seven other people, because men would not be good; that afterwards there
      was a very good man, named Abraham, who believed all about Jesus Christ,
      and God chose him, and his son Isaac, and his son Jacob, and his twelve
      sons, to be the fathers of a people called Jews; that those people alone
      knew about God, and had teachers and praying men: and that they killed
      lambs and offered them (gave them to God as a sign of Jesus Christ being
      one day slain and offered to God on a cross) but these very men became
      wicked too, and at last, when no man knew how to be happy and good, Jesus
      Christ came down from heaven. His mother was Mary, but He had no father on
      earth, only God the Father in heaven was His Father: the Holy Ghost made
      Mary to be mother of Jesus Christ.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I take two books, or anything else, and say, This one is God, and
      this is man. They are far apart, because man is so bad and God is so good.
      But Jesus Christ came in the middle between them, and joins them together.
      He is God and He is Man too; so in(side) Him, God and Man meet, like the
      meeting of two men in one path; and He says Himself He is the true Way,
      the only true Path to God and heaven. God was angry with us because we
      sinned; but Jesus Christ died on the cross, and then God the Father
      forgave us because Jesus Christ gave His life that we might always live,
      and not die. By and by He will come to judge us; and He knows what we do,
      whether we steal and lie, or whether we pray and teach what is good. Men
      of Bauro and Gera and Santa Cruz don't know that yet, but you do, and you
      must remember, if you go on doing as they do after you know God's will,
      you will be sent down to the fire, and not see Jesus Christ, who died that
      you might live.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that they know all this, and much in the exactly equivalent
      words. Of course I find difficulty in rendering religious ideas in a
      language which contains scarcely any words adequate to express them, but I
      am hopeful enough to believe that they do know so much at all events. How
      far their hearts are affected, One alone knows. It is indeed but little
      after they have been with us four months; but till I had them on shore, I
      could get very little work done. The constant boat work took me away, and
      anywhere in sight of islands, of course they were on deck in eagerness to
      see the strange country. Then I could not work with energy while my leg
      would not let me take exercise. But it is now beginning to be a real
      pleasure as well as duty to teach both Nengone and Bauro people. Enough of
      the language to avoid most of the drudgery has been got over, I hope,
      though not near enough for purposes of 'exact and accurate translation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I have given at length this account of Patteson's fundamental teaching,
      though to some it may seem to savour of the infant school, because in
      spite of being hampered by imperfect knowledge of the language, he has
      thrown into it the great principle both of his action and teaching;
      namely, the restoration of the union of mankind with God through Christ.
      It never embraced that view of the heathen world which regards it as
      necessarily under God's displeasure, apart from actual evil, committed in
      wilful knowledge that it is evil. He held fast to the fact of man having
      been created in the image of God, and held that whatever good impulses and
      higher qualities still remained in the heathen, were the remnants of that
      Image, and to be hailed accordingly. Above all, he realised in his whole
      life the words to St. Peter: 'What God hath cleansed that call not thou
      common,' and not undervaluing for a moment Sacramental Grace, viewed human
      nature, while yet without the offer thereof, as still the object of
      fatherly and redeeming love, and full of fitful tokens of good coming from
      the only Giver of life and holiness, and needing to be brought nearer and
      strengthened by full union and light, instead of being left to be quenched
      in the surrounding flood of evil. 'And were by nature the children of
      wrath,' he did not hold to mean that men were objects of God's anger,
      lying under His deadly displeasure; but rather, children of wild impulse,
      creatures of passion, swayed resistlessly by their own desires, until made
      'children of grace,' and thus obtaining the spiritual power needful to
      enable them to withstand these passions. An extract from the sermon he had
      preached at Sydney may perhaps best serve to illustrate his principle:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this love once generated in the heart of man, must needs pass on to
      his brethren; that principle of life must needs grow and expand with its
      own inherent energy; the seed must be developed into the tree, and strike
      its roots deep and wide, and stretch out its branches unto the sea and its
      boughs unto the rivers. No artificial nor accidental circumstances can
      confine it, it recognises no human ideas of nationality, or place, or
      time, but embraces like the dome of heaven all the works of God. And love
      is the animating principle of all. In every star of the sky, in the
      sparkling, glittering waves of the sea, in every flower of the field, in
      every creature of God, most of all in every living soul of man, it adores
      and blesses the beauty and the love of the great Creator and Preserver of
      all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Viewed indeed from that position which was occupied by ancient
      philosophers, the existing contrarieties between nations might well appear
      inexplicable, and intellectual powers might seem to be the exclusive
      heritage of particular nations. But Christianity leads us to distinguish
      between the nature of man as he came fresh from the hands of his Creator,
      and that natural propensity to sin which he has inherited in consequence
      of his fall from original innocence. It teaches that as God has "made of
      one blood all nations to dwell together on the face of the whole earth,"
      and has given in virtue of this common origin one common nature destined
      to be pure and holy and divine, so, by virtue of Redemption and
      Regeneration, the image of God may be restored in all, and whatever is the
      result of his depravity therefore may be overcome. And this seems to be
      the answer to all statements relating to the want of capacity in certain
      nations of the earth for the reception of Divine Truth, that every man,
      because he is a man, because he is a partaker of that very nature which
      has been taken into the Person of the Son of God, may by the grace of God
      be awakened to the sense of his true life, of his real dignity as a
      redeemed brother of Christ.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The spark of heavenly fire may indeed have been all but quenched by the
      unbridled indulgence of his passions; the natural wickedness of the heart
      of man may have exhibited itself with greater fearfulness where no laws
      and customs have introduced restraints against at least the outward
      expression of vice; but the capacity for the Christian life is there;
      though overlaid, it may be, with monstrous forms of superstition or
      cruelty or ignorance, the conscience can still respond to the voice of the
      Gospel of Truth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And one who so entirely believed and acted upon these words found them
      true. The man who verily treated the lads he had gathered round him with a
      perfectly genuine sympathy, a love and a self-denial&mdash;nay more, an
      identification of self with them&mdash;awoke all that was best in their
      characters, and met with full response. Enthusiastic partiality of course
      there was in his estimate of them; but is it not one of the absolute
      requisites of a good educator to feel that enthusiasm, like the parent for
      the child? And is it always the blind admiration at which outsiders smile;
      is it not rather indifference which is blind, and love which sees the
      truth?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would not exchange my position with these lads and young men for
      anything (he wrote, on December 8, to his uncle, the Eton master). I wish
      you could see them and know them; I don't think you ever had pupils that
      could win their way into your heart more effectually than these fellows
      have attached themselves to me. It is no effort to love them heartily.
      Gariri, a dear boy from San Cristoval, is standing by me now, at my desk,
      in amazement at the pace that my pen is going, not knowing that I could
      write to you, my dear old tutor, for hours together if I had nothing else
      to do. He is, I suppose, about sixteen, a most loveable boy, gentle,
      affectionate, with all the tropical softness and kindliness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have seven Solomon Islanders&mdash;five from Mata, a village at the
      north-west of San Cristoval, and two from the south-east point of
      Guadalcanar, or Gera, a magnificent island about twenty-five or twenty
      miles to the north-west of San Cristoval. From frequent intercourse they
      are almost bilingual, a great "lounge" for me, as one language does for
      both; the structure of the two island tongues is the same, but scarcely
      any words much alike. However, that is not much odds.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then from Nengone, where you remember Mr. Nihill died after eighteen
      months' residence on the island, we have four men and two women, both
      married. Of these, two men and both the women have been baptized, some
      time ago, by the Bishop, in 1852, and one by the London Mission, who now
      occupy the island. These four I have, with full trust, admitted to the
      Holy Communion. Mr. Nihill had taught them well, and I am sure they could
      pass an examination in Scriptural history, simple doctrinal statements,
      &amp;c., as well as most young English people of the middle class of life.
      The other two are well taught, and one of them knows a great deal, but,
      poor fellow, he misconducted himself at Nengone, and hence I cannot
      recommend him to the Bishop for baptism without much talk about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I think my love is more poured out upon my Bauro and Gera lads. They
      are such dear fellows, and I trust that already they begin to know
      something about religion. Certain it is that they answer readily questions
      and say with their mouths what amounts almost to a statement of the most
      important Christian truths. Of course I cannot tell what effect this may
      have on their hearts. They join in prayer morning and evening, they behave
      admirably, and really there is nothing in their conduct to find fault
      with. If it please God that any of them were at some future time to stay
      again with us, I have great hopes that they may learn enough to become
      teachers in their own country.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Nengone lads are quite in a different position. Their language has
      been reduced to writing, the Gospel of St. Mark translated, and they can
      all read a little English, so that at evening prayers we read a verse all
      round, and then I catechise and expound to them in Nengone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I really trust that by God's blessing some real opening into the great
      Solomon group has been effected. There is every hope that many boys will
      join us this next voyage. No one can say what may be the result. As yet it
      is possible to get on without more help, but I do not for a moment doubt
      that should God really grant not only a wide field of labour, but some
      such hope of cultivating it, He will send forth plenty of men to share in
      this work. Men who have some means of their own&mdash;£100 a year is
      enough, or even less&mdash;or some aptitude for languages, surely will
      feel drawn in this direction. It is the happiest life a man can lead, full
      of enjoyment, physical and mental, exquisite scenery, famous warm climate,
      lots of bathing, yams and taro and cocoa-nut enough to make an alderman's
      mouth water, and such loving, gentle people. But of course something
      depends on the way in which a man looks at these things, and a fine
      gentleman who can't get on without his servant, and can't put his luggage
      for four months into a compass of six feet by one-and-a-half, won't like
      it....
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know the kind of incidents that occur, so I need not repeat them to
      you. I have quite learnt to believe that there are no "savages" anywhere,
      at least among black or coloured people. I'd like to see anyone call my
      Bauro boys savages! Why, the fellows on the reef that have never seen a
      white man will wade back to the boat and catch one's arms to prevent one
      falling into pits among the coral, just like an old nurse looking after
      her child. This they did at Santa Maria, where we two swam ashore to a
      party of forty or fifty men, and where our visit was evidently a very
      agreeable one on both sides, though we did not know one syllable of the
      language, and then.... But I almost tremble to think of the immense amount
      of work opening upon one. Whither will it lead? But I seldom find any time
      for speculations; and oh, my dear tutor, I am as happy as the day is long,
      though it never seems long to me!.... My dear father writes in great
      anxiety about the Denison case. Oh dear! what a cause of thankfulness it
      is to be out of the din of controversy, and to find hundreds of thousands
      longing for crumbs which are shaken about so roughly in these angry
      disputes! It isn't High or Low or Broad Church, or any other special name,
      but the longing desire to forget all distinctions, and to return to a
      simpler state of things, that seems naturally to result from the very
      sight of heathen people. Who thinks of anything but this: "They have not
      heard the Name of the Saviour Who died for them," when he is standing with
      crowds of naked fellows round him? I can't describe the intense happiness
      of this life. I suppose trials will come some day, and I almost dread the
      thought, for I surely shall not be prepared to bear them. I have no trials
      at all, even of a small kind, to teach me how to bear up under great
      ones.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In truth Coleridge Patteson had entered on the happiest period of his
      life. He had found his vocation, and his affections were fastening
      themselves upon his black flock, so that, without losing a particle of his
      home love, the yearnings homewards were appeased, and the fully employed
      time, and sense of success and capability, left no space for the
      self-contemplation and self-criticism of his earlier life. He gives
      amusing sketches of the scenes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The donkey here, a fatally stubborn brute, is an unceasing amusement to
      my boys. No one of them can retain his seat more than ten minutes, but
      they all fall like cats on their legs amid cries of laughter. The donkey
      steers straight for some small scrubby trees, and then kicks and plunges,
      or else rubs their legs against the sides of the house, and all this time
      the boys are leaping about the unfortunate fellow who is mounted, and the
      fun is great.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wadrokala, one of the Nengone lads, who had recently made his first
      communion, became the prominent scholar at this time. He had thought a
      good deal. One night he said: "I have heard all kinds of words used&mdash;faith,
      repentance, praise, prayer&mdash;and I don't clearly understand what is
      the real great thing, the chief thing of all. They used these words
      confusedly, and I feel puzzled. Then I read that the Pharisees knew a
      great deal of the law, and so did the Scribes, and yet they were not good.
      I am not doing anything good. Now I know something of the Bible, and I can
      write; and I fear very much, I often feel very much afraid, that I am not
      good, I am not doing anything good."'
    </p>
    <p>
      He was talked to, and comforted with hopes of future work; but a day or
      two later his feelings were unconsciously hurt by being told in joke that
      he was wearing a shabby pair of trousers to save the good ones to take
      home to Nengone. His remonstrance was poured out upon a slate:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Patteson, this is my word:&mdash;I am unhappy because of the word you
      said to me that I wished for clothes. I have left my country. I do not
      seek clothes for the body. What is the use of clothes? Can my spirit be
      clothed with clothes for the body? Therefore my heart is greatly afraid;
      but you said I greatly wished for clothes, which I do not care for. One
      thing only I care for, that I may receive the life for my spirit.
      Therefore I fear, I confess, and say to you, it is not the thing for the
      body I want, but the one thing I want is the clothing for the soul, for
      Jesus Christ's sake, our Lord.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon after a very happy Christmas, Wadrokala and Kainwhat expressed a
      desire, after a final visit to their native island, to return with Mr.
      Patteson, and be prepared to be sent as native teachers to any dark land,
      as the Samoans had come to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wadrokala narrated something of the history of his island, a place with
      6,000 inhabitants, with one tribe forming a priestly caste, the head of
      which was firmly believed by even these Christian Nengonese to possess the
      power of striking men dead by his curse. Caroline, Kainwhat and Kowine
      were the children of a terrible old chief named Bula, who had fifty-five
      wives, and whose power was almost absolute. If anyone offended him, he
      would send either a priest or one of his sons to kill the man, and bring
      the corpse, of which the thighs were always reserved for his special
      eating, the trunk being given to his slaves. If one of his wives offended
      him, he sent for the high priest, who cursed her&mdash;simply said, 'She
      has died,' and die she did. A young girl who refused to marry him was
      killed and eaten, or if any person omitted to come into his presence
      crouching, the penalty was to be devoured; in fact, he seems to have made
      excuses for executions in order to gratify his appetite for human flesh,
      which was considered as particularly dainty fare. Everyone dreaded him,
      and when at last he died a natural death, his chief wife was strangled by
      her own brother, as a matter of course. Such horrors as these had pretty
      well ceased by that time, though still many Nengonese were heathen, and
      the priests were firmly believed to have the power of producing death and
      disease at will by a curse. Wadrokala, with entire conviction, declared
      that one of his father's wives had thus been made a cripple for life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nengonese had become almost as familiar to Coley as Maori, and his Sundays
      at this time were decidedly polyglot; since, besides a regular English
      service at Taranaki, he often took a Maori service, and preached extempore
      in that tongue, feeling that the people's understanding went along with
      him; and there were also, in early morning and late evening, prayers,
      partly in Nengonese, partly in Bauro, at the College chapel, and a sermon,
      first in one language, and then repeated in the other. The Nengone lads,
      who had the question of adherence to the London Mission at home, or the
      Church in New Zealand, put to them, came deliberately to entreat to remain
      always with Mr. Patteson, saying that they saw that this teaching of the
      Church was right, and they wished to work in it. It was a difficult point,
      as the London Mission was reasserting a claim to the Loyalty Isles, and
      the hopes of making them a point d'appui were vanishing; but these men and
      their wives could not but be accepted, and Simeona was preparing for
      baptism. A long letter to Professor Max Muller on the languages will be
      found in the Appendix. The Bishop of New Zealand thus wrote to Sir John
      Patteson respecting Coley and his work:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Taurarua, Auckland: March 2, 1857.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Judge,&mdash;Your letter of December 5 made me very happy, by
      assuring me of the satisfaction which you feel in your son's duties and
      position. I do indeed most thankfully acknowledge the goodness of God in
      thus giving me timely aid, when I was pledged to a great work, but without
      any steady force to carry it on. Coley is, as you say, the right man in
      the right place, mentally and physically: the multiplicity of languages,
      which would try most men, is met by his peculiar gift; the heat of the
      climate suits his constitution; his mild and parental temper makes his
      black boys cling about him as their natural protector; and his freedom
      from fastidiousness makes all parts of the work easy to him; for when you
      have to teach boys how to wash themselves, and to wear clothes for the
      first time, the romance of missionary work disappears as completely as a
      great man's heroism before his valet de chambre.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Sunday, February 22, we had a native baptism, an adult from Nengone
      and his infant child. Coley used the Baptismal Service, which he had
      translated, and preached fluently in the Nengone tongue, as he had done in
      the morning in New Zealand. The careful study which we had together of the
      latter on our voyage out will be of great use in many other dialects, and
      Mrs. Nihill has given him her husband's Nengone manuscripts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know in what direction my wishes tend, viz., that Coley, when he has
      come to suitable age, and has developed, as I have no doubt he will, a
      fitness for the work, should be the first island Bishop, upon the
      foundation, of which you and your brother Judge, and Sir W. Farquhar, are
      trustees; that Norfolk Island should be the see of the Bishop, because the
      character of its population, the salubrity of its climate, and its insular
      position, make it the fittest place for the purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and grateful friend,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'G. A. NEW ZEALAND.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      By the same mail Patteson himself wrote to Miss Neill:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'If it please God to give us some few native teachers from Bauro and
      Grera, not to be sent before, but to go with or follow us (i.e. Bishop and
      me), in a short time the word of God might be heard in many a grand wild
      island, resplendent with everything that a tropical climate and primeval
      forests, etc., can bestow, and thickly populated with an intelligent and,
      as I imagine, tolerably docile race, of whom some are already "stretching
      out their hands unto God."
    </p>
    <p>
      'All these Solomon Islanders here would answer questions about
      Christianity as well, perhaps, as children of nine or ten years old in
      England. Some seem to feel that there is a real connection between
      themselves and what they are taught, and speak of the love of God in
      giving Jesus Christ to die for them, and say that God's Holy Spirit alone
      can enlighten their dark hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That beautiful image of light and darkness seems common to all nations.
      The regular word used by the Nengone people, who are far more advanced in
      Christian knowledge and practice, for all heathen places is "the dark
      lands."
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Sunday week, February 22, we had a deeply interesting service in the
      College chapel at 7.15 P.M., just as the English world was beginning its
      Sunday. Simeona and his infant boy of four weeks and three days old were
      baptized. The College chapel was nicely lighted, font decorated simply. I
      read the service in Nengone, having had all hands at work setting the
      types and printing on Friday and Saturday. The Bishop took the part of the
      service which immediately precedes the actual baptism, and baptized them
      both&mdash;first the father, by the name of George Selwyn, then the baby,
      by the name of John Patteson. This was the special request of the parents,
      and as it is my dear Father's name, how could I object? He is, of course,
      my godson, and a dear little fellow he is. At the end of my sermon, I
      added a few words to "George," and besought the prayers of the Nengone
      people for him and his child. We have now four regular communicants among
      them&mdash;Wadrokala, Mark (Kainwhat), Carry and Sarah. George is
      baptized, and baby; and Sarah's child, Lizzy, I baptized long ago. In
      about two months (D. V.), we are off for a good spell of four or five
      months among the islands, taking back this party, though some of them
      will, by and by, rejoin us again, I hope.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The plan of starting in April for a four or five months' cruise was
      disconcerted, as regarded Bishop Selwyn, by the delay of Bishop Harper and
      the Archdeacons in arriving for the intended Synod, which was thus put off
      till May, too wintry a month for the Melanesians to spend in New Zealand.
      After some doubt, it was decided that Mr. Patteson should make a short
      voyage, for the mere purpose of returning his scholars to their homes,
      come back to Auckland, and make a fresh start when the Bishop was ready.
    </p>
    <p>
      In prospect of the parting, Patteson writes to his beloved old governess
      (March 19, 1857):&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will like a report of my pupils, especially as I can give most of
      them a good ticket, little mark and all, as we used to say of yours
      (though not as often as we ought to have done) to our dear mother. You
      never had such willing pupils, though you turned out some, I hope,
      eventually as good. In your hands these lads would be something indeed.
      Really they have no faults that I can detect, and when their previous
      state is considered, it is wonderful; for all this time they have been
      with us, the greatest fault has been a fit of sulkiness, lasting about
      half a day, with three of them. Their affection, gentleness,
      unselfishness, cheerfulness, willingness to oblige, in some of them a
      natural gentlemanly way of doing things, and sometimes indications of what
      we should call high principle&mdash;all these things give one great hopes,
      not for them only, but for all these nations, that, refined by
      Christianity, they may be bright examples of manly virtues and Christian
      graces.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To some, no doubt, these expressions will seem exaggerated, but not to
      those who have had any experience of the peculiar suavity and grace that
      often is found in the highbred men of native races, before they are
      debased by the corruptions brought in by white men. Moreover, in every
      case, the personal influence of the teacher when in immediate contact with
      a sufficiently small number, is quite enough to infuse good habits and
      obviate evil ones to an extent quite inconceivable to those who have not
      watched the unconscious exertion of this power. Patteson knew that too
      much reliance must not be placed on present appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is dangerous (he says), to have persons clinging to you too much. I
      feel that; but then these fellows, I take it, are very impulsive, and no
      doubt the cocoanuts in their own land will exercise a counter-influence to
      mine, and so I shall soon be undeceived if I learn to think too much of
      their personal affection; but I never knew such dear lads, I don't know
      how I shall get on without them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must be looking forward to your spring and summer. How delicious some
      of those days are in England! We miss the freshness of a deciduous
      foliage, our evergreens look dull, and we have no deciduous trees as yet.
      A good scamper with Joan on the East Hill, or a drive with Fan in the pony
      carriage along a lane full of primroses and violets would be pleasant
      indeed, and so would a stroll with old Jem up the river be happy indeed,
      and I could almost quit the "Southern Cross" for dear Father's
      quarter-deck in the "Hermitage," but that I am, I believe, sailing in the
      right vessel, and, as I trust, on the right course to the haven where we
      may all meet and rest for ever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On Good Friday the three Nengone young men who had been baptized were
      confirmed, and on the Wednesday in Easter Week the 'Southern Cross'
      sailed, this time with a responsible sailing master. At Nengone Mr.
      Patteson had a friendly interview with Mr. Craig, the London Society's
      missionary, and explained to him the state of things with regard to these
      individual pupils; then, after being overwhelmed with presents by the
      Christian population, shaped his course for Bauro.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the way he had the experience of a tropical thunderstorm, after having
      been well warned by the sinking of the barometer through the whole of the
      day, the 27th of April. 'At 7.30 the breeze came up, and the big drops
      began, when suddenly a bright forked flash so sustained that it held its
      place before our eyes like an immense white-hot crooked wire, seemed to
      fall on the deck, and be splintered there. But one moment and the
      tremendous crack of the thunder was alive and around us, making the masts
      tremble. For more than an hour the flashes were so continuous that I think
      every three seconds we had a perfect view of the whole horizon. I
      especially remember the firmament between the lurid thunder clouds looking
      quite blue, so intense was the light. The thunder rolled on without
      cessation, but the tremendous claps occurred only at intervals. We have no
      lightning conductor, and I felt somewhat anxious; went below and prayed
      God to preserve us from lightning and fire, read the magnificent chapter
      at the end of Job. As the storm went on, I thought that at that very hour
      you were praying "From lightning and tempest, good Lord, deliver us." We
      had no wind: furious rain, repeated again from midnight to three this
      morning. About eleven the thunder had ceased, but the broad flashes of
      lightning were still frequent. The lightning was forked and jagged, and
      one remarkable thing was the length of time that the line of intense light
      was kept up, like a gigantic firework, so that the shape of the flash
      could be drawn with entire accuracy by any one that could handle a pencil.
      It was a grand and solemn sight and sound, and I am very thankful we were
      preserved from danger, for the storm was right upon us, and the danger
      must have been great.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A ready welcome awaited the 'Southern Cross' at Bauro, in a lovely bay
      hitherto unvisited, where a perfect flotilla of canoes came off to greet
      her, and the two chiefs, Iri and Eimaniaka, came on board, and no less
      than fifty-five men with them. The chiefs and about a dozen men were
      invited to spend the night on board. The former lay on the floor of the
      inner cabin, talking and listening while their host set before them some
      of the plain truths of Christianity. He landed next day, and returned the
      visit by going to Iri's hut, where he pointed to the skulls, discoursed on
      the hatefulness of such decorations, and recommended their burial. He also
      had an opportunity of showing a Christian's horror of unfilial conduct,
      when Rimaniaka struck his mother for being slow in handing yams; and when
      a man begged for a passage to Gera in direct opposition to his father's
      commands, he was dismissed with the words, 'I will have nothing to do with
      a man who does not obey his own father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At Gera there was also a great assembly of canoes, and as all hands were
      wanted on board, Patteson went ashore in a canoe with the brother of one
      of the scholars. He was told that he was the first white man who had ever
      landed there, and the people showed a good deal of surprise, but were
      quite peaceable, and the presence of women and children was a sign that
      there was no danger. When he tried to return to the ship, a heavy sea came
      on, and the canoes were forced to put back, and he thus found himself
      obliged to spend the night on the island. He was taken into a house with
      two rooms, in each of which numbers of men were lying on the ground, a
      small wood fire burning in the midst of each group of three or four.
    </p>
    <p>
      A grass mat was brought him, and a bit of wood for a pillow, and as he was
      wet through, cold, and very tired, he lay down; but sleep was impossible,
      from tormenting vermin, as well as because it seemed to be the custom of
      the people to be going backwards and forwards all night, sitting over the
      fire talking, then dropping asleep and waking to talk again. A yam was
      brought him after about an hour, and long before dawn he escaped into the
      open air, and sat over a tire there till at high tide, at six o'clock in
      the morning, he was able to put off again and reach the ship, where
      forty-five natives had slept, and behaved well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The sense of cold and dirt and weariness was not pleasing,' he confesses,
      and certainly the contrast to the Eton and Oxford habits was great. There
      was a grand exchange of presents; hatchets, adzes, hooks and empty bottles
      on one side, and a pig and yams on the other. Immediately after follows a
      perilous adventure, which, as we shall find, made a deep impression. It is
      thus related in a letter for the benefit of Thorverton Rectory:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Sea: Lat. 19° 50' S.; long. 167° 41' E.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Uncle,&mdash;May is a month specially connected henceforward
      in my mind with a merciful deliverance from great peril, which God
      vouchsafed to us on May 2nd. We touched on a reef at the Isle of
      Guadalcanar, one of the Solomon Islands, in lat. 9° 50', and but for God's
      mercy in blessing our exertions, we might have incurred fearful danger of
      losing the Mission vessel. As it was, in a couple of minutes we were off
      the reef and in deep safe water&mdash;to Him be the praise and the glory!
      I have written all particulars as usual to my father, and now that the
      danger has been averted, you will rejoice to hear how great a door is
      opened to us in that part of the world. Personal safety ensured, and, so
      far as can be judged of, no apparent obstacle in the way of the Mission in
      that quarter. Had this great peril not occurred&mdash;and it was to human
      eyes and in human language the mere "chance" of a minute&mdash;I might
      have dwelt with too much satisfaction on the bright side of the picture.
      As it is, it is a lesson to me "to think soberly." I can hardly trust
      myself to write yet with my usual freedom of the scenery, natives, &amp;c.
      One great thought is before me&mdash;"Is it all real that we touched on
      that reef in the sight of hundreds of natives?" It was not a sense of
      personal danger&mdash;that could not occur at such a time; but the idea
      that the vessel might be lost, the missionary operations suspended, &amp;c.;
      this shot through me in those two minutes! But I had no time for more than
      mental prayer, for I was pulling at ropes with all my strength; not till
      it was all over could I go below and fall on my knees in a burst of
      thanksgiving and praise. We suppose that there must be a very strong
      under-current near the reef at the mouth of the bay, for the vessel,
      instead of coming round as usual (and there was abundance of room), would
      not obey the helm, and we touched an outlying rock before we could alter
      the sails, when she rounded instantly on the other tack. Humanly speaking,
      she would have come off very soon, as the tide was flowing, and she
      received no damage, as we came very gently against the rock, which was
      only about the size of an ordinary table. But it is an event to be
      remembered by me with thankfulness all my life. I think the number of
      natives who had been on deck and about us in canoes that morning could not
      have been less than 450. They behaved very well. Of the five principal
      chiefs three could talk some Bauro language, so I could communicate with
      them, and this was one reason why I felt satisfied of their good-will.
      They gave me two pigs, about 500 or 600 cocoa-nuts, and upwards of a ton
      of yams, though I told them I had only two small hatchets, five or six
      adzes, a few gimlets, and empty bottles to give in exchange. If I had not
      been satisfied of their being quite friendly, I would not have put
      ourselves so entirely into their power; but it is of the greatest
      consequence to let the natives of a place see that you are not suspicious,
      and where there is no evident hazard in so doing, I think I ought to act
      upon it. Perhaps the Bishop, being an older hand at it, will think I was
      rash; but as far as the natives are concerned, the result shows I was
      quite right; the letting go a kedge in deepish water is another matter,
      that was a mistake I know now. But we could not work the vessel by reason
      of the crowds of natives, and what was I to do? Either not stand close in,
      as they all expected, or let go a kedge. If I did not go into the mouth of
      the bay, they would have said, "He does not trust us," and mutual
      suspicion would have been (possibly) the result, and I could not make them
      understand rightly the reason why I did not want to drop the kedge or
      small anchor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had slept on shore about three miles up the bay among a number of
      natives, twenty-five or twenty-six in the same room with me, on the
      previous evening: at least, I lay down in my things, which, by the bye,
      were drenched through with salt and rain water. They said I was the first
      white person that had been ashore there. They treated me very well. How in
      the face of all this could I run the risk of letting them think I was
      unwilling to trust them? So I think still that I was right in all but one
      thing. I ought to have ascertained better the nature of the current and
      the bottom of the harbour, to see if there was good holding ground. But it
      is easier to do those things in an English port than in the sight of a
      number of natives, and especially when there is but one person able to
      communicate with the said natives. If I went off in the boat sounding, who
      was to look after the schooner? If I stayed on board, who was to explain
      to the natives what was being done in the boat? Besides, we have but five
      men on board, including the master and mate, and one of them was disabled
      by a bad hand, so that if I had manned the boat, I should have left only
      three able-bodied men on board&mdash;it was a puzzle, you see, dear Uncle.
      Now I have entered into this long defence lest any of you dear ones should
      think me rash. Indeed, I don't want to run any risks at all. But there was
      no risk here, as I supposed, and had we chosen to go round on the other
      tack we should have known nothing of a risk now. As it was, we did run a
      great hazard of grounding on the reef, and therefore, Laus Deo.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! dear little Pena, if you had only seen the village which, as yet, I
      alone of white people have been allowed to see&mdash;the great tall
      cocoa-nuts, so tall and slender at the top, that I was almost afraid when
      a boy was sent up to gather some nuts for me&mdash;the cottages of bamboo
      and cocoa-nut leaves&mdash;the great forest trees, the parrots flying
      about among the branches&mdash;the crowd of men and children and a few
      women all looking at, and some talking to the strange chief, "who had
      spoken the truth and brought their kinsman as he promised,"&mdash;the sea
      in the harbour shut off by small islets and looking like a beautiful lake
      with high wooded and steep banks&mdash;the pretty canoes on the beach, and
      the great state canoe lying at its stone anchor about fifty yards off,
      about fifty feet long, and inlaid throughout with mother-of-pearl, the
      spears leaning against the houses&mdash;men stalking about with a kind of
      club (the great chief Puruhanua gave me his);&mdash;I think your little
      head would have been almost turned crazy....
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 4th, Auckland.&mdash;We reached harbour a week ago in a violent
      squall of wind and rain at 8.45 P.M. Anxious night after the anchor was
      dropped, lest the vessel should drag. Nine days coming from Norfolk
      Island, very heavy weather&mdash;no accident, but jib-boom pitched away
      while lying to in a south-easter....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The Rev. Benjamin Thornton Dudley, for several years a most valuable
      helper in the work, both at home and abroad, gives the following account
      of his own share in it, and his recollections of that first year:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The first time I ever saw Mr. Patteson was in the beginning of 1856, when
      you (this is a letter to Mrs. Selwyn) all visited Lyttelton in the newly
      arrived "Southern Cross." That indescribable charm of manner, calculated
      at once to take all hearts by storm, was not perhaps as fully developed in
      him then as afterwards, and my experience was then comparatively limited,
      yet his words in the sermon he preached on behalf of the Melanesian
      Mission (a kind of historical review of the growth and spread of the
      Gospel), although coming after the wonderful sermon of the Bishop in the
      morning, made a deep impression on several of us, myself among the number.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You came to Lyttelton at the end of 1856 again, this time without him,
      and the Bishop brought me up to St. John's College, and placed me under
      him there. I remember at first how puzzled I felt as to what my position
      was, and what I was expected to do. Not a single direction was given me by
      Mr. Patteson, nor did he invite me to take a class in the comparatively
      small Melanesian school. Gradually it dawned upon me that I was purposely
      left there, and that I was expected to offer myself for anything I could
      do. When I offered myself I was allowed to assist in this and that, until
      at length I fell into my regular place. Although the treatment I received
      in this respect puzzled me, I felt his great kindness from the first. How
      bright he was in those days, and how overflowing with spirits when among
      the Melanesians. What fun there used to be of a morning, when he would
      come and hunt the lazy ones out of bed, drive them down to the bath house,
      and there assist their ablutions with a few basins of water thrown at
      them; and what an amount of quiet "chaff" used to go on at breakfast time
      about it as we sat with them in the great hall, without any of those
      restraints of the "high table" which were introduced at dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'During the first voyage made that year to return our Melanesian party, I
      think Mr. Patteson was feeling very much out of sorts. I do not remember
      any time during the years in which I was permitted to see so much of him
      when he took things so easily. He spoke of himself as lazy, and I confess
      I used to wonder somewhat how it was that he retired so completely into
      the cabin, and did apparently so little in the way of study. He read the
      "Heir of Redclyffe," and other books of light reading in that voyage. I
      understood better afterwards what, raw youth as I was at the time, puzzled
      me in one for whom I was already beginning to entertain a feeling
      different from any previously experienced. That seems to me now to have
      been quite a necessary pause in his life after he had with
      wholeheartedness and full intention given himself to his work, but before
      he had fully faced all its requirements and had learnt to map out his
      whole time with separate toil.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So concluded what may be called the first term of Coley Patteson's
      tutorship of his island boys. His work is perhaps best summed up in this
      sentence in a letter to me from Mrs. Abraham: 'Mr. Patteson's love for
      them, and his facility in communicating with them in their own tongue,
      make his dealing with the present set much more intimate and effective
      than it has ever been before, and their affections towards him are drawn
      out in a lively manner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII. ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE AND LIFU. 1857-1859.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It seems to me that the years between 1856 and 1861 were the very
      brightest of Coleridge Patteson's life. He had left all for Christ's sake
      and the Gospel's, and was reaping the blessing in its freshness. His
      struggles with his defects had been successful, the more so because he was
      so full of occupation that the old besetting trouble, self-contemplation,
      had been expelled for lack of opportunity; and he had become far more
      simple, since humility was ceasing to be a conscious effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a light-heartedness about his letters like that of the old Eton
      times. Something might have been owing to the impulse of health, which was
      due to the tropical heat. Most probably this heat was what exhausted his
      constitution so early, but at first it was a delightful stimulus, and gave
      him exemption from all those discomforts with which cold had affected him
      at home. This exhilaration bore him over the many trials of close contact
      with uncivilised human nature so completely that his friends never even
      guessed at his natural fastidiousness. That which might have been selfish
      in this fastidiousness was conquered, though the refinement remained. Even
      to the last, in his most solitary hours, this personal neatness never
      relaxed, but the victory over disgust was a real triumph over self, which
      no doubt was an element of happiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the Bishop continued to go on the voyages with him, he had
      companionship, guidance, and comparatively no responsibility, while his
      success, that supreme joy, was wonderfully unalloyed, and he felt his own
      especial gifts coming constantly into play. His love for his scholars was
      one continual well of delight, and really seemed to be an absolute gift,
      enabling him to win them over, and compensating for what he had left, even
      while he did not cease to love his home with deep tenderness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another pair of New Zealand friends had to be absent for a time.
      Archdeacon Abraham's arm was so severely injured by an accident with a
      horse, that the effects were far more serious than those of a common
      fracture. The disaster took place in Patteson's presence. 'I shall never
      forget,' writes his friend, 'his gentleness and consideration as he first
      laid me down in a room and then went to tell my wife.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was found necessary to have recourse to English advice; the Archdeacon
      and Mrs. Abraham went home, and were never again residents at Auckland.
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter to Mr. Justice Coleridge was written in the interval between the
      voyages:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Auckland: June 12, 1857.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Uncle,&mdash;You will not give me credit for being a good
      correspondent, I fear; but the truth is that I seldom find time to do more
      than write long chatty letters to my dear father and sisters, occasionally
      to Thorverton, and to Miss Neill and one or two others to cheer them in
      their sickness and weariness. Any news from afar may be a real relaxation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For myself I need only say that I find these dear people most attractive
      and winning, that it is no effort to love them, that they display all
      natural gifts in a remarkable way&mdash;good temper, affection,
      gentleness, obedience, gratitude, &amp;c., occasionally real
      self-restraint. Dear Hirika's last words to me at San Cristoval were, "Oh,
      I do love you so," and his conduct showed it. He is a bright handsome lad,
      clever but inaccurate, of most sweet disposition. In matters of personal
      cleanliness, healthy appearance, &amp;c., the change in seven months was
      that of a lad wholly savage becoming neat, tidy in dress, and of
      gentlemanly appearance. In some ways he was my pet of the whole party,
      though I have equally bright hopes of Grariri, a sturdy, honest fellow
      with the best temper I almost ever found among lads of sixteen anywhere,
      and Kerearua is the most painstaking fellow of the lot; and a boy whose
      distinguishing features it would be hard to describe; but he may be summed
      up as a very good boy, and certainly a most loveable one. Sumaro and
      Kimarua older and less interesting.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I printed short catechisms, a translation of the Lord's Prayer, Creed,
      General Confession, two or three other of the Common Prayer prayers, and
      one or two short missionary prayers in the dialect of both islands; but I
      can only speak at all fluently the language of San Cristoval.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of the Nengone people I could say much more. The two young women
      (married) and the two young unmarried men had been under Mr. Nihill's
      instruction two or three years, baptized, and were regular communicants
      while at the College. Simeona was baptized on the same day as his infant
      son, after he had been with us five months. He and the other four were
      confirmed at the College chapel, and he afterwards received the Holy
      Communion with the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kowine, a lad of seventeen, is not baptized, though well instructed. We
      were not wholly satisfied about him. Of the knowledge of them all I can
      speak with the utmost confidence. They know more a great deal than most
      candidates for confirmation in a well-regulated English parish. It was
      delightful to work with them. We wrote Bible history, which has reached
      about fifty sheets in MS. in small handwriting, bringing the history to
      the time of Joshua; very many questions and answers, and translated ninety
      pages of the Prayer Book, including Services for Infant and Adult Baptism,
      Catechism, Burial Service, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is most interesting work, though not easy, and much of it will no
      doubt be altered when we come to know the language thoroughly well. This
      island of Nengone (called also Maro and Britannia Island) contains about
      6,500 inhabitants, of whom some profess Christianity, while the remainder
      are still fighting and eating one another, though accessible to white
      people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We hope to have time to see something of the heathen population, though
      the London Mission Society having re-occupied the island, we do not
      regularly visit it with the intention of establishing ourselves.... The
      language is confined to that island. I call it language, not dialect, for
      it is, I believe, really distinct from any others we have or have heard
      of, very soft, like Italian, and capable of expressing accurately minute
      shades of meaning. Causative forms, &amp;c., remind us of the oriental
      structure, one peculiarity (that of the chief's dialect, or almost
      language, running parallel to that of common life) I think I have before
      mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In about a month I suppose we shall be off again for three or four
      months, and we long to get hold of pupils from the Banks Archipelago,
      Santa Cruz, Espiritu Santo, in which no ground is broken at present. We
      visited them last year, but did not get any pupils; lovely islands, very
      populous, and the natives very bright, intelligent-looking. But how I long
      to see again some of my own dear boys, I do so think of them! It may be
      that two or three of them may come again to us, and then we may perhaps
      hope that they may learn enough to be really useful to their own
      people.... Dear uncle, I should indeed rejoice much to see my dear, dear
      father and sisters and Jem and all of you if it came in the way of one's
      business, but I think, so long as I am well, that the peculiar nature of
      this work must require the constant presence of one personally known to,
      and not only officially connected with, the natives. While I feel very
      strongly that in many ways intercourse occasionally resumed with the home
      clergy must be very useful to us, yet if you can understand that there is
      no one to take one's place, you see how very unlikely it must be that I
      can move from this hemisphere. I say "if you can understand," for it does
      seem sad that one should really be in such a position that one's presence
      should be of any consequence; but, till it please God that the Bishop
      shall receive other men for this Mission, there is no other teacher for
      these lads, and so we must rub on and do the best we can. Of course I
      should be most thankful, most happy if, during his lifetime, I once more
      found myself at home, but I don't think much nor speculate about it, and I
      am very happy, as I am well and hearty. You won't suspect me of any
      lessening of strong affection for all that savours of home. I think that I
      know every face in Alfington and in Feniton, and very many in Ottery as of
      old; I believe I think of all with increasing affection, but while I
      wonder at it, I must also confess that I can and do live happy day after
      day without enjoying the sight of those dear faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always your affectionate and grateful nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      As soon as the 'Southern Cross' had carried Bishop Harper back to
      Lyttelton, the Melanesian voyage was recommenced, this time with a
      valuable assistant in Mr. Benjamin Dudley. Mrs. Selwyn was again dropped
      at Norfolk Island, and five young Pitcairners were taken on board to serve
      as a boat's crew, and also to receive instruction.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a more extensive voyage than the first, as more time could be
      spent on it, but there is less full description, as there was less time
      for writing; and besides, these coral islands are much alike. Futuma was
      the first new island visited:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The canoes did not venture to come off to us, so we went ashore in the
      boat, Bishop and I wading ankle-deep to the beach. Forty or fifty natives
      under a deep overhanging rock, crouching around a fire, plenty of lads and
      boys, no women. Some Tanna men in the group, with their faces painted red
      and black, hair (as you know) elaborately frizzled and dressed with coral
      lime. The Futuma people speak a different language from those of Anaiteum,
      and the Tanna people speak a third (having, moreover, four dialects of
      their own). These three islands are all in sight of each other. Tanna has
      an active volcano, now smoking away, and is like a hot-bed, wonderfully
      fertile. People estimate its population at 10,000, though it is not very
      large,&mdash;about thirty miles long. At Futuma, the process by which
      these coral islands have been upheaved is well seen. The volcanic rocks
      are lying under the coral, which has been gradually thrust upwards by
      them. As the coral emerged, the animal went on building under water,
      continually working lower and lower down upon and over the volcanic
      formation, as this heaved in its upward course the coral formation out of
      the sea.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Erromango was occupied by the Scottish Mission, and Mr. Gordon was then
      living there in peace and apparent security, when a visit was paid to him,
      and Patteson gathered some leaves in Dillon's Bay, the spot where John
      Williams met his death sixteen years before, not, as now was understood,
      because he was personally disliked, but because he was unconsciously
      interfering with a solemnity that was going on upon the beach.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Fate Isle, the people were said to be among the wildest in those seas.
      When the 'Royal Sovereign' was wrecked, they had killed the whole crew,
      nineteen in number, eaten ten at once, and sent the other nine as presents
      to their friends. Very few appeared, but there was a good 'opening'
      exchange of presents.
    </p>
    <p>
      A great number of small islets lie around Fate, forming part of the
      cluster of the New Hebrides, The Bishop had been at most of them before,
      and with a boat's crew of three Pitcairners and one English sailor,
      starting early and spending all day in the boat, he and Patteson touched
      at eleven in three days, and established the first steps to communication
      by obtaining 127 names of persons present, and making gifts. These little
      volcanic coral isles were all much alike, and nothing remarkable occurred
      but the obtaining two lads from Mai, named Petere and Laure, for a ten
      months' visit. Poor fellows, they were very sea-sick at first, and begged
      to go home again, but soon became very happy, and this connection with
      Petere had important consequences in the end. These lads spoke a language
      approaching Maori, whereas the Fate tongue prevailed in the other isles.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Mallicolo, on August 20, a horrible sight presented itself to the eyes
      of the two explorers when they walked inland with about eighteen most
      obliging and courteous natives&mdash;an open space with four hollowed
      trunks of trees surrounding two stones, the trees carved into the shape of
      grotesque human heads, and among them, a sort of temple, made of sloping
      bamboos and pandanus leaves meeting at the top, from whence hung a dead
      man, with his face painted in stripes of red and yellow, procured, it was
      thought, from the pollen of flowers. There was not enough comprehension of
      the language to make out the meaning of all this.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ambrym, the next island, was more than usually lovely, and was destined to
      receive many more visits. The women made their approach crawling, some
      with babies on their backs. Whitsuntide, where the casks had to be filled
      with water, showed a great number of large, resolute-looking men, whose
      air demanded caution; 'but,' says the journal, 'practice makes perfect,
      and we get the habit of landing among strangers, the knack of managing
      with signs and gesticulations, and the feeling of ease and confidence
      which engenders confidence and good-will in the others. Quarrels usually
      arise from both parties being afraid and suspicious of each other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Leper's Isle owes its unpleasant name to its medicinal springs. It is a
      particularly beautiful place, containing a population of good promise.
      Three landings were made there, and at the fourth place Patteson jumped
      ashore on a rock and spent some time in calming the fears of a party of
      natives who had been frightened in their canoe by the boat under sail
      overtaking them. 'They fingered bows and arrows, but only from
      nervousness,' he says. However, they seem to have suspected the visitors
      of designs on their load of fine taro, and it was some time before the
      owner would come out and resume it. On all these isles the plan could as
      yet only be to learn names and write them down, so as to enquire for
      acquaintance next time, either make presents, or barter them for
      provisions, discover the class of language, and invite scholars for
      another time.
    </p>
    <p>
      So at Star Island three or four natives said, 'In ten moons you two come
      back; very good, then we go with you.' 'I think,' Patteson tells his
      sisters, 'you would have liked to have seen me, standing on a rock, with
      my two supporters, two fine young men, who will I trust go with us next
      time, my arms round their necks, and a fine background of some thirty or
      forty dark figures with bows and arrows, &amp;c., and two or three little
      rogues, perched on a point of rock above me, just within reach, asking for
      fish-hooks.' He says it in all simplicity, but the picture presupposes
      some strength of mind in the sisters who were to appreciate it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Few natives appeared at Espiritu Santo, and the vessel passed on to Oanuta
      or Cherry Island, where the Bishop had never been, and where a race of
      dull, good-natured giants was found. The chief was a noble-looking man
      with an aquiline nose, and seemed to have them well under command, and
      some of the younger men, who had limbs which might have been a model for a
      sculptor, could have lifted an ordinary-sized Englishman as easily as a
      child. They were unluckily already acquainted with whalers, whom they
      thought the right sort of fellows, since they brought tobacco and spirits,
      did not interfere with native habits, nor talk of learning, for which the
      giants saw no need. The national complexion here was of a lighter yellow,
      the costume a tattooed chest, the language akin to Maori; and it was the
      same at Tikopia, where four chiefs, one principal one immensely fat,
      received their visitors seated on a mat in the centre of a wide circle
      formed by natives, the innermost seated, the others looking over them.
      These, too, were accustomed to whalers, and when they found that pigs and
      yams in exchange for spirits and tobacco were not the object, they were
      indifferent. They seemed to despise fish-hooks, and it was plain that they
      had even obtained muskets from the whalers, for there were six in the
      chiefs house, and one was fired, not maliciously but out of display. The
      Bishop told them his object, and they understood his language, but were
      uninterested. The fat chief regaled the two guests with a cocoa-nut
      apiece, and then seemed anxious to be rid of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Banks Islands, as usual, were much more hopeful, Santa Maria coming
      first. Canoes came round the vessel, and the honesty of the race showed
      itself, for one little boy, who had had a fish-hook given him, wished to
      exchange it for calico, and having forgotten to restore the hook at the
      moment, swam back with it as soon as he remembered it. There was a
      landing, and the usual friendly intercourse, but just as the boat had put
      off, a single arrow was suddenly shot out of the bush, and fell about ten
      yards short. It was curious that the Spanish discoverers had precisely the
      same experience. It was supposed to be an act of individual mischief or
      fun, and the place obtained the appropriate name of Cock Sparrow Point.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not possible to get into the one landing-place in the wall round
      Mota's sugar-loaf, but there was an exchange of civilities with the
      Saddleites, and in Vanua Lava, the largest member of the group, a
      beautiful harbour was discovered, which the Bishop named Port Patteson,
      after the Judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Santa Cruz group was visited again on the 23rd of September. Nothing
      remarkable occurred; indeed, Patteson's journal does not mention these
      places, but that of the Bishop speaks of a first landing at Nukapu, and an
      exchange of names with the old chief Acenana; and the next day of going to
      the main island, where swarms of natives swam out, with cries of Toki,
      toki, and planks before them to float through the surf. About 250
      assembled at the landing place, as before, chiefly eager for traffic. The
      Volcano Isle was also touched at, but the language of the few inhabitants
      was incomprehensible. The mountain was smoking, and red-hot cinders
      falling as before on the steep side. It was tempting to climb it and
      investigate what probably no white man had yet seen, but it was decided to
      be more prudent to abstain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some events of the visit to Bauro are related in the following letter to
      the young cousin whose Confirmation day had been notified to him in time
      to be thought of in his prayers:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Off San Cristoval: October 5, 1857.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Pena,&mdash;It was in a heathen land, among a heathen people,
      that I passed the Sunday&mdash;a day most memorable in your life&mdash;on
      which I trust you received for the first time the blessed Sacrament of our
      Saviour's Body and Blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My darling&mdash;, as I knelt in the chiefs house, upon the mat which was
      also my bed&mdash;the only Christian in that large and beautiful island&mdash;my
      prayers were, I hope, offered earnestly that the full blessedness of that
      heavenly Union with the Lord Jesus Christ, and in Him with the Father and
      the Holy Ghost, might rest upon you for ever. I had reckoned upon being on
      board that Sunday, when the Holy Eucharist was administered on board our
      vessel; but as we reached Mwaata, our well-known village at San Cristoval,
      on Saturday, we both agreed that I had better go ashore while the vessel
      went away, to return for me on Monday. My day was now passed strangely
      enough, my first Sunday in a land where no Sunday is known.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was about 3 P.M. on Saturday when I landed, and it was an effort to
      have to talk incessantly till dark. Then the chief Iri went with me to his
      house. It is only one oblong room, with a bamboo screen running halfway
      across it about half-way down the room. It is only made of bamboo at the
      sides, and leaves for the roof. Yams and other vegetables were placed
      along the sides. There is no floor, but one or two grass mats are placed
      on the ground to sleep on. Iri and his wife, and an orphan girl about
      fourteen or fifteen, I suppose, slept on the other side of the screen; and
      two lads, called Grariri and Parenga, slept on my side of it. I can't say
      I slept at all, for the rats were so very many, coming in through the
      bamboo on every side, and making such a noise I could not sleep, though
      tired. They were running all about me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, at daylight I sent Gariri to fetch some water, and shaved and
      washed, to the great admiration of Iri and the ladies, and of others also,
      who crowded together at the hole which serves for door and windows. I lay
      down in my clothes, all but my coat, but I took a razor and some soap
      ashore.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sunday was spent in going about to different neighbouring settlements,
      and climbing the coral rocks was hard work, the thermometer at sea being
      85° in the cool cabin, as the Bishop told me to-day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course many people were at work in the yam grounds, several of which I
      saw; but I found considerable parties at the different villages, and had,
      on the whole, satisfactory conversations with them. They listened and
      asked questions, and I told them as well as I could the simplest truths of
      Christianity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had a part of a yam and drank four cocoa-nuts during the day, besides
      eating some mixture of yam, taro, and cocoa-nut all pounded together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'People offered me food and nuts everywhere. Walked back with a boy called
      Tahi for my guide, and stopped at several plantations, and talked with the
      people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sat out in the cool evening on the beach at Mwaata, after much talk in a
      chiefs house called Tarua; people came round me on the beach, and again I
      talked with them (a sort of half-preaching, half-conversing these talks
      were), till Iri said we must go to bed. Slept a little that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can truly say that you were in my head all day. After my evening
      prayers, when I thought of you&mdash;for it was about 9 P.M. = 10.10 A.M.
      with you, and you were on your way to church&mdash;I thought of you,
      kneeling between your dear mamma and grandmamma, and dear grandpapa
      administering to his three beloved ones the Bread of Life, and I was very
      happy as I thought of it, for I trust, through the mercy of God, and the
      merits of our Lord, that we shall be by Him raised at the Last Day to
      dwell with Him for ever. But indeed I must not write to you how very
      unworthy I felt to belong to that little company.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This morning about eleven the vessel's boat came off for me, with the
      Bishop. I had arranged about some lads coming on with us, and it ended in
      seven joining our party. Only one of our old scholars has come again: he
      is that dear boy Grariri, whose name you will remember.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now I have had a good change of shirts, etc., and feel clean and
      comfortable, though I think a good night's rest will do me no harm. I have
      written to you the first minute that I had time. What a blessed, happy day
      it must have been for you, and I am sure they thought of you at Feniton.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      This strange Sunday was spent in conversation with different sets of
      natives, and that some distinct ideas were conveyed was plain from what
      old Iri was overheard saying to a man who was asking him whether he had
      not a guest who spoke Bauro: 'Yes,' said Iri, adding that 'he said men
      were not like dogs, or pigs, or birds, or fishes, because these cannot
      speak or think. They all die, and no one knows anything more about them,
      but he says we shall not die like that, but rise up again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On Monday, the 7th of October, Grera was revisited, and Toto, a last
      year's scholar, came forth with his welcome in a canoe; but it was rather
      a mixed success, for the danger of the vessel on her previous visit was a
      warning against bringing her into the harbour, where there was no safe
      anchorage, and this disappointed the people. Thirteen, indeed, slept on
      board, and the next morning sixty canoes surrounded the vessel, and some
      hundred and sixty came on deck at once; but they brought only one pig and
      a few yams, and refused to fetch more, saying it was too far&mdash;a
      considerable inconvenience, considering the necessity of providing the
      Melanesian passengers with vegetable food. The whole nine slept in the
      inner cabin, Orariri on Patteson's sofa, 'feet to feet, the others on the
      floor like herrings in a barrel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The great island of New Caledonia was next visited. The Bishop had been
      there before, and Basset, one of the chiefs, lamented that he had been so
      long absent, and pleaded hard to have an English missionary placed in his
      part of the country. It was very sad to have no means of complying with
      the entreaty, and the Bishop offered him a passage to Auckland, there to
      speak for himself. He would have come, but that it was the season for
      planting his yams; but he hoped to follow, and in the meantime sent a
      little orphan named Kanambat to be brought up at Auckland. The little
      fellow was pleased enough with the ship at first, but when his countrymen
      who had been visiting there left her, he jumped overboard and was swimming
      like a duck after them, when, at a sign from the Bishop, one of the
      Pitcairners leapt after him, and speedily brought him back. He soon grew
      very happy and full of play and fun, and was well off in being away from
      home, for the French were occupying the island, and poor Basset shortly
      after was sent a prisoner to Tahiti for refusing to receive a Roman
      Catholic priest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nengone were reached on October 23, and most of the old scholars were
      ready with a warm welcome; but Mr. Creagh, the London missionary, had
      taken Wadrokala away with him on an expedition, and of the others, only
      Kowine was ready to return, though the two married couples were going on
      well, and one previous scholar of the Bishop's and four new ones presented
      themselves as willing to go. Urgent letters from the neighbouring isle of
      Lifu entreated the Bishop to come thither, and, with a splendid supply of
      yams, the 'Southern Cross' again set sail, and arrived on the 26th. This
      island had entirely abandoned heathenism, under the guidance of the
      Samoans. The people felt that they had come to the end of the stock of
      teaching of these good men, and entreated for an Englishman from the
      Bishop, and thus, here was the third island in this one voyage begging for
      a shepherd, and only one English priest had been found to offer himself to
      that multitude of heathen!
    </p>
    <p>
      The only thing that could be done was to take John Cho, a former St.
      John's scholar, to receive instruction to fit him for a teacher, and with
      him came his young wife Naranadune, and their babe, whom the Bishop had
      just baptized in the coral-lime chapel, with three other children.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next few days were spent in great anxiety for Wailumai, a youth from
      Grera, who was taken ill immediately after dinner with a most distressing
      difficulty of breathing. He proved to have a piece of sugar cane in his
      throat, which made every breath agony, and worked a small ulcer in the
      throat. All through the worst Patteson held him in his arms, with his hand
      on his chest: several times he seemed gone, and ammonia and sal volatile
      barely revived him. His first words after he was partially relieved were,
      'I am Bishop! I am Patihana!' meaning that he exchanged names with them,
      the strongest possible proof of affection in Melanesian eyes. He still
      seemed at the point of death, and they made him say, 'God the Father, God
      the Son, and God the Holy Ghost! Jesus Christ, Son of God.' At last a
      favourable change took place, but he continued so ill for several days
      that his two attendants never did more than lie down in their clothes; nor
      was it till the third day that he at length coughed up the piece of cane
      that had caused the mischief. He still required so much care that Patteson
      did not go on shore at Norfolk Island when the five Pitcairners were
      exchanged for Mrs. Selwyn.
    </p>
    <p>
      On November 15 Auckland harbour was again reached after this signally
      prosperous voyage. It is thus summed up in a letter written two days
      later:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'November 17, 1857: St. John's College.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Miss Neill,&mdash;Thanks for your £21. 2s., and more thanks still
      for your prayers and constant interest in this part of the world. After nearly
      seventeen weeks at sea, we returned safely on Sunday morning the 15th,
      with thirty-three Melanesians, gathered from nine islands and speaking
      eight languages. Plenty of work for me: I can teach tolerably in three,
      and have a smattering of one or two more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One is the wife of a young man, John Cho, an old scholar baptized. His
      half-brother is chief of Lifu Isle, a man of great influence. The London
      Mission (Independents) are leaving all their islands unprovided with
      missionaries, and these people having been much more frequently visited by
      the Bishop than by the "John Williams," turn to him for help. By and by I
      will explain all this: at present no time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We visited sixty-six islands and landed eighty-one times, wading,
      swimming, &amp;c.; all most friendly and delightful; only two arrows shot
      at us, and only one went near&mdash;so much for savages. I wonder what
      people ought to call sandal-wood traders and slave-masters if they call my
      Melanesians savages.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will hear accounts of the voyage from Fanny. I have a long journal
      going to my father, but I can't make time to write at length any more. I
      am up before five and not in bed before eleven, and you know I must be
      lazy sometimes. It does me good. Oh! how great a trial sickness would be
      to me! In my health now all seems easy. Were I circumstanced like you, how
      much I should no doubt repine and murmur. God has given me hitherto a most
      merciful share of blessings, and my dear father's cordial approbation of
      and consent to my proceedings is among the greatest....
    </p>
    <p>
      'The anniversary of my dear mother's death comes round in ten days. That
      is my polar star (humanly speaking), and whensoever it pleases God to take
      my dear dear father to his rest, how blessed to think of their waiting for
      us, if it be His merciful will to bring me too to dwell before Him with
      them for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must end, for I am very busy. The weather is cold, and my room full of
      lads and young men. If I was not watching like a cat they would be
      standing about in all sorts of places and catching cold.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I send you in a box, a box made by Pitcairners of Pitcairn woods.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever your loving old pupil,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The little New Caledonian remained at Taurarua with the Bishop, and as
      there was no woman at St. John's to take the charge of Cho's wife, she was
      necessarily sent to Mrs. Kissling's school for Maori girls, while her
      husband pursued his studies at St. John's.
    </p>
    <p>
      Patteson often gave his services at the Maori village of Orakei, where
      there was to be a central native school managed by Pirimona (Philemon), a
      well-trained man, a candidate for Holy Orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'However, this did not satisfy his countrymen. As if I had not enough to
      do, old Wi comes with a request from the folks at Orakei that I would be
      their "minita," and take the management of the concern. Rather rich, is it
      not? I said, of course, that I was minita for the islanders. "Oh, let the
      Bishop take another man for that, you are the minister for us." He is, you
      know, wonderfully tatooed, and a great object of curiosity to the boys!
    </p>
    <p>
      Before many days had passed, there had occurred the first case of that
      fatal tetanus, which became only too well known to those concerned in the
      Mission. Of course, all weapons were taken from the scholars; but one of
      the San Cristoval boys, named Tohehammai, fetched one of his own arrows
      out of Mr. Dudley's room to exchange with an English lad for a shirt, and
      as he was at play, carrying the arrow in his left hand behind his back and
      throwing a stick like a spear with the other, he sharply pricked his right
      arm, within the elbow, against the point of the arrow; but thinking
      nothing of the hurt, and knowing that the weapons were forbidden
      playthings, he said nothing for twelve days, but then complained of
      stiffness in the arm. Two doctors happened to be at the college that day;
      one thought it rheumatism, the other mentioned the word tetanus, but for
      three days more the arm was merely stiff, it was hung in a sling, and the
      boy went about as usual, until, on the fifteenth day, spasmodic twitchings
      in the arm came on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Liniment of chloroform was rubbed in, and the boy was kept under
      chloroform, but in vain; the next day his whole body was perfectly rigid,
      with occasional convulsions. About 4 p.m. his throat had become
      contracted, and the endeavour to give him nourishment brought on
      convulsive attacks. The Bishop came at 8. p.m., and after another attempt
      at giving him food, which produced a further spasm, he was lying quietly
      when Patteson felt his pulse stop.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"He is dying!" the Bishop said. '"Father, into Thy hands we commend his
      spirit."'
    </p>
    <p>
      Patteson's 'Amen' came from his heart. The poor fellow made no sound as he
      lay with his frame rigid, his back arched so that an arm could be thrust
      under it. He was gone in that moment, unbaptized. Patteson writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had much conflict with myself about it. He had talked once with me in a
      very hopeful way, but during his illness I could not obtain from him any
      distinct profession of faith, anything to make me feel pretty sure that
      some conviction of the truth of what he he had been taught, and not mere
      learning by rote, was the occasion of his saying what he did say. I did
      wish much that I might talk again with the Bishop about it, but his death
      took us by surprise. I pray God that all my omission and neglect of duty
      may be repaired, and that his very imperfect and unconscious yearnings
      after the truth may be accepted for Christ's sake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The arrow was reported to have been poisoned, but by the time the cause of
      the injury had been discovered it had been thrown away and could not be
      recovered for examination. Indeed, lockjaw seems to be so prevalent in the
      equatorial climates, and the natives so peculiarly liable to it, that
      poison did not seem needful to account for the catastrophe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Altogether, these lads were exotics in New Zealand, and exceedingly
      fragile. In the very height of summer they had to wear corduroy trousers,
      blue serge shirts, red woollen comforters, and blue Scotch caps, and the
      more delicate a thick woollen jersey in addition; and with all these
      precautions they were continually catching cold, or getting disordered,
      and then the Bauro and Grera set could only support such treatment as
      young children generally need. The Loyalty Islanders were much tougher and
      stronger and easier to treat, but they too showed that the climate of
      Auckland was a hard trial to their constitutions.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the last day of March came tidings of the sudden death of the
      much-beloved and honoured Dr. James Coleridge of Thorverton.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a great shock,' says the letter written the same day; 'not that I
      feel unhappy exactly, nor low, but that many many memories are revived and
      keep freshening on my mind.... And since I left England his warm, loving,
      almost too fond letters have bound me very closely to him, and sorely I
      shall miss the sight of his handwriting; though he may be nearer to me now
      than before, and his love for me is doubtless even more pure and fervent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I confess I had thought sometimes that if it pleased God to take you
      first, the consciousness that he would be with you was a great comfort to
      me&mdash;not that any man is worth much then. God must be all in all. But
      yet he of all men was the one who would have been a real comfort to you,
      and even more so to others.' To his cousin he writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wednesday in Passion Week, 1858: St. John's College.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sophy,&mdash;Your letter with the deep black border was the
      first that I opened, with trembling hand, thinking: "Is it dear dear Uncle
      gone to his eternal rest; or dear Aunty? not that dear child, may God
      grant; for that would somehow seem to all most bitter of all&mdash;less,
      so to speak, reasonable and natural." And he is really gone; that dear,
      loving, courageous, warm-hearted servant of Christ; the desire of our eyes
      taken away with a stroke. I read your letter wondering that I was not
      upset, knelt down and said the two prayers in the Burial Service, and then
      came the tears; for the memory of him rose up very vividly before me, and
      his deep love for me and the notes of comfort and encouragement he used to
      write were very fresh in my mind. I looked at the print of him, the one he
      sent out to me, with "your loving old Uncle" in pencil on it. I have all
      his letters: when making a regular clearance some months ago, I could not
      tear up his, although dangerous ones for me to read unless used as a
      stimulant to become what he thought me. His "Jacob" sermon in his own
      handwriting, I have by me. But more than all, the memory of his holy life,
      and his example as a minister of Christ, have been left behind for us as a
      sweet, undying fragrance; his manner in the sick-room&mdash;I see him now,
      and hear that soft, steady, clear voice repeating verses over my dear
      mother's death-bed; his kindly, loving ways to his poor people; his voice
      and look in the pulpit, never to be forgotten. I knew I should never see
      him again in this world. May God of His mercy take me to be with him
      hereafter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, dear Sophy, for writing to me; every word about him is
      precious, from his last letter to me:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"You will believe how sweet it is to me every month now to give the Holy
      Eucharist to my three dear ones."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"All complaints of old men must be serious."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish I had more time to write, but I am too busy in the midst of
      school, and printing Scripture histories and private prayers, and
      translations in Nengone, Bauro, Lifu; and as all my time out of school is
      spent in working in the printing office, I really have not a minute
      unoccupied. With one exception, I have scarcely ever taken an hour's walk
      for some six weeks. A large proportion of the printing is actually set up
      by my own fingers; but now one Nengone lad, the flower of my flock, can
      help me much&mdash;a young man about seventeen or eighteen, of whom I hope
      very much&mdash;Malo, baptized by the name of Harper, an excellent young
      man, and a great comfort to me. He was setting up in type a part of the
      little book of private prayers I am now printing for them. I had just
      pointed out to him the translation of what would be in English&mdash;"It
      is good that a man as he lies down to sleep should remember that that
      night he may hear the summons of the Angel of God; so then let him think
      of his death, and remember the words of St. Paul: 'Awake, thou that
      sleepest,'" etc.; when in came the man whom the Archdeacon left in charge
      here with my letters. "I hope, sir, there is no bad news for you;" and my
      eye lighted on the deep black border of your envelope.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To-morrow, if I live, I enter upon my thirty-second year&mdash;a solemn
      warning I have received to-day, as another year is passing from me. May
      some portion of his spirit rest on me to bless my poor attempt to do what
      he did so devotedly for more than forty years: his duty as a soldier and
      servant of his Lord and Master, into whose joy he has no doubt now
      entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Easter Day.&mdash;What an Easter for him! and doubtless we all who will
      by and by, as the world rolls round, receive the Holy Eucharist shall be
      in some way united to him as well as to all departed saints&mdash;members
      of His Mystical Body.
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 12.&mdash;Bishop came out yesterday afternoon from Auckland. After
      baptisms at 5, and evening service at 7, sat till past 11 settling plans:
      thus, God willing, start this day fortnight to return the boys&mdash;this
      will occupy about two months; as we come back from the far north, he will
      drop one at Lifu, one of the Loyalty Islands, with large population; he
      will go on to New Zealand, stay perhaps six weeks in New Zealand, or it
      may be two months; so that with the time occupied by his voyage from Lifu
      to New Zealand, 1,000 miles and back, he will be away from Lifu about two
      and a half or three months. Then, picking me up (say about September 12),
      we go on at once to the whole number of our islands, spending three months
      or so among them, getting back to New Zealand about the end of November.
      So that I shall be in Melanesia, D.V., from the beginning of May to the
      end of November. I shall be able to write once more before we start&mdash;letters
      which you will get by the June mail from Sydney&mdash;and of course I
      shall send letters by the Bishop when he leaves me at Lifu. But I shall
      not be able to hear again from England till the Bishop comes to pick me up
      in September. Never mind. I shall have plenty to do; and I can think of
      those dear ones at home, and of you all, in God's keeping, with perfect
      comfort. The Lifu people are in a more critical state than any others just
      now, otherwise I should probably stop at San Cristoval. A few years ago
      they were very wild&mdash;cannibals of course; but they are now building
      chapels, and thirsting for the living waters. What a privilege and
      responsibility to go to them as Christ's minister, to a people longing for
      the glad tidings of the Gospel of Peace. Samoan teachers have been for a
      good many years among them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot write now to dearest Aunty or Pena.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May God bless you and abundantly comfort you.... I think I see his dear
      face. I see him always.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Cho's wife had arrived in a cart at the College when her baby was a day
      old, so rapid is recovery with mothers in those climates. 'I saw the
      baby,' observes the journal, quite strong, not dark,&mdash;but I don't
      care for them till they can talk; on the contrary, I think them a great
      bore, especially in wooden houses, where a child with good lungs may
      easily succeed in keeping all the inhabitants awake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 12.&mdash;Settled that I stop at Lifu in the interval between the
      two voyages. I think Lifu wants me more than any other island just now.
      Some 15,000 or 20,000 stretching out their hands to God. The London
      Mission (Independent) sent Samoan teachers long ago, but no missionary,
      even after frequent applications. At last they applied personally to the
      Bishop, he being well known to them of old. I can't go for good, because I
      have of course to visit all these islands; but I shall try to spend all
      the time that I am not at sea or with boys in New Zealand, perhaps three
      months yearly, with them, till they can be provided with a regular
      clergyman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I shall have no letters from you till the return of the vessel to pick
      me up in September. But be sure you think of me as very happy and well
      cared for, though, I am glad to say, not a white man on the island; lots
      of work, but I shall take much exercise and see most of the inhabitants.
      The island is large, not so large as Bauro, but still large.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will say all that is kind to all relations, Buckerell, etc. Thank the
      dear old vicar for the spurs, and tell him that I had a battle royal the
      other day with a colonial steed, which backed into the bush, and kicked,
      and played the fool amazingly, till I considerably astonished him into a
      gallop, in the direction I wanted to go, by a vigorous application of the
      said spurs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless and keep you all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      A few days later he writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The "Southern Cross," returning to Lifu, will bring my letters; but
      unless a stray whaler comes to Lifu while I am there, on its way to
      Sydney, that will be the only exchange of letters. I am afraid this will
      be an increase of the trial of separation to you all, but it is not sent
      until you have learnt to do pretty well without me, and you will be
      comforted by knowing that this island of Lifu, with many inhabitants, is
      in a very critical state; that what it most wants is a missionary, and
      that as far as I am concerned, all the people will be very anxious to do
      all they can for me. I take a filter and some tea. We shall have yams,
      taro, cocoa-nuts, occasionally a bit of turtle, a fowl, or a bit of pork.
      So, you see, I shall live like an alderman; I mean, if I am to go to every
      part of the island, heathen and all. Perhaps 20,000 people, scattered over
      many miles. I say heathen and all, because only a very small number of the
      people now refuse to admit the new teaching. Samoans have been for some
      time on the island, and though, I dare say, their teaching has been very
      imperfect and only perhaps ten or fifteen people are baptized, they have
      chapels, and are far advanced beyond any of the islands except Nengone and
      Toke, always excepting Anaiteum. Hence it is thought the leaven may work
      quietly in the Solomon Islands without me, but that at Lifu they really
      require guidance. So now I have a parochial charge for three months of an
      island about twenty-five miles long and some sixteen or eighteen broad.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel that my letters, after so long an absence, may contain much to
      make me anxious, so that I shall not look with unmixed pleasure to my
      return to my great packet; yet I feel much less anxiety than you might
      imagine; I know well that you are in God's keeping, and that is enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After just touching at Nengone early in May the 'Southern Cross' went on
      to Lifu, and on landing, the Bishop and Mr. Patteson found a number of
      people ready to receive them, and to conduct them to the village, where
      the chief and a great number of people were drawn up in a half-circle to
      receive them. The young chief, Angadhohua, bowed and touched his hat, and
      taking Coley's hand, held it, and whispered, 'We will always live
      together.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By and by we will talk about it,' was the answer; and they were taken to
      a new house, belonging to one of the Samoans, built of lath plastered and
      thatch, with one large room and a lesser one at each of its angles. There
      the Bishop and Mr. Patteson sat on a chest, and seventy or eighty men
      squatted on mats, John Cho and the native teacher foremost. There was a
      five minutes' pause. Lifu was not yet familiar to Coley, who spoke it less
      well than he had spoken German, and John Cho said to him: 'Shall I tell
      them what you have said to me formerly?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He then explained that Mr. Patteson could only offer them a visit of three
      or four months, and would then have the charge of lads from 'dark isles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Silence again; then Angadhohua asked: 'Cannot you stop always?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are many difficulties which you cannot understand, which prevent
      me. Would you like me to shut the door which God has opened to so many
      dark lands?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no; but why not have the summer school here as well as the winter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because it does the lads good to see New Zealand, and because the Bishop,
      who knows better than I do, thinks it right.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And cannot we have a missionary?'
    </p>
    <p>
      However, they were forced to content themselves with all that could be
      granted to them, and it was further explained that Mr. Patteson would not
      supersede the native teachers, nor assume the direction of the Sunday
      services, only keep a school which any one might join who liked. This was
      felt to be only right in good faith to the London Mission, in order not to
      make dire confusion if they should be able to fill up the gap before the
      Church could.
    </p>
    <p>
      After sleeping in the house, Patteson produced the books that had been
      printed for them at St. John's.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would that you could have seen their delight! About two pages,
      indifferently printed, was all they had hitherto. Now they saw thirty-two
      clearly printed 8vo. pages of Bible History, sixteen of prayers, rubrics,
      &amp;c., eight of questions and answers. "You see," said I cunningly;
      "that we don't forget you during these months that I can't live among
      you."'
    </p>
    <p>
      They began reading at once, and crying, 'Excellent, exactly right, the
      very thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was thought good that some one from Lifu should join the Mission party
      and testify to their work, and on the invitation, the chief, Angadhohua, a
      bright youth of seventeen, volunteered to go. It was an unexampled thing
      that a chief should be permitted by his people to leave them, there was a
      public meeting about it, and a good deal of excitement, but it ended in
      Cho, as spokesman, coming forward with tears in his eyes, saying, 'Yes, it
      is right he should go, but bring him back soon. What shall we do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Patteson laid his hand on the young chief's shoulder, answering, 'God can
      guard him by sea as on land, and with His blessing we will bring him back
      safe to you. Let some of the chiefs go with him to protect him. I will
      watch over him, but you may choose whom you will to accompany him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So five chiefs were selected as a body-guard for the young Angadhohua, who
      was prince of all the isle, but on an insecure tenure, for the French, in
      New Caledonia, were showing a manifest inclination to annex the Loyalty
      group.
    </p>
    <p>
      The heavily loaded boat had a perilous strife with the surf before the
      ship was reached, and it was a very rough passage to Anaiteum, where some
      goods had to be left for Mr. Inglis, and he asked that four Fate visitors
      might be taken home. This was done, and Mr. Grordon was visited at
      Erromango on the way, and found well and prosperous.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Mai, the reception of Petere and Laure was ecstatic. There was a crowd
      on shore to meet them, and on the two miles' walk to the village parties
      met, hugged, and wept over them. At the village Mr. Patteson addressed the
      people for ten minutes, and Petere made an animated exposition of what he
      had learnt, and his speeches evidently had great effect. His younger
      brother and two little boys all came in his stead, and would form part of
      the winter school at Lifu.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Espiritu Santo boy, the dunce of the party, was set down at home, and
      the Banks Islanders were again found pleasant, honest, and courteous,
      thinking, as it appeared afterwards, that the white men were the departed
      spirits of deceased friends. A walk inland at Vanua Lava disclosed pretty
      villages nestling under banyan trees, one of them provided with a
      guest-chamber for visitors from other islands. Two boys, Sarawia and
      another, came away to be scholars at Lifu, as well as his masters in the
      language, of which he as yet scarcely knew anything, but which he
      afterwards found the most serviceable of all these various dialects.
    </p>
    <p>
      The 26th of May brought the vessel to Bauro, where poor old Iri was told
      of the death of his son, and had a long talk with Mr. Patteson, beginning
      with, 'Do you think I shall see him again?' It was a talk worth having,
      though it was purchased by spending a night in the house with the rats.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed as though the time were come for calling on the Baurese to cease
      to be passive, and sixty or seventy men and women having come together,
      Mr. Patteson told them that he did not mean to go on merely taking their
      boys to return them with heaps of fish-hooks and knives, but that, unless
      they cared for good teaching, to make them good and happy here and
      hereafter, he should not come like a trader or a whaler. That their sons
      should go backwards and forwards and learn, but to teach at home; and that
      they ought to build a holy house, where they might meet to pray to God and
      learn His will.
    </p>
    <p>
      Much of this was evidently distasteful, though they agreed to build a
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think,' he writes, 'that the trial stage of the work has arrived. This
      has less to attract outwardly than the first beginning of all, and as here
      they must take a definite part, they (the great majority who are not yet
      disposed to decide for good) are made manifest, and the difficulty of
      displacing evil customs is more apparent.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, these amiable, docile Baurese seemed to have little manliness or
      resolution of character, and Sumaro, a scholar of 1857, was especially
      disappointing, for he pretended to wish to come and learn at Lifu, but
      only in order to get a passage to Gera, where he deserted, and was well
      lectured for his deceit.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Gera people were much more warlike and turbulent, and seemed to have
      more substance in them, though less apt at learning. Patteson spent the
      night on shore at Perua, a subsidiary islet in the bay, sleeping in a kind
      of shed, upon two boards, more comfortably than was usual on these
      occasions. Showing confidence was one great point, and the want of safe
      anchorage in the bay was much regretted, because the people could not
      understand why the vessel would not come in, and thought it betokened
      mistrust. Many lads wished to join the scholars, but of those who were
      chosen, two were forced violently overboard by their friends, and only two
      eventually remained, making a total of twelve pupils for the winter school
      at Lifu, with five languages between them&mdash;seven with the addition of
      the Nengone and Lifu scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see,' writes Patteson on June 10, on the voyage, 'that our difficulty
      is in training and organising nations, raising them from heathenism to the
      life, morally and socially, of a Christian. This is what I find so hard.
      The communication of religious truth by word of mouth is but a small part
      of the work. The real difficulty is to do for them what parents do for
      their children, assist them to&mdash;nay, almost force upon them&mdash;the
      practical application of Christian doctrine. This descends to the smallest
      matters, washing, scrubbing, sweeping, all actions of personal
      cleanliness, introducing method and order, habits of industry, regularity,
      giving just notions of exchange, barter, trade, management of criminals,
      division of labour. To do all this and yet not interfere with the offices
      of the chief, and to be the model and pattern of it, who is sufficient for
      it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      On June 16, Mr. Patteson was landed at Lifu, for his residence there, with
      the five chiefs, his twelve boys, and was hospitably welcomed to the large
      new house by the Samoan. He and four boys slept in one of the corner
      rooms, the other eight lads in another, the Rarotongan teacher, Tutoo, and
      his wife in a third. The central room was parlour, school, and hall, and
      as it had four unglazed windows, and two doors opposite to each other, and
      the trade-wind always blowing, the state of affairs after daylight was
      much like that which prevailed in England when King Alfred invented
      lanterns, while in the latter end of June the days were, of course, as
      short as they could be on the tropic of Capricorn, so that Patteson got up
      in the dark at 5-30 in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      At 7 the people around dropped in for prayers, which he thought it better
      not to conduct till his position was more defined. Then came breakfast
      upon yams cooked by being placed in a pit lined with heated stones, with
      earth heaped over the top. Mr. and Mrs. Tutoo, with their white guest, sat
      at the scrap of a table, 'which, with a small stool, was the only thing on
      four legs in the place, except an occasional visitor in the shape of a
      pig.' Then followed school. Two hundred Lifu people came, and it was
      necessary to hold it in the chapel. One o'clock, dinner on yams, and very
      rarely on pig or a fowl, baked or rather done by the same process; and in
      the afternoon some reading and slate work with the twelve Melanesians, and
      likewise some special instruction to a few of the more promising Lifuites.
      At 6.30, another meal of yams, but this time Patteson had recourse to his
      private store of biscuit; and the evening was spent in talk, till bedtime
      at 9 or 9.30. It was a thorough sharing the native life; but after a few
      more experiments, it was found that English strength could not be kept up
      on an exclusive diet of yams, and the Loyalty Isles are not fertile. They
      are nothing but rugged coral, in an early stage of development; great
      ridges, upheaved, bare and broken, and here and there with pits that have
      become filled with soil enough to grow yams and cocoa-nuts.
    </p>
    <p>
      The yams&mdash;except those for five of the lads, whose maintenance some
      of the inhabitants had undertaken&mdash;were matter of purchase, and
      formed the means of instruction in the rules of lawful exchange. A fixed
      weight of yams were to constitute prepayment for a pair of trousers, a
      piece of calico, a blanket, tomahawk, or the like, and all this was agreed
      to, Cho being a great assistance in explaining and dealing with his
      people. But it proved very difficult to keep them up to bringing a
      sufficient supply, and as they had a full share of the universal spirit of
      haggling, the commissariat was a very harassing and troublesome business,
      and as to the boys, it was evident that the experiment was not successful.
      Going to New Zealand was seeing the world. Horses, cows, sheep, a town,
      soldiers, &amp;c., were to be seen there, whereas Lifu offered little that
      they could not see at home, and schooling without novelty was tedious.
      Indeed, the sight of civilised life, the being taken to church, the
      kindness of the friends around the College, were no slight engines in
      their education; but the Lifu people were not advanced enough to serve as
      an example&mdash;except that they had renounced the more horrible of their
      heathen habits. They were in that unsettled state which is peculiarly
      trying in the conversion of nations, when the old authoritative customs
      have been overthrown, and the Christian rules not established.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a good sign that the respect for the chief was not diminished. One
      evening an English sailor (for there turned out to be three whites on the
      island) who was employed in the sandal-wood trade was in the house
      conversing with Tutoo, when Angadhohua interrupted him, and he&mdash;in
      ignorance of the youth's rank&mdash;pushed him aside out of the way. The
      excitement was great. A few years previously the offender would have been
      killed on the spot, and as it was, it was only after apology and
      explanation of his ignorance that he was allowed to go free; but an escort
      was sent with him to a place twenty miles off lest any one should
      endeavour to avenge the insult, not knowing it had been forgiven.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many of the customs of these Loyalty Isles are very unhealthy, and the
      almost exclusive vegetable diet produced a low habit of body, that showed
      itself in all manner of scrofulous diseases, especially tumours, under
      which the sufferer wasted and died. Much of Patteson's time was taken up
      by applications from these poor creatures, who fancied him sure to heal
      them, and had hardly the power, certainly not the will, to follow his
      advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor had he any authority. He only felt himself there on sufferance till
      the promised deputation should come from Rarotonga from the London
      Mission, to decide whether the island should be reserved by them, or
      yielded to the Church. Meantime he says on Sunday:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tutoo has had a pretty hard day's work of it, poor fellow, and he is
      anything but strong. At 9.30 we all went to the chapel, which began by a
      hymn sung as roughly as possible, but having rather a fine effect from the
      fact of some 400 or 500 voices all singing in unison. Then a long
      extemporary prayer, then another hymn, then a sermon nearly an hour long.
      It ought not to have taken more than a quarter of an hour, but it was
      delivered very slowly, with endless repetitions, otherwise there was some
      order and arrangement about it. Another hymn brought the service to an end
      about 11. But his work was not done; school instantly succeeded in the
      same building, and though seven native teachers were working their
      classes, the burthen of it fell on him. School was concluded with a short
      extemporary prayer. At three, service again&mdash;hymn, prayer, another
      long sermon, hymn, and at last we were out of chapel, there being no more
      school.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' is the entry on another Sunday, 'little thought I of old
      that Sunday after Sunday I should frequent an Independent chapel. As for
      extemporary prayer not being a form, that is absurd. These poor fellows
      just repeat their small stock of words over and over again, and but that
      they are evidently in earnest, it would seem shockingly irreverent
      sometimes. Most extravagant expressions! Tutoo is a very simple,
      humble-minded man, and I like him much. He would feel the help and
      blessing of a Prayer-book, poor fellow, to be a guide to him; but even the
      Lord's Prayer is never heard among them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So careful was Mr. Patteson not to offend the men who had first worked on
      these islands, that on one Sunday when Tutoo was ill, he merely gave a
      skeleton of a sermon to John Cho to preach. On the 27th of July, however,
      the deputation arrived in the 'John Williams'&mdash;two ministers, and Mr.
      Creagh on his way back to Nengone, and the upshot of the conference on
      board, after a dinner in the house of Apollo, the native teacher, was that
      as they had no missionary for Lifu, they made no objection to Mr. Patteson
      working there at present, and that if in another year they received no
      reinforcement from home, they would take into consideration the making
      over their teachers to him. 'My position is thus far less anomalous, my
      responsibility much increased. God will, I pray and trust, strengthen me
      to help the people and build them up in the faith of Christ.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 2.&mdash;Yesterday I preached my two first Lifu sermons; rather
      nervous, but I knew I had command of the language enough to explain my
      meaning, and I thought over the plan of my sermons and selected texts.
      Fancy your worthy son stuck up in a pulpit, without any mark of the
      clergyman save white tie and black coat, commencing service with a hymn,
      then reading the second chapter of St. Matthew, quite new to them, then a
      prayer, extemporary, but practically working in, I hope, the principle and
      much of the actual language of the Prayer-book&mdash;i.e. Confession,
      prayer for pardon, expression of belief and praise&mdash;then another
      hymn, the sermon about forty minutes. Text: "I am the Way," &amp;c.
      Afternoon: "Thy Word is a lantern unto my feet."
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can easily understand how it was simple work to point out that a man
      lost his way by his sin, and was sent out from dwelling with God; the
      recovery of the way by which we may again return to Paradise is
      practically the one great event which the whole Bible is concerned in
      teaching. The subject admitted of any amount of illustration and any
      amount of reference to the great facts of Scripture history, and
      everything converges to the Person of Christ. I wish them to see clearly
      the great points&mdash;first, God's infinite love, and the great facts by
      which He has manifested His Love from the very first, till the coming of
      Christ exhibited most clearly the infinite wisdom and love by which man's
      return to Paradise has been effected.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Significant is that one word to the thief on the Cross "Paradise." The
      way open again; the guardian angel no longer standing with flaming sword
      in the entrance; admission to the Tree of Life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The services were much shorter than usual, chiefly because I don't
      stammer and bungle, and take half an hour to read twenty verses of the
      Bible, and also because I discarded all the endless repetitions and
      unmeaning phrases, which took up half the time of their unmeaning
      harangues. About an hour sufficed for the morning-service; the evening one
      might have been a little longer. I feel quite at my ease while preaching,
      and John told me it was all very clear; but the prayers&mdash;oh! I did
      long for one of our Common Prayer-books.'
    </p>
    <p>
      One effect of the Independent system began to reveal itself strongly. How
      could definite doctrines be instilled into the converts by teachers with
      hardly any books, and no formula to commit to memory? What was the faith
      these good Samoans knew and taught?
    </p>
    <p>
      'No doctrinal belief exists among them,' writes Patteson, in the third
      month of his stay. 'A man for years has been associated with those who are
      called "the people that seek Baptism." He comes to me:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. G. P. 'Who instituted baptism?
    </p>
    <p>
      'A. Jesus.
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. G. P. And He sent His Apostles to baptize in the Name of Whom?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dead silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Why do you wish to be baptized?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"To live."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"All that Jesus has done for us, and given to us, and taught us, is for
      that object. What is the particular benefit we receive in baptism?" 'No
      conception.' Such is their state.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would not hesitate if I thought there were any implicit recognition of
      the doctrine of the Trinity; but I can't baptize people morally good who
      don't know the Name into which they are to be baptized, who can't tell me
      that Jesus is God and man. There is a lad who soon must die of
      consumption, whom I now daily examine. He has not a notion of any truth
      revealed from above, and to be embraced and believed as truth upon the
      authority of God's Word. A kind of vague morality is the substitute for
      the Creed of the Apostles. What am I to do? I did speak out for three days
      consecutively pretty well, but I am alone, and only here for four months,
      and yet, I fear, I am expecting too much from them, and that I ought to be
      content with something much less as the (so to speak) qualifications; but
      surely they ought to repent and believe. To say the word, "I believe,"
      without a notion of what they believe, surely that won't do. They must be
      taught, and then baptized, according to our Lord's command, suited for
      adults.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Constant private teaching to individuals was going on, and the 250 copies
      of the Lifu primer were dispersed where some thousands were wanted, and
      Mr. Patteson wrote a little book of sixteen pages, containing the
      statement of the outlines of the faith, and of Scripture history; but this
      could not be dispersed till it had been printed in New Zealand.
    </p>
    <p>
      And in the meantime a fresh element of perplexity was arising. The French
      had been for some time past occupying New Caledonia, and a bishop had been
      sent thither about the same time as Bishop Selwyn had gone to New Zealand;
      but though an earnest and hardworking man, he had never made much
      progress. He had the misfortune of being connected in the people's minds
      with French war ships and aggression, and, moreover, the South Sea race
      seem to have a peculiar distaste for the Roman Catholic branch of the
      Church, for which it is not easy to account.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Loyalty Isles, as lying so near to New Caledonia, were tempting to the
      French Empire, and the Bishop at the same time felt it his duty to attempt
      their conversion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some priests had been placed at the north end of the island for about six
      months past, but the first communication was a letter on July 6,
      complaining, partly in French, partly in English, that since Mr.
      Patteson's arrival, the people had been making threatening reports. Now
      Mr. Patteson had from the first warned them against showing any unkindness
      to the French priests, and he wrote a letter of explanation, and arranged
      to go and hold a conference. On the way, while supping with the English
      sailor, at the village where he was to sleep, he heard a noise, and found
      the Frenchman, Pere Montrouzier, had arrived. He was apparently about
      forty; intelligent, very experienced in mission work, and conversant with
      the habits and customs of French and English in the colonies; moreover,
      with plenty of firmness in putting forward his cause. He seems to have
      been supported by the State in a manner unusual with French missions.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had one point only that I was determined to press (Patteson says),
      namely, liberty to the people to follow any form of religion they might
      choose to adopt. I knew that they and I were completely in his power, yet
      that my line was to assume that we were now about to arrange our plans for
      the future independently of any interference from the civil power.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He let me see that he knew he could force upon the Lifu people whatever
      he pleased, the French Government having promised him any number of
      soldiers he may send for to take possession, if necessary, of the island.
      They have 1,000 men in New Caledonia, steamers and frigates of war; and he
      told me plainly that this island and Nengone are considered as natural
      appendages of New Caledonia, and practically French possessions already,
      so that, of course, to attempt doing more than secure for the people a
      religious liberty is out of the question. He promised me that if the
      people behaved properly to him and his people, he would not send for the
      soldiers, nor would he do anything to interfere with the existing state of
      the island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He will not himself remain here long, being commissioned, in consequence
      of his fourteen years' experience, to prepare the way for the French
      mission here. He told me that twenty missionaries are coming out for this
      group, about seven or eight of whom will be placed on Lifu, others on
      Nengone, &amp;c.; that the French Government is determined to support
      them; that the Commandant of Nimia in New Caledonia had sent word to him
      that any number of men should be sent to him at an instant's notice, in a
      war steamer, to do what he might wish in Lifu, but that honestly he would
      do nothing to compel the people here to embrace Romanism; but that if
      necessary he would use force to establish the missionaries in houses in
      different parts of the island, if the chiefs refused to sell them parcels
      of land, for instance, one acre. The captain of the "Iris," an English
      frigate, called on him on Monday, and sent me a letter by him, making it
      quite clear that the French will meet with no opposition from the English
      Government. He too knew this, and of course knew his power; but he
      behaved, I must say, well, and if he is really sincere about the liberty
      of religion question, I must be satisfied with the result of our talk. I
      was much tired. We slept together on a kind of bed in an unfurnished
      house, where I was so cold that I could not sleep; besides, my head ached
      much; so my night was not a very pleasant one. In the morning we resumed
      our talk, but the business was over really. The question that we had
      discussed the evening before was brought to an issue, however, by his
      requiring from John Cho, who was with us, permission to buy about an acre
      of land in his territory. John was much staggered at this. It looked to
      him like a surrender of his rights. I told him, at great length, why I
      thought he must consent; but finally it was settled, that as John is not
      the real chief, I should act as interpreter for the Frenchmen; and send
      him from Mu an answer to a letter which he addresses to me, but which is,
      in fact, intended for the chief.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is, I suppose, true, that civilised nations do not acknowledge the
      right of a chief to prevent any one of his subjects from selling a plot of
      his land to a foreigner unless they may be at war with that particular
      nation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He said that France would not allow a savage chief to say "My custom in
      this respect is different from yours;" and again, "This is not a taking
      possession. It is merely requiring the right to put up a cottage for which
      I pay the just price." He told me plainly, if the chiefs did not allow him
      to do so, he would send for soldiers and put it up by force; but not use
      the soldiers for any other purpose. Of course I shall relate all this to
      Angadhohua at Mu, and make them consent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He told me that at New Caledonia they had reserved inalienably one-tenth
      of the land for the natives, that the rest would be sold to French
      colonists of the poor class, no one possessing more than ten acres; that
      5,000 convicts would be sent there, and the ticket-of-leave system
      adopted, and that he thought the worst and most incorrigible characters
      would be sent to Lifu. Poor John! But I can't help him; he must make such
      terms as he can, for he and his people are wholly in their power.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our talk being ended, I found a great circle of men assembled on the
      outside with a pile of yams as usual in the centre for me. I was glad to
      see a small pile also for the Frenchman. I made my speech in his presence,
      but he knows not Lifu. "Be kind to the French, give them food and lodging.
      This is a duty which you are bound to pay to all men; but if they try to
      persuade you to change the teaching which you have received, don't listen
      to them. Who taught you to leave off war and evil habits, to build
      chapels, to pray? Remember that. Trust the teachers who have taught you
      the Word of God."
    </p>
    <p>
      'This was the kind of thing I said. Then off we set&mdash;two miles of
      loose sand at a rattling pace, as I wanted to shake off some 200 people
      who were crowding about me. Then turning to the west, climbed some coral
      rocks very quickly, and found myself with only half my own attendants, and
      no strangers. Sat down, drank a cocoa-nut, and waited a long time for
      John, who can't walk well, and then quietly went on the remaining eight or
      nine miles to Zebedee's place, a Samoan teacher. They were very attentive,
      and gave me some supper. They had a bed, which was, of course, given up to
      me in spite of opposition. They regard a missionary as something
      superhuman almost. Sometimes I can't make them eat and drink with me; they
      think it would be presumptuous. Large meeting of people in the afternoon,
      and again the following morning, to whom I said much what I had already
      said at We. Then fifteen miles over to Apollo's place on the west coast, a
      grand bay, with perfectly calm water, delicious in the winter months.
      Comfortable quarters; Apollo a cleverish, free-spoken fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I went, on the same afternoon, two miles of very bad road to visit the
      French priest, who is living here. More talk and of a very friendly
      nature. He has been eighteen months at San Cristoval, but knows not the
      language; at Woodlark Island, New Caledonia, &amp;c. We talked in French
      and English. He knows English fairly, but preferred to talk French. This
      day's work was nineteen miles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Slept at Apollo's. Next morning went a little way in canoes and walked six
      miles to Toma's place; meeting held, speech as usual, present of yams,
      pig, &amp;c. Walked back the six miles, started in double canoe for
      Gaicha, the other side of the bay: wind cold, some difficulty in getting
      ashore. Walked by the bad path to Apollo's and slept there again;
      Frenchman came in during the evening. Next day, Friday, meeting in the
      chapel. Walked twenty miles back to We, where I am now writing. Went the
      twenty miles with no socks; feet sore and shoes worn to pieces, cutting
      off leather as I came along. Nothing but broken bottles equals jagged
      coral. Paths went so that you never take three steps in the same
      direction, and every minute trip against logs, coral hidden by long
      leaves, arid weeds trailing over the path. Often for half a mile you jump
      from one bit of coral to another. No shoes can stand it, and I was tired,
      I assure you. Indeed, for the last two days, if I stopped for a minute to
      drink a nut, my legs were so stiff that they did not get into play for
      five minutes or so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 16th.&mdash;The captain of the "Iris" frigate passing Lifu dropped
      me a line which satisfied me that the French will meet with no impediment
      from the English Government in the prosecution of their plans out here.
      Well, this makes one's own path just as easy, because all these things,
      great and small, are ordered for us; but yet I grieve to think that we
      might be occupying these groups with missionaries. Even ten good men would
      do for a few years; and is it unreasonable to think that ten men might be
      found willing to engage in such a happy work in such a beautiful part of
      the world&mdash;no yellow fever, no snakes, &amp;c. I think of the Banks
      Islands, Vanua Lava, with its harbour and streams, and abundance of food,
      and with eight or nine small islands round it, speaking the same language,
      few dialectic differences of consequence, as I believe.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Even one good man might introduce religion here as we have received it,
      pure and undefiled. Oh! that there were men who could believe this, and
      come out unconditionally, placing themselves in the Bishop's hands
      unreservedly. He must know the wants and circumstances of the islands far
      better than they can, and therefore no man ought to stipulate as to his
      location, &amp;c. Did the early teachers do so? Did Titus ever think of
      saying to St. Paul, "Mind I must be an elder, or bishop, or whatever he
      was, of Crete?" Just as if that frame of mind was compatible with a real
      desire to do what little one can by God's help to bring the heathen to a
      knowledge of Christ.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At this moment, one man for the Banks group and another for Mai and the
      neighbouring islands would be invaluable. If anything occurs to make me
      leave these Loyalty Islands as my residence during a part of the year, I
      am off to Banks, or Mai, or Solomon Isles. But what am I? In many respects
      not so well qualified for the work as many men who yet, perhaps, have had
      a less complete education. I know nothing of mechanics, and can't teach
      common things; I am not apt to teach anything, I fear, having so long
      deferred to learn the art of teaching, but of course exposing one's own
      shortcomings is easy enough. How to get the right sort of men? First
      qualification is common-sense, guided, of course, by religious principle.
      Some aptitude for languages, but that is of so little consequence that I
      would almost say no one was sufficient by itself as a qualification. Of
      course the mission work tends immensely to improve all earnest men; the
      eccentricities and superfluities disappear by degrees as the necessary
      work approves itself to the affection and intellect.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The French question resulted in a reply in Angadhohua's name, that the
      people should be permitted to sell ground where the mission required it;
      and that in the one place specified about which there was contention, the
      land should be ceded as a gift from the chiefs. 'This,' observes Mr.
      Patteson, 'is the first negotiation which has been thrust upon me. I more
      than suspect I have made considerable blunders.'
    </p>
    <p>
      By the 13th of August, he had to walk over the coral jags for another
      consultation with Pere Montrouzier, whose negotiation with Cho had
      resulted in thorough misunderstanding, each thinking the other was
      deceiving him, and not dealing according to promise to Mr. Patteson. The
      Pere had, in his fourteen years' experience, imbibed a great distrust of
      the natives, and thought Mr. Patteson placed too much confidence in them,
      while the latter thought him inclined to err the other way; however,
      matters were accommodated, at heavy cost to poor Coley's feet. A second
      pair of shoes were entirely cut to pieces, and he could not put any on the
      next day, his feet were so blistered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The troubles were not ended, for when the ground was granted, there
      followed a stipulation that the chiefs should not hinder the men from
      working at the building; and when the men would not work, the chiefs were
      suspected of preventing it, and a note from Pere Montrouzier greatly
      wounded Patteson's feelings by calling John Cho faux et artificieux.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, after another note, he retracted this, and a day or two after
      came the twenty miles over the coral to make a visit to the English
      clergyman. 'There is much to like in him: a gentleman, thoroughly well
      informed, anxious of course to discuss controversial points, and
      uncommonly well suited for that kind of work, he puts his case well and
      clearly, and, of course, it is easy to make their system appear most
      admirably adapted for carrying out all the different duties of a Church,
      as it is consistent in all, or nearly all, particulars, given the one or
      two leading points on which all depend. The Church of England here is very
      much in the position of any one of those other bodies, Wesleyan,
      Independent, or Presbyterian; and though we have a Bishop at the head&mdash;of
      what, however? Of one individual clergyman! Oh, that we had now a good
      working force&mdash;twenty or thirty men with some stuff in them; and
      there are plenty if they would only come. Meanwhile, France sends plenty
      of men; steamers bring them houses, cows for themselves and as presents
      for natives&mdash;supports the missionary in every way. New Caledonia is
      handy for the central school, everything almost that can be requisite.
      Never mind; work on, one small life is a mighty trifling thing considered
      with reference to those great schemes overruled by God to bring out of
      them great ultimate good, no doubt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an interchange of books between the French and English priest.
      Pere Montrouzier lent, and finally gave, Martinet's 'Solution de Grands
      Problemes,' which Patteson calls 'a very interesting book, with a great
      deal of dry humour about it, not unlike Newman's more recent publications.
      "It is," he (Montrouzier) says, "thought very highly of in France." He is
      a well-read man, I should imagine, in his line; and that is pretty
      extensive, for he is a really scientific naturalist, something of a
      geologist, a good botanist, besides having a good acquaintance with
      ecclesiastical literature.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was the more time for recreation with the Pere's French books, and
      the serious work of translating St. Mark's Grospel and part of the Litany
      into Lifu, as the inhabitants were all called off from school in the
      middle of August 'by a whale being washed ashore over a barrier reef&mdash;not
      far from me. All the adjacent population turned out in grass kilts, with
      knives and tomahawks to hack off chunks of flesh to be eaten, and of
      blubber to be boiled into oil; and in the meantime the neighbourhood was
      by no means agreeable to anyone possessing a nose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Sarawia, the best of the Banks pupils, had a swelling on the
      knee, and required care and treatment, but soon got better. Medical
      knowledge, as usual, Patteson felt one of the great needs of missionary
      life. Cases of consumption and scrofula were often brought to him, and
      terrible abscesses, under which the whole body wasted away. 'Poor people!'
      he writes, 'a consumptive hospital looms in the far perspective of my
      mind; a necessary accompaniment, I feel now, of the church and the school
      in early times. I wish I could contrive some remedy for the dry food,
      everything being placed between leaves and being baked on the ground,
      losing all the gravy; and when you get a chicken it is a collection of dry
      strings. If I could manage boiling; but there is nothing like a bit of
      iron for fire-place on the island, and to keep up the wood fire in the
      bush under the saucepan is hard work. I must commence a more practical
      study than hitherto of "Robinson Crusoe," and the "Swiss Family." Why does
      no missionary put down hints on the subject? My three months here will
      teach me more than anything that has happened to me, and I dare say I
      shall get together the things I want most when next I set forth from New
      Zealand.... I find it a good plan to look on from short periods to short
      periods, and always ask, what next? And at last it brings one to the real
      answer:&mdash;Work as hard as you can, and that rest which lacks no
      ingredient of perfect enjoyment and peace will come at last.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the needs he discovered was this:&mdash;'By the bye, good cheap
      Bible prints would be very useful; large, so as to be seen by a large
      class, illustrating just the leading ideas. Schnorr's Bible prints by Rose
      and Bingen are something of the kind that I mean, something quite rude
      will do. Twenty-four subjects, comprising nothing either conventional or
      symbolical, would be an endless treasure for teachers; the intervening
      history would be filled up and illustrated by smaller pictures, but these
      would be pegs on which to hang the great events these lads ought to know.
      Each should be at least twenty-four inches by ten.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Try to remember, in the choice of any other picture books for them, that
      anything that introduces European customs is no use yet. Pictures of
      animals are the best things. One or two of a railway, a great bridge, a
      view of the Thames with steamers rushing up and down, would all do; but
      all our habits of social life are so strange that they don't interest them
      yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I next reach Auckland, I suppose my eyes will rejoice at seeing your
      dear old likenesses. When we build our permanent central school-house at
      Kohimarama, I shall try to get a little snuggery, and then furnish it with
      a few things comfortably; I shall then invest in a chest of drawers, as I
      dare say my clothes are getting tired of living in boxes since March 1855.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can hardly tell you how much I regret not knowing something about the
      treatment of simple surgical cases. If when with W&mdash;&mdash; I had
      studied the practical&mdash;bled, drawn teeth, mixed medicines, rolled
      legs perpetually, it would have been worth something. Surely I might have
      foreseen all this! I really don't know how to find the time or the
      opportunity for learning. How true it is that men require to be trained
      for their particular work! I am now just in a position to know what to
      learn were I once more in England. Spend one day with old Fry (mason),
      another with John Venn (carpenter), and two every week at the Exeter
      hospital, and not look on and see others work&mdash;there's the mischief,
      do it oneself. Make a chair, a table, a box; fit everything; help in every
      part of making and furnishing a house, that is, a cottage. Do enough of
      every part to be able to do the whole. Begin by felling a tree; saw it
      into planks, mix the lime, see the right proportion of sand, &amp;c., know
      how to choose a good lot of timber, fit handles for tools, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Many trades need not be attempted; but every missionary ought to be a
      carpenter, a mason, something of a butcher, and a good deal of a cook.
      Suppose yourself without a servant, and nothing for dinner to-morrow but
      some potatoes in the barn, and a fowl running about in the yard. That's
      the kind of thing for a young fellow going into a new country to imagine
      to himself. If a little knowledge of glazing could be added, it would be a
      grand thing, just enough to fit in panes to window-frames, which last, of
      course, he ought to make himself. Much of this cannot be done for you. I
      can buy window-frames in Auckland, and glass; but I can't carry a man a
      thousand miles in my pocket to put that glass into these frames; and if it
      is done in New Zealand, ten to one it gets broken on the voyage; whereas,
      glass by itself will pack well. Besides, a pane gets broken, and then I am
      in a nice fix. To know how to tinker a bit is a good thing; else your only
      saucepan or tea-kettle may be lying by you useless for months. In fact, if
      I had known all this before, I should be just ten times as useful as I am
      now. If anyone you know thinks of emigrating or becoming a missionary,
      just let him remember this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To these humble requisites, it appears that a missionary ought on occasion
      to be able to add those of a prime minister and lawgiver. Angadhohua, a
      bright, clever lad, only too easily led, was to be instructed in the
      duties of a chief; Mr. Patteson scrupulously trying in vain to make him
      understand that he was a person of far more consideration and
      responsibility than his white visitor would be in his own country. The
      point was to bring the Christian faith into connection with life and
      government. 'Much talk have I had with John in order that we may try to
      put before them the true grounds on which they ought to embrace
      Christianity,' writes Mr. Patteson, when about to visit a heathen district
      which had shown an inclination to abandon their old customs, 'and also the
      consequences to which they pledge themselves by the profession of a
      religion requiring purity, regularity, industry, &amp;c., but I have
      little doubt that our visit now will result in the nominal profession of
      Christianity by many heathen. Angadhohua, John, and I go together, and
      Isaka, a Samoan teacher who has been a good deal among them. I shall make
      an arrangement for taking one of their leading men to New Zealand with me,
      that he may get some notion of what is meant by undertaking to become a
      Christian. It is in many respects a great benefit to be driven back upon
      the very first origin of a Christian society; one sees more than ever the
      necessity of what our Lord has provided, a living organised community into
      which the baptized convert being introduced falls into his place, as it
      were, naturally; sees around him everything at all times to remind him
      that he is a regenerate man, that all things are become new. A man in
      apostolic times had the lessons of the Apostles and disciples practically
      illustrated in the life of those with whom he associated. The church was
      an expression of the verbal teaching committed to its ministers. How
      clearly the beauty of this comes out when one is forced to feel the
      horrible blank occasioned by the absence of the living teacher,
      influencing, moulding, building up each individual professor of
      Christianity by a process always going on, though oftentimes unconsciously
      to him on whom it operates.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But how is the social life to be fashioned here in Lifu according to the
      rule of Christ? There is no organised body exemplifying in daily actions
      the teaching of the Bible. A man goes to chapel and hears something most
      vague and unmeaning. He has never been taught to grasp anything distinctly&mdash;to
      represent any truth to his mind as a settled resting-place for his faith.
      Who is to teach him? What does he see around him to make him imperceptibly
      acquire new habits in conformity with the Bible? Is the Christian
      community distinguished by any habits of social order and intercourse
      different from non-Christians?
    </p>
    <p>
      'True, they don't fight and eat one another now, but beyond that are they
      elevated as men? The same dirt, the same houses, the same idle vicious
      habits; in most cases no sense of decency, or but very little. Where is
      the expression of the Scriptural life? Is it not a most lamentable state
      of things? And whence has it arisen? From not connecting Christian
      teaching in church with the improvement in social life in the hut and
      village, which is the necessary corollary and complement of such teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By God's grace, I trust that some little simple books in Lifu will soon
      be in their houses, which may be useful. It is even a cause for
      thankfulness that in a few days (for the "Southern Cross" ought to be here
      in a week with 500 more copies) some 600 or more copies, in large type, of
      the Lord's Prayer, Creed, and Ten Commandments will be in circulation; but
      they won't use them yet. They won't be taught to learn them by heart, and
      be questioned upon them; yet they may follow by and by. Hope on is the
      rule. Give them the Bible, is the cry; but you must give them the forms of
      faith and prayer which Christendom has accepted, to guide them; and oh!
      that we were so united that we could baptize them into a real living
      exemplification, and expression&mdash;an embodiment of Christian truth,
      walking, sleeping, eating and drinking before their eyes. Christ Himself
      was that on earth, and His Church ought to be now. These men saw to accept
      His teaching was to bind themselves to a certain course of life which was
      exhibited before their own eyes. Hence, multitudes approved His teaching,
      but would not accept it&mdash;would not profess it, because they saw what
      was involved in that profession. But now men don't count the cost; they
      forget that "If any man come to Me" is followed by "Which of you intending
      to build a tower," &amp;c. Hence the great and exceeding difficulty in
      these latter days when Christianity is popular!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In this state of things it was impossible to baptize adults till they had
      come to a much clearer understanding of what a Christian ought to do and
      to believe; and therefore Coley's only christenings in Lifu were of a few
      dying children, whom he named after his brother and sisters, as he
      baptized them with water, brought in cocoa-nut shells, having taught
      himself to say by heart his own translation of the baptismal form.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wrote the following letter towards the end of his stay:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 6, 1858: Lifu, Loyalty Islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Miss Neill,&mdash;The delay of four or five days in the arrival
      of the "Southern Cross" gives me a chance of writing you a line. The
      Bishop dropped me here this day three months, and told me to look out for
      him on September 1. As New Zealand is 1,000 miles off, and he can't
      command winds and waves, of course I allow him a wide margin; and I begged
      him not to hurry over my important business in New Zealand in order to
      keep his appointment exactly. But his wont is to be very punctual. I have
      here twelve lads from the north-west islands: from seven islands, speaking
      six languages. The plan of bringing them to a winter school in some
      tropical isle is now being tried. The only difficulty here is that Lifu is
      so large and populous; and just now (what with French priests on it, and
      the most misty vague kind of teaching from Independents the only thing to
      oppose to the complete machinery of the Romish system) demands so much
      time, that it is difficult to do justice to one's lads from the distant
      lands that are living with one here. The Bishop had an exaggerated notion
      of the population here. I imagine it to be somewhere about 8,000. The
      language is not very hard, but has quite enough difficulty to make it more
      than a plaything: the people in that state when they venerate a missionary&mdash;a
      very dangerous state; I do my best to turn the reverence into the right
      channel and towards its proper object.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will see by the last Melanesian report of which I desired a copy to
      be sent to you, that our work is very rapidly increasing; that openings
      are being made in all directions; and that had we men of trust, we could
      occupy them at once. As it is, we keep up a communication with some
      seventy-four islands, waiting, if it may be, that men may be sent, trying
      to educate picked men to be teachers; but I am not very sanguine about
      that. At all events, the first flush of savage customs, &amp;c., is being,
      I trust, removed, so that for some other body of Christians, if not the
      Church of England, the door may be laid open.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course, the interest of the work is becoming more and more absorbing;
      so that, much as there is indeed going on in your world to distract and
      grieve one, it comes to me so weakened by time and distance that I don't
      sympathise as I ought with those who are suffering so dreadfully from the
      Indian Mutiny, or the commercial failure, or the great excitement and
      agitation of the country. You can understand how this can be, perhaps; for
      my actual present work leaves me small leisure for reflecting, and for
      placing myself in the position of others at a distance; and when I have a
      moment's time surely it is right that I should be in heart at Feniton,
      with those dear ones, and especially my dear dear father, of whom I have
      not heard for five months, so that I am very anxious as to what account of
      him the "Southern Cross" may bring, and try to prepare myself for news of
      increased illness, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You, I imagine, my dear Miss Neill, are not much changed to those who see
      you day by day; but I should find you much weaker in body than when I saw
      you last, and yet it did not seem then as if you had much strength to
      lose: I don't hear of any sudden changes, or any forms of illness; the
      gradual exhausting process is going on, but accompanied, I fear, with even
      greater active pain than of old; your sufferings are indeed very severe
      and very protracted, a great lesson to us all. Yet you have much, even
      speaking only of worldly comfort, which makes your position a much happier
      one than that of the poor suffering souls whom I see here. Their house is
      one round room, a log burning in the centre, no chimney, the room full of
      smoke, common receptacle of men, women, boys, girls, pigs, and fowls. In
      the corner a dying woman or child. No water in the island that is fresh, a
      few holes in the coral where water accumulates, more or less brackish; no
      cleanliness, no quiet, no cool fresh air, hot smoky atmosphere, no proper
      food, a dry bit of yam, and no knowledge of a life to come: such is the
      picture of the invalided or dying South Sea Islander. All dying children
      under years of discretion I baptize, and all the infants brought to the
      chapel by parents who themselves are seeking baptism; but I have not
      baptized any adults yet, they must be examined and taught for some time,
      for the Samoan and Rarotongan teachers sent by the Independent
      missionaries are very imperfectly instructed and quite incapable of
      conveying definite teaching to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't see, humanly speaking, how this island is to be kept from
      becoming purely Roman Catholic. They have a large staff of men, and are
      backed up by the presence of a complete government establishment in New
      Caledonia, only two or three days distant, while what have we? Four months
      a year of the time, partially otherwise occupied by Melanesian schools, of
      one missionary, and while here these four months, I have my lads from many
      islands to teach, so that I can't lay myself out to learn this one
      language, &amp;c. I am writing this on September 16. "Southern Cross" not
      yet come, and my lads very anxious; I confess I should like to see it, not
      only (as you will believe) because all my stores are gone. I have not a
      morsel of biscuit or grain of sugar left, and am reduced to native fare,
      which does not suit my English constitution for very long. Yams and taro,
      and a fowl now and then, will be my food until the ship comes. Hitherto I
      have had coffee and biscuits in addition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My very kind love to Mrs. S &mdash;&mdash;, and many thanks for the
      letters, which I much enjoy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your very affectionate old pupil,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The whole of September passed without the arrival of the 'Southern Cross.'
      The fact was that after Mr. Patteson had been left at Lifu, the vessel
      when entering Port-au-France, New Caledonia, had come upon a coral reef,
      and the damage done to her sheathing was so serious that though she
      returned to Auckland from that trip, she could not sail again without
      fresh coppering; and as copper had to be brought from Sydney for the
      purpose, there was considerable delay before she could set forth again, so
      that it was not till the last day of September that she gladdened
      Patteson's eyes, and brought the long-desired tidings from home.
    </p>
    <p>
      This voyage was necessarily short, as there were appointments to be kept
      by the Bishop in New Zealand in November, and all that could be aimed at
      was the touching at the more familiar islands for fresh instalments of
      scholars. The grand comet of 1858 was one feature of this expedition&mdash;which
      resulted in bringing home forty-seven Melanesians, so that with the crew,
      there were sixty-three souls on board during the homeward voyage!
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you may suppose, the little "Southern Cross" is cram full, but the
      Bishop's excellent arrangements in the construction of the vessel for
      securing ventilation, preserve us from harm by God's blessing. Every day a
      thorough cleaning and sweeping goes on, and frequent washing, and as all
      beds turn up like the flap of a table, and some thirty lads sleep on the
      floor on mats and blankets, by 7 A.M. all traces of the night arrangements
      have vanished. The cabin looks and feels airy; meals go on regularly; the
      boys living chiefly on yams, puddings, and cocoa-nuts, and plenty of
      excellent biscuit. We laid in so many cocoa-nuts that they have daily one
      apiece, a great treat to them. A vessel of this size, unless arranged with
      special reference to such objects, could not carry safely so large a
      party, but we have nothing on board to create, conceal, or accumulate
      dirt; no hold, no storeroom, no place where a mixed mess of spilt flour,
      and sugar, and treacle, and old rotten potatoes, and cocoa-nut parings and
      bits of candle, can all be washed together into a dark foul hold; hence
      the whole ship, fore and aft, is sweet and clean. Stores are kept in zinc
      lockers puttied down, and in cedar boxes lined with zinc. We of course
      distribute them ourselves; a hired steward would be fatal, because you
      can't get a servant to see the importance of care in such details.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Patteson always, in the most careful manner, paid respect both to the
      chief's person and his dicta. He declined more than once to give
      directions which he said ought to issue from the chief, although on one of
      these occasions he was asked by the chief himself. He foresaw clearly the
      evils that might follow if the people's respect for recognised authority
      were weakened, instead of being, as it might be, turned to useful account.
      And so he always accorded to John Cho, and to other persons of rank when
      they were with us in the Mission school, just such respect as they were
      accustomed to receive at the hands of their own people. For instance, he
      would always use to a moderate extent the chief's language in addressing
      John Cho or any other of the Loyalty chiefs; and it being a rule of theirs
      that no one in the presence of the chiefs should ever presume to sit down
      higher than the chiefs, he would always make a point of attending to it as
      regarded himself; and once or twice when, on shore in the islands, the
      chief had chosen to squat down on the ground among the people, he would
      jocularly leave the seat that had been provided for him, and place himself
      by the chief's side on the ground. All this was keenly appreciated as
      significant, but alas! the Loyalty Islanders were not long to remain under
      his charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ensuing letter was written to Sir John Taylor Coleridge, after
      learning the tidings of his retirement from the Bench in the packet of
      intelligence brought by the vessel:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'November 10, 1858: Lat. 31° 29' S.; Long. 171° 12' E.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Uncle John,&mdash;I see by the papers that you have actually
      resigned, and keep your connection with the judges only as a Privy
      Councillor. I am of course on my own account heartily glad that you will
      be near my dear father for so many months of the year, and you are very
      little likely to miss your old occupation much, with your study at Heath's
      Court, so I shall often think of you in summer sitting out on the lawn, by
      John's Pinus excelsis, and in winter in your armchair by the fire, and no
      doubt you will often find your way over to Feniton. And then you have a
      glorious church!.... Oh! I do long for a venerable building and for the
      sound of ancient chants and psalms. At times, the Sunday is specially a
      day on which my mind will go back to the old country, but never with any
      wish to return. I have never experienced that desire, and think nothing
      but absolute inability to help on a Melanesian or a Maori will ever make a
      change in that respect. I feel as certain as I can be of anything that I
      should not be half as happy in England as I am in New Zealand, or in Lifu,
      in the Banks or Solomon Islands, &amp;c. I like the life and the people,
      everything about it and them....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Coppering the schooner caused delay, so that he (the Bishop) could give
      but two months instead of three to the Island voyage, for he starts on
      November 25 for a three months' Confirmation tour (1,000 miles) among the
      New Zealanders, which will bring him to Wellington by March 1, for the
      commencement of the first synod. Consequently we have only revisited some
      of our seventy and odd islands, but we have no less than forty-seven
      Melanesians from twelve islands on board, of whom three are young married
      women, while two are babies.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This makes our whole number on board sixty, viz., four Pitcairners,
      forty-seven Melanesians, ourselves + crew = sixty-three, a number too
      great for so small a vessel, but for the excellent plan adopted by the
      Bishop in the internal arrangement of the vessel when she was built, and
      the scrupulous attention to cleanliness in every place fore and aft. As it
      is, we are not only healthy but comfortable, able to have all meals
      regularly, school, prayers, just as if we had but twenty on board.
      Nevertheless, I think, if you could drop suddenly on our lower deck at 9
      P.M. and visit unbeknown to us the two cabins, you would be rather
      surprised at the number of the sleepers&mdash;twelve in our after-cabin,
      and forty-five in the larger one, which occupies two-thirds of the vessel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course we make no invasion upon the quarters forward of the four men
      before the mast&mdash;common seamen, and take good care that master and
      mate shall have proper accommodation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One gets so used to this sort of thing that I sleep just as well as I
      used to do in my own room at home, and by 6.30 or 7 A.M. all vestiges of
      anything connected with sleeping arrangements have vanished, and the
      cabins look like what they are,&mdash;large and roomy. We have, you know,
      no separate cabins filled with bunks, &amp;c., abominations specially
      contrived to conceal dirt and prevent ventilation. Light calico curtains
      answer all purposes of dividing off a cabin into compartments, but we
      agree to live together, and no one has found it unpleasant as yet. We turn
      a part of our cabin into a gunaikhon at night for the three women and two
      babies by means of a canvas screen. Bishop looks after them, washes the
      babies, tends the women when sick, &amp;c., while I, by virtue of being a
      bachelor, shirk all the trouble. One of these women is now coming for the
      second time to the college; her name is Carry. Margaret Cho is on her
      second visit, and Hrarore is the young bride of Kapua, now coming for his
      third time, and baptized last year.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We wish to make both husbands and wives capable of imparting better
      notions to their people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have, I think, a very nice set on board....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think everything points to Vanua Lava, the principal island of the
      Banks group, becoming our centre of operations, i.e., that it would be the
      place where winter school would be carried on with natives from many
      islands, from Solomon Islands group to the north-west, and Santa Cruz
      group to north, New Hebrides to south and Loyalty Islands south-west, and
      also the depot among the islands, a splendid harbour, safe both from trade
      and hurricane winds, plenty of water, abundantly supplied with provisions,
      being indeed like a hot-house, with its hot springs constantly sending up
      clouds of vapour on the high hills, a population wholly uninjured by
      intercourse with traders and whalers, it being certain that our vessel was
      the first at all events that has ever been seen by the eyes of any member
      of this generation on the islands; I could prove this to you easily if I
      had time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are most simple, gentle and docile, unwarlike, not cannibals, I
      verily believe as good a specimen of the natural fallen man as can be met
      with, wholly naked, yet with no sense of shame in consequence; timid, yet
      soon learning to confide in one; intelligent, and gleaming with plenty of
      spirit and fun. As the island, though 440 miles north of the Loyalty
      Isles, is not to leeward of them, it would only take us about eight days
      more to run down, and a week more to return to it from New Zealand, than
      would be the case if we had our winter school on one of the Loyalty
      Islands. So I hope now we may get a missionary for Lifu, and so I may be
      free to spend all my time, when not in New Zealand, at Vanua Lava.
      Temperature in winter something under 80° in the shade, being in lat. 13°
      45' 5". The only thing against Vanua Lava is the fact that elephantiasis
      abounds among the natives, and they say that the mortality is very
      considerable there, so it might not be desirable to bring many lads to it
      from other islands; but the neighbouring islands of Mota and Valua, and
      Uvaparapara are in sight and are certainly healthy, and our buildings are
      not so substantial as to cause much difficulty in shifting our quarters if
      necessary. The language is very hard, but when it is one's business to
      learn a thing, it is done after a while as a matter of course.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have quite made up our mind that New Zealand itself is the right place
      for the head-quarters of the Mission. True, the voyage is long, and lads
      can only be kept there five or six months of the year, but the advantages
      of a tolerably settled state of society are so great, and the
      opportunities of showing the Melanesians the working of an English system
      are so many, that I think now with the Bishop that New Zealand should be
      the place for the summer school in preference to any other. I did not
      think so at one time, and was inclined to advocate the plan of never
      bringing the lads out of the tropics, but I think now that there are so
      many good reasons for bringing the lads to New Zealand that we must hope
      to keep them by good food and clothing safe from colds and coughs. Norfolk
      Island would have been in some ways a very good place, but there is no
      hope now of our being settled there....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can hardly have quite the same control over lads brought to an island
      itself wholly uncivilised as I can have over them in New Zealand, but as a
      rule, Melanesians are very tractable. Certainly I would sooner have my
      present school to manage, forty-five of all ages from nine to perhaps
      twenty-seven or eight, from twelve or thirteen islands, speaking at least
      eight languages, than half the number of English boys, up to all sorts of
      mischief....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, dear uncle, for the Xavier; a little portable book is very
      nice for taking on board ship, and I dare say I may read some of his
      letters in sight of many a heathen island....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, my dear Uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and grateful nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Savages are all Fridays, if you know how to treat them' is a saying of
      Patteson's in one of his letters, and a true one. In truth, there was no
      word that he so entirely repudiated as this of savage, and the courtesy
      and untutored dignity of many of his native friends fully justified his
      view, since it was sure to be called forth by his own conduct towards
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chiefs, having a great idea of their own importance, and being used to
      be treated like something sacred, and never opposed, were the most
      difficult people to deal with, and in the present voyage there was a time
      of great anxiety respecting a young chief named Aroana, from the great
      isle of Malanta. He fell into an agony of nervous excitement lest he
      should never see his island again, an attack of temporary insanity came
      on, and he was so strong that Mr. Patteson could not hold him down without
      the help of the Bishop and another, and it was necessary to tie him down,
      as he attempted to injure himself. He soon recovered, and the cooler
      latitudes had a beneficial effect on him, but there was reason to fear
      that in Malanta the restraint might be regarded as an outrage on the
      person of a chief.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voyage safely ended on the night of the 16th of November. Here is part
      of a letter to Mr. Edward Coleridge, written immediately after reading the
      letters that had been waiting in Auckland:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My father writes:&mdash;"My tutor says that there must be a Melanesian
      Bishop soon, and that you will be the man," a sentence which amused me not
      a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The plan is that the Bishop should gradually take more and more time for
      the islands, as he transfers to the General Synod all deeds, documents,
      everything for which he was corporation sole, and as he passes over to
      various other Bishops portions of New Zealand. Finally, retaining only the
      north part of the northern island, to take the Melanesian Bishopric.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I urged this plan upon him very strongly one day, when somewhere about
      lat. 12° S. (I fancy) he pressed me to talk freely about the matter. I
      said: "One condition only I think should be present to your mind, viz.,
      that you must not give up the native population in New Zealand," and to
      this he assented.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If, dear tutor, you really were not in joke, just try to find some good
      man who would come and place himself under the Bishop's direction
      unreservedly, and in fact be to him much what I am + the ability and
      earnestness, &amp;c. Seriously, I am not at all fitted to do anything but
      work under a good man. Of course, should I survive the Bishop, and no
      other man come out, why it is better that the ensign should assume the
      command than to give up the struggle altogether. But this of course is
      pure speculation. The Bishop is hearty, and, I pray God, may be Bishop of
      Melanesia for twenty years to come, and by that time there will be many
      more competent men than I ever shall be to succeed him, to say nothing of
      possible casualties, climate, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, my dear Uncle; kind love to all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving nephew and pupil,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The three women and the two babies were disposed of in separate houses,
      but their husbands, with thirty-nine other Melanesians, four Norfolk
      Islanders, two printers, Mr. Dudley and Mr. Patteson, made up the
      dinner-party every day in the hall of St. John's College. 'Not a little
      happy I feel at the head of my board, with two rows of merry,
      happy-looking Melanesians on either side of me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The coughs, colds, and feverish attacks of these scholars were the only
      drawback; the slightest chill made them droop; and it was a subject of joy
      to have any day the full number in hall, instead of one or two lying ill
      in their tutor's own bed-chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 29th of December came the exceeding joy of the arrival of the Judge
      and Mrs. Martin, almost straight from Feniton, ready to talk untiringly of
      everyone there. On the New Year's day of 1859 there was a joyful
      thanksgiving service at Taurarua for their safe return, at which all the
      best Church people near were present, and when John Cho made his first
      Communion.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 20th these much-loved friends came to make a long stay at the
      College, and the recollections they preserved of that time have thus been
      recorded by Lady Martin. It will be remembered that she had parted from
      him during the year of waiting and irregular employment:
    </p>
    <p>
      'We were away from New Zealand nearly three years. We had heard at Feniton
      dear Coley's first happy letters telling of his voyages to the islands in
      1856-7, letters all aglow with enthusiasm about these places and people.
      One phrase I well remember, his kindly regret expressed for those whose
      lot is not cast among the Melanesian islands. On our return we went to
      live for some months at St. John's College, where Mr. Patteson was then
      settled with a large party of scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We soon found that a great change had passed over our dear friend. His
      whole mind was absorbed in his work. He was always ready, indeed, to
      listen to anything there was to tell about his dear father; but about our
      foreign travels, his favourite pictures, the scenes of which we had heard
      so much from him, he would listen for a few minutes, but was sure in a
      little while to have worked round to Melanesia in general, or to his boys
      in particular, or to some discussion with my husband on the structure of
      their many languages and dialects. It was then that Bishop Abraham said
      that when the two came to their ninth meaning of a particle, he used to go
      to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There were a very fine intelligent set of young men from the Loyalty
      Islands, some sleepy, lazy ones from Mai, some fierce, wild-looking lads
      from the Solomon Islands who had long slits in their ears and bone horns
      stuck in their frizzly hair. Mr. Patteson could communicate with all more
      or less easily, and his readily delicate hearing enabled him to
      distinguish accurately sounds which others could not catch&mdash;wonderful
      mp and piv and mbw which he was trying to get hold of for practical
      purposes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was in comfortable quarters, in one long low room, with a sunny
      aspect. It looked fit for a student, with books all about, and pictures,
      and photos of loved friends and places on the walls, but he had no mind to
      enjoy it alone. There was sure to be some sick lad there, wrapped up in
      his best rugs, in the warmest nook by the fire. He had morning and
      afternoon school daily in the large schoolroom, Mr. Dudley and Mr. Lask
      assisting him. School-keeping, in its ordinary sense, was a drudgery to
      him, and very distasteful. He had none of that bright lively way and
      readiness in catechising which made some so successful in managing a large
      class of pupils at once, but every person in the place loved to come to
      the evening classes in his own room, where, in their own language, he
      opened to them the Scriptures and spoke to them of the things pertaining
      to the kingdom of God. It was in those private classes that he exercised
      such wonderful influence; his musical voice, his holy face, his gentle
      manner, all helping doubtless to impress and draw even the dullest. Long
      after this he told me once how after these evening classes, one by one,
      some young fellow or small boy would come back with a gentle tap at the
      door, "I want to talk to you," and then and there the heart would be laid
      open, and counsel asked of the beloved teacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was very pleasant to see him among his boys. They all used to go off
      for a walk on Saturday with him, sometimes to town, and he as full of fun
      with them as if they had been a party of Eton boys. He had none of the
      conventional talk, so fatal to all true influence, about degraded heathen.
      They were brethren, ignorant indeed, but capable of acquiring the highest
      wisdom. It was a joke among some of us, that when asked the meaning of a
      Nengone term of endearment he answered naively, "Oh, it means old fellow."
      He brought his fresh, happy, kindly feelings towards English lads and
      young men into constant play among Melanesians, and so they loved and
      trusted him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I think that exclusiveness of interest which Lady Martin describes, and
      which his own family felt, and which is apt to grow upon missionaries, as
      indeed on every one who is very earnestly engaged in any work, diminished
      as he became more familiar with his work, and had a mind more at liberty
      for thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Dudley thus describes the same period:&mdash;'It was during the
      summers of 1857-8 and 1858-9 that the Loyalty Islanders mustered in such
      numbers at St. John's College, as it was supposed that they, at least Lifu
      would be left in the hands of the Church of England. Mr. Patteson worked
      very hard these years at translations, and there was an immense enthusiasm
      about printing, the Lifuites and Nengonese striving each to get the most
      in their own language.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never shall I forget the evening service during those years held in the
      College chapel, consisting of one or two prayers in Bauro, Gera, and other
      languages, and the rest in Nengonese, occasionally changing to Lifu, when
      Mr. Patteson used to expound the passage of Scripture that had been
      translated in school during the day. Usually the Loyalty Islanders would
      take notes of the sermon while it went on, but now and then it was simply
      impossible, for although his knowledge of Nengonese at that time, as
      compared with what it was afterwards, was very limited, and his vocabulary
      a small one from which to choose his expressions, he would sometimes speak
      with such intense earnestness and show himself so thoroughly en rapport
      with the most intelligent of his hearers, that they were compelled to drop
      their papers and pencils, and simply to to listen. I remember one evening
      in particular. For some little time past the conduct of the men,
      especially the married men, had not been at all satisfactory. The married
      couples had the upper house, and John Cho, Simeona, and Kapua had obtained
      a draught-board, and had regularly given themselves up to draught-playing,
      night and day, neglecting all the household duties they were expected to
      perform, to the great annoyance of their wives, who had to carry the
      water, and do their husbands' work in other ways as well their own. This
      became soon known to Mr. Patteson, and without saying anything directly to
      the men, he took one evening as his subject in chapel those words of our
      Lord, "If thy hand or thy foot offend thee," &amp;c., and spoke as you
      know he did sometimes speak, and evidently was entirely carried out of
      himself, using the Nengonese with a freedom which showed him to be
      thinking in it as he went on, and with a face only to be described as "the
      face of an angel." We all sat spellbound. John Cho, Simeona, and the other
      walked quietly away, without saying a word, and in a day or two afterwards
      I learnt from John that he had lain awake that night thinking over the
      matter, that fear had come upon him, lest he might be tempted again, and
      jumping up instantly, he had taken the draught-board from the place where
      he had left it and had cast it into the embers of their fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Many and many a time was I the recipient of his thoughts, walking with
      him up and down the lawn in front of the cottage buildings of an evening,
      when he would try to talk himself clear. You may imagine what a willing
      listener I was, whatever he chose to talk upon, and he often spoke very
      freely to me, I being for a long time his only resident white companion.
      It was not long before I felt I knew his father well, and reverenced him
      deeply. He never was tired of talking of his home, and of former days at
      Eton and Oxford, and then while travelling on the Continent. Often and
      often during those early voyages have I stood or sat by his side on the
      deck of the "Southern Cross," as in the evening, after prayers, he stood
      there for hours, dressed in his clerical attire, all but the grey tweed
      cap, one hand holding the shrouds, and looking out to windward like a man
      who sees afar off all the scenes he was describing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thinking over those times since, one understands better far than one did
      at the time the reality of the sacrifice he had made in devoting himself
      for life to a work so far away from those he loved best on earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop of Wellington, for to that see Archdeacon Abraham had been
      consecrated while in England, arrived early in March, and made a short
      stay at the College, during which he confirmed eleven and baptized one of
      Patteson's flock. Mrs. Abraham and her little boy remained at the College,
      while her husband went on to prepare for her at Wellington, and thus there
      was much to make the summer a very pleasant one, only chequered by
      frequent anxieties about the health of the pupils, as repeated experiments
      made it apparent that the climate of St. John's was too cold for them.
      Another anxiety was respecting Lifu for the London Missionary Society,
      had, after all, undertaken to supply two missionaries from England, and it
      was a most doubtful and delicate question whether the wishes of the
      natives or the established principle of noninterference with pre-occupied
      ground, ought to have most weight. The Primate was so occupied by New
      Zealand affairs that he wrote to Mr. Patteson to decide it himself and he
      could but wait to be guided by circumstances on the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Mr. Edward Coleridge he writes on the 18th of March:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have many and delightful talks with Mr. Martin on our languages. We see
      already how strong an infusion of Polynesian elements exists in the
      Melanesian islands. With the language of four groups we are fairly
      acquainted now, besides some of the distinguishing dialects, which differ
      very much from one another; nevertheless, I think that by-and-by we shall
      connect them all if we live; but as some dialects may have dropped out
      altogether, we may want a few links in the chain to demonstrate the
      connection fully to people at a distance. It is a great refreshment to me
      to work out these matters, and the Judge kindly looked up the best books
      that exist in all the Polynesian languages, so that we can found our
      induction upon a comparison of all the dialects now from the Solomon
      Islands to the Marquesas, with the exception of the Santa Cruz
      archipelago. We have been there two or three times, but the people are so
      very numerous and noisy, that we never have had a chance as yet of getting
      into a quiet talk (by signs, &amp;c.) with any of the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Still, as we know some Polynesian inhabitants of a neighbouring isle who
      have large sea canoes, and go to Santa Cruz, we may soon get one of them
      to go with us, and so have an interpreter, get a lad or two, and learn the
      language.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are sadly in want of men; yet we cannot write to ask persons to come
      out for this work who may be indisposed, when they arrive in New Zealand,
      to carry out the particular system on which the Bishop proceeds. Any man
      who would come out and consent to spend a summer at the Melanesian school
      in New Zealand in order to learn his work, and would give up any
      preconceived notions of his own about the way to conduct missionary work
      that might militate against the Bishop's plan&mdash;such a man would be,
      of course, the very person we want; but we must try to make people
      understand that half-educated men will not do for this work. Men sent out
      as clergymen to the mission-field who would not have been thought fit to
      receive Holy Orders at home, are not at all the men we want. It is not at
      all probable that such men would really understand the natives, love them,
      and live with them; but they would be great dons, keeping the natives at a
      distance, assuming that they could have little in common, &amp;c.&mdash;ideas
      wholly destructive of success in missionary, or in any work. That pride of
      race which prompts a white man to regard coloured people as inferior to
      himself, is strongly ingrained in most men's minds, and must be wholly
      eradicated before they will ever win the hearts, and thus the souls of the
      heathen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a preachment, as usual, about Melanesia!...
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving old Pupil and Nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Next follows a retrospective letter:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 1, 1859: St. John's College.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;Thirty-two years old to-day! Well, it is a
      solemn thing to think that one has so many days and months and years to
      account for. Looking back, I see how fearfully I wasted opportunities
      which I enjoyed, of which, I fancy, I should now avail myself gladly; but
      I don't know that I fancy what is true, for my work now, though there is
      plenty of it, is desultory, and I dare say hard application, continuously
      kept up, would be as irksome to me as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems very strange to me that I never found any pleasure in classical
      studies formerly. Now, the study of the languages for its own sake even is
      so attractive to rue that I should enjoy working out the exact and
      delicate powers of Greek particles, &amp;c.; but I never cared for it till
      it was too late, and the whole thing was drudgery to me. I had no
      appreciation, again, of Historians, or historians; only thought Thucydides
      difficult and Herodotus prosy(!!), and Tacitus dull, and Livy apparently
      easy and really very hard. So, again, with the poets; and most of all I
      found no interest (fancy!) in Plato and Aristotle. They were presented to
      me as merely school books; not as the great effort of the cultivated
      heathen mind to solve the riddle of man's being; and I, in those days,
      never thought of comparing the heathen and Christian ethics, and the great
      writers had no charm for me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then my French. If I had really taken any pains with old Tarver in old
      days&mdash;and it was your special wish that I should do so&mdash;how
      useful it would be to me now; whereas, though I get on after a sort, I
      don't speak at all as I ought to do, and might have learnt to do. It is
      sad to look back upon all the neglected opportunities; and it is not only
      that I have not got nearly (so to speak) a quantity of useful materials
      for one's work in the present time, but that I find it very hard to shake
      off desultory habits. I suppose all persons have to make reflections of
      this kind, more or less sad; but, somehow, I feel it very keenly now: for
      certainly I did waste time sadly; and it so happens that I have just had
      "Tom Brown's Schooldays" lent me, and that I spent some time in reading it
      on this particular day, and, of course, my Eton life rose up before me.
      What a useful book that is! A real gain for a young person to have such a
      book. That is very much the kind of thing that would really help a boy&mdash;manly,
      true, and plain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hear from Sydney by last mail that the Bishop is really desirous to
      revive the long dormant Board of Missions. He means to propose to send a
      priest and a deacon to every island ready for them, and to provide for
      them&mdash;if they are forthcoming, and funds. Of this latter I have not
      much doubt....
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 24&mdash;I have to get ready for three English full services
      to-morrow, besides Melanesian ditto.&mdash;So goodbye, my dearest Father,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving and dutiful Son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Sir John Patteson might well say, in a letter of this summer, to Bishop
      Selwyn:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'As to my dear boy Coley, I am more and more thankful every day that I
      agreed to his wishes; and in whatever situation he may be placed, feel
      confident that his heart will be in his work, and that he will do God
      service. He will be contented to work under any one who may be appointed
      Bishop of Melanesia (or any other title), or to be the Bishop himself. If
      I judge truly, he has no ambitious views, and only desires that he may be
      made as useful as his powers enable him to be, whether in a high or
      subordinate situation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing could be more true than this. There was a general sense of the
      probability that Mr. Patteson must be the first Missionary Bishop; but he
      continued to work on at the immediate business, always keeping the schemes
      and designs which necessarily rose in his mind ready to be subjected to
      the control of whomsoever might be set over him. The cold had set in
      severely enough to make it needful to carry off his 'party of coughing,
      shivering Melanesians' before Easter, and the 'Southern Cross' sailed on
      the 18th. Patteson took with him a good store of coffee, sugar, and
      biscuits, being uncertain whether he should or should not again remain at
      Lifu.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the outward voyage he only landed his pupils there, and then went on to
      the Banks Islands, where Sarawia was returned at Vanua Lava, and after Mr.
      Patteson had spent a pleasant day among the natives, Mota was visited next
      after.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 24.&mdash;On Monday, at 3 P.M., we sailed from Port Patteson across
      to Mota. Here I landed among 750 people and the boat returned to the
      vessel. She was to keep up to windward during the night and call for me
      the next morning. I walked with my large following, from the teach, up a
      short steep path, to the village, near to which, indeed only 200 yards
      off, is another considerable village. The soil is excellent; the houses
      good&mdash;built round the open space which answers to the green in our
      villages, and mighty banyan trees spreading their lofty and wide-branching
      arms above and around them. The side walls of these houses are not more
      than two feet high, made only of bamboos lashed by cocoa-nut fibre, or
      wattled together, and the long sloping roofs nearly touch ground but
      within they are tolerably clean and quite dry. The moon was in the first
      quarter, and the scene was striking as I sat out in the open space with
      some 200 people crowding round me&mdash;men, women and children; fires in
      front where yams were roasting; the dark brown forms glancing to and fro
      in the flickering light; the moon's rays quivering down through the vast
      trees, and the native hollow drum beating at intervals to summon the
      people to the monthly feast on the morrow. I slept comfortably on a mat in
      a cottage with many other persons in it. Much talk I had with a large
      concourse outside, and again in this cottage, on Christianity; and all
      were quiet when I knelt down as usual and said my evening prayers. Up at
      5.30 A.M., and walked up a part of the Sugar Loaf peak, from which the
      island derives its English name, and found a small clear stream, flowing,
      through a rocky bed, back to the village, where were some 300 people
      assembled; sat some time with them, then went to the beach, where the boat
      soon came for me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'After this there was a good deal of bad weather; but all the lads were
      restored to their islands, including Aroana, the young Malanta chief, who
      had begun by a fit of frenzy, but had since behaved well; and who left his
      English friends with a promise to do all in his power to tame his people
      and cure them of cannibalism.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then came some foul winds and hot exhausting weather.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have done little more than read Stanley's "Sinai and Palestine," and
      Helps's "Spanish America," two excellent books and most delightful to me.
      The characters in the Spanish conquest of Mexico and America generally;
      the whole question of the treatment of natives; and that nobleman, Las
      Casas&mdash;are more intelligible to me than to most persons probably. The
      circumstances of my present life enable me to realise it to a greater
      extent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I have been dipping into a little ethnology; yesterday a little
      Plato; but it is almost too hot for anything that requires a working
      head-piece. You know I take holiday time this voyage when we are in open
      water and no land near, and it is great relaxation to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A pretty severe gale of wind followed, a sharp test of Patteson's
      seamanship.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then came one day of calm, when we all got our clothes dry, and the deck
      and rigging looked like an old clothes' shop. Then we got a fairish
      breeze; but we can get nothing in moderation. Very soon it blew up into a
      strong breeze, and here we are lying to with a very heavy sea. Landsmen
      would call it mountainous, I suppose. I am tired, for I have had an
      anxious time; and we have had but one quiet night for an age, and then I
      slept from 9.30 P.M. to 7.30 A.M. continuously. 'It may be that this is
      very good training for me. Indeed it must give me more coolness and
      confidence. I felt pleased as well as thankful when we made the exact
      point of Nengone that I had calculated upon, and at the exact time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 20th of June, Auckland harbour was safely attained; but the coming
      back without scholars did not make much of holiday time for their master,
      who was ready to give help to other clergymen whenever it might be needed,
      though, in fact, this desultory occupation always tried him most.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 25th of July he says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have had a sixty miles' walk since I wrote last; some part of it over
      wild country. I lost my way once or twice and got into some swamps, but I
      had my little pocket-compass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My first day was eighteen miles in pouring rain; no road, in your sense
      of the word; but a good warm room and tea at the end. Next day on the move
      all day, by land and water, seeing settlers scattered about. Third day,
      Sunday, services at two different places. Fourth day, walk of some
      twenty-seven miles through unknown regions baptizing children at different
      places; and reaching, after divers adventures, a very hospitable
      resting-place at 8 p.m. in the dark. Next day an easy walk into Auckland
      and Taurarua. Yesterday, Sunday, very wet day. Man-of-war gig came down
      for me at 9.15 A.M., took the service on board; 11 A.M. St. Paul's
      service; afternoon, hospital, a mile or so off; 6 P.M., St. Paul's evening
      service; 8.30, arrived at Taurarua dripping.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The same letter replies to one from home:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thank you, my dear father, for writing so fully about yourself, and
      especially, for seeing and stating so plainly your full conviction that I
      ought not to think of returning to England. It would, as you say, humanly
      speaking, interfere most seriously with the prospects of the Mission. Some
      dear friends write to me differently, but they don't quite understand, as
      you have taken pains to do, what our position is out here; and they don't
      see that my absence would involve great probable injury to the whole work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is curious how few there are who know anything of New Zealand and
      Melanesia!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course it is useless to speculate on the future, but I see nothing at
      all to make it likely that I shall ever revisit England. I can't very well
      conceive any such state of things as would make it a duty to gratify my
      constant inclination. And, my dear father, I don't scruple to say (for you
      will understand me) that I am happier here than I should be in England,
      where, even though I were absent only a few months, I should bear about
      with me the constant weight of knowing that Melanesia was not provided
      for. And, strange as it may seem, this has quite ceased to be a trial to
      me. The effort of subduing the longing desire to see you is no longer a
      great one: I feel that I am cheerful and bright, and light-hearted, and
      that I have really everything to make a man thankful and contented.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And if you could see the thankful look of the Bishop, when he is again
      assured that there is no item of regret or desire to call me home on your
      part, you would feel, I know, that colonial work does require, especially,
      an unconditional unreserved surrender of a man to whatever he may find to
      do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But while admiring the noble spirit in which the son held fast his post,
      and the father forebore to unsettle him there, let not their example he
      used in the unkind and ignorant popular cry against the occasional return
      of colonial Bishops. For, be it remembered, that dire necessity was not
      drawing Coleridge Patteson to demand pecuniary assistance round all the
      platforms of English towns. The Eton, and the Australian and New Zealand
      Associations, supplemented by the Society for the Propagation of the
      Gospel and his own family, relieved him from the need of having to
      maintain his Mission by such means. All these letters are occupied with
      the arrangements for raising means for removing the Melanesian College to
      a less bleak situation, and it is impossible to read them without feeling
      what a difference it made to have a father who did not view giving to
      God's work as robbing his family.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 13th of August, Patteson was on board, preparing for the voyage;
      very cold, and eager for the tropics. The parting voice in his farewell
      letter is: 'I think I see more fully that work, by the power of God's
      Spirit, is the condition of us all in this world; tiny and insignificant
      as the greatest work of the greatest men is, in itself, yet the one talent
      is to be used.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was meant to be a farewell letter, but another followed in the leisure,
      while waiting for the Bishop to embark, with some strong (not to say
      fiery) opinions on the stern side of duty:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel anxious to try to make some of the motives intelligible, upon
      which we colonial folk act sometimes. First. I think that we get a
      stronger sense of the necessity for dispensing with that kind of courtesy
      and good nature which sometimes interferes with duty than people do in
      England.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So a man placed as I am (for example) really cannot oftentimes avoid
      letting it be seen that work must come first; and, by degrees, one
      sympathises less than one possibly should do with drones and idlers in the
      hive, and feels it wrong to assent to a scheme which lets a real work
      suffer for the sake of acquiescing in a conventional recognition of
      comfort, claims of society, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would the general of an army say to his officers, "Pray, gentlemen, don't
      dirty your boots or fatigue your horses to succour the inhabitants of a
      distant village"? Or a captain to his mates and middies: "Don't turn out,
      don't go aloft. It is a thing hard, and you might get wet"?
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the difference between us and people at home sometimes is, that we
      don't see why a clergyman is not as much bound as an officer in the army
      or navy to do what he is pledged of his own act to do; and that at home
      the 'parsonage and pony-carriage' delusion practically makes men forget
      this. I forget it as much as any man, and should very likely never have
      seen the mistake but for my coming to New Zealand; and it is one of the
      great blessings we enjoy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is a mighty work to be done. God employs human agents, and the
      Bible tells us what are the rules and conditions of their efficiency.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Oh! but, poor man, he has a sickly wife!" Yes, but, "it remaineth that
      those who have wives be as they that have none."
    </p>
    <p>
      'True, but the case of a large family? "Whosoever loveth child more than
      me," &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Second. The fact that we live almost without servants makes us more
      independent, and also makes us acquainted with the secrets of each other's
      housekeeping, &amp;c. All that artificial intercourse which depends a good
      deal upon a well-fitted servants' hall does not find place here. More
      simple and more plain and homely in speech and act is our life in the
      colonies&mdash;e.g., you meet me carrying six or seven loaves from town to
      the college. "Oh, I knew that the Bishop had to meet some persons there
      to-day, and I felt nearly sure there would be no breakfast then." Of
      course an English person thinks, "Why didn't he send the bread?" To which
      I answer, "Who was there to send?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't mean that I particularly like turning myself into a miller one
      day and a butcher the next; but that doing it as a matter of course, where
      there is no one else to do it, one does sometimes think it unreasonable to
      say, as has been said to the Bishop:&mdash;"Two thousand pounds a year you
      want for your Mission work!" "Yes," said the Bishop, "and not too much for
      sailing over ten thousand miles, and for educating, clothing, and feeding
      some forty young men!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mean that conventional notions in England are preventing people from
      really doing half what they might do for the good of the needy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know how this might be said to be a theory tending to
      revolutionise society; but I think I do know that there is a kind of
      religious common sense which comes in to guide people in such matters.
      Only, I do not think it right to admit that plea for not doing more in the
      way of almsgiving which is founded upon the assumption that first of all a
      certain position in society must be kept up, which involves certain
      expenditure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A barrister is living comfortably on £800 a year, or a clergyman in his
      living of £400. The professional income of the one increases, and a fatter
      living is given to the other, or some money is left them. What do they do?
      Instantly start a carriage, another servant, put the jack-of-all-trades
      into a livery, turn the buttons into a flunkey, and the village girl into
      a ladies' maid! Is this really right? They were well enough before. Why
      not use the surplus for some better purpose?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I imagine that we, the clergy, are chiefly to blame, for not only not
      protesting against, but most contentedly acquiescing in such a state of
      things. You ask now for something really demanding a sacrifice. "I can't
      afford it." "What, not to rescue that village from starvation? not to
      enable that good man to preach the Gospel to people only accessible by
      means of such an outlay on his vessel, &amp;c.? Give up your carriage,
      your opera box; don't have so many grand balls, &amp;c. "Oh no! it is all
      a corban to the genius of society.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, is this Scriptural or not, my dear father? I don't mean that any
      individual is justified in dictating to his neighbour, still less in
      condemning him. But are not these the general principles of religion and
      morality in the Bible? There are duties to society: but a good man will
      take serious counsel as to what they are, and how far they may be
      militating against higher and holier claims.
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 24.&mdash;Why I wrote all this, my dearest father, I hardly know,
      only I feel sure that unless men at home can, by taking real pains to
      think about it, realise the peculiar circumstances of colonial life, they
      will never understand any one of us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have written Fan a note in which I said something about my few effects
      if I should die.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One thing I should like to say to you, not as venturing to do more than
      let you be in full possession of my own mind on the matter. Should I die
      before you die, would it be wrong for me to say, "Make the Melanesian
      Mission my heir"?
    </p>
    <p>
      'It may be according to the view which generally obtains that the other
      three should then divide my share. But now I would take what may seem the
      hard view of which I have been writing, and say, "They have enough to
      maintain them happily and comfortably." The Mission work without such a
      bequest will be much endangered. I feel sure that they would wish it to be
      so, for, of course, you know that this large sum of which you write will
      be, if I survive you, regarded simply as a bequest to the Mission in which
      I have a life interest, and the interest of which, in the main, would be
      spent on the Mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I only say plainly, without any reserve, what I have thought about
      it; not for one moment putting up my opinion against yours, of course, in
      case you take a contrary view.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We sail, I hope, to-morrow, but the Bishop is more busy than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Again, my dearest Father,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving and dutiful Son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The history of this voyage was, as usual, given in a long letter for the
      Feniton fireside; but there was a parallel journal also, kept for the
      Bishop of Wellington, which is more condensed, and, therefore, better for
      quotation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The manner in which the interest in, and connection with all English
      friends and relations was kept up is difficult to convey, though it was a
      very loveable part of the character. Little comments of condolence or
      congratulation, and messages of loving remembrance to persons mentioned by
      playful names, would only be troublesome to the reader; but it must be
      taken for granted that every reply to a home packet was full of these
      evidences that the black children on a thousand isles had by no means
      driven the cousins and friends of youth from a heart that was enlarged to
      have tenderness for all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lat. 9° 29' S.; Long. 163° S.E. "Southern Cross:" October 9, 1859.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Bishop,&mdash;We are on our way from Uleawa to the Santa Cruz
      group, having visited the Loyalty Islands, Southern New Hebrides, Banks
      Island (2), and Solomon Islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop so planned the voyage as to run down the wind quickly to the
      Solomon Islands, and do the real work coming home; not, as usual, beating
      up in the open water between the Santa Cruz archipelago, Banks Islands and
      New Hebrides to the east, and New Caledonia to the west. We are thus able
      to visit Vanua Lava on the way out and home also; and as we meant to make
      the Banks Islands the great point this voyage, that was, of course, great
      gain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We touched at Norfolk Island.... Going on to Nengone we found everybody
      away at the distant yam grounds, and could not wait to see them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Lifu, the first thing that shocked us was John's appearance: one of
      those fatal glandular swellings has already produced a great change in
      him. He looked sallow and weak, and I fear ut sit vitalis. He spoke to me
      very calmly about his illness, which he thinks is unto death, and I did
      not contradict him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We had much private talk together. He is a fine fellow and, I believe, a
      sincere Christian man. Then came the applications to us not to desert
      them, and letters enumerating all the villages of Lifu almost without
      exception, and entreating us to suffer them to be connected with us, and
      we had to answer that already two missionaries from the L. M. S. are on
      their way from Sydney to Lifu, and that it would do harm to have two rival
      systems on the island. They acquiesced but not heartily, and it was a sad
      affair altogether, all parties unhappy and dissatisfied, and yet unable to
      solve the difficulty. Then came a talk with Angadhohua, John's
      half-brother, the real chief. The poor lad feels now what a terrible thing
      it will be for him and his people if they should lose John. Nothing can be
      nicer than his way of talking: "I know you don't think me firm enough, and
      that I am easily led by others. What am I to do if John dies? We all
      respect him. He has been taught so much, and people all listen to him." I
      gave him the best advice that I could and longed to be able to do
      something for him and his people. It was, however, a comfort to leave with
      them St. Mark, Scripture books, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We called at Tanna, to see poor Mr. Paton, who lost his wife last April.
      He is living on there quite alone, and has already lived down the first
      angry opposition of some of the people, and the unkind treatment that he
      received from men and women alike who mocked him because of his wife's
      death, &amp;c. He has had much fever and looked very ill, but his heart
      was in his work; and the Bishop said he seemed to be one of the weak
      things which God hath chosen. I know he made me feel pretty well ashamed
      of myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Next day we spent a few hours with Mr. and Mrs. Gordon at Erromango. He
      has a small house on the high table-land overlooking Dillon's Bay, and
      certainly is exposed to winds which may, for aught I know, rival those of
      Wellington notoriety. The situation is, however, far preferable in the
      summer to that on the beach, which is seldom free from malaria and ague.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then we sailed to the great bay of Pango, landed at Fate a fellow who had
      come to the Bishop in New Zealand for a passage, and in the afternoon
      sailed away through "the Pool" (the landlocked space between Mallicolo and
      Espiritu Santo to the west; Aspee, Ambrym, Whitsuntide, Aurora to the
      east), where for eighty miles the water is always smooth, the wind always
      steady, the scenery always lovely, and where, on this occasion, the
      volcano was bright.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Being nearly becalmed to the south-east of Leper's Isle, the Bishop gave
      me the choice of a visit to Whitsuntide or Leper's Island. I voted for the
      latter, and delighted we were to renew an acquaintance made two years ago,
      and not since kept up, with these specially nice people. We were
      recognised at once, but we have a very small vocabulary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The sea was running heavily into the bay, but it is sand there and not
      much rock on the beach, and we had a jolly swim ashore. Then we bought a
      few yams, which the surf did not permit us to get to the boat, and had a
      very pleasant visit; for, as we sat among them, words came into one's
      head, or were caught from their mouth, and at the end of twenty minutes we
      were getting on a little. The old chief took me by the hand and led me
      aside to the spot where the ladies were assembled, and divining no doubt
      that I was a bachelor, politely offered me his daughter, and his
      protection, &amp;c., if I would live among them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I missed seeing the Bishop knocked clean over by the breakers as he was
      swimming off to the boat; I was still talking to the people, with my back
      to the sea, and only saw him staggering to his feet again. Thinking to
      myself that if he was knocked over, I had better look out, I awaited a
      "smooth" and swam out comfortably.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The next morning (Sunday) at ten, we dropped anchor in Port Patteson, the
      harbour which you know the Bishop would call after my father. The first
      person who came off to us was Sarawia, my old Lifu pupil, from this
      island! Then came a good many men. I told them there would be no going
      ashore and no trading till the next day. Palemana, your friend Matawathki,
      &amp;c., were at church, all dressed and well-behaved. What nice orderly
      people they are, to be sure!
    </p>
    <p>
      'The next day we bought lots of yams, and gave away seeds and fruit-trees,
      or rather planted them; and looked for a place for a station, and fixed at
      last on the rising-ground which forms the east side of the harbour, and
      the Bishop, arming himself with an axe, led a party to clear the bush,
      which was very thick. They made a fair path through in one afternoon to
      the top, and a healthy place might be found now with little trouble to
      return to at night from the schools, &amp;c. in the village below, and so
      shirk the malaria.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But the next day, as I had anticipated, rather changed his intentions as
      to the principal station being formed at Vanua Lava. We landed at Sugar
      Loaf Island, and with something of pride I showed off to him the beauties
      of the villages where I slept in May last&mdash;the dry soil, the spring
      of water, the wondrous fertility, the large and remarkably intelligent,
      well-looking population, the great banyan tree, twenty-seven paces round&mdash;and
      at once he said, "This is such a place as I have seen nowhere else for our
      purpose."
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop had seen this island before I was with him, during one of the
      "Border Maid's" voyages, and knew the people, of course, but had not
      happened to have walked in shore at all, and so the exceeding beauty and
      fitness of the island for a Mission station had not become so apparent to
      him. We know of no place where there seems to be such an unusual
      combination of everything that can be desired, humanly speaking, for such
      an institution. So that is settled (D.V.) that next winter I should be
      here, if alive and well; and that the Banks Islands should be regarded as
      the central point of the Mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such boys! Bright-eyed, merry fellows, many really handsome; of that
      reddish yellow tinge of colour which betokens affinity with Polynesian
      races, as their language also testifies. The majority of the people were
      pleasing in their appearance and manner. Well, all this was very hopeful,
      and we went off very happy, taking Eumau, the boy who first met us at Port
      Patteson when we found it out, and old Wompas (who was with me at Lifu),
      and another from Mota, to see the Northern Islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think our work is more likely now to revolve upon a fixed centre&mdash;Sugar
      Loaf Island in the Banks group&mdash;that we shall make the occupation of
      the group the first ohject, and do all with reference to that as the
      necessary part of the work to be attended to first. In the choice of
      scholars, e.g., we have considered whether we should not limit our
      selection to such as might pass the next winter with me at Sugar Loaf
      Island, and so that the vessel need not run down to leeward of it. Solomon
      Islands are the extreme verge. In the East Island, where there would be
      merely a question of nothing or something, we may take very young men who
      would perhaps not be easy to keep out of harm at Sugar Loaf, because there
      will be no difficulty about returning them to their homes....
    </p>
    <p>
      'November 11th.&mdash;We found in the Santa Cruz group that the news of
      Captain Front's and his two men's death in Vanikoro, and (as we suppose)
      the news of the "Cordelia" having been at that island to inquire into the
      matter, had made the people anxious, uneasy, noisy, and rather rude. That
      poor man went to make a station at Vanikoro in the usual way, taking three
      poor New Caledonian women with him. The Vanikoro people killed the three
      English and took away the women.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We did not land at Sta. Cruz, but we had a more pleasant intercourse than
      heretofore with thirty or forty canoes' crews.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Timelin Island we ascertained to be identical with Nukapu, an old
      familiar place whose latitude we had not ascertained correctly before. The
      small reef (Polynesian) islands did not give us so good a reception as
      last year, though there was no unfriendliness. The news about Vanikoro had
      made them suspicious of visits from white men. But they will be all right
      by next time....
    </p>
    <p>
      'We saw a pleasant party at Bligh Island, brought away one young man from
      that island, and two lads belonging to a neighbouring small island called
      Eowa. The next day we watered on the north side of Vanua Lava, and in the
      evening went across to Santa Maria. Here we landed on the next day among
      two hundred or more people, shy and noisy. We bought a few yams, and I
      detected some young fellows stealing from our little heap I would not
      overlook this, but the noticing it made them more suspicious that we meant
      to hurt them. As the Bishop and I, after some twenty minutes, turned to
      rejoin the boat, the whole crowd bolted like a shot right and left into
      the bush. Evidently they must have had some trading crew tire a parting
      shot in mere wantonness at them from their boat. I expected some arrows to
      be shot at us; but they did not shoot any.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The same evening (Saturday) we stood across the passage with a brisk
      breeze, and took up our party, consisting of five and including Sarawia
      and four others anciently noted as promising in appearance....
    </p>
    <p>
      'We reached Mota (Sugar Loaf Island) in time to leave me for a night's
      visit to the people. I had time before the boat called next day at noon to
      see five or six of their villages. People quite accustomed to expect me&mdash;all
      most friendly, apparently pleased to be told that I would stop with them
      in the winter. Seven scholars joined us here....
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Mai, I slept in the house of Petere and Laure. Things are promising.
      It is quite ready for a missionary. We brought away Moto, Pepeu, and the
      two young boys who were with me at Lifu, and very many wished to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thence we had a very long passage to Lifu. John Cho is, I am thankful to
      say, very much better. The two men from the London Missionary Society are
      on the island.... The Lifu people tell me that in the north of the island
      many are accepting the teaching of the two French priests. William Martin
      Tahia and Chakham, a principal chief and old scholar, are with us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Nengone, Wadrokala, George Simeona, and Harper Malo have come away for
      good.... We number thirty-nine Melanesians.... This is a long letter which
      will try your patience.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always, my dear Bishop,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Affectionately yours,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Another long letter was written during this voyage to Mr. Edward
      Coleridge, a great portion of it on the expediency of the islands being
      taken under British protection, also much respecting the Church of New
      Zealand, which is scarcely relevant to the immediate subject, and only at
      the end is there anything more personal:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The last accounts of my father were unusually good, but I well know what
      news may be awaiting our return from a voyage whether long or short, and I
      try to be ready for any news; yet I suppose that I cannot at all realize
      what it would be. It makes some difference when the idea of meeting again
      in this world has been relinquished for now four and a half years, yet it
      is all very well to wait or think about it! I was not so upset by dear
      Uncle James's death as I should no doubt have been had I enjoyed the
      prospect of frequently seeing him. Somehow, when all ideas of time and
      space are annihilated by death, one must think about such separations in a
      religious way: for separations in any other sense to us here, from people
      in England, have already taken place. I must except, however, the loving
      wise letters, and the power of realising more clearly perhaps the
      occupations of those still in the body&mdash;their accustomed places and
      duties; though I suppose we can tell quite enough about all this in the
      case of those who have died in the true faith of Christ to know, at all
      events, that we are brought and united to them whenever we think or do
      anything religiously. I often think that this is well brought out in the
      "Heir of Redclyffe"&mdash;the loss of "the bright outside," the life and
      energy and vigour, and all the companionable and sociable qualities,
      contrasted with the power of thinking oneself into the inner spiritual
      relations that exist between the worlds visible and invisible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All this effort is much diminished in our case. There is no very great
      present loss; at least, it is not so sensibly felt by a great deal as it
      would be if we missed some one with whom we lived up to the time of his
      death. It is much easier to think of them as they are than it could be in
      the case of persons who remember so vividly what they so lately were; and
      this is why, I suppose, the news of Uncle James's death seemed to affect
      me so much less than I should have expected, and it may be so again:
      certain it is that I loved him dearly, and that I miss his letters very
      much indeed; but I think that the point I felt most about him was the sad
      affliction to his family, and the great loss to my dear father, who had of
      late seen more than ever of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      From the home letter I only quote from the reflections so regularly
      inspired by the anniversary of the 28th of November.
    </p>
    <p>
      After lamenting that it was difficult to realise those scenes in his
      mother's illness which he and his brother only knew from narration,
      Patteson adds:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The memory of those days would perhaps have been more precious to me if I
      had witnessed more with my own eyes. And yet of course it really mattered
      nothing at all, because the lesson of her life does not depend on an
      acquaintance with a few days of it; and what I saw when I was there I
      never have forgotten, and hope that I never may forget.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And indeed I feel now with regard to you, my dear Father, that I have not
      learned to know you better while I was with you than I do now. I think
      that in some ways I enter more almost into your mind and thought, or that
      I fancy I do so: just as the present possession of anything so often
      prevents our really taking pains to learn all about it. We rest content
      with the superficial knowledge of that which is most easily perceived and
      recognised in it....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I know from your letters, and from the fact of my absence from
      you making me think more about you, as much about you as those present. I
      very much enjoy a letter from Joan, which gives me a kind of tableau
      vivant of you all. That helps me to realize the home life; so do the
      photographs, they help in the same way. But your letters, and the fact
      that I think so much about them, and about you, are my real helps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The voyage ended on the 7th of December. It was the last made under the
      guidance of the Bishop of New Zealand, and, alas! the last return of the
      first 'Southern Cross.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX. MOTA AND ST. ANDREW'S COLLEGE, KOHIMARAMA. 1859-1862.
    </h2>
    <p>
      With the year 1860 a new period, and one far more responsible and
      eventful, began. After working for four years under Bishop Selwyn's
      superintendence, Coleridge Patteson was gradually passing into a sphere of
      more independent action; and, though his loyal allegiance to his Primate
      was even more of the heart than of the letter, his time of training was
      over; he was left to act more on his own judgment; and things were
      ripening for his becoming himself a Bishop. He had nearly completed his
      thirty-third year, and was in his fullest strength, mental and bodily;
      and, as has been seen, the idea had already through Bishop Selwyn's
      letters become familiar to his family, though he himself had shrunk from
      entertaining it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first great change regarded the locality of the Melanesian school in
      New Zealand. Repeated experience had shown that St. John's College was too
      bleak for creatures used to basking under a vertical sun, and it had been
      decided to remove to the sheltered landing-place at Kohimarama, where
      buildings for the purpose had been commenced so as to be habitable in time
      for the freight of 1859.
    </p>
    <p>
      It should be explained, that the current expenses of the Mission had been
      defrayed by the Eton and Sydney associations, with chance help from
      persons privately interested, together with a grant of £200, and
      afterwards £300 per annum from the Society for the Propagation of the
      Gospel. The extra expense of this foundation was opportunely met by a
      discovery on the part of Sir John Patteson, that his eldest son, living
      upon the Merton Fellowship, had cost him £200 a year less than his younger
      son, and therefore that, in his opinion, £800 was due to Coleridge.
      Moreover, the earlier voyages, and, in especial the characters of Siapo
      and Umao, had been so suggestive of incidents fabricated in the 'Daisy
      Chain,' that the proceeds of the book were felt to be the due of the
      Mission and at this time these had grown to such an amount as to make up
      the sum needful for erecting such buildings as were immediately requisite
      for the intended College.
    </p>
    <p>
      These are described in the ensuing letter, which I give entire, because
      the form of acknowledgment is the only style suitable to what, however
      lightly acquired, was meant as an offering, even though it cost the giver
      all too little:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: Dec. 21, 1859.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;I have received at length from my father a distinct
      statement of what you have given to the Melanesian Mission. I had heard
      rumours before, and the Bishop of Wellington had spoken to me of your
      intentions, but the fact had not been regularly notified to us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I know you too well to say more than this. May God bless you for
      what you have lent to Him, and give us, who are specially connected with
      the Mission, grace to use your gift as you intend it to be used, to His
      glory in the salvation of souls.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you will like to hear how your gift will be appropriated. For three
      summers the Melanesian scholars lived at St. John's College, which is
      situated on a low hill, from which the ground falls away on every side,
      leaving it exposed to every wind that blows across and around the narrow
      isthmus.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank God, we had no death traceable to the effect of the climate, but we
      had constant anxiety and a considerable amount of illness. When
      arrangements were completed for the arrival of a new principal to succeed
      the Bishop of Wellington, the college was no longer likely to be available
      for the Mission school. Consequently, we determined to build on the site
      long ago agreed upon; to put up some substantial buildings, and to remove
      some of the wooden buildings at the College which would not be required
      there, and set them up again at Kohimarama.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just opposite the entrance into the Auckland harbour, between the island
      of Eangitoto with its double peak and the easternmost point of the
      northern shore of the harbour, lies a very sheltered bay, with its
      sea-frontage of rather more than a quarter of a mile, bounded to the east,
      south, and west by low hills, which where they meet the sea become sandy
      cliffs, fringed with the red-flower-bearing pohutakawa. The whole of this
      bay, the seventy acres of flat rich soil included within the rising ground
      mentioned, and some seventy acres more as yet lying uncleared, adjoining
      the same block of seventy acres, and likely to be very valuable, as the
      land is capital&mdash;the whole of this was bought by the Bishop many
      years ago as the property of the Mission, and is the only piece of Church
      land over which he retains the control, every other bequest or gift to the
      amount of 14,000 acres, having been handed over by him to the General
      Synod. This he retains till the state of the Melanesian Mission is more
      definitely settled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On the west corner of this bay we determined to build. A small tide creek
      runs for a short way about S.S.E. from the extreme end of the western part
      of the beach, then turns early eastward, and meets a small stream coming
      down from the southern hill at its western extremity. This creek encloses
      a space extending along the whole width of the bay of about eighteen or
      twenty acres.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At the east end stand three wooden cottages, occupied by the master,
      mate, and a married seaman of the "Southern Cross." At the west end stands
      the Melanesian school. Fences divide the whole space into three portions,
      whereof the western one forms our garden and orchard; and the others
      pasture for cows and working bullocks; small gardens being also fenced off
      for the three cottages. The fifty acres of flat land south of the creek we
      are now clearing and ploughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The situation here is admirably adapted for our school. Now that we have
      a solid wall of the scoria from the volcanic island opposite, we have a
      complete shelter from the cold south wind. The cliff and hill to the west
      entirely shut off the wind from that quarter, and the north and east winds
      are always warm. The soil is very dry, and the beach composed exclusively
      of small "pipi" shells&mdash;small bivalves. So that by putting many
      cart-loads of these under our wooden floors, and around our buildings, we
      have so perfect a drainage that after heavy rain the soil is quite dry
      again in a few hours. It causes me no anxiety now, when I am for an hour
      away from my flock, to be thinking whether they are lying on the ground,
      forgetting that the hot sun overhead does not destroy the bad effect of a
      damp clay soil such as that at St. John's College.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The buildings at present form three sides of a quadrangle, but the south
      side is only partly filled up. The large schoolroom, eighty feet long,
      with three sets of transepts, has been removed from the College, and put
      up again so as to form the east side of the quadrangle. This is of wood;
      so is the small wooden quadrangle which serves now for dormitories, and a
      part of which I occupy; my house consisting of three little rooms,
      together measuring seventeen feet by seven. These dormitories are the
      southern side of the quadrangle, but do not reach more than half-way from
      the east to the west side, room being left for another set of dormitories
      of equal size, when we want them and can afford them. The west side
      consists of a very nice set of stone buildings, including a large kitchen,
      store room, and room for putting things in daily and immediate use; and
      the hall, which is the northern part of the side of the quadrangle, is a
      really handsome room, with simple open roof and windows of a familiar
      collegiate appearance. These buildings are of the dark grey scoria, almost
      imperishable I suppose, and look very well. The hall is just long enough
      to take seven of us at the high table (so to speak), and thirty-four at
      the long table, stretching from the high table to the end of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At present this is used for school also, as the carpenters who are making
      all our fittings, shelves, &amp;c., are still in the large schoolroom. We
      take off the north end of the schoolroom, including one set of transepts
      for our temporary chapel. This part will be lined, i.e. boarded, neatly
      inside. The rest of the building is very rough, but it answers its
      purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In all the stone buildings, the rough stone is left inside just as it is
      outside. It does not look bad at all to my eye, and I doubt if I would
      have it lined if we had funds to pay for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope eventually that stone buildings will take the place of the present
      wooden schoolroom and dormitories; but this ought to last many years. Here
      we live most happily and comfortably. The climate almost tropical in
      summer. The beautiful scenery of the harbour before our eyes, the smooth
      sea and clean dry beach within a stone's throw of my window. The lads and
      young men have their fishing, bathing, boating, and basking in the sun,
      which all day from sunrise to sunset beats right upon us; for the west
      cliff does not project more than a few yards to the north of us, and the
      eastern boundary is low and some way off. I see the little schooner at her
      moorings whenever I look off my book or my paper, and with an opera-glass
      can see the captain caulking the decks. All is under my eye; and the lads
      daily say, "College too cold; Kohimarama very good; all the same Bauro,
      Mota," as the speaker belongs to one or other of our fourteen islands
      represented.... The moment we heard of your gift, we said simultaneously,
      "Let it be given to this or to some specific and definite object." I think
      you will like to feel not only that the money came most opportunely, but
      that within the walls built with that money, many many hundreds, I trust,
      of these Melanesian islanders will be fed and taught, and trained up in
      the knowledge and fear of God....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Before the old year was out came the tidings of the death of good Miss
      Neill, the governess whom Patteson had so faithfully loved from early
      childhood, and whose years of suffering he had done his best to cheer. 'At
      rest at last.' In the same letter, in answer to some complaint from his
      sister of want of detail in the reports, he says: 'Am I trying to make my
      life commonplace? Well, really so it is more or less to me. Things go on
      in a kind of routine. Two voyages a year, five months in New Zealand,
      though certainly two-thirds of my flock fresh every year. I suppose it
      still sounds strange to you sometimes, and to others always, but they
      should try to think for themselves about our circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you know, Fan, I can't write for the world at large anecdotes of
      missionary life, and swell the number of the "Gems" and other trashy
      books. If people who care to know, would think of what their own intuition
      tells them of human nature, and history tells them of heathenism, they can
      make out some notion of real missionary work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The school is the real work. Teaching adults to read a strange tongue is
      hard work; I have little doubt but that the Bishop is right in saying they
      must be taught English; but it is so very difficult a language, not spelt
      a bit as pronounced; and their language is all vocalic and so easy to put
      into writing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But if you like I will scatter anecdotes about&mdash;of how the Bishop
      and his chaplain took headers hand in hand off the schooner and
      roundhouse; and how the Bishop got knocked over at Leper's Island by a big
      wave; and how I borrowed a canoe at Tariko and paddled out yams as fast as
      the Bishop brought them to our boat, &amp;c.&mdash;but this is rubbish.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This letter is an instance of the reserve and reticence which Mr. Patteson
      felt so strongly with regard to his adventures and pupils. He could not
      endure stories of them to become, as it were, stock for exciting interest
      at home. There was something in his nature that shrank from publishing
      accounts of individual pupils as a breach of confidence, as much, or
      perhaps even more, than if they had been English people, likely to know
      what had been done. Moreover, instances had come to his knowledge in which
      harm had been done to both teachers and taught by their becoming aware
      that they were shown off to the public in print. Such things had happened
      even where they would have seemed not only unlikely, but impossible; and
      this rendered him particularly cautious in writing of his work, so that
      his reports were often dry, while he insisted strongly on his letters to
      his family being kept private.
    </p>
    <p>
      The actual undertakings of the Mission did not exceed its resources, so
      that there was no need for those urgent appeals which call for sensation
      and incident to back them; and thus there sometimes seemed to the exterior
      world to be a lack of information about the Mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      The letters of January 1860 show how the lads were fortified against
      weather: 'They wear a long flannel waistcoat, then a kind of jersey-shaped
      thing, with short trousers, reaching a little below the knee, for they
      dabble about like ducks here, the sea being not a hundred yards from the
      building. All the washing, of course, and most of the clothes-making they
      can do themselves; I can cut out after a fashion, and they take quickly to
      needle and thread; but now the Auckland ladies have provided divers very
      nice garments, their Sunday dresses are very nice indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The question of the Bishopric began to come forward. On the 18th of
      January a letter to Sir John Patteson, after speaking of a playful
      allusion which introduced the subject, details how Mrs. Selwyn had
      disclosed that a letter had actually been despatched to the Duke of
      Newcastle, then Colonial Secretary, asking permission to appoint and
      consecrate John Coleridge Patteson as Missionary Bishop of the Western
      Pacific Isles.
    </p>
    <p>
      J.C.P.&mdash;'Well, then, I must say what I feel about it. I have known
      for some time that this was not unlikely to come some day; but I never
      spoke seriously to you or to the Martins when you insinuated these things,
      because I thought if I took it up gravely it would come to be considered a
      settled thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. S.&mdash;'Well, so it has been, and is&mdash;&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      J.C.P.&mdash;'But has the Bishop seriously thought of this, that he has
      had no trial of any other man; that I could give any other man who may
      come, perhaps, the full benefit of my knowledge of languages, and of my
      acquaintance with the islands and the people, while we may reasonably
      expect some one to come out before long far better fitted to organise and
      lead men than I am? Has he fairly looked at all the per contra?
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. S.&mdash;'I feel sure he has.'
    </p>
    <p>
      J.C. P.&mdash;'I don't deny that my father tells me I must not shrink from
      it; that some things seem to point to it as natural; that I must not
      venture to think that I can be as complete a judge as the Bishop of what
      is good for Melanesia&mdash;but what necessity for acting now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here came an interruption, but the conversation was renewed later in the
      day with the Bishop himself, when Patteson pleaded for delay on the score
      that the isles were as yet in a state in which a missionary chaplain could
      do all that was requisite, and that the real management ought not to be
      withdrawn from the Bishop; to which the reply was that at the present time
      the Bishop could do much to secure such an appointment as he wished; but,
      in case of his death, even wishes expressed in writing might be
      disregarded. After this, the outpouring to the father continues:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't mean to shrink from this. You tell me that I ought not to do so,
      and I quite believe it. I know that no one can judge better than you can
      as to the general question, and the Bishop is as competent to decide on
      the special requirements of the case.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, my dear father, you can hardly tell how difficult I find it to be,
      amidst all the multiplicity of works, a man of devotional prayerful
      habits; how I find from time to time that I wake up to the fact that while
      I am doing more than I did in old times, yet that I pray less. How often I
      think that "God gives" habitually to the Bishop "all that sail with him;"
      that the work is prospering in his hands; but will it prosper in mine? I
      know He can use any instrument to His glory: I know that, and that He will
      not let my sins and shortcomings hinder His projects of love and blessing
      to these Melanesian islanders; but as far as purity of motive, and a
      spirit of prayer and self-denial do go for anything in making up the
      qualification on the human side for such an office&mdash;in so far, do
      they exist in me? You will say I am over sensitive and expect too much.
      That, I think, very likely may be true. It is useless to wait till one
      becomes really fit, for that of course I never shall be. But while I
      believe most entirely that grace does now supply all our deficiencies when
      we seek it fully, I do feel frightened when I see that I do not become
      more prayerful, more real in communion with God. This is what I must pray
      for earnestly: to become more prayerful, more constantly impressed with
      the necessity of seeking for everything from Him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You all think that absence from relations, living upon yams, want of the
      same kind of meat and drink that I had at home, that these things are
      proofs of sincerity, &amp;c. I believe that they all mean just nothing
      when the practical result does not come to this&mdash;that a man is
      walking more closely with his God. I dare not say that I can feel humbly
      and reverently that my inner life is progressing. I don't think that I am
      as earnest in prayer as I was. Whether it be the effect of the amount of
      work distracting me; or, sometimes, of physical weariness, or of the
      self-indulgence (laugh as you may) which results from my never being
      contradicted or interfered with, or much worried, still I do feel this;
      and may He strengthen me to pray more for a spirit of prayer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know that the actual time for my being consecrated, if I live, is
      nearer by reason of this letter: I think it most probable that it may take
      place when the General Synod meets, and, consequently, five bishops will
      be present, in 1862, at Nelson. But I suppose it is more fixed than it has
      been hitherto, and if the Bishop writes to you, as he may do, even more
      plainly than he speaks to me, you will know what especially to ask for me
      from God, and all you dear ones will recollect daily how I do inwardly
      tremble at the thoughts of what is to come. Do you remember how strangely
      I was upset before leaving home for my ordination as a deacon; and now it
      is coming to this&mdash;a church to be planted, organised, edified among
      the wild heathen inhabitants of Melanesia; and what hope can there be for
      me if there is to be no growth of a fervent, thankful, humble spirit of
      prayer and love and adoration? Not that, as I feel to my great comfort,
      God's work is dependent upon the individual growth in grace even of those
      who are entrusted with any given work; but it is in some way connected
      with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet, the upshot of it all is that I shall do (D.V.) what the Bishop
      tells me is right. I hope he won't press on the matter, but I am content
      now to leave it with him, knowing what you have said, and being so
      thankful to leave it with you and him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a letter to his sister Fanny of the same date, beginning merrily
      about the family expostulation on receiving a box of reports where
      curiosities had been expected:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fancy not thinking your worthy brother's important publications the most
      satisfactory treasures that any box could contain! The author's feelings
      are seriously injured! What are Melanesian shells to Melanesian
      statistics, and Lifu spears to a dissertation on the treatment of Lifu
      diseases? Great is the ingratitude of the houses of Feniton and Dawlish!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, it must have been rather a "sell," as at Eton it is called, to have
      seen the long-desired and highly-paid-for box disgorge nought but
      Melanesian reports! all thanks to Mrs. Martin, who packed it after I was
      off to the Islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot send you anything yet, but I will bear in mind the fact that
      reports by themselves are not considered satisfactory. Does anybody read
      them, after all? for they really cost me some days' trouble, which I can't
      find time for again. This year's report (for I suppose there must be one)
      is not begun, and I don't know what to put in it. I have but little news
      beyond what I have written once for all to Father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The decisive letter from the Bishop of New Zealand to the Duke of
      Newcastle is in the Governor's hands, and all discussion of the question
      is at an end. May God bring out of it all that may conduce to His glory;
      but how I dread what is to come, you, who remember my leaving home first
      for my deacon's ordination, can well imagine.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is true I have seen this coming for a year or two, and have seen no
      way of preventing its coming upon me&mdash;no one else has come out; the
      Bishop feels he cannot work his present diocese and Melanesia: he is
      satisfied that he ought to take New Zealand rather than the islands; that
      the time is come for settling the matter while he is able to settle it;
      and I had nothing to say, for all personal objections he overruled. So
      then, if I live, it is settled; and that, at all events, is a comfort....
      Many of my Melanesians have heavy coughs&mdash;some twelve, but I don't
      think any of them seriously ill, only needing to be watched. I am very
      well, only I want some more exercise (which, by the bye, it is always in
      my power to take), and am quite as much disposed as ever to wish for a
      good game at tennis or fives to take it out of me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The birthday letter of February 11 is a happy one, though chiefly taken up
      with the business matters respecting the money required for the Mission,
      of which Sir John was one trustee. Life was pleasant then, for Patteson
      says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do feel sometimes that the living alone has its temptations, and those
      great ones; I mean that I can arrange everything&mdash;my work, my hours,
      my whole life&mdash;after my own pleasure a great deal more than probably
      is good for me; and it is very easy to become, in a manner, very
      self-indulgent. I think that most likely, as our work (D.V.) progresses,
      one or two men may be living with me, and that will supply a check upon me
      of some kind. At present I am too much without it. Here I am in my cosy
      little room, after my delicious breakfast of perfect coffee, made in Jem's
      contrivance, hot milk and plenty of it, dry toast and potato. Missionary
      hardships! On the grass between me and the beach&mdash;a distance of some
      seventy yards&mdash;lie the boys' canvas beds and blankets and rugs,
      having a good airing. The schooner lies at anchor beyond; and, three or
      four miles beyond the schooner, lies Eangitoto, the great natural
      breakwater to the harbour. With my Dollond's opera-glass that you gave me,
      I can see the master and mate at their work refitting. Everything is under
      my eye. Our long boat and whale boat (so-called from their shapes) lie on
      the beach, covered with old sails to protect them from the sun. The lads
      are washing clothes, or scrubbing their rooms, and all the rooms&mdash;kitchen,
      hall, store-room, and school-room. There is a good south-western breeze
      stirring&mdash;our cold wind; but it is shut off here, and scarcely
      reaches us, and the sun has great power.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have the jolliest little fellows this time&mdash;about seven of them&mdash;fellows
      scarcely too big to take on my knee, and talk to about God, and Heaven,
      and Jesus Christ; and I feel almost as if I had a kind of instinct of love
      towards them, as they look up wonderingly with their deep deep eyes, and
      smooth and glossy skins, and warm soft cheeks, and ask their simple
      questions. I wish you could have seen the twenty Banks Islanders as I told
      them that most excellent of all tales&mdash;the story of Joseph. How their
      eyes glistened! and they pushed out their heads to hear the sequel of his
      making himself known to his brethren, and asking once more about "the old
      man of whom ye spake, is he yet alive?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can never read it with a steady voice, nor tell it either.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir John had thus replied to the tirade against English conventional
      luxury:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The conventional notions in this old country are not always suited to
      your country, and I quite agree that even here they are carried too far.
      Yet there are other people than the needy whose souls are entrusted to the
      clergy here, and in order to fulfil that trust they must mix on some
      degree of equality with the gentry, and with the middle classes who are
      well-to-do. Then again, consider both as to clergy and laity here. If they
      were all to lower themselves a peg or two, and give up many not only
      luxuries, but comforts, numbers of tradesmen, and others working under
      them, aye, even merchants, manufacturers, and commercial men of all sorts,
      would be to some extent thrown out of employ. The artificial and even
      luxurious state of society here does really prevent many persons from
      falling into the class of the needy. All this should be regulated in its
      due proportion. Every man ought so to limit his expenses as to have a good
      margin for charitable purposes of all sorts, but I cannot think that he is
      doing good by living himself like a pauper in order to assist paupers. If
      all men did so, labour of all kinds would be overstocked with hands, and
      more paupers created. True it is, that we all are too apt as means
      increase, some to set our hearts upon them, which is wickedness; some to
      indulge in over much luxury, which is wicked also; there should be
      moderation in all things. I believe that more money is given in private
      charities of various kinds in helping those who are struggling with small
      means, and yet not apparently in the class of the needy, than the world is
      aware of; and those who do the most are precisely those who are never
      heard of. But do not mistake me. I am no advocate for luxury and idle
      expenditure. Yet I think you carry your argument a little farther than is
      just. The impositions that are practised, or attempted to be practised,
      upon charitable people are beyond all conception.' The following is the
      answer:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 23, 1860.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;Thank you for writing your views about luxuries,
      extravagant expenditure, and the like. I see at once the truth of what you
      say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What I really mean is something of this kind. A high degree of
      civilisation seems to generate (perhaps necessarily) a state of society
      wherein the natural desires of people to gratify their inclinations in all
      directions, conjoined with the power of paying highly for the
      gratification of such inclinations, tends to call forth the ingenuity of
      the working class in meeting such inclinations in all agreeable ways. So
      springs up a complicated mechanism, by which a habit of life altogether
      unnecessary for health and security of life and property is introduced and
      becomes naturalised among a people.
    </p>
    <p>
      If this is the necessary consequence of the distinction between rich and
      poor, and the course of civilisation must result in luxury and poverty
      among the two classes respectively (and this seems to be so), it is, of
      course, still more evident that the state of society being once
      established gradually, through a long course of years, no change can
      subsequently be introduced excepting in one way. It is still in the power
      of individuals to act upon the community by their example&mdash;e.g., the
      early Christians, though only for a short time, showed the result of the
      practical acceptance of the Lord's teaching in its effect upon society.
      Rich and poor, comparatively speaking, met each other half way. The rich
      man sold his possessions, and equal distribution was made to the poor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All that I contend for is that, seeing the fearful deterioration, and no
      less fearful extravagance, of a civilised country, the evil is one which
      calls loudly for careful investigation. Thousands of artisans and
      labourers who contribute nothing to the substantial wealth of the country,
      and nothing towards the production of its means of subsistence, would be
      thrown out of employment, and therefore that plan would be wrong.
      Jewellers, &amp;c., &amp;c., all kinds of fellows who simply manufacture
      vanities, are just as honest and good men as others, and it is not their
      fault, but the fault (if it be one at all) of civilisation that they
      exist. But I don't see why, the evil being recognised, some comprehensive
      scheme of colonisation might not be adopted by the rulers of a Christian
      land, to empty our poor-houses, and draft off the surplus population,
      giving to the utterly destitute the prospect of health, and renewed hopes
      of success in another thinly-inhabited country, and securing for those who
      remain behind a more liberal remuneration for their work by the
      comparative absence of competition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hardly know what to write to you, my dear Father, about this new
      symptom of illness. I suppose, from what you say, that at your time of
      life the disease being so mild in its form now, will hardly prove
      dangerous to you, especially as you submit at once to a strictness of diet
      which must be pretty hard to follow out&mdash;just the habit of a whole
      life to be given up; and I know that to forego anything that I like, in
      matters of eating and drinking, wants an effort that I feel ashamed of
      being obliged to make. I don't, therefore, make myself unnecessarily
      anxious, though I can't help feeling that such a discipline must be hard.
      You say that in other respects you are much the same; but that means that
      you are in almost constant pain, and that you cannot obtain entire relief
      from it, except in bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Still, my dear Father, as you do bear it all, how can we wish that God
      should spare you one trial or infirmity, which, we know, are, in His
      providence, making you daily riper and riper for Heaven? I ought not to
      write to you like this, but somehow the idea of our ever meeting anywhere
      else has so entirely passed from my mind, that I try to view things with
      reference to His ultimate purpose and work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving and dutiful Son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The most present trouble of this summer was the sickness of Simeona. The
      account of him on Ash Wednesday is: 'He is dying of consumption slowly,
      and may go back with us two months hence, but I doubt it. Poor fellow, he
      makes the worst of his case, and is often discontented and thinks himself
      aggrieved because we cannot derange the whole plan of the school economy
      for him. I have everything which is good for him, every little dainty, and
      everyone is most kind; but when it comes to a complaint because one
      pupil-teacher is not set apart to sit with him all day, and another to
      catch him fish, of course I tell him that it would be wrong to grant what
      is so unreasonable. Some one or other of the most stupid of the boys
      catches his fish just as well as a pupil-teacher, and he is quite able to
      sit up and read for two or three hours a day, and would only be injured by
      having another lad in the room on purpose to be the receptacle of all his
      moans and complaints, yet I know, poor fellow! it is much owing to the
      disease upon him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of his fretfulness and exactions, the young man, meeting not with
      spoiling, but with true kindness, responded to the touch. Lady Martin
      tells us: 'I shall never forget dear Mr. Patteson's thankfulness when,
      after a long season of reserve, he opened his heart to him, and told him
      how, step by step, this sinfulness of sin had been brought home to him. He
      knew he had done wrong in his heathen boyhood, but had put away such deeds
      when he was baptized, and had almost forgotten the past, or looked on it
      as part of heathenism. But in his illness, tended daily and hourly by our
      dear friend, his conscience had become very tender. He died in great
      peace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His death is mentioned in the following letter to Sir John Coleridge:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'March 26, 1860. '(This day 5 years I left home. It was a Black Monday
      indeed.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Uncle,&mdash;At three this morning died one of my old scholars,
      by name George Selwyn Simeona, from Nengone. He was here for his third
      time; for two years a regular communicant, having received a good deal of
      teaching before I knew him. He was baptized three years ago. I did not
      wish to bring him this time, for it was evident that he could not live
      long when we met last at Nengone, and I told him that he had better not
      come with us; but he said, "Heaven was no farther from New Zealand than
      from Nengone;" and when we had pulled some little way from shore, he ran
      down the beach, and made us return to take him in. Gradual decline and
      chronic bronchitis wore him to a skeleton. On Thursday the Bishop and I
      administered the Holy Eucharist to him; and he died at 3 A.M. to-day, with
      his hand in mine, as I was in the act of commending his soul to God. His
      wife, a sweet good girl, one of Mrs. Selwyn's pupils from Nengone in old
      times, died last year. They leave one boy of three years, whom I hope to
      get hold of entirely, and as it were adopt him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The clear bright moon was right over my head as after a while, and after
      prayer with his friends, I left his room; the quiet splash of the tiny
      waves on our sheltered shore, and the little schooner at her anchorage:
      and I thanked God that one more spirit from among the Melanesian islanders
      was gone to dwell, we trust, with JESUS CHRIST in Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He will not be much missed in the Melanesian school work, for, for
      months, he could not make one of us....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I find Trench's Notes on the Authorised Version of the New Testament very
      useful, chiefly as helping one to acquire a habit of accurate criticism
      for oneself, and when we come (D.V.) to translate any portion of the
      Scriptures, of course such books are very valuable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last mail brought me but a very few letters. The account of my dear
      Father's being obliged to submit to discipline did not alarm me, though I
      know the nature of the disease, and that his father died of it. It seems
      in his case likely to be kept under, but (as I have said before) I cannot
      feel uneasy and anxious about him, be the accounts what they may. It is
      partly selfish, for I am spared the sight of his suffering, but then I do
      long for a look at his dear face and for the sound of his voice. Five
      years of absence has of course made so much change in my mind in this
      respect, that I do not now find myself dreaming of home, constantly
      thinking of it; the first freshness of my loss is not felt now. But I
      think I love them all and you all better than ever; and I trust that I am
      looking inward on the whole to the blessedness of our meeting hereafter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But this work has its peculiar dangers. A man may become so familiarised
      with the habits of the heathen that insensibly his conscience becomes less
      sensitive.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is a danger in living in the midst of utter lawlessness and
      violence; and though the blessings and privileges far excel the
      disadvantages, yet it is not in every way calculated to help one forward,
      as I think I have in some ways found by experience.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, this is all dull and dry. But our life is somewhat monotonous on
      shore, varied only by the details of incidents occurring in school, and
      witnessing to the growth of the minds of my flock. They are a very
      intelligent set this year, and there are many hopeful ones among them. We
      have worked them hard at English, and all can read a little; and some
      eight or ten really read nicely, but then they do not understand nearly
      all they read without an explanation, just like an English boy beginning
      his knowledge of letters with Latin (or French, a still spoken language).
    </p>
    <p>
      'In about a month we shall (D.V.) start to take them back; but the vessel
      will be absent but a short time, as I shall keep the Solomon Islanders
      with me in the Banks Archipelago for the winter, and so avoid the
      necessity of the schooner running 200 or 300 miles to leeward and having
      to make it up again. I have slept ashore twice in the Banks Islands, but
      no other white man has done so, and that makes our course very clear, as
      they have none of the injuries usually committed by traders, &amp;c., to
      revenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye once more, my dearest Uncle,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and grateful Nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The calmness of mind respecting his father which is here spoken of was not
      perpetual, and his grief broke out at times in talks with his young friend
      and companion, Mr. Dudley, as appears by this extract:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember his talking to me more than once on the subject of his father,
      and especially his remarking on one occasion that his friends were
      pressing him to come out there oftener, and suggesting, when he seemed out
      of health and spirits, that he was not taking care of himself; but that it
      was the anguish he endured, as night after night he lay awake thinking of
      his father gradually sinking and craving for him, and cheerfully resigning
      him, that really told upon him. I know that I obtained then a glimpse of
      an affection and a depth of sorrow such as perfectly awed me, and I do not
      think I have witnessed anything like it at all, either before or since. It
      was then that he seemed to enter into the full meaning of those words of
      our Lord, in St. Mark x. 29-30, i.e., into all that the "leaving" there
      spoken of involved.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet in spite of this anxiety there was no flinching from the three months'
      residence at Mota, entirely out of reach of letters. A frame house, with
      planks for the floor, was prepared at Auckland to be taken out, and a
      stock of wine, provisions, and medicines laid in. The Rev. B. Y. Ashwell,
      a New Zealand clergyman, joined the Mission party as a guest, with two
      Maori youths, one the son of a deacon; and, besides Mr. Dudley, another
      pupil, Mr. Thomas Kerr, was beginning his training for service in the
      Mission. Sailing on one of the last days of April, there was a long
      passage to Nengone, where the party went ashore, and found everything in
      trouble, the French constantly expected, and the chiefs entreating for a
      missionary from the Bishop, and no possibility of supplying them. Lifu was
      rendered inaccessible by foul winds.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Much to my sorrow,' writes Mr. Patteson, 'I could not land my two
      pupil-teachers, who, of course, wished to see their friends, and who made
      me more desirous to give them a run on shore, by saying at once: "Don't
      think of us, it is not safe to go." But I thought of what my feelings
      would be if it were the Devonshire coast, somewhere about Sidmouth, and no
      landing!' However, they, as well as the three Nengonese, Wadrokala, Harper
      Malo, and Martin Tahia, went on contentedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Off Mai, May 19th.&mdash;Mr. Kerr has been busy taking bearings, &amp;c.,
      for the purpose of improving our MS. chart, and constructing a new one.
      Commodore Loring wanted me to tell him all about Port Patteson, and asked
      me if I wished a man-of-war to be sent down this winter to see me,
      supposing the New Zealand troubles to be all over. I gave him all the
      information he wanted, told him that I did not want a vessel to come with
      the idea of any protection being required, but that a man-of-war coming
      with the intention of supporting the Mission, and giving help, and not
      coming to treat the natives in an off-hand manner, might do good. I did
      not speak coldly; but really I fear what mischief even a few wildish
      fellows might do on shore among such people as those of the Banks Islands!
    </p>
    <p>
      'A fore-and-aft schooner in sight! Probably some trader. May be a schooner
      which I heard the French had brought for missionary purposes. What if we
      find a priest or two at Port Patteson! However, my course is clear any
      way: work straight on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 21st.&mdash;Schooner a false alarm. We had a very interesting visit
      on Saturday afternoon at Mai. We could not land till 4 P.M.; walked at
      once to the village, a mile and a half inland. After some excitement
      caused by our appearance, the people rushing to welcome us, we got them to
      be quiet, and to sit down. I stood up, and gave them a sermonette, then
      made Dudley, who speaks good Mai, say something. Then we knelt down, and I
      said the second Good Friday Collect, inserted a few petitions which you
      can imagine anyone would do at such a time, then a simple prayer in their
      language, the Lord's Prayer in English, and the Grace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On Friday Mota was reached, and the people showed great delight when the
      frame of the house was landed at the site purchased for a number of
      hatchets and other goods, so that it is the absolute property of the
      Mission. Saturday was spent in a visit to Port Patteson, where the people
      thronged, while the water-casks were being filled, and bamboos cut down,
      with entreaties that the station might be there; and the mosquitoes
      thronged too&mdash;Mr. Patteson had fifty-eight bites on one foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Whit Sunday, after Holy Communion on board, the party went on shore,
      and prayed for, 'I cannot say with the people of Vanua Lava.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And on Whit Monday the house was set up 'in a most lovely spot,' says Mr.
      Dudley, 'beneath the shade of a gigantic banyan tree, the trunk and one
      long horizontal branch of which formed two sides of as beautiful a picture
      as you would wish to look upon; the sloping bank, with its cocoa-nut,
      bread-fruit, and other trees, forming the base of the picture; and the
      coral beach, the deep, clear, blue tropical ocean, with others of the
      Banks Islands, Valua, Matlavo, and Uvaparapara, in the distance, forming
      the picture itself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At least a hundred natives came to help, pulling down materials from their
      own houses to make the roof, and delighted to obtain a bit of iron, or
      still better of broken glass, to shave with. In the afternoon, the master
      of the said house, using a box for a desk, wrote: 'Our little house will,
      I think, be finished to-night; anyhow we can sleep in it, if the walls are
      but half ready; they are merely bamboo canes tied together. We sleep on
      the floor boarded and well raised on poles, two feet and more from the
      ground&mdash;beds are superfluous here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here then was the first stake of the Church's tabernacle planted in all
      Melanesia!
    </p>
    <p>
      The boards of the floor had been brought from New Zealand, the heavy posts
      on which the plates were laid were cut in Vanua Lava, and the thatch was
      of cocoa-nut leaves, the leaflets ingeniously bound together, native
      fashion, and quite waterproof; but a mat or piece of canvas had to be
      nailed within the bamboo walls to keep out the rain.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Wednesday a short service was held, the first ever known in Mota; and
      then Mr. Ashwell and Mr. Kerr embarked, leaving Mr. Patteson and Mr.
      Dudley with their twelve pupils in possession. Mr. Dudley had skill to
      turn their resources to advantage. Space was gained below by making a
      frame, to which knapsacks, bags, &amp;c., could be hung up, and the floor
      was only occupied by the four boxes, which did the further part of tables,
      desks, and chairs in turn. As to beds, was not the whole floor before
      them? and, observes the Journal: 'Now I see the advantage of having
      brought planks from New Zealand to make a floor. We all had something
      level to lie on at night, and when you are tired enough, a good smooth
      plank or a box does just as well as a mattress.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fresh water was half a mile off, and had to be fetched in bamboos; but
      this was a great improvement upon Lifu, where there was none at all; and a
      store of it was always kept in four twenty-gallon casks, three on the
      beach, and one close to the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The place was regularly purchased:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 8th.&mdash;I have just bought for the Mission this small clearing of
      half an acre, and the two acres (say) leading to the sea, with twenty or
      more bread-fruits on it. There was a long talk with the people, and some
      difficulty in finding out the real proprietors, but I think we arranged
      matters really well at last. You would have been amused at the solemnity
      with which I conducted the proceeding: making a great show of writing down
      their names, and bringing each one of the owners up in their turn to see
      his name put down, and making him touch my pen as I put a cross against
      his name. Having spent about an hour in enquiring whether any other person
      had any claim on the land or trees, I then said, "Now this all belongs to
      me," and they assented. I entered it in my books&mdash;"On behalf of the
      Melanesian Mission," but they could only understand that the land belonged
      to the Bishop and me, because we wanted a place where some people might
      live, who should be placed by the Bishop to teach them. Of course the
      proceeding has no real validity, but I think they will observe the
      contract: not quite the same thing as the transfer of land in the old
      country! Here about 120 men, quite naked, represented the interests of the
      late owners, and Dudley and I represented the Mission.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The days were thus laid out&mdash;Morning school in the village, first
      with the regular scholars, then with any one who liked to come in; and
      then, when the weather permitted, a visit to some village, sometimes
      walking all round, a circuit of ten miles, but generally each of the two
      taking a separate village, talking to the people, teaching them from
      cards, and encouraging interrogatories. Mr. Patteson always had such an
      attraction for them that they would throng round him eagerly wherever he
      went.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Mota people had a certain faith of their own; they believed in a
      supreme god called Ikpat, who had many brothers, one of whom was something
      like Loki, in the Northern mythology, always tricking him. Ikpat had
      disappeared in a ship, taking the best of everything with him. It was also
      believed that the spirits of the dead survived and ranged about at night,
      maddening all who chanced to meet them; and, like many other darkly
      coloured people, the Motans had begun by supposing their white visitors to
      be the ghosts of their deceased friends come to revisit them.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were a good many other superstitions besides; and a ceremony
      connected with one of them was going on the second week of the residence
      at Mota&mdash;apparently a sort of freemasonry, into which all boys of a
      certain age were to be initiated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Journal says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is some strange superstitious ceremony going on at this village. A
      space had been enclosed by a high hedge, and some eighteen or nineteen
      youths are spending a month or more inside the fence, in a house where
      they lie wrapped up in mats, abundantly supplied with food by the people,
      who, from time to time, assemble to sing or perform divers rites. I had a
      good deal of trouble with the father of our second year's pupil Tagalana,
      who insisted upon sending his son thither. I warned him against the
      consequences of hindering his son, who wished to follow Christ. He
      yielded, because he was evidently afraid of me, but not convinced, as I
      have no right to expect he should be.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The next morning comes an old fellow, and plants a red-flowering branch
      in our small clearing, whereupon our Mota boys go away, not wishing to go,
      but not daring to stay. No people came near us, but by-and-by comes the
      man who had planted it, with whom I had much talk, which ended in his
      pulling up and throwing away the branch, and in the return of our boys.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the evening many people came, to whom I spoke very plainly about the
      necessity of abandoning these customs if they were in earnest in saying
      they wished to embrace the Word of God. On Sunday they gave up their
      singing at the enclosure, or only attempted it in a very small way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 6th.&mdash;I am just returned from a village a mile and a half off,
      called Tasmate, where one of their religious ceremonies took place this
      morning. The village contains upwards of twenty houses, built at the edge
      of the bush, which consists here almost exclusively of fruit-bearing trees&mdash;cocoa-nut
      trees, bananas, bread-fruit, and large almond trefts are everywhere the
      most conspicuous. The sea view looking south is very beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I walked thither alone, having heard that a feast was to be held there.
      As I came close to the spot, I heard the hum of many voices, and the dull,
      booming sound of the native drum, which is nothing but a large hollow
      tree, of circular shape, struck by wooden mallets. Some few people ran off
      as I appeared, but many of them had seen me before. The women, about
      thirty in number, were sitting on the ground together, in front of one of
      the houses, which enclosed an open air circular space; in front of another
      house were many children and young people. In the long narrow house which
      forms the general cooking and lounging room of the men of each village,
      and the sleeping room of the bachelors, were many people preparing large
      messes of grated yam and cocoa-nut in flat wooden dishes. At the long
      oblong-shaped drum sat the performers, two young men, each with two short
      sticks to perform the kettledrum part of the business, and an older man in
      the centre, whose art consisted in bringing out deep, hollow tones from
      his wooden instrument. Around them stood some thirty men, two of whom I
      noticed especially, decked out with red leaves, and feathers in their
      hair. Near this party, and close to the long, narrow house in the end of
      which I stood, was a newly raised platform of earth, supported on stones.
      On the corner stone were laid six or eight pigs' jaws, with the large
      curling tusks left in them. This was a sacred stone. In front of the
      platform were three poles, covered with flowers, red leaves, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For about an hour and a half the men at or around the drum kept up an
      almost incessant shouting, screaming and whistling, moving their legs and
      arms in time, not with any wild gesticulations, but occasionally with some
      little violence, the drum all the time being struck incessantly. About the
      middle of the ceremony, an old, tall, thin man, with a red handkerchief,
      our gift at some time, round his waist, began ambling round the space in
      the middle of the houses, carrying a boar's skull in his hand. This
      performance he repeated three times. Then a man jumped up upon the
      platform, and, moving quickly about on it and gesticulating wildly,
      delivered a short speech, after which the drum was beat louder than ever;
      then came another speech from the same man; and then the rain evidently
      hastening matters to a conclusion to the whole thing, without any ceremony
      of consecrating the stone, as I had expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the long room afterwards I had the opportunity of saying quietly what
      I had said to those about me during the ceremony: the same story of the
      love of God, especially manifested in JESUS CHRIST, to turn men from
      darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God. With what power
      that verse speaks to one while witnessing such an exhibition of ignorance,
      or fear, or superstition as I have seen to-day! And through it all I was
      constantly thinking upon the earnestness with which these poor souls
      follow out a mistaken notion of religion. Such rain as fell this morning
      would have kept a whole English congregation from going to church, but
      they never sought shelter nor desisted from their work in hand; and the
      physical effect was really great, the perspiration streamed down their
      bodies, and the learning by heart all the songs and the complicated parts
      of the ceremony implied a good deal of pains. Christians do not always
      take so much pains to fulfil scrupulously their duties as sometimes these
      heathens do. And, indeed, their bondage is a hard one, constant suspicion
      and fear whenever they think at all. Everything that is not connected with
      the animal part of our nature seems to be the prey of dark and gloomy
      superstitions; the spiritual part is altogether inactive as an instrument
      of comfort, joy, peace and hope. You can imagine that I prayed earnestly
      for these poor souls, actually performing before me their strange
      mysteries, and that I spoke earnestly and strongly afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The argument with those who would listen was: What good comes of all
      this? What has the spirit you call Ikpat ever done for you? Has he taught
      you to clothe yourselves, build houses, &amp;c.? Does he offer to make you
      happy? Can you tell me what single good thing has come from these customs?
      But if you ask me what good thing has come to us from the Word of God,
      first you had better let me tell you what has happened in England of old,
      in New Zealand, Nengone, or Lifu, then I will tell you what the Word of
      God teaches;&mdash;and these with the great outline of the Faith.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Every village in the island had the platforms, poles, and flowers; and the
      next day, at a turn in the path near a village, the Mission party suddenly
      came upon four sticks planted in a row, two of them bearing things like
      one-eyed masks; two others, like mitres, painted red, black, and white. As
      far as could be made out, they were placed there as a sort of defiance to
      the inhabitants; but Mr. Patteson took down one, and declared his
      intention of buying them for fish-hooks, to take to New Zealand, that the
      people might see their dark and foolish customs!
    </p>
    <p>
      Some effect had already been produced, the people declared that there had
      been much less of fighting since the missionaries had spoken to them
      eighteen months back, and they had given up some of the charms by which
      they used to destroy each other; but there was still much carrying of
      bows; and on the way home from this expedition, Mr. Patteson suddenly came
      on six men with bows bent and arrows pointed in his direction. He at once
      recognised a man from Veverao, the next village to the station, and called
      out 'All right!' It proved that a report had come of his being attacked or
      killed on the other side of the island, and that they had set out to
      defend or avenge him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He received his champions with reproof:&mdash;'This is the very thing I
      told you not to do. It is all your foolish jealousy and suspicion of them.
      There is not a man on the island who is not friendly to me! And if they
      were not friendly, what business have you with your bows and arrows? I
      tell you once more, if I see you take your bows again, though you may do
      it as you think with a good intention towards me, I will not stay at your
      village. If you want to help me, receive the Word of God, abandon your
      senseless ceremonies. That will be helping me indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cannot you live at peace in this little bit of an island?' was the
      constant theme of these lectures; and when Wompas, his old scholar,
      appeared with bow and arrows, saying, I am sent to defend you,' the answer
      was, 'Don't talk such nonsense! Give me the bow!' This was done, and
      Patteson was putting it across his knee to break it, when the youth
      declared it was not his. 'If I see these things again, you know what will
      become of them!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The mitres and masks were gone; but the Veverao people were desperately
      jealous of the next village, Auta, alleging that the inhabitants were
      unfriendly, and by every means trying to keep the guest entirely to
      themselves; while he resolutely forced on their reluctant ears, 'If you
      are sincere in saying that you wish to know God, you must love your
      brother. God will not dwell in a divided heart, nor teach you His truth
      while you wilfully continue to hate your brother!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The St. Barnabas Day on which most of this was written was a notable one,
      for it was marked by the first administration of both the Sacraments in
      Mota. In the morning one English and four Nengonese communicants knelt
      round their pastor; and, in the evening, after a walk to Auta, and much of
      this preaching of peace and goodwill, then a dinner, which was made
      festive with preserved meat and wine, there came a message from one
      Ivepapeu, a leading man, whose child was sick. It was evidently dying, and
      Mr. Patteson, in the midst of the people, told them that&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Son of God had commanded us to teach and baptize all nations; that
      they did not understand the meaning of what he was about to do, but that
      the word of JESUS the Son of God was plain, and that he must obey it; that
      this was not a mere form, but a real gift from heaven, not for the body
      but the soul; that the child would be as likely to die as before, but that
      its spirit would be taken to God, and if it should recover, it must be set
      apart for God, not taken to any heathen rites, but given to himself to be
      trained up as a child of God.' The parents consented: 'Then,' he
      continues, 'we knelt, and in the middle of the village, the naked group
      around me, the dying child in its mother's lap, I prayed to God and Christ
      in their language to bless the child according to His own promise, to
      receive it for His own child, and to convey to it the fulness of the
      blessing of His holy Sacrament. Then while all were silent, I poured the
      water on its head, pronouncing the form of words in English, and calling
      the child John, the first Christian child in the Banks Islands. Then I
      knelt down again and praised God for His goodness, and prayed that the
      child might live, if it were His good pleasure, and be educated to His
      glory; and then I prayed for those around me and for the people of the
      island, that God would reveal to them His Holy Name and Word and Will; and
      so, with a few words to the parents and people, left them, as darkness
      settled down on the village and the bright stars came out overhead.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The innocent first-fruits of Mota died three days later, and Mr. Patteson
      found a great howling and wailing going on over its little grave under a
      long low house. This was hushed when he came up, and spoke of the
      Resurrection, and described the babe's soul dwelling in peace in the
      Kingdom of the Father, where those would join it who would believe and
      repent, cast away their evil practices, and be baptized to live as
      children of God. Kneeling down, he prayed over it, thanking God for having
      taken it to Himself, and interceding for all around. They listened and
      seemed touched; no opposition was ever offered to him, but he found that
      there was much fighting and quarrelling, many of the villages at war with
      each other, and a great deal too much use of the bow and arrow, though the
      whole race was free from cannibalism. They seemed to want to halt between
      two opinions: to keep up their orgies on the one hand, and to make much of
      the white teacher on the other; and when we recollect that two unarmed
      Englishmen, and twelve blacks from other islands, were perfectly isolated
      in the midst of a heathen population, having refused protection from a
      British man-of-war, it gives a grandeur to the following narrative:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 7th.&mdash;One of their chief men has just been with two bread-fruit
      as a present. I detected him as a leader of one of their chief ceremonies
      yesterday, and I have just told him plainly that I cannot accept anything
      from him, neither can I suffer him to be coming to my place while it is
      notorious that he is teaching the children the very things they ought not
      to learn, and that he is strongly supporting the old false system, while
      he professes to be listening attentively to the Word of God. I made him
      take up his two bread-fruit and carry them away; and I suppose it will be
      the story all over the village that I have driven him away.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"By-and-by we will listen to the Word of God, when we have finished these
      ceremonies."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes, you hearken first to the voice of the evil spirit; you choose him
      firsthand then you will care to hear about God.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      The ceremony was to last twenty days, and only affected the lads, who were
      blackened all over with soot, and apparently presented pigs to the old
      priest, and were afterwards admitted to the privileges of eating and
      sleeping in the separate building, which formed a kind of club-house for
      the men of each village, and on which Mr. Patteson could always reckon as
      both a lecture room and sleeping place.
    </p>
    <p>
      The people kept on saying that 'by-and-by' they would make an end of their
      wild ritual, and throw down their enclosures, and at the same time they
      thronged to talk to him at the Mission station, and built a shed to serve
      for a school at Auta.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the little estate was brought into order. A pleasant day of
      landscape-gardening was devoted to clearing gaps to let in the lovely
      views from the station; and a piece of ground was dug and planted with
      pine-apples, vines, oranges, and cotton, also a choicer species of banana
      than the indigenous one. Bread-fruit was so plentiful that breakfast was
      provided by sending a boy up a tree to bring down four or five fruits,
      which were laid in the ashes, and cooked at once; and as to banana leaves
      'we think nothing of cutting one down, four feet long and twenty inches
      wide, of a bright pale green, just to wrap up a cooked yam or two.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The first week in July, with Wadrokala, Mark, and two Malanta men, Mr.
      Patteson set forth in the boat that had been left with him, for an
      expedition among the other islands, beginning with Saddle Island, or
      Valua, which was the proper name.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day after leaving Eowa, the weather changed; and as on these perilous
      coasts there was no possibility of landing, two days and the intervening
      night had to be spent in the open four-oared boat, riding to a grapnel!
    </p>
    <p>
      Very glad they were to get into Port Patteson, and to land in the wet, 'as
      it can rain in the tropics.' The nearest village, however, was empty,
      everybody being gone to the burial wake of the wife of a chief, and there
      was no fire to cook the yams, everything dreary and deserted, but a short
      walk brought the wet and tired party to the next village, where they were
      made welcome to the common house; and after, supping on yams and
      chocolate, spent a good night, and found the sea smooth the next day for a
      return to head-quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      These first weeks at Mota were very happy, but after that the strain began
      to tell. Mr. Patteson had been worn with anxiety for his father, and no
      doubt with awe in the contemplation of his coming Episcopate, and was not
      in a strong state of health when he left Kohimarama, and the lack of
      animal food, the too sparing supply of wine, and the bare board bed told
      upon him. On the 24th of July he wrote in a letter to his Uncle Edward:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have lost six days: a small tumour formed inside the ear about two
      inches from the outer ear, and the pain has been very considerable, and
      the annoyance great. Last night I slept for the first time for five
      nights, and I have been so weary with sleeplessness that I have been quite
      idle. The mischief is passing away now. That ear is quite deaf; it made me
      think so of dear Father and Joan with their constant trial. I don't see
      any results from our residence here; and why should I look for them? It is
      enough that the people are hearing, some of them talking, and a few
      thinking about what they hear. All in God's own time!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Dudley adds: 'His chief trouble at this time was with one of his ears.
      The swelling far in not only made him deaf while it lasted, but gave him
      intense and protracted agony. More than once he had to spend the whole
      night in walking up and down the room. But only on one occasion during the
      whole time do I remember his losing his patience, and that was when we had
      been subjected to an unusually protracted visitation from the "loafers" of
      the village, who would stretch themselves at full length on the floor and
      table, if we would let them, and altogether conduct themselves in such a
      manner as to call for summary treatment, very different from the more
      promising section. The half jocular but very decided manner in which he
      cleared the house on this occasion, and made them understand that they
      were to respect our privacy sometimes, and not make the Mission station an
      idling place, was very satisfactory. It was no small aggravation of the
      pain to feel that this might be the beginning of permanent deafness, such
      as would be fatal to his usefulness in a work in which accuracy of ear was
      essential.'
    </p>
    <p>
      However, this gradually improved; and another boat voyage was made, but
      again was frustrated by the torrents of rain. In fact, it was an unusually
      wet and unwholesome season, which told upon everyone. Mark Chakham, the
      Nengonese, was brought very near the grave by a severe attack of
      dysentery. All the stores of coffee, chocolate, wine and biscuit were used
      up. The 'Southern Cross' had been due full a month, and nothing was heard
      of her through the whole of September.
    </p>
    <p>
      Teaching and conversation went on all this time, trying as it was; and the
      people still came to hear, though no one actually undertook to forsake his
      idols.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am still hopeful about these people,' is the entry on September 18,
      'though all their old customs and superstitions go on just as before. But
      (1) they know that a better teaching has been presented to them. (2) They
      do not pursue their old habits with the same unthinking-security. (3)
      There are signs of a certain uneasiness of mind, as if a struggle was
      beginning in them. (4) They have a vague consciousness, some of them, that
      the power is passing away from their witchcrafts, sorceries, &amp;c., by
      which unquestionably they did and still do work strange effects on the
      credulous people, like 'Pharaoh's magicians of old.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was ground gained; and one or two voyages to Vanua Lava and the other
      isles were preparatory steps, and much experience had been acquired, and
      resulted in this:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The feasibility of the Bishop's old scheme is more and more apparent to
      me. Only I think that in taking away natives to the summer school, it must
      be understood that some (and they few) are taken from new islands merely
      to teach us some of their languages and to frank us, so that we may have
      access in safety to their islands. Should any of them turn out well, so
      much the better; but it will not be well to take them with the expectation
      of their becoming teachers to their people. But the other section of the
      school will consist of young men whose behaviour we have watched during
      the winter in their own homes, whose professions we have had an
      opportunity of testing&mdash;they may be treated as young men on the way
      to become teachers eventually to their countrymen. One learns much from
      living among a heathen people, and only by living in our pupils' homes
      shall we ever know their real characters. Poor fellows! they are adepts in
      all kinds of deceitfulness at a very early age, and so completely in our
      power on board the schooner and at Kohimarama, that we know nothing of
      them as they are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The very paper this is copied from shows how the stores were failing, for
      the full quarto sheets have all failed, and the journal is continued on
      note paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not till October 1 was Mr. Patteson's watch by a poor dying woman
      interrupted by tidings that a ship was in sight. And soon it was too plain
      that she was not the 'Southern Cross,' though, happily, neither trader nor
      French Mission ship. In a short time there came ashore satisfactory
      letters from home, but with them the tidings that the little 'Southern
      Cross' lay in many fathoms water on the New Zealand coast!
    </p>
    <p>
      On her return, on the night of the 17th of June, just as New Zealand
      itself was reached, there was a heavy gale from the north-east. A
      dangerous shoal of rocks, called the Hen and Chickens, stands out from the
      head of Ngunguru Bay; and, in the darkness and mist, it was supposed that
      these were safely passed, when the ship struck on the eastern Chicken,
      happily on a spot somewhat sheltered from the violence of the breakers.
      The two passengers and the crew took refuge in the rigging all night; and
      in the morning contrived to get a line to land, on which all were safely
      drawn through the surf, and were kindly received by the nearest English
      settlers.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, after five years' good service, ended the career of the good 'Southern
      Cross' the first. She had gone down upon sand, and much of the wreck might
      have been recovered and made useful again had labour not been scarce at
      that time in New Zealand that the Bishop could find no one to undertake
      the work, and all he could do was to charter another vessel to be
      despatched to bring home the party from Mota. Nor were vessels fit for the
      purpose easy to find, and the schooner 'Zillah'&mdash;welcome as was the
      sight of her&mdash;proved a miserable substitute even in mere nautical
      capabilities, and her internal arrangements were of course entirely
      inappropriate to the peculiar wants of the Mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the more unfortunate because the very day after her arrival Mr.
      Dudley was prostrated by something of a sunstroke. Martin Tehele was ill
      already, and rapidly became worse; and Wadrokala and Harper Malo sickened
      immediately, nor was the former patient recovered. Mr. Dudley, Wadrokala
      and Harper were for many days in imminent danger, and were scarcely
      dragged through by the help of six bottles of wine, providentially sent by
      the Bishop. Mr. Dudley says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'During the voyage Mr. Patteson's powers of nursing were severely tried.
      Poor Martin passed away before we arrived at Nengone, and was committed to
      the deep. Before he died he was completely softened by Mr. Patteson's
      loving care, and asked pardon for all the trouble he had given and the
      fretfulness he had shown. Poor fellow! I well remember how he gasped out
      the Lord's Prayer after Mr. Patteson a few minutes before he died. We all
      who had crawled up round his bed joining in with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, what a long dreary time that was! Light baffling winds continually,
      and we in a vessel as different from the "Southern Cross" as possible,
      absolutely guiltless, I should think, of having ever made two miles an
      hour to windward "in a wind." The one thing that stands out as having
      relieved its dreariness is the presence of Mr. Patteson, the visits he
      used to pay to us, and the exquisite pathos of his voice as, from the
      corner of the hold where we lay, we could hear him reading the Morning and
      Evening Prayers of the Church and leading the hymn. These prevented these
      long weary wakeful days and nights from being absolutely insupportable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Nengone was reached, and Wadrokala and Harper were there set
      ashore, better, but very weak. Here the tidings were known that in Lifu
      John Cho had lost his wife Margaret, and had married the widow of a
      Karotongan teacher, a very suitable match, but too speedy to be according
      to European ideas; and on November 26 the 'Zillah' was off the Three
      Kings, New Zealand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Monday: Nov. 26, 1860. '"Zillah" Schooner, off the Three Kings, N. of New
      Zealand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know pretty well that Kohimarama is a small bay, about one-third of a
      mile along the sea frontage, two-and-a-half miles due east of Auckland,
      and just opposite the entrance into the harbour, between the North Head
      and Eangitoto. The beach is composed entirely of the shells of "pipi"
      (small cockles); always, therefore, dry and pleasant to walk upon. A fence
      runs along the whole length of it. At the eastern end of it, a short
      distance inside this N. (= sea) fence, are the three cottages of the
      master and mate and Fletcher. Sam Fletcher is a man-of-war's man, age
      about thirty-eight, who has been with us some four years and a half. He
      has all the habits of order and cleanliness that his life as coxswain of
      the captain's gig taught him; he is a very valuable fellow. He is our
      extra man at sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Each of these cottages has its garden, and all three men are married, but
      only the master (Grange) has any family, one married daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then going westward comes a nine-acre paddock, and then a dividing fence,
      inside (i.e. to W.) of which stand our buildings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now our life here is hard to represent. It is not like the life of an
      ordinary schoolmaster, still less like that of an ordinary clergyman. Much
      of the domestic and cooking department I may manage, of course, to
      superintend. I would much rather do this than have the nuisance of a paid
      servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So at 5 A.M., say, I turn out; I at once go to the kitchen, and set the
      two cooks of the week to work, light fire, put on yams or potatoes, then
      back to dress, read, &amp;c.; in and out all the time, of the kitchen till
      breakfast time: say 8 or 8.30. You would be surprised to see how very soon
      the lads will do it all by themselves, and leave me or Mr. Kerr to give
      all our attention to school and other matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you can fancy, Joan, now, the manner of life. My little room with my
      books is my snuggery during the middle of the day, and at night I have
      also a large working table at one end of the big school-room, covered with
      books, papers, &amp;c., and here I sit a good deal, my room being too
      small to hold the number of books that I require to have open for
      comparison of languages, and for working out grammatical puzzles. Then I
      am in and out of the kitchen and store-room, and boys' rooms, seeing that
      all things, clothes, blankets, floors, &amp;c., are washed and kept clean,
      and doing much what is done in every house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Snuggery no doubt it looked compared with the 'Zillah;' but what would the
      'Eton fellow' of fifteen years back have thought of the bare, scantily
      furnished room, with nothing but the books, prints, and photographs around
      to recall the tastes of old, and generally a sick Melanesian on the floor?
      However, he was glad enough to return thither, though with only sixteen
      scholars from ten places. Among them was Taroniara from Bauro, who was to
      be his follower, faithful to death. The following addition was made to the
      letter to Mr. Edward Coleridge, begun in Banks Islands:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: Dec. 1, 1860.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One line, my dear tutor, before I finish off my pile of hastily written
      letters for this mail.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alas! alas! for the little schooner, that dear little vessel, our home
      for so many months of each year, so admirably qualified for her work.
      Whether she may be got off her sandy bed, no one can say. Great expense
      would certainly be incurred, and the risk of success great also.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not yet had time to talk to the Bishop, I only reached New Zealand
      on November 28. We cannot, however, well do our work in chartered vessels
      [then follows a full detail of the imperfections of the 'Zillah' and all
      other Australian merchant craft; then&mdash;But, dear old tutor, even the
      "Southern Cross" (though what would I give to see her now at her usual
      anchorage from the window at which I am now sitting!) for a time retires
      into the distance, as I think of what is to take place (D.V.) in January
      next.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hoped that I had persuaded the Bishop that the meeting of the General
      Synod in February 1862 would be a fit time. I do not see that the Duke's
      despatch makes any difference in the choice of the time. But all was
      settled in my absence; and now at the Feast of the Epiphany or of the
      Conversion of St. Paul (as suits the convenience of the Southern Bishops)
      the Consecration is to take place. I am heartily glad that the principle
      of consecrating Missionary Bishops will be thus affirmed and acted upon;
      but oh! if some one else was to be the Bishop!
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet I must not distrust God's grace, and the gift of the Holy Spirit
      to enable me for this work. I try and pray to be calm and resigned, and I
      am happy and cheerful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And it is a blessed thing that now three of your old dear friends, once
      called Selwyn, Abraham, Hobhouse should be consecrating your own nephew
      and pupil, gathered by God's providence into the same part of God's field
      at the ends of the earth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Still with his heart full of the never-forgotten influence of his mother,
      he thus begins his home letter of the same date:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: Dec. 1.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;I could not write on November 28, but the memory
      of that day in 1842 was with me from morning to night. We anchored on that
      day at 1 A.M., and I was very busy till late at night. I had no idea till
      I came back from the Islands that there was any change in the arrangements
      for the consecration in February 1862. But now the Bishops of Wellington
      and Nelson have been summoned for the Feast of the Epiphany, or of the
      conversion of St. Paul, and all was done in my absence. I see, too, that
      you in England have assumed that the consecration will take place soon
      after the reception of the Duke's despatch.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must not now shrink from it, I know. I have full confidence in your
      judgment, and in that of the Bishop; and I suppose that if I was speaking
      of another, I should say that I saw reasons for it. But depend upon it, my
      dear Father, that a man cannot communicate to another the whole of the
      grounds upon which he feels reluctant to accept an office. I believe that
      I ought to accept this in deference to you all, and I do so cheerfully,
      but I don't, say that my judgment agrees wholly with you all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet there is no one else; and if the separation of New Zealand and
      Melanesia is necessary, I see that this must be the consequence. So I
      regard it now as a certainty. I pray God to strengthen and enable me: I
      look forward, thanks to Him, hopefully and cheerfully. I have the love and
      the prayers of many, many friends, and soon the whole Church of England
      will recognise me as one who stands in special need of grace and strength
      from above.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! the awful power of heathenism! the antagonism, not of evil only, but
      of the Evil One, rather, I mean the reality felt of all evil emanating
      from a person, as St. Paul writes, and as our Lord spoke of him. I do
      indeed at times feel overwhelmed, as if I was in a dream. Then comes some
      blessed word or thought of comfort, and promised strength and grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But enough of this.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The "Southern Cross" cannot, I think, be got off without great certain
      expense and probable risk. I think we shall have to buy another vessel,
      and I dare say she may be built at home, but I don't know what is the
      Bishop's mind about it....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall write to Merton, I don't know why I should needs vacate my
      fellowship. I have no change of outward circumstances brought upon me by
      my change presently from the name of Presbyter to Bishop, and we want all
      the money.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What you say about a Missionary Bishop being for five months of the year
      within the diocese of another Bishop, I will talk over with the Bishop of
      New Zealand. I think our Synodical system will make that all right; and as
      for my work, it will be precisely the same in all respects, my external
      life altered only to the extent of my wearing a broader brimmed and lower
      crowned hat. Dear Joan is investing moneys in cutaway coats, buckles
      without end, and no doubt knee-breeches and what she calls "gambroons"
      (whereof I have no cognizance), none of which will be worn more than (say)
      four or five times in the year. Gambroons and aprons and lawn sleeves
      won't go a-voyaging, depend upon it. Just when I preach in some Auckland
      church I shall appear in full costume; but the buckles will grow very
      rusty indeed!
    </p>
    <p>
      'How kind and good of her to take all the trouble, I don't laugh at that,
      and at her dear love for me and anxiety that I should have everything; but
      I could not help having a joke about gambroons, whatever they are....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye once more, my dearest Father. You will, I trust, receive this
      budget about the time of your birthday. How I think of you day and night,
      and how I thank you for all your love, and perhaps most of all, not only
      letting me come to Melanesia, but for your great love in never calling me
      away from my work even to see your face once more on earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving and dutiful son,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Remark upon a high-minded letter is generally an impertinence both to the
      writer and the reader, but I cannot help pausing upon the foregoing, to
      note the force of the expression that thanks the father for the love that
      did not recall the son. What a different notion these two men had of love
      from that which merely seeks self-gratification! Observe, too, how the old
      self-contemplative, self-tormenting spirit, that was unhappiness in those
      days of growth and heart-searching at the first entrance into the
      ministry, had passed into humble obedience and trust. Looking back to the
      correspondence of ten years ago, volumes of progress are implied in the
      quiet 'Enough of this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There were, however, some delays in bringing the three together, and on
      the New Year's Day of 1861, the designate writes to Bishop Abraham: 'I
      dare say the want of any positive certainty as to the time of the
      Consecration is a good discipline for me. I think I feel calm now; but I
      know I must not trust feelings, and when I think of those islands and the
      practical difficulty of getting at them, and the need of so many of those
      qualities which are so wonderfully united in our dear Primate, I need
      strength from above indeed to keep my heart from sinking. But I think that
      I do long and desire to work on by God's grace, and not to look to results
      at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A 'supplementary mail' made possible a birthday letter (the last) written
      at 6 A.M. on the 11th of February: 'I wanted of course to write to you
      to-day. Many happy returns of it I wish you indeed, for it may yet please
      God to prolong your life; but in any case you know well how I am thinking
      and praying for you that every blessing and comfort may be given you. Oh I
      how I do think of you night and day. When Mrs. Selwyn said "Good-bye," and
      spoke of you, I could not stand it. I feel that anything else (as I fancy)
      I can speak of with composure; but the verses in the Bible, such as the
      passage which I read yesterday in St. Mark x., almost unnerve me, and I
      can't wish it to be otherwise. But I feel that my place is here, and that
      I must look to the blessed hope of meeting again hereafter....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course no treat is so great to me as the occasional talks with the
      Bishop. Oh! the memory of those days and evenings on board the "Southern
      Cross." Well, it was so happy a life that it was not good for me, I
      suppose, that it should last. But I feel it now that the sense of
      responsibility is deepening on me, and I must go out to work without him;
      and very, very anxious I am sometimes, and almost oppressed by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But strength will come; and it is not one's own work, which is the
      comfort, and if I fail (which is very likely) God will place some other
      man in my position, and the work will go on, whether in my hands or not,
      and that is the real point.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some talk I find there has been about my going home. I did not hear of it
      until after Mrs. Selwyn had sailed. It was thought of, but it was felt, as
      I certainly feel, that it ought not to be.... My work lies out here
      clearly; and it is true that any intermission of voyages or residences in
      the islands is to be avoided.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Selwyn had gone home for a year, and had so arranged as to see the
      Patteson family almost immediately on her return. Meantime the day drew
      on. The Consecration was not by Royal mandate, as in the case of Bishops
      of sees under British jurisdiction; but the Duke of Newcastle, then
      Colonial Secretary, wrote:&mdash;'That the Bishops of New Zealand are at
      liberty, without invasion of the Royal prerogative or infringement of the
      law of England, to exercise what Bishop Selwyn describes as their inherent
      power of consecrating Mr. Patteson or any other person to take charge of
      the Melanesian Islands, provided that the consecration should take place
      beyond British territory.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In consequence it was proposed that the three consecrating Bishops should
      take ship and perform the holy rite in one of the isles beneath the open
      sky; but as Bishop Mackenzie had been legally consecrated in Cape Town
      Cathedral, the Attorney-General of New Zealand gave it as his opinion that
      there was no reason that the consecration should not take place in
      Auckland.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: Feb. 15, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;Mr. Kerr, who has just returned from Auckland,
      where he spent yesterday, brings me the news that the question of the
      Consecration has been settled, and that it will take place (D.V.) on
      Sunday week, St. Matthias Day, February 24.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I ought not to shrink back now. The thought has become familiar to me,
      and I have the greatest confidence in the judgment of the Bishop of New
      Zealand; and I need not say how your words and letters and prayers too are
      helping me now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, though at any great crisis of our lives no doubt we are intended
      to use more than ordinary strictness in examining our motives and in
      seeking for greater grace, deeper repentance, more earnest and entire
      devotion to God, and amendment of life, yet I know that any
      strong-emotion, if it existed now, would pass away soon, and that I must
      be the same man as Bishop as I am now, in this sense, viz., that I shall
      have just the same faults, unless I pray for strength to destroy them,
      which I can do equally well now, and that all my characteristic and
      peculiar habits of mind will remain unchanged by what will only change my
      office and not myself. So that where I am indolent now I shall be indolent
      henceforth, unless I seek to get rid of indolence; and I shall not be at
      all better, wiser, or more consistent as Bishop than I am now by reason
      simply of being a Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know my meaning. Now I apply what I write to prove that any strong
      excitement now would be no evidence of a healthy state of mind. I feel now
      like myself, and that is not at all like what I wish to be. And so I thank
      God that as before any solemn season special inducements to earnest
      repentance are put into our minds, so I now feel a special call upon me to
      seek by His grace to make a more faithful use of the means of usefulness
      which He gives me, that I may be wholly and entirely turned to Him, and so
      be enabled to do His will in Melanesia. You know, my dearest Father, that
      I do not indeed undervalue the grace of Ordination; only I mean that the
      right use of any great event in one's life, as I take it, is not to
      concentrate feeling so much on it as earnestness of purpose, prayer for
      grace, and for increase of simplicity and honesty and purity of heart.
      Perhaps other matters affect me more than my supposed state of feeling, so
      that my present calmness may be attributed to circumstances of which I am
      partially ignorant; and, indeed, I do wonder that I am calm when one
      moment's look at the map, or thought of the countless islands, almost
      overwhelms me. How to get at them? Where to begin? How to find men and
      means? How to decide upon the best method of teaching, &amp;c.? But I must
      try to be patient, and to be content with very small beginnings&mdash;and
      endings, too, perhaps.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sunday, Feb. 24, St. Matthias, 10 A.M.&mdash;The day is come, my dearest
      Father, and finds me, I thank God, very calm. Yesterday, at 6 P.M., in the
      little chapel at Taurama, the three Bishops, the dear Judge, Lady Martin,
      Mrs. Abraham, Mr. Lloyd and I met together for special prayer. How we
      missed Mrs. Selwyn, dear dear Mrs. Selwyn, from among us, and how my
      thoughts passed on to you! Evening hymn, Exhortation in Consecration
      Service, Litany from the St. Augustine's Missionary Manual, with the
      questions in Consecration Service turned into petitions, Psalm cxxxii.,
      cxxxi., li.; Lesson i Tim. iii.; special prayer for the Elect Bishop among
      the heathen, for the conversion of the heathen; and the Gloria in
      Excelsis.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then the dear Bishop walked across to me, and taking my hand in both of
      his, looking at me with that smile of love and deep deep thought, so
      seldom seen, and so deeply prized. "I can't tell you what I feel," he
      said, with a low and broken voice. "You know it&mdash;my heart is too
      full! "
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! the memory of six years with that great and noble servant of God was
      in my heart too, and so we stood, tears in our eyes, and I unable to
      speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At night again, when, after arranging finally the service, I was left
      with him alone, he spoke calmly and hopefully. Much he said of you, and we
      are all thinking much of you. Then he said: "I feel no misgiving in my
      heart; I think all has been done as it should be. Many days we three have
      discussed the matter. By prayer and Holy Communion we have sought light
      from above, and it is, I believe, God's will." Then once more taking both
      hands, he kissed my forehead: "God bless you, my dear Coley. I can't say
      more words, and you don't desiderate them."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No," said I; "my heart, as yours, is too full for words. I have lived
      six years with you to little purpose, if I do not know you full well now!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'And then I walked, in the perfect peace of a still cloudless night&mdash;the
      moon within two days of full&mdash;the quarter of a mile to St. Stephen's
      schools, where I slept last night. On the way I met the Bishop of
      Wellington and Mrs. Abraham, coming up from St. Stephen's to the Bishop's
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      J. C. P.&mdash;What a night of peace! the harbour like a silver mirror!
    </p>
    <p>
      'B. of W.&mdash;Dominus tecum.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. A.&mdash;I trust you will sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. P.&mdash;I thank you; I think so. I feel calm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sunday Night, 10 P.M. (Feniton, Sunday, 10.40 A.M.)&mdash;It is over&mdash;a
      most solemn blessed service. Glorious day. Church crowded&mdash;many not
      able to find admittance; but orderly. More than two hundred communicants.
      More to-morrow (D.V.). All day you have been in our minds. The Bishop
      spoke of you in his sermon with faltering voice, and I broke down; yet at
      the moment of the Veni Creator being sung over me, and the Imposition of
      Hands, I was very calm. The Bible presented is the same that you gave me
      on my fifth birthday with your love and blessing. Oh! my dear dear Father,
      God will bless you for all your love to me, and your love to Him in giving
      me to His service. May His heavenly blessing be with you&mdash;all your
      dear ones for ever!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your most loving and dutiful Son,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'February 25th.&mdash;I am spending to-day and to-morrow here&mdash;i.e.,
      sleeping at the Judge's, dining and living half at his house, and half at
      the Bishop's&mdash;quiet and calm it is, and I prize it. The music
      yesterday was very good; organ well played. The choirs of the three town
      churches, and many of the choral society people, filled the gallery&mdash;some
      eighty voices perhaps. The Veni Creator the only part that was not good,
      well sung, but too much like an anthem.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tagalana, half-sitting, half-kneeling behind me, held the book for the
      Primate to read from at the Imposition of Hands&mdash;a striking group, I
      am told.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here ends the letter, to which a little must be added from other pens;
      and, first, from Mrs. Abraham's letter for the benefit of Eton friends:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Consecration was at St. Paul's Church, in default of a Cathedral.
      Built before the Bishop arrived, St. Paul's has no chancel: and the
      Clergy, including a Maori Deacon, were rather crowded within the rail. Mr.
      Patteson was seated in a chair in front, ten of his island boys close to
      him, and several working men of the rougher sort were brought into the
      benches near. We were rather glad of the teaching that none were excluded.
      The service was all in harmony with the occasion; and the sermon gave
      expression to all the individual and concentrated feeling of the moment,
      as well as pointing the Lesson and its teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The sermon was on the thought of the Festival: "And they prayed, and
      said, Thou, Lord, which knowest the hearts of all men, show whether of
      these two Thou hast chosen." (Acts i. 24.) After speaking of the special
      import and need of the prayers of those gathered to offer up their prayers
      at the Holy Communion, for those who were to exercise the office of
      apostles in their choice, he spoke in words that visibly almost
      overpowered their subject:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"In this work of God, belonging to all eternity, and to the Holy Catholic
      Church, are we influenced by any private feelings, any personal regard?
      The charge which St. Paul gives to Timothy, in words of awful solemnity,
      'to lay hands suddenly on no man,' may well cause much searching of heart.
      'I charge thee before God, and the Lord Jesus Christ, and the elect
      angels, that thou observe these things, without preferring one before
      another, doing nothing by partiality.' Does our own partial love deceive
      us in this choice? We were all trained in the same place of education,
      united in the same circle of friends; in boyhood, youth, manhood, we have
      shared the same services, and joys, and hopes, and fears. I received this,
      my son in the ministry of Christ Jesus, from the hands of a father, of
      whose old age he was the comfort. He sent him forth without a murmur, nay,
      rather with joy and thankfulness, to these distant parts of the earth. He
      never asked even to see him again, but gave him up without reserve to the
      Lord's work. Pray, dear brethren, for your Bishops, that our partial love
      may not deceive us in this choice, for we cannot so strive against natural
      affection as to be quite impartial."
    </p>
    <p>
      'And again, as the Primate, addressing more especially his beloved son in
      the ministry, exclaimed, "May Christ be with you when you go forth in His
      name, and for His sake, to those poor and needy people," and his eye went
      along the dusky countenances of his ten boys, Coleridge Patteson could
      hardly restrain his intensity of feeling.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Another letter from the same lady to the sisters adds further details to
      the scene, after describing the figures in the church:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lady Martin, who had never seen the dress (the cassock and rochet)
      before, said that Coley reminded her of the figures of some young knight
      watching his armour, as he stood in his calm stedfastness, and answered
      the questions put to him by the Primate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The whole service was very nicely ordered, and the special Psalm well
      chanted. With one exception (which was, alas! the Veni Creator), the music
      was good, and Coley says was a special help to him; the pleasure of it,
      and the external hold that it gave, helping him out of himself, as it
      were, and sustaining him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Martin adds her touch to the picture; and it may perhaps be recorded
      for those who may in after times read the history of the first Bishop of
      the Melanesian Church, that whatever might be wanting in the beauty of St.
      Paul's, Auckland, never were there three Bishops who outwardly as well as
      inwardly more answered to the dignity of their office than the three who
      stood over the kneeling Coleridge Patteson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall never forget the expression of his face as he knelt in the quaint
      rochet. It was meek and holy and calm, as though all conflict was over and
      he was resting in the Divine strength. It was altogether a wonderful
      scene: the three consecrating Bishops, all such noble-looking men, the
      goodly company of clergy and Hohua's fine intelligent brown face among
      them, and then the long line of island boys, and of St. Stephen's native
      teachers and their wives, were living testimonies of Mission work. Coley
      had told us in the morning of a consecration he had seen at Rome, where a
      young Greek deacon had held a large illuminated book for the Pope to read
      the words of Consecration. We had no such gorgeous dresses as they, but
      nothing could have been more simply beautiful and touching than the sight
      of Tagalana's young face as he did the same good office. There was nothing
      artistic about it; the boy came forward with a wondering yet bright look
      on his pleasant face, just dressed in his simple grey blouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will read the sermon, so there is no need to talk about it. Your
      brother was overcome for a minute at the reference to his father, but the
      comfort and favour of His Heavenly Master kept him singularly calm, though
      the week before he had undoubtedly had much struggle, and his bodily
      health was affected.'
    </p>
    <p>
      All the friends who were thus brought together were like one family, and
      still called the new Bishop by the never disused abbreviation that
      recalled his home. He was the guest of the now retired Chief Justice and
      Lady Martin, who were occupying themselves in a manner probably unique in
      the history of law and lawyers, by taking charge of the native school at
      St. Stephen's.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next two were great days of letter writing. Another long full letter
      was written to the father, telling of the additional record which each of
      the three consecrating Bishops had written in the Bible of his childhood,
      and then going into business matters, especially hoping that the Warden
      and Fellows of Merton would not suppose that as a Bishop he necessarily
      had £5,000 a year and a palace, whereas in fact the see had no more than
      the capital of £5,000 required by Government! He had already agreed with
      his father that his own share of the inheritance should go to the Mission;
      and, as he says, on hearing the amount:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hard enough you worked, my dear Father, to leave your children so well
      off. Dear old Jem will have enough; and my children now dwell in 200
      islands, and will need all that I can give them. God grant that the day
      may come when many of them may understand these things, and rise up and
      call your memory blessed!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your words of comfort and blessing come to me with fresh strength just
      now, two days only after the time when you too, had you been here, would
      in private have laid your hand on my head and called down God's blessing
      upon me. I shall never know in this world what I owe to your prayers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is much, too, of his brother's marriage; and in a separate letter to
      the sisters there are individual acknowledgments of each article of the
      equipment, gratifying the donor by informing her that the 'cutaway' coat
      was actually to be worn that very evening at a dinner party at the Chief
      Justice's, and admiring the 'gambroon,' which turned out to be the
      material of the cassock, so much as to wish for a coat made of it for the
      islands. Apropos of the hat:&mdash; 'You know my forehead is square, so
      that an oval hat does not fit; it would hang on by the temples, which form
      a kind of right angle with the forehead.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Another letter of that 26th was from the Bishop of Wellington to Dr.
      Goodford respecting this much-loved old pupil:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anything more conscientious and painstaking cannot be conceived than the
      way he has steadily directed every talent, every hour or minute of his
      life, to the one work he had set before him. However small or uncongenial
      or drumdrudgery-like his occupation, however hard, or dangerous, or
      difficult, it seemed to be always met in the same calm, gentle,
      self-possessed spirit of love and duty, which I should fancy that those
      who well knew his good and large-minded, large-hearted father, and his
      mother, whom I have always heard spoken of as saintly, could best
      understand. Perhaps the most marked feature in his character is his
      genuine simplicity and humility. I never saw it equalled in one so gifted
      and so honoured and beloved.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is really creditable to the community to see how universal is the
      admiration for his character, for he is so very good, so exceedingly
      unworldly, and therefore such a living rebuke to the selfishness of the
      world; and though so gentle, yet so firm and uncompromising that you would
      have supposed he would hardly be popular outside the circle of friends who
      know him and understand him. Certainly he is the most perfect character I
      ever met.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The last day of February was that of the Installation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Mrs. Abraham must speak:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Thursday last we had another happy day at Kohimarama, where Bishop
      Patteson was duly installed in the temporary chapel of St. Andrew's
      College, as we hope to call it, after the church at Cocksmoor, in "The
      Daisy Chain." The morning was grey, and we feared rain would keep our
      ladies away, but we made the venture with our willing squire, Mr. M&mdash;&mdash;,
      in the "Iris" boat to help us. The pity was, that after all Lady Martin
      could not go, as she had an invalid among her Maori flock, whom she could
      not trust all day by herself. The day lightened, and our sail was
      pleasant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Primate and Missionary Bishop planted a Norfolk pine in the centre of
      the quadrangle&mdash;"the tree planted by the water side," &amp;c. The
      Bishop then robed and proceeded to chapel, and the Primate led the little
      service in which he spoke the words of installation, and the mew Bishop
      took the oath of allegiance to him. The Veni Creator was sung, and the
      Primate's blessing-given. The island boys looked on from one transept, the
      "Iris" sailors from another, and Charlie stood beside me. I am afraid his
      chief remembrance of the day is fixed upon Kanambat's tiny boat and
      outrigger, which he sat in on the beach, and went on voyages, in which the
      owner waded by his side, and saw him (Kanambat) skim along the waves like
      a white butterfly. We all dined in hall, after the boys, on roast beef and
      plum pudding, melons and water melons, and strolled about the place and
      beach at leisure, till it was time to sail back again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the Sunday the new Bishop preached at St. Mary's one of the sermons
      that broke from him when he was too much excited (if the word may be used)
      for his usual metaphysical style. The subject was the promise of the
      Comforter, His eternal presence and anointing, and the need of
      intercessory prayer, for which the preacher besought earnestly, as one too
      young for his office, and needing to increase in the Holy Spirit more and
      more. Very far were these from being unrealised words. God's grace had
      gone along with him, and had led him through every step and stage of his
      life, and so mastered his natural defects, that friends who only knew him
      in these years hear with incredulous indignation of those flaws he had
      conquered in his younger days. 'Fearless as a man, tender as a woman,
      showing both the best sides of human nature,' says one of the New Zealand
      friends who knew him best; 'always drawing out the good in all about him
      by force of sympathy, and not only taking care that nothing should be done
      by others that he would not do himself, but doing himself what he did not
      like to ask of them, and thinking that they excelled him.' Humility, the
      effort of his life, was achieved at last the more truly because not
      consciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      The letter to his father was again almost wholly on money matters; but at
      the end come two notable sentences:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can I thank you for giving me up to this work, and for all the wise
      and loving words with which you constantly cheer me and encourage me? Your
      blessing comes now to strengthen me, as work and responsibilities are fast
      accumulating upon me. I thank God that He enables us at the two ends of
      the world to see this matter in the same way, so that no conflict of
      duties arises in my mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This book, "Essays and Reviews," I have, but pray send your copy also;
      also any good books that may be produced bearing on that great question of
      the Atonement, and on Inspiration, Authority of Scripture, &amp;c. How sad
      it is to see that spirit of intellectualism thinking to deal with religion
      in forgetfulness of the necessary conditions of humility and faith! How
      different from the true gnosis!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: April 29, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Father,&mdash;As I read your letters of Feb. 21-25, you are, I
      trust, reading mine which tell you of what took place on Feb. 24. That
      point is settled. I almost fear to write that I am a Bishop in the Church
      of Christ. May God strengthen me for the duties of the office to which I
      trust He has indeed called me!
    </p>
    <p>
      'As I read of what you say so wisely and truly, and dear Joan and Fan and
      Aunt James and all, of my having expected results too rapidly at Mota, I
      had sitting with me that dear boy Tagalana, who for two months last winter
      was in the great sacred enclosure, though, dear lad, not by his own will,
      yet his faith was weak, and no wonder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, God's holy name be praised for it, he is, I verily believe, in his
      very soul, taught by the Spirit to see and desire to do his duty. I feel
      more confidence about him than I have done about anyone who has come into
      my hands originally in a state of complete heathenism. It is not that his
      knowledge only is accurate and clearly grasped, but the humility, the
      loving spirit, the (apparent) personal appropriation of the blessing of
      having been brought to know the love of God and the redemption wrought for
      him by the death of Christ; this is what, as I look upon his clear
      truthful eyes, makes me feel so full of thankfulness and praise.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"But Tagalana, if I should die, you used to say that without my help you
      should perhaps fall back again: is that true?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No, no; I did not feel it then as I do now in my heart. I can't tell how
      it came there, only I know He can never die, and will always be with me.
      You know you said you were only like a sign-post, to point out the way
      that leads to Him, and I see that we ought to follow you, but to go
      altogether to Him."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't tell you, my dearest Father, what makes up the sum of my reasons
      for thinking that God is in His mercy bringing this dear boy to be the
      first-fruits of Mota unto the Christ, but I think that there is an inward
      teaching going on now in his heart, which gives me sure hope, for I know
      it is not my doing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All you all say about Mota is most true: I never thought otherwise
      really, but I wrote down my emotions and impulses rather than my
      deliberate thoughts, that my letter written under such strange
      circumstances might become as a record of the effect produced day by day
      upon us by outward circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What some of you say about self-possession on one's going about among the
      people being marvellous, is just what of course appears to me commonplace.
      Of course it is wrong to risk one's life, but to carry one's life in one's
      hand is what other soldiers besides those of the Cross do habitually; and
      no one, as I think, would willingly hurt a hair of my head in Melanesia,
      or that part of it where I am at all known.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How I think of those islands! How I see those bright coral and sandy
      beaches, strips of burning sunshine fringing the masses of forest rising
      into ridges of hills, covered with a dense mat of vegetation. Hundreds of
      people are crowding upon them, naked, armed, with wild uncouth cries and
      gestures; I cannot talk to them but by signs. But they are my children
      now! May God enable me to do my duty to them!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have now as I write a deepening sense of what the change must be that
      has passed upon me. Again I go by God's blessing for seven months to
      Melanesia. All that our experience has taught us we try to remember: food,
      medicine, articles of trade and barter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But what may be the result? Who can tell? You know it is not of myself
      that I am thinking. If God of His great mercy lead me in His way, to me
      there is little worth living for but the going onward with His blessed
      work, though I like my talks with the dear Bishop and the Judge. But
      others are committed to me&mdash;Mr. Pritt and Mr. Kerr go with me. Shall
      I find dear old Wadrokala and Harper alive, and if alive, well?
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet, thank God, we go on day by day, so happy, so hopeful!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see two sermons by the Bishop of Oxford, "God's Revelation Man's
      Trial," please send them. They bear, I conclude, on the controversy of the
      day. I need not tell you that I find a very great interest in reading
      these books, or rather at present in talking now and then, when we meet,
      with the Judge on the subject of which those books treat. The books I have
      not read. But I know no refreshment so great as the reading any books
      which deal with these questions thoughtfully. I hope you don't think it
      wrong and dangerous for me to do so; pray tell me. I don't believe that I
      am wrong in doing it, yet it may be that I read them as an intellectual
      treat, and prefer them to thoughtful books on other subjects, because they
      deal with a study which I am a little more conversant with than with
      history, science, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Besides, I do see that we have, many of us, very vague notions of the
      meaning of terms which we use, and I see that I must be prepared (I speak
      for myself) to expect that a clergyman may not with impunity use a
      language wanting in definiteness and precision. It is possible that men do
      too passively receive hereditary and conventional opinions which never
      have a living reality to them. But this, you know, I do not confound with
      the humble submission to authoritative teaching, given upon authority, to
      supersede the necessity of every person investigating for himself the
      primary grounds of his religious convictions.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is worth noting how the Bishop submits his reading to his father's
      approval, as when he was a young boy. Alas! no more such letters of
      comfort and counsel would be exchanged. This one could hardly have been
      received by that much-loved father.
    </p>
    <p>
      Preparations for the voyage were going on; but the 'Dunedin,' the only
      vessel to be procured, at best a carthorse to a racer compared with the
      'Southern Cross,' was far from being in a satisfactory state, as appears
      in a note of 3rd of May to the Bishop of Wellington:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here we are still. The only vessel that I could make any arrangement
      about not yet returned, and known to be in such a state that the pumps
      were going every two hours. I have not chartered her, but only agreed with
      the owner a month ago nearly that I would take her at a certain sum per
      day, subject to divers conditions about being caulked (which is all she
      wants, I have ascertained), being provided with spare sails, spars,
      chronometer, boat, &amp;c., and all agreement to be off unless by a
      certain day (already past) she was in a state satisfactory to Mr. Kerr.
      But there is, I fear, none other, and I am in a difficulty.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the same day is a letter to the Rev. Stephen Hawtrey:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Taurarua, Auckland: May 6, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Mr. Hawtrey,&mdash;I was highly pleased to receive a note from
      you. Though I never doubt of the hearty sympathy and co-operation of all
      Eton friends (how could you do so with such an annual subscription list?),
      yet it is very pleasant and more than pleasant to be reminded by word or
      by letter that prayers and wishes are being offered up for Melanesia by
      many good men throughout the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should like to send a special appeal for a Mission Vessel by the next
      mail. We cannot get on without one. Vessels built for freight are to the
      "Southern Cross" as a cart-horse to a thoroughbred steed, and we must have
      some vessel which can do the work quickly among the multitude of the
      isles, and many other reasons there are which we seamen only perhaps can
      judge fully, which make it quite essential to the carrying on this
      peculiar Mission that we should have a vessel of a peculiar kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tagalana, from Mota (Sugar Loaf Island), in the Banks Archipelago, is, I
      think, likely by God's great mercy to become the first-fruits of that
      cluster of islands unto Christ. He is here for the third time; and I have
      infinite comfort in seeing the earnestness of his character, and the deep
      sense of what he was, and what he is going to be, so truly realised.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is now so unlike what still his people are, so bright and open in
      manner, and all who see him say, "What is come to the lad, his manner and
      very appearance so changed!" "Clothed," thank God, he is, "and in his
      right mind," soon to sit, if not already seated, at the feet of Christ.
      You may, if you think fit, let your thoughts centre more especially in
      him. He, of all who have come into my hands absolutely stark naked and
      savage, gives now the greatest ground for hope and thanksgiving. I shall
      (D.V.) think of all your dear friends assembled in your church and house
      on St. Barnabas Day. May God bless and reward you all for your work of
      charity to Melanesia!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very sincerely yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'P.S.&mdash;I hope to baptize that dear boy Tagalana on his own island in
      the course of the winter. I should wish to make the service as impressive
      as possible, in the presence of as many islanders as I can bring to the
      spot, under the shadow of a mighty banyan tree, and above the sparkling
      waves of the great Pacific.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The 'Dunedin' was patched up into sailing with the new Bishop for his
      cathedral&mdash;the banyan tree of Mota.
    </p>
    <p>
      It carried him away to his work, away from all knowledge of the blow that
      was preparing for him at home, and thinking of the delight that was in
      store for his family in a visit from Mrs. Selwyn, who, immediately after
      his Consecration, had returned home to spend a year in England on
      business.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir John Patteson's happiness in his son's work and worth were far greater
      than those of the actual worker, having none of the drawbacks that
      consciousness of weakness must necessarily excite. The joy this gave his
      heart may, without exaggeration, he deliberately said to have been full
      compensation for the loss of the presence so nobly sacrificed. On January
      22 he had written to the Bishop of New Zealand:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'You write most kindly touching him, dear fellow, and truly I am to be
      envied, qui natum haberem tali ingenio praeditum. Not for a moment have I
      repented of giving my sanction to his going out to New Zealand; and I
      fully believe that God will prosper his work. I did not contemplate his
      becoming a Bishop, nor is that the circumstance which gives me the great
      satisfaction I feel. It is his devotion to so good a work, and that he
      should have been found adequate to its performance; whether as a Bishop or
      as a Priest is not of itself of so much importance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps he may have been consecrated before I am writing this, though I
      am puzzled as to the time....
    </p>
    <p>
      'May God bless with the fullest success the labours of both of you in your
      high and Christian works!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There had for more than a year been cause of anxiety for Sir John's
      health, but it was not the disease that had then threatened which
      occasioned the following calm-hearted letter to be written to his son:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton Court: March 22, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My own dearest Coley,&mdash;I promised always to tell you the truth
      respecting myself, and will do so. About a month ago, on my rising from
      reading prayers, the girls and the Dawlish party who were here exclaimed
      that my voice was broken, at which I laughed. Whitby was in London, but
      his partner happened to call, and looking at my throat found it relaxed,
      and recommended a mustard poultice on the front. When we came to put it
      on, we discovered that the glands of the throat were much swelled and in
      hard knots. Whitby returned in two days, and was much alarmed. He declared
      that it was serious, and nothing but iodine could check it. I had been
      unable to take iodine under Watson some years ago, as it affected my head
      tremendously, so he applied it outwardly by painting; this painting did
      not reduce them, and he strongly pressed my having London advice, for he
      said that if not reduced and the swellings increased internally, they
      would press on the windpipe and choke me: it was somewhat a surgical
      matter. So on Tuesday the 12th inst. we went to London, and I consulted
      Paget. He entirely agreed with Whitby, and thought it very serious, and
      ordered iodine internally at all hazards. I took it, and by God's mercy it
      agreed with me. Paget wished to talk over the case with Watson, and they
      met on the 16th, Saturday. They quite agreed, and did not conceal from me
      that if iodine did not reduce the swellings, and they should increase
      internally, the result must be fatal. How soon, or in what particular
      manner, they could not tell; it might even become cancerous. They did not
      wish me to stay in town, but thought I was better here, and Paget, knowing
      Whitby, has perfect confidence in his watching, and will correspond with
      him, if necessary. At present there is no reduction of the swellings. The
      iodine has certainly lessened the pains in my limbs, but does not seem, so
      to speak, to determine to the throat, but it may be there has been hardly
      time to say that it will not. My own impression is, that it will not, and
      that it is highly improbable that I shall last very long. I mean that I
      shall not see 1862, nor perhaps the summer or autumn of this year. I
      cannot tell why, but this near prospect of death has not given me any
      severe shock, as perhaps it ought to have done. It brings more than ever
      to my mind serious recollection of the sins of my youth, and the
      shortcomings of my after life in thousands of instances. I have never been
      a hardened sinner, but years ago, if I did what was sin, it smote me, and
      I tried to repent; yet there has always been in me a want of fervid love
      to God, and to my blessed Redeemer for His unspeakable love in suffering
      for my sins; but it has been cold&mdash;that may have been the natural
      constitution of the man, I cannot tell&mdash;but I never have placed my
      hopes of forgiveness and of blessedness hereafter in anything but in His
      merits, and most undeserved goodness in offering me salvation, if I have
      not thrown it away. But what shall I say? As the time approaches, it may
      please Him in His mercy to give me a warmer heart, and a more vivid
      perception of all that He has done for me. If I were to say that I am not
      a sinner, the truth would not be in me; and if I am washed in His blood
      and cleansed, it is not by any efforts or merits of my own, but by His
      unlimited mercy and goodness. Pray for me, that when the time comes I may
      not for any fears of death fall from Him. You know that as far as regards
      this world and its enjoyments, save the love of my dear good children,
      they have sate but lightly upon me for some time; but it is not because we
      have nothing that we are unwilling to leave, therefore we are prepared for
      that which is to come. Perhaps it may please God to give me still a short
      time that I may try more strenuously to prepare myself. We shall never
      meet again in this world. Oh! may Almighty God in His infinite mercy grant
      us to meet again in His kingdom, through the merits of our blessed
      Redeemer....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! my dearest Coley, what comfort I have had in you&mdash;what
      delightful conversations we have had together, and how thankful we ought
      to be to our gracious God for allowing it to be so: and still not less
      thankful for the blessings of being watched and comforted and soothed by
      the dear girls, and by that dear and good Jem. All so good in their
      various ways, and I so little worthy of them...of Francis. That will
      indeed, humanly speaking, be a terrible loss to his family, for they want
      his fatherly care, and will do so for years. Not so with me; and as I am
      in my seventy-second year, it cannot be said that I am cut off
      prematurely: but on the contrary, fall like a fruit or a sheaf at its
      proper ripeness. Oh! that it may be so spiritually indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Another letter followed the next month:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton Court: April 24, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My own dearest Coley,&mdash;How many more letters you may receive from
      me, God only knows, but, as I think, not many. The iodine fails
      altogether, and has produced no effect on the swellings in my throat; on
      the contrary, they steadily increase, though not rapidly. Doubtless they
      will have their own course, and in some way or other deliver my soul from
      the burden of the flesh. Oh! may it by God's mercy be the soul of a
      faithful man! Faith and love I think I have, and have long had: but I am
      not so sure that I have really repented for my past sins, or only
      abandoned them when circumstances had removed almost the temptation to
      commit them. Yet I do trust that my repentance has generally been sincere,
      and though I may have fallen again, that I may by God's grace have risen
      again. I have no assurance that I have fought the good fight like St.
      Paul, and that henceforth there is laid up a crown of gold; yet I have a
      full and firm hope that I am not beyond the pale of God's mercy, and that
      I may have hold of the righteousness of Christ, and may be partaker of
      that happiness which he has purchased for His own, by His atoning blood.
      No other hope have I; and in all humility I from my heart feel that any
      apparent good that I may have done has been His work in me and not my own.
      May it please Him that you and I, my dear son, may meet hereafter,
      together with all those blessed ones, who have already departed this life
      in His faith and fear, in His kingdom above.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My head aches occasionally, and is not so clear as it used to be.... The
      next mail will bring us more definite news, if indeed I am not myself
      removed before then.... I am afraid that you discern by what I have
      written that I am become stupid, and though I could never write decently,
      yet you will see that continued dull pain in the head, and other pains in
      various parts, have made me altogether heavy and stupid. I have had the
      kindest letters and messages from various quarters when it became known,
      as it is always very soon, that my health was in a precarious state: one
      particularly from the Bishop of Lichfield (all companions in Old Court,
      King's, you know) which is very consoling. He says, If not for such as
      you, for whom did Christ die? I will not go on in such strains, for it is
      of no use. Only do not despair of me, my beloved Son, and believe me
      always,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Father,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Feniton Court: May 25, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'O my own dearest Coley,&mdash;Almighty God be thanked that He has
      preserved my life to hear from you and others of your actual consecration
      as a Missionary Bishop of the Holy Catholic Church: and may He enable you
      by His grace and the powerful assistance of His Spirit to bring to His
      faith and fear very many who have not known Him, and to keep and preserve
      in it many others who already profess and call themselves Christians.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was too ill to be present at the whole service on Sunday, but I
      attended the Holy Sacrament, and hope to do so to-morrow. We have with us
      our dear Sarah Selwyn, who came on Thursday: she came in the most kind and
      affectionate spirit, the first visit that she could make, that she might
      if possible see me: "I will go and see him before he dies." What delight
      this has been to me you may easily imagine, and what talk, and what
      anecdotes we have had about you and all your circle; for though your
      letters have all along let us in wonderfully into your daily life, yet
      there were many things to be filled up, which we have now seen more
      clearly and more perfectly recollect as long as our lives are spared.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What at present intensely fills our hearts and minds is all that took
      place on St. Matthias Day, and the day or two before and after. Passages
      and circumstances there were, which it is almost wonderful that you all
      could respectively bear, some affecting one the more and some the other;
      but the absorbing feeling that a great work was then done, and the ardent
      trust and prayer that it might turn out to the glory of God, and the good
      of mankind, supported every one, I have no doubt. It was about one of
      those days that I was first informed of the nature of the complaint which
      had just been discovered, and which is bringing me gradually to the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Trinity Sunday.&mdash;I am just returned from receiving the Holy
      Sacrament. You will do so the same in a few hours, and they may well be
      joined together, and probably the last that you and I shall receive
      together in this world. My time is probably very short. Dear Sarah will
      hereafter tell you more particulars of these few days. Dear Joan and Fanny
      are watching me continually; it is hard work for them continually and most
      uncertain, but in my mind it cannot be very long. Jem is here helping them
      continually, but his wife's mother is grievously ill at a relation's in
      Gloucestershire, and I will not have him withdrawn from her. I hope that
      next week she may be removed to Jem's new cottage, next Hyde Park, and
      then they, Joan and Fanny will watch me, and Jem on a telegraph notice may
      come to me. If I dare express a hope, it is that this state of things may
      not last long. But I have no desire to express any hope at all; the matter
      is in the hands of a good God, who will order all things as is best.... I
      would write more, but I am under the serious impression that I shall be
      dead before this letter reaches you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May our Almighty God, three Persons, blessed for evermore, grant that we
      may meet hereafter in a blessed eternity!'
    </p>
    <p>
      One more letter was written:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton Court, Honiton: June 12, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! my dearest Right Reverend well-beloved Son, how I thank God that it
      has pleased Him to save my life until I heard of the actual fact of your
      being ordained and consecrated, as I have said more than once since I
      heard of it. May it please Him to prolong your life very many years, and
      to enable you to fulfil all those purposes for which you have been now
      consecrated, and that you may see the fruit of your labour of love before
      He calls you to His rest in Heaven. But if not, may you have laid such
      foundations for the spread of God's Word throughout the countries
      committed to your charge, that when it pleases God to summon you hence,
      you may have a perfect consciousness of having devoted all your time and
      labour, and so far as you are concerned have advanced all the works as
      fastly and as securely as it seemed fit to your great Assister, the Holy
      Spirit, that they should be advanced. Only conceive that an old Judge of
      seventy-two, cast out of his own work by infirmity, should yet live to
      have a son in the Holy Office of Bishop, all men rejoicing around him; and
      so indeed they do rejoice around me, mingling their loving expressions at
      my illness and approaching death....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall endeavour to write at intervals between this and July mail. It
      tries me to write much at a time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Father,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The calm of these letters was the pervading spirit of Feniton. With
      perfect cheerfulness did the aged Judge await the summons, aware that he
      carried the 'sentence of death within himself,' and that the manner of his
      summons would probably be in itself sudden&mdash;namely, one of the
      choking fits that increased in frequency. He lived on with his children
      and relations round him, spending his time in his usual manner, so far as
      his strength permitted&mdash;bright, kind, sunny as ever, and not
      withdrawing his interest from the cares and pleasures of others, but glad
      to talk more deeply, though still peacefully, of his condition and his
      hopes. One thing only troubled him. Once he said, and with tears in his
      eyes, to his beloved brother-in-law, Sir John Coleridge: 'Woe unto you
      when all men shall speak well of you,' adding to this effect, 'Alas! That
      this has been my lot without my deserts. It pains me now!'
    </p>
    <p>
      But as this popularity had come of no self-seeking nor attempt to win
      applause, it was a grief that was soon dispelled. Perhaps if there was one
      strong wish, it was to hear of his son's actually having been received
      into the order of Bishops, and that gratification was granted to him. The
      letters with the record of consecration arrived in time to be his
      Whitsuntide joy&mdash;joy that he still participated in the congregation,
      for though not able to be at church for the whole service, he still was
      always present at the celebration of the Holy Communion.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the day the letters came there was great peace, and a kind of awful joy
      on all the household. For many weeks past, Sir John had not attempted to
      read family prayers, but on this evening he desired his daughters to let
      him do so. Where in the prayer for missionaries he had always mentioned,
      'the absent member of this family,' he added in a clear tone, 'especially
      for John Coleridge Patteson, Missionary Bishop.' That was the father's one
      note of triumph, the last time he ever led the household prayers. In a day
      or two Mrs. Selwyn came to him, and he wrote the following to the Bishop
      of New Zealand:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Feniton Court: May 24, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My very dear Friend,&mdash;Here I am, and I have with me your dear and
      good wife, who arrived yesterday. She looks well, and I trust is so. She
      has arranged her visits so as to come to me as soon as possible. "I will
      go and see him before he die," and I feel sensibly the kindness of it.
      What a mercy is it that my life should have been preserved to receive from
      my dear son Coley and from you by letter the account of his having been
      consecrated by you as Bishop of the true Catholic Church. There were
      [accounts?] of that most impressive service, which, had I been present,
      would have, I fear, sent me to the floor; and you and Coley must have had
      difficulty in holding up at those feeling statements of your having
      received him at my old hands. When you so received him, it was known I was
      satisfied that his heart was really fixed on this missionary work&mdash;that
      he felt a call to it. I believe, you know, and I am sure God knows, that I
      had not the most distant notion in my mind that it would lead to his
      becoming a Bishop, nor do I now rejoice in the result, simply on account
      of the honour of the office; but because my confidence in the honesty and
      sincerity of his then feelings has been justified, and that it has pleased
      God to endow him with such abundant graces. May it please God that you
      should continue together in your respective governments in His Church many
      years, and that we may all meet together in his kingdom above!
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I parted with him I did not expect to see his face on earth, yet
      perhaps I hardly expected that our separation would be so soon, though I
      am in my seventy-second year. But in February I discovered these swellings
      in my throat; which, humanly speaking, could only be cured by iodine.
      Iodine has failed, and other attempts at a cure fail also; and it is only
      a question of time when the soul will be delivered from the burthen of the
      flesh. So indeed it is with all human beings; but it is one thing to know
      this as a general proposition, and another to know that the particular
      minister of death has hold of you, and that you are really only living
      from day to day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For all your many kindnesses to all of us and to my son, I thank you from
      the very bottom of my soul, and pray that we may meet hereafter, through
      the merits, and for the sake of our blessed Mediator and Redeemer Jesus
      Christ our Lord, that as we have striven on earth to be followers of Him
      and His glory, so we may be partakers of it in Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Friend,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The July mail was without a letter from the father. The end had come in
      the early morning of June 28, 1861, with a briefer, less painful struggle
      than had been thought probable, and the great, sound, wise, tender heart
      had ceased to beat.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no need to dwell on the spontaneous honours that all of those who
      had ever been connected with him paid to the good old Judge, when he was
      laid beside his much-loved wife in Feniton churchyard. Bishop Sumner of
      Winchester, the friend of his boyhood, read the funeral service.
    </p>
    <p>
      'His works do follow him:' and we turn to that work of his son's in which
      assuredly he had his part, since one word of his would have turned aside
      the course that had brought such blessing on both, had he not accepted the
      summons, even as Zebedee, when he was left by the lake side, while his
      sons became fishers of men.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unknowing of the tidings in reserve for him, the Bishop was on his voyage,
      following the usual course; hearing at Anaiteum that a frightful mortality
      had prevailed in many of these southern islands. Measles had been imported
      by a trader, and had, in many cases, brought on dysentery, and had swept
      away a third of Mr. Geddie's Anaiteum flock. Mr. Gordon's letters had
      spoken of it as equally fatal in Erromango, and there were reports of the
      same, as well as of famine and war, in Nengone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God will give me men in His time; for could I be cut up into five pieces
      already I would be living at Nengone, Lifu, Mai, Mota, and Bauro!' was the
      comment on this visit; and this need of men inspired a letter to his uncle
      Edward, on a day dear to the Etonian heart:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Schooner "Dunedin," 60 tons.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In sight of Erromango, New Hebrides: June 4, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Tutor,&mdash;Naturally I think of Eton and of you especially
      to-day. I hope you have as fine a day coming on for the cricket-match and
      for Surley as I have here. Thermometer 81°; Tanna and Erromango, with
      their rugged hilly outlines, breaking the line of the bright sparkling
      horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I managed to charter the vessel for the voyage just in time to escape
      cold weather in New Zealand. She is slow, but sound; the captain a
      teetotaller, and crew respectable in all ways. So the voyage, though
      lengthy, is pleasant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have some six or seven classes to take, for they speak as many more
      languages; and I get a little time for reading and writing, but not much.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not tell you how heavily this new responsibility presses on me, as
      I see the islands opening, and at present feel how very difficult it must
      be to obtain men to occupy this opening&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'True, we have not to contend with subtle and highly-elaborated systems of
      false religion. It is the ignorantia purae negationis, comparatively
      speaking, in some of the islands; yet, generally, there is a settled
      system of some kind observed among them, and in the Banks Islands, an
      extraordinarily developed religion, which enters into every detail of
      social and domestic life, and is mixed up with the daily life of every
      person in the archipelago.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think, therefore, that men are needed who have what I may call strong
      religious common sense to adapt Christianity to the wants of the various
      nations that live in Melanesia, without compromising any truth of doctrine
      or principle of conduct&mdash;men who can see, in the midst of the errors
      and superstitions of a people, whatever fragment of truth or symptom of a
      yearning after something better may exist among them, and make that the
      point d'appui, upon which they may build up the structure of Christian
      teaching. Men, moreover, of industry they must be, for it is useless to
      talk of "picking up languages." Of course, in a few days a man may learn
      to talk superficially and inaccurately on a few subjects; but to teach
      Christianity, a man must know the language well, and this is learnt only
      by hard work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, again, unless a man can dispense with what we ordinarily call
      comfort or luxuries to a great extent, and knock about anywhere in
      Melanesian huts, he can hardly do much work in this Mission. The climate
      is so warm that, to my mind, it quite supplies the place of the houses,
      clothing, and food of old days, yet a man cannot accommodate himself to it
      all at once. I don't say that it came naturally to me five years ago, as
      it does now, when I feel at home anywhere, and cease to think it odd to do
      things which, I suppose, you would think very extraordinary indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But most of all&mdash;for this makes all easy&mdash;men are wanted who
      really do desire in their hearts to live for God and the world to come,
      and who have really sought to sit very loosely to this world. The
      enjoyment, and the happiness, and the peace all come, and that abundantly;
      but there is a condition, and the first rub is a hard one, and lasts a
      good while.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Naturally buoyant spirits, the gift of a merry heart, are a great help;
      for oftentimes a man may have to spend months without any white man within
      hundreds of miles, and it is very depressing to live alone in the midst of
      heathenism. But there must be many many fellows pulling up to Surley
      to-night who may be well able to pull together with one on the Pacific&mdash;young
      fellows whose enthusiasm is not mere excitement of animal spirits, and
      whose pluck and courage are given them to stand the roughnesses (such as
      they are) of a missionary life. For, dear Uncle, if you ever talk to any
      old pupil of yours about the work, don't let him suppose that it is
      consistent with ease and absence of anxiety and work. When on shore at
      Kohimarama, we live very cosily, as I think. Some might say we have no
      society, very simple fare, &amp;c.; I don't think any man would really
      find it so. But in the islands, I don't wish to conceal from anyone that,
      measured by the rule of the English gentleman's household, there is a
      great difference. Why should it, however, be measured by this standard? I
      can truly say that we have hitherto always had what is necessary for
      health, and what does one need more? though I like more as much as anyone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How you will wonder at the news of my consecration, and, indeed, well you
      may! I would, indeed, that there were a dozen men out here under whom I
      was working, if only they were such men as the Primate would have chosen
      to the work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But it is done now, and I know I must not shrink from it. Never did I
      need the love and prayers of my dear relations and friends as I do now.
      Already difficulties are rising up around me, and I am so little fit to be
      a leader of work like this. Don't forget, dear Tutor, your old pupil, who
      used to copy the dear Bishop's letters in your study from Anaiteum,
      Erromango, &amp;c.; and little thought that he would write from these
      islands to you, himself the Missionary Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With kind love to all,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving old Pupil and Nephew,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This thoughtful and beautiful letter was written in sight of Erromango, a
      sandal-wood station, whence a trader might be found to take charge of it.
      The ink was scarcely dry before the full cost of carrying the Gospel among
      the heathen was brought before the writer. Not only houses and brethren
      must be given up, but the 'yea and his own life also' was now to be
      exemplified almost before his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Erromaugo Mission, like that of Anaiteum, came from the Scottish Kirk.
      Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, as has been seen, had been visited on every voyage of
      the 'Southern Cross' during their three years' residence there, and there
      was a warm regard between them and the Bishop. It was then a great shock
      to hear a Nengone man call out from a sandal-wood vessel, lying in
      Dillon's Bay, that they had both been killed!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was but too true. The Erromango people had been little inclined to
      listen to Mr. Gordon's warnings, and he, a young and eager man, had told
      them that to persevere in their murders and idolatries would bring a
      judgment upon them. When therefore the scourge of sickness came, as at
      Anaiteum, they connected him with it; and it was plain from his diary that
      he had for some months known his life to be in danger, but he had gone
      about them fearlessly, like a brave man, doing his best for the sick.
    </p>
    <p>
      On May 20 he was in a little wood, putting up a house instead of one that
      had been blown down by a hurricane, and he had sent his few faithful
      pupils to get grass for the thatch. Nine natives from a village about
      three hours' walk distant came to the house where his wife was, and asked
      for him. She said he was in the little wood. They went thither, and while
      eight hid themselves in the bush, one went forward and asked for some
      calico. Mr. Gordon took a bit of charcoal and wrote on a bit of wood
      directions to his wife to give the bearer some cotton, but the man
      insisted that he must come himself to give out some medicine for a sick
      man. Mr. Gordon complied, walking in front as far as the place where lay
      the ambush, when the man struck him with a tomahawk on the spine, and he
      fell, with a loud scream, while the others leaping out fell upon him with
      blows that must have destroyed life at once, yelling and screaming over
      him. Another went up to the house. Mrs. Gordon had come out, asking what
      the shouts meant. 'Look there!' he said, and as she turned her head, he
      struck her between the shoulders, and killed her as soon as she had
      fallen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another native had in the meantime rushed down the hill to the sandal-wood
      station half a mile off on the beach, and the trader, arming his natives,
      came up too late to do more than prevent the murderers from carrying off
      the bodies or destroying the house. The husband and wife were buried in
      the same grave; the natives fenced it round; and now, on June 7, eighteen
      days after, Bishop Patteson read the Burial Service over it, with many
      solemn and anxious thoughts respecting the population, now reduced to
      2,500, and in a very wild condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Mai the Bishop spent two hours the next day, and brought away one old
      scholar and one new one.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Tariko, where he had been three years before with the Primate, the
      Episcopal hat brought the greeting 'Bishop,' as the people no doubt
      thought the wearer identical. Of Ambrym there is a characteristic
      sentence: 'As we left the little rock pool where I had jumped ashore,
      leaving, for prudence sake, the rest behind me in the boat, one man raised
      his bow and drew it, then unbent it, then bent it again, but apparently
      others were dissuading him from letting fly the arrow. The boat was not
      ten yards off, I don't know why he did so; but we must try to effect more
      frequent landings.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On June 12 Mota was reached, and the next morning the Mission party
      landed, warmly welcomed by the inhabitants. The house was found safely
      standing and nearly weather-proof.
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 13th.&mdash;This morning I put up the framework for another small
      house, where I shall put Wadrokala, his child-wife, and many of our boxes.
      We had to carry up the timber first from the beach, and it was rather hot
      work, as also the carpentering, as I chose a place for the house where no
      falling bread-fruit or branches of trees would hurt it, and the sun was so
      hot that it almost burnt my hand when I took up a handful of nails that
      had been lying for ten minutes in the sun. So our picnic life begins
      again, and that favourably. I feel the enjoyment of the glorious view and
      climate, and my dear lads, Tagalana and Parenga, from Bauro, are with me,
      the rest in Port Patteson, &amp;c., coming over in the vessel to-morrow,
      which I shall then discharge. I see that the people are very friendly;
      they all speak of your bread-fruit tree, your property. The house had not
      been entered, a keg of nails inside it not touched.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tagalana's father is dead. His first words to me were, "Oh that the Word
      of God had come in old times to Mota, I should not then cry so much about
      him. Yes, it is true, I know, I must be thankful it is come now, and I
      must remember that, and try to help others who may die too before they
      believe it."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes, I am quite your child now! Yes, one Father for us all in Heaven.
      You my father here! Yes, I stop always with you, unless you send me away.
      They ask me with whom I shall live now; I say with the Bishop."
    </p>
    <p>
      'How I was praising and rejoicing in my heart as the dear boy was
      speaking: "Yes, I am feeling calm again now. When people die at Mota, you
      know they make a great shouting, but soon forget the dead person. But I am
      able to be quiet and calm now, as you talk to me about God and Jesus
      Christ. Yes, He rose again. Death is not the end. I know you said it is
      for those who repent and believe in Christ the Door to enter into life
      eternal. How different it all seems then!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'When you read this you will say, "Thank God that I sent him out to
      Melanesia with my blessing on his head. I too may see Tagalana one day
      with Him who is the Father of us all."
    </p>
    <p>
      'One soul won to Christ, as I hope and believe, by His love and power, and
      if in any degree by my ministry, to God be the praise!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The comfort sent home to the sisters with the letter respecting this
      voyage is:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mota: June 14, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, dear Joan, don't any of you think too much about the murder of Mr.
      and Mrs. Gordon, as if my life was exposed to the same kind of risk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly it is not endangered here. It may be true that at places where
      I am not known some sudden outbreak may occur; but humanly speaking, there
      are not many places that as yet I am able to visit where I realise the
      fact of any danger being run.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet it may happen that some poor fellow, who has a good cause to think
      ill of white men, or some mischievous badly disposed man, may let fly a
      random arrow or spear some day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If so, you will not so very much wonder, nor be so very greatly grieved.
      Every clergyman runs at least as great a risk among the small-pox and
      fevers of town parishes. Think of Uncle James in the cholera at
      Thorverton.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So with the 'Dunedin' dismissed, Bishop Patteson, Mr. Pritt, Mr. Kerr, and
      their pupils recommenced their residence at Mota. The Banks Islanders
      returned to their homes; and when the Bishop came to Aroa, Tagalana's
      native place, three weeks lately the little fellow received him
      affectionately, cooked yams, fetched mats, and was not ashamed before his
      own people to kneel down, and join audibly in hymn and prayer. The people
      begged for Wadrokala or some other teacher to be placed among them. The
      Journal continues:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Friday, at 8.30, I started, not quite knowing whither I should go, but
      soon saw that I could fetch round the south end of Vanua Lava, which was
      well. The sea, when it comes through the passage between Mota and Valua,
      is heavy, but the boat had great way on her, sailing very fast, so that I
      could steer her well, and we did not take very long crossing to the small
      reef islands. I passed between Pakea and Vanua Lava (Dudley Passage), and
      then we had unexpectedly a very heavy sea, a strong tide up. I did not
      like it, but, thank God, all went well. One very heavy sea in particular I
      noticed, which broke some twenty yards ahead, and about the same distance
      astern of us, while the exact part of it which came down upon us was only
      a black wall of water, over which we rode lightly and dry. I think that it
      might have swamped us had it broken upon the boat. My boat is an open
      four-oared one, 26 feet long, and about five wide, strong but light. She
      sails admirably with a common lug sail. I had one made last summer, very
      large, with two reefs, so that I can reduce it to as small a sail as I
      please. By 4 or 5 P.M. I neared Aruas, in the bay on the west side of
      Vanua Lava; the same crowd as usual on the beach, but I did not haul the
      boat up. I had a grapnel, and dropped it some fifty yards from the beach.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Somehow I did not much like the manner of some of the people; they did
      not at night come into the Ogamal, or men's common eating and sleeping
      house, as before, and I overheard some few remarks which I did not quite
      like&mdash;something about the unusual sickness being connected with this
      new teaching&mdash;I could not be quite sure, as I do not know the dialect
      of Aruas. There were, however, several who were very friendly, and the
      great majority were at least quiet, and left us to ourselves. The next
      morning I started at about eight, buying two small pigs for two hatchets,
      and yams and taro and dried bread-fruit for fish-hooks. I gave one young
      man a piece of iron for his attention to us. As we pulled away, one
      elderly man drew his bow, and the women and children ran off into the
      bush, here, as everywhere almost in these islands, growing quite thickly
      some twenty yards above high-water mark. The man did not let fly his
      arrow: I cannot tell why this small demonstration took place.'
    </p>
    <p>
      When an arrow was pointed at him, it was Bishop Patteson's custom to look
      the archer full in the face with his bright smile, and in many more cases
      than are here hinted at, that look of cheery confidence and good-will made
      the weapon drop.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few more visits to the coasts of this archipelago the boat
      returned to Mota, where Mr. Pritt and Mr. Kerr had kept school every day,
      besides getting the station into excellent order and beauty. Their
      presence at the head-quarters left the Bishop free to circulate in the
      villages, sleeping in the Ogamals, where he could collect the men. They
      always seemed pleased and interested, and their pugnacious habits were
      decidedly diminishing, though their superstitious practices and
      observances were by no means dropped.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Diary, on July 24, thus speaks of the way of life; which, however, was
      again telling on the health of the party:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am so accustomed to sleeping about anywhere that I take little or no
      account of thirty, forty, fifty naked fellows, lying, sitting, sleeping
      round me. Someone brings me a native mat, someone else a bit of yam; a
      third brings a cocoa-nut; so I get my supper, put down the mat (like a
      very thin door-mat) on the earth, roll up my coat for a pillow, and make a
      very good night of it. I have had deafness in my right ear again for some
      days; no pain with it, but it is inconvenient.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Several of our lads have had attacks of fever and ague; Wadrokala and his
      child of a wife, Bum, a Bauro boy, &amp;c. The island is not at all
      unhealthy, but natives cannot be taught caution. I, thank God, am in
      robust health, very weather-beaten. I think my Bishop's dress would look
      quite out of keeping with such a face and pair of hands!
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is much as usual in such cases to encourage and to humble us. Some
      few people seem to be in earnest. The great majority do their best to make
      me think they are listening. Meanwhile, much goes on in the island as of
      old.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sunday, July 28th, 11.45 A.M.&mdash;I have much anxiety just now. At this
      moment Wadrokala is in an ague fit, five or six others of my party kept
      going by quinine and port wine, and one or other sickening almost daily.
      Henry Hrahuena, of Lifu, I think dying, from what I know not&mdash;I think
      inflammation of the brain, induced possibly by exposure to the sun, though
      I have not seen him so exposed, and it is a thing I am very careful about
      with them. I do what I can in following the directions of medical books,
      but it is so hard to get a word from a native to explain symptoms, &amp;c.;
      besides, my ear is now, like last year, really painful; and for two nights
      I have had little sleep, and feel stupid, and getting a worn-out feeling.
      With all this, I am conscious that it is but a temporary depression, a day
      or two may bring out the bright colours again. Henry may recover by God's
      mercy, the boys become hearty again; my ear get right. At present I feel
      that I must rub on as I can, from hour to hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I find from experience that natives of Melanesia, taken to a different
      island, however fertile, dry, and apparently healthy, do seem to be
      affected by it, I must modify my plans, try as soon as possible to have
      more winter schools, and, what is of more consequence, I must reconsider
      the whole question of native teachers. If a great amount of sickness is to
      be the result of gathering scholars around me at an island, I could do,
      perhaps, more single-handed, in health, and with no one to look after,
      than with twenty fellows of whom half are causing continual anxiety on the
      score of health. Now were I alone, I should be as brisk as a bee, but I
      feel weighed down somewhat with the anxiety about all these fellows about
      me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must balance considerations, and think it out. It requires great
      attention. It is at times like these that I experience some trials.
      Usually my life is, as you know, singularly free from them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 31st.&mdash;Henry died on Sunday about 4 A.M. Wadrokala is better.
      The boys are all better. I have had much real pain and weariness from
      sleepless nights, owing to the small tumour in my ear. What a sheet of
      paper for you to read! And yet it is not so sad either. The boys were
      patient and good; Wadrokala takes his ague attacks like a man; and about
      Henry I had great comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was about eighteen or nineteen, as I suppose, the son of the great
      enchanter in Lifu in old times&mdash;the hereditary high priest of Lifu
      indeed. He was a simple-minded, gentle, good fellow, not one probably who
      would have been able to take a distinct line as a teacher, yet he might
      have done good service with a good teacher. We found that afternoon a
      slate on which he had written down some thoughts when first taken ill,
      showing that he felt that he was sick unto death. Very full of comfort
      were his written as well as his spoken words.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On August 1, while the Bauro scholars were writing answers to questions on
      the Lord's Prayer, a party of men and women arrived, headed by a man with
      a native scarf over his shoulders. They had come to be taught, bringing
      provisions with them, and eating them, men and women together, a memorable
      infringement of one of the most unvarying customs of the Banks
      inhabitants; and from the conversation with them and with others, Bishop
      Patteson found that the work of breaking down had been attained, that of
      building up had to be begun. They must learn that leaving off heathen
      practices was not the same thing as adopting the religion of Christ, and
      the kind of work which external influences had cut short in Lifu had to be
      begun with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Soon, I think, the great difficulty must be met in Mota of teaching the
      Christian's social and domestic life to people disposed to give up much of
      their old practices. This is the point at which I suppose most Missions
      have broken down. It is a great blessing indeed to reach it, but the
      building up of converts is the harder work. Here, for example, a
      population of 1,500 people; at present they know all that is necessary for
      the cultivation of yams, &amp;c., they build houses sufficient for the
      purpose of their present life, they are giving up fighting, losing-faith
      in their old charms and contrivances for compassing the death of their
      enemies; they will very likely soon be at peace throughout the whole
      island. Well, then, they will be very idle, talk infinite scandal, indulge
      in any amount of gluttony; professing to believe our religion, their whole
      life will contradict that profession, unless their whole social and
      domestic life be changed, and a new character infused into them. It would
      be a great mistake to suppose that the English aspect of the Christian's
      social life is necessarily adapted to such races as these. The Oriental
      tendencies of their minds, the wholly different circumstances of their
      lives, climate, absence of all poverty or dependence upon others, &amp;c.,
      will prevent them from ever becoming a little English community; but not,
      I trust, their becoming a Christian community. But how shall I try to
      teach them to become industrious, persevering, honest, tidy, clean,
      careful with children, and all the rest of it? What a different thing from
      just going about and teaching them the first principles of Christianity!
      The second stage of a Mission is the really difficult one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days after the foregoing observations were written, H.M.S.
      'Cordelia,' a war steamer, entered Port Patteson, and Captain Hume himself
      came across by boat to Mota, to communicate to Bishop Patteson his
      instructions to offer him a cruise in the vessel, render him any
      assistance in his power in the Solomon Islands, and return him to any
      island he might desire. Letters from the Primate assumed that the proposal
      should be accepted; it was an opportunity of taking home the Bauro and
      Grera boys; moreover there was a quarrel between English and natives to be
      enquired into at Ysabel Island, where the Bishop could be useful as
      interpreter; and, as he could leave his two friends to carry on the school
      at Mota, he went on board, and very good it was for him, in the depressed
      state of health brought on by rude bed and board, to be the guest on board
      a Queen's ship and under good medical care.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the 'Cordelia' had brought out the letters which gave the first
      intimation of his father's state; and without the privacy, and freedom
      from toil and responsibility, he could hardly have borne up under the
      blow. The first day was bad enough: 'a long busy day on shore with just
      one letter read, and the dull heavy sensation of an agony that was to
      come, as soon as I could be alone to think.' Arrangements had to be made;
      and there was not one solitary moment till 9 P.M. in the cabin when this
      loving and beloved son could shut himself in, kneel down, and recover
      composure to open the two letters in his father's hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wrote it all&mdash;his whole heart&mdash;as of old to the father who
      had ever shared his inmost thoughts:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'It may be that as I write, your blessed spirit, at rest in Paradise, may
      know me more truly than ever you did on earth; and yet the sorrow of
      knowing how bitter it is within may never be permitted to ruffle your
      everlasting peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I may never see you on earth. All thought of such a joy is gone. I did
      really cling to it (I see it now) when most I thought I was quite content
      to wait for the hope of the great meeting. I will try to remember and to
      do what you say about all business matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will pray God to make me more desirous and more able to follow the holy
      example you leave behind. Oh that the peace of God may be given to me also
      when I come to die; though how may I dare to hope for such an end, so full
      of faith and love and the patient waiting for Christ!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must go on with my work. This very morning I was anxious, passing shoal
      water with the captain and master beside me, and appealing to me as pilot.
      I must try to be of some use in the ship. I must try to turn to good
      account among the islands this great opportunity. Probably elasticity of
      mind will come again now for very pain of body. Oh! how much more sorrow
      and heavy weight on my heart! I am quite worn out and weary. It seems as
      if the light were taken from me, as if it was no longer possible to work
      away so cheerily when I no longer have you to write to about it all, no
      longer your approval to seek, your notice to obtain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must go on writing to you, my own dearest Father, even as I go on
      praying for you. It is a great comfort to me, though I feel that in all
      human probability you are to be thought of now as one of the blessed drawn
      wholly within the veil. Oh! that we may all dwell together hereafter for
      His blessed sake who died for us. Now more than ever your loving and
      dutiful Son,' &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such another letter was written to his sister Fanny; but it is dated four
      days later, when he was better in health, and was somewhat recovered from
      the first shock; besides which, he felt his office of comforter when
      writing to her. So the letter is more cheerful, and is a good deal taken
      up with the endeavour to assure the sisters of his acquiescence in
      whatever scheme of life they might adopt, and willingness that, if it were
      thought advisable, Feniton Court should be sold. 'This is all cold and
      heartless,' he says, 'but I must try and make my view pretty clear.'
      Towards the end occurs the following:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last night, my slight feverish attack over, my ears comfortable, with the
      feeling of health and ease returning, I lay awake, thought of dear Uncle
      Frank, and then for a long time of dear Mamma. How plainly I saw her face,
      and dear dear Uncle James, and I wondered whether dear dear Father was
      already among them in Paradise. It is not often that I can fasten down my
      mind to think continuously upon those blessed ones; I am too tired, or too
      busy; and this climate, you know, is enervating. But last night I was very
      happy, and seemed to be very near them. The Evening Lesson set me off, 1
      John iii. How wonderful it is! But all the evening I had been reading my
      book of Prayers and Meditations. Do you know, Fan, at times the thought
      comes upon me with a force almost overpowering, that I am a Bishop; and
      that I must not shrink from believing that I am called to a special work.
      I don't think that I dwell morbidly on this, but it is an awful thought.
      And then I feel just the same as of old, and don't reach out more, or aim
      more earnestly at amendment of life and strive after fresh degrees of
      enlightenment and holiness. But probably I have to learn the lesson, which
      it may be only sickness will teach me, of patient waiting, that God will
      accomplish His own work in His own time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Some of this is almost too sacred for publication, and yet it is well that
      it should be seen how realising the Communion of Saints blessed the
      solitary man who had given up home. The next letter is to Sir J. T.
      Coleridge:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'H.M.S. "Cordelia," September 11, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Uncle,&mdash;It is now nearly five weeks since I learnt from
      my letters of March and April, brought to me by this ship, the very
      precarious state of my dear Father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has never missed a mail since we have been parted, never once; and he
      wrote as he always did both in March and April. I had read a letter from
      the good Primate first; because I had to make up my mind whether I could,
      as I was desired, take a cruise in this vessel; and in his letter I heard
      of my dear Father's state. With what reverence I opened his letters! With
      what short earnest prayers to God that I might have strength supplied and
      resignation I had kept them till the last. All day at Mota I had been too
      busy to read any but the Primate's letters. I had many matters to
      arrange...and it was not until night that I could quietly read my letters
      in the captain's cabin. My dear Father's words seem to come to me like a
      voice from another world. I think from what he says, and what they all
      say, that already he has departed to be with Christ.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think of him and my dear mother, and those dear uncles James and Frank,
      so specially dear to me, and others gone before. I think of all that he
      has been to me, and yet how can I be unhappy? The great shock to me was
      long overpast: it is easy for me to dwell on his gain rather than my loss;
      yet how I shall miss his wise loving letters and all the unrestrained
      delights of our correspondence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not with me as with those dear sisters, or with old Jem. Theirs is
      the privilege of witnessing the beauty and holiness of his life to the
      end; and theirs the sorrow of learning to live without him. Yet I feel
      that the greatest perhaps of all the pleasures of this life is gone. How I
      did delight in writing to him and seeking his approval of what I was
      about! How I read and re-read his letters, entering so entirely into my
      feelings, understanding me so well in my life, so strangely different from
      what it used to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, it should make me feel more than ever that I have but one thing to
      live for&mdash;the good, if so it may please God, of these Melanesian
      islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot say, for you will like to know my feelings, that I felt so
      overwhelmed with this news as not to be able to go about my usual
      business. Yet the rest on board the vessel has been very grateful to me.
      The quiet cheerfulness and briskness will all come again, as I think; and
      yet I think too that I shall be an older and more thoughtful man by reason
      of this.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There has been reported a row at Ysabel Island, one of the Solomon group,
      eighteen months ago. This vessel, a screw steamer, ten guns and a large
      pivot gun, came to enquire, with orders from the Commodore of the station
      to call at Mota and see me, and request me to go with the vessel if I
      could find time to do so; adding that the vessel was to take me to any
      island which I might wish to be returned to. Now I have long wished to
      indoctrinate captains of men-of-war with our notions of the right way to
      settle disputes between natives and traders. Secondly, I had a passage
      free with my Solomon Islanders, and consequently all October and half
      November I may devote to working up carefully (D.V.) the Banks and New
      Hebrides group without being under the necessity of going down to the
      Solomon Islands. Thirdly, I had an opportunity of going further to the
      westward than I had ever been before, and of seeing new ground. Fourthly,
      the Primate, I found, assumed that I should go. So here I am, in great
      clover, of course: the change from Mota to man-of-war life being amusing
      enough. Barring some illness, slight attacks of fever, I have enjoyed
      myself very much. The seeing Ysabel Island is a real gain. I had time to
      acquire some 200 words and phrases of the language, which signify to me a
      great deal more. The language is a very remarkable one, very Polynesian;
      yet in some respects distinguished from the Polynesian, and most closely
      related to Melanesian dialects.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not enter into all this. It is my business, you know, to work at
      such things, and a word or two often tells me now a good deal of the
      secrets of a language&mdash;the prominent forms, affixes, &amp;c., &amp;c.;
      the way in which it is linked on to other dialects by peculiar
      terminations, the law by which the transposition of vowels and consonants
      is governed in general. All these things soon come out, so I am very
      sanguine about soon, if I live, seeing my way in preparing the way for
      future missionaries in the far West.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I must not forget that I have some islands to visit in the next month
      or two where the people are very wild, so that I of all people have least
      reason to speculate about what I may hope to do a year hence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The real anxiety is in the making up my own mind whether or not I ought
      to lower the boat in such a sea way; whether or not I ought to swim ashore
      among these fellows crowded there on the narrow beach, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When my mind is made up, it is not so difficult then. But, humanly
      speaking, there are but few islands now where I realise the fact of there
      being any risk; at very many I land with confidence. Yet I could
      enumerate, I dare say, five-and-twenty which we have not visited at all,
      or not regularly; and where I must be careful, as also in visiting
      different parts of islands already known to us in part. Poor poor people,
      who can see them and not desire to make known to them the words of life? I
      may never forget the Bishop's words in the Consecration Service:&mdash;"Your
      office is in the highest sense to preach the Gospel to the poor;" and then
      his eye glanced over the row of Melanesians sitting near me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How strange that I can write all this, when one heavy sense of trouble is
      hanging vaguely over me. And yet you will be thankful that I can think, as
      I trust, heartily of my work, and that my interest is in no way lessened.
      It ought to be increased. Yet I scarce realise the fact of being a Bishop,
      though again it does not seem unnatural. I can't explain what I mean. I
      suppose the fact that I knew for so long before that it must come some day
      if I lived, makes the difference now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think, however, that your words will come true of my appearing in
      shovel hat, &amp;c., at Heath's Court some fine day. It is very improbable
      that I shall ever see the northern hemisphere, unless I see it in the
      longitude of New Guinea.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must try to send a few island shells to M&mdash;&mdash;, B&mdash;&mdash;,
      and Co.; those little ones must not grow up, and I am sure that you all do
      not suffer them to grow up, without knowing something about "old cousin
      Coley" tumbling about in a little ship (albeit at present in a war
      steamer) at the other end of the world. Seriously, dear Uncle, as they
      grow older, it may be some help for them to hear of these poor
      Melanesians, and of our personal intercourse with them, so to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have but little hope of hearing, if I return safe to New Zealand at the
      end of November, that this disastrous war is over. I fear that the
      original error has been overlaid by more recent events, forgotten amongst
      them. The Maori must suffer, the country must suffer. Confession of a
      fault in an individual is wrong in a State; indeed, the rights of the case
      are, and perhaps must be, unknown to people at a distance. We have no
      difficulty here in exposing the fallacies and duplicities of the authors
      of the war, but we can't expect (and I see that it must be so) people in
      England to understand the many details. To begin with, a man must know,
      and that well, Maori customs, their national feeling, &amp;c. It is all
      known to One above, and that is our only hope now. May He grant us peace
      and wisdom for the time to come!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been reading Helps again this voyage, a worthy book, and specially
      interesting to me. How much there is I shall be glad to read about. What
      an age it is! America, how is that to end? India, China, Japan, Africa! I
      have Jowett's books and "Essays and Reviews." How much I should like to
      talk with you and John, in an evening at Heath's Court, about all that
      such books reveal of Intellectualism at home. One does feel that there is
      conventionalism and unreality in the hereditary passive acceptance of much
      that people think they believe. But how on Jowett's system can we have
      positive teaching at all? Can the thing denoted by "entering into the mind
      of Christ or St. Paul" be substituted for teaching the Catechism?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not so, writes my dear Father in the depth of his humility and
      simplicity, writing to me what a father could scarcely say to a son! But
      our peculiar circumstances have brought this blessing to me, that I think
      he has often so "reamed out" his heart to me in the warmth of his love to
      a son he was never again to see in the body, that I know him better even
      than I should have done had I remained at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So wonderful was my dearest Father's calmness when he wrote on the 24th
      of April, that if he was alive to write again in May, I think it not
      impossible that he may allude to these matters. If so, what golden words
      to be treasured up by me! I have all his letters. You will see, or have
      seen him laid by my dear Mother's side. They dwell together now with Him
      in Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, my dearest Uncle. Should God spare your life, my letters will
      be more frequent to you now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My kindest love to Aunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and grateful Nephew,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is little more record of this voyage. There was less heart and
      spirit than usual for the regular journalizing letter; but the five weeks'
      voyage had been most beneficial in restoring health and energy, and it had
      one very important effect upon the Mission, for it was here that
      Lieutenant Capel Tilly, R.N., became so interested in the Mission and its
      head, as to undertake the charge of the future 'Southern Cross.' The
      'Cordelia' was about to return to England, where, after she was paid off,
      Mr. Tilly would watch over the building of the new vessel on a slightly
      larger scale than the first, would bring her out to Kohimarama, and act as
      her captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      So great a boon as his assistance did much to cheer and encourage the
      Bishop, who was quite well again when he landed at Mota on September 17,
      and found Mr. Pritt convalescent after a touch of ague, and Mr. Kerr so
      ill as to be glad to avail himself of Captain Hume's kind offer to take
      him back to Auckland in the 'Cordelia.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Probably all were acclimatised by this time, for we hear of no more
      illness before the 'Sea Breeze,' with Mr. Dudley, came, on the 10th of
      October, to take the party off.
    </p>
    <p>
      He says:&mdash;'The Bishop and Mr. Pritt both looked pale and worn. There
      were, however, signs in the island of a great advance in the state of
      things of the previous year. An admirable schoolroom had been built; and
      in the open space cleared in front of it, every evening some hundred
      people would gather, the older ones chatting, the younger ones being
      initiated in the mysteries of leap-frog, wrestling, and other English
      games, until prayer time, when all stood in a circle, singing a Mota hymn,
      and the Bishop prayed with and for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That voyage was not a long one. We did not go to the Solomon Islands and
      the groups to the north, but we worked back through the New Hebrides,
      carefully visiting them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Dudley had brought letters that filled the Bishop's heart to
      overflowing, and still it was to his father that he wrote: 'It seems as if
      you had lived to see us all, as it were, fixed in our several positions,
      and could now "depart in peace, according to His word."'
    </p>
    <p>
      The agony and bitterness seem to have been met and struggled through, as
      it were, in those first days on board the 'Cordelia.' In this second
      letter there is infinite peace and thankfulness; and so there still was,
      when, at Norfolk Island, the tidings of the good old man's death met him,
      as described in the ensuing letter:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Sea Breeze," one hundred miles south-east of Norfolk Island: 8 A.M.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;Joy and grief were strangely mingled together
      while I was on shore in Norfolk Island, from 6 P.M. Saturday to 8 P.M.
      Sunday (yesterday).
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was sitting with Mr. Nobbs (Benjamin Dudley the only other person
      present) when he said, "We have seen in our papers from Sydney the news of
      the death of your revered Father." He concluded that I must have known of
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How wonderful it seems to me that it did not come as a great shock. I
      showed by my face (naturally) that I had not known before that God had
      taken him unto Himself, but I could answer quite calmly, "I thank God. Do
      not be distressed at telling me suddenly, as you see you have done
      inadvertently. I knew he could not live long. We all knew that he was only
      waiting for Christ."
    </p>
    <p>
      'And, dear dear John and Fan, how merciful God has been! The last part of
      his letter to me, of date June 25, only three days before his call came,
      so that I know (and praise God for it) that he was spared protracted
      suffering. Shall I desire or wish to be more sorry than I am? Shall I try
      to make myself grieve, and feel unhappy? Oh, no; it is of God's great
      mercy that I still feel happy and thankful, for I cannot doubt the depth
      of my love to him who has indeed been, and that more than ever of late,
      the one to whom I clung in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I could be quiet at night, sleeping in Mr. Nobbs's house, and yet I could
      not at once compose myself to think it all over, as I desired to do. And
      then I had much to do, and here was the joy mingling with the sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For the Norfolk Island people have come to see how wise was the Primate's
      original plan, and now they much desire to connect themselves more closely
      with the Mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. and Mrs. Nobbs desire their son Edwin, who was two years at the
      Governor's at Sydney, and is now eighteen and a half years old, to be
      given wholly to us.... So said Simon Young of his boy Fisher, and so did
      three others. All spoke simply, and without excitement, but with deep
      feeling. I thought it right to say that they should remain at Norfolk
      Island at present, that we all might prove them whether they were indeed
      bent upon this work, that we might be able to trust that God had indeed
      called them. To the lads I said, "This is a disappointment, I know, but it
      is good for you to have to bear trials. You must take time to count the
      cost. It is no light thing to be called to the work of a teacher among the
      heathen. In giving up your present wish to go immediately, you are obeying
      your parents and others older than yourselves, and your cheerful obedience
      to them is the best evidence that you wish to act upon a sense of duty,
      and not only from impulse; but don't think I wish to discourage you. I
      thank Him who has put the good desire into your hearts. Prove yourselves
      now by special prayer and meditation."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then came the happy, blessed service, the whole population present, every
      confirmed person communicating, my voice trembling at the Fifth
      Commandment and the end of the Prayer for the Church Militant, my heart
      very full and thankful. I preached to them extempore, as one can preach to
      no other congregation, from the lesson, "JESUS gone to be the guest of a
      man that is a sinner," the consequences that would result in us from His
      vouchsafing to tabernacle among us, and, as displayed in the Parable of
      the Pounds, the use of God's gifts of health, influence, means; then,
      specifying the use of God's highest gifts of children to be trained to His
      glory, quoting 1 Samuel i. 27, 28, "lent to the Lord," I spoke with an
      earnestness that felt strange to me at the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Simon Young said afterwards: "My wife could not consent months ago to
      Fisher's going away, but she has told me now that she consents. She can't
      withhold him with the thought of holy Hannah in her mind." And I felt as
      if I might apply (though not in the first sense) the prophecy "Instead of
      thy fathers, thou shalt have children."
    </p>
    <p>
      'To add to all, Mr. Nobbs said: "I have quite altered my mind about the
      Melanesian school, I quite see that I was mistaken;" and the people are
      considering how to connect themselves closely with us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may imagine, dear Joan, that joy and grief made a strange, yet not
      unhappy tumult in my mind. I came away at 3 P.M. (the wind being very
      fair) hoping to revisit them, and, by the Bishop of Tasmania's desire,
      hold a confirmation in six months' time. How I am longing to hear the last
      record of the three days intervening between June 25 and 28, you may well
      imagine.... Already, thank God, four months have passed, and you are
      recovering from the great shock. Yours is a far harder trial than mine.
      May God comfort and bless us all, and bring us to dwell with our dear
      parents in heaven, for our blessed Lord's sake.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your very loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      And this most touching account from within is supplemented by the
      following, by Mr. Dudley, from without:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'He took it [the tidings of his father's death] quite calmly. Evidently it
      had been long expected and prepared for. He was even cheerful in his quiet
      grave way. In the evening there was singing got up for him by some of the
      Norfolk Islanders, in one of the large rooms of the old barracks. He
      enjoyed it; and after it had gone on some time, he thanked them in a few
      touching words that went home, I am sure, to the hearts of many of them,
      and then we all knelt down, and he prayed extempore. I wish I had kept the
      words of that prayer! Everyone was affected, knowing what was then
      occupying his mind, but we were still more so next morning, at the service
      in church. His voice had that peculiarly low and sweet tone which always
      came into it when he was in great anxiety or sorrow, but his appeal to the
      congregation was inspiring to the last degree. It was the Twenty-third
      Sunday after Trinity, and the subject he took was from the second lesson,
      the Parable of the Pounds, in St. Luke xix., and so pointed out the
      difficulties between the reception of a talent and the use of it. He
      showed that the fact of people's children growing up as wild and careless
      as heathen was no proof that no grace had been bestowed upon them; on the
      contrary, in the baptized it was there, but it had never been developed;
      and then came the emphatic assertion, "The best way of employing our gifts
      of whatever kind&mdash;children, means, position&mdash;is by lending them
      to the Lord for His service, and then a double blessing will be returned
      for that we give. Hannah giving her child to the Lord, did she repent of
      it afterwards, think you, when she saw him serving the Lord, the one
      upright man of the house of Israel?"'
    </p>
    <p>
      No doubt these words were founded on those heartfelt assurances which
      stirred his very soul within him that his own father had never for a
      moment regretted or mourned over the gift unto the Lord, which had indeed
      been costly, but had been returned, 'good measure, pressed together, and
      flowing over,' in blessing! can I grieve and sorrow about my dear dear
      Father's blessed end?' are the words in a letter to myself written on the
      19th. It further contained thanks for a photograph of Hursley Church spire
      and Vicarage, which had been taken one summer afternoon, at the desire of
      Dr. Moberly (the present Bishop of Salisbury), and of which I had begged a
      copy for him. 'I shall like the photograph of Hursley Vicarage and Church,
      the lawn and group upon it. But most shall I like to think that Mr. Keble,
      and I dare say Dr. Moberly too, pray for me and this Mission. I need the
      prayers of all good people indeed.' I quote this sentence because it led
      to a correspondence with both Mr. Keble and Dr. Moberly, which was equally
      prized by the holy and humble men of heart who wrote and received the
      letters:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Andrew's, Kohimarama: November 20, 1861.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, my dearest Sophy, for your loving letters, and all your love
      and devotion to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear I do not write to those two dear sisters of mine as they and you
      all expect and wish. I long to pour it all out; I get great relief in
      talking, as at Taurarua I can talk to the dear Judge and Lady Martin. She
      met me with a warm loving kiss that was intended to be as home-like as
      possible, and for a minute I could not speak, and then said falteringly,
      "It has been all one great mercy to the end. I have heard at Norfolk
      Island." But I feel it still pent up to a great extent, and yet I have a
      great sense of relief. I fancy I almost hear sometimes the laboured
      breathing, the sudden stop&mdash;the "thanks be to God, he has entered
      into his rest."
    </p>
    <p>
      'What his letters are, I cannot even fully say to another, perhaps never
      fully realise myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As I write, the tears come, for it needs but a little to bring them now,
      though I suppose the world without thinks that I "bear up," and go on
      bravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But when any little word or thought touches the feelings, the sensitive
      rather than the intellectual part of me, then I break down.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet it seems to bring thoughts and hopes into more definite shape.
      How I read that magnificent last chapter of Isaiah last Sunday. I seemed
      to feel my whole heart glowing with wonder, and exultation, and praise.
      The world invisible may well be a reality to us, whose dear ones there
      outnumber now those still in the flesh. Jem's most beautiful, most
      intensely affecting letter, with all his thoughtfulness about the grave,
      &amp;c., fairly upset me. I let the Judge and Lady Martin read some parts
      of it, and they returned it, saying it had quite overcome them. Now all
      day I feel really as much as at those moments, only the special
      circumstances give more expression at one time than at another to the
      inward state of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How I treasure up many many of his words and actions!
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a history in these words: "All times of the day are alike to me now;
      getting near, I trust, the time when it will be all day."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Those are the things that break me down. I see his dear face, and hear
      him slowly and calmly saying such words of patient trust and faith, and it
      is too much. Oh! that I might live as the son of such parents ought to
      live!
    </p>
    <p>
      'And then I turn to the practical duties again, and get lost in the
      unceasing languages and all the rest of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now enough&mdash;but I write what comes uppermost.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Very soon after the return, on the 6th December, 1861, an Ordination was
      held at St. Paul's, Auckland, when the Primate ordained two Maori deacons,
      and Bishop Patteson, the Rev. Benjamin Dudley.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir William and Lady Martin spent part of this summer in the little
      cottage at Kohimarama where the sailing master of the late 'Southern
      Cross' had lived: and again we have to thank her for a picture of life at
      St. Andrew's. She says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The new settlement was then thought to be healthy, and he and his boys
      alike rejoiced in the warmth of the sheltered bay, after the keenness of
      the air at St. John's on higher ground. The place looked very pretty. The
      green fields and hawthorn hedges and the sleek cattle reminded one of
      England. As a strong contrast, there was the white shelly beach and yellow
      sands. Here the boys sunned themselves in play hours, or fished on the
      rocks, or cooked their fish at drift-wood fires. On calm days one or two
      would skim across the blue water in their tiny canoes. One great charm of
      the place was the freedom and naturalness of the whole party. There was no
      attempt to force an overstrained piety on these wild fellows, who showed
      their sincerity by coming with the Bishop. By five in the morning all were
      astir, and jokes and laughter and shrill unaccountable cries would rouse
      us up, and go on all day, save when school and chapel came to sober them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop had not lost his Eton tastes, and only liked to see them play
      games, and the little fat merry-faced lads were always on the look-out for
      a bit of fun with him. One evening a tea-drinking was given in the hall in
      honour of us. The Mota boys sung in twilight the story of the first
      arrival of the Mission vessel and of their wonder at it. The air, with a
      monotonous, not unpleasing refrain, reminded us of some old French
      Canadian ditties. I remember well the excitement when the Bishop sent up a
      fire balloon. It sailed slowly towards the sea, and down rushed the whole
      Melanesian party, shrieking with delight after it. Our dear friend's own
      quarters were very tiny, and a great contrast to his large airy room at
      St. John's. He occupied a corner house in the quadrangle, to be close to
      the boys. Neither bedroom nor sitting-room was more than ten feet square.
      Everything was orderly, as was his wont. Photographs of the faces and
      places he loved best hung on the walls. Just by the door was his standing
      desk, with folios and lexicons. A table, covered with books and papers in
      divers languages, and a chair or two, completed his stock of furniture.
      The door stood open all day long in fine weather, and the Bishop was
      seldom alone. One or other of the boys would steal quietly in and sit
      down. They did not need to be amused, nor did they interrupt his work.
      They were quite content to be near him, and to get now and then a kind
      word or a pleasant smile. It was the habitual gentle sympathy and
      friendliness on his part that won the confidence of the wild timid people
      who had been brought up in an element of mistrust, and which enabled them
      after a while to come and open their hearts to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How vividly the whole scene comes back to me as I write! The Bishop's
      calm thoughtful face, the dusky lads, the white-shelled square in front,
      relieved by a mass of bright geraniums or gay creepers, the little
      bed-room with its camp bed, and medicine bottles and good books, and, too
      often, in spite of our loving remonstrances, an invalid shivering with
      ague, or influenza, in possession. We knew that this involved broken
      nights for him, and a soft board and a rug for a couch. He was overtasking
      his powers during those years. He was at work generally from five A.M. to
      eleven P.M., and this in a close atmosphere; for both the schoolroom and
      his own house were ill-ventilated. He would not spare time enough either
      for regular exercise. He had a horse and enjoyed riding, but he grudged
      the time except when he had to come up to town on business or to take
      Sunday services for the English in the country. It was very natural, as he
      had all a student's taste for quiet study, yet could only indulge it by
      cutting off his own hours for relaxation. He was constantly called off
      during the day to attend to practical work, teaching in school,
      prescribing for and waiting on the sick, weighing out medicines, keeping
      the farm accounts, besides the night classes in several languages.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was really never so happy as among his boys or his books. He had no
      liking for general society, though his natural courteousness made him
      shrink from seeming ungracious. He did thoroughly enjoy a real talk with
      one or two friends at a time, but even this he denied himself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Fanny Patteson had spent several days at Hursley in the course of the
      winter, and the Vicar and Mrs. Keble had greatly delighted in hearing her
      brother's letters. The following letter from Mr. Keble was written, as
      will be perceived, immediately after hearing the account of the baptism of
      the dying child at Mota:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hursley, February 19, 1862.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Bishop Patteson,&mdash;I seat myself down on a low chair between
      the pictures of your uncle and your Metropolitan, and that by command of
      your sister, who is on a footstool in the corner opposite, I to send two
      words, she 200, or, for aught I know, 2,000, to greet you on the other
      side of the world. We have the more right, as your kind sisters have kept
      us well up to your Missionary doings from time to time, and we seem to be
      very often with you on board or in your islands (I say we, for my dear
      wife is more than half of me, as you may well suppose, in such
      sympathies), and it seems to me that, perhaps, in the present state of
      your island or sea-work you may have more time than by-and-by for thinking
      of one and another; anyhow we trust that that may happen which we ask for
      every evening&mdash;that we may be vouchsafed a part in the holy prayers
      which have been that day offered to the Throne of Grace, in Melanesia or
      elsewhere. I don't know whether I am right, but I fancy you at times
      something between a Hermit and a Missionary. God grant you a double
      blessing! and as you are a Bishop besides, you will breathe us a blessing
      in return for this, such as it is. Fanny's visit has been, as you know it
      would be, most charming and genial to us old folks (not that my wife ought
      to be so spoken of), and I shall always think it so kind of her to have
      spared us the time when she had so much to do and so short a time to do it
      in; but she seems like one going about with a bag of what Bishop Selwyn
      calls "hope-seed," and sowing it in everyplace; yet when one comes to look
      close at it, it all consists of memories, chiefly you know of whom. I only
      wish I could rightly and truly treasure up all she has kindly told us of
      your dear Father; but it must be a special grace to remember and really
      understand such things. It will be a most peculiar satisfaction, now that
      we have had her with us in this way, to think of you all three together,
      should God's Providence allow the meeting of which we understand there is
      a hope. The last thing she has told us of is the baptism on St. Barnabas'
      Day&mdash;"the first fruits of Mota unto Christ." What a thought&mdash;what
      a subject for prayer and thanksgiving! God grant it may prove to you more
      than we can ask or think.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever yours, my dear Bishop,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. K.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Don't trouble yourself to write, but think of us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course there was no obeying this postscript, and the immediate reply
      was:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear dear Mr. Keble,&mdash;Few things have ever given me more real
      pleasure than the receipt of your letter by this mail. I never doubted
      your interest in New Zealand and Melanesia, and your affection for me for
      my dear Father's sake. I felt quite sure that prayers were being offered
      up for us in many places, and where more frequently than at Hursley? Even
      as on this day, five years ago, when I touched the reef at Guadalcanar, in
      the presence of three hundred armed and naked men, (I heard afterwards)
      prayers were being uttered in the dead of your night by my dear old
      governess, Miss Neill, that God would have me in His safe keeping. But it
      is most pleasant, most helpful to me, to read your letter, and to feel
      that I have a kind of right now to write to you, as I hope I may do while
      I live fully and freely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not say a word concerning the idea some of you in England seem to
      take of my life here. It is very humbling to me, as it ought to be, to
      read such a letter from you. How different it is really!
    </p>
    <p>
      'If my dear sisters do come out to me for a while, which, after their
      letters by this February mail, seems less impossible than before, they
      will soon see what I mean: a missionary's life does not procure him any
      immunity from temptations, nor from falling into them; though, thanks be
      to God, it has indeed its rich and abundant blessings. It is a blessed
      thing to draw a little fellow, only six months ago a wild little savage,
      down upon one's knee, and hear his first confession of his past life, and
      his shy hesitating account of the words he uses when he prays to his
      newly-found God and Saviour. These are rare moments, but they do occur;
      and, if they don't, why the duty is to work all the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The intelligence of some of these lads and young men really surprises me.
      Some with me now, last October were utterly wild, never had worn a stitch
      of clothing, were familiar with every kind of vice. They now write an
      account of a Scripture print, or answer my MS. questions without copy, of
      course, fairly and legibly in their books, and read their own language&mdash;only
      quite lately reduced to writing&mdash;with ease. What an encouragement!
      And this applies to, I think, the great majority of these islanders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One child, I suppose some thirteen or fourteen years of age, I baptized
      on Christmas Day. Three days afterwards I married her to a young man who
      had been for some years with us. They are both natives of Nengone, one of
      the Loyalty Isles. I administered the Holy Eucharist to her last Saturday,
      and she is dying peacefully of consumption. What a blessed thing! This
      little one, fresh from Baptism, with all Church ministrations round her,
      passing gently away to her eternal rest. She looks at me with her soft
      dark eyes, and fondles my hand, and says she is not unhappy. She has, I
      verily believe, the secret of real happiness in her heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must write more when at sea. I have very little time here.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope by God's blessing to make a long round among my many islands this
      winter; some, I know, must be approached with great caution. Your prayers
      will be offered for me and those with me, I know, and am greatly comforted
      by the knowledge of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fanny tells me what you have said to her about supplying any deficit in
      the money required for our vessel. I feel as if this ought not in one
      sense to come upon you, but how can I venture to speak to you on such
      matters? You know all that I think and feel about it. Send me more your
      blessing. I feel cares and anxieties now. My kind love to Mrs. Keble.
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Two more notes followed in quick succession to Hursley Vicarage, almost
      entirely upon the matter of the new 'Southern Cross,' which was being
      built under Mr. Tilly's eye. The two Bishops were scrupulous about letting
      Mr. Keble give more than a fair proportion towards the vessel, which was
      not to cost more than £3,000, though more roomy than her lamented
      predecessor. Meantime the 'Sea Breeze' was 'again to serve for the winter
      voyage:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Barnabas Day, Auckland: 1862.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Sisters,&mdash;Think of my being ashore, and in a Christian land
      on this day. So it is. We sail (D.V.) in six days, as it may be this day
      week. The Melanesians are very good and pretty well in health, but we are
      all anxious to be in warm climates. I think that most matters are settled.
      Primate and I have finished our accounts. Think of his wise stewardship!
      The endowment in land and money, and no debts contracted! I hope that I
      leave nothing behind me to cause difficulty, should anything happen. The
      Primate and Sir William Martin are my executors; Melanesia, as you would
      expect, my heir. I may have forgotten many items, personal reminiscences.
      Ask for anything, should anything happen. I see no reason to anticipate
      it, humanly speaking, but it is always well to think of such things. I am
      just going to the little Taurarua chapel to our Melanesian Commemoration
      service with Holy Communion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! if it should please God to grant us a meeting here!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Great blessings have been given me this summer in seeing the progress
      made by the scholars, so great as to make me feel sober-minded and almost
      fearful, but that is wrong and faithless perhaps, and yet surely the
      trials must come some day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless you all, and keep you all safe from all harm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Friday, June 27th, 2 P.M.&mdash;How you are thinking of all that took
      place that last night on earth. He was taking his departure for a long
      voyage, rather he was entering into the haven where he would be! May God
      give us grace to follow his holy example, his patient endurance of his
      many trials, the greatest his constant trial of deafness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think if the weather be fair, that we shall go off to-morrow. Oh! if we
      do meet, and spend, it may be, Christmas together.
    </p>
    <p>
      28th, 3 P.M.&mdash;The first anniversary of our dear Father's death. How
      you are all recalling what took place then! How full of thankfulness for
      his gain, far outweighing the sorrow for our loss! And yet how you must
      feel it, more than I do, and yet I feel it deeply: but the little fond
      memories of the last months, and above all the looks and spoken words of
      love, I can't altogether enter into them. His letters are all that letters
      can be, more than any other letters can be, but they are not the same
      thing in all ways. The Primate has left us to hurry down the sailing
      master of the "Sea Breeze." It was a very rough morning, but is calm now,
      boats passing and repassing between the shore and the schooner at anchor
      off Kohimarama.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The habit of writing journals was not at once resumed by Bishop Patteson
      when his father was not there to read them; and the chance of seeing his
      sisters, no doubt, made him write less fully to them, since they might be
      on the voyage when the letters arrived in England. Thus the fullest record
      of the early part of the voyage is in a report which he drew up and
      printed in the form of a letter to the Rev. J. Keble:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'We chartered the "Sea Breeze" schooner in June last for four months: she
      is a vessel of seventy tons register, a little larger than the old
      "Southern Cross," and as well suited for our purpose as a vessel can be
      which is built to carry passengers in the ordinary way. No voyage can of
      course equal in importance those early expeditions of the Primate, when he
      sailed in his little schooner among seas unknown, to islands never before
      visited, or visited only by the sandal-wood traders. But I never recollect
      myself so remarkable a voyage as this last. I do not mean that any new
      method was adopted in visiting islands, or communicating with the natives.
      God gave to the Bishop of New Zealand wisdom to see and carry out from the
      first the plan, which more and more approves itself as the best and only
      feasible plan, for our peculiar work. But all through this voyage, both in
      revisiting islands well known to us, and in recommencing the work in other
      islands, where, amidst the multitude of the Primate's engagements, it had
      been impossible to keep up our acquaintance with the people, and in
      opening the way in islands now visited for the first time, from the
      beginning to the end, it pleased God to prosper us beyond all our utmost
      hopes. I was not only able to land on many places where, as far as I know,
      no white man had set foot before, but to go inland, to inspect the houses,
      canoes, &amp;c., in crowded villages (as at Santa Cruz), or to sit for two
      hours alone amidst a throng of people (as at Pentecost Island), or to walk
      two and a half miles inland (as at Tariko or Aspee). From no less than
      eight islands have we for the first time received, young people for our
      school here, and fifty-one Melanesian men, women, and young lads are now
      with us, gathered from twenty-four islands, exclusive of the islands so
      long-known to us of the Loyalty Group. When you remember that at Santa
      Cruz, e.g., we had never landed before, and that this voyage I was
      permitted to go ashore at seven different places in one day, during which
      I saw about 1,200 men: that in all these islands the inhabitants are, to
      look at, wild, naked, armed with spears and clubs, or bows and poisoned
      arrows; that every man's hand (as, alas! we find only too soon when we
      live among them) is against his neighbour, and scenes of violence and
      bloodshed amongst themselves of frequent occurrence; and that throughout
      this voyage (during which I landed between seventy and eighty times) not
      one hand was lifted up against me, not one sign of ill-will exhibited; you
      will see why I speak and think with real amazement and thankfulness of a
      voyage accompanied with results so wholly unexpected. I say results, for
      the effecting a safe landing on an island, and much more the receiving a
      native lad from it, is, in this sense, a result, that the great step has
      been made of commencing an acquaintance with the people. If I live to make
      another voyage, I shall no longer go ashore there as a stranger. I know
      the names of some of the men; I can by signs remind them of some little
      present made, some little occurrence which took place; we have already
      something in common, and as far as they know me at all, they know me as a
      friend. Then some lad is given up to us, the language learned, and a real
      hold on the island obtained.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The most distant point we reached was the large island Ysabel, in the
      Solomon Archipelago. From this island a lad has come away with us, and we
      have also a native boy from an island not many miles distant from Ysabel,
      called Anudha, but marked in the charts (though not correctly) as Florida.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would weary you if I wrote of all the numerous adventures and strange
      scenes which in such a voyage we of course experience. I will give you, if
      I can, an idea of what took place at some few islands, to illustrate the
      general character of the voyage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One of the New Hebrides Islands, near the middle of the group, was
      discovered by Cook, and by him called "Three Hills." The central part of
      it, where we have long-had an acquaintance with the natives, is called by
      them "Mai." Some six years ago we landed there, and two young men came
      away with us, and spent the summer in New Zealand. Their names were Petere
      and Laure; the former was a local chief of some consequence. We took a
      peculiar interest in this island, finding that a portion of the population
      consists of a tribe speaking a dialect of the great Polynesian language of
      which another dialect is spoken in New Zealand. Every year we have had
      scholars from Mai, several of whom can read and write. We have landed
      there times without number, slept ashore three or four times, and are well
      known of course to the inhabitants.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The other day I landed as usual among a crowd of old acquaintances,
      painted and armed, but of that I thought nothing. Knowing them to be so
      friendly to us, instead of landing alone, I took two or three of our party
      to walk inland with me; and off we started, Mr. Dudley and Wadrokala being
      left sitting in the boat, which was, as usual, a short distance from the
      beach. We had walked about half a mile before I noticed something unusual
      in the manner of the people, and I overheard them talking in a way that
      made me suspect that something had happened which they did not want me to
      know. Petere had not made his appearance, though in general the first to
      greet us, and on my making enquiries for him, I was told that he was not
      well. Not long afterwards I overheard a man say that Petere was dead, and
      taking again some opportunity that offered itself for asking about him,
      was told that he was dead, that he had died of dysentery. I was grieved to
      hear this, because I liked him personally and had expected help from him
      when the time came for commencing a Mission station on the island. The
      distance from the beach to the village where Petere lived is about one and
      a half mile, and a large party had assembled before we reached it. There
      was a great lamentation and crying on our arrival, during which I sat down
      on a large log of a tree. Then came a pause, and I spoke to the people,
      telling them how sorry I was to hear of Petere's death. There was
      something strange still about their manner, which I could not quite make
      out; and one of our party, who was not used to the kind of thing, did not
      like the looks of the people and the clubs and spears. At last one of
      them, an old scholar of ours, came forward and said, "The men here do not
      wish to deceive you; they know that you loved Petere, and they will not
      hide the truth; Petere was killed by a man in a ship, a white man, who
      shot him in the forehead." Of course I made minute enquiries as to the
      ship, the number of masts, how many people they saw, whether there was
      anything remarkable about the appearance of any person on board, &amp;c.
      The men standing round us were a good deal excited, but the same story was
      told by them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'After a while I walked back to the beach, no indication having been made
      of unfriendliness, but I had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when
      three men rushed past me from behind, and ran on to the beach. Meanwhile
      Mr. Dudley and Wadrokala in the boat were rather uneasy at the manner of
      the people standing near them on the reef; and they too suspected that
      something unusual had occurred. Presently they saw these three men rush
      out of the bush on to the beach and distribute "kava" (leaves of the
      pepper plant) among the people, who at once changed their manner, became
      quite friendly and soon dispersed. It was quite evident that a discussion
      had taken place on shore as to the treatment we were to receive; and these
      men on the beach were awaiting the result of the discussion, prepared to
      act accordingly. There was scarcely any danger in our case of their
      deciding to injure us, because they knew us well; but had we been
      strangers we should have been killed of course; their practice being,
      naturally enough, to revenge the death of a countryman on the arrival of
      the next man who comes from what they suppose to be their enemies'
      country.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This story may show you that caution is necessary long after the time
      that a real friendship has commenced and been carried on. We never can
      tell what may have taken place during the intervals of our visits. I
      returned to the village, with Mr. Kerr and Mr. Dudley and slept ashore,
      thinking it right to restore mutual confidence at once; and there was not
      the slightest risk in doing so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now let me tell you about an island called Ambrym, lying to the south of
      Aurora and Pentecost, the two northernmost islands of the New Hebrides
      group.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ambrym is a grand island, with a fine active volcano, so active on this
      last occasion of our visiting it, that we were covered and half-blinded by
      the ashes; the deck was thickly covered with them, and the sea for miles
      strewed with floating cinders. We have repeatedly landed in different
      parts of the island, but this time we visited an entirely new place. There
      was a considerable surf on the beach, and I did not like the boat to go
      near the shore, partly on that account, but chiefly because our rule is
      not to let the boat approach too near the beach lest it should be hauled
      up on shore by the people and our retreat to the schooner cut off. So I
      beckoned to some men in a canoe (for I could not speak a word of the
      language), who paddled up to us, and took me ashore.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As I was wading to the beach, an elderly man came forward from the crowd
      to the water's edge, where he stood holding both his arms uplifted over
      his head. Directly that I reached him, he took my hand, and put it round
      his neck, and turned to walk up the beach. As I walked along with him
      through the throng of men, more than three hundred in number, my arm all
      the while round his neck, I overheard a few words which gave me some
      slight clue as to the character of their language, and a very few words go
      a long way on such occasions. We went inland some short distance, passing
      through part of a large village, till we came to a house with figures,
      idols or not, I hardly know, placed at some height above the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They pointed to these figures and repeated a name frequently, not unlike
      the name of one of the gods of some of the islands further to the north;
      then they struck the hollow tree, which is their native drum, and thronged
      close round me, while I gave away a few fish-hooks, pieces of red braid,
      &amp;c. I asked the names of some of the people, and of objects about me,
      trees, birds, &amp;c. I was particularly struck with two boys who kept
      close to me. After some time I made signs that I would return to the
      beach, and we began to move away from the village; but I was soon stopped
      by some men, who brought me two small trees, making signs that I should
      plant them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I returned to the beach, the two boys were still with me, and I took
      their hands and walked on amidst the crowd. I did not imagine that they
      would come away with me, and yet a faint hope of their doing so sprang up
      in my mind, as I still found them holding my hands, and even when I began
      to wade towards the boat still close by my side in the water. All this
      took place in the presence of several hundred natives, who allowed these
      boys to place themselves in the boat and be taken on board the schooner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was somewhat anxious about revisiting an island called Tikopia. Once we
      were there, five or six years ago. The island is small, and the
      inhabitants probably not more than three hundred or four hundred. They are
      Polynesians, men of very large stature, rough in manner, and not very
      easily managed. I landed there and waded across the reef among forty or
      fifty men. On the beach a large party assembled. I told them in a sort of
      Polynesian patois, that I wished to take away two lads from their island,
      that I might learn their language, and come back and teach them many
      things for their good. This they did not agree to. They said that some of
      the full-grown men wished to go away with me; but to this I in my turn
      could not agree. These great giants would be wholly unmanageable in our
      school at present. I went back to the edge of the reef&mdash;about three
      hundred yards&mdash;and got into the boat with two men; we rowed off a
      little way, and I attempted, more quietly than the noisy crowd on shore
      would allow, to explain to them my object in coming to them. After a while
      we pulled back to the reef, and I waded ashore again; but I could not
      induce them to let me take any one away who was at all eligible for the
      school. Still I was very thankful to have been able twice to land and
      remain half an hour or more on shore among the people. Next year (D.V.) I
      may be able to see more of them, and perhaps may obtain a scholar, and so
      open the island. It is a place visited by whalers, but they never land
      here, and indeed the inhabitants are generally regarded as dangerous
      fellows to deal with, so I was all the more glad to have made a successful
      visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing could have been more delightful than the day I spent in making
      frequent landings on the north side of Santa Cruz. This island was visited
      by Spaniards, under the command of Mendana, nearly three hundred years
      ago. They attempted to found a colony there, but after a short time were
      compelled, by illness and the death of Mendana and his successor, to
      abandon their endeavour. It is apparently a very fertile island, certainly
      a very populous one. The inhabitants are very ingenious, wearing beautiful
      ornaments, making good bags woven of grass stained with turmeric, and fine
      mats. Their arrows are elaborately carved, and not less elaborately
      poisoned: their canoes well made and kept in good order. We never before
      landed on this island; but the Primate, long before I was in this part of
      the world, and two or three times since, had sailed and rowed into the bay
      at the north-west end, called Graciosa Bay, the fine harbour in which the
      Spaniards anchored. I went ashore this last voyage in seven different
      places, large crowds of men thronging down to the water's edge as I waded
      to the beach. They were exceedingly friendly, allowed me to enter the
      houses, sit down and inspect their mode of building them. They brought me
      food to eat; and when I went out of the houses again, let me examine the
      large sea-going canoes drawn up in line on the beach. I wrote down very
      many names, and tried hard to induce some young people to come away with
      me, but after we had pulled off some way, their courage failed them, and
      they swam back to the shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two or three of the men took off little ornaments and gave them to me;
      one bright pretty boy especially I remember, who took off his shell
      necklace and put it round my neck, making me understand, partly by words,
      but more by signs, that he was afraid to come now, but would do so if I
      returned, as I said, in eight or ten moons.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Large baskets of almonds were given me, and other food also thrown into
      the boat. I made a poor return by giving some fish-hooks and a tomahawk to
      the man whom I took to be the person of most consequence. On shore the
      women came freely up to me among the crowd, but they were afraid to
      venture down to the beach. Now this is the island about which we have long
      felt a great difficulty as to the right way of obtaining any communication
      with the natives. This year, why and how I cannot tell, the way was opened
      beyond all expectation. I tried hard to get back from the Solomon Islands
      so as to revisit it again during the voyage, but we could not get to the
      eastward, as the trade-wind blew constantly from that quarter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Leper's Island I had just such another day&mdash;or rather two days
      were spent in making an almost complete visitation of the northern part of
      the island&mdash;the people were everywhere most friendly, and I am hoping
      to see them all again join us soon, when some may be induced to.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would be the work of days to tell you all our adventures. How at
      Malanta I picked two lads out of a party of thirty-six in a grand war
      canoe going on a fighting expedition&mdash;and very good fellows they are;
      how we filled up our water-casks at Aurora, standing up to our necks in
      the clear cool stream rushing down from a cataract above, with the natives
      assisting us in the most friendly manner; how at Santa Maria, which till
      this year we never visited without being shot at, I walked for four or
      five hours far inland wherever I pleased, meeting great crowds of men all
      armed and suspicious of each other&mdash;indeed actually fighting with
      each other&mdash;but all friendly to me; how at Espiritu Santo, when I had
      just thrown off my coat and tightened my belt to swim ashore through
      something of a surf, a canoe was launched, and without more ado a nice lad
      got into our boat and came away with us, without giving me the trouble of
      taking a swim at all; how at Florida Island, never before reached by us,
      one out of some eighty men, young and old, standing all round me on the
      reef, to my astonishment returned with me to the boat, and without any
      opposition from the people quietly seated himself by my side and came away
      to the schooner; how at Pentecost Island, Taroniara (a lad whom the
      Primate in old days had picked up in his canoe paddling against a strong
      head wind, and kept him on board all night, and sent him home with
      presents in the morning) now came away with me, but not without his bow
      and poisoned arrows, of which I have taken safe possession; how Misial
      felt sea-sick and home-sick for a day or two, but upon being specially
      patronised by the cook, soon declared "that no place could compare with
      the galley of a Mission vessel," to the truth of which declaration the
      necessity of enlarging his scanty garments soon bore satisfactory
      testimony; how at Ysabel the young chief came on board with a white
      cockatoo instead of a hawk on his wrist, which he presented to me with all
      the grace in the world, and with an enquiry after his good friend Captain
      Hume, of H.M.S. "Cordelia," who had kindly taken me to this island in the
      winter of 1861.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this may be added some touches from the home letter of August 27, off
      Vanikoro:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't deny that I am thankful that the Tikopia visit is well over. The
      people are so very powerful and so independent and unmanageable, that I
      always have felt anxious about visiting them. Once we were there in 1856,
      and now again. I hope to keep on visiting them annually. Sydney traders
      have been there, but have never landed; they trade at arm's length from
      their boat and are well armed. It is a strange sensation, sitting alone
      (say) 300 yards from the boat, which of course can't be trusted in their
      hands, among 200 or more of people really gigantic. No men have I ever
      seen so large&mdash;huge Patagonian limbs, and great heavy hands clutching
      up my little weak arms and shoulders. Yet it is not a sensation of fear,
      but simply of powerlessness; and it makes one think, as I do when among
      them, of another Power present to protect and defend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They perfectly understood my wish to bring away lads. Full-grown
      Brobdignag men wished to come, and some got into the boat who were not
      easily got out of it again. Boys swam off, wishing to come, but the elder
      people prevented it, swimming after them and dragging them back. It was a
      very rough, blustering day; but even on such a day the lee side of the
      island is a beautiful sight, one mass of cocoa-nut trees, and the villages
      so snugly situated among the trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just been up the rigging to get a good look at this great encircling reef
      at Vanikoro. Green water as smooth as glass, inside the reef for a mile,
      and then pretty villages; but there is no passage through the reef, it is
      a continuous breakwater. We are working up towards a part of the reef
      where I think there may be a passage. Anyhow I am gaining a good local
      knowledge of this place, and that saves time another year.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The ten lads on board talk six languages, not one of which do I know; but
      as I get words and sentences from them, I see how they will "work in" with
      the general character of the language of which I have several dialects. It
      is therefore not very difficult to get on some little way into all at
      once; but I must not be disappointed if I find that other occupations take
      me away too much for my own pleasure from this particular branch of my
      work.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A long letter to Sir John T. Coleridge gives another aspect of the voyage:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Sea Breeze" Schooner: off Rennell Island. 'Therm. 89° in shade; lat. 11°
      40', long. 160° 18' 5". 'September 7, 1862.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Uncle,&mdash;I can hardly keep awake for the unusually great
      heat. The wind is northerly, and it is very light, indeed we are almost
      becalmed, so you will have a sleepy letter, indeed over my book I was
      already nodding. I think it better to write to you (though on a Sunday)
      than to sleep. What a compliment! But I shall grow more wakeful as I
      write. Perhaps my real excuse for writing is that I feel to-day much
      oppressed with the thought of these great islands that I have been
      visiting, and I am sadly disappointed in some of my scholars from San
      Cristoval.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Leaving New Zealand on June 20th, I sailed to Norfolk Island, where I
      held my first Confirmation. By desire of the Bishop of Tasmania, I act as
      Bishop for the Norfolk Islanders. This was, as you know, a very solemn
      time for me; sixteen dear children were confirmed. Since that time I have
      visited very many islands with almost unequalled success, as far as
      effecting landings, opening communication, and receiving native lads are
      concerned. I have on board natives from many places from which we have
      never received them before. Many I have left with Mr. Dudley and Mr. Pritt
      on Mota Island at school, but I have now twenty-one, speaking eleven
      languages. At many places where we had never landed, I was received well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The state of things, too, in the Banks Islands is very encouraging. What
      do you think of my having two married (after their fashion) couples on
      board from the Solomon Islands (San Cristoval and Contrariete)? This was
      effected with some difficulty. Both the men are old scholars, of course. I
      ought therefore to be most thankful; and yet my heart is sad because,
      after promises given by Grariri and his wife, Parenga and Kerearua (all
      old scholars, save Mrs. Garm), not one came away with me yesterday, and I
      feel grieved at the loss of my dear boys, who can read and write, and
      might be taught so much now! It is all very faithless; but I must tell it
      all to you, for indeed I do not feel as if I had any right to expect it
      otherwise, but in the moment of perceiving and confessing that it is very
      good for me, I find out for the first time how much my heart was set upon
      having them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And then San Cristoval, sixty miles long, with its villages and
      languages, and Malanta over eighty miles long, and Guadalcanar, seventy!
      It is a silly thought or a vain, human wish, but I feel as if I longed to
      be in fifty or a hundred places at once. But God will send qualified men
      in good time. In the meanwhile (for the work must be carried on mainly by
      native teachers gathered from each island), as some fall off I must seek
      to gain others. Even where lads are only two, or even one year with mer
      and then apparently fall back to what they were before, some good may be
      done, the old teaching may return upon them some day, and they may form a
      little nucleus for good, though not now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As for openings for men of the right sort, they abound. Really if I were
      free to locate myself on an island instead of going about to all, I hardly
      know to which of some four or five I ought to go. But it is of no use to
      have men who are not precisely the kind of men wanted. Somehow one can't
      as yet learn to ask men to do things that one does oneself as a matter of
      course. It needs a course of training to get rid of conventional notions.
      I think that Norfolk Island may supply a few, a very few fellows able to
      be of use, and perhaps New Zealand will do so, and I have the advantage of
      seeing and knowing them. I don't think that I must expect men from
      England, I can't pay them well; and it is so very difficult to give a man
      on paper any idea of what his life will be in Melanesia or Kohimarama. So
      very much that would be most hazardous to others has ceased to be so to
      me, because I catch up some scrap of the language talked on the beach, and
      habit has given an air of coolness and assurance. But this does not come
      all at once, and you cannot talk about all this to others. I feel ashamed
      as I write it even to you. They bother me to put anecdotes of adventures
      into our Report, but I cannot. You know no one lands on these places but
      myself, and it would be no good to tell stories merely to catch somebody's
      ear. It was easier to do so when the Bishop and I went together, but I am
      not training up anyone to be the visitor, and so I don't wish anybody else
      to go with me. Besides Mr. Pritt and Mr. Dudley are bad swimmers, and Mr.
      Kerr not first-rate. My constant thought is "By what means will God
      provide for the introduction of Christianity into these islands," and my
      constant prayer that He will reveal such means to me, and give me grace to
      use them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What reality there is in such a work as this! What continual need of
      guidance and direction! I here see before me now an island stretching away
      twenty-five miles in length! Last night I left one sixty miles long. I
      know that hundreds are living there ignorant of God, wild men, cannibals,
      addicted to every vice. I know that Christ died for them, and that the
      message is for them, too. How am I to deliver it? How find an entrance
      among them? How, when I have learnt their language, speak to them of
      religion, so as not to introduce unnecessary obstacles to the reception of
      it, nor compromise any of its commands?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank God I can fall back upon many solid points of comfort&mdash;chiefest
      of all, He sees and knows it all perfectly. He sees the islanders too, and
      loves them, how infinitely more than I can! He desires to save them. He
      is, I trust, sending me to them. He will bless honest endeavours to do His
      will among them. And then I think how it must all appear to angels and
      saints, how differently they see these things. Already, to their eyes, the
      light is breaking forth in Melanesia; and I take great comfort from this
      thought, and remember that it does not matter whether it is in my time,
      only I must work on. And then I think of the prayers of the Church,
      ascending continually for the conversion of the heathen; and I know that
      many of you are praying specially for the heathen of Melanesia. And so
      one's thoughts float out to India, and China, and Japan, and Africa, and
      the islands of the sea, and the very vastness of the work raises one's
      thoughts to God, as the only One by whom it must be done.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, dear Uncle, I have written all this commonplace talk, not regarding
      its dulness in your eyes, but because I felt weary and also somewhat
      overwrought and sad; and it has done me much good, and given me a happy
      hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We had our service on board this morning, and the Holy Eucharist
      afterwards; Mr. Kerr, two Norfolk Islanders, a Maori, and a Nengone man
      present. I ought not to be faint-hearted. My kind love to Aunt and Mary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and dutiful Nephew,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The climate of Mota had again disagreed with Mr. Dudley, who was laid up
      with chronic rheumatism nearly all the time he was there; and the Bishop
      returned from his voyage very unwell; but Mr. Pritt happily was strong and
      active, and the elder Banks Island scholars were very helpful, both in
      working and teaching, so that the schools went on prosperously, and the
      custom of carrying weapons in Mota was dropped.
    </p>
    <p>
      On November 7 the 'Sea Breeze' was again in harbour; and on the 15th,
      after mature consideration, was written this self-sacrificing letter:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Andrew's: November 15, 1862.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;I returned from a voyage unusually interesting
      and prosperous on the 7th of this month; absent just nineteen weeks. We
      were in all on board seventy-one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I found all your letters from April to August 25. How thankful I am to
      see and know what I never doubted, the loving manner in which my first and
      later letters about New Zealand were taken. How wise of you to perceive
      that in truth my judgment remained all through unaltered, though my
      feelings were strongly moved, indeed the good folk here begged me to
      reconsider my resolution, thinking no doubt kindly for me that it would be
      so great a joy to me to see you. Of course it would; were there no other
      considerations that we already know and agree upon, what joy so great on
      earth! But I feel sure that we are right. Thank God that we can so speak,
      think, and act with increasing affection and trust in each other!
    </p>
    <p>
      'The more I think of it, the more I feel "No, it would not do! It would
      not be either what Joan expects or what Fan expects. They look at it in
      some ways alike&mdash;i.e., in the matter of seeing me, which both equally
      long to do. In some ways they regard it differently. But it would not to
      one or the other be the thing they hope and wish for. They would both feel
      (what yet they would not like to acknowledge) disappointment." Though,
      therefore, I could not help feeling often during the voyage, "What if I
      hear that they may be with me by Christmas!" yet it was not exactly
      unwelcome to hear that you do not come. I recognised at once your reading
      of my letters as the right one; and my feelings, strong as they are, give
      way to other considerations, especially when, from my many occupations, I
      have very little time to indulge them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But for the thought of coming, and your great love to me, I thank you,
      dear ones, with all my heart. May God bless you for it!...
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, my dear Sisters; we are together in heart at all events.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother, 'J. C. P.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The judgment had decided that the elder sister especially would suffer
      more from the rough life at Kohimarama than her brother could bear that
      she should undergo, when he could give her so little of his society as
      compensation, without compromising his own decided principle that all must
      yield to the work. Perhaps he hardly knew how much he betrayed of the
      longing, even while deciding against its gratification; but his sisters
      were wise enough to act on his judgment, and not on their own impulse; and
      the events of the next season proved that he had been right. To Sir John
      Coleridge he wrote:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: November 15, 1862.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Uncle,&mdash;I should indeed, as you say, delight to have a
      ramble in the old scenes, and a good unburthening of thoughts conceived
      during the past seven or eight years.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet you see I could not try the experiment of those dear good sisters
      of mine coming out. It would not have been what they expected and meant to
      come out to. I am little seen by any but Melanesians, and quite content
      that it should be so. I can't do what I want with them, nor a tenth part
      of it as it is. I cannot write to you of this last voyage&mdash;in many
      respects a most remarkable one&mdash;indicating, if I am not over hopeful,
      a new stage in our Mission work. Many islands yielding scholars for the
      first time; old scholars, with but few exceptions, steadfast and rapidly
      improving; no less than fifty-seven Melanesians here now from twenty-four
      islands, exclusive of the Loyalty Islands, and five bright Pitcairners,
      from twenty-four to sixteen, helpful, good, conscientious lads. There are
      eight languages that I do not know, besides all the rest; yet I can see
      that they are all links in the great chain of dialects of the great
      "Pacific language,"&mdash;yet dialects very far removed sometimes from one
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I find it not very easy to comply with reasonable demands from men in
      Europe, who want to know about these things. If I had time and ability, I
      think I should enjoy really going into philology. I get books sent me from
      people such as Max Muller, Grabalentz, &amp;c.; and if I write to them at
      all, it is useless to write anything but an attempt at classification of
      the dialects; and that is difficult, for there are so many, and it takes
      so long to explain to another the grounds upon which I feel justified in
      connecting dialects and calling them cognate. It becomes an instinct
      almost, I suppose, with people in the trade.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I hardly know how far I ought to spend any time in such things.
      Elementary grammars for our own missionaries and teachers are useful, and
      the time is well spent in writing them. Hence it is that I do not write
      longer letters. Oh! how I enjoy writing un-business letters; but I can't
      help it&mdash;it's part of my business now to write dull Reports&mdash;i.e.
      reports that I can't help making dull, and all the rest of it....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot write about Bishop Mackenzie. Mr. Pritt (at 9.30 P.M. the night
      we landed) put his head into my room and said, "Bishop Mackenzie is dead,"
      and I sat and sat on and knelt and could not take it all in! I cannot
      understand what the papers say of his modus operandi, yet I know that it
      was an error of judgment, if an error at all, and there may be much which
      we do not know. So I suspend my opinion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In a letter to myself, written by the same mail, in reply to one in which
      I had begged him to consider what was the sight, to a Christian man, of
      slaves driven off with heavy yokes on their necks, and whether it did not
      justify armed interposition, he replies with arguments that it is needless
      now to repeat, but upholding the principle that the shepherd is shepherd
      to the cruel and erring as well as to the oppressed, and ought not to use
      force. The opinion is given most humbly and tenderly, for he had a great
      veneration for his brother Missionary Bishop. Commenting on the fact that
      Bishop Selwyn's speech at Cambridge had made Charles Mackenzie a
      missionary, and that he would gladly have hailed an invitation to the
      Australasian field of labour, the letter proceeds:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'How wonderful it is to reflect upon the events of the last few years! Had
      he come out when I did to New Zealand, I might be now his Missionary
      Chaplain; and yet it is well that there should be two missionary dioceses,
      and without the right man for the African Mission, there might have been a
      difficulty in carrying out the plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The chapel is not built yet, for I have sixty mouths to feed, and other
      buildings must be thought of for health's sake. But I have settled all
      that in my will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In a postscript is mentioned the arrival of some exquisite altar plate
      for the College chapel, which had been offered by a lady, who had also
      bountifully supplied with chronometers and nautical instruments the
      'Southern Cross,' which was fast being built at Southampton.
    </p>
    <p>
      The above letter was accompanied by one to Dr. Moberly:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Andrew's College, Kohimarama: Nov. 18, 1862.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Dr. Moberly,&mdash;Thank you heartily for writing to me. It is a
      real help to me and to others also, I think, of my party to be in
      communication with those whom we have long respected, and whose prayers we
      now more than ever earnestly ask. We returned on November 7 from a very
      remarkable voyage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was nineteen weeks absent all but a day: sailed far beyond our most
      distant island in my previous voyage, landed nearly eighty times amidst
      (often) 300 and more natives, naked, armed, &amp;c., and on no less than
      thirty or forty places never trodden before (as far as I know) by the foot
      of a white man. Not one arm was lifted up against me, not one bow drawn or
      spear shaken. I think of it all quietly now with a sort of wondering
      thankfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From not less than eight islands we have now for the first time received
      native lads; and not only are openings being thus made for us in many
      directions, but the permanent training of our old scholars is going on
      most favourably; so that by the blessing of God we hope, at all events in
      the Banks Islands, to carry on continuously the Mission Schools during the
      winter and summer also. We have spent the three last winters here, but it
      would not be wise to run the risk of the damp hot climate in the summer.
      Natives of the island must do this, and thank God there are natives being
      raised up now to do it. The enclosed translation of a note. It is but
      three or four years since the language was reduced to writing, and here is
      a young man writing down his thoughts to me after a long talk about the
      question of his being baptized.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Four others there are soon, by God's blessing, to be baptized also&mdash;Sarawia
      from Vanua Lava, Tagalana from Aroa, Pasvorang from Eowa, Woleg from Mota,
      and others are pressing on; Taroniara from San Cristoval, Kanambat from
      New Caledonia, &amp;c. I tell you their names, for you will I know,
      remember them in your prayers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you kindly let Mr. Keble see the enclosed note? It does not, of
      course, give much idea of the lad's state of mind; but he is thoroughly in
      earnest, and as for his knowledge of his duty there can be no question
      there. He really knows his Catechism. I have scarcely a minute to write by
      this mail. Soon you will have, I hope, a sketch of our last voyage. We
      remember you all, benefactors and benefactresses, daily. Thank you again
      for writing to me: it humbles me, as it ought to do, to receive such a
      letter from you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very faithfully yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      These names deserve note: Sarawia the first to be ordained of the
      Melanesian Church; and Taroniara, who was to share his Bishop's death. B&mdash;&mdash;,
      as will be seen, has had a far more chequered course. Tagalana is
      described in another letter as having the thoughtfulness of one who knows
      that he has the seeds of early death in him; but he, the living lectern at
      the consecration, has lived to be the first deacon of his island of Aroa.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ensuing is to the Rev. Derwent Coleridge, at that time Principal of
      St. Mark's Training College, Chelsea, upon the question whether that
      institution would afford assistants:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Auckland, New Zealand: Nov. 15, 1862.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;You will not be surprised, I hope, to hear from me;
      I only wish I had written to you long ago. But until quite recently we
      could not speak with so much confidence concerning the Melanesian Mission,
      and it is of little use to write vaguely on matters which I am anxious now
      to make known to you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The general plan of the Mission you may get some notion of from the last
      year's Report (which I send), and possibly you may have heard or seen
      something about it in former years. This last voyage of nineteen weeks,
      just concluded, has determined me to write to you; for the time is come
      when we want helpers indeed, and I think that you will expect me naturally
      to turn to you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not only that very many islands throughout the South Pacific, from
      the Loyalty Islands on to the northwest as far as Ysabel Island in the
      Solomon group, are now yielding up scholars and affording openings for
      Mission stations, though this indeed is great matter for thankfulness; but
      there is, thank God, a really working staff gathered round us from the
      Banks Archipelago, which affords a definite field, already partially
      occupied with a regular system at work in it; and here young persons may
      receive the training most needed for them, actually on a heathen island,
      though soon not to be without some few Christians amongst its population.
      Now I can say to anyone willing and qualified to help me:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the six summer months there is the central school work in New Zealand,
      where now there are with me fifty-one Melanesians from twenty-four
      islands, speaking twenty-three languages; and in the six winter months
      there is a station regularly occupied on Mota Island, where all the
      necessary experience of life in the islands can be acquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not in any hurry for men. Norfolk Island has given me five young
      fellows from twenty-one to sixteen years of age, who already are very
      useful. One has been with me a year, another four months. They are given
      unreservedly into my hands, and already are working well into our school,
      taking the superintendence of our cooking, e.g., off our hands; with some
      help from us, they will be very useful at once as helpers on Mota, doing
      much in the way of gardening, putting up huts, &amp;c., which will free us
      for more teaching work, &amp;c., and they are being educated by us with an
      eye to their future employment (D.V.) as missionaries. I would not wish
      for better fellows; their moral and religious conduct is really singularly
      good&mdash;you know their circumstances and the character of the whole
      community. But I should be thankful by-and-by to have men equally willing
      to do anything, yet better educated in respect of book knowledge. No one
      is ever asked to do what we are not willing to do, and generally in the
      habit of doing ourselves&mdash;cooking, working, &amp;c., &amp;c. But the
      Melanesian lads really do all this kind of work now. I have sixty mouths
      to fill here now; and Melanesian boys, told out week by week, do the whole
      of the cooking (simple enough, of course) for us all with perfect
      punctuality. I don't think any particular taste for languages necessary at
      all. Anyone who will work hard at it can learn the language of the
      particular class assigned to him. Earnest, bright, cheerful fellows,
      without that notion of "making sacrifices," &amp;c., perpetually occurring
      to their minds, would be invaluable. You know the kind of men, who have
      got rid of the conventional notion that more self-denial is needed for a
      missionary than for a sailor or soldier, who are sent anywhere, and leave
      home and country for years, and think nothing of it, because they go "on
      duty." Alas! we don't so read our ordination vows. A fellow with a
      healthy, active tone of mind, plenty of enterprise and some enthusiasm,
      who makes the best of everything, and above all does not think himself
      better than other people because he is engaged in Mission work&mdash;that
      is the fellow we want. I assume, of course, the existence of sound
      religious principle as the greatest qualification of all. Now, if there be
      any young persons whom you could wish to see engaged in this Mission now
      at St. Mark's, or if you know of any such and feel justified in speaking
      to them, you will be doing a great kindness to me, and, I believe, aiding
      materially in this work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should not wish at all any young man to be pledged to anything; as on
      my part I will not pledge myself to accept, much less ordain, any man of
      whom I have no personal knowledge. But let anyone really in earnest, with
      a desire and intention (as far as he is concerned) to join the Mission,
      come to me about December or January in any year. Then he will live at the
      Mission College till the end of April, and can see for himself the mode of
      life at the Central Summer School in New Zealand. Then let him take a
      voyage with me, see Melanesians in their own homes, stop for a while at
      Mota&mdash;e.g. make trial of the climate, &amp;c., &amp;c., and then let
      me have my decisive talk with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If he will not do for the work, I must try and find other employment for
      him in some New Zealand diocese, or help to pay his passage home. I don't
      think such a person as you would recommend would fail to make himself
      useful; but I must say plainly that I would rather not have a man from
      England at all, than be bound to accept a man who might not thoroughly and
      cordially work into the general system that we have adopted. We live
      together entirely, all meals in common, same cabin, same hut, and the
      general life and energy of us all would be damaged by the introduction of
      any one discordant element. You will probably say, "Men won't go out on
      these terms," and this is indeed probable, yet if they are the right
      fellows for this work&mdash;a work wholly anomalous, unlike all other work
      that they have thought of in many respects&mdash;they will think that what
      I say is reasonable, and like the prospect all the better (I think)
      because they see that it means downright work in a cheery, happy, hopeful,
      friendly spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A man who takes the sentimental view of coral islands and cocoa-nuts, of
      course, is worse than useless; a man possessed with the idea that he is
      making a sacrifice will never do; and a man who thinks any kind of work
      "beneath a gentleman" will simply be in the way, and be rather
      uncomfortable at seeing the Bishop do what he thinks degrading to do
      himself. I write all this quite freely, wishing to convey, if possible,
      some idea to you of the kind of men we need. And if the right fellow is
      moved by God's grace to come out, what a welcome we will give him, and how
      happy he will soon be in a work the abundant blessings of which none can
      know as we know them. There are three clergymen with me. Mr. Pritt, who
      came out with the Bishop of Nelson as his chaplain, but who, I am thankful
      to say, is regularly part and parcel of the Mission staff; Mr. Dudley,
      ordained last year, who for six years has been in the Mission, and has had
      the special advantage of being trained under the Primate's eye; and Mr.
      Kerr who was also ordained about ten months ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I give 100 pounds to a clergyman when ordained, increasing it 101
      annually to a maximum of 150 pounds. But this depends upon subscriptions,
      &amp;c. I could not pledge myself even to this, except in the case of a
      man very highly recommended. But of this I will write more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Again let me say that I do not want anyone yet, not this year. I shall be
      off again (D.V.) in the beginning of May 1863, for six months; and if then
      I find on my return (D.V.) in November, letters from you, either asking me
      to write with reference to any young man, or informing me that one is on
      the way out, that will be quite soon enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not say I don't expect any such help so soon, if at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Finally, pray don't think that I underrate the great advantage of having
      such persons as St. Mark's produces; but I write guardedly. My kind love
      to Mrs. Derwent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Affectionately yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 29th of December, after two pages of affectionate remarks on
      various family incidents, the letter proceeds:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are having an extra scrubbing in preparation for our visitors on
      Thursday, who may wish to be with us on the occasion of the baptism of our
      six Banks Islanders; and I am writing in the midst of it, preferring to
      sit in the schoolroom to my own room, which is very tiny and very hot.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have some eight only out of the fifty-one whom I am obliged to treat
      rather as an awkward squad, not that they are too stupid to learn, but
      that we cannot give them the individual attention that is necessary. They
      teach me their language; but I cannot put them into any class where they
      could be regularly taught&mdash;indeed, they are not young fellows whom I
      should bring again. They do the work of introducing us to their islands,
      and of teaching us something of their language. So I continue to give them
      what little time I can&mdash;the real strength of our force being given to
      those whom we hope to have here again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are all on the qui vive about our beautiful vessel, hoping to see it
      in about six or eight weeks. It will, please God, be for years the great
      means by which we may carry on the Mission if we live; and all the care
      that has been spent upon it has been well spent, you may be sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't want to appear as if I expected this to be done in one sense, but
      it is only when I think of the personal interest shown in it that I
      suppose it right to thank people much. I don't want it to be thought of
      any more than you do as a gift to us particular missionaries. It is the
      Church carrying on its own work. Yet, as you truly say, private feelings
      and interests are not to be treated rudely; and I do think it a very
      remarkable thing that some 2,000 pounds should be raised by subscriptions,
      especially when one knows that so very few people have an idea of the work
      that is being done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a blessed New Year's rejoicing in hope here follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: Jan. 1, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;The first letter of the year to you! Thank God
      for bringing us to see it! It is 1 P.M., and at 4.30 P.M. six dear
      children (from twenty-two to fourteen) are to be baptized. Everything in
      one sense is done; how very little in the other and higher sense! May
      Almighty God pour the fulness of His blessing upon them! I sit and look at
      them, and my heart is too full for words. They sit with me, and bring
      their little notes with questions that they scarcely dare trust themselves
      to speak about. You will thank God for giving me such comfort, such
      blessings, and such dear children. How great a mercy it is! How
      unexpected! May God make me humble and patient through it all!
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a sight it would be for you four hours hence! Our party of
      sixty-one, visitors from Auckland, the glorious day, and the holy service,
      for which all meet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I use Proper Psalms, 89, 96, 126, 145, and for lessons a few verses, 2
      Kings v. 9-15, and Acts viii. 35-9. After the third Collect, the Primate
      may say a few words, or I may do so; and then I shall use our usual
      Melanesian Collect for many islands, very briefly named; and so conclude
      with the Blessing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What this is to me you must try and realise, that you may be partakers of
      my joy and thankfulness. To have Christians about me, to whom I can speak
      with a certainty of being understood, to feel that we are all bound
      together in the blessed Communion of the Body of Christ, to know that
      angels on high are rejoicing and evil spirits being chased away, that all
      the Banks Islands and all Melanesia are experiencing, as it were, the
      first shock of a mighty earthquake, that God who foresees the end may, in
      his merciful Providence, be calling even these very children to bear His
      message to thousands of heathens, is not it too much? One's heart is not
      large enough for it, and confession of one's own unworthiness breaks off
      involuntarily into praise and glory!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know, my dear Sisters, that this is most likely one of the great
      blessings that precede great trials. I can't expect or wish (perhaps)
      always to sail with a fair wind, yet I try to remember that trial must
      come, without on that account restraining myself from a deep taste of the
      present joy. I can't describe it!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then we have now much that we ever can talk about&mdash;deep talk about
      Mota and the other islands, and the special temptations to which they must
      be exposed; that now is the time when the devil will seek with all his
      might to "have" them, and so hinder God's work in the land; that they have
      been specially blest by God to be the first to desire to know His will,
      and that they have heavy responsibilities.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes," they say, "we see man does not know that his room is dirty and
      full of cobwebs while it is all dark; and another man, whose room is not
      half so dirty, because the sun shines into it and shows the dirt, thinks
      his room much worse than the other. That is like our hearts. It is worse
      now to be angry than it was to shoot a man a long time ago. But the more
      the sun shines in, the more we shall find cobwebs and dirt, long after we
      thought the room was clean. Yes, we know what that means. We asked you
      what would help us to go on straight in the path, now that we are entering
      at the gate. We said prayer, love, helping our countrymen. Now we see
      besides watchfulness, self-examination; and then you say we must at once
      look forward to being confirmed, as the people you confirmed at Norfolk
      Island. Then there is the very great thing, the holy and the great, the
      Supper of the Lord." So, evening by evening and day by day, we talk, this
      being of course not called school, being, indeed, my great relaxation, for
      this is the time when they are like children with a father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know I feel it so. Don't take the above as a fair sample of our talk,
      for the more solemn words we say about God's Love, Christ's Intercession,
      and the Indwelling of the Spirit, I can hardly write down now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'P.S.&mdash;Feast of the Epiphany. Those dear children were baptized on
      Thursday. A most solemn interesting scene it was!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thoroughly happy indeed was the Bishop at this time. In a note of February
      3 to the Bishop of Wellington, he speaks of the orderly state of the
      College:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Pritt has made a complete change in the Melanesian school, very
      properly through me; not putting himself forward, but talking with me,
      suggesting, accepting suggestions, giving the benefit of his great
      knowledge of boys and the ways to educate them. All the punctuality,
      order, method, &amp;c., are owing to him; and he is so bright and hearty,
      thoroughly at ease with the boys, and they with him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The same note announces two more recruits&mdash;Mr. John Palmer, a
      theological student at St. John's, and Joseph Atkin, the only son of a
      settler in the neighbourhood, who had also held a scholarship there. He
      had gained it in 1860, after being educated at the Taranaki Scotch School
      and the Church of England Grammar School at Parnell, and his abilities
      were highly thought of. The Bishop says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Joe Atkin, you will be glad to hear, has joined us on probation till next
      Christmas, but he is very unlikely to change his mind. He and his father
      have behaved in a very straightforward manner. I am not at all anxious to
      get fellows here in a hurry. The Norfolk Islanders, e.g., are in need of
      training much more than our best Melanesians, less useful as teachers,
      cooks, even as examples. This will surprise you, but it is so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have long suspected that Joe thought about joining us. He tells me,
      "You never would give me a chance to speak to you, Sir."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quite true, Joe; I wished the thought to work itself out in your own
      mind, and then I thought it right to speak first to your father."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I told him that I could offer but "a small and that an uncertain salary"
      should he be ordained five years hence; and that he ought to think of
      that, that there was nothing worldly in his wishing to secure a
      maintenance by-and-by for wife and child, and that I much doubted my power
      to provide it. But this did not at all shake either his father or him. I
      have a great regard for the lad, and I know you have.'
    </p>
    <p>
      From that time forward reading with and talking with 'Joe Atkin' was one
      of the chief solaces of the Bishop's life, though at present the young man
      was only on trial, and could not as yet fill the place of Mr. Benjamin
      Dudley, who, soon after the voyage, married, and returned to Canterbury
      settlement. The loss was felt, as appears in the following:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama; Saturday, 1 P.M., Feb. 7, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;I have a heavy cold, so you must expect a
      stupid letter. I am off in an hour or two for a forty-mile ride, to take
      to-morrow's services (four) among soldiers and settlers. The worst of it
      is that I have no chance of sleep at the end, for the mosquitos near the
      river are intolerable. How jolly it would be, nevertheless, if you were
      here, and strong enough to make a sort of picnic ride of it. I do it this
      way: strap in front of the saddle a waterproof sheet, with my silk gown,
      Prayer-book, brush and comb, razor and soap, a clean tie, and a couple of
      sea biscuits. Then at about 3 P.M. off I go. About twenty miles or so
      bring me to Papakura, an ugly but good road most of the way. Here there is
      an inn. I stop for an hour and a half, give the horse a good feed, and
      have my tea. At about 7.30 or 8 I start again, and ride slowly along a
      good road this dry weather. The moon rises at 9.30, and by that time I
      shall be reaching the forest, through which a good military road runs.
      This is the part of the road I should like to show you. Such a night as
      this promises to be! It will be beautiful. About 11 I reach a hut made of
      reeds on the very brink of the river, tether the horse, give him a feed,
      which I carry with me from Papakura, light a fire (taking matches) inside
      the hut, and try to smoke away mosquitos, lie down in your plaid, Joan&mdash;do
      you remember giving it to me?&mdash;and get what sleep I can. To-morrow I
      work my way home again, the fourth service being at Papakura at 4 P.M., so
      I ought to be at Kohimarama by 9 P.M., dead tired I expect. I think these
      long days tire me more than they did; and I really do see not a few white
      hairs, a dozen or so, this is quite right and respectable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am writing now because I am tired with this cold, but chiefly because
      when I write only for the mail I send you such wretched scrawls, just
      business letters, or growls about something or other which I magnify into
      a grievance. But really, dear Joan and Fan, I do like much writing to you;
      only it is so very seldom I can do so, without leaving undone some regular
      part of the day's work. I am quite aware that you want to know more
      details about my daily life, and I really wish to supply them; but then I
      am so weary when I get a chance of writing, that I let my mind drift away
      with my pen, instead of making some effort to write thoughtfully. How many
      things I should like to talk about, and which I ought to write about:
      Bishops Mackenzie and Colenso, the true view of what heathenism is, Church
      government, the real way to hope to get at the mass of heathens at home,
      the need of a different education in some respects for the clergy, &amp;c.
      But I have already by the time I begin to write taken too much out of
      myself in other ways to grapple with such subjects, and so I merely spin
      out a yarn about my own special difficulties and anxieties.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't mind my grumbling. I think that it is very ungrateful of me to do
      so, when, this year especially, I am receiving such blessings; it is
      partly because I am very much occupied, working at high pressure, partly
      because I do not check my foolish notions, and let matters worry me. I
      don't justify it a bit; nor must you suppose that because I am very busy
      just now, I am really the worse for it. The change to sea life will set me
      all to rights again; and I feel that much work must be done in a little
      time, and a wise man would take much more pains than I do to keep himself
      in a state fit to do it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have told you about our manner of life here. Up at 5, when I go round
      and pull the blankets, not without many a joke, off the sleeping boys,
      many of the party are already up and washing. Then, just before prayers, I
      go into the kitchen and see that all is ready for breakfast. Prayers at
      5.45 in English, Mota, Baura, &amp;c., beginning with a Mota Hymn, and
      ending with the Lord's Prayer in English. Breakfast immediately after: at
      our table Mr. Pritt, Mr. Kerr, and young Atkin who has just joined us. At
      the teachers' table, five Norfolk Islanders, Edward (a Maori), five girls
      and two of their husbands, and the three girls being placed at this table
      because they are girls; Melanesians at the other three tables
      indiscriminately. There are four windows, one at the north, three at the
      east side. The school and chapel, in one long modern building, form the
      corresponding wing on the eastern side of my little room, and the boys
      dormitories between.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are daily expecting the vessel, though it will be a quick passage for
      her if she comes in the next ten days, and then what a bustle!
    </p>
    <p>
      'We send Dudley and his wife away to Canterbury for eight or nine months;
      he is so weak as to make the change, which I had urged him to try for some
      time past, quite necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Next Sunday a Confirmation at Orehunga, eight miles off; back to Auckland
      for catechising and Baptism at 3 p.m. and evening service at 6.30, and
      never a word of either sermon written, and all the school work! Never
      mind, a good growl to you is a fine restorative, and really I get on very
      well somehow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, good-bye, you dear Sisters,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      On the last day of February came the new 'Southern Cross,' and two
      delightful notes announced it to the Vicar of Hursley and to myself in one
      envelope.
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Andrew's: Feb. 28, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;The "Southern Cross" arrived safely this morning.
      Thanks to God!
    </p>
    <p>
      'What it is to us even you can hardly tell; I know not how to pour out my
      thankfulness. She seems admirably adapted for the work. Mr. Tilly's report
      of her performance is most satisfactory: safe, fast, steers well, and very
      manageable. Internal arrangements very good; after cabin too luxurious,
      but then that may be wanted for sick folk, and as it is luxurious, why I
      shall get a soft bed, and take to it very kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray let dear Mr. Keble and Dr. Moberly know at once how very happy and
      thankful I am for this blessing. I know all you good friends at home will
      try to picture to yourselves my delight as I jumped on board!
    </p>
    <p>
      'The boys are, of course, wild with excitement. It is blowing very hard.
      Last night (when we were thinking of them) it was an anxious night for
      them close on the coast.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have no time to write more. I thought of Lady... as I looked at the
      chronometers and instruments, and of you all as I looked at the beautiful
      vessel slipping along through the water with scarce a stitch of canvas. I
      pray that she may be spared many years to the Mission, and that we may
      have grace to use her, as she ought to be used, to His glory.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know that you are daily remembered in our prayers. God bless you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '10.30 P.M., March 1, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Mr. Keble,&mdash;One line, though on Sunday night, to tell you of
      the safe arrival of the "Southern Cross." You have a large share in her,
      and she has a large share in your good wishes and prayers, I am sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Solemn thoughts on this day, an Ordination Sunday, mingle with the joy at
      the coming of this messenger (I trust of mercy and peace). I need not ask
      you to pray continually for us, for I know you do so. But indeed, now is
      the time when we seem especially to need your prayers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The lads have no lack of intellectual capacity, they not unfrequently
      surprise me. Now is the time when they are in the receptive state, and now
      especially any error on our part may give a wrong direction to the early
      faith of thousands! What an awful thought! We are their only teachers, the
      only representatives of Christianity among them. How inexpressibly solemn
      and fearful! This is the thought so perpetually present to me. The
      training of the future missionaries of Melanesia is, by God's Providence,
      placed in our hands. No wonder that I feel sometimes overwhelmed at the
      thought!
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I know that if God gives me grace to become more simple-minded and
      humble, He will order even this aright. You I know will pray more than
      ever for me. My kindest regards to Mrs. Keble; I hope she is better.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and grateful young Friend,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the first joy of the arrival was over, ere the 'Southern Cross'
      could make her first voyage among the multitude of isles, a great calamity
      had fallen upon St. Andrew's. Whether it was from the large numbers, or
      the effect of the colder climate, or from what cause could not be told,
      but a frightful attack of dysentery fell upon the Melanesians, and for
      several weeks suffering and death prevailed among them. How Bishop
      Patteson tended them during this time can be better guessed than
      described.
    </p>
    <p>
      Archdeacon Lloyd, who came to assist in the cares of the small party of
      clergy, can find no words to express the devotion with which the Bishop
      nursed them, comforting and supporting them, never shrinking from the most
      repulsive offices, even bearing out the dead silently at night, lest the
      others should see and be alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still no mail, except during the voyages, had ever left New Zealand
      without a despatch for home; and time was snatched in the midst of all
      this distress for a greeting, in the same beautiful, clear minute hand as
      usual:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hospital, St. Andrew's: Saturday night, 9 P.M., March 22, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Brother and Sister,&mdash;I write from the dining hall (now
      our hospital), with eleven Melanesians lying round me in extremity of
      peril. I buried two to-day in one grave, and I baptized another now dying
      by my side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God has been pleased in His wisdom and mercy to send upon us a terrible
      visitation, a most virulent form of dysentery. Since this day fortnight I
      have scarce slept night or day, but by snatching an hour here and there;
      others are working quite as hard, and all the good points of our
      Melanesian staff are brought out, as you may suppose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The best medical men cannot suggest any remedy. All remedies have been
      tried and failed. Every conceivable kind of treatment has been tried in
      vain. There are in the hall (the hospital now) at this moment eleven&mdash;eleven
      more in the little quadrangle, better, but in as anxious a state as can
      be; and two more not at all well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have sent all the rest on board to be out of the way of contagion. How
      we go on I scarce know.... My good friend, Mr. Lloyd, is here, giving
      great help; he is well acquainted with sickness and a capital nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have felt all along that it would be good for us to be in trouble; we
      could not always sail with a fair wind, I have often said so, and God has
      sent the trial in the most merciful way. What is this to the falling away
      of our baptized scholars!
    </p>
    <p>
      'But it is a pitiful sight! How wonderfully they bear the agony of it. No
      groaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I buried those two children to-day, my heart was full, I durst not
      think, but could only pray and believe and trust in Him. God bless you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'O Lord, correct me, but with judgment!'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 25th, two more were dead, and buried without time to make coffins,
      for thirteen still hung between life and death, while fresh cases were
      sent from on board ship. Mr. Pritt and Mr. Palmer cooked nourishing food
      and prepared rice-water unceasingly; while the others tended the sick, and
      the Primate returned from a journey to give his effective aid. On the
      night of the 30th, a fifth died unexpectedly, having only been ill a week,
      the only scholar from Pentecost Island. One of these lads, when all hope
      was over, was wrapped in his white winding sheet, carried into the chapel,
      and there baptized by the Bishop, with choked voice and weeping eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Over those who had not faith enough to justify him in baptizing them, he
      said the following prayers as he laid them in their graves:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sentences. Psalms from the Burial Service.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Forasmuch as it hath pleased Thee, O Almighty God, to take from amongst
      us the souls of these two children committed to our charge, we therefore
      commit their bodies to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to
      dust; humbly commending to Thy Fatherly mercy these and all other Thy
      children who know not Thee, whom Thou knowest, who art the Father and Lord
      of all things in heaven and earth, to whom be all praise and glory, with
      Thy Son, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit, for ever and ever. Amen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We humbly beseech Thee, most merciful God, to remember for good the
      inhabitants of the islands of Melanesia, and specially we pray God by the
      grave of these children, for the dwellers in Vanua Lava and Ambrym that
      Thou wouldest cause the light of the Gospel to shine m their hearts. Give
      unto Thy servants grace in their sight, that we may go forth in peace, and
      return if it be Thy will in safety, to the honour and glory of Thy Name,
      through Jesus Christ our Lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      'O Almighty God, Father of Mercy, we cry unto Thee in our sorrow and
      distress, most humbly confessing that we have most justly provoked Thy
      wrath and heavy indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We know, O Lord, that this is a dispensation of mercy, a gift from Thee,
      to be used, as all things may be used to Thy glory. Yet, O Lord, suffer
      not our unworthiness to hinder Thy work of mercy!
    </p>
    <p>
      'O Lord, look down from heaven, visit with Thy tender compassion Thy
      children lying under Thy hand in grievous sufferings of body. Restore them
      if it be Thy good pleasure to health and strength, or if it be Thy good
      will to take them out of this world, receive them to Thy tender mercies
      for His blessed sake who died for all men, Thy Son our Lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord's Prayer. Grace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was written down for use, in great haste, in the same spirit that
      breathes through the account of the next death: the entry dated on
      Coleridge Patteson's thirty-sixth birthday, April 1, 1863, which must be
      transcribed, though much of the detail of this time of trial has been
      omitted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sosaman died at 9 A.M. this day&mdash;a dear lad, one of the Banks
      Islanders, about ten or twelve years old. As usual I was kneeling by him,
      closing his eyes in death. I can see his poor mother's face now! What will
      she say to me? she who knows not the Christian's life in death! Yet to
      him, the poor unbaptized child, what is it to him? What a revelation! Yes,
      the names he heard at our lips were names of real things and real persons!
      There is another world! There is a God, a Father, a Lord Jesus Christ, a
      Spirit of holiness, a Love and Glory. So let us leave him, O Father, in
      Thy hands, who knowest him who knew not Thee on earth. Thy mercies never
      fail. Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were
      created.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I washed him, and laid him out as usual in a linen sheet. How white it
      looked! So much more simple and touching than the coffin&mdash;the form
      just discernible as it lay where five had lain before; and then I knelt
      down in our little chapel; and, I thank God, I could still bless and
      praise Him in my heart!
    </p>
    <p>
      'How is it that I don't pray more? I pray in one sense less than usual&mdash;am
      not so long on my knees. I hope it is that I am so worn out, and so very,
      very much occupied in tending the sick and dying, but I am not sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anyhow I am sure that I am learning at terrible cost lessons which, it
      may be, God would have taught me more gently if I had ears to hear. I have
      not in all things depended upon Him, and perpetually sought help from Him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh that my unworthiness may not hinder His work of mercy!
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I live, the retrospect of this most solemn time will, I hope, be very
      useful. I wonder if I ever went through such acute mental suffering, and
      yet, mind! I feel perfectly hardened at times&mdash;quite devoid of
      sensibility.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He said in another letter that he felt that if he relaxed his self-command
      for one moment he should entirely break down. To him writing to his
      beloved home was what speaking, nay, almost thinking, would be in another
      man; it gave an outlet to his feeling, and security of sympathy. There was
      something in his spiritual nature that gave him the faculty of realising
      the Communion of Saints in its fullest sense, both with those on earth and
      in Paradise; and, above all, with his Heavenly Father, so that he seems as
      complete an example as ever lived of the reality of that privilege, in
      which too often we only express our belief.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sosaman's was the last death. On a fragment of pink paper, bearing the
      date of the next day, it is declared that an alleviation in the worst
      symptoms had taken place, and that the faces and eyes were less haggard.
      'Oh! if it be God's will to grant us now a great deliverance, all glory be
      to Him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The deliverance was granted. The next mail brought tidings of gladness:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Andrew's: April 17, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;You know the calm yet weary feeling that
      succeeds to the period of intense anxiety and constant watchfulness. Six
      dear children are taken from us, as you know already. Some twenty-one
      others have been very ill, nigh unto death. Two or three are still weak,
      but doing well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All the rest are convalescent. Oh! I look at them, to see the loving
      bright smile again on their poor wan faces. I don't mind breaking down
      now; yet I have experienced no decided reaction; only I am very indolent,
      like one who, for six weeks, has not had his usual allowance of sleep.
      What abundant cause we have for thankfulness! All the many hours that I
      spent in that atmosphere, and yet not a whit the worse for it. What a
      sight it was! What scenes of suffering! There seemed to be no end to it;
      and yet there was always strength for the immediate work in hand. Tending
      twenty-four sick, after hurrying back from burying two dear lads in one
      grave, or with a body lying in its white sheet in the chapel; and once,
      after a breathless watch of two hours, while they all slept the sleep of
      opium, for we dared almost anything to obtain some rest, stealing at dead
      of night across the room to the figure wrapped so strangely in its
      blanket, and finding it cold and stiff, while one dying lay close by. It
      has been a solemn time indeed. And now the brightness seems to be coming
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not yet ceased to think of the probable consequences; but,
      speaking somewhat hastily, I do not think that this will much retard the
      work. I may have to use some extra caution in some places&mdash;e.g., one
      of the two first lads brought from Ambrym is dead: one lad, the only one
      ever brought from the middle of Whitsuntide Island, is dead; I must be
      careful there. The other four came from Mota, Matlavo, Vanua Lava (W.
      side), and Guadalcanar; for the six who died came from six islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One dear lad, Edmund Quintal, sixteen or seventeen years old, was for a
      while in a critical state. Fisher Young, a little older, was very unwell
      for three or four days. They came from Norfolk Island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The last six weeks have been very unhealthy. We had an unusually hot dry
      summer&mdash;quite a drought; the wells, for example, were never so tried.
      There was also an unusual continuance of north-east winds&mdash;our sultry
      close wind. And when the dry weather broke up, the rain and damp weather
      continued for many days. Great sickness prevailed in Auckland and the
      country generally.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Norfolk Islanders, now four in number&mdash;Edwin Nobbs, Gilbert
      Christian, Fisher Young, and Edmund Quintal&mdash;have behaved
      excellently. Oh, how different I was at their age! It is pleasant, indeed,
      to see them so very much improved; they are so industrious, so punctual,
      so conscientious. The fact seems to be that they wanted just what I do
      hope the routine of our life has supplied&mdash;careful supervision,
      advice, and, when needed, reproof. They had never had any training at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But there was something better&mdash;religious feeling&mdash;to work on!
      and the life here has, by God's blessing, developed the good in them. I am
      very hopeful about then now. Not, mind! that any one of them has a notion
      of teaching, but they are acquiring habits which will enable them to be
      good examples in all points of moral conduct to those of the Melanesians
      who are not already like B&mdash;&mdash;, &amp;c. The head work will come
      by-and-by, I dare say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 22.&mdash;The storm seems to have passed, though one or two are
      still very weak. But there are no active symptoms of disease. How
      mercifully God has dealt with us! I have been very seedy for a few days,
      and am so still. In spite of two teeth taken out a fortnight ago, my whole
      jaw has been paining me much, heavy cold, and I can't get good sleep by
      reason of the pain, and I want sleep much. I think I must go to the
      dentist again. You see we hope to sail in ten days or so, and I want to be
      well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have just washed and scrubbed the hall thoroughly, and once again it
      ceases to be our hospital. That looks bright, does not it? You must let
      all friends know about us, for I shall not be able to write to many, and
      perhaps I shall not have time to write at all. In the midst of all this, I
      have so much work about the management of the Mission farm and property,
      and the St. John's College estate, and educational prospects.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The 'Southern Cross' was at sea again on May 2, and approved herself
      entirely to her owners' satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Moreover, another clergyman had come on board for a trial trip, the Rev.
      Robert Codrington, a Fellow of Wadham, Oxford, who brought the University
      culture which was no small personal pleasure to Bishop Patteson in the
      companion of his labours. So that the staff consisted of Mr. Pritt, Mr.
      Kerr, Mr. Codrington, Mr. Palmer and Mr. Atkin, besides Mr. Tilly, whose
      management of the vessel left the Bishop free from cares whenever his
      knowledge of the coast was not needed. Some of the results of his leisure
      on the outward voyage here appear:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am glad I have read the accounts which Bishop Mackenzie's sister sent
      me. I know more about it now. Work and anxiety and necessity for action
      all came upon them so rapidly, that there was but little time for forming
      deliberate plans. I can well realise the finding oneself surrounded with a
      hundred poor creatures, diseased and hungered, the multitude of questions
      how to feed, lodge, and clothe them. How far it is right to sanction their
      mode of life, &amp;c. One thing I am glad to notice, that the Bishop
      abstained from all attempts to convey religious instruction, because he
      was not sufficiently acquainted with the language to know what ideas he
      might or might not be suggesting. That was wise, and yet how unlike many
      hot-headed men, who rush with unintentional irreverence into very
      dangerous experiments.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I confess, as you know, that there seems to me far too cumbrous and
      expensive and talkative a method employed in England, for raising supplies
      for that Mission and Columbia, Honolulu, &amp;c. I never think of all that
      fuss of the four Universities, and all the meetings and speeches, without
      some shame. But united action will come in the train of real synodical
      action; and if I understand aright, the last Convocation of Canterbury
      accepted all that we are trying for, taking the right view in the question
      of Provinces, Metropolitans, position of Colonial Churches, joint action
      of the Church at large, &amp;c. Extension of Episcopate in England. Oh,
      thanks be to God for it all. What a work for this branch of the Catholic
      Church! How can people sit quiet, not give their all!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I like very much Vaughan's work on the Epistle to the Romans. That is the
      book to teach young students how to read their Greek Testament. Accurate
      scholarship, no private notions imported into the Greek text. I should
      like to hear Mr. Keble speak about the law underlying the superstitions of
      heathenism, the way to deal with the perversions of truth, &amp;c. Somehow
      I get to marvel at and love that first book of Hooker more and more. It is
      wonderful. It goes to the bottom of the matter; and then at times it gives
      one to see something of the Divine wisdom of the Bible as one never saw it
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I fear that I seek too much after a knowledge and understanding of
      principles of action which are attainable by a scholar and man of real
      reasoning power, but which I am not able to make of practical use, having
      neither the brains nor the goodness. This is what I really mean.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 20th.&mdash;Any really good book on the New Testament, especially
      dealing critically with the Greek text, I certainly wish to have. I feel
      that the great neglect of us clergy is the neglect of the continual study
      most critically and closely of the grammatical meaning of the Hebrew and
      Greek texts. Oh! that in old days I had made myself a good scholar! Oh!
      that I did really know Hebrew and Greek well! What a blessing and delight
      it would be now! I fear that I shall never be a good Hebrew scholar, I
      can't make time for it; but a decent Greek scholar I hope to be. I work
      away, but alas I for want of time, only by fits and starts, at grammars,
      and such a book as Vaughan's "Epistle to the Romans," an excellent
      specimen of the way to give legitimate help to the student. Trench's books
      I delight in. The Revision by Five Clergymen is an assistance. There was a
      review in the Quarterly the other day on the Greek Testament, very nearly
      an excellent one. The ordinary use of folio commentaries I don't wish to
      depreciate, but I think it far less valuable than the diligent study for
      oneself with the best grammatical aids of the original text. I always
      assume an acquaintance with the true mind and spirit of the Church of
      England as a substratum of interpretation. I like Westcott's book on the
      "Introduction to the Study of the Gospels."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! why, when I sat evening after evening with our dear Father, did I not
      ask him on all these points much more than I did? He did talk of such
      things! But I suppose it is partly the impulse given to such studies by
      the tendency of present religious thought. Yet ought it not to have been
      always put forward at Eton and Oxford that the close study of the text of
      the Bible is the first duty of a Christian scholar. I never really thought
      of it till I came out here, and then other occupations crowded upon me,
      and so it was too late to make myself a scholar. Alas!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now I really think nothing is so great a relaxation tome as a good book
      by Trench, or Vaughan, or Ellicott, or Dr. Pusey, and I do enjoy it. Not
      that I can keep up my attention for very long so as to make it profitable,
      but even then it is delightful, only I must go over it again, and so it is
      perhaps time wasted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I greatly miss the intimate friend with whom to fix what I read by
      conversation and communication of mutual difficulties in understanding
      passages. I don't often forget points on which the Judge and I have had a
      talk, but what I read by myself I read too quickly, and forget. I want to
      fix it by subsequent discussion and enquiry with a competent friend. If I
      have intelligent young men to read with, that will almost do, it will
      easily help me to remember what I have read. It won't be suggestive, like
      the Judge's conversation; yet if one tries to teach conscientiously one
      does learn a great deal. I am puzzled as to books for my Norfolk
      Islanders. I should like much the "Conversations on the Catechism." Are
      they published separately? Shall I ask Miss Yonge to give me a copy? And
      the "Plain Commentary" would be useful too, if (which I doubt) it is plain
      enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Southern Cross:" May 9, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Joan,&mdash;You ask me about qualifications which a man had
      better possess for this Mission, so perhaps I had better ask you to
      enquire of cousin Derwent Coleridge and of Ernest Hawkins for letters
      written to them some six months ago in which (if I remember rightly) I
      succeeded as well as I am likely to do now in describing the class of men
      I should like some day to have. I dare say they have not kept the letters,
      I forgot that, because although they took me some little time to write,
      they may have chucked them away naturally enough. Still if they have them
      and can find them, it may be worth while for you to keep a copy by you to
      show to any person who wishes for information.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not necessary at all that a man should have a taste for languages
      or a faculty of acquiring them. What I want now is not a linguist, but a
      well-trained school-master of black boys and men, who will also put his
      hand to any kind of work&mdash;a kindly, gentle, cheerful, earnest fellow,
      who will make light of all little inconveniences, such as necessarily
      attend sea life, &amp;c., who is so much of a gentleman that he can afford
      to do any kind of work without being haunted by the silly thought that it
      "is beneath him," "not his business." That is the fellow for me. He would
      have to learn one language, the language of the particular class given
      over to him, and I think that a person of any moderate ability might soon
      do this with our teaching. If I could get him to take an interest in the
      general science of language and to go into philological points, of course
      his work would be lighter, and he would have soon the advantage of knowing
      dialects cognate to that which he must know. But that is not necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The real thing is to train a certain number of lads in habits of
      attention, punctuality, tidiness, &amp;c., to teach them also upon a plan,
      which I should show him, to read and write. The religious instruction I
      should take, and the closer investigation of the language too, unless he
      showed a capacity for going into the nicer points of structure, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But somehow a cut and dried teaching machine of a man, however
      methodical, and good, and conscientious, won't do. There must be a
      vivacity, an activity of mind, a brightness about the man, so that a
      lesson shall never be mere drudgery; in short, there must be a real love
      in the heart for the scholars, that is the qualification.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One man and one only I hope to have some day who ought to be able to
      learn scraps at least of many languages, but he will have a different work
      to do. No work can be considered to be satisfactorily carried on while it
      depends on the life of any one man. Someone to take my place will come, I
      hope, some day. He would have to go round the islands with me, and acquire
      a knowledge of the whole field of work&mdash;the wading and swimming, the
      mode of dealing with fellows on a first meeting, &amp;c.; he will not only
      have one class to look after, but he must learn the same kind of lesson
      that I learnt under the Primate. Where to get such a man, I'm sure I don't
      know. He must be of standing and ability to be acceptable to the others
      should I die, &amp;c., &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So we need not speculate about him, and the truth is, I am not in any
      hurry to get men from home. We are educating ourselves lads here who will
      very likely learn to do this kind of work fairly well. Mr. Palmer will, I
      hope, be ordained at Christmas. Young Atkin will be useful some day.
      By-and-by if I can get one or two really first-rate men, it will indeed be
      a great thing. But who knows anything of me in England? I don't expect a
      really able man to come out to work with me. They will go to other parts
      of the world kept more before the notice of the public by committees and
      meetings and speeches, &amp;c.; and indeed I am very thankful for it. I am
      not old nor wise enough to be at the head of a party of really able men. I
      must be more fit to lead before I can ask men to follow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I know that the work, if I chose to speak out, is second to
      none in interest and importance, and that very little comparatively is
      known about it in England. But it is evidently far better that it should
      go quietly on without attracting much notice, and that we all should
      remain unknown at all events at present. By-and-by, when by God's blessing
      things are more ripe for definite departments of work, and men can have
      distinct duties at once assigned to them, and our mode of carrying on the
      Mission has been fairly tested, then it will be high time to think about
      first-rate men.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And, presumptuous and strange as it may seem for me to say it, a man
      confessedly second-rate, unfit to hold a position with the best stamp of
      English clergymen, I had rather not have. I can get the material cheaper
      and made to my own hand out here.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some men are dull though good, others can't get away from their book life
      and the proprieties, others are donnish, others are fine gentlemen, others
      are weak in health, most have preconceived and, many, mistaken views about
      heathenism, and the way to deal with it; some would come out with the
      notion that England and English clergymen were born to set the colonies
      right.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How few would say, "There's a young man for the Bishop, only a
      second-class man, no scholar, not remarkable in any way, but he has learnt
      his work in a good school, and will go out to him with the purpose of
      seeing how he carries on the work, and learning from him." I don't expect
      men worth anything to say this. Of course I don't; and yet you know, Joan,
      I can't take them on any other terms. No, I prefer taking promising lads
      here, and training them up, not with any pledge that I will employ them in
      the Mission, but with the promise of giving them every chance of becoming
      qualified for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The voyage was much shorter than had been intended, and its history is
      best summed up here:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Southern Cross," Kohimarama: Aug. 6, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;This date, from this place, will surprise you. We
      returned yesterday, after a short voyage of only three months. I had
      arranged my plans for a long voyage, hoping to revisit all our known
      islands, and that more than once. We sailed to Norfolk Island, thence at
      once to Mota. I spent two days there, and left the Rev. L. Pritt in charge
      of the station; Mr. Palmer being with him and the four Norfolk Islanders,
      and several old scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I spent a fortnight in the Banks Archipelago, returning some scholars,
      and taking away others from divers islands; and then went back to Mota,
      bringing some sixteen or seventeen lads to the central school. I found
      them all pretty well; the whole island at peace, people moving about
      everywhere unarmed, and a large school being gathered together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I went off again to the south (the New Hebrides group), returning
      scholars who had been in New Zealand, purchasing yams for axes and iron,
      &amp;c., to supply the large number of scholars at Mota. The season had
      been unfavourable, and the crop of yams in some islands had almost failed.
      However, in another fortnight I was again at Mota with some six or seven
      tons of yams. I found things lamentably changed. A great mortality was
      going on, dysentery and great prostration of strength from severe
      influenza.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But of those not actually boarding at the station, the state was very sad
      indeed. About twenty-five adults were dead already, several of them
      regular attendants at school, of whom we were very hopeful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I spent two days and a half in going about the island, the wet incessant,
      the ground steaming and reeking with vegetable exhalations. During those
      days twenty-seven adults died, fifty-two in all, and many, many more were
      dying, emaciated, coughing, fainting; no constitutional vigour of body,
      nor any mutton broth, or beef tea, or jellies, or chickens, or wine, &amp;c.
      Mr. Pritt did what he could, and more than I thought could have been done;
      but what could be done? How could nourishing food be supplied to dozens of
      invalids living miles off, refusing to obey directions in a country which
      supplies no food to rally the strength of persons in illness?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I decided to remove the whole party at once, explaining to the people
      that we were not afraid to share with them the risk of dying, but that if
      Mr. Pritt and the others died, there were no teachers left. I felt that
      our Banks Island scholars must be removed, and that at once lest they
      should die. I could not send the vessel to the Solomon Islands without me,
      for Mr. Tilly was completely laid up and unable to move from rheumatic
      gout, and no one else on board knows those languages.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I could not leave the party at Mota in the sickness, and I could not well
      send the vessel to Port Patteson for a time, for the danger was imminent.
      So I took them all away, in all thirty-nine.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But now the vessel was full, more than sixty on board, and I had reckoned
      upon an empty vessel in the hot Santa Cruz and Solomon Island latitudes.
      Moreover, the weather was extraordinarily unfavourable&mdash;damp, foul
      winds, squalls, calms, unhealthy weather. Mr. Tilly was being greatly
      pulled down, and everything seemed to point out that the voyage ought not
      to be long. I made my mind up, took back the Solomon Island scholars; and,
      with heavy sea and baffling winds and one short gale, sailed back to New
      Zealand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How mysteriously our plans are overruled for good! I came back to hear of
      the war; and to learn to be thankful for my small, very young and very
      manageable party. Thirty-three Banks Islanders, the baptized party and
      select lads from their islands, one New Caledonian, four Ysabel lads,
      constitute this summer's Melanesian school.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be disappointed; I was at first, but I had the comfort of having
      really no alternative. I had, indeed, a great desire to make a thorough
      visitation of Leper's Island, and Santa Cruz especially; but the wind,
      usually so fair, was dead against me, we had, so to speak, no trade winds,
      and I had to give it up. It was certainly my duty to get to the south with
      my invalids as soon as I could, and alter my plans, which, you know,
      always are made with a view to divers modifications being rendered
      necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Training the baptized scholars, and putting into shape such knowledge as
      I have of Melanesian tongues, that made a good summer programme, as I was
      obliged to content myself with a small party gathered from but few
      islands. Concentration v. diffusion I soon began to think a very good
      thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, so it is, and now I see great reason to be thankful. Why do we not
      always give thanks whether we see the reason or not?
    </p>
    <p>
      'The vessel behaves admirably. I have written to Jem at length, and he
      must be applied to for my account of her. Pray tell Mr. Keble all this. I
      have a most valuable letter from Dr. Moberly, a great delight and honour
      to me. It is very kind of him to write; and his view of Church matters is
      really invaluable, no papers can give that which his letter gives, and
      only he and a very few others could give an opinion which I so greatly
      value. He speaks hopefully of Church matters in general, and there are
      great reasons surely for thankfulness and hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet men such as he see far and wide, and to their great hearts no very
      violent storms are caused by such things as sorely trouble others. He sees
      the presumption and weakness, the vain transitory character of that phase
      of modern thought which Bishop Colenso represents, and confidently expects
      its speedy disappearance. But it does try the earnest, while it makes
      shipwreck of the frivolous, and exercises the faith and humility of all.
      Even a very poor scholar can see that his reasoning is most inconclusive,
      and his reading superficial and inferences illogical.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless you, my dear Cousin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps this is the fittest place to give Mr. Tilly's description of the
      Bishop in his voyages:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My acquaintance with the late Bishop Patteson began at Port Patteson, in
      the Banks Islands, in 1861. He went with us in H.M.S. "Cordelia" to the
      Solomon Islands, and after being together some two months we again left
      him at Port Patteson on our way back to Auckland. During the time he was
      on board the "Cordelia" it was arranged that I was to sail the new vessel
      (the present "Southern Cross"), then about to be built by the Messrs.
      Wigram, and the size, internal arrangements, &amp;c. were told me by him.
      He did not trouble me with much detail, referring me almost altogether to
      Bishop Selwyn&mdash;and gave no written directions; the little he said I
      carefully noted, observing that he spoke as with a thorough knowledge of
      the subject (so far as I could be a judge) as to sea-going qualities,
      capacity, &amp;c., and to the best of my recollection, I found that while
      the vessel was building these few directions were the main ones to be kept
      in view. We entered Auckland harbour (from England) early on the morning
      of February 28, 1863, and hove to off the North Head, to wait for the
      Bishop coming off from Kohimarama before going up the harbour. It had been
      blowing hard outside the night before from the N.E., and there was still
      much wind, and some sea, even in the harbour. I was much struck by his
      appearance and manner. Having to launch his boat through a surf at
      Kohimarama beach, he had only on a shirt and trousers, and was of course
      drenched. He stepped on board more like a sailor than a clergyman, and
      almost immediately made one or two sailor-like remarks about the vessel,
      as if he understood her qualities as soon as he felt her in motion; and he
      was quite right in what he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Before the building of the present vessel he had (I am told) navigated at
      different times to and from the islands; of his capacity in this respect,
      therefore, others who knew him there can speak. During the time I remained
      in the "Southern Cross," he never in any way, to the best of my
      recollection, interfered in the navigation or management of the vessel;
      but I came to know&mdash;almost at once&mdash;that his general planning of
      a voyage, knowledge of local courses and distances, the method by which it
      could be done most quickly and advantageously, and the time required to do
      it in, were thorough; and, in fact, I suppose, that almost without knowing
      it, in all this I was his pupil, and to the last felt the comfort of his
      advice or assistance, as, e.g., when looking out together from aloft he
      has seen shoal water more quickly than myself, or has decided whether
      certain doubtful appearances ahead were or were not sufficient to make us
      alter our course, &amp;c.; and always speaking as no one who was what
      sailors call a landsman could have done. There was, of course, always a
      great deal of boat work, much of it to be done with a loaded boat in a
      seaway, requiring practical knowledge of such matters, and I do not
      remember any accidents, such as staving a boat on a reef, swamping, &amp;c.
      in all those years; and he invariably brought the boat out when it was
      easy for the vessel to pick her up, a matter not sufficiently understood
      by many people. This was where Mr. Atkin's usefulness was conspicuous. Mr.
      Atkin was a fearless boatman, and the knowledge of boating he gained with
      us at sea was well supplemented when in Auckland, where he had a boat of
      his own, which he managed in the most thorough manner, Auckland being at
      times a rough place for boating. He (Mr. Atkin) pulled a good and strong
      oar, and understood well how to manage a boat under sail, much better in
      fact than many sailors (who are not always distinguished in that respect).
      His energy, and the amount of work he did himself were remarkable; his
      manner was quiet and undemonstrative. He took all charge&mdash;it may in a
      manner be said&mdash;of the boys on board the vessel, regulated everything
      concerning meals, sleeping arrangements, &amp;c., how much food had to be
      bought for them at the different islands, what "trade" (i.e. hatchets,
      beads, &amp;c.) it was necessary to get before starting on a voyage,
      calculated how long our supply of water would last, and in fact did so
      much on board as left the master of the vessel little to do but navigate.
      With regard to the loss the Mission has sustained in Mr. Atkin, speaking
      from my personal knowledge of his invaluable services on a voyage, I can
      safely say there is no one here now fitted to take his place. He had
      always capital health at sea, and was rarely sea-sick, almost the only one
      of the party who did not suffer in that way. And his loss will be the more
      felt now, as those who used to help in the boat are now otherwise employed
      as teachers, &amp;c.; and as Norfolk Island is a bad place to learn
      boating, there is great need of some one to take his place, for a good
      boat's crew is a necessity in this work as may be readily understood when
      the boat is away sometimes for the greater part of the day, pulling and
      sailing from place to place. At those places where the Bishop landed
      alone, Mr. Atkin gradually acquired the experience which made him so fit
      to look after the safety of the boat and crew. In this manner he, next to
      the Bishop, became best known to the natives throughout the islands, and
      was always looked for; in fact, at many places they two were perhaps only
      recognised or remembered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bishop Patteson was hardly what could be called a good sailor in one
      sense of the word; rough weather did not suit him, and although I believe
      seldom if ever actually sea-sick, he was now and then obliged to lie down
      the greater part of the day, or during bad weather. He used to read and
      write a great deal on board, and liked to take brisk walks up and down the
      deck, talking to whoever happened to be there. He was orderly and
      methodical on board, liked to see things in their places, and was most
      simple in all his habits. He always brought a good stock of books on board
      (which we all made use of), but very few clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The living on board was most simple, much the same as the crew, those in
      the cabin waiting on themselves (carrying no steward), until gradually
      boys used to volunteer to do the washing up, &amp;c. School with all the
      boys was kept up when practicable; but the Bishop was always sitting about
      among them on the deck, talking to one and another, and having classes
      with him in the cabin. There were regular morning and evening native and
      English prayers. The sermons on Sundays were specially adapted for the
      sailors, and listened to with marked attention, as indeed they well might
      be, being so earnest, simple, and suitable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speaking for myself, I used to look forward to the voyage as the time
      when I should have the privilege of being much with him for some months.
      While on shore at Kohimarama I saw but comparatively little of him, except
      at meals; but during the voyage I saw of course a great deal of him, and
      learned much from him&mdash;learned to admire his unselfishness and
      simplicity of mode of life, and to respect his earnestness and abilities.
      His conversation on any subject was free and full; and those on the few
      nights when quietly at anchor they could be enjoyed more, will be long
      remembered. Of his manner to Melanesians, others will, no doubt, say
      enough, but I may be excused for mentioning one scene that very much
      struck me, and of which I am now the only (white) one left who was present
      at it. We were paying a visit for the first time to an island, and&mdash;the
      vessel being safe in the offing&mdash;the Bishop asked me if I would go
      with them as he sometimes did on similar occasions. We pulled in to a
      small inner islet among a group, where a number of (say 200) natives were
      collected on the beach. Seeing they looked as if friendly, he waded on
      shore without hesitation and joined them; the reception was friendly, and
      after a time he walked with them along the beach, we in the boat keeping
      near. After a while we took him into the boat again, and lay off the beach
      a few yards to be clear of the throng, and be able to get at the things he
      wanted to give them, they coming about the boat in canoes; and this is the
      fact I wished to notice&mdash;viz., the look on his face while the
      intercourse with them lasted. I was so struck with it, quite
      involuntarily, for I had no idea of watching for anything of the sort; but
      it was one of such extreme gentleness, and of yearning towards them. I
      never saw that look on his face again, I suppose because no similar scene
      ever occurred again when I happened to be with him. It was enough in
      itself to evoke sympathy; and as we pulled away, though the channel was
      narrow and winding, yet, as the water was deep, we discussed the
      possibility of the schooner being brought in there at some future time. I
      am quite aware of my inability to do justice to that side of the Bishop's
      character, of which, owing to the position in which I stood to him as
      master of the Mission vessel, I have been asked to say a few words. There
      are others who know far better than myself what his peculiar
      qualifications were. His conduct to me throughout the time was marked by
      an unvarying confidence of manner and kindliness in our everyday
      intercourse, until, gradually, I came to think I understood the way in
      which he wished things done, and acted in his absence with an assurance of
      doing his wishes, so far as I could, which I never had attained to before
      with anyone else, and never shall again. And, speaking still of my own
      experience, I can safely say the love we grew to feel for him would draw
      such services from us (if such were needed) as no fear of anyone's reproof
      or displeasure ever could do. And perhaps this was the greatest privilege,
      or lesson, derived from our intercourse with him, that "Love casteth out
      fear!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tiros. CAPEL TILLY.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Auckland: October 28, 1872.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This letter to Mr. Derwent Coleridge follows up the subject of the
      requisites for missionary work:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Southern Cross," Kohimarama: August 8, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;Thank you for a very kind letter which I found here
      on my return from a short three months' voyage in Melanesia. You will, I
      am sure, give me any help that you can, and a young man trained under your
      eye would be surely of great use in this work. I must confess that I
      distrust greatly the method adopted still in some places of sending out
      men as catechists and missionaries, simply because they appear to be
      zealous and anxious to engage in missionary work. A very few men, well
      educated, who will really try to understand what heathenism is, and will
      seek, by God's blessing, to work honestly without prejudice and without an
      indiscriminating admiration for all their own national tastes and modes of
      thought&mdash;a few such men, agreeing well together and co-operating
      heartily, will probably be enabled to lay foundations for an enduring
      work. I do not at all wish to apply hastily for men&mdash;for any kind of
      men&mdash;to fill up posts that I shall indeed be thankful to occupy with
      the right sort of men. I much prefer waiting till it may please God to put
      it into the head of some two or three more men to join the Mission&mdash;years
      hence it may be. We need only a few; I don't suppose that ten years hence
      I should (if alive) ever wish to have more than six or eight clergy;
      because their work will be the training of young natives to be themselves
      teachers, and, I pray God, missionaries in due time. I am so glad that you
      quite feel my wants, and sympathise with me. It is difficult to give
      reasons&mdash;intelligible to you all at a distance&mdash;for everything
      that I may say and do, because the circumstances of this Mission are so
      very peculiar. But you know that I have always the Primate to consult with
      as to principles; and I must, for want of a better course, judge for
      myself as to the mode of working them out in detail.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two plans are open for obtaining a supply of young men. First, I may
      receive some few ready-trained men, who nevertheless will have to learn
      the particular lessons that only can be taught here on the spot. Secondly,
      I may have youths of (say) sixteen to eighteen years of age, sent out from
      such a school as Stephen Hawtrey's for example, who will come with a good
      general knowledge of ordinary things, and receive a special training from
      myself. I think, too, that New Zealand will now and then supply an
      earnest, active-minded young fellow&mdash;who will be a Greek or Latin
      scholar, yet may find a useful niche in which he may be placed. At present
      I have means only to maintain one or two such persons, and this because I
      am able to use the money my dear Father left me for this purpose. Indeed,
      I have no other use for it. The money received on public account would not
      keep the Mission in its present state, and the expenditure ought to be
      increased by maintaining more scholars and teachers. I don't forget what
      you say about the philological part of my business. My difficulty is this,
      mainly: that it is next to impossible to secure a few hours of continuous
      leisure. You can have no idea of the amount of detail that I must attend
      to: seeing everything almost, and having moreover not a few New Zealand
      matters to employ my time, besides my Melanesian work. I have, I suppose,
      a considerable amount of knowledge of Melanesian tongues, unknown by name
      to anyone else perhaps; I quite feel that this ought not to die with me,
      if anything should suddenly happen to me. I hoped this summer to put
      together something; but now there is this Maori war, and an utterly
      unsettled state of things. I may have to leave New Zealand with my
      Melanesians almost any day. But I will do what I can, and as soon as I
      can. Again: I find it so hard to put on paper what I know. I could talk to
      a philologist, and I fancy that I could tell him much that would interest
      him; but I never wrote anything beyond a report in my life, and it is
      labour and grief to me to write them&mdash;I can't get on as a scribe at
      all. Then, for two or three years I have not been able to visit some
      islands whose language I know just enough of to see that they supply a
      valuable link in the great Polynesian chain. One might almost get together
      all the disjecta membra and reconstruct the original Polynesian tongue.
      But chiefly, of course, my information about Melanesia may be interesting.
      I have begun by getting together numerals in forty quite unknown dialects.
      I will give, at all events, short skeleton grammars too of some. But we
      have no time. Why, I have from five hundred to two thousand or more
      carefully ascertained words in each of several dialects, and of course
      these ought to be in the hands of you all at home. I know that, and have
      known it for years; but how to do it, without neglecting the daily
      necessary work?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Again: the real genius of the language, whatever it may be, is learned
      when I can write down what I overhear boys saying when they are talking
      with perfect freedom, and therefore idiomatically, about sharks,
      cocoa-nuts, yams, &amp;c. All translations must fail to represent a
      language adequately, and most of all the translation into a heathen
      language of religious expressions. They have not the ideas, and the
      language cannot be fairly seen in the early attempts to make it do an
      unaccustomed work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember more of you and my Aunt than you suppose. Even without the
      photograph (which I am very glad to have&mdash;thank you for it), I could
      have found you and Aunt out in a crowd. I can't say that I remember my own
      generation so well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you again for writing so kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always, my dear Cousin,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Affectionately yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Missionary Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The next mail carried the reply to Johanna's sympathy with the troubles of
      the time of sickness in the early part of the year.
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 28, 1863.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Joan,&mdash;Very full of comfort to have all your kind loving
      thoughts and words about our sickness. I know you thought and talked much
      about it, and indeed it was a very heavy visitation viewed in one way,
      though in another (and I really can't analyze the reason why) there was
      not only peace and calmness, but eyen happiness. I suppose one may be
      quite sure one is receiving mercies, and be thankful for them, although
      one is all the time like a man in a dream. I can hardly think of it all as
      real. But I am sure that God was very, very merciful to us. There was no
      difficulty anywhere about the making known the death of the lads to their
      relatives. I did not quite like the manner of the people at Guadalcanar,
      from which island poor Porasi came; and I could not get at the exact place
      from which Taman came, though I landed on the same island north and south
      of the beach from which I brought him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not at all think that any interruption of the work has been
      occasioned by it. It was very unfortunate that I could not, last voyage,
      make visits (and long ones too, as I had hoped) to many islands where in
      the voyage before I had met with such remarkable tokens of good-will,
      especially Leper's Island and Santa Cruz, but I think that if I can make a
      regular good round next time, it may be all as well. I imagine that in a
      great many islands it would now take a good deal to shake their confidence
      in us. At the same time it was and is a matter of great regret that I did
      not at once follow up the openings of the former year, and by returning
      again to the New Hebrides and Solomon Islands (as in the contemplated six
      months' voyage I intended to do), strengthen the good feeling now
      existing. Moreover, many scholars who were here last year would have come
      again had I revisited them and picked them up again. But the Mota
      sickness, the weather, and Mr. Tilly's illness made it more prudent to
      return by what is on the whole the shorter route, i.e., to the west of New
      Caledonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You should have been with me when, as I jumped on shore at Mota, I took
      Paraskloi's father by the hand. That dear lad I baptized as he lay in his
      shroud in the chapel, when the whole weight of the trial seemed, as it
      were, by a sudden revelation to manifest itself, and thoroughly
      overwhelmed and unnerved me. I got through the service with the tears
      streaming down my cheeks, and my voice half choked. He was his father's
      pride, some seventeen years old. A girl ready chosen for him as his wife.
      "It is all well, Bishop, he died well. I know you did all you could, it is
      all well." He trembled all over, and his face was wet with tears; but he
      seemed strangely drawn to us, and if he survives this present epidemic,
      his son's death may be to him the means in God's hands of an eternal life.
      Most touching, is it not, this entire confidence?
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Aruas, the small island close to Valua, from which dear Sosaman came,
      it was just the same; rather different at the west side of Vanua Lava,
      where they did not behave so well, and where (as I heard afterwards) there
      had been some talk of shooting me; but nothing occurred while I was on
      shore with them to alarm me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Ambrym I landed with Talsil (Joval, from the same place, had died), a
      great crowd, all friendly, walked into the village and sat down,
      speechifying by the principal man, a presentation to me of a small pig;
      but such confidence that this man came back with me on board, where I gave
      him presents. I much wished to land at Taman's place, but could not do so,
      though I tried twice, without causing great delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I could have brought away any number of scholars from almost any of these
      islands, probably from all. I have great reason to regret not having
      revisited Ambrym and other islands, but I think that a year hence, if
      alive, I may feel that it is better as it is.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These Norfolk Islanders, four of them, I take as my children, for I can't
      fairly charge them (except Edwin Nobbs) to the Mission, and I wish to give
      Norfolk Island some help, as it is really, though not by letters patent,
      part of my charge. Edwin Nobbs is a thoroughly good fellow, and Fisher
      Young is coming on very well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, my dearest Joan, good-bye. My hats will come no doubt in good time,
      my present chapeau is very seedy, very limp and crooked and battered; as
      near green as black almost&mdash;a very good advertisement of the poverty
      of the Mission. But if I go about picking up gold in Australia, I shall
      come out in silk cassock and all the paraphernalia&mdash;very episcopal
      indeed!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Herewith was a letter for Dr. Moberly:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Andrew's College, Kohimarama: August 29, 1863. 'My dear Dr. Moberly,&mdash;Thank
      you for a very kind and most interesting letter written in May. I know
      that you can with difficulty find time to write at all, and thank you all
      the more. If you knew the real value to us of such letters as you have now
      sent, containing your impressions and opinions of things in general, men,
      books, &amp;c., you would be well rewarded for your trouble, I assure you.
      To myself, I must say to you, such letters are invaluable; they are a real
      help to me, not only in that they supply information from a very good
      authority on many questions which I much desire to understand, but even
      more because I rise up or kneel down after reading them, and think to
      myself, "how little such men who so think of me really know me; how
      different I ought to be," and then it is another help to me to try and
      become by God's grace less unlike what you take me to be. Indeed, you must
      forgive me for writing thus freely. I live very much alone as far as
      persons of the same language, modes of thought, &amp;c., are concerned. I
      see but little (strange as it may seem to you) even of my dear Primate. We
      are by land four or five miles apart, and meet perhaps once or twice a
      month for a few minutes to transact some necessary business. His time is,
      of course, fully occupied; and I never leave this place, very seldom even
      this little quadrangle, and when other work does not need immediate
      attention (a state of things at which I have not arrived as yet), there
      are always a dozen new languages to be taken up, translations to be made,
      &amp;c. So that when I read a letter which is full of just such matters as
      I think much of, I naturally long to talk on paper freely with the writer.
      Were I in England, I know scarcely any place to which I would go sooner
      than Winchester, Hursley, Otterbourne, and then I should doubtless talk as
      now I write freely. All that you write of the state of mind generally in
      England on religious questions is most deeply interesting. What a matter
      of thankfulness that you can say, "With all the sins and shortcomings that
      are amongst us, there is an unmistakeable spreading of devotion and the
      wish to serve God rightly on the part of very many."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, the Church preferments have lately been good; Bishop Ellicott, one
      of your four coadjutors in the revision of the A. V., especially. I know
      some part of his Commentary, and am very glad to find that you speak so
      very highly of it. What a contrast to be sure between such work as his and
      Jowett's and Stanley's! Jowett actually avows a return to the old exploded
      theory of the inaccurate use of language in the Greek Testament. This must
      make men distrust him sooner or later as an interpreter of Scripture. I
      thank you heartily for your offer of sending me Bishop Ellicott's
      Commentary, but I hardly like you to send me so valuable a gift. What if
      you substitute for it a copy of what you have written yourself, not less
      valuable to me, and less expensive to you? I hardly like to write to ask
      favours of such people as Bishop Ellicott; I mean I have no right to do
      so; yet I almost thought of asking him to send a copy of his Commentaries
      to us for our library. I have ventured to write to Dean Trench: and I am
      pretty sure that Mr. Keble will send me his "Life of Bishop Wilson." But
      pray act as you wish. I am very grateful to you for thinking of it at all;
      and all such books whether yours or his will be used and valued, I can
      undertake to say. My good friend Kidding knows that I was, alas! no
      scholar at Eton or Oxford. I have sought to remedy this in some measure as
      far as the Greek Testament is concerned, and there are some excellent
      books which help one much; yet I can never make myself a good scholar, I
      fear; one among many penalties I pay for want of real industry in old
      days.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Yonge will hear from my sisters, and you from her, I have no doubt,
      my very scanty account of a very uninteresting voyage. I see everywhere
      signs of a change really extraordinary in the last few years. I can tell
      no stories of sudden conversions, striking effects, &amp;c. But I know
      that in twenty, thirty, perhaps forty places, where a year or two ago no
      white man could land without some little uncertainty as to his reception,
      I can feel confident now of meeting with friends; I can walk inland&mdash;a
      thing never dreamt of in old days, sleep ashore, put myself entirely into
      their hands, and meet with a return of the confidence on their part. We
      have, too, more dialects, talk or find interpreters in more places; our
      object in coming to them is more generally known&mdash;and in Mota, and
      two or three other small islands of the Banks group, there is almost a
      system of instruction at work. The last voyage was a failure in that I
      could not visit many islands, nor revisit some that I longed to land at
      for the second or third time. But I don't anticipate any difficulty in
      reestablishing (D. V.) all the old familiarity before long. No doubt it is
      all, humanly speaking, hazardous where so much seems to depend upon the
      personal acquaintance with the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By-and-by I hope to have some young man of character and ability enough
      to allow of his being regarded as my probable successor, who may always go
      with me&mdash;not stop on any one island&mdash;but learn the kind of work
      I have to do; then, when I no longer can do the work, it will be taken up
      by a man already known to the various islanders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not touched on many points in your letter. Again, thank you for
      it: it is very kind of you to write. I must send a line to Dr. Eidding.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am, my dear Dr. Moberly,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours very truly,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The next of the closely written sheets that every mail carried was chiefly
      occupied with the Maori war and apostasy, on which this is not the place
      to enter, until the point where more personal reflections begin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How all this makes me ponder about my own special work I need not say.
      There is not the complication of an English colony, it is true; that makes
      a great difference.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My own feeling is that one should teach positive truth, the plain message
      of Christianity, not attacking prejudices. Conviction as it finds its way
      into the heart by the truth recommending itself will do the work of
      casting out the old habits. I do not mean to say that the devil is not in
      a special way at work to deceive people to follow lying delusions. But all
      error is a perversion of truth; it has its existence negatively only, as
      being a negation of truth. But God is truth, and therefore Truth is
      &mdash;&mdash;. Now this is practically to be put, it seems to me, in this
      way. Error exists in the mind of man, whom God has created, as a
      perversion of truth; his faculties are constructed to apprehend and rest
      satisfied with truth. But his faculties are corrupted, and the devil
      supplies a false caricature of truth, and deceives him to apprehend and
      rest satisfied with a lie. But inasmuch as his nature, though damaged, is
      not wholly ruined by the Fall, therefore it is still not only possible for
      him to recognise positive truth when presented to him, but he will never
      rest satisfied with anything else&mdash;he will be restless and uneasy
      till he has found it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is because I feel that it is more natural to man to follow truth than
      error ("natural" being understood to mean correspondent to the true
      nature) that I believe the right thing is to address oneself to the
      principle in a man which can and will recognise truth. Truth when
      recognised expels error. But why attack error without positively
      inculcating truth? I hope it does not bore you for me to write all this.
      But I wish you to learn all that may explain my way of dealing with these
      questions.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day, October 25, a headache gives the Bishop a reason for
      indulging himself, while waiting for his pupils, in calling up and setting
      down a realisation of his sisters' new home at St. Mary Church, where for
      the time he seems to go and live with them, so vividly does he represent
      the place to himself. His first return to his own affairs is a vision that
      once more shows his unappeased craving for all appliances 'for glory and
      for beauty' in the worship of God.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I may some day have a connection with Mary Church marbles. Sometimes I
      have a vision&mdash;but I must live twenty years to see more than a vision&mdash;of
      a small but exceedingly beautiful Gothic chapel, rich inside with marbles
      and stained glass and carved stalls and encaustic tiles and brass screen
      work. I have a feeling that a certain use of really good ornaments may be
      desirable, and being on a very small scale it might be possible to make a
      very perfect thing some day. There is no notion of my indulging such a
      thought. It may come some day, and most probably long after I am dead and
      gone. It would be very foolish to spend money upon more necessary things
      than a beautiful chapel at present, when in fact I barely pay my way at
      all. And yet a really noble church is a wonderful instrument of education,
      if we think only of the lower way of regarding it. Well, you have a grand
      church, and it is pleasant to think of dear dear Father having laid the
      stone, and of Cousin George. What would he say now to Convocation and
      Synods, and the rapid progress of the organisation of the Church?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that what you say, Fan, about my overvaluing the world's opinion
      is very true. Self-consciousness and a very foolish sinful vanity always
      have been and are great sources of trial to me. How often I have longed
      for that simplicity and truthfulness of character that we saw so
      beautifully exemplified in our dear Father! How often I think that it is
      very good for me that I am so wanting in all personal gifts! I should be
      intolerable! I tell you this, not to foster such feelings by talking of
      them, but because we wish to know and be known to each other as we are. It
      is a very easy thing to be a popular preacher here, perhaps anywhere. You
      know that I never write a really good sermon, but I carry off platitudes
      with a sort of earnest delivery, tolerably clear voice, and with all the
      prestige of being a self-devoted Missionary Bishop. Bless their hearts! if
      they could see me sipping a delicious cup of coffee, with some delightful
      book by my side, and some of my lads sitting with me, all of them really
      loving one, and glad to do anything for one!
    </p>
    <p>
      'A less self-conscious person could do what I can hardly do without
      danger. I see my name in a book or paper, and then comes at once a
      struggle against some craving after praise. I think I know the fault, but
      I don't say I struggle against it as I ought to do. It is very hard,
      therefore, for me to write naturally about work in which I am myself
      engaged. But I feel that a truthful account of what we see and hear ought
      to be given, and yet I never speak about the Mission without feeling that
      I have somehow conveyed a false impression.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Again there was a time of sickness. The weather alternated between keen
      cutting winds and stifling heat; and there was much illness among the
      colonists, as well as a recurrence of the dreadful disease of the former
      year among the scholars of St. Andrew's, though less severe, and one boy
      died after fourteen days' sickness, while two pulled through with
      difficulty. In the midst came the Ember Week, when Mr. Palmer was ordained
      Deacon; and then the Bishop collapsed under ague, and spent the morning of
      Christmas Day in bed, but was able to get up and move into chapel for the
      celebration, and afterwards to go into hall and see the scholars eat their
      Christmas dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the letter he wrote in the latter part of the day, he confessed that
      'he felt older and less springy;' though, as he added, there was good
      reason for it in the heavy strain that there had been upon him throughout
      the year, though his native, scholars were all that he could desire.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days' holiday and change at the Primate's brought back spirits and
      strength; but the question whether under any circumstances New Zealand
      would be a safe residence for the great body of Melanesian scholars was
      becoming doubtful, and it seemed well to consider of some other locality.
      Besides, it was felt to be due to the supporters of the Mission in
      Australia to tell them personally how great had been the progress made
      since 1855; and, accordingly, on one of the first days of February, Bishop
      Patteson embarked in a mail steamer for Sydney, but he was obliged to
      leave six of his lads in a very anxious state with a recurrence of
      dysentery. However, the Governor, Sir George Grey, had lent his place on
      the island of Kawau, thirty miles north of Auckland, to the party, so that
      there was good hope that change would restore the sick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fancy me,' says the Journal of February 6, 'on board a screw steamer, 252
      feet long, with the best double cabin on board for my own single use, the
      manager of the company being anxious to show me every attention, eating
      away at all sorts of made dishes, puddings, &amp;c., and lounging about
      just as I please on soft red velvet sofas and cushions.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest and good living were the restorative he needed; and, in spite of
      anxiety about the patients at home, he enjoyed and profited by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      On February 6, Sydney was reached, but the Bishop sailed on at once for
      his farthest point. At Melbourne, on the 11th, he quaintly declares, after
      describing his kind reception: 'I feel at present a stranger among
      strangers; no new thing to me, especially if they are black, and begin by
      offering me cocoa-nut instead of bread and butter. This place looks too
      large for comfort&mdash;like a section of London, busy, bustling,
      money-making. There are warm hearts somewhere amid the great stores and
      banks and shops, I dare say. But you know it feels a little strange, and
      especially as I think it not unlikely that a regular hearty Church feeling
      may not be the rule of the place. Still I am less shy than I was, and with
      real gentlemen feel no difficulty in discussing points on which we differ.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is the vulgar uneducated fellow that beats me. The Melanesians, laugh
      as you may at it, are naturally gentlemanly and courteous and well-bred. I
      never saw a "gent" in Melanesia, though not a few downright savages. I
      vastly prefer the savage.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Melbourne was, however, to be taken on the return; and he went on to
      Adelaide, where Bishop Short and the clergy met him at the port, and he
      was welcomed most heartily. The Diocesan Synod assembled to greet him, and
      presented an address; and there were daily services and meetings, when
      great interest was excited, and tangibly proved by the raising of about
      £250. He was perfectly astonished at the beauty and fertility of the
      place, and the exceeding luxuriance of the fruit. One bunch of grapes had
      been known to weigh fourteen pounds. As to the style of living with all
      ordinary English comforts and attendance, he says:&mdash;'I feel almost
      like a fish out of water, and yet I can't help enjoying it. One very
      easily resumes old luxurious habits, and yet the thought of my dear boys,
      sick as I fear some must be, helps to keep me in a sober state of mind.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On St. Matthew's Day he assisted at an Ordination: and on the 27th
      returned to Melbourne for three weeks, and thence to Sydney. His time was
      so taken up that his letters are far more scanty and hurried than usual.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been running no little risk of being spoilt, and I don't say that
      I have come off uninjured. In Melbourne I was told by the Dean (the Bishop
      is in England) and by Judge Pohlman (an excellent good man) that they
      remembered no occasion during the twenty-two years of sojourn (before
      Melbourne was more than a village) when so much interest had been shown in
      Christian work, especially Mission work. This is a thing to be very
      thankful for. I felt it my duty to speak strongly to them on their own
      duties, first to Aborigines, secondly to Chinese (of whom some 40,000 live
      in Victoria), thirdly to Melanesians. I did not aim only at getting money
      for Melanesia; I took much higher ground than that. But the absence of the
      ordinary nonsense about startling conversions, rapid results, &amp;c., and
      the matter-of-fact unsentimental way of stating the facts of heathenism,
      and the way to act upon it, did, no doubt, produce a very remarkable
      effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not tell you that I did pray for strength to make good use of such
      unexpected and very unusual opportunities. Crowded meetings, nothing
      before like it in Melbourne or the provinces. I did not feel nervous, much
      to my surprise; I really wonder at it, I had dreaded it much.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was a sight to see St. George's Hall crowded, children sitting on the
      floor, platform, anywhere, and very many adults (about 500) besides. Now
      you know my old vanity. Thank God, I don't think it followed me very much
      here. There was a strong sense of a grand opportunity, and the need of
      grace to use it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The enthusiasm at Victoria resulted in 350 pounds, and pledges of future
      assistance; and at Sydney there was the like grand meeting, the like
      address, and hearty response; and the Churches of Australia pledged
      themselves to bear the annual expenses of the voyages of the 'Southern
      Cross.' A number of young clerks and officials, too, united in an
      arrangement by which she could be insured, high as was the needful rate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The preaching and speeches produced an immense feeling, and the after
      review of the expedition is thus recorded:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'As for my sermons in Australia, I found to my surprise that every minute
      was so occupied that I could not make time to write; and as for doing so
      in New Zealand before I started, why, I systematized and put into the
      printer's hands, in about four months, grammars, &amp;c., more or less
      complete, of seventeen languages, working up eight or ten more in MS.!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had to preach extempore for the most part: I did not at all like it,
      but what could I do? Sermons and speeches followed like hail&mdash;at
      least one, sometimes two on week-days, and three on Sundays. I preached on
      such points as I had often talked out with the Primate and Sir William,
      and illustrated principles by an occasional statement of facts drawn from
      missionary experience.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, old Fan, as you know, the misery of self-consciousness and conceit
      clings to me. I can't, as dear old father could, tell you what actually
      occurred without doing myself harm in the telling of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It pleased God to make me able to say all through what I think it was
      good for people to hear. All meetings and services (with a few, very few
      exceptions, from heavy rains, &amp;c.) were crowded. I could not in a few
      minutes speak with any degree of completeness on subjects which for years
      had occupied my thoughts: I was generally about an hour and a half,
      occasionally longer&mdash;I tried to be shorter. But people were attentive
      and interested all through. At Melbourne, it was said that 1,500 children
      (at a meeting for them) were present, and 500 adults, including many of
      the most educated people. All, children included, were as still as mice
      for an hour and a half, except occasional cheers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But generally there was little excitement. I did not, as you can suppose,
      take the sensation line; spoke very rapidly, for I had no time to spare&mdash;but
      clearly and quietly, sometimes gravely, sometimes with exceeding
      earnestness, and exposed sophistries and fallacies and errors about the
      incapacity of the black races, &amp;c. There were times when I lost all
      sense of nervousness and self, and only wished that 10,000 people had been
      present, for I felt that I was speaking out, face to face, plain simple
      words of truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The effect at the time was no doubt very remarkable. The Dean of
      Melbourne, e.g., said publicly that no such earnestness in religious,
      matters had ever been exhibited there. The plan of Mission work was
      simple, practicable, commended itself to hard-headed men of business. Many
      came to hear who had been disgusted with the usual sentimentalism and
      twaddle, the absence of knowledge of human nature, the amount of
      conventional prejudice, &amp;c. They were induced to come by friends who
      represented that this was something quite different, and these men went
      away convinced in many cases, seconding resolutions and paying
      subscriptions.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I said what was true, that I was the mouthpiece of the Bishop of New
      Zealand; that I could speak freely of the plan of the Mission, for it was
      not my plan, &amp;c. How I was carried through it all, I can't say. I was
      unusually well, looked and felt bright, and really after a while enjoyed
      it, though I was always glad when my share in the speechifying was over.
      Yet I did feel it a blessing, and a privilege, to stand up there and speak
      out; and I did speak out, and told them their plain duties, not appealing
      to feelings, but aiming at convincing the judgment. I told 1,500 people in
      church at Sydney, "I speak as to wise men, judge ye what I say." Do you
      know, Fan, I almost feel that if I live a few years I ought to write a
      book, unless I can get the Primate to do it? So much that is self-evident
      to us, I now see to be quite unknown to many good educated men. I don't
      mean a silly book, but a very simple statement of general principles of
      Christian work, showing the mode that must be adopted in dealing with men
      as partakers of a common nature, coupled with the many modifications and
      adaptations to circumstances which equally require special gifts of
      discernment and wisdom from on high. Then occasional narratives, by way of
      illustration, to clench the statement of principles, might be introduced;
      but I can't write, what I might write if I chose, folios of mere events
      without deducing from them some maxims for Christian practice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The impression produced was deep and lasting at all the Australian
      capitals, including Brisbane.
    </p>
    <p>
      A plan was even set on foot for transferring a part of the Melanesian
      school to a little island not far from the coast of Queensland, in a much
      warmer climate than Kohimarama, where it was thought Australian natives
      might be gathered in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here is the description of the place, written a day or two after the
      return to New Zealand:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Andrew's: April 27, 1864.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;I returned on the 24th from Australia. I visited
      the dioceses of Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, and Brisbane. Everywhere I
      met with great encouragement; and indeed, I thank God that (as I had
      hoped) the special work of the Mission became the means of exciting
      unusual interest in the work of the Church generally. It was a great
      opportunity, a great privilege in the crowded meetings to tell people face
      to face their duties, to stand up as the apologist of the despised
      Australian black, and the Chinese gold-digger, and the Melanesian
      islander.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All the Primate had taught me&mdash;what heathenism is, how to deal with
      it, the simple truisms about the "common sin, common redemption," the
      capacity latent in every man, because he is a man, and not a fallen angel
      nor a brute beast, the many conventional errors on Mission (rather)
      ministerial work&mdash;many, many things I spoke of very fully and
      frequently. I felt it was a great responsibility. How strange that I
      forgot all my nervous dread, and only wished there could be thousands more
      present, for I knew that I was speaking words of truth, of hope, and love;
      and God did mercifully bless much that He enabled, me to say, and men's
      hearts were struck within them, though, indeed, I made no effort to excite
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Much may result from it. We may have a branch school on the S.W. of
      Curtis Island, on the east coast of Queensland, healthy, watered, wooded,
      with anchorage, about 25° S. latitude, a fair wind to and from some of the
      islands; to which place I could rapidly carry away sick persons.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There I could convey two hundred or more scholars, in the same time
      required to bring sixty to New Zealand; there yams can be grown; there it
      may be God's will that a work may be commenced at length among the remnant
      that is left of the Australian blacks. The latter consideration is very
      strongly urged upon me by the united voice of the Australian Churches, by
      none more strongly than by the Bishop of Sydney. I dare to hope that the
      communion of the Australian and New Zealand Churches will be much
      strengthened by the Mission as a link. What blessings, what mercies!
    </p>
    <p>
      'This will not involve an abandonment of St Andrew's, but the work must
      expand. I think Australia will supply near 1,000 pounds a year, perhaps
      more before long.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To teach me that all is in His hands, we have again had a visitation from
      dysentery. It has been very prevalent everywhere, no medical men remember
      such a season. We have lost from consumption two, and from dysentery six
      this year; in fourteen months not less than fourteen: more than in all the
      other years put together. Marvellous to relate, all our old baptized and
      confirmed scholars are spared to us. Good-bye, and God ever bless and keep
      you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate cousin,
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. PATTESON, Bishop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      One of these deaths was that of Kareambat, the little New Caledonian
      confided to the Bishop of New Zealand by poor Basset. He had been
      christened on the previous Epiphany.
    </p>
    <p>
      No doubt this grief on coming home increased the effect of this year of
      trial. Indeed even on the voyage there had been this admission, 'Somehow I
      don't feel right with all this holiday; I have worked really very hard,
      but "change of work is the best holiday." I don't feel springy. I am not
      so young as I was, that's the truth of it, and this life is not likely to
      be a long one. Yet when used up for this work, absence of continual
      anxiety and more opportunity of relaxation may carry a man on without his
      being wholly useless!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Maori war was a constant grief and anxiety to all the friends on
      shore, and there was thus evidently much less elasticity left to meet the
      great shock that was preparing for the voyagers in the expedition of 1864.
      Mr. Codrington was not of the party, having been obliged to go to England
      to decide whether it was possible to give himself wholly to the Mission;
      and the staff therefore consisted of Mr. Pritt, Mr. Kerr, and Mr. Palmer,
      with Mr. Joseph Atkin, whose journal his family have kindly put at my
      disposal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The endeavour was to start after the Ascension Day Communion, but things
      were not forward enough. May was not, however, very far advanced before
      the 'Southern Cross' was at sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      On May 17, Norfolk Island was visited, and Edwin Nobbs and Fisher Young
      had what proved to be their last sight, of their home and friends. The
      plan was to go on to Nengone and Erromango, take up the stores sent to the
      latter place from Sydney, drop the two clergymen at Mota, and after a stay
      there, go to the New Hebrides, and then take up the party, and if possible
      leave them to make experiment of Curtis Island, while going to those Santa
      Cruz islands for which he always seems to have had such a yearning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel as usual,' he finishes the letter sent from Norfolk Island, 'that
      no one can tell what may be the issue of such voyages. I pray and trust
      that God will mercifully reveal to me "what I ought to do, and give me
      grace and power to fulfil the same."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have now been for some time out of the way of this kind of work, but I
      hope that all may be safely ordered for us. It is all in His hands; and
      you all feel, as I try to do, that there should be no cause for anxiety or
      trouble.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet there are moments when one has such an overwhelming sense of one's
      sins and negligences provoking God to chastise one. I know that His
      merciful intention towards men must be accomplished, and on the whole I
      rest thankfully in that, and feel that He will not suffer my utter
      unworthiness to hinder His work of love and goodness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At Mota, Mr. Atkin's journal shows to what work a real helper needed to be
      trained:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Mission-house had lost its roof in a gale of wind. The epidemic that
      was raging last year did not seem to have continued long after with such
      violence; some more of the people were dead, but not very many. We took
      off all the Mota boys, and things that were wanted in three boat-loads,
      the last time leaving the Bishop. There was, fortunately, very little
      surf, and we got nothing wet, but as the tide was high, we had to carry
      the things over the coral reefs with the water a little above our knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About an hour later we dropped anchor at Vanua Lava. On Saturday morning
      I went ashore with the boat, and got water for washing and sand for
      scrubbing decks, and several tons of taro and yams discharged on board the
      vessel. Then made another trip, left all the boys on shore for a holiday,
      and took off twelve or fourteen cwt. of yams, taro, and cocoa-nuts. After
      dinner and washing up, went to fetch boys back. Where we bought the yams
      there was such a surf breaking that we could not haul the boat on the
      beach, and we had to wade and carry them out. After we got on board, we
      had a bathe. Two of the Solomon Islanders distinguished themselves by
      jumping off the fore-yard, and diving under the ship. Mr. Tilly and the
      mates had been stowing, and the rest of us had been getting yams all day,
      and if our friends could have seen us then, haggard-looking and dirty,
      singing choruses to nigger melodies, how shocked they would have been!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Next Thursday went across to Mota, took the Bishop on board, and sailed
      south as fast as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sunday morning we were at the entrance of the passage between Ambrym and
      Mallicolo, without a breath of wind. We had service at 10 A.M.; and in the
      afternoon, psalms and hymns and chants in the cabin, the Bishop doing most
      of the singing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 6th.&mdash;On Monday morning we landed at the old place at Tariko.
      We began to buy some yams. The Bishop and William Pasvorang went ashore,
      and the rest of us stayed in the boat, keeping her afloat and off the
      reefs. Unfortunately the place where we landed was neutral ground between
      two tribes, who both brought yams to the place to sell. One party said
      another was getting too many hatchets, and two or three drew off and began
      shooting at the others. One man stood behind the Bishop, a few feet from
      him, and fired away in the crowd with a will. The consternation and alarm
      of both parties were very ludicrous. Some of each set were standing round
      the boat, armed with bows and arrows, but they were so frightened that
      they never seemed to think of using them, but ran off as hard as they
      could scamper to the shallow water, looking over their shoulders to see if
      the enemies' arrows were after them. One arrow was fired at the Bishop
      from the shore, and one hit the boat just as we pushed off.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop himself says of this fray:&mdash;"I was in the middle, one man
      only remained by me, crouching under the lee of the branch of the tree,
      and shooting away from thence within a yard of me. I did not like to leave
      the steel-yard, and I had to detach it from the rope with which it was
      tied to the tree, and the basket too was half full of yams and heavy, so
      that it was some time before I got away, and walked down the beach, and
      waded to the boat, shooting going on all round at the time; no one
      shooting at me, yet as they shot on both sides of me at each other, I was
      thankful to get well out of it. I thought of him who preserves from 'the
      arrow that flieth by day,' as He has so mercifully preserved so many of us
      from 'the sickness.'" Now don't go and let this little affair be printed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At Parama there was a friendly landing. At Sopevi Mr. Atkin says: 'We
      could not find the landing place where the Bishop two years ago found
      several people. We saw three or four on the shore. They were just the same
      colour as the dust from the volcano. What a wretched state they must be
      in! If they go to the neighbouring-isles they will be killed as enemies,
      and if they stay at home they are constantly suffocated by the ashes,
      which seemed to have fallen lately to the depth of more than afoot.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At Mallicolo a landing place was found, and an acquaintance begun by means
      of gifts of calico. At Leper's Island St. Barnabas Day was celebrated by
      bringing off two boys, but here again was peril. The Bishop writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The people, though constantly fighting, and cannibals and the rest of it,
      are to me very attractive, light-coloured, and some very handsome. As I
      sat on the beach with a crowd about me, most of them suddenly jumped up
      and ran off. Turning my head I saw a man (from the boat they saw two men)
      a few yards from me, corning to me with club uplifted. I remained sitting,
      and held out a few fish-hooks to him, but one or two men jumped up and
      seizing him by the waist forced him off. After a few minutes (lest they
      should think I was suspicious of them), I went back to the boat. I found
      out from the two young men who went away with me from another place, just
      what I expected to hear, viz. that a poor fellow called Moliteum was shot
      dead two months ago by a trader for stealing a bit of calico. The wonder
      was, not that they wanted to avenge the death of their kinsman, but that
      the others should have prevented it. How could they possibly know that I
      was not one of the wicked set? Yet they did discriminate; and here again,
      always by the merciful Providence of God, the plan of going among the
      people unarmed and unsuspiciously has been seen to disarm their mistrust
      and to make them regard me as a friend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Curtis Island was inspected, but there was no possibility of leaving a
      party to make experiment on it; and then the 'Southern Cross' sailed for
      the Santa Cruz cluster, that group whose Spanish name was so remarkable a
      foreboding of what they were destined to become to that small party of
      Christian explorers. Young Atkin made no entry in his diary of those days,
      and could never bear to speak of them; and yet, from that time forward,
      his mind was fully made up to cast in his lot with the Mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on August 15 that the first disaster at these islands took place.
      Not till the 27th could the Bishop&mdash;on his sister Fanny's birthday&mdash;begin
      a letter to her, cheering himself most touchingly with the thought of the
      peace at home, and then he broke off half way, and could not continue for
      some days:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Fan,&mdash;You remember the old happy anniversaries of your
      birthday&mdash;the Feniton party&mdash;the assembly of relations&mdash;the
      regular year's festivity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No doubt this anniversary brings as much true happiness, the assurance of
      a more abiding joy, the consciousness of deeper and truer sympathy. You
      are, I hope, to pass the day cheerfully and brightly with perhaps &mdash;&mdash;
      and &mdash;&mdash; about you.... Anyhow, I shall think of you as possibly
      all together, the remnant of the old family gathering, on a calm autumn
      day, with lovely South Devon scenery around you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The day comes to me in the midst of one of the deepest sorrows I have
      ever known&mdash;perhaps I have never felt such sorrow...perhaps I have
      never been so mercifully supported under it. It is a good and profitable
      sorrow I trust for me: it has made so much in me reveal itself as hollow,
      worldly, selfish, vainglorious. It has, I hope, helped to strip away the
      veil, and may be by God's blessing the beginning of more earnest life-long
      repentance and preparation for death.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On August 15 I was at Santa Cruz. You know that I had a very remarkable
      day there three years ago. I felt very anxious to renew acquaintance with
      the people, who are very numerous and strong.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I went off in the boat with Atkin (twenty), Pearce (twenty-three or
      twenty-four years old), Edwin Nobbs, Fisher Young, and Hunt Christian, the
      last three Norfolk Islanders. Atkin, Edwin and Fisher have been with me
      for two or three years&mdash;all young fellows of great promise, Fisher
      perhaps the dearest of all to me, about eighteen, and oh! so good, so
      thoroughly truthful, conscientious, and unselfish!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I landed at two places among many people, and after a while came back as
      usual to the boat. All seemed pleasant and hopeful. At the third place I
      landed amidst a great crowd, waded over the broad reef (partially
      uncovered at low water), went into a house, sat down for some time, then
      returned among a great crowd to the boat and got into it. I had some
      difficulty in detaching the hands of some men swimming in the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, when the boat was about fifteen yards from the reef, on which
      crowds were standing, they began (why I know not) to shoot at us.&mdash;(Another
      letter adds) 300 or 400 people on the reef, and five or six canoes being
      round us, they began to shoot at us.&mdash;I had not shipped the rudder,
      so I held it up, hoping it might shield off any arrows that came straight,
      the boat being end on, and the stern, having been backed into the reef,
      was nearest to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I looked round after a minute, providentially indeed, for the boat
      was being pulled right into a small bay on the reef, and would have
      grounded, I saw Pearce lying between the thwarts, with the long shaft of
      an arrow in his chest, Edwin Nobbs with an arrow as it seemed in his left
      eye, many arrows flying close to us from many quarters. Suddenly Fisher
      Young, pulling the stroke oar, gave a faint scream; he was shot through
      the left wrist. Not a word was spoken, only my "Pull! port oars, pull on
      steadily." Once dear Edwin, with the fragment of the arrow sticking in his
      cheek, and the blood streaming down, called out, thinking even then more
      of me than of himself, "Look out, sir! close to you!" But indeed, on all
      sides they were close to us!
    </p>
    <p>
      'How we any of us escaped I can't tell; Fisher and Edward pulled on, Atkin
      had taken Pearce's oar, Hunt pulled the fourth oar. By God's mercy no one
      else was hit, but the canoes chased us to the schooner. In about twenty
      minutes we were on board, the people in the canoes round the vessel seeing
      the wounded paddled off as hard as they could, expecting of course that we
      should take vengeance on them. But I don't at all think that they were
      cognisant of the attack on shore.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Several letters were written about this adventure; but I have thought it
      better to put them together, every word being Bishop Patteson's own,
      because such a scene is better realised thus than by reading several
      descriptions for the most part identical. What a scene it is! The
      palm-clad island, the reef and sea full of the blacks, the storm of long
      arrows through the air, the four youths pulling bravely and steadily, and
      their Bishop standing over them, trying to ward off the blows with the
      rudder, and gazing with the deep eyes and steadfast smile that had caused
      many a weapon to fall harmless!
    </p>
    <p>
      Pearce, it should be observed, was a volunteer for the Mission then on a
      trial-trip.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an even more trying time to come on board. The Bishop continues:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I drew out the arrow from Pearce's chest: a slanting wound not going in
      very deep, running under the skin, yet of apparently almost fatal
      character to an ignorant person like myself; Five inches were actually
      inside him. The arrow struck him almost in the centre of the chest and in
      the direction of the right breast. There was no effusion of blood, he
      breathed with great difficulty, groaning and making a kind of hollow
      sound, was perfectly composed, gave me directions and messages in case of
      his death. I put on a poultice and bandage, and leaving him in charge of
      some one, went to Fisher. The wrist was shot through, but the upper part
      of the arrow broken off and deep down; bleeding profuse, of which I was
      glad; I cut deeply, though fearing much to cut an artery, but I could not
      extract the wooden arrow-head. At length getting a firm hold of the
      projecting point of the arrow on the lower side of his wrist, I pulled it
      through: it came out clean. The pain was very great, he trembled and
      shivered: we gave him brandy, and he recovered. I poulticed the wound and
      went to Edwin. Atkin had got out the splinter from his wound; the arrow
      went in near the eye and came out by the cheek-bone: it was well syringed,
      and the flow of blood had been copious from the first. The arrows were not
      bone-headed, and not poisoned, but I well knew that lock-jaw was to be
      dreaded. Edwin's was not much more than a flesh wound. Fisher's being in
      the wrist, frightened me more: their patience and quiet composure and calm
      resignation were indeed a strength and comfort to us all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This was on Monday, August 15. All seemed doing well for a day or two, I
      kept on poultices, gave light nourishing food, &amp;c. But on Saturday
      morning Fisher said to me, "I can't make out what makes my jaws feel so
      stiff."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then my heart sank down within me, and I prayed earnestly, earnestly to
      God. I talked to the dear dear lad of his danger, night and day we prayed
      and read. A dear guileless spirit indeed. I never saw in so young a person
      such a thorough conscientiousness as for two years I witnessed in his
      daily life, and I had long not only loved but respected him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We had calm weather and could not get on. By Saturday the jaws were
      tight-locked. Then more intense grew the pain, the agony, the whole body
      rigid like a bar of iron! Oh! how I blessed God who carried me through
      that day and night. How good he was in his very agonies, in his fearful
      spasms, thanking God, praying, pressing my hand when I prayed and
      comforted him with holy words of Scripture. None but a well-disciplined,
      humble, simple Christian could so have borne his sufferings: the habit of
      obedience and faith and patience; the childlike unhesitating trust in
      God's love and fatherly care, supported him now. He never for a moment
      lost his hold upon God. What a lesson it was! it calmed us all. It almost
      awed me to see in so young a lad so great an instance of God's infinite
      power, so great a work of good perfected in one young enough to have been
      confirmed by me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At 1 A.M. (Monday) I moved from his side to my couch, only three yards
      off. Of course we were all (I need not say) in the after cabin. He said
      faintly, "Kiss me. I am very glad that I was doing my duty. Tell my father
      that I was in the path of duty, and he will be so glad. Poor Santa Cruz
      people!" Ah! my dear boy, you will do more for their conversion by your
      death than ever we shall by our lives. And as I lay down almost convulsed
      with sobs, though not audible, he said (so Mr. Tilly afterwards told me),
      "Poor Bishop!" How full his heart was of love and peace, and thoughts of
      heaven. "Oh! what love," he said. The last night when I left him for an
      hour or two at 1 A.M. only to lie down in my clothes by his side, he said
      faintly (his body being then rigid as a bar of iron), "Kiss me, Bishop."
      At 4 A.M. he started as if from a trance; he had been wandering a good
      deal, but all his words even then were of things pure and holy. His eyes
      met mine, and I saw the consciousness gradually coming back into them.
      "They never stop singing there, sir, do they?"&mdash;for his thoughts were
      with the angels in heaven. Then, after a short time, the last terrible
      struggle, and then he fell asleep. And remember, all this in the midst of
      that most agonizing, it may be, of all forms of death. At 4 A.M. he was
      hardly conscious, not fully conscious: there were same fearful spasms: we
      fanned him and bathed his head and occasionally got a drop or two of weak
      brandy or wine and water down. Then came the last struggle. Oh! how I
      thanked God when his head at length fell back, or rather his whole body,
      for it was without joint, on my arm: long drawn sighs with still sadder
      contraction of feature succeeded, and while I said the Commendatory
      Prayer, he passed away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The same day we anchored in Port Patteson, and buried him in a quiet spot
      near the place where the Primate and I first landed years ago. It seems a
      consecration of the place that the body of that dear child should be
      resting there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some six years ago, when Mrs. Selwyn stopped at Norfolk Island she
      singled him out as the boy of special promise. For two or three years he
      had been with me, and my affection flowed out naturally to him. God had
      tried him by the two sicknesses at Kohimarama and at Mota, and by his
      whole family returning to Pitcairn. I saw that he had left all for this
      work. He had become most useful, and oh! how we shall miss him!
    </p>
    <p>
      'But about five days after this (August 22) Edwin's jaws began to stiffen.
      For nine or ten days there was suspense, so hard to bear. Some symptoms
      were not so bad, it did not assume so acute a form. I thought he ought to
      be carried through it. He was older, about twenty-one, six feet high, a
      strong handsome young man, the pride of Norfolk Island, the destined
      helper and successor (had God so willed) of his father, the present
      Clergyman. The same faith, the same patience, the same endurance of
      suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Friday, September 2, I administered the Holy Communion to him and
      Pearce. He could scarce swallow the tiniest crumb. He was often delirious,
      yet not one word but spoke of things holy and pure, almost continually in
      prayer. He was in the place where Fisher had died, the best part of the
      cabin for an invalid. Sunday came: he could take no nourishment, stomach
      and back in much pain: a succession of violent spasms at about 10.30 A.M.,
      but his body never became quite rigid. The death struggle at 1 A.M.
      September 5, was very terrible. Three of us could scarcely hold him. Then
      he sank back on my arm, and his spirit passed away as I commended his soul
      to God. Then all motionless. After some minutes, I said the first prayer
      in the Burial Service, then performed the last offices, then had a solemn
      talk with Pearce, and knelt down, I know not how long.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We buried him at sea. All this time we were making very slow progress;
      indeed the voyage has been very remarkable in all respects. Pearce seems
      to be doing very well, so that I am very hopeful about him. The
      temperature now is only 72 degrees, and I imagine that his constitution is
      less liable to that particular disease. Yet punctured wounds are always
      dangerous on this account.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Patience and trust in God, the same belief in His goodness and love, that
      He orders all things for our good, that this is but a proof of His
      merciful dealing with us: such comforts God has graciously not withheld. I
      never felt so utterly broken down, when I thought, and think, of the
      earthly side of it all; never perhaps so much realised the comfort and
      power of His Presence, when I have had grace to dwell upon the heavenly
      and abiding side of it. I do with my better part heartily and humbly thank
      Him, that He has so early taken these dear ones by a straight and short
      path to their everlasting home. I think of them with blessed saints, our
      own dear ones, in Paradise, and in the midst of my tears I bless and
      praise God.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, dear Fan, Fisher most of all supplied to me the absence of earthly
      relations and friends. He was my boy: I loved him as I think I never loved
      any one else. I don't mean more than you all, but in a different way: not
      as one loves another of equal age, but as a parent loves a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can hardly think of my little room at Kohimarama without him. I long
      for the sight of his dear face, the sound of his voice. It was my delight
      to teach him, and he was clever and so thoughtful and industrious. I know
      it is good that my affections should be weaned from all things earthly. I
      try to be thankful, I think I am thankful really; time too will do much,
      God's grace much more. I only wonder how I have borne it all. "In the
      multitude of the sorrows that I had in my heart, Thy comforts have
      refreshed my soul." Mr. Tilly has been and is full of sympathy, and is
      indeed a great aid. He too has a heavy loss in these two dear ones. And
      now I must land at Norfolk Island in the face of the population crowding
      the little pier. Mr. Nobbs will be there, and the brothers and sisters of
      Edwin, and the uncles and aunts of Fisher.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet God will comfort them; they have been called to the high privilege of
      being counted worthy to suffer for their Savior's sake. However much I may
      reproach myself with want of caution and of prayer for guidance (and this
      is a bitter thought), they were in the simple discharge of their duty.
      Their intention and wish were to aid in bringing to those poor people the
      Gospel of Christ. It has pleased God that in the execution of this great
      purpose they should have met with their deaths. Surely there is matter for
      comfort here!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't write all this over again.... I have written at some length to
      Jem also; put the two letters together, and you will be able to realise it
      somewhat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is a joint letter to you and Joan. It was begun on your birthday,
      and it has been written with a heavy, dull weight of sorrow on my heart,
      yet not unrelieved by the blessed consciousness of being drawn, as I
      humbly trust, nearer to our most merciful Father in heaven, if only by the
      very impossibility of finding help elsewhere. It has not been a time
      without its own peculiar happiness. How much of the Bible seemed endued
      with new powers of comfort.... How true it is, that they who seek, find.
      "I sought the Lord, and He heard me." The closing chapters of the Gospels,
      2 Corinthians, and how many other parts of the New Testament were
      blessings indeed! Jeremy Taylor's "Life of Christ," and "Holy Living and
      Dying," Thomas a Kempis, most of all of course the Prayer-book, and such
      solemn holy memories of our dear parents and uncles, such blessed hopes of
      reunion, death brought so near, the longing (if only not unprepared) for
      the life to come: I could not be unhappy. Yet I could not sustain such a
      frame of mind long; and then when I sank to the level of earthly thoughts,
      then came the weary heartache, and the daily routine of work was so
      distasteful, and I felt sorely tempted to indulge the "luxury of grief."
      But, thanks be to God, it is not altogether an unhealthy sorrow, and I can
      rest in the full assurance that all this is working out God's purposes of
      love and mercy to us all&mdash;Melanesians, Pitcairners, and all; and that
      I needed the discipline I know full well....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      It was not possible to touch at Norfolk Island, each attempt was baffled
      by the winds; and on September 16 the 'Southern Cross' anchored at
      Kohimarama, and a sad little note was sent up to the Primate with the
      announcement of the deaths and losses.
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of the comfort which, as this note said, Patteson felt 'in the
      innocence of their lives, and the constancy of their faith' unto the
      death, the fate of these two youths, coming at the close of a year of
      unusual trial, which, as he had already said, had diminished his
      elasticity, had a lasting effect. It seemed to take away his youthful
      buoyancy, and marked lines of care on his face that never were effaced.
      The first letter after his return begins by showing how full his heart was
      of these his children:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: Sunday, September 18, 1864.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Fan,&mdash;I must try to write without again making my whole
      letter full of dear Edwin and Fisher. That my heart is full of them you
      can well believe.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These last five weeks have taught me that my reading of the Bible was
      perhaps more intellectual and perhaps more theological than devotional, to
      a dangerous extent probably; anyhow I craved for it as a revelation not
      only of truth, but of comfort and support in heavy sorrow. It may be that
      when the sorrow does not press so heavily, the Bible cannot speak so
      wonderfully in that particular way of which I am writing, and it is right
      to read it theologically also.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But yet it should always be read with a view to some practical result;
      and so often there is not a special, though many general points which may
      make our reading at once practical. Then comes the real trial, and then
      comes the wondrous power of God's Word to help and strengthen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now it helps me to know where I am, to learn how others manage to see
      where they are.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All that you say about self-consciousness, &amp;c., can't I understand
      it! Ah! when I saw the guileless pure spirit of those two dear fellows
      ever brightening more and more for now two years. I had respected them as
      much as I loved them. I used to think, "Yes, we must become such as they;
      we too must seek and pray for the mind of a little child."
    </p>
    <p>
      'And surely the contemplation of God is the best cure. How admirable
      Jeremy Taylor is on those points! Oh that he had not overlaid it all with
      such superabundant ornamentation of style and rhetoric. But it is the
      manner of the age. Many persons I suppose get over it, perhaps like it;
      but I long for the same thoughts, the same tenderness and truthfulness,
      and faithful searching words with a clear, simple, not unimaginative
      diction. Yet his book is a great heritage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Newman has a sermon on Contemplation or Meditation, I forget which; and
      my copy is on board. But I do hope that by praying for humility, with
      contemplation of God's majesty and love and our Savior's humility and
      meekness, some improvement may be mercifully vouchsafed to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To dwell on His humiliation, His patience, that He should seek for
      heavenly aids, accept the ministration of an angel strengthening Him, how
      full of mystery and awe! and yet written for us! And yet we are proud and
      self-justified and vainglorious!
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Archbishop of York, in "Aids to Faith," on the Death of Christ, has
      some most solemn and deep remarks on the Lord's Agony. I don't know that
      it could ever be quite consistent with reverence to speak on what is there
      suggested. Yet if I could hear Mr. Keble and Dr. Pusey (say) prayerfully
      talking together on that great mystery, I should feel that it might be
      very profitable. But he must be a very humble man who should dare to speak
      on it. Yet read it, Fan, it cannot harm you; it is very awful, it is fully
      meant that He was sinless, without spot, undefiled through all. It makes
      the mystery of sin, and of what it cost to redeem our souls, more awful
      than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And then, surely to the contemplation of God and the necessary contrast
      of our own weakness and misery, we add the thought of our approaching
      death, we anticipate the hours, the days, it may be the weeks and months,
      even the years of weariness, pain, sleeplessness, thirst, distaste for
      food, murmuring thoughts, evil spirits haunting us, impatient longings
      after rest for which we are not yet prepared, the thousand trials,
      discomforts, sadnesses of sickness&mdash;yes, it must come in some shape;
      and is it to come as a friend or an enemy to snatch us from what we love
      and enjoy, or to open the gates of Paradise?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I humbly thank God that, while I dare not be sure that I am not mistaken,
      and suppose that if ready to go I should be taken, the thought of death at
      a distance is the thought of rest and peace, of more blessed communion
      with God's saints, holy angels and the Lord. Yet I dare not feel that if
      death was close at hand, it might not be far otherwise. How often the
      "Christian Year," and all true divinity helps up here! Why indulge in such
      speculations? Seek to prepare for death by dying daily. Oh! that blessed
      text: Be not distracted, worry not yourselves about the morrow, for the
      morrow shall, &amp;c. How it does carry one through the day! Bear
      everything as sent from God for your good, by way of chastisement or of
      proving you. Pusey's sermon on Patience, Newman's on a Particular
      Providence, guarding so wisely against abuse as against neglect of the
      doctrine. How much to comfort and guide one! and then, most of all, the
      continual use of the Prayer-book. Do you often use the Prayer at the end
      of the Evening Service for Charles the Martyr? Leave out from "great
      deep...teach us to number"&mdash;and substitute "pride" for "splendour."
      Leave out "according to... blessed martyr." In the Primate's case, it is a
      prayer full of meaning, and it may have a meaning for us all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Once more, the love of approbation is right and good, but then it must be
      the love of the approbation of God and of good men. Here, as everywhere,
      we abuse His gift; and it is a false teaching which bids us suppress the
      human instinct which God implanted in us, but a true leading, which bids
      us direct and use it to its appointed and legitimate use. On this general
      subject, read if you have not read them, and you can't read them too
      often, Butler's Sermons; you know, the great Butler. I think you will
      easily get an analysis of them, such as Mill's "Analysis of Pearson on the
      Creed," which will help you, if you want it. Analyse them for yourself, if
      you like, and send me out your analysis to look at. There is any amount of
      fundamental teaching there and the imprimatur of thousands of good men to
      assure us of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think, as I have written to Joan, that if I were with you, after the
      first few days my chiefest delight would be in reading and talking over
      our reading of good books. Edwin and Fisher were beginning to understand
      thoughtful books; and how I did delight in reading with them,
      interspersing a little Pitcairn remark here and there! Ah! never more!
      never more! But they don't want books now. All is clear now: they live
      where there is no night, in the Glory of God and of the Lamb, resting in
      Paradise, anticipating the full consummation of the Life of the
      Resurrection. Thanks be to God, and it may not be long&mdash;but I must
      not indulge such thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel better, but at times this sad affliction weighs me down much, and
      business of all kinds seems almost to multiply. Yet there are many many
      comforts, and kindest sympathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Just at this time heavy sorrow fell upon Bishop Hobhouse of Nelson; and
      the little council of friends at Auckland decided that Bishop Patteson
      should go at once to do his best to assist and comfort him, and bring him
      back to Auckland. There was a quiet time of wholesome rest at Nelson; and
      the effects appeared in numerous letters, and in the thinking out of many
      matters on paper to his sisters.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! how I think with such ever-increasing love of dear Fisher and Edwin!
      How I praised God for them on All Saints' Day. But I don't expect to
      recover spring and elasticity yet awhile. I don't think I shall ever feel
      so young again. Really it is curious that the number of white hairs is
      notably increased in these few weeks (though it is silly to talk about it.
      Don't mention it!), and I feel very tired and indolent. No wonder I seem
      to "go softly." But I am unusually happy down in the depths, only the
      surface troubled. I hope that it is not fancy only that makes the
      shortness and uncertainty of this life a ground of comfort and joy.
      Perhaps it is, indeed I think it is, very much a mere cowardly indolent
      shirking of work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did I say I thought I might some day write a book? It will be some day
      indeed. It seems funny enough to think of such a thing. The fact is, it is
      much easier to me to speak than to write. I think I could learn with a
      good deal of leisure and trouble to write intelligibly, but not without
      it. I am so diffusive and wanting in close condensed habits of thought.
      How often I go off in a multitude of words, and really say nothing worthy
      to be remembered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How I should enjoy, indeed, a day or two at Hursley with Mr. and Mrs.
      Keble. A line from him now and then, if he can find time, would be a great
      delight to me; but I know that he thinks and prays, and that is indeed a
      great happiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, the blessing of such thoughts as All Saints' Day brings!&mdash;and
      now more dear than ever, every day brings!&mdash;"Patriarchs, prophets,
      apostles, martyrs, and every spirit made perfect in the faith of Christ,"
      as an old Liturgy says. And the Collects in the Burial Service! How full,
      how simple and soothing, how full of calm, holy, tender, blessed hopes and
      anticipations!
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you think the large Adelaide photograph very sad. I really don't
      remember it; I fancy I thought it a very fair likeness. But you know that
      I have a heavy lumpy dull look, except when talking&mdash;indeed, then too
      for aught I know&mdash;and this may be mistaken for a sad look when it is
      only a dull stupid one. You can't get a nice picture out of an ugly face,
      so it's no use trying, but you are not looking for that kind of thing. You
      want to see how far the face is any index of the character and life and
      work.
    </p>
    <p>
      I don't think it odd that I should look careworn. I have enough to make me
      so! And yet if I were with you now, brightened up by being with you, you
      would say, "How well he looks!" And you would think I had any amount of
      work in me, as you saw me riding or walking or holding services. And then
      I had to a very considerable extent got over that silly shyness, which was
      a great trial and drawback to me of old, and sadly prevented me from
      enjoying the society of people (at Oxford especially) which would have
      done me much good. But without all these bodily defects, I should have
      been even more vain, and so I can see the blessing and mercy now, though
      how many times I have indulged murmuring rebellious thoughts!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps I shall live ten or twenty years, and look back and say, "I
      recollect how in '64 I really almost thought I should not last long." But
      don't fancy that I am morbidly cherishing such fancies. Only I like you
      all to know me as I am changing in feeling from time to time. There is
      quite enough to account for it all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days later he returned to Auckland, and thence wrote to me a letter
      on the pros and cons of a move from New Zealand. The sight of ships and
      the town he had ceased to think of great importance, and older scholars
      had ceased to care for it, and there was much at that time to recommend
      Curtis Island to his mind. The want of bread-fruit was the chief
      disadvantage he then saw in it, but he still looked to keeping up
      Kohimarama for a good many years to come. I cannot describe how tender and
      considerate he was of feelings he thought I might possibly have of
      disappointment that St. Andrew's was not a successful experiment as far as
      health was concerned, evidently fearing that I had set my hopes on that
      individual venture, and that my feelings might be hurt if it had to be
      deserted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next letters are a good deal occupied with the troubles incident to
      the judgment upon 'Essays and Reviews.' He took a view, as has been seen,
      such as might be expected of the delicate refining metaphysical mind,
      thinking out points for itself, and weighing the possible value of every
      word, and differed from those who were in the midst of the contest, and
      felt some form of resistance and protest needful. He was strongly averse
      to agitation on the subject, and at the same time grieved to find himself
      for the first time, to his own knowledge, not accepting the policy of
      those whom he so much respected; though the only difference in his mind
      from theirs was as to the manner of the maintenance of the truth, and the
      immediate danger of error going uncondemned&mdash;a point on which his
      remote life perhaps hardly enabled him to judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these long letters and more, which were either in the same tone, or
      too domestic to be published, prove the leisure caused by having an
      unusually small collection of pupils, and happily all in fair health; but
      with Christmas came a new idea, or rather an old one renewed. Instead of
      only going to Norfolk Island, on sufferance from the Pitcairn Committee,
      and by commission from the Bishop of Tasmania, a regular request was made,
      by Sir John Young, the Governor of Australia, that the Pitcairners might
      be taken under his supervision, so that, as far as Government was
      concerned, the opposition was withdrawn which had hindered his original
      establishment there, though still Curtis Island remained in the ascendency
      in the schemes of this summer. The ensuing is a reply to Sir John
      Coleridge's letter, written after hearing of the attack at Santa Cruz:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: March 3, 1865.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Uncle,&mdash;Many many thanks for your letter, so full of
      comfort and advice. I need not tell you that the last budget of letters
      revived again most vividly not only the actual scene at Santa Cruz, but
      all the searchings of heart that followed it. I believe that we are all
      agreed on the main point. Enough ground has been opened for the present.
      Codrington was right in saying that the object of late has been to fill up
      gaps. But some of the most hazardous places to visit lie nearest to the
      south, e.g. some of the New Hebrides, &amp;c., south of the Banks Islands.
      My notion is, that I ought to be content even to pass by (alas!) some
      places where I had some hold when I had reason to feel great distrust of
      the generally kind intentions of the people (that is a dark sentence, but
      you know my meaning). In short, there are very few places where I can
      feel, humanly speaking, secure against this kind of thing. It is always in
      the power of even one mischievous fellow to do mischief. And if the
      feeling of the majority might be in my favour, yet there being no way of
      expressing public opinion, no one cares to take an active part in
      preventing mischief. It is not worth his while to get into a squabble and
      risk his own life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I shall be (D.V.) very cautious. I dare say I was becoming
      presumptuous: one among the many faults that are so discernible. It is,
      dear Uncle, hard to see a wild heathen party on the beach, and not try to
      get at them. It seems so sad to leave them. But I know that I ought to be
      prudent, even for my own sake (for I quite suppose that, humanly speaking,
      my life is of consequence for a few years more), and I can hardly bear the
      thought of bringing the boat's crew, dear good volunteers, into danger.
      Young Atkin, the only son of my neighbour, behaved admirably at Santa
      Cruz, and is very staunch. But his parents have but him and one daughter,
      and I am bound to be careful indeed. But don't think me careless, if we
      get into another scrape. There is scarcely one island where I can fully
      depend upon immunity from all risk. There was no need to talk so much
      about it all before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As to Curtis Island, I need not say that I have no wish indeed to take
      Australian work in hand. I made it most clear, as I thought, that the
      object of a site on Curtis Island was the Melanesian and not the
      Australian Mission. I offered only to incorporate Australian blacks, if
      proper specimens could be obtained, into our school, regarding in fact
      East Australia as another Melanesian island. This would only have involved
      the learning a language or two, and might have been of some use. I did not
      make any pledge. But I confess that I think some such plan as this one
      only feasible one. I don't see that the attempts at mission work are made
      on the most hopeful plan. But I have written to the Brisbane authorities,
      urging them to appropriate large reserves for the natives. I tell them
      that it is useless for them to give me a few acres and think they are
      doing a mission work, if they civilize the native races off their own
      lands. In short, I almost despair of doing anything for blacks living on
      the same land with whites. Even here in New Zealand, the distrust now
      shown to us all, to our religion even, is the result in very great measure
      of the insolent, covetous behaviour exhibited by the great majority of the
      white people to the Maori. Who stops in Australia to think whether the
      land which he wants for his sheep is the hunting ground of native people
      or not?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I confess that while I can't bear to despair and leave these poor souls
      uncared for, I can't propose any scheme but one, and who will work that?
      If, indeed, one or two men could be found to go and live with a tribe,
      moving as they move and really identifying himself with their interests!
      But where are such men, and where is a tribe not already exasperated by
      injurious treatment?
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was the statement for our mode of action which commended itself so
      much to people in Australia, that they urged me to try and do something.
      But I answered as I have now written; and when at one meeting in Sydney I
      was asked whether I would take Australians into my school, I said, "Yes,
      if I can get the genuine wild man, uncontaminated by contact with the
      white man." I can't, in justice to our Melanesian scholars, take the poor
      wretched black whose intercourse with white men has rendered him a far
      more hopeless subject to deal with than the downright ferocious yet not
      ungenerous savage. "If," was the answer, "you can get them, I will pay for
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, dear Uncle, I don't want more but less work on my hands: yet as I
      look around, I see (as far as I can judge) so great a want of that
      prudence and knowledge and calm foresight that the Primate has shown so
      remarkably, that I declare I do think his plan is almost the only
      reasonable one for dealing with black races. Alas! you can't put hearty
      love for strangers into men's hearts by paying them salaries.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that in two or three years I may, if I live, have some
      preparatory branch school at Curtis Island. If it should clearly succeed,
      then I think in time the migration from New Zealand might take place. I do
      not think two schools in two different countries would answer. We want the
      old scholars to help us in working the school; we can't do without them,
      and the old scholars can't be trained without the younger ones, the
      material on whom their teaching, and training faculties must be exercised.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You all know how deeply I feel about dear Mr. Keble!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank God, we have as yet no dysentery. I baptized last week a lad dying
      of consumption. There are many blessings, as all clergymen know, in having
      death scenes so constantly about one; and the having to do everything for
      these dear fellows makes one love them so....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate and dutiful Nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The above sentence refers to the paralytic attack Mr. Keble had on
      November 30, 1864. Nevertheless, almost at that very time, he was writing
      thus:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Penzance: March 7, 1865.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear and more than dear Bishop,&mdash;It would be vain for me to write
      to you, if I pretended to do more than just express my heart's wish that I
      could say something of the doings and sufferings which now for years past
      we of course associate with your name, so as to encourage and support you
      in your present manifold distress. But (especially for reasons known only
      to myself) I must leave that altogether to Him who helps His own to do and
      suffer. One thing only I would say, that to us at our great distance it
      looks as if the sanguis martyrum were being to you as the semen Ecclesiae,
      and you know how such things were hailed in the time of St. Cyprian. May
      it please God before long to give you some visible earnest of this sure
      blessing! but I suppose that if it tarry, it may be the greater when it
      comes. Our troubles as a Church, though of a different kind, are not
      small. The great point with me is, lest, if in our anxiety to keep things
      together, we should be sinfully conniving at what is done against the
      faith, and so bringing a judgment upon ourselves. I do not for a moment
      think that by anything which has yet been done or permitted our being as a
      Church is compromised (though things look alarmingly as if it might be
      before long), but I fear that her well-being is more and more being
      damaged by our entire and conscious surrender of the disciplinary part of
      our trust, and that if we are apathetic in such things we may forfeit our
      charter. There is no doubt, I fear, that personal unbelief is spreading;
      but I trust that a deeper faith is spreading also; it is (at Oxford, e.g.)
      Pusey and Moberly, &amp;c., against the Rationalists and other tempters.
      As to the question of the Bible being (not only containing) the Word, I
      had no scruples in signing that Declaration. One thought which helped me
      was, the use made in the New Testament of the Old, which is such as to
      show that we are not competent judges as to what passages convey deep
      moral or religious meanings or no. Another, that in every instance where
      one had the means of ascertaining, so far as I have known, the Bible
      difficulty has come right: therefore, it is reasonable to conclude that so
      it would be in all the rest, if we knew the right reading and the right
      interpretation of the words. And as to what are called the Divine and
      Human Elements, I have seemed to help myself with the thought that the
      Divine adoption (if so be) of the human words warrants their truthfulness,
      as a man's signature makes a letter his own; but whether this is relevant,
      I doubt. My wife and I are both on the sick list, and I must now only add
      that we never forget you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ever yours,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. K.
    </h5>
    <p>
      Nothing has hitherto been said of this term at St. Andrew's: so here is an
      extract from a letter to one of the cousinhood, who had proposed a plan
      which has since been carried out extensively and with good effect:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The difficulty about scholars appropriated to certain places or parishes
      is this: I cannot be sure of the same persons remaining with me. Some
      sickness in an island, some panic, some death of a relative, some war, or
      some inability on my part from bad weather or accident to visit an island,
      may at any time lose me a scholar. Perhaps he may be the very one that has
      been appropriated to some one, and what am I to say then?
    </p>
    <p>
      'This year we have but thirty-eight Melanesians, we ought to have sixty.
      But after dear Edwin and Fisher's wounds, I could not delay, but hurried
      southwards, passing by islands with old scholars ready to come away. This
      was sad work, but what could I do?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will gladly assign, to the best of my power, scholars whom I think
      likely to remain with me to various places or persons; but pray make them
      understand that their scholar may not always be forthcoming. Anyhow, their
      alms would go to the support of some Melanesian, who would be their
      scholar as it were for the time being.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You would perhaps feel interested in knowing that the Gospel of St. Luke
      has been printed in the Mota language, to a great extent by our scholars,
      and that George Sarawia is printing now the Acts, composing it, and doing
      press-work and all. Young Wogale (about thirteen) prints very fairly, and
      sent off 250 copies of a prayer, which the Bishop of Nelson wanted for
      distribution, of which everything was done by him entirely. They both
      began to learn about last November.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When morning school is over at 10 A.M., all hands, "dons" and all, are
      expected to give their time to the Mission till 12.45. Mr. Pritt is
      general overlooker (which does not mean doing nothing himself) of domestic
      work: kitchen, garden, farm, dairy, &amp;c. You know that we have no
      servants. Mr. Palmer prints and teaches printing. Atkin works at whatever
      may be going on, and has a large share of work to get ready for me, and to
      read with me: Greek Testament, 12 to 12.45, Greek and Latin from 2 to 3.
      So all the lads are busy at out-door work from 10 to 12.45; and I assure
      you, under Mr. Pritt's management, we begin to achieve considerable
      results in our farm and garden work. We are already economising our
      expenditure greatly by keeping our own cows, for which we grow food (a
      good deal artificial), and baking our own bread. We sell some of our
      butter, and have a grand supply of milk for our scholars, perhaps the very
      best kind of food for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If we can manage to carry on a winter's school here with some ten or
      twelve of the lads left under Mr. Pritt's charge, while I go off with the
      rest, I really think that the industrial department may become something
      considerable. It is an essential part of the system, for we must begin
      with teaching habits of order, punctuality, &amp;c:, in respect of those
      things with which they have already some acquaintance. No Melanesian can
      understand why he is to sit spelling away at a black board; and he is not
      like a child of four or five years old, he must be taught through his
      power of reasoning, and perceiving the meaning of things. Secondly, we can
      gradually invest the more advanced scholars with responsible duties. There
      are the head cooks in the various weeks, the heads of departments in
      garden work, &amp;c., &amp;c. As these lads and men are being trained (we
      hope) to teach others, and as we want them to teach industry, decency,
      cleanliness, punctuality, to be, and to teach others to be honest, and
      careful, and thoughtful, so we find all these lessons are learnt more in
      the industrial work than in the mere book work, though that is not
      neglected. Indeed school, in the restricted sense of the word, is going on
      for four or four and a half hours a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The main difficulty remains, of retaining our hold upon boys. Oh that I
      could live permanently in twenty islands at once! But I can't do so even
      in one; and all the letter-writing and accounts, and, worst of all, the
      necessity for being trustee for matters not a bit connected with
      Melanesia, because there is no one else, interferes sadly with my time. I
      think I could work away with the languages, &amp;c., and really do
      something with these fellows, but I never get a chance. I never have two
      days together which I can spend exclusively at Melanesian work. And I
      ought to have nothing whatever to distract me. Twenty languages calling
      for arrangement and comparison causes confusion enough!'
    </p>
    <p>
      These interruptions made the Kohimarama life trying. 'As for
      correspondence,' says the birthday despatch to Fanny, 'why this mail my
      letters to Victoria alone are twelve, let alone Sydney, Brisbane,
      Adelaide, Tasmania, New Zealand, and England. Then three sermons a week,
      occasional services, reading up for a most difficult session of General
      Synod, with really innumerable interruptions from persons of all kinds.
      Sometimes I do feel tempted to long for Curtis Island merely to get away
      from New Zealand! I feel as if I should never do anything here. Everything
      is in arrears. I turn out of a morning and really don't know what to take
      up first. Then, just as I am in the middle of a letter (as yesterday) down
      comes some donkey to take up a quarter of an hour (lucky if not an hour)
      with idle nonsense; then in the afternoon an invasion of visitors, which
      is worst of all. That fatal invention of "calling"! However, I never call
      on anyone, and it is understood now, and people don't expect it. I have
      not even been to Government House for more than a year!
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, a good explosion does one good! But why must idle people interfere
      with busy men? I used to make it up by sitting up and getting up very
      early indeed; but somehow I feel fit for nothing but sleeping and eating
      now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After an absence of three weeks at the General Synod at Christchurch, the
      Bishop took up such of his party as were to return, and sailed home,
      leaving those whom he thought able to brave the winter with Mr. and Mrs.
      Pritt, on one of the first days of June. The first visit was one to the
      bereaved family at Norfolk Island, whence a brief note to his brother on
      the 9th begins:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing can be more comforting to me than the loving patient spirit of
      these dear people. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Nobbs and all the brothers and
      sisters so good and so full of kindness to me. It was very trying when I
      first met them yesterday. They came and kissed me, and then, poor things,
      fairly gave way, and then I began to talk quietly about Edwin and Fisher,
      and they became calm, and we knelt and prayed together.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After landing the Bishop at Mota, the others crossed to Port Patteson
      where they found Fisher Young's grave carefully tended, kept clear of
      weeds, and with a fence round it. After establishing Mr. Palmer at the
      station at Mota, the Bishop re-embarked for Santa Maria, where, at the
      north-east&mdash;Cock Sparrow Point, as some one had appropriately called
      it&mdash;the boat was always shot at; but at a village called Lakona, the
      people were friendly, and five scholars had come from thence, so the
      Bishop ventured on landing for the night, and a very unpleasant night it,
      was&mdash;the barrack hut was thronged with natives, and when the heat was
      insufferable and he tried to leave it, two of his former scholars advised
      him strongly to remain within.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was bad weather too, and there was some difficulty in fetching him off,
      and he was thankful that the wet had hindered more than 300 or 400 natives
      from collecting; there was no possibility of speaking to them quietly, for
      the sight of the boat suggested trading, and they flocked round as he was
      fetched off, half a dozen swimming out and begging to go to New Zealand.
      He took three old scholars and one new one, and sent the others off with
      fish-hooks, telling them that if they would not behave at Lakona as he
      liked, he would not do as they liked. However, no arrows were shot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then while the 'Southern Cross,' with Mr. Tilly and Mr. Atkin, went on to
      land the Solomon Island scholars, the work at Mota was resumed in full
      force. It seems well worth while to dwell on the successive steps in the
      conversion of this place, and the following letter shows the state of
      things in the season of 1865:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mota: July 4, 1865.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters and Brother,&mdash;I must write a joint letter for
      all, with little notes if I have anything more special for anyone of you.
      I wish you could see this place. The old hut is queer enough certainly,
      quite open on one side, and nearly so on another, but it is weather-tight
      in the middle, with forms to sit on and a table or two like a kitchen
      table, on which I read and write by day, and sleep by night. Last night we
      killed five lizards; they get on the roof and drop down and bite pretty
      severely, so seeing these running all about, we made a raid upon them,
      poor things. The great banyan tree is as grand as ever, a magnificent
      tree, a forest in itself, and the view of the sea under its great
      branches, and of the islands of Matlavo and Valua, is beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At daylight I turn off my table and dress, not elaborately&mdash;a
      flannel shirt, old trousers and shoes; then a yam or two is roasted on the
      embers, and the coffee made, and (fancy the luxury here in Mota!)
      delicious goat's milk with it. Then the morning passes in reading,
      writing, and somewhat desultory talking with people, but you can't expect
      punctuality and great attention. Then at one, a bit of biscuit and cheese
      (as long as the latter lasts). Mr. Palmer made some bread yesterday. Then
      generally a walk to meet people at different villages, and talk to them,
      trying to get them to ask me questions, and I try to question them. Then
      at 6 P.M., a tea-ation, viz., yam and coffee, and perhaps a crab or two,
      or a bit of bacon, or some good thing or other. But I forgot! this morning
      we ate a bit of our first full-grown and fully ripe Mota pine-apple (I
      brought some two years ago) as large and fine as any specimens I remember
      in hot-houses. If you mention all these luxuries, we shall have no more
      subscriptions, but you may add that there is as yet no other pineapple,
      though our oranges, lemons, citrons, guavas, &amp;c., are coming on.
      Anyone living here permanently might make a beautiful place indeed, but it
      becomes sadly overgrown in our absence, and many things we plant are
      destroyed by pigs, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then after tea&mdash;a large party always witnessing that ceremony&mdash;there
      is an hour or so spent in speaking again to the people, and then I read a
      little with Wadrokala and Carry. Then Mr. Palmer and I read a chapter of
      Vaughan on the Revelation, then prayers, and so to bed. It seems as if
      little was done&mdash;certain talks with people, sometimes many, sometimes
      few; yet, on the whole, I hope an increased acquaintance with our
      teaching. You can well understand that the consciousness of sin and the
      need of a Redeemer may be talked about, but cannot be stated so as to make
      one feel that one has stated it in the most judicious and attractive
      manner. Of course it is the work of God's Spirit to work this conviction
      in the heart. But it is very hard so to speak of it as to give (if you can
      understand me) the heathen man a fair chance of accepting what you say.
      Forgetfulness of God; ingratitude to the Giver of life, health, food;
      ignorance of the Creator and the world to come, of the Resurrection and
      Life Everlasting, are all so many proofs to us of a fallen and depraved
      state. But the heathen man recognises some outward acts as more or less
      wrong; there he stops. "Yes, we don't fight now, nor quarrel, nor steal so
      much as we used to do. We are all right now."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Are you? I never taught you to think so. You tell me that you believe
      that the Son of God came down from heaven. What did He come for? What is
      the meaning of what you say that He died for us?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is the continual prayer and effort of the Christian minister
      everywhere, that God would deepen in his own heart the sense of sin, and
      create it in the mind of the heathen. And then the imperfect medium of a
      language very far from thoroughly known! It is by continual prayer, the
      intercession of Christ, the power of the Spirit (we well know) that the
      work must be carried on. How one does understand it! The darkness seems so
      thick, the present visible world so wholly engrosses the thoughts, and
      yet, you see, there are many signs of progress even here, in changed
      habits to some extent, in the case of our scholars, real grounds of hope
      for the future. One seems to be doing nothing, yet surely if no change be
      wrought, what right have we to expect it. It is not that I looked for
      results, but that I seek to be taught how to teach better. The Collect for
      the first Sunday after Epiphany is wonderful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It requires a considerable effort to continually try to present to
      oneself the state of the heathen mind, to select illustrations, &amp;c.,
      suitable to his case. And then his language has never been used by him to
      set forth these new ideas; there are no words which convey the ideas of
      repentance, sin, heartfelt confession, faith, &amp;c. How can there be,
      when these ideas don't exist? Yet somehow the language by degrees is made
      the exponent of such ideas, just as all religious ideas are expressed in
      English by words now used in their second intention, which once meant very
      different and less elevated ideas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I find everywhere the greatest willingness to listen. Everywhere I take
      my pick of boys, and now for any length of time. That is the result of
      eleven scholars remaining now in New Zealand. Everyone seems to wish to
      come. I think I shall take away five or six young girls to be taught at
      Kohimarama, to become by and by wives for scholars. Else the Christian lad
      will have to live with a heathen girl. But all this, if carried out
      properly, would need a large number of scholars from only one island. At
      Curtis Island, indeed (should it answer and supply plenty of food), we
      might hope to have a school some day of 300 or 400, and then thirty or
      forty from each island could be educated at once; but it can't be so in
      New Zealand. And a good school on an island before a certain number are
      trained to teach could not, I think, be managed successfully. I feel that
      I must concentrate more than hitherto. I must ascertain&mdash;I have to
      some extent ascertained&mdash;the central spots upon which I must chiefly
      work. This is not an easy thing, nevertheless, to find out, and it has
      taken years. Then using them as centres, I must also find out how far
      already the dialect of that spot may extend, how far the people of the
      place have connections, visiting acquaintances, &amp;c. elsewhere, and to
      use the influence of that place to its fullest extent. Many islands would
      thus fall under one centre, and thus I think we may work. My mind is so
      continually, day and night, I may say, working on these points, that I
      dare say I fill up my letters with nothing else. But writing on these
      points helps me to see my way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On July 7, an expedition to Aroa seems to have overtired Bishop Patteson,
      and a slight attack of fever and ague came on. One of his aunts had
      provided him with a cork bed, where, after he had exerted himself to talk
      to his many visitors, he lay 'not uncomfortably.' He was not equal to
      going to a feast where he hoped to have met a large concourse, and after a
      day of illness, was taken back to Mota in the bottom of the boat; but in
      another week more revived, and went on with his journal, moralising on the
      books he had been reading while laid up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I looked quite through Bishop Mackenzie's life. What a beautiful story it
      is! what a truthful, simple, earnest character, and that persuasiveness
      that only real humility and self-forgetfulness and thoughtfulness can
      give. Then his early desire to be useful, his Cambridge life, the clear
      way in which he was being led on all through. It is very beautiful as an
      illustration of the best kind of help that God bestows on His children.
      Here was one so evidently moulded and fashioned by Him, and that
      willingly, for so it must be, and his life was just as it should be,
      almost as perfect perhaps as a life can be. What if his work failed on the
      Shire? First, his work has not failed to begin with, for aught we know;
      and secondly his example is stimulating work everywhere. I shall indeed
      value his Thomas a Kempis. [A copy sent home from the Zambesi stained with
      the water of the Shire, and sent to the Bishop by Miss Mackenzie].
    </p>
    <p>
      The ship returned with tidings that the more important scholars would be
      ready to come back after a short holiday with their friends, and the
      Bishop embarked again on the 29th. At Mai he landed, and slept ashore,
      when little Petere, the son of the young man whose death had so nearly
      been revenged on the Bishop, a boy of eight years old, did the honours as
      became a young chief, and announced, 'I am going to New Zealand with you.'
      No one made any attempt to prevent him; but the old scholars did not show
      themselves helpful, and only one of them, besides three more new ones,
      came away. The natives were personally friendly, but there was no sign of
      fighting being lessened among them.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Whitsuntide there was a brisk trade in yams, but no scholars were
      brought away; the parents would not part with any young enough to be
      likely to be satisfactory pupils, nor would the one last year's scholar
      come. Here intelligence was received that a two-masted ship had been at
      Leper's Island, a quarrel had taken place and some natives had been shot.
      It was therefore decided that it would not be safe to land, but as the
      vessel sailed along the coast, numerous canoes came out, bringing boars'
      tusks for sale. Three boys who had been taken on a cruise of six weeks the
      year before, eagerly came on board, and thirty or forty more. All the
      parents were averse to letting them go, and only two ended by being
      brought away: Itole, a young gentleman of fourteen or so, slim and slight,
      with a waist like a wasp, owing to a cincture worn night and day, and his
      hair in ringlets, white with coral-lime; his friend a little older, a
      tall, neat-limbed fellow, not dark and with little of the negro in his
      features.
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter to me was written during this cruise, from which I give an
      extract:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was a great delight to me to receive a letter from Mr. Keble, by the
      February mail from England. How kind of him to write to me; and his words
      are such a help and encouragement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dare say I shall see Merivale's Lectures soon. Nothing can well be so
      wonderful, as a proof of God's hand controlling and arranging all the
      course of history to those who need it, as a subject for adoration and
      praise, to those who need not such proof, than the vast preparation made
      for the coming of Christ and the spreading of the Gospel. To popularise
      this the right way, and bring it home to the thought of many who have not
      time nor inclination for much reading, must be a good work. I suppose that
      all good Church histories deal with that part of the subject; it is
      natural for the mere philosopher to do so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And think how the early Alexandrian teachers used the religious yearnings
      of the East to draw men to the recognition of their wants, supplied and
      satisfied only in Christianity. Often it is the point d'appui that the
      Missionary must seek for. There is an element of faith in superstition; we
      must fasten on that, and not rudely destroy the superstition, lest with it
      we destroy the principle of faith in things and beings unseen. I often
      think, that to shake a man's faith in his old belief, however wrong it may
      be, before one can substitute something true and right, is, to say the
      least, a dangerous experiment. But positive truth wins its way without
      controversy, while error has no positive existence, and there is a craving
      for truth deep down in the heathen heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you remember that grand passage of Hooker, where he says that he
      cannot stand to oppose all the sophisms of Romanism, only that he will
      place against it a structure of truth, before which, as Dagon before the
      Ark, error will be dashed in fragments?
    </p>
    <p>
      'In our work (and so I suppose in a Sunday school) one must think out each
      step, anticipate each probable result, before one states anything. It is
      of course full of the highest interest. Can't you fancy a party of twenty
      or thirty dark naked fellows, when (having learnt to talk freely to them)
      I question them about their breakfast and cocoa-nut trees, their yams and
      taro and bananas, &amp;c., "Who gave them to you? Can you make them grow?
      Why, you like me and thank me because I give you a few hatchets, and you
      have never thought of thanking Him all these long years."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"It is true, but we didn't think."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"But will you think if I tell you about Him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"He gave them rain from heaven and fruitful seasons."
    </p>
    <p>
      'How it takes one back to the old thoughts, the true philosophy of
      religion. Sometimes I lie awake and think "if Jowett and others could see
      these things!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet, if it is not presumptuous in me to say so, I do think that this
      work needs men who can think out principle and supply any thoughtful
      scholar or enquirer with some good reason for urging this or that change
      in the manners and observances of the people. Often as I think of it, I
      feel how greatly the Church needs schools for missionaries, to be prepared
      not only in Greek and Latin and manual work, but in the mode of regarding
      heathenism. It is not a moment's work to habitually ask oneself, "Why feel
      indignant? How can he or she know better?" It is not always easy to be
      patient and to remember the position which the heathen man occupies and
      the point of view from which he must needs regard everything brought
      before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you for Maclear's book. It is a clear statement of the leading
      facts that one wishes to know, a valuable addition to our library. You
      know, no doubt, a book which I like much, Neander's "Light in Dark
      Places."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall remember about Miss Mackenzie's memoir of that good Mrs.
      Robertson. I wonder that men are not found to help Mr. Robertson. Here, as
      you know, the climate (as in Central Africa) is our difficulty. I think
      sometimes I make too much of it, but really I don't see how a man is to
      stand many months of it. But I can't help thinking and hoping that if that
      difficulty did not exist I could see my way to saying, "Now, a missionary
      is wanted for these four or five or six islands, one for each, and a
      younger man as fellow-helper to that missionary," and they would be
      forthcoming.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet doubtless I don't estimate fairly the difficulties and hardships as
      they appear to the man who has never left England, and is not used to
      knocking about. I should have felt the same years ago but for the thought
      of being with the Primate, at least I suppose so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I have written a very dull letter, but the place from which it
      comes will give it some interest. I really think that not Mota only, but
      the Banks Islands are in a hopeful state.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Next year (D.V.) Mr. Palmer will try the experiment of stopping here for
      eight or ten months. I almost dare to hope that a few years may make great
      changes. Yet it seems as if nothing were done in comparison with what
      remains to be done.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sarah, Sarawia's wife, pronounced that as she was always ill at home, she
      would risk the New Zealand winter; two more married pairs came, and four
      little maidens to be bred up under Mrs. Pritt, girls from twelve to eight
      years old, of whom Sarah was quite able to take charge.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was the usual proportion of lads from various islands; but the most
      troublesome member of the community seems to have been Wadrokala's three
      years old daughter. 'I have daily to get Wadrokala and Carry to prevent
      their child from being a nuisance to everybody.' But this might have been
      a difficulty had she been white.
    </p>
    <p>
      This large party had to be taken to the Solomon Isles to complete the
      party, sailing in company with the 'Curacoa,' the Commodore's ship, when
      the local knowledge and accurate surveying done by Mr. Tilly and Mr. Kerr
      proved very valuable, and Sir William Wiseman gave most kind and willing
      assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since his short interview with the Bishop off Norfolk Island, he had been
      cruising in the New Hebrides. There some of the frequent outrages of the
      traders had made the people savage and suspicious, and one of the
      Missionaries of the London Missionary Society living at Tanna had been
      threatened, driven away across the island, and his property destroyed. He
      had appealed for protection as a British subject, and Sir William Wiseman
      had no choice but to comply; so after warning had been sent to the tribe
      chiefly concerned to quit their village, it was shelled and burnt. No one
      seems to have been hurt, and it was hoped that this would teach the
      natives to respect their minister&mdash;whether to love his instruction
      was another question.
    </p>
    <p>
      This would not have been worth mentioning had not a letter from on board
      the 'Curacoa' spoken of chastising a village for attacking a Missionary.
      It went the round of the English papers, and some at once concluded that
      the Missionary could be no other than the Bishop. Articles were published
      with the usual disgusting allusions to the temptation presented by a plump
      missionary; and also observing with more justice that British subjects had
      no right to run into extraordinary peril and appeal to their flag for
      protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every friend or relative of Bishop Patteson knew how preposterous the
      supposition was, and his brother took pains to contradict the rumour. As a
      matter of fact, as his letters soon proved, he was not only not in company
      with the 'Curacoa' at the time, but had no knowledge either of the outrage
      or the chastisement, till Sir William Wiseman mentioned it to him when
      they were together at Sydney.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Ysabel or Mahya, the party was made up to sixty, seven married couples
      and seven unmarried girls among them. The female population was stowed
      away at night in the after cabins, with 'arrangements quite satisfactory
      to them, as they were quite consistent with propriety, but which would
      somewhat startle unaccustomed folk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The 'Curapoa' stood in the offing while Sta. Cruz was visited, or rather
      while the 'Southern Cross' approached, for the Bishop thought it better
      not to risk landing; but numerous canoes came off, and all the curiosities
      were bought which were offered in hopes of reestablishing a friendly
      relation. There was reason to think the people of this group more than
      usually attached to the soil, and very shy and distrustful, owing perhaps
      to the memories left by the Spaniards.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thence the 'Southern Cross' sailed across for an inspection of Curtis
      Island, and again with a favourable impression; but the Brisbane
      Parliament had just been prorogued, everyone was taking holiday, and the
      Bishop therefore gave up his visit to that place, and sent the vessel
      straight home to Auckland with her cargo of souls, while he returned to
      Sydney to carry on the same work as in the former year. Here one great
      delight and refreshment to him was a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Mort at their
      beautiful home at Greenoaks. What a delight it must have been to find
      himself in a church built by his host himself! 'one of the most beautiful
      things I have seen, holds about 500 people; stained glass, carved stalls,
      stone work, &amp;c.,&mdash;perfect.' And the house, 'full of first-rate
      works of art, bronzes, carvings, &amp;c.,' was pleasant to the eyes that
      had been so enthusiastic in Italy and Germany, and had so long fasted from
      all beauty but that of Nature, in one special type. The friends there were
      such as to give life and spirit to all these external charms, and this was
      a very pleasant resting place in his life. To Sir John Coleridge he
      writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am having a real holiday. This place, Greenoaks, the really magnificent
      place of my good friends Mr. and Mrs. Mort, is lovely. The view of the
      harbour, with its land-locked bays, multitude of vessels, wooded heights,
      &amp;c., is not to be surpassed; and somehow I don't disrelish handsome
      rooms and furniture and pictures and statues and endless real works of art
      in really good taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One slips into these ways very readily. I must take care I am not spoilt.
      Everyone, from the governor downwards, lays himself out to make my visit
      pleasant. They work me hard on Sundays and week days, but it is a
      continual round of, I don't deny, to me, pleasurable occupation. Kindly
      people asked to meet me, and the conversation always turned to pleasant
      and useful subjects: Church government, principles of Mission work, &amp;c.
      These colonies, unfortunate in many ways, are fortunate in having
      governors and others in high position who are good men, and the class of
      people among whom my time is spent might (me judice) hold its position
      among the best English society.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very intimate with some few families, drop in and set the young
      ladies down to play Beethoven and Mendelssohn, and it is a nice change,
      and refreshes me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      From Sydney the Bishop went to Adelaide and Melbourne, and these five
      weeks in Australia obtained about 800 pounds for the Mission; the Bishop
      of Sydney had hoped to raise more, but there had been two years of
      terrible drought and destruction of cattle, and money was not abundant.
      The plan of sending Australian blacks to be educated with the Melanesians
      was still entertained; but he had not much hope of this being useful to
      the tribes, though it might be to the individuals, and none of them ever
      were sent to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what had a more important effect on the Mission was a conference
      between Sir William Wiseman and Sir John Young, the Governor of New South
      Wales, resulting in an offer from the latter of a grant of land on Norfolk
      Island for the Mission, for the sake of the benefit to the Pitcairners; at
      the same time the Commodore offered him a passage in the 'Curacoa' back to
      Auckland, touching at Norfolk Island by the way. The plan was carried out,
      and brought him home in time for Christmas, to find all and prosperous
      under Mr. Pritt at St. Andrew's. His mind was nearly made up on the
      expedience of a change to a place which was likely to suit both English
      and tropical constitutions alike, and he hoped to make the experiment the
      ensuing winter with Mr. Palmer and a small body of scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X. THE EPISCOPATE AT KOHIMARAMA. 1866.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The removal of his much-loved correspondent did not long withhold the
      outpouring of Bishop Patteson's heart to his family; while his work was
      going on at the College, according to his own definition of education
      which was given about this time in a speech at St. John's: 'Education
      consists in teaching people to bear responsibilities, and laying the
      responsibilities on them as they are able to bear them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, he wrote as follows to Miss Mackenzie, on receiving the book
      she had promised to send him as a relic of her brother:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'January 1, 1866.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Miss Mackenzie,&mdash;I have this evening received your brother's
      Thomas a Kempis, and your letter. I valued the letter much, as a true
      faithful record of one whom may God grant that I may know hereafter, if,
      indeed, I may be enabled to follow him as he followed Christ. And as for
      the former, what can I say but I hope that the thought of your dear
      brother may help me to read that holy book in something of the spirit in
      which he read and meditated on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems to bring me very near to him in thought. Send me one of his
      autographs to paste into it. I don't like to cut out the one I have in the
      long letter to the Scottish Episcopal Church, which you kindly sent me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I found, too, in one of Mr. Codrington's boxes, a small sextant for me,
      which, being packed with the Thomas a Kempis, I think may have been your
      brother's. Do you really mean this for me too? If so, I shall value it
      scarcely less than the book. Indeed, I think that, divided as I am from
      all relations and home influences and affections, I cling all the more to
      such means as I may still enjoy of keeping up associations. I like to have
      my father's watch-chain in use, and to write on his old desk. I remember
      my inkstand in our drawing-room in London. So I value much these memorials
      of the first Missionary Bishop of the Church of England, in modern days at
      all events, and night by night as I read a few lines in his book, and
      think of him, it brings me, I hope, nearer in spirit to him and to others,
      who, like him, have done their duty well and now rest in Christ.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are pretty well now (Jan. 20), but one very promising lad sank last
      week in low fever; a good truthful lad he was, and as I baptized him at
      midnight shortly before he died, I felt the great blessing of being able
      with a very clear conscience to minister to him that holy sacrament; and
      so he passed away, to dwell, I trust, with his Lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a revelation to that spirit in its escape from the body! But I must
      not write on. With many thanks once again for these highly-valued
      memorials of your brother,
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remain, my dear Miss Mackenzie,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very truly yours,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The sandal-wood referred to in the following letter was the brother's gift
      to a church, All Saints, Babbicombe, in which his sisters were deeply
      interested, and of which their little nephew laid the first stone:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Matthias' Day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;You are thinking of me to-day, I know, but you
      hardly know that in an hour or two I hope the Primate will ride down and
      baptize nine of our Melanesian scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The last few weeks have been a happy, though of course an anxious time,
      and now to-day the great event of their lives is to take place. May God
      grant that the rest of their lives may be like this beginning!
    </p>
    <p>
      'We avoid all fuss. I don't like anyone being here but the Primate and
      Mrs. Selwyn, yet I think some dozen more may come, though I don't like it.
      I need not say that making a scene on such occasions is to my mind very
      objectionable. I could much prefer being quite alone. I have translated
      some appropriate Psalms, but the 2nd and 57th they hardly know as yet
      quite well; so our service will be Psalms 96, 97, 114; 1st lesson 2 Kings,
      v. 9&mdash;15, Magnificat; 2nd lesson Acts viii. 5-12, and the Baptismal
      Service. Henry Tagalana reads the first, and George Sarawia the second
      lesson. Then will come my quiet evening, as, I trust, a close of an
      eventful day. I have your English letters of December, with the news of
      Johnny laying the stone. I am thankful that that good work is begun. Sir
      John Young writes to me that I can have a gift of 100 acres at Norfolk
      Island, with permission to buy more. I think that, all being well, I shall
      certainly try it with a small party next summer, the main body of scholars
      being still brought to Kohimarama.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The sandal-wood is not yet gone! But, my dear Joan, the altar of
      sandal-wood! If it is to be solid and not veneered, why, £50 would not buy
      it at Erromango. It sells in Sydney for about £70 a ton, and it is very
      heavy wood. However, I will send some of the largest planks I ever saw of
      the wood, and it is now well seasoned. It cost me £14 merely to work it
      into a very simple lectern, so hard is the grain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What has become of the old Eton stamp of men? Have you any in England? I
      must not run the risk of the Mission being swamped, by well-intentioned,
      but untaught men. We must have gentlemen of white colour, or else I must
      rely wholly, as I always meant to do chiefly, on my black gentlemen; and
      many of them are thorough gentlemen in feeling and conduct, albeit they
      don't wear shoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was a most impressive service. The dear Primate looking worn and
      somewhat aged, very full of feeling; the two most advanced, George and
      Henry, in their surplices, reading the Lessons; the nine candidates
      looking so reverent and grave, yet not without self-possession.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As he signed each one with the sign of the Cross, his left hand resting
      on the head of each, the history of the Mission rushed into my mind, the
      fruit of the little seed be sowed when, eight years ago, he thought it
      wisest not to go ashore at Mota, and now more than twenty Christians of
      the Banks Islands serve God with prayers night and day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What would you have thought, if you could have been there? Our little
      chapel looked nice with the red hangings and sandal-wood lectern.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then we had a quiet cup of tea, and the old and new baptized party had a
      quiet talk with me till 8.30, when I sent them away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And then after an hour I was alone. That I should have been already five
      years a Bishop, and how much to think of and grieve over, something too to
      be thankful for. Perhaps after all, dear Edwin and Fisher stand out most
      clearly from all the many scenes and circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now what is to come? This move to Norfolk Island? Or what?
      "Something," you say; "perhaps in time showing the Governor that the
      Melanesians are not so very wild." But it is another Governor; and so far
      from the Melanesians being wild, it is expressly on the ground that the
      example of the school will be beneficial that I am asked to go!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell all who may care to know it about our St. Matthias' Day, I must give
      myself the pleasure of writing one line to Mr. Keble. I won't write many
      lest I weary him, dear good man. I like to look at his picture, and have
      stuck the photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Keble which Charlotte Yonge sent me
      into the side of it. How I value his prayers and thoughts for us all!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'P.S.&mdash;No terms of full communion between the Home and the Colonial
      Church can be matter of Parliamentary legislation. It is the "One Faith,
      One Lord," that binds us together; and as for regulating the question of
      colonially ordained clergy ministering in English dioceses, you had better
      equalise your own Church law first for dealing with an Incumbent and a
      Curate.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Auckland: Tuesday in Holy Week.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Uncle,&mdash;I have long owed you a letter, but I have not
      written because I have had an unusual time of distraction. Now, all my
      things being on board the "Southern Cross," I am detained by a foul wind.
      We can do nothing till it changes; and I am not sorry to have a few quiet
      hours, though the thought of a more than usually serious separation from
      the dear Primate and Mrs. Selwyn, Sir William and Lady Martin, hangs over
      my head rather gloomily. Still I am convinced, as far as I can be of such
      matters, that this move to Norfolk Island is good for the Mission on the
      whole. It has its drawbacks, as all plans have, but the balance is
      decidedly in favour of Norfolk Island as against New Zealand. I have given
      reasons at length for this opinion in letters to Joan and Fan, and also, I
      think, to Charlotte Yonge, who certainly deserves to know all my thoughts
      about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I may shortly state some of them, in case you may not have heard
      them, because I should like this step to approve itself to your mind:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '1. Norfolk Island is 600 miles hearer to Melanesian islands than
      Auckland, and not only nearer in actual distance, but the 600 miles from
      Norfolk Island to Auckland are the cold and boisterous miles that must be
      passed at the extremities of the voyages with no intervening lands to call
      at and obtain a change for our large party on board.
    </p>
    <p>
      '2. The difficulty usually is to get westward when sailing from New
      Zealand, by the North Cape of New Zealand, because the prevalent winds are
      from the west. So that usually the passage to Norfolk Island is a
      long-one.
    </p>
    <p>
      '3. New Zealand is much to the east of Norfolk Island, and to go from the
      Loyalty, New Hebrides, Banks, and Santa Cruz groups to New Zealand, it is
      necessary to make a long stretch out to the N.E. (the trades blowing from
      about S.E. by E.), standing down to S. on the other tack. But Norfolk
      Island is almost due S. of other those groups.
    </p>
    <p>
      '4. I cannot come back from the islands during my winter voyage to New
      Zealand, it is too distant; the coast is dangerous in the winter season
      and the cold too great for a party of scholars first coming from the
      tropics. But I can go backwards and forwards through the islands and
      Norfolk Island during the five winter months. It is not wise to sail about
      in the summer, hurricanes being prevalent then.
    </p>
    <p>
      '5. As I can only make one return from the islands to New Zealand in the
      year, I can only have a school consisting of (say) sixty Melanesians
      brought in the very crowded vessel + (say) thirty left in New Zealand for
      the winter; and I dare not attempt to leave many, for so much care is
      needed in the cold season. But in Norfolk Island I can have a school of
      any number, because I can make separate voyages thither from the Banks and
      Solomon Islands, &amp;c., each time bringing a party of sixty, if I think
      fit.
    </p>
    <p>
      '6. The productions of Norfolk Island include the yam, taro (Caladium
      esculentum), sweet potato, sugar-cane, banana, almond, orange, pine-apple,
      coffee, maize. Only cocoa-nut and bread-fruit are wanting, that natives of
      Melanesia care much about.
    </p>
    <p>
      '7. There is no necessity for so violent a contrast as there must be in
      New Zealand between the life with us and in their homes in respect of
      dress, food, and houses.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Light clothing and an improved style of native house and more cleanly way
      of eating their food&mdash;not of cooking it, for they are cleanly already
      in that&mdash;may be adopted, and more easily perpetuated in their own
      homes than the heavy clothing necessary here, and the different style of
      houses and more English food.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is very important, because with any abrupt change of the outer man,
      there is sometimes a more, very more natural abandonment of the inner
      thoughts and disposition and character. Just as men so often lose
      self-respect when they take to the bush life; or children who pray by
      their own little bedside alone, leave off praying in "long chamber," the
      outward circumstances being altered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have for years thought that we seek in our Missions a great deal too
      much to make English Christians of our converts. We consciously and
      unanimously assume English Christianity (as something distinct I mean from
      the doctrines of the Church of England), to be necessary; much as so many
      people assume the relation of Church and State in England to be the
      typical and normal condition of the Church, which should be everywhere
      reproduced. Evidently the heathen man is not treated fairly if we encumber
      our message with unnecessary requirements.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The ancient Church had its "selection of fundamentals"&mdash;a kind of
      simple and limited expansion of the Apostles' Creed for doctrine and
      Apostolic practice for discipline.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Notoriously the Eastern and Western mind misunderstood one another. The
      speculative East and the practical West could not be made to think after
      the same fashion. The Church of Christ has room for both.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now any one can see what mistakes we have made in India. Few men think
      themselves into the state of the Eastern mind, feel the difficulties of
      the Asiatic, and divine the way in which Christianity should be presented
      to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We seek to denationalise these races, as far as I can see; whereas we
      ought surely to change as little as possible&mdash;only what is clearly
      incompatible with the simplest form of Christian teaching and practice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't mean that we are to compromise truth, but to study the native
      character, and not present the truth in an unnecessarily unattractive
      form.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't we overlay it a good deal with human traditions, and still more
      often take it for granted that what suits us must be necessary for them,
      and vice versa.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So many of our missionaries are not accustomed, not taught to think of
      these things. They grow up with certain modes of thought, hereditary
      notions, and they seek to reproduce these, no respect being had to the
      utterly dissimilar character and circumstances of the heathen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think much about all this. Sir William Martin and I have much talk
      about it; and the strong practical mind of the Primate, I hope, would keep
      me straight if I was disposed to theorise, which I don't think is the
      case.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But Christianity is the religion for humanity at large. It takes in all
      shades and diversities of character, race, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The substratum of it is, so to say, inordinate and coextensive with the
      substratum of humanity&mdash;all men must receive that. Each set of men
      must also receive many thing of secondary, yet of very great importance
      for them; but in this class there will be differences according to the
      characteristic differences of men throughout the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't explain myself fully; but, dear Uncle, I think there is something
      in what I am trying to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want to see more discrimination, more sense of the due proportion, the
      relative importance of the various parts which make up the sum of extra
      teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is so great want of order in the methods so often adopted, want of
      arrangement, and proper sequence, and subordination of one to another.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The heathen man will assume some arbitrary dictate of a missionary to be
      of equal authority and importance with a moral command of God, unless you
      take care. Of course the missionary ought not to attempt to impose any
      arbitrary rule at all; but many missionaries do, and usually justify such
      conduct on the ground of their "exceptional position."
    </p>
    <p>
      'But one must go much further. If I tell a man just beginning to listen,
      two or three points of Christian faith, or two or three rules of Christian
      life, without any orderly connection, I shall but puzzle him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take, e.g., our English Sunday, I am far from wishing to change the
      greater part of the method of observing it in England.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope the Melanesian Christians may learn to keep holy the Lord's Day.
      But am I to begin my teaching of a wild Solomon Islander at that end; when
      he has not learned the evil of breaking habitually the sixth, seventh, and
      eighth Commandments?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I notice continually the tendency of the teaching of the very men who
      denounce "forms" to produce formation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is nearest to the native mind; it generates hypocrisy and mere outward
      observance of certain rules, which, during the few years that the people
      remain docile on their first acceptance of the new teaching, they are
      content to submit to.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see the great difficulty of making out all this. It necessitates the
      leaving so very much to the discretion of the pioneer. Ergo the missionary
      must not be the man who is not good enough for ordinary work in England,
      but the men whom England even does not produce in large numbers with some
      power of dealing with these questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is much better and safer to have a regular well-known rule to act by;
      but I don't see how you can give me, e.g., precise directions. It seems to
      me that you must use great care in selecting your man, and then trust him
      fully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope it is not an excess of self-conceit and self-reliance which makes
      me pass by, rather lightly, I confess, some of the advice that very
      well-intentioned people occasionally volunteer to missionaries. I have had
      (D. Gr.) the Primate and Sir William Martin's men, who know what
      heathenism is, and the latter of whom has deeply studied the character of
      the various races of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mean that when some one said, "Do you really mean to place those savage
      Melanesians among the immaculate Pitcairners?" the natural answer seemed
      to me to be, "I am not aware that you ever saw either a Pitcairner or a
      Melanesian." I thought it rather impertinent. The truth is, that the great
      proportion of our Melanesian scholars in our school, i.e., not standing
      alone, but helped by the discipline of the school, are quite competent to
      set an example to the average Pitcairners. But this I mark only as an
      illustration of my meaning. Occasionally I hear of some book or sermon or
      speech in which sound views (as I venture to call them) are propounded on
      these points.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always your loving and grateful Nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The next letter was called forth by my sorrowful communication of the
      shattered state of both my dear friends; of whom, one, at the very time
      that my Cousin wrote, was already gone to his rest, having been mercifully
      spared the loneliness and grief we had feared for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Andrew's: April 24, 1866.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;I write a line at once in reply to a letter of
      January 29, for I see that a great sorrow is hanging over you, is perhaps
      already fallen on you, and I would fain say my word of sympathy, possibly
      of comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One, perhaps, of the great blessings that a person in my position enjoys
      is that he must perforce see through the present gloom occasioned by loss
      of present companionship on to the joy beyond. I hear of the death of dear
      Uncle, and friends, and even of that loving and holy Father of mine, and
      somehow it seems all peace, and calmness, and joy. It would not be so were
      I in England, to actually experience the sense of loss, to see the vacant
      seat, and miss the well-known voice; but it is (as I see) a great and most
      blessed alleviation to the loss of their society here below. You feel that
      when those loving hearts at Hursley can no longer be a stay and comfort to
      you here, you will have a sense almost of desolation pressing on you. You
      must, we all have, many trials and some sorrows, and I suppose Hursley has
      always been to you a city of refuge and house of rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I think the anticipation is harder than the reality. For him, but how
      can I speak of such as he is? Why should we feel anxiety? Surely he is
      just the man upon whom we should expect some special suffering, which is
      but some special mark of love and (may we not say in such a case?) of
      approbation. Some special aid to a very close conformity to the mind and
      character of Christ, to be sent in special love and mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I always seem to think that in the case of good men the suffering is the
      sure earnest of special nearness to God. It surely&mdash;if one may dare
      so to speak, and the case of Job warrants it, and the great passage
      "Simon, Simon, Satan hath desired to have you" (all)&mdash;is true that
      God is glorified in the endurance of sufferings which He lays upon the
      saints. And if dear Mr. Keble must suffer this last blow, as all through
      his life he has felt the care of the Churches pressing sorely on him, and
      has even had to comfort the weary, and guide the wayward, and to endure
      disappointment, and to restrain the over zealotish, and reprove the
      thoughtless, and bear in his bosom the infirmities of many people&mdash;why
      must we be unhappy about him, and why mourn for ourselves? God forbid! It
      is only one mark of the cross stamped upon him, only one more draught of
      the cup of the lacking measures of the afflictions of Christ. But you
      must, more than I, know and feel all this; and it is only in attempting to
      put before your eyes your own thoughts, that I have written this. For,
      indeed, I do sympathise with you, and I think how to me, who knew him so
      little yet yield to no one in deep reverence and love for him, his
      departure would be almost what the passing away of one of those who had
      seen the Lord must have been to those of old time; yet our time is not so
      very long now, and may be short, and we have had this blessed example for
      a long time, and there is on all accounts far more cause for joy than for
      sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must not think me unkind to Miss Mackenzie, because I have written to
      Fan to say that my letters and anecdotes are not to be fishes to swim in
      her "Net." It may be unwise in me to write all that kind of thing, but it
      does such an infinity of harm by its reflex action upon us who are engaged
      in this work. And I can write brotherly letters, if they are to be treated
      as public property. I could not trust my own brother to make extracts from
      my letters. No one in England can be a judge of the mischief that the
      letters occasion printed contrary to my wish by friends. We in the Mission
      think them so infinitely absurd, one-sided, exaggerated, &amp;c., though
      we don't mean to make them so when we write them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are all well, thank God, except a good fellow called Walter Hotaswol,
      from Matlavo (Saddle Island), who is in a decline. He has had two bad
      haemorrhages; but he is patient, simple-minded, quite content to die, and
      not doubting at all his Father's love, and his Saviour's merits, so I
      cannot grieve for him, though he was the one, humanly speaking, to have
      led the way in his home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know that I sympathise with all your anxieties about Church matters.
      Parliamentary legislation would be the greatest evil of all. All your
      troubles only show that synodical action, and I believe with the laity in
      the Synod, is the only cure for these troubles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless you, my dear Cousin,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      To the sisters he wrote at the same time:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hear from Miss Yonge that Mrs. Keble is very ill&mdash;dying. But, as I
      wrote to her, why should such things grieve us? He will soon rejoin her,
      and so it is all peace and comfort. He was seventy-five, I think, last St.
      Mark's Day, and I began a letter to him, but it was not fair to him to
      give him the trouble of reading it, and I tore it up. He knows without it
      how I do love and revere him, and I cannot pluck up courage to ask for
      some little book which he has used, that there may be a sort of odour of
      sanctity about it, just as Bishop Mackenzie's Thomas a Kempis, with him on
      the Zambesi, is on my table now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Before going forth with this 'lonely watcher' upon his voyage, the
      description of this season's work with his scholars must be given from a
      Report which he brought himself to write for the Eton Association. After
      saying how his efforts were directed to the forming a number of native
      clergy in time to work among their own people, he continues:&mdash;'When
      uncivilised races come into contact with civilised men, they must either
      be condemned to a hopeless position of inferiority, or they must be raised
      out of their state of ignorance and vice by appealing to those powers
      within them which God intended them to use, and the use of which will
      place them by His blessing in the possession of whatever good things may
      be denoted by the words Religion and Civilisation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Either we may say to our Melanesian scholars, "You can't expect to be
      like us: you must not suppose that you can ever cease to be dependent on
      us, you must be content always to do as you are told by us, to be like
      children, as in malice so in knowledge; you can never be missionaries, you
      may become assistant teachers to English missionaries whom you must
      implicitly obey, you must do work which it would not be our place to do,
      you must occupy all the lower and meaner offices of our society;"&mdash;or,
      if we do not say this (and, indeed, no one would be likely to say it), yet
      we may show by our treatment of our scholars that we think and mean it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or we may say what was, e.g., said to a class of nineteen scholars who
      were reading Acts ix.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Did our Lord tell Saul all that he was to do?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What! not even when He appeared to him in that wonderful way from
      Heaven?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What did the Lord say to him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"That he was to go into Damascus, and there it would be told him what he
      was to do."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What means did the Lord use to tell Saul what he was to do?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"He sent a man to tell him."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Who was he?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Ananias."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Do we know much about him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No, only that he was sent with a message to Saul to tell him the Lord's
      will concerning him and to baptize him."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What means did the Lord employ to make His will known to Saul?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"He sent a disciple to tell him." '"Did He tell him Himself immediately?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No, He sent a man to tell him."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Mention another instance of God's working in the same way, recorded in
      the Acts."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The case of Cornelius, who was told by the angel to send for Peter."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The angel then was not sent to tell Cornelius the way of salvation?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No, God sent Peter to do that."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Jesus Christ began to do the same thing when He was on earth, did He
      not, even while He was Himself teaching and working miracles?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes; He sent the twelve Apostles and the seventy disciples."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"But what is the greatest instance of all, the greatest proof to us that
      God chooses to declare His will through man to man?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"God sent His own Son to become man."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Could He not have converted the whole world in a moment to the obedience
      of faith by some other way?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"But what did He in His wisdom choose to do?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"He sent His Son to be born of the Virgin Mary, to become man, and to
      walk on this earth as a real man, and to teach men, and to die for men."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What does Jesus Christ call us men?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"His brethren." '"Who is our Mediator?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The Man Christ Jesus."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What means does God employ to make His will known to us?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"He uses men to teach men."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Can they do this by themselves?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No, but God makes them able."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"How have you heard the Gospel?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Because God sent you to us."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"And now, listen. How are all your people still in ignorance to hear it?
      What have I often told you about that?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whereupon the scholars looked shy, and some said softly, "We must teach
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes, indeed you must!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so the lesson ended with questioning them on the great duty and
      privilege of prayer for God's Holy Spirit to give them both the will and
      the power to do the work to which God is calling them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So we constantly tell them "God has already been very merciful to you, in
      that He has called you out of darkness into His marvellous light. He has
      enabled you to receive the knowledge of His will, and to understand your
      relations to Him. He has taught you to believe in Him, to pray to Him, to
      hope for salvation through the merits of His Son's death and resurrection.
      He has made you feel something of the power of His love, and has taught
      you the duty of loving Him and serving your brother. He calls upon you now
      to rouse yourself to a sense of your true position, to use the gifts which
      He has given you to His glory and the good of your brethren. Don't suppose
      that you are unable to do this. You are unable to do it, as you were
      unable to believe and love Him by yourselves, but He gives you strength
      for this very purpose that you may be able to do it. You can do it through
      Christ, who strengtheneth you. Our fathers were not more able to teach
      their people once than you to teach your people now!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'We make no distinction whatever between English and Melanesian members of
      the Mission as such. No Melanesian is excluded from any office of trust.
      No classification is made of higher and lower kinds of work, of work
      befitting a white man and work befitting a black man. English and
      Melanesian scholars or teachers work together in the school,
      printing-office, dairy, kitchen, farm. The senior clergyman of the Mission
      labours most of all with his own hands at the work which is sometimes
      described as menial work; and it is contrary to the fundamental principle
      of the Mission that anyone should connect with the idea of white man the
      right to fag a black boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Young men and lads come to us and say, "Let me do that. I can't write the
      languages, or do many things you or Mr. Pritt or Mr. Palmer do, so let me
      scrub your floor, or brush your shoes, or fetch some water." And of course
      we let them do so, for the doing it is accompanied by no feeling of
      degradation in their minds; they have seen us always doing these things,
      and not requiring them to do them as if it were the natural work for them,
      because they are black, and not proper for us, because we are white.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last night, a young man, sitting by the fire, said to the Bishop, "They
      want you to stop with them in my land."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I wish with all my heart I could."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes, I know, you must go to so many places."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"But they are different in your land now."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Oh! yes, they don't fight now as they used to do; they don't go about
      armed now."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Well, that is a thing to be thankful for. What is the reason of it, do
      you think? "
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why they know about you, and see you now and then, and Henry Tagalana
      talked to them, and I talked a little to them, and they asked me about our
      ways here, and they want to learn."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Well, there are now five of you from your island, and you must try hard
      to learn, that you may teach them, for remember you must do it, if God
      spares your life."'
    </p>
    <p>
      'During the year 1865 a great advance was made in the industrial
      department of our work. About seventeen acres of land were taken in hand
      and worked by Mr. Pritt, with the Melanesian lads. We have our own dairy
      of thirteen cows, and, besides supplying the whole Mission party,
      numbering in all seventy-seven persons, with abundance of milk, we sell
      considerable quantities of butter. We grow, of course, our own potatoes
      and vegetables, and maize, &amp;c., for our cows. The farm and dairy work
      affords another opportunity for teaching our young people to acquire
      habits of industry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Cooking, farm, gardening, dairy-work, setting out the table, &amp;c., were
      all honourable occupations, and of great importance in teaching
      punctuality and regularity, and the various arts and decencies of life to
      the youths, who were in time to implant good habits in their native homes.
      Their natural docility made them peculiarly easy to manage and train while
      in hand; the real difficulty was that their life was so entirely different
      from their home, that there was no guessing how deep the training went,
      and, on every voyage, some fishes slipped through the meshes of the net,
      though some returned again, and others never dropped from their Bishop's
      hands. But he was becoming anxious to spare some of his scholars the trial
      of a return to native life; and, as the season had been healthy, he
      ventured on leaving twenty-seven pupils at St. Andrew's with Mr. and Mrs.
      Pritt, among them George and Sarah Sarawia.
    </p>
    <p>
      After Trinity Sunday, May 27, the 'Southern Cross' sailed, and the outward
      voyage gave leisure for the following letter to Prof. Max Muller,
      explaining why he could not make his knowledge of languages of more
      benefit to philology while thus absorbed in practical work:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Southern Cross," off Norfolk Ireland: June 6, 1866.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Friend,&mdash;I am about to tire your patience heavily. For I
      must find you some reasons for doing so little in making known these
      Melanesian dialects, and that will be wearisome for you to read; and,
      secondly, I cannot put down clearly and consecutively what I want to say.
      I have so very little time for thinking out, and working at any one
      subject continuously, that my whole habit of mind becomes, I fear,
      inaccurate and desultory. I have so very many and so very different
      occupations, and so much anxiety and so many interruptions, as the
      "friction" that attends the working, of a new and somewhat untried
      machine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know that we are few in number; indeed (Codrington being absent) I
      have but two clergymen with me, and two young men who may be ordained
      by-and-by. Besides, had I the twenty troublesome men, whom you wish to
      banish into these regions, what use would they or any men be until they
      had learnt their work? And it must fall to me to teach them, and that
      takes again much of my time; so that, as a matter of fact, there are many
      things that I must do, even when all is going on smoothly; and should
      sickness come, then, of course, my days and nights are spent in nursing
      poor lads, to whom no one else can talk, cheering up poor fellows seized
      with sudden nervous terror, giving food to those who will take it from no
      one else, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then the whole management of the Mission must fall upon me; though I am
      most thankful to say that for some time Mr. Pritt has relieved me from the
      charge of all domestic and industrial works. He does everything of that
      kind, and does it admirably, so that our institution really is a
      well-ordered industrial school, in which kitchen work, dairy work, farm
      work, printing, clothes making and mending, &amp;c., are all carried on,
      without the necessity of having any foreign importation of servants, who
      would be sure to do harm, both by their ideas as to perquisites (=
      stealing in the minds of our Melanesians), and by introducing the idea of
      paid labour; whereas now we all work together, and no one counts any work
      degrading, and still less does any one qua white consider himself entitled
      to fag a Melanesian.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Tilly, R.N., has also quite relieved me from my duties as skipper,
      and I have no trouble about marine stores, shipping seamen, navigating the
      vessel now. I cannot be too thankful for this; it, saves me time, anxiety,
      and worry; yet much remains that I must do, which is not connected with
      peculiar work directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't refuse the Bishop of New Zealand when he presses me (for want of
      a better man) to be trustee of properties, and to engage in managing the
      few educational institutions we have. I can't refuse to take some share in
      English clerical work while on shore; indeed, in 1865, my good friend
      Archdeacon Lloyd being ill, I took his parish (one and a half hour distant
      from Kohimarama), the most important parish in Auckland, for some three
      months; not slacking my Melanesian work, though I could only avoid going
      back by hard application, and could make no progress. Then I must attend
      our General Synod; and all these questions concerning the colonial
      churches take some time to master, and yet I must know what is going on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I must carry on all the correspondence of the Mission. I am always
      writing letters. Every £5 from any part of New Zealand or Australia I must
      acknowledge; and everyone wants information, anecdotes, &amp;c., which it
      vexes my soul to have to supply, but who else can do it? Then I keep all
      the accounts, very complicated, as you would say if you saw my big ledger.
      And I don't like to be altogether behindhand in the knowledge of
      theological questions, and people sometimes write to me, and their letters
      need to be answered carefully. Besides, take my actual time spent in
      teaching. Shall I give you a day at Kohimarama?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I get in the full summer months an hour for reading by being dressed at
      5.30 A.M. At 5.30 I see the lads washing, &amp;c., 7 A.M. breakfast all
      together, in hall, 7.30 chapel, 8-9.30 school, 9.30-12.30 industrial work.
      During this time I have generally half an hour with Mr. Pritt about
      business matters, and proof sheets are brought me, yet I get a little time
      for preparing lessons. 12.45 short service in chapel, 1 dinner, 2-3 Greek
      Testament with English young men, 3-4 classics with ditto, 5 tea, 6.30
      evening chapel, 7-8.30 evening school with divers classes in rotation or
      with candidates for Baptism or Confirmation, 8.30-9 special instruction to
      more advanced scholars, only a few. 9-10 school with two other English lay
      assistants. Add to all this, visitors interrupting me from 4-5,
      correspondence, accounts, trustee business, sermons, nursing sick boys,
      and all the many daily unexpected little troubles that must be smoothed
      down, and questions inquired into, and boys' conduct investigated, and
      what becomes of linguistics? So much for my excuse for my small progress
      in languages! Don't think all this egotistical; it is necessary to make
      you understand my position.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I had spare time, leisure for working at any special work, perhaps
      eleven years of this kind of life have unfitted me for steady sustained
      thought. And you know well I bring but slender natural qualifications to
      the task. A tolerably true ear and good memory for words, and now
      something of the instinctive insight into new tongues, but that is chiefly
      from continual practice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But when I attempt to systematise, I find endless ramifications of
      cognate dialects rushing through my brain, by their very multitude
      overwhelming me, and though I see the affinities and can make practical
      use of them, I don't know how to state them on paper, where to begin, how
      to put another person in my position.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Again, for observation of the rapid changes in these dialects, I have not
      much opportunity. For no one in Melanesia can be my informant. It is not
      easy where so many dialects must be known for practical purposes, for the
      introductory part of Mission work, to talk to some wild naked old fellow,
      and to make him understand what I am anxious to ascertain. It is a matter
      that has no interest for him, he never thought of it, he doesn't know my
      meaning, what have we in common? How can I rouse him from his utter
      indifference, even if I know his language so well as to talk easily, not
      to a scholar of my own, but to an elderly man, with none but native ideas
      in his head?
    </p>
    <p>
      'All that I can do is to learn many dialects of a given archipelago,
      present their existing varieties, and so work back to the original
      language. This, to some extent, has been done in the Banks group, and in
      the eastern part of the Solomon Isles. But directly I get so far as this,
      I am recalled to the practical necessity of using the knowledge of the
      several dialects rather to make known God's truth to the heathen than to
      inform literati of the process of dialectic variation. Don't mistake me,
      my dear friend, or suspect me of silly sentimentalism. But you can easily
      understand what it is to feel "God has given to me only of all Christian
      men the power of speaking to this or that nation, and, moreover, that is
      the work He has sent me to do." Often, I don't deny, I should like the
      other better. It is very pleasant to shirk my evening class, e.g. and
      spend the time with Sir William Martin, discussing some point of
      Melanesian philosophy. But then my dear lads have lost two hours of
      Christian instruction, and that won't do.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't need to be urged to do more in working out their languages. I am
      quite aware of the duty of doing all that I can in that way, and I wish to
      do it; but there are only twenty-four hours in the day and night together!
      I feel that it is a part of my special work, for each grammar and
      dictionary that I can write opens out the language to some other than
      myself. But I am now apologising rather for my fragmentary way of writing
      what I do write by saying that what I find enough, with my help given in
      school to enable one of my party to learn a dialect, I am almost obliged
      to regard as a measure of the time that I ought to spend on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Another thing, I have no outline provided for me, which I can fill up. My
      own clear impression is that to attempt to follow the analogy of our
      complicated Greek and Latin grammars would not only involve certain
      failure, but would mislead people altogether. I don't want to be hunting
      after a Melanesian paulo-post-futurum. I had rather say, "All men qua men
      think, and have a power of expressing their thoughts. They have wants and
      express them. They use many different forms of speech in making that
      statement, if we look superficially at the matter, not so if we look into
      it," and so on. Then, discarding the ordinary arrangement of grammars,
      explain the mode of thought, the peculiar method of thinking upon matters
      of common interest, in the mind of the Melanesian, as exhibited in his
      language. An Englishman says, "When I get there, it will be night." But a
      Pacific Islander says, "I am there, it is night." The one says, "Go on, it
      will soon be dark." The other, "Go on, it has become already night."
      Anyone sees that the one possesses the power of realising the future as
      present, or past; the other now whatever it may have been once, does not
      exercise such power. A companion calls me at 5.30 A.M., with the words,
      "Eke! me gong veto," (Hullo! it is night already). He means, "Why, we
      ought to be off, we shall never reach the end of our journey before dark."
      But how neatly and prettily he expresses his thought! I assure you,
      civilised languages, for common conversational purposes needed by
      travellers, &amp;c., are clumsy contrivances! Of course you know all this
      a hundred times better than I do. I only illustrate my idea of a grammar
      as a means of teaching others the form of the mould in which the
      Melanesian's mind is cast. I think I ought to go farther, and seek for
      certain categories, under which thought may be classified (so to say), and
      beginning with the very simplest work on to the more complicated powers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I haven't the head to do this; and suppose that I did make such a
      framework, how am I to fill it in so as to be intelligible to outsiders?
      For practical purposes, I give numerals, personal, possessive, and
      demonstrative pronouns, the mode of qualifying nouns, e.g., some languages
      interpose a monosyllable between the substantive and adjective, others do
      not. The words used (as it is called) as prepositions and adverbs, the
      mode of changing a neuter verb into a transitive or causative verb,
      usually by a word prefixed, which means do or make, e.g., die, do-die,
      do-to-the-death, him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I teach orally how the intonation, accentuation, pause in the
      utterance, gesticulation, supply the place of stops, marks of
      interrogation, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then giving certain nouns, verbs, &amp;c., make my English pupils
      construct sentences; then give them a vocabulary and genuine native
      stories, not translations at all, least of all of religious books, which
      contain very few native ideas, but stories of sharks, cocoa-nuts, canoes,
      fights, &amp;c. This is the apparatus. This gives but little idea of a
      Melanesian dialect to you. I know it, and am anxious to do more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This last season I have had some three or four months, during which I
      determined that I must refuse to take so much English work, &amp;c. I sat
      and growled in my den, and of course rather vexed people, and perhaps, for
      which I should be most heartily grieved, my dear friend and leader, the
      Bishop of New Zealand. But I stuck to my work. I wrote about a dozen
      papers of phrases in as many dialects, to show the mode of expressing in
      those dialects what we express by adverbs and prepositions, &amp;c. This
      is, of course, the difficult part of a language for a stranger to find
      out. I also printed three, and have three more nearly finished in MS.,
      vocabularies of about 600 words with a true native sehdia on each word.
      The mere writing (for much was written twice over) took a long time. And
      there is this gained by these vocabularies for practical purposes: these
      are (with more exceptions, it is true, than I intended) the words which
      crop up most readily in a Melanesian mind. Much time I have wasted, and
      would fain save others from wasting, in trying to form a Melanesian mind
      into a given direction into which it ought, as I supposed, to have
      travelled, but which nevertheless it refused to follow. Just ten years'
      experience has, of course, taught me a good deal of the minds of these
      races; and when I catch a new fellow, as wild as a hawk, and set to work
      at a new language, it is a great gain to have even partially worked out
      the problem, "What words shall I try to get from this fellow?" Now I go
      straight to my mark, or rather I am enabling, I hope, my young friends
      with me to do so, for of course, I have learnt to do so myself, more or
      less, for some time past. Many words may surprise you, and many
      alterations I should make in any revision. I know a vast number of words
      not used in these vocabularies, in some languages I daresay five times the
      number, but I had a special reason for writing only these. The rest must
      come, if I live, by-and-by.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course these languages are very poor in respect of words belonging to
      civilised and literary and religious life, but exceedingly rich in all
      that pertains to the needs and habits of men circumstanced as they are. I
      draw naturally this inference, "Don't be in any hurry to translate, and
      don't attempt to use words as (assumed) equivalents of abstract ideas.
      Don't devise modes of expression unknown to the language as at present in
      use. They can't understand, and therefore don't use words to express
      definitions."
    </p>
    <p>
      But, as everywhere, our Lord gives us the model. A certain lawyer asked
      Him for a definition of his neighbour, but He gave no definition, only He
      spoke a simple and touching parable. So teach, not a technical word, but
      an actual thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do I write all this to you? It is wasting your time. But I prose on.&mdash;(A
      sheet follows on the structure of the languages.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I have inflicted a volume on you. We are almost becalmed after a
      weary fortnight of heavy weather, in which we have been knocked about in
      every direction in our tight little 90-ton schooner. And my head is hardly
      steady yet, so excuse a long letter, or rather long chatty set of
      desultory remarks, from
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your old affectionate Friend,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      A little scene from Mr. Atkin's journal shows how he had learnt to talk to
      natives. He went ashore with the Bishop and some others at Sesaki for
      yams:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has been by far the pleasantest day of the kind that I have seen here.
      The people are beginning to understand that they can do no better than
      trade fairly with us, and to-day they on the whole behaved very well. A
      very big fellow had been ringing all the changes between commanding and
      entreating me to give him a hatchet (I was holding the trade bag). When he
      found it was no use, he said, "I was a bad man, and never gave anything."
      I said "Yes, I was." He said the Bishops were very good men, they gave
      liberally. He had better go and ask the Bishop for something, for he was a
      good man, though I was not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After landing Mr. Palmer at Mota, the vessel went onto the Solomon Isles,
      reaching Bauro on the 27th:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'About 8.30 in the evening the boat was lowered, and the party pulled
      towards the village, which was the home of Taroniara, in a fine clear
      moonlit night, by the fires which people had lit for the people on shore,
      and directed by Taroniara himself to the opening in the reef. They landed
      in the midst of a group of dark figures, some standing in a brook, some by
      the side under a large spreading tree, round a fire fed by dry cocoa-nut
      leaves; and in the background were tall cocoa-nuts with their gracefully
      drooping plumes, and the moon behind shining through them made the shade
      seem darker and deeper as the flashing crests of the surf, breaking on the
      reef, made the heaving sea beyond look murkier. It was a sight worth going
      a long way to see,' so says Mr. Atkin's journal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next sight was, however, still more curious. The Bishop relented so
      far towards 'the Net,' as to write an account of it on purpose for it.
      Ysabel Island is, like almost all the rest, divided among many small
      communities of warlike habits. And some years previously the people of
      Mahaga, the place with which he was best acquainted, had laid an ambush
      for those of Hogirano, killed a good many, and, cutting off their heads,
      had placed them in a row upon stones, and danced round them in a
      victorious suit of white-coral lime. However, a more powerful tribe, not
      long after, came down upon Mahaga and fearfully avenged the massacre of
      Hogirano. All were slain who could not escape into the bush; and when the
      few survivors, after days and nights of hunger, ventured back, they found
      the dwellings burnt, the fruit trees cut down, the yam and taro grounds
      devastated, and more than a hundred headless bodies of their kindred lying
      scattered about.
    </p>
    <p>
      This outrage had led to the erection of places of refuge in the tops of
      trees; and Bishop Patteson, who had three Mahagan scholars, went ashore,
      with the hope of passing the night in one of these wonderful places, where
      the people always slept, though by day they lived in the ordinary open
      bamboo huts.
    </p>
    <p>
      After landing in a mangrove swamp, and wading through deep mud, he found
      that the Mahaga people had removed from their old site, and had built a
      strong fortification near the sea; and close above, so as to be reached by
      ladders resting on the wall, were six large tree-houses.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been raining heavily for a day or two, and the paths were so deep
      in mud that the bed of a water-course was found preferable to them. The
      bush had been cleared for some distance before the steep rocky mound where
      the village stood, surrounded by a high wall of stones, in which one
      narrow entrance was left, approached by a fallen trunk of a tree lying
      over a hollow. The huts were made of bamboo canes, and the floors, raised
      above the ground, were nearly covered with mats and a kind of basket work.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tree-houses, six in number, were upon the tops of trees of great
      height, 50 feet round at the base, and all branches cleared off till near
      the summit, where two or three grew out at right angles, something after
      the manner of an Italian stone pine:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'From the top of the wall the ladder that led to one of these houses was
      60 feet long, but it was not quite upright, and the tree was growing at
      some little distance from the bottom of the rock, and the distance by a
      plumb line from the floor of the verandah to the ground on the lower side
      of the tree was 94 feet. The floor of the house, which is made first, was
      23 feet long and about 11 broad; a narrow verandah is left at each end,
      and the inside length of the house is 18 feet, the breadth 10 feet, the
      height to the ridge pole 6 feet. The floor was of bamboo matted, the roof
      and sides of palm-leaf thatch. The ladders were remarkable contrivances: a
      pole in the centre, from 4 to 6 inches in diameter, to which were lashed
      by vines cross pieces of wood, about two feet long. To steady these and
      hold on by were double shrouds of supple-jacks. The rungs of the ladder
      were at unequal distances, 42 upon the 50 feet ladder.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop and Pasvorang, who had gone ashore together, beheld men, women,
      and children running up and down these ladders, and walking about the bare
      branches, trusting entirely to their feet and not touching with their
      hands. The Bishop, in his wet slippery shoes, did not think it right to
      run the risk of an accident: and though Pasvorang, who was as much at home
      as a sailor among the ropes of the 'Southern Cross,' made the ascent, he
      came down saying, 'I was so afraid, my legs shook. Don't you go, going
      aloft is nothing to it;' but the people could not understand any dread;
      and when the Bishop said, 'I can't go up there. I am neither bird nor bat,
      and I have no wings if I fall,' they thought him joking. At the same time
      he saw a woman with a load on her back, quietly walking up a ladder to
      another tree, not indeed so lofty as that Pasvorang had tried, but as if
      it were the most natural thing in the world, and without attempting to
      catch hold with her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At night,' says the Bishop, 'as I lay ignominiously on the ground in a
      hut, I heard the songs of the women aloft as voices from the clouds, while
      the loud croaking of the frogs, the shrill noise of countless cicadas, the
      scream of cockatoos and parrots, the cries of birds of many kinds, and the
      not unreasonable fear of scorpions, all combined to keep me awake. Solemn
      thoughts pass through the mind at such times, and from time to time I
      spoke to the people who were sleeping in the hut with me. It rained
      heavily in the night, and I was not sorry to find myself at 7 A.M. on
      board the schooner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day was spent in doing the honours of the ship, a crowd on board
      all day; and on July 2 the Bishop landed again with Mr. Atkin, and mounted
      up to this wonderful nest, where all these measurements were made. It
      proved much more agreeable to look at from below than to inhabit 'the low
      steaming bamboo huts&mdash;the crowds, the dirt, the squalling of babies&mdash;you
      can't sit or stand, or touch anything that is not grimy and sooty and
      muddy. It is silly to let these things really affect one, only that it now
      seems rather to knock me up. After such a day and night I am very tired,
      come back to our little ship as to a palace, wash, and sit down on a
      clean, if not a soft stool, and am free for a little while from continual
      noise and the necessity of making talk in an imperfectly known language.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is really curious to see how in some way our civilised mode of life
      unfits one for living among these races. It is not to be denied that the
      want of such occupations as we are employed in is a large cause of their
      troubles. What are they to do during the long hours of night, and on wet,
      pouring days? They can't read, they can't see in their huts to do any
      work, making baskets, &amp;c. They must lie about, talking scandal and
      acquiring listless indolent habits. Then comes a wild reaction. The
      younger people like excitement as much as our young men like hunting,
      fishing, shooting, &amp;c. How can they get this? Why, they must quarrel
      and fight, and so they pass their time. It does seem almost impossible to
      do much for people so circumstanced; yet it was much the same in Mota and
      elsewhere, where things are altered for the better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was bad and trying weather, and it was well to have only two old Banks
      Islanders on board, besides three Ysabel lads. The Bishop had plenty of
      time for writing; and for the first time in his life 'pronounced himself
      forward with that Report which was always on his mind.' He goes on: 'I
      read a good deal, but I don't say that my mind is very active all the
      time, and I have some schooling. Yet it is not easy to do very much mental
      work. I think that I feel the heat more than I used to do, but that may be
      only my fancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You meantime are, I hope, enjoying fine summer weather. Certainly it must
      be a charming place that you have, close to that grand Church and grand
      scenery. I think my idea of a cosy home is rather that of a cottage in the
      Isle of Wight, or, better still, a house near such a Cathedral as Wells,
      in one of the cottages close to the clear streams that wind through and
      about the Cathedral precincts. But I can form no real notions about such
      things. Only I am pretty sure that there is little happiness without real
      hard work. I do long sometimes for a glorious Cathedral service, for the
      old chants, anthems, not for "functions" and "processions," &amp;c. I have
      read Freeman's pamphlet on "Ritual" with interest; he really knows what he
      writes about, and has one great object and a worthy one, the restoration
      of the universal practice of weekly communion as the special Sunday
      service. That all our preachifying is a wide departure from the very idea
      of worship is self-evident, when it is made more than a necessary part of
      the religious observance of the Lord's Day, and catechising is worth far
      more than preaching (in the technical sense of the word).'
    </p>
    <p>
      A first visit was paid to Savo; where numerous canoes came out to meet
      them, one a kind of state galley, with the stem and stern twelve feet
      high, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and ornamented with white shells (most
      likely the ovum or poached egg), and containing the chief men of the
      island. The people spoke the Ysabel language, and the place seemed
      promising.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some little time was spent in beating up to Bauro; where the Bishop again
      landed at Taroniara's village, and slept in his hut, which was as
      disagreeable as all such places were:&mdash;'Such a night always disturbs
      me for a time, throws everything out of regular working order; but it
      always pays, the people like it, and it shows a confidence in them which
      helps us on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was disappointed though in the morning, when Taroniara declined to come
      with me to this place.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My people say, "Why do you go away?"&mdash;the old stupid way of getting
      out of an engagement.' However, two others came to 'this place,' which was
      a hut in the village of Wango, which the Bishop had hired for ten days for
      the rent of a hatchet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very sufficient rent too, you would say, if you could see the place. I
      can only stand upright under the ridge pole, the whole of the oblong is
      made of bamboo, with a good roof that kept out a heavy shower last night.
      There is a fresh stream of water within fifteen yards, where I bathed at 9
      P.M. yesterday; and as I managed to get rid of strangers by 8.30, it was
      not so difficult to manage a shift into a clean and dry sleeping shirt,
      and then, lying down on Aunt William's cork-bed (my old travelling
      companion), I slept very fairly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'People about the hut at earliest dawn; and the day seems long, the
      sustained effort of talking, the heat, the crowd, and the many little
      things that should not but do operate as an annoyance, all tire one very
      much. But I hope that by degrees I may get opportunities of talking about
      the matter that I come to talk about. Just now the trading with the
      vessel, which is detained here by the weather, and surprise at my
      half-dozen books, &amp;c., prevent any attention being paid to anything
      else.
    </p>
    <p>
      '7 P.M.&mdash;The vessel went off at 10.30 A.M. I felt for a little while
      rather forlorn, and a little sinking at the heart. You see I confess it
      all, how silly! Can't I after so many years bear to be left in one sense
      alone? I read a little of you know what Book, and then found the feeling
      pass entirely away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, more than that, the extreme friendliness of the people, the real
      kindness was pleasant to me. One man brought his child, "The child of us
      two, Bishop." Another man, "These cocoa-nut trees are the property of us
      two, remember." A third, "When you want yams, don't you buy them, tell
      me."
    </p>
    <p>
      'But far better still. Many times already to-day have I spoken to the
      people; they have so far listened that they say, "Take this boy, and this
      boy, and this boy. We see now why you don't want big men, we see now that
      you can't stop here long, what for you wish for lads whom you may teach,
      we see that you want them for a long time. Keep these lads two years."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes, two or three or four. By-and-by you will understand more and more
      my reason."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then came the talks that you too may experience when dealing with some
      neglected child in London, or it may be in the country; but which, under
      the cocoa-nut tree, with dark naked men, have a special impressiveness. It
      was the old lesson, of the Eternal and Universal Father, who has not left
      Himself without witness in that He gives us all rain from Heaven, &amp;c.,
      and of our ingratitude, and His love; of His coming down to point out the
      way of life, and of His Death and Rising again; of another world,
      Resurrection, and Judgment. All interrupted, now and then, by exclamations
      of surprise, laughter, or by some one beginning to talk about something
      that jarred sadly on one's ear, and yet was but natural. But I do hope
      that a week may pass not unprofitably. In one sense, I shall no doubt be
      glad when it is over; but I think that it may, by God's great goodness, be
      a preparation for something more to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last night, my little hired hut being crowded as usual, they all cried
      out at once "Numu" (earthquake). I should not the least have known that
      anything had occurred. I said I thought it was a pig pushing against the
      bamboo wall of the hut. They say that they have no serious shocks, but
      very many slight ones. Crocodiles they have too, but, they say, none in
      this stream.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 22nd.&mdash;It is 9 P.M., the pleasantest time, in one sense, of my
      twenty-four hours, for there are only two people with me in the hut.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My arrangements are somewhat simple; but I am very comfortable. Delicious
      bathes I have in the stream: yams and fish are no bad fare; and I have
      some biscuit and essence of coffee, and a few books, and am perfectly
      well. The mode of life has become almost natural to me. I am on capital
      terms with the people, and even the babies are no longer afraid of me. Old
      and young, men and women, boys and girls about me of course all day; and
      small presents of yams, fish, bananas, almonds, show the friendliness of
      the people when properly treated. But the bunches of skulls remain slung
      up in the large canoe houses, and they can be wild enough when they are
      excited.'
    </p>
    <p>
      [The home diary continues, on the 26th]:&mdash;'I am expecting the
      schooner, and shall be glad to get off if it arrives to-day, for it is
      very fine. I don't think I could do any good by staying a few days more,
      so I might as well be on my way to Santa Cruz. If I were here for good, of
      course I should be busy about many things that it would be useless to
      attempt now, e.g., what good would it be to induce half-a-dozen boys to
      learn "a," when I should be gone before they could learn "b"? So I content
      myself with making friends with the people, observing their ways, and
      talking to them as I can. It is hot, now at 8.30 A.M. What will it be at 2
      P.M.? But I may perhaps be able to say something to cheer me up. One of
      the trials of this kind of thing is that one seems to be doing nothing.
      Simply I am here! Hardly in one hour out of the twenty-four am I sure to
      be speaking of religion. Yet the being here is something, the gaining the
      confidence and goodwill of the people. Then comes the thought, who is to
      carry this on? And yet I dare not ask men to come, for I am certain they
      would after all my pains find something different from what they expect.
    </p>
    <p>
      My death would very likely bring out some better men for the work, with
      energy and constructive power and executive genius, all of which, guided
      by Divine Wisdom, seem to be so much wanted! But just now, I don't see
      what would become of a large part of the work if I died. I am leaving
      books somewhat more in order; but it is one thing to have a book to help
      one in acquiring a language, quite another to speak it freely, and to be
      personally known to the people who speak it.
    </p>
    <p>
      '11th Sunday after Trinity.&mdash;Off Anudha Island, 4 P.M. Thermometer
      88° in the empty cabin, everyone being on deck. Well, dear old Joan and
      Fan, refreshed by&mdash;what do you think? O feast of Guildhall and
      Bristol mayors! Who would dream of turtle soup on board the "Southern
      Cross" in these unknown seas? Tell it not to Missionary Societies! Let no
      platform orator divulge the great secret of the luxurious self-indulgent
      life of the Missionary Bishop! What nuts for the "Pall Mall Gazette"! How
      would all subscriptions cease, and denunciations be launched upon my
      devoted head, because good Mr. Tilly bought, at San Cristoval, for the
      price of one tenpenny hatchet, a little turtle, a veritable turtle, with
      green fat and all the rest of it, upon which we have made to-day a most
      regal feast indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But seriously. There has been much to make me hopeful, and something to
      disappoint me, since I last wrote.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The two days at Santa Cruz were hopeful&mdash;[Mr. Atkin says that the
      natives came on board with readiness and stole with equal readiness; but
      this was all in a friendly way]&mdash;and a small island, named Piteni,
      was visited, and judged likely to prove a means of reaching the larger
      isle.
    </p>
    <p>
      The disappointment is not here mentioned, unless it was the missing some
      of the Ysabel scholars, and bringing away only three; but this mattered
      the less, as the Banks Island party, which, as forming a nucleus, was far
      more important, was now considerable. Sixty-two scholars were the present
      freight, including nine little girls, between eight and twelve, mostly
      betrothed to old pupils.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Malanta, a new village called Saa was visited. The 'harbour' was a wall
      of coral, with the surf breaking upon it, but a large canoe showed the
      only accessible place, and this was exposed to the whole swell of the
      Pacific.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The natives,' writes Mr. Atkin, 'held the boat in water up to their
      knees, but the seas that broke thirty yards outside washed over their
      shoulders and sometimes their heads. We might have taken away half the
      people of the village, and had no trouble in getting two nice-looking
      little boys. About 320 miles from Norfolk Island, one of these little
      boys, Wate, playing, fell overboard: we were going ten knots at the time,
      right before the wind; it was a quarter of an hour before we picked him
      up, as it took five minutes to stop the vessel and ten to get to him. Wate
      seemed all the better for his ducking.' This little Wate became Mr.
      Atkin's especial child, his godson and devoted follower.
    </p>
    <p>
      On October 2, Norfolk Island was reached, and there, a wooden house having
      been conveyed thither by H.M.S. 'Falcon,' Mr. Palmer and fifteen scholars
      were placed to spend the winter. The Pitcairners welcomed the Mission, but
      were displeased at the Government assuming a right to dispose of the land
      which they had fancied entirely their own.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the letters written separate from the journal during this voyage
      gives a commission for photographs from the best devotional prints, for
      the benefit chiefly of his young colonial staff:&mdash;'I have not the
      heart to send for my Lionardo da Vinci,' (he says), that much valued
      engraving, purchased at Florence, and he wishes for no modern ones, save
      Ary Scheffer's 'Christis Consolator,' mentioning a few of his special
      favourites to be procured if possible. For the Melanesians, pictures of
      ships, fishes, and if possible tropical vegetation, was all the art yet
      needed, and beads, red and blue, but dull ones; none not exactly like the
      samples would be of any use. 'It is no good sending out any "fancy"
      articles such as you would give English children. "Toys for savages" are
      all the fancies of those who manufacture such toys for sale. Of course,
      any manufacturer who wishes to give presents of knives, tools, hatchets,
      &amp;c., would do a great benefit, but then the knives must be really
      strong and sharp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I have concluded the letters of the island voyage, before giving those
      written on the homeward transit from Norfolk Island, whither the 'Falcon'
      had conveyed the letters telling of the departure of both Mr. and Mrs.
      Keble. The first written under this impulse was of course to Sir John
      Coleridge, the oldest friend:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Sea, near Norfolk Island: October 3, 1866.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear, dear Uncle,&mdash;How can I thank you enough for telling me so
      much of dear saintly Mr. Keble and his wife? He has been, for my dear
      father and mother's sakes, very loving to me, and actually wrote me two
      short letters, one after his seizure, which I treasure. How I had grown to
      reverence and love him more and more you can easily believe; and yesterday
      at Norfolk Island, whither some letters had been sent, I read with a very
      full heart of the peaceful close of such a holy life. And I do love to
      think too of you and him, if I may speak freely of such as you; and the
      weight attached to all you say and do (you two I mean) in your several
      occupations seems at all events one hopeful sign among not a few gloomy
      ones. I suppose you and Mr. Keble little estimated the influence which
      even a casual word or sentence of yours exercises upon a man of my age,
      predisposed (it is true) to hearken with attention and reverence....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it possible that fifty years hence any similar event, should there be
      such, which should so "stir the heart of the country" (as you say about
      Mr. Keble's death), might stimulate people to raise large sums for the
      endowment of a Church about to be, or already separated from the State? I
      can't avoid feeling as if God may be permitting the extension of the
      Colonial Churches, partly and in a secondary sense that so the ground may
      be travelled over on a small scale before the Church at home may be thrown
      in like manner upon its own resources. The alliance is a very precarious
      one surely, and depends upon the solemn adherence to a fiction. It is
      extraordinary that some Colonial Bishops should seek to reproduce the
      state of things which is of course peculiar to England, the produce of
      certain historical events, and which can have no resemblance whatever to
      the circumstances of our Colonies.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The mail closes just after our arrival; and I am very busy at first
      coming on shore with such a party. Goodbye for the present, my dear dear
      Uncle,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving and grateful Nephew, 'J. C. P.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To me the condolence was:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'October 6, 1866.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so, my dear Cousin, the blow has fallen upon you, and dear Mr. and
      Mrs. Keble have passed away to their eternal rest. I found letters at
      Norfolk Island on October 2, not my April letters, which will tell me most
      about him, but my May budget.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How very touching the account is which my Uncle John sends me of dear
      Mrs. Keble, so thankful that he was taken first, so desirous to go, yet so
      content to stay! And how merciful it has all been. Such a calm holy close
      to the saintly life. May God bless and support all you who feel the
      bereavement! Even I feel that I would fain look for one more letter from
      him, but we have his "Christian Year," and other books. Is it not
      wonderful that all the wisdom and love and beauty of the "Christian Year,"
      to say nothing of the exquisite and matured poetry, should have been given
      to him so early in life? Why, as I gather, the book was finished in the
      year 1825, though not published till 1827. He wrote it when he was only 33
      years old, and for 45 years he lived after he was capable of such a work.
      Surely such a union of extreme learning, wisdom, and scholarship, with
      humility and purity of heart and life has very seldom been found. Everyone
      wishes to say something to everyone else of one so dear to all, and no one
      can say what each and all feel. We ought indeed to be thankful, who not
      only have in common with all men his books, but the memory of what he was
      personally to us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The change must needs be a great one to you. I do feel much for you
      indeed. But you will bear it bravely; and many duties and the will and
      power to discharge them occupy the mind, and the elasticity comes back
      again after a time. I know nothing of the Keble family, not even how they
      were related to him, so that my interest in Hursley is connected with him
      only. Yet it will always be a hallowed spot in the memory of English
      Churchmen. You will hear the various rumours as to who is to write his
      life, &amp;c. Let me know what is worth knowing about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama. Anchored on October 8, after an absence of exactly six weeks;
      all well on board and ashore.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thanks be to God for so many mercies. The mail is gone, and alas! all my
      letters and newspapers were sent off a few days since in the "Brisk" to
      Norfolk Island. We passed each other. They did not expect me back so soon,
      so I have no late news, and have no time to read newspapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May God bless you, my dear Cousin,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin, 'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of this deep veneration for Mr. Keble and for his teachings,
      Bishop Patteson did not embrace to the full the doctrine which had been
      maintained in 'Eucharistic Adoration,' and which he rightly perceived to
      lie at the root of the whole Ritualistic question. His conclusions had
      been formed upon the teachings of the elder Anglican divines, and his
      predilections for the externals of worship upon the most reverent and
      beautiful forms to which he had been accustomed before he left home.
    </p>
    <p>
      After an All Saints' Communion, the following letter was written:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'All Saints' Day, 1866.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;You know why I write to you on this day. The
      Communion of Saints becomes ever a more and more real thing to us as holy
      and saintly servants of God pass beyond the veil, as also we learn to know
      and love more and more our dear fellow-labourers and fellow-pilgrims still
      among us in the flesh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a day as this brings, thanks be to God, many calm, peaceful memories
      with it. Of how many we may both think humbly and thankfully whose trials
      and sorrows are over for ever, whose earthly work is done, who dwell now
      in Paradise and see His Face, and calmly wait for the great consummation.
      To you the sense of personal loss must be now&mdash;it will always be&mdash;mixed
      up with the true spirit of thankfulness and joy; but remember that as they
      greatly helped you, so you in no slight measure have received from God
      power to help others, a trust which I verily believe you are faithfully
      discharging, and that the brightness of the Christian life must be not
      lost sight of in our dealings with others, would we really seek to set
      forth the attractiveness of religion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't mean that I miss this element in any of your writings; rather I
      am thankful to you because you teach so well how happiness and joy are the
      portion of the Christian in the midst of so much that the world counts
      sorrow and loss. But I think that depression of mind rapidly communicates
      itself, and you must be aware that you are through your books stamping
      your mind on many people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you mind my saying all this to you? only I would fain say anything
      that at such a time may, if only for a minute, help to keep the bright
      side before you. The spirit of patience did seem so to rest upon him and
      his dear saintly wife. The motto of the Christian Year seemed to be
      inwoven into his life and character. I suppose he so well knew the
      insignificance of what to us mortals in our own generation seems so great,
      that he had learned to view eternal truths in the light of Him who is
      eternal. He fought manfully for the true eternal issues, and everything
      else fell into its subordinate place. Is not one continually struck with
      his keen sense of the proportion of things? He wastes no time nor strength
      in the accidents of religion; much that he liked and valued he never
      taught as essential, or even mentioned, lest it might interfere with
      essentials.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! that his calm wise judgment, his spiritual discernment, may be poured
      out on many earnest men who I can't help thinking lack that instinct which
      divinely guided the early Church in the "selection of fundamentals." We
      must all grieve to see earnest, zealous men almost injuring the good
      cause, and placing its best and wisest champions in an unnecessarily
      difficult position, because they do not see what I suppose Mr. Keble did
      see so very clearly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know that these questions present themselves somewhat differently to
      those situated severally as you and we are. But it is, I suppose, by
      freely interchanging amongst ourselves thoughts that the general balance
      is best preserved. Pray, when you have time, write freely to me on such
      matters if you think it may be of use to do so. The Church everywhere
      ought to guard, and teach, and practise what is essential. In
      non-essentials I suppose the rule is clear. I will eat no meat, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now good-bye, my dear Cousin; and may God ever bless and comfort you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Sir William and Lady Martin had just paid their last visit to Kohimarama,
      and here is the final record by Lady Martin's hand of the pleasant days
      there spent:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'One more visit we paid to our dear friend in November 1866, a few months
      before he left Kohimarama for Norfolk Island. He invited my dear husband
      specially for the purpose of working together at Hebrew, with the aid of
      the lights they thought our languages throw on its grammatical structure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop was very happy and bright. He was in his new house, a great
      improvement upon the stuffy quarters in the quad. His sitting-room was
      large and lofty, and had French windows which opened on a little verandah
      facing the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Mission party were most co-operative, and would not let the Bishop
      come into school during the three weeks of our stay, so he had a working
      holiday which he thoroughly enjoyed. The weather was lovely, the boys were
      all well, and there was no drawback to the happiness of that time. At
      seven the chapel bell rang and we walked across with him to the pretty
      little chapel. The prayers and hymn were in Mota, the latter a translation
      by the Bishop of the hymn "Now that the daylight fills the sky." The boys
      all responded heartily and were reverent in demeanour. After breakfast the
      two wise men worked steadily till nearly one. We were not allowed to dine
      in Hall as the weather was very warm, and we inveigled the Bishop to stay
      out and be our host.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A quaint little procession of demure-looking little maidens brought our
      dinner over. They were grave and full of responsibility till some word
      from 'Bisop' would light up their faces with shy smiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What pleasant walks we had together before evening chapel under the
      wooded cliffs or through the green fields. Mr. Pritt had by this time
      brought the Mission farm into excellent working order by the aid of the
      elder lads alone. Abundance of good milk and butter (the latter getting
      ready sale in town) and of vegetables. His gifts too in school-keeping
      were invaluable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish I could recall some of the conversations with our dear friend. A
      favourite topic was concerning the best modes of bringing the doctrines of
      the Christian religion clearly and fully within the comprehension of the
      converts. Some of their papers written after being taught by him showed
      that they did apprehend them in a thoughtful intelligent way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At half-past six we had a short service, again in Mota, in chapel, and
      then we rarely saw our dear friend till nine. He would not neglect any of
      his night classes. At half-past nine the English workers gathered together
      in the Bishop's room for prayers and for a little friendly chat. Curiously
      enough, the conversation I most distinctly remember was one with him as we
      rode up one Saturday from Kohimarama to St. John's College. I got him to
      describe the game of tennis, and he warmed up and told me of games he had
      played at.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How that cheery talk came to mind as I drove down the same road last year
      just after fine weather had come! It was the same season, and the hedges
      on each side of the narrow lane were fragrant as then with may and sweet
      briar.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI. ST. BARNABAS COLLEGE, NORFOLK ISLAND. 1867&mdash;1869.
    </h2>
    <p>
      A new phase of Coleridge Patteson's life was beginning with the year 1867,
      when he was in full preparation for the last of his many changes of home,
      namely, that to Norfolk Island, isolating him finally from those who had
      become almost as near kindred to him, and devoting him even more
      exclusively to his one great work. No doubt the separation from ordinary
      society was a relief, and the freedom from calls to irregular clerical
      duty at Auckland was an immense gain; but the lack of the close
      intercourse with the inner circle of his friends was often felt, and was
      enhanced by the lack of postal communication with Norfolk Island, so that,
      instead of security of home tidings by every mail, letters and parcels
      could only be transmitted by chance vessels touching at that inaccessible
      island, where there was no harbour for even the 'Southern Cross' to lie.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the welfare of the Mission, and the possible benefit to the
      Pitcairners, outweighed everything. It is with some difficulty that the
      subject of this latter people is approached. They have long been the
      romance of all interested in Missionary effort, and precious has been the
      belief that so innocent and pious a community existed on the face of the
      earth. And it is quite true that when they are viewed as the offspring of
      English mutineers and heathen Tahitians, trained by a repentant old
      sailor, they are wonderful in many respects; and their attractive manners
      and manifest piety are sure to strike their occasional visitors, who have
      seldom stayed long enough to penetrate below the surface.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it has been their great disadvantage never to have had a much higher
      standard of religion, morals, civilisation, or industry set before them,
      than they had been able to evolve for themselves; and it is a law of
      nature that what is not progressive must be retrograde. The gentle
      Tahitian nature has entirely mastered the English turbulence, so that
      there is genuine absence of violence, there is no dishonesty; and
      drunkenness was then impossible; there is also a general habit of
      religious observance, but not including self-restraint as a duty, while
      the reaction of all the enthusiastic admiration expressed for this
      interesting people has gendered a self-complacency that makes them the
      harder to deal with. Parental authority seems to be entirely wanting among
      them, the young people grow up unrestrained; and the standard of morality
      and purity seems to be pretty much what it is in a neglected English
      parish, but, as before said, without the drunkenness and lawlessness, and
      with a universal custom of church-going, and a great desire not to expose
      their fault to the eyes of strangers. The fertile soil, to people of so
      few wants, and with no trade, prevents the necessity of exertion, and the
      dolce far niente prevails universally. The Government buildings have
      fallen into entire ruin, and the breed of cattle has been allowed to
      become worthless for want of care. The dwellings are uncleanly, and the
      people so undisciplined that only their native gentleness would make their
      present self-government possible; and it is a great problem how to deal
      with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The English party who were to take up their abode on Norfolk Island
      consisted of the Bishop, the Rev. Mr. Palmer, who was there already, Mr.
      Atkin, and Mr. Brooke. The Rev. R. Codrington was on his way from England
      with Mr. Bice, a young student from St. Augustine's, Canterbury; but Mr.
      and Mrs. Pritt had received an appointment at the Waikato, and left the
      Mission. The next letter to myself tells something of the plans:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'January 29, 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;I enclose a note to Miss Mackenzie, thanking her
      for her book about Mrs. Robertson. It does one good to read about such a
      couple. I almost feel as if I should like to write a line to the good man.
      There was the real genuine love for the people, the secret of course of
      all missionary success, the consideration for them, the power of sympathy,
      of seeing with the eyes of others, and putting oneself into their
      position. Many a time have I thought: "Yes, that's all right, that's the
      true spirit, that's the real thing."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh that men could be trained to act in that way. It seems as if mere
      common sense would enable societies and men to see that it must be so. And
      yet how sadly we mismanage men, and misuse opportunities.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Men should be made to understand that they cannot receive training for
      this special Mission work except on the spot; at the institution the aim
      should be to give them a thorough grounding in Greek and Latin, the
      elements of Divinity, leaving out all talk about experiences, and all that
      can minister to spiritual pride, and delude men into the idea that the
      desire (as they suppose) to be missionaries implies that they are one whit
      better than the baker and shoemaker next door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The German system is very different. The Moravians don't handle their
      young candidates after this fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now Mr. Robertson and his good wife refresh one by the reality and
      simplicity of their life, the simple-mindedness, the absence of all cant
      and formalism. I mean the formal observance of a certain set of views
      about the Sabbath, about going to parties, about reading books, &amp;c.,
      the formal utterance of an accepted phraseology.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would that there were hundreds such! Would that his and her example might
      stir the hearts of many young people, women as well as men! Well, I like
      all that helps me to know him and her in the book, and am much obliged to
      Miss Mackenzie for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have had a trying month, unusually damp close weather, and influenza
      has been prevalent. Many boys had it, one little fellow died. He was very
      delirious at last, and as he lay day and night on my bed we had often to
      hold him. But one night he was calm and sensible, and with Henry
      Tagalana's help I obtained from him such a simple answer or two to our
      questions that I felt justified in baptizing him. He was about ten years
      old, I suppose one of our youngest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last Saturday, at 12.45 A.M., he passed away into what light, and peace,
      and knowledge, and calm rest in his Saviour's bosom! we humbly trust. God
      be praised for all His mercies! It was touching, indeed, to hear Henry
      speaking to his little friend. He spoke so as to make me feel very hopeful
      about his work as a teacher being blessed, his whole heart on his lips and
      in his voice and manner and expression of face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, my dear Cousin, often I think that I need more than ever your
      prayers that I may have the blessing for which we pray in our Collect for
      the First Sunday after Epiphany: grace to use the present opportunities
      aright. My time may be short; we are very few in number: now the young
      English and Melanesian teachers ought to be completely trained, that so,
      by God's blessing, the work may not come to nought. Codrington's coming
      ought to be a great gain in this way. A right-minded man of age and
      experience may well be regarded as invaluable indeed. I so often feel that
      I am distracted by multitudinous occupations, and can't think and act out
      my method of dealing with the elder ones, so as to use them aright. So
      many things distract&mdash;social, domestic, industrial matters and
      general superintendence, and my time is of course always given to anyone
      who wants it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The change to Norfolk Island, too, brings many anxious thoughts and
      cares, and the state of the people there will be an additional cause of
      anxiety. I think that we shall move en masse in April or May, making two
      or three trips in the schooner. Palmer has sixteen now with him there. I
      shall perhaps leave ten more for the winter school and then go on to the
      islands, and return (D.V.) in October, not to New Zealand, but to Norfolk
      Island; though, as it is the year of the meeting of the General Synod,
      i.e., February 1868, I shall have to be in New Zealand during that summer.
      You shall have full information of all my and our movements, as soon as I
      know myself precisely the plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now good-bye, my dear Cousin; and may God ever bless and keep you. I
      think much of you, and of how you must miss dear Mr. Keble.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Sunday, February 10, 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear old Fan,&mdash;No time to write at length. We are pretty well,
      but coughs and colds abound, and I am a little anxious about one nice lad,
      Lelenga, but he is not very seriously ill.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have of course occasional difficulties, as who has not? Irregularities,
      not (D. Gr.) of very serious nature, yet calling for reproof; a certain
      proportion of the boys, and a large proportion of the girls careless, and
      of course, like boys and girls such as you know of in Devonshire, not free
      from mischief.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, it is a matter for great thankfulness that, as far as we know, no
      immorality has taken place with fifteen young girls in the school. We take
      of course all precautions, rooms are carefully locked at night. Still
      really evil-minded young persons could doubtless get into mischief, if
      they were determined to do so. Only to-day I spoke severely, not on this
      point, but on account of some proof of want of real modesty and purity of
      feeling. But how can I be surprised at that?
    </p>
    <p>
      'All schoolmaster's work is anxious work. It is even more so than the
      ordinary clergyman's work, because you are parent and schoolmaster at
      once.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may suppose that as time approaches for Codrington and Bice to
      arrive, and for our move to Norfolk Island, I am somewhat anxious, and
      have very much to do. Indeed, the Norfolk Island people do sadly want
      help.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Brother.
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'P. S.&mdash;You may tell your boys at night school, if you think it well,
      that no Melanesian I ever had here would be so ungentlemanly as to throw
      stones or make a row when a lady was present.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Matthias Day, 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Joan and Fan,&mdash;The beginning of the seventh year of my
      Bishop's life! How quickly the time has gone, and a good deal seems to
      have taken place, and yet (though some experience has been gained) but
      little sense have I of real improvement in my own self, of "pressing
      onwards," and daily struggles against faults. But for some persons it is
      dangerous to talk of such things, and I am such a person. It would tend to
      make me unreal, and my words would be unreal, and soon my thoughts and
      life would become unreal too. I am conscious of very, very much that is
      very wrong, and would astonish many of even those who know me best, but I
      must use this consciousness, and not talk about it any more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am in harness again for English work. How can I refuse? I am writing
      now between two English services.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, no adequate provision is made here for married clergymen with
      families; £300 a year is starvation at present prices. Men can't live on
      it; and who can work vigorously with the thought ever present to him,
      "When I die, what of my wife and family?" What is to be done?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I solve the difficulty in Melanesian work by saying, "Use Melanesians." I
      tell people plainly, "I don't want white men."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I sum it all up thus: They cost about ten times as much as the Melanesian
      (literally), and but a very small proportion do the work as well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was amused at some things in your December letters. How things do
      unintentionally get exaggerated! I went up into the tree-house by a very
      good ladder of bamboos and supple-jacks, quite as easily as one goes up
      the rigging of a ship, and my ten days at Bauro were spent among a people
      whose language I know, and where my life was as safe and everybody was as
      disposed to be friendly as if I had been in your house at Weston. But, of
      course, it is all "missionary hardships and trials." I don't mean that you
      talk in this way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our first instalment of scholars with Messrs. Atkin and Brooke will go
      off (D.V.) about March 21. Then my house is taken down; the boys who now
      live in it having been sent off: and on the schooner's return about April
      15, another set of things, books, houses, &amp;c. Probably a third trip
      will be necessary, and then about May 5 or 6 I hope to go. It will be
      somewhat trying at the end. But I bargain for all this, which of course
      constitutes my hardest and most trying business. The special Mission work,
      as most people would regard it, is as nothing in comparison. Good-bye, and
      God bless you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      On March 5 Mr. Codrington safely arrived, bringing with him Mr. Bice. The
      boon to the Bishop was immense, both in relief from care and in the
      companionship, for which he had henceforth to depend entirely on his own
      staff. The machinery of the routine had been so well set in order by Mr.
      Pritt that it could be continued without him; and though there was no
      English woman to superintend the girls, it was hoped that Sarah Sarawia
      had been prepared by Mrs. Pritt to be an efficient matron.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama: March 23, 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;Our last New Zealand season, for it may be our
      last, draws near its close. On Monday, only two days hence, the "Southern
      Cross" sails (weather permitting) with our first instalment. Mr. Palmer
      has got his house up, and they must stow themselves away in it, three
      whites and forty-five blacks, the best way they can. The vessel takes
      besides 14,000 feet of timber, 6,000 shingles for roofing, and boxes of
      books, &amp;c., &amp;c., without end.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope she may be here again to take me and the remaining goods, live and
      inanimate, in about eighteen or twenty days. I can't tell whether I am
      more likely to spend my Easter in New Zealand or Norfolk Island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see that in many ways the place is good for us. The first expense is
      heavy. I have spent about £1,000 already, sinking some of my private money
      in the fencing, building, &amp;c., but very soon the cost of all the
      commissariat, exclusive of the stores for the voyage, and a little English
      food for the whites, will be provided. Palmer has abundance of sweet
      potatoes which have been planted in ground prepared by our lads since last
      October. The yam crop is coming on well: fish are always abundant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that in twelve months' time we ought to provide ourselves with
      almost everything in the island. The ship and the clergymen's stipends and
      certain extras will always need subscriptions, but we ought at once to
      feed ourselves, and soon to export wool, potatoes, corn (maize I mean),
      &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never forget about the idea of a chapel. At present the Norfolk Island
      Chapel will be only a wing of my house: which will consist of two rooms
      for myself, a spare room for a sick lad or two, and a large dormitory
      which, if need be, can be turned into a hospital, and the other end a wing
      in the chapel, 42 x 18 feet, quite large enough for eighty or more people.
      The entrance from without, and again a private door from my sitting room.
      All is very simple in the plan. It seem almost selfish having it thus as a
      part of my dwelling house; but it will be such a comfort, so convenient
      for Confirmation and Baptism and Holy Communion classes, and so nice for
      me. Some ladies in Melbourne give a velvet altar cloth, Lady S. in Sydney
      gives all the white linen: our Communion plate, you know, is very
      handsome. Some day Joan must send me a solid block of Devonshire
      serpentine for my Font, such a one as there is at Alfington, or
      Butterfield might now devise even a better.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I think, though I have not thought enough yet, that in the diocese of
      Norfolk Island, and in the islands, the running stream of living water and
      the Catechumens "going down" into it is the right mode of administering
      the holy sacrament. The Lectern and the small Prayer-desk are of
      sandal-wood from Erromango.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It will be far more like a Church than anything the Pitcairners have ever
      seen. Perhaps next Christmas&mdash;but much may take place before then&mdash;I
      may ordain Palmer Priest, Atkin and Brooke Deacons, and there may be a
      goodly attendance of Melanesian communicants and candidates for baptism.
      If so, what a day of hope to look forward to! And then I think I see the
      day of dear George Sarawia's Ordination drawing nigh, if God grant him
      health and perseverance. He is, indeed, and so are others, younger than
      he, all that I could desire.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So, my dear Cousin, see what blessings I have, how small our trials are.
      They may yet come, but it is now just twelve years, exactly twelve years
      on Monday, since I saw my Father's and Sisters' faces, and how little have
      those years been marked with sorrows. My lot is cast in a good land
      indeed. I read and hear of others, such as that noble Central African
      band, and I wonder how men can go through it all. It comes to me as from a
      distance, not as to one who has experienced such things. We know nothing
      of war, or famine, or deadly fever; and we seem now to have a settled plan
      of work, one of the greatest comforts of all; but while I write thus
      brightly I don't forget that a little thing (humanly speaking) may cause
      great reverses, delays, and failures.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very glad you understand my unwillingness to write, and still more
      to print over much about our proceedings. I do speak pretty freely in New
      Zealand and Australia, from whence I profess and mean to draw our
      supplies.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Accurate information is all very well, but to convey an idea of our life
      and work is quite beyond my powers. Still, everything that helps the
      ordinary men and women of England to look out into the world a bit, and
      see that the Gospel is a power of God, is good.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now, good-bye, my dear Cousin. May God bless and keep you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      On Lady Day the Bishop wrote to his sisters:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'This day, twelve years ago, I saw your faces for the last time; and so I
      told Mary Atkin, my good young friend's only sister, as we stood on the
      beach just now, watching the 'Southern Cross' carrying away her only
      brother and some forty other people to Norfolk Island.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first detachment is therefore gone; I hope that we, the rest, will
      follow in about sixteen or eighteen days. I think back over these twelve
      years. On the whole, how smoothly and easily they have passed with me!
      Less of sorrow and anxiety than was crowded into one short year of Bishop
      Mackenzie's life. I have been reading Mr. Rowley's book on the University
      Mission to Central Africa, and am glad to have read it. They were indeed
      fine gallant fellows, full of faith and courage and endurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As I write, some dozen boys are on the roof, knocking away the shingles,
      i.e., the wooden tiles of roofing, a carpenter is taking down all that
      needs some more skilled handiwork. In a week the house will all be tied up
      in bundles of boarding, battens, about 14,000 or 15,000 feet of timber in
      all. Yesterday I was with the Primate; I went up indeed on Monday
      afternoon, as the "Southern Cross" sailed with thirty-one Melanesians at
      11 A.M., and I could get away. It was rather a sad day. I was resigning
      trusts, and it made the departure from New Zealand appear very real.
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 1st.&mdash;My fortieth birthday. It brings solemn thoughts. Last
      night I had to take the service at St. Paul's, and as I came back I
      thought of many things, and principally of how very different I ought to
      be from what I am.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All are well here at Kohimarama. My house knocked down and arrangements
      going on, the place leased to Mr. Atkin, Joe Atkin's father, my trusts
      resigned, accounts almost made up, many letters written, business matters
      arranged.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few days more the last remnant of St. Andrew's was broken up; and the
      first letter to the Bishop of New Zealand was written from Norfolk Island
      before the close of the month:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Barnabas' Mission School: April 29, 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      My dear Primate,&mdash;We had a fair wind all the way, and having
      shortened sail during all Friday so as not to reach Norfolk Island in the
      night, made the lead at 5 A.M. on Saturday morning. But a sad casualty
      occurred; we lost a poor fellow overboard, one of the seamen. He ought not
      to have been lost, and I blame myself. He was under the davits of the boat
      doing something, and the rope by which he was holding parted; the
      life-buoy almost knocked him as he passed the quarter of the vessel, and
      I, instead of jumping overboard, and shouting to the Melanesians to do the
      same, rushed to the falls. The boat was on the spot where his cap was
      floating within two and a half minutes of the time he fell into the sea,
      but he was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fisher in the hurry tore his nail by letting the falls run through his
      hand too fast. I was binding it up, the boat making for the poor fellow
      faster than any swimmer could have done. How it was that he did not lay
      hold of the buoy, or sank so soon, I can't say; the great mistake was not
      jumping overboard at once. This is a gloomy beginning, and made us all
      feel very sad. He was not married and was a well-behaved man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was blowing fresh on Saturday, but we anchored under Nepean Island,
      and by hard work cleared the vessel by 5 P.M.; all worked hard, and all
      the things were landed safely. Palmer, with the cart and boys, was on the
      pier, and the things were carted and carried into the store as they
      arrived. I came on shore about 5, found all well and hearty, the people
      very friendly, nothing in their manner to indicate any change of feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I walked up to our place. It is, indeed, a beautiful spot. Palmer has
      worked with a will. I was surprised to see what was done. Some three and a
      half acres of fine kumaras, maize, yams, growing well; a yam of ten pounds
      weight, smooth and altogether Melanesian, just taken up, not quite ripe,
      so the boys say they will grow much bigger. Abundant supply of water,
      though the summer has been dry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Much of the timber has been carted up, more has been stacked at the top
      of the hill. This was carried by the boys, and will be carted along the
      pine avenue; a good deal is still near the pines, but properly stacked. I
      see nothing anywhere thrown about, even here not a chip to be seen, all
      buried or burnt, and the place quite neat though unfinished.
    </p>
    <p>
      '1. House, on the plan of my old house just taken down by Gray, but much
      larger.
    </p>
    <p>
      '2. Kitchen of good size.
    </p>
    <p>
      '3. Two raupo outhouses.
    </p>
    <p>
      '4. Cow-shed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I find it quite assumed here that the question is settled about our
      property here; but I have not thought it desirable to talk expressly about
      it. They talk about school, doctor, and other public arrangements as
      usual.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems that it was on St. Barnabas Day that, after Holy Communion, we
      walked up here last year and chose the site of the house. The people have
      of their own accord taken to call the place St. Barnabas; and as this
      suits the Eton feeling also, and you and others never liked St. Andrew's,
      don't you think we may adopt the new name? Miss Yonge won't mind, I am
      sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I could not resist telling the people that you and Mrs. Selwyn might come
      for a short time in September next to see them, and they are really
      delighted; and so shall we be, I can tell you indeed....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The time for the island voyage was fully come; and, after a very brief
      stay in the new abode, the Bishop sailed again for Mota, where the old
      house was found (May 8) in a very dilapidated condition; and vigorous
      mending with branches was needed before a corner could be patched up for
      him to sleep on his table during a pouring wet night, having first supped
      on a cup of tea and a hot yam, the latter brought from the club-house by
      one of his faithful adherents; after which an hour and a half's reading of
      Lightfoot on the Epistle to the Galatians made him forget every
      discomfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      There had, however, been a renewal of fighting of late; and at a village
      called Tasmate, a man named Natungoe had ten days previously been shot in
      the breast with a poisoned arrow, and was beginning to show those first
      deadly symptoms of tetanus. He had been a well-conducted fellow, though he
      had hitherto shown indifference to the new teaching; and it had not been
      in a private quarrel that he was wounded, but in a sudden attack on his
      village by some enemies, when a feast was going on.
    </p>
    <p>
      On that first evening when the Bishop went to see him it was plain that
      far more of the recent instruction had taken root in him than had been
      supposed. 'He showed himself thoroughly ready to listen, and manifested a
      good deal of simple faith. He said he had no resentment against the person
      who had shot him, and that he did wish to know and think about the world
      to come. He accepted at once the story of God's love, shown in sending
      Jesus to die for us, and he seemed to have some apprehension of what God
      must be, and of what we are&mdash;how unlike Him, how unable to make
      ourselves fit to be with Him. He certainly spoke of Jesus as of a living
      Person close by him, willing and able to help him. He of his own accord
      made a little prayer to Him, "Help me, wake me, make my heart light, take
      away the darkness. I wish for you, I want to go to you, I don't want to
      think about this world."'
    </p>
    <p>
      Early the next morning the Bishop went again, taking George Sarawia with
      him. The man said, 'I have been thinking of what you said. I have been
      calling on the Saviour (i Vaesu) all night.' The Bishop spoke long to him,
      and left Sarawia with him, speaking and praying quietly and earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile continues the diary:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I went to the men in the village, and spoke at length to them: "Yes, God
      will not cast out those who turn to Him when they are called, but you must
      not suppose that it is told us anywhere that He will save those who care
      nothing about Him through their years of health, and only think about Him
      and the world to come when this world is already passing away."
    </p>
    <p>
      'How utterly unable one feels to say or do the right thing, and the words
      fall so flat and dull upon careless ears!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Every day for ten days the poor sufferer Natungoe was visited, and he
      listened with evident faith and comprehension. On May 15 the entry is:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was so satisfied with his expressions of faith in the Saviour, of his
      hope of living with Him; he spoke so clearly of his belief in Jesus having
      been sent from the Great Creator and Father of all to lead us back to Him,
      and to cleanse us from sin, which had kept us from our Father, by His
      Death for us; he was so evidently convinced of the truth of our Lord's
      Resurrection and of the resurrection of us all at the last day&mdash;that
      I felt that I ought to baptize him. I had already spoken to him of
      Baptism, and he seemed to understand that, first, he must believe that the
      water is the sign of an inward cleansing, and that it has no magical
      efficacy, but that all depended on his having faith in the promise and
      power of God; and second, that Jesus had commanded those who wished to
      believe and love Him to be baptized.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The expression Nan ive Maroo i Vaesu, "I wish for the Saviour," had been
      frequently used by him; and I baptized him by the name of Maroovaesu, a
      name instantly substituted for his old name Natungoe by those present.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have seen him again to-day; he cannot recover, and at times the tetanus
      spasms are severe, but it is nothing like dear Fisher's case. He can still
      eat and speak; women sit around holding him, and a few people sit or lie
      about in the hut. It looks all misery and degradation of the lowest kind,
      but there is a blessed change, as I trust, for him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On Sunday the 19th the last agony had come. He lay on a mat on the ground,
      in the middle of the village, terribly racked by convulsions, but still
      able in the intervals to speak intelligibly, and to express his full hope
      that he was going to his Saviour, and that his pain would soon be over,
      and he would be at rest with Him, listening earnestly to the Bishop's
      prayers. He died that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime, the Bishop had not neglected the attacking party. Of
      them, one had been killed outright, and two more were recovering from
      their wounds, and it was necessary to act as pacificator.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Meanwhile, I think how very little religion has to do directly with
      keeping things quiet; in England (for example) men would avenge
      themselves, and steal and kill, were it not for the law, which is, indeed,
      an indirect result of religion; but religion simply does not produce the
      effect, i.e. men are not generally religious in England or Mota. I have
      Maine's Book of "Ancient Law" among the half-dozen books I have brought on
      shore, and it is extremely interesting to read here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      How he read, wrote, or did anything is the marvel, with the hut constantly
      crowded by men who had nothing to do but gather round, in suffocating
      numbers, to stare at his pen travelling over the paper. 'They have done so
      a hundred times before,' he writes, actually under the oppression, 'but
      anything to pass an hour lazily. It is useless to talk about it, and one
      must humour them, or they will think I am vexed with them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The scholars, neatly clothed, with orderly and industrious habits, were no
      small contrast: 'But I miss as yet the link between them and the resident
      heathen people. I trust and pray that George and others may, ere long,
      supply it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But it is very difficult to know how to help them to change their mode of
      life. Very much, even if they did accept Christianity, must go on as
      before. Their daily occupations include work in the small gardens,
      cooking, &amp;c., and this need not be changed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then as to clothing. I must be very careful lest they should think that
      wearing clothes is Christianity. Yet certain domestic changes are
      necessary, for a Christian life seems to need certain material
      arrangements for decency and propriety. There ought to be partition
      screens in the hut, for example, and some clothing is desirable no doubt.
      A resident missionary now could do a good deal towards showing the people
      why certain customs, &amp;c., are incompatible with a Christian life. His
      daily teaching would show how Christ acted and taught, and how
      inconsistent such and such practices must be with the profession of faith
      in Him. But regulations imposed from without I rather dread, they produce
      so often an unreasoning obedience for a little while only.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rules for the new life should be very few and very simple, and
      carefully explained. "Love to God and man," explained and illustrated as
      the consequence of some elementary knowledge of God's love to us, shown of
      course prominently in the giving His own Son to us. There is no lack of
      power to understand simple teaching, a fair proportion of adults take it
      in very fairly. I was rather surprised on Friday evening (some sixty or
      seventy being present) to find that a few men answered really rather well
      questions which brought out the meaning of some of our Saviour's names.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The Saviour?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The saving His people."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Not all men? And why not all men? And from what poverty, sickness, &amp;c.,
      here below?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"From their sins."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What is sin?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"All that God has forbidden."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What has He forbidden? Why? Because He grudges us anything? Why do you
      forbid a child to taste vangarpal ('poison'), &amp;c. &amp;c.?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The Way," "the Mediator," "the Redeemer," "the Resurrection," "the
      Atoner," "the Word." Some eight days' teaching had preceded this; but I
      dare say there are ten or fifteen people here now, not our scholars, who
      can really answer on these points so as to make it clear that they
      understand something about the teaching involved in these names. Of
      course, I had carefully worked out the best way to accept these names and
      ideas in Mota; and the illustrations, &amp;c., from their customs made me
      think that to some extent they understood this teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course the personal feeling is as pleasant as can be, and I think
      there is something more: a real belief that our religion and our habits
      are good, and that some day they will be accepted here. A considerable
      number of people are leading very respectable lives on the whole. But I
      see that we must try to spend more time here. George Sarawia is being
      accepted to some extent as one whom they are to regard as a teacher. He
      has a fair amount of influence. But in this little spot, among about 1,500
      people, local jealousies and old animosities are so rife, that the
      stranger unconnected with any one of them has so far a better chance of
      being accepted by all; but then comes, on the other hand, his perfect
      knowledge and our comparative ignorance of the language and customs of the
      people. We want to combine both for a while, till the native teacher and
      clergyman is fully established in his true position.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a curious thing that the Solomon Islanders from the south-east part
      of that group should have dropped so much behind the Banks Islanders. I
      knew their language before I knew the language of Mota, they were (so to
      say) my favourites. But we can't as yet make any impression upon them. The
      Loyalty Islanders have been suffered to drop out; and so it is that all
      our leading scholars, all who set good examples, and are made responsible
      for various duties, are (with the sole exception of Soro, from Mai Island,
      New Hebrides) from the Banks group. Consequently, their language is the
      lingua franca of the school&mdash;not that we made it so, or wished it
      rather than any other to be so; indeed Bauro is easier, and so are some
      others: but so it is. It is an excellent thing, for any Melanesian soon
      acquires another Melanesian language, however different the vocabulary may
      be. Their ideas and thoughts and many of their customs are similar, the
      mode of life is similar, and their mode of expressing themselves similar.
      They think in the same way, and therefore speak in the same way. Their
      mode of life is natural; ours is highly artificial. We are the creatures
      of a troublesome civilisation to an extent that one realises here. When I
      go ashore for five weeks, though I could carry all my luggage, yet it must
      comprise a coffee-pot, sugar, biscuits, a cork bed, some tins of preserved
      meat, candles, books, and my hut has a table and a stool, and I have a
      cup, saucer, plate, knife, fork, and spoon. My good friend George, who I
      think is on the whole better dressed than I am, and who has adopted
      several of our signs of civilisation, finds the food, cooking, and many of
      the ways of the island natural and congenial, and would find them so
      throughout the Pacific.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 2lst.&mdash;The morning and evening school here is very nice. I doubt
      if I am simple enough in my teaching. I think I teach too much at a time;
      there is so much to be taught, and I am so impatient, I don't go slowly
      enough, though I do travel over the same ground very often. Some few
      certainly do take in a good deal.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very hot day, after much rain. This morning we took down our old wooden
      hut, that was put up here by us six years ago. Parts of it are useless,
      for in our absence the rain damaged it a good deal. I mean to take it
      across to Arau, Henry Tagalana's little island, for there, even in very
      wet weather, there is little fear of ague, the soil being light and sandy.
      It would be a great thing to escape from the rich soil and luxuriant
      vegetation in the wet months, if any one of us spent a long time here. It
      was hot work, but soon over. It only took about two and a half hours to
      take down, and stack all the planks, rafters, &amp;c. Two fellows worked
      well, and some others looked on and helped now and then.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have had some pleasant occupation for an hour or so each day in
      clearing away the bush, which in one year grows up surprisingly here. Many
      lemon, citron, and orange trees that we planted some years ago. cocoa-nut
      trees also, were almost, some quite overgrown, quite hidden, and our place
      looked and was quite small and close; but one or two hours for a few days,
      spent in clearing, have made a great difference. I have planted out about
      twenty-five lemon suckers, and as many pine-apples, for our old ones were
      growing everywhere in thick clumps, and I have to thin them out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yesterday was a great day; we cut down two large trees, round one of
      which I had carelessly planted orange, lemon, and cocoa-nut trees, so that
      we did not know how to fell it so as to avoid crushing some fine young
      trees; but the tree took the matter into its own hands, for it was hollow
      in the centre, and fell suddenly, so that the fellows holding the rope
      could not guide it, and it fell at right angles to the direction we had
      chosen, but right between all the trees, without seriously hurting one. It
      quite reminds me of old tree-cutting days at Feniton; only here I see no
      oaks, nor elms, nor beeches, nor firs, only bread-fruit trees and almond
      trees, and many fruit-bearing trees&mdash;oranges, &amp;c., and guavas and
      custard-apples&mdash;growing up (all being introduced by us), and the two
      gigantic banyan trees, north and south of my little place. It is so very
      pretty!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't trouble myself much about cooking. My little canteen is capital;
      and I can make myself all sorts of good things, if I choose to take the
      trouble, and some days I do so. I bake a little bread now and then, and
      natter myself it is uncommonly good; and one four-pound tin of Bloxland's
      preserved meat from Queensland has already lasted me twelve days, and
      there is about half of it remaining. He reckons each pound well soaked and
      cooked to be equal to three pounds, and I think he is right. A very little
      of this, with a bit of yam deliciously cooked, and brought to me each day
      as a present by some one from their cooking ovens, makes a capital dinner.
      Then I have some rice and sugar for breakfast, a biscuit and coffee, and a
      bit of bread-fruit perhaps; and all the little delicacies are here&mdash;salt,
      pepper, mustard, even to a bottle of pickles&mdash;so I am pretty well
      off, I think.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I find that the white ant, or an insect like it, is here. The plates of
      our old hut are quite rotten, the outside still untouched, all within like
      tinder. They call the insect vanoa; it is not found in New Zealand, but it
      is a sad nuisance in Australia.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not read much here this time, so much of every day is taken up with
      talking to the people about me. That is all right, and I generally can
      turn the talk to something that I wish them to hear, so it is all in the
      way of business here. And I am glad to say that my school, and
      conversations and lessons, need some careful preparation. I have spent
      some time in drawing up for myself a little scheme of teaching for people
      in the state of my friends here. I ought of course to have done it long
      ago, and it is a poor thing now. I cannot take a real pleasure in
      teaching, and so I do it badly. I am always, almost always, glad when
      school is over, though sometimes I get much interested myself, though not
      often able to interest others.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am reading some Hebrew nearly every day, and Lightfoot on the
      Galatians, Tyler's "Researches into the Early History of Mankind,"
      Dollinger's "First Ages of the Church," and "Ecce Homo." I tried Maine's
      "Ancient Law," but it is too tough for the tropics, unless I chance to
      feel very fresh. I generally get an hour in the evening, if I am sleeping
      at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 23rd.&mdash;I suppose anyone who has lived in a dirty Irish village&mdash;pigs,
      fowls, and children equally noisy and filthy, and the parents wild,
      ignorant, and impulsive&mdash;may have some notion of this kind of thing.
      You never get a true account, much less a true illustration of the real
      thing. Did you happen to see a ridiculous engraving on one of the S. P.
      Gr. sheets some years ago, supposed to be me taking two Ambrym boys to the
      boat? (Footnote: No such engraving can be found by the S. P. Gr. It was
      probably put forth in some other publication.) Now it is much better not
      to draw at all than to draw something which can only mislead people. If
      Ambrym boys really looked like those two little fellows, and if the boat
      with bland-looking white men could quietly be pulled to the beach, and if
      I, in a respectable dress, could go to and from the boat and the shore,
      why the third stage of Mission work has been reached already! I don't
      suppose you can picture to yourselves the real state of things in this,
      and in many of these islands, and therefore the great difficulty there is
      in getting them out of their present social, or unsocial, state!
    </p>
    <p>
      'To follow Christian teaching out in detail, to carry it out from the
      school into the hut, into the actual daily life of the dirty naked women,
      and still dirtier though not more naked children; to get the men really to
      abandon old ways from a sense of responsibility and duty and love to God,
      this of course comes very slowly. I am writing very lazily, being indeed
      tired with heat and mosquitos. The sun is very hot again to-day. I have no
      thermometer here, but it feels as if it ought to be 90° in the shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 25th.&mdash;George Sarawia spent yesterday here, and has just gone to
      his village. He and I had a good deal of conversation. I copied out for
      him the plan of teaching drawn up from books already printed in their
      language. He speaks encouragingly, and is certainly recognised as one who
      is intended to be the teacher here. No one is surprised that he should be
      treated by me in a very different way from anyone else, with a complete
      confidence and a mutual understanding of each other. He is a thoroughly
      good, simple-minded fellow, and I hope, by God's blessing, he may do much
      good. He told me that B&mdash;&mdash; wants to come with me again; but I
      cannot take him. As we have been living properly, and for the sake of the
      head school and our character in the eyes of the people here, I cannot
      take him until he shows proof of a real desire to do his duty. I am very
      sorry for it. I have all the old feeling about him; and he is so quick and
      intelligent, but he allows himself again and again to be overcome by
      temptation, hard I dare say to withstand; but this conduct does disqualify
      him for being chosen to go with us. I am leaving behind some good but dull
      boys, for I can't make room as yet for them, and I must not take an
      ill-conducted fellow because he is quick and clever. He has some sort of
      influence in the place from his quickness, and from his having acquired a
      good deal of riches while with us. He says nothing, according to Sarawia,
      for or against our teaching. Meanwhile, he lives much like a somewhat
      civilised native. Poor fellow! I sent a message to him by George that if
      he wished to see me, I should be very willing to have a talk with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yesterday we made some sago. A tree is cut down in its proper stage of
      growth, just when it begins to flower. The pith is pulled and torn into
      shreds and fibres, then the juice is squeezed out so as to allow it to run
      or drip into some vessel, while water is poured on the pith by some one
      assisting the performer. The grounds (as say of coffee) remain at the
      bottom when the water is poured off, and an hour of such a sun as we had
      yesterday dries and hardens the sago. It is then fit for use. I suppose
      that it took an hour and a half to prepare about a slop-basin full of the
      dried hard sago. I have not used it vet. We brought tapioca here some
      years ago, and they used it in the same way, and they had abundance of
      arrow-root. On Monday I will make some, if all is well. Any fellow is
      willing to help for a few beads or fish-hooks, and they do all the heavy
      work, the fetching water, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never saw anything like the pigeons in the great banyan tree close by.
      They eat its berries, and I really think there are at times more than a
      hundred at once in it. Had I a gun here I think I might have brought down
      three or four at a shot yesterday, sitting shot of course, but then I
      should shoot "for the pot." Palmer had his gun here last year, and shot as
      many as he wanted at any time. The bats at night are innumerable; they too
      eat the banyan berries, but chiefly the ripening bread-fruit. The cats we
      brought here have nearly cleared the place of the small rats which used to
      abound here; but lizards abound in this hut, because it is not continually
      smoke-dried.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last night I think some of the people here heard some rather new notions,
      to them, about the true relation of man and woman, parent and child, &amp;c.
      They said, as they do often say, "Every word is true! how foolish we are!"
      But how to get any of them to start on a new course is the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ascension Day, May 30th.&mdash;There is a good deal of discussion going
      on now among the people. I hear of it not only from our old scholars, but
      from some of the men. I have been speaking day by day more earnestly to
      the people; always reading here and there verses of the Gospels or the
      Acts, or paraphrasing some passage so that they may have the actual words
      in which the message is recorded. They say, "This is a heavy, a weighty
      word," and they are talking, as they say, night after night about it. Some
      few, and they elderly men, say, "Let us talk only about our customs here."
      Others say, "No, no; let us try to think out the meaning of what he said."
      A few come and ask me questions, only a few, not many are in earnest, and
      all are shy. Many every night meet in Robert Pantatun's house, twenty-five
      or thirty, and ask him all manner of questions, and he reads a little.
      They end with prayer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They have many strange customs and superstitious observances peculiar to
      this group. They have curious clubs, confraternities with secret rites of
      initiation. The candidate for admission pays pigs and native money, and
      after many days' seclusion in a secret place is, with great ceremony,
      recognised as a member. No woman and none of the uninitiated may know
      anything of these things.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In every village there is a Sala Goro, a place for cooking, which only
      those who have "gazed at the sacred symbol" may frequent. Food cooked
      there may not be eaten by one uninitiated, or by women or children. The
      path to the Sala Goro is never trodden by any woman or matanomorous ("eye
      closed"). When any ceremony is going on the whole of the precincts of the
      Sala Goro are sacred. At no time dare any woman eat with any man, no
      husband with his wife, no father with his daughter as soon as she is no
      longer a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course such a system can be used by us in two ways. I say, "You have
      your method of assembling together, and you observe certain customs in so
      doing; so do we, but yours is an exclusive and selfish system: your secret
      societies are like our clubs, with their entrance fees, &amp;c. But
      Christ's society has its sacred rite of admission, and other mysteries
      too, and it is for all who wish to belong to it. He recognises no
      distinction of male or female, bond or free."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some of the elder men are becoming suspicious of me. I tell them plainly
      that whatever there may be in their customs incompatible with the great
      law of Love to God and man must come to nought. "You beat and terrify
      matanomorous in order to make them give, that you may get pigs and native
      money from them. Such conduct is all wrong, for if you beat or frighten a
      youth or man, you certainly can't love him."
    </p>
    <p>
      'At the same time I can't tell how far this goes. If there were a real
      ceremony of an idol or prayer to it, of course it would be comparatively
      easy to act in the matter; but the ceremony consists in sticking a curious
      sort of mitre, pointed and worked with hair, on the head of the candidate,
      and covering his body with a sort of Jack-in-the green wicker work of
      leaves, &amp;c., and they joke and laugh about it, and attach, apparently,
      no religious significance to it whatever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think it has the evil which attends all secret societies, that it tends
      to produce invidious distinctions and castes. An instinct impels men to
      form themselves into associations; but then Christ has satisfied that
      instinct legitimately in the Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Christianity does meet a human instinct; as, e.g., the Lord's Supper,
      whatever higher and deeper feelings it may have, has this simple, but most
      significant meaning to the primitive convert, of feasting as a child with
      his brethren and sisters at the Father's Board.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The significance of this to people living as more than half the human
      beings in the world are living still, is such as we have lost the power of
      conceiving; the Lord's Supper has so long had, so to say, other meanings
      for many of us. Yet to be admitted a member of God's family, and then
      solemnly at stated times to use this privilege of membership,
      strengthening the tie, and familiarising oneself more and more with the
      customs of that heavenly family, this surely is a very great deal of what
      human instinct, as exhibited in almost universal customs, requires.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are depths for those who can dive into them; but I really think
      that in some of these theological questions we view the matter solely from
      our state of civilisation and thought, and forget the multitudes of
      uneducated, rude, unrefined people to whom all below the simple meaning is
      unmeaning. May I not say to Robert Pantatun, "Christ, you know, gave His
      Body and Blood for us on the Cross, He gives them to you now, for all
      purposes of saving you and strengthening your spiritual life, while you
      eat and drink as an adopted child at your Father's Table"?
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is the keeping alive the consciousness of the relation of all children
      to God through Christ that is needed so much. And with these actual sights
      before me, and you have them among you in the hundreds of thousands of
      poor ignorant creatures, I almost wonder that men should spend so much
      time in refining upon points which never can have a practical meaning for
      any persons not trained to habits of accurate thought and unusual
      devotion. But here I am very likely wrong, and committing the very fault
      of generalizing from my own particular position.
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 4th.&mdash;I was greatly pleased, on Friday evening last which
      George Sarawia spent here with me, to hear from him that he had been
      talking with the Banks Islanders at Norfolk Island, and on board ship,
      about a plan which he now proposed to me. I had indeed thought of it, but
      scarcely saw my way. It is a new proof of his real earnestness, and of his
      seeking the good of his people here. The plan is this:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'G. S. "Bishop, we have been talking together about your buying some land
      here, near your present place, where we all can live together, where we
      can let the people see what our mode of life is, what our customs are,
      which we have learnt from you."
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. P. "Capital, George, but are you all willing to give up your living
      in villages among your own particular relations?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'G. S. "Yes, we all agreed about it. You see, sir, if we live scattered
      about we are not strong enough to hold our ground, and some of the younger
      ones fall back into their old ways. The temptations are great, and what
      can be expected of one or two boys among eighty or ninety heathen people?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. C. P. "Of course you know what I think about it. It is the very thing
      I have always longed for. I did have a general school here, as you know."
    </p>
    <p>
      'G. S. "Yes, but things are different now. People are making enquiries.
      Many young fellows want to understand our teaching, and follow it. If we
      have a good large place of our own there, we can carry on our own mode of
      living without interfering with other people."
    </p>
    <p>
      'J. G. P. "Yes, and so we can, actually in the midst of them, let them see
      a Christian village, where none of the strange practices which are
      inconsistent with Christianity will be allowed, and where the comforts and
      advantages of our customs may be actually seen."
    </p>
    <p>
      'G. S. "By-and-by it will be a large village, and many will wish to live
      there, and not from many parts of Mota only."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I have told you, I suppose, of the fertility of this island, and
      how it is far more than sufficient to supply the wants of the people. Food
      is wasted on all sides. This very day I have plucked ten large
      bread-fruits, and might have plucked forty now nearly ripe, simply that
      the bats may not get them. I gave them away, as I can't eat more than a
      third part of one at a meal.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I went with George on Saturday, and we chose such a beautiful
      property, between Veverao and Maligo, I dare say about ten acres. Then I
      spoke to the people here, explaining my wishes and motives. To-day we have
      been over it with a large party, that all might be done publicly and
      everybody might hear and know. The land belongs to sixteen different
      owners; the cocoa-nut trees, breadfruit, almond, and other fruit-trees are
      bought separately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They all agree; indeed, as they have abundance of space of spare land
      just as good all about, and they will get a good stock of hatchets, pigs,
      &amp;c., from me, for this land, there is not much doubt about that. But
      it is pleasant to hear some of them say, "No, no, that is mine and my
      son's, and he is your boy. You can have that for nothing."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shan't take it; it is safer to buy, but it is pleasant to see the kind
      feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If it be God's will to prosper this undertaking, we should begin next
      year with about fifteen of our own scholars, and a goodly number of
      half-scholars, viz., those who are now our regular scholars here, but have
      not been taken to New Zealand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fencing, clearing, &amp;c., could go on rapidly. Many would help, and
      small payments of beads and fish-hooks can always secure a man's services.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should build the houses with the material of the island, save only
      windows, but adopt of course a different shape and style for them. The
      idea would be to have everything native fashion, but improved, so as to be
      clearly suitable for the wants of people sufficiently civilised. All that
      a Christian finds helpful and expedient we ought to have, but to adopt
      English notions and habits would defeat my object. The people could not
      adopt them, there would be no teaching for them. I want to be able to say:
      "Well, you see, there is nothing to prevent you from having this and that,
      and your doing this and that."
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must have some simple rules about cleanliness, working hours, &amp;c.,
      but all that is already familiar to those who have been with us at
      Kohimarama and Norfolk Island. Above all, I rejoice in the thought that
      the people understand that very soon this plan is to be worked by George
      Sarawia. He is to be the, so to say, head of the Christian village. I
      shall be a kind of Visitor. Palmer will, of course, be wanted at first,
      but must avoid the fault of letting the people, our own pupils as well as
      others, become dependent upon us. The Paraguay Mission produced docile
      good-natured fags for the missionaries, but the natives had learnt no
      self-respect, manliness, nor positive strength of character. They fought
      well, and showed pluck when the missionaries armed them, but they seem to
      have had no power of perpetuating their newly-learnt customs, without the
      continual guidance of the missionaries. It may be that such supervision is
      necessary; but I do not think it is so, and I should be sorry to think it
      is so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As usual, the Mota climate told on the health of the party, there was
      general influenza, and the Bishop had a swelling under his left arm; but
      on Whitsunday the 'Southern Cross,' which had been to set down the Solomon
      Islanders, returned, and carried him off. Vanua Lava was touched at, and a
      stone, carved by John Adams, put up at Fisher Young's grave, which was
      found, as before, well kept in order. Then the round of the New Hebrides
      was made; but new volunteers were refused, or told to wait ten moons, as
      it was an object to spend the first season in the new locality with tried
      scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
      At 'the grand island, miscalled Leper's,' the Bishop slept ashore for the
      first time, and so also at Whitsuntide.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Espiritu Santo much friendliness was shown, and a man would not take a
      present Mr. Atkin offered, because he had nothing, to pay for it. Santa
      Cruz, as usual, was disappointing, as, Mr. Atkin says, the only word in
      their mouths, the only thought in their heads, was 'iron;' they clamoured
      for this, and would not listen; moreover, their own pronunciation of their
      language was very indistinct, owing to their teeth being destroyed by the
      use of the betel-nut, so that they all spoke like a man with a hot potato
      in his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So again we leave this fine island without any advance, as far as we can
      see, having been made. I may live to think these islanders very wild, and
      their speech very difficult, yet I know no more of them now than I did
      years ago. Yet I hope that some unforeseen means for "entering in among"
      them may be given some day. Their time is to come, sooner or later, when
      He knows it to be the right time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Savo was then touched at; and the Bishop slept ashore at Florida, and left
      Mr. Brooke there to the hospitality of three old scholars for a few days,
      by way of making a beginning. The observations on the plan show a strange
      sense of ageing at only forty:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'He speaks the language fairly; and his visit will, I hope, do good. Of
      course he will be tired, and will enjoy the quiet of the schooner after
      it. I know what that is pretty well, and it takes something to make one
      prefer the little vessel at sea to any kind of shore life. However, he has
      youth and cheery spirits at command, and that makes life on an island. A
      man whose tastes naturally are for books, &amp;c., rather than for small
      talk, and who can't take much interest in the very trifling matters that
      engage the attention of these poor fellows, such a man finds it very
      tiring indeed sometimes, when a merry bright good-natured fellow would
      amuse himself and the natives too.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In these introductory visits, scarcely anything is done or said that
      resembles Mission work as invented in stories, and described by the very
      vivid imagination, of sensational writers. The crowd is great, the noise
      greater, the heat, the dirt, the inquisitiveness, the endless repetition
      of the same questions and remarks, the continual requests for a fish-hook,
      for beads, &amp;c.&mdash;this is somewhat unlike the interesting pictures,
      in a Missionary Magazine, of an amiable individual very correctly got up
      in a white tie and black tailed coat, and a group of very attentive,
      decently-clothed and nicely-washed natives. They are wild with excitement,
      not to hear "the good news," but to hear how the trading went on: "How
      many axes did they sell? How many bits of iron?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'You say, "Why do you trade at all?" Answer: In the first visits that we
      make we should at once alienate all the goodwill of the people from us
      unless we so far complied with their desire to get iron tools, or to trade
      more or less with them. As soon as I can I give presents to three or four
      leading men, and then let the buying curiosities be carried on by the crew
      and others; but not to trade at all would be equivalent to giving up hope
      of establishing any intercourse with the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But in new islands, and upon our first visits, if we do get a chance of
      saying something amid the uproar, what can we say about religion that will
      be intelligible to men whose language has never been used to express any
      thought of ours that we long to communicate, and whose minds are
      pre-occupied by the visit of the vessel, and the longing for our articles
      of trade? Sometimes we do try to say a few words; sometimes we do a little
      better, we get a hearing, some persons listen with some interest; but
      usually, if we can merely explain that we don't come to trade, though we
      trade to please them, that we wish to take lads and teach them, we are
      obliged to be satisfied. "Teach them! teach them what?" think the natives.
      Why, one old hatchet would outweigh in their minds all that boy or man can
      gain from any teaching. What appreciable value can reading, writing,
      wearing clothes, &amp;c., have in their eyes? So we must in first visits
      (of which I am now thinking) be thankful that we can in safety sleep on
      shore at all, and regard the merely making friends with the people as a
      small beginning of Mission work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor fellows! they think it very strange! As you lie down in the dark and
      try to sleep, you presently feel hands stroking your arms and legs, and
      feeling you about to make sure that the stranger has the same allowance of
      arms and legs that they have; and you overhear such quaint remarks as you
      lie still, afraid to let them know that you are awake, lest they should
      oblige you to begin talking over again the same things that you have
      already said twenty times.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brooke stayed four days at Florida; and came away with three former
      pupils, and four new ones, one of them grown up, a relative of the leading
      man of the island. Taroniara was the only Bauro scholar brought away this
      time; but so many were taken from Mota that the whole party numbered
      thirty-seven, seven of them girls, all betrothed to one or other of the
      lads. The entire colony at St. Barnabas, including English, was thus
      raised to seventy, when the 'Southern Cross' returned thither in August.
      On the 23rd, Bishop Patteson writes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you could see this place and the view from this room. I have only
      got into it within this hour. The carpenters are just out of it. You know
      that I left Palmer here about eleven months ago, on the return from that
      island voyage. He had sixteen lads with him, of whom eleven were good
      stout fellows.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He did work wonderfully. The place I chose for the site of the station is
      about three miles from the settlement&mdash;the town, as the people call
      it. If you have a map of the island, you will see Longridge on the western
      part of it. Follow on the principal road, which goes on beyond Longridge
      in a N. and NW. direction, and about a mile beyond Longridge is our
      station. The top of Mount Pitt is nearly opposite our houses, of which two
      are now habitable, though not finished. The third, which is the house at
      Kohimarama which I had for one year, and in which Sir W. and Lady Martin
      spent ten days, will be begun on Monday next, I hope. The labour of
      getting all these things from New Zealand and then landing them (for there
      is no harbour), and then carting them up here (for there are no really
      good horses here, but the two I bought and sent down), was very
      considerable. Palmer and his boys worked admirably. He was industrious
      indeed. He and they lived at first in a little cottage, about
      three-quarters of a mile from our place, i.e., about a quarter of a mile
      from Longridge. During the first month, while they had no cart or horses
      as yet (for I had to send them down from Auckland), they fenced in some
      lands (the wire for which I had bought at Sydney, and a man-of-war brought
      it hither), planted yams (which grow excellently, such a crop never was
      seen here) and sweet potatoes, melons, vegetables, &amp;c. Meanwhile, the
      timber for the houses was being sent as I had opportunity, a large
      quantity having been already taken to Norfolk Island in a man-of-war.
      Luckily, timber was selling very cheap at Auckland.
    </p>
    <p>
      'After this first month, Palmer set to work at house building. He built
      entirely by himself, save the chimney and some part of the shingling
      (wooden roofing). As yet, no rooms have any ceiling or lining; they might
      by innocent people be thought to resemble barns, but they are
      weather-proof, strong, and answer all present purposes. The verandah,
      about 8 feet broad, is another great room really.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am still buying and sending down bricks, timber, &amp;c. Two Auckland
      carpenters, thoroughly steady men, left Norfolk Island, about three weeks
      after we left it, for the Melanesian islands. They have been putting up my
      special building. We have no doors like hall doors, as all the rooms open
      with glass doors on to the verandah, and they are the doors for going in
      and out. Comprenez-vous? The ground slopes away from these two houses for
      some 200 yards or more to a little stream; and this slope is all covered
      with sweet potatoes and vegetables, and Codrington and Palmer have planted
      any number of trees, bushes, flowers, &amp;c. Everything grows, and grows
      luxuriantly. Such soil, such a climate!
    </p>
    <p>
      'By-and-by I shall have, I hope, such myrtles and azaleas, kalmias and
      crotons, and pine-apples and almond trees, bananas and tree-ferns, and
      magnolias and camellias, &amp;c., all in the open air.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The ground slopes up beyond the little stream, a beautiful wooded bank,
      wooded with many kinds of trees and bushes, large Norfolk Island pines;
      cattle and sheep stray about. Oh! how very pretty it is! And then beyond
      and above this first slope, the eye travels along the slopes of the Pitt
      to its summit, about 1,000 feet, a pretty little hill. It is, indeed, a
      calm peaceful scene, away from noise and bustle, plenty of pleasant sounds
      of merry boys working in the gardens, and employing themselves in divers
      ways. The prospect is (D. Gr.) a very happy one. It is some pleasure to
      work here, where the land gives "her increase" indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All seem very happy and well pleased with the place. I don't see how it
      can be otherwise, and yet to the young people there may be something
      attractive in society. But the young ones must occasionally go to Auckland
      or Sydney, or whithersoever they please, for a two or three months'
      holiday. For me, what can I desire more than this place affords? More than
      half of each year spent here if I live, and quietly, with any amount of
      work, uninterrupted work, time for quiet reading and thought. This room of
      mine in which I now am sitting is magnifique, my dear Joan; seriously, a
      very good room. You see it will be full of boys and girls; and I must have
      in it many things, not books only, for the general use of all here, so
      that I determined to make it a nice place at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This room then, nicely lined, looking rather like a wooden box, it is
      true, but clean and airy, is 22 feet x 14 feet 6 in., and the wall plates
      9 feet 6 in. high, the ceiling coved a little, so as to be nearly 14 feet
      high in the centre. What do you think of that for a room? It has a
      fire-place, and wide verandah, which is nearly 6 feet above the ground, so
      that I am high and dry, and have all the better view too, quite a grand
      flight of steps&mdash;a broad ladder&mdash;up into my house. The Mahaga
      lads and I call it my tree-house.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I have one great luxury. I thought I would have it, and it is so
      nice. My room opens into the Chapel by red baize swinging doors; my
      private entrance, for there is a regular porch where the rest go in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Service at 7 A.M. and 8 P.M. But it is always open, boys come in of a
      morning to say their private prayers, for sleeping together in one room
      they have little privacy there. And I can go in at all hours. Soon it will
      become a sacred spot to us. It is really like a Chapel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 27th.&mdash;Your birthday, my dear old Fan! God bless you, and
      grant you all true happiness, and the sense of being led onwards to the
      eternal peace and joy above. The parting here is a long one; and likely to
      be a parting for good, as far as this world is concerned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last night was the coldest night that they have had during the whole
      winter; the thermometer touched 43°&mdash;Codrington has regular
      registering thermometers, so you see what a charming climate this is for
      us. Palmer was here all the summer, and he says that the heat, though
      great as marked by thermometer, was never trying, relaxing, and unfitting
      for work, as at Kohimarama.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus began the first period of the residence in Norfolk Island; where Mr.
      Codrington's account of the way of life shall supplement the above:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'When the Bishop returned in August 1867, our party consisted of himself,
      Mr. Palmer in Deacon's orders, and myself, Mr. Atkin and Mr. Brooke
      already experienced in the work, and Mr. Bice, who had with myself lately
      arrived from England. The whole number of Melanesians was about sixty;
      among the eldest of these the most intelligent and advanced of the few
      then baptized, George, Henry, B&mdash;&mdash;, Robert and Edward. There
      were then, I think, thirteen baptized, and two Communicants. To this elder
      class, the Bishop, as far as I can recollect, devoted the greater part of
      his time. He said that now for the first time he was able without
      interruption to set to work to teach them, and he certainly made great
      progress in those months. I remember that every evening they used to sit
      in Chapel after prayers, and consider what difficulty or question they
      should propound to him; and he would come in after a time, and, after
      hearing the question, discuss the subject, discourse upon it, and end with
      prayer. They were at the time, I remember, much impressed by this; and
      those who were the most advanced took in a great deal of an elevated
      strain of doctrine which, no doubt, passed over the heads of the greater
      number, but not without stirring up their hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It became a regular custom on the evening before the Communion Sunday,
      i.e., every other Sunday, to give the Communicants instruction and
      preparation after the Chapel service. At this time there was no Sunday
      sermon in Chapel. The Bishop used to say that the preaching was done in
      the school; but much of his school was of a hortatory kind in the Chapel,
      and often without taking off the surplice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At this time I should add that he used from time to time to have other
      boys with him to school, and particularly Solomon Islanders, whose
      languages he alone could generally speak. He had also a good deal with him
      the second set of eight Banks Islanders, who were by this time recognised
      Catechumens.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There were other occupations of the Bishop's time, besides his school
      with Melanesians. The hour from 12 to 1 was devoted to instruction given
      to the two young men, one from New Zealand and one a son of Mr. Nobbs, who
      were working with the Mission; and on alternate days to the younger
      members of the Mission, who were being prepared for Ordination.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The reading with the younger clergy continued to be to the last one of
      the most regular and most fruitful of the Bishop's engagements. The
      education which Mr. Atkin had for many years received from the Bishop had
      set him considerably above the average of young English clergy, not only
      in scholarship and information, but also in habits of literary industry.
      The Bishop, with his own great interest in Hebrew, enjoyed very much his
      Hebrew reading with Mr. Atkin and Mr. Bice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop also began as soon as he could to pay attention to the
      teaching of the young Norfolk Islanders. He preached very often in their
      Church, and went down on Wednesdays to take a class of candidates for
      Confirmation. He said, and I believe with truth, that he wasted a great
      deal of time in preparing his lessons with the candidates for Ordination
      or younger clergy; that is, he looked up the subject in some book, and
      read on and on till he had gone far beyond the point in search of which he
      started, and had no time left to take up the other points which belonged
      to the subject he had in view. I should say he was always a desultory
      scholar, reading very much and to very great purpose, but being led
      continually from one subject or one book to another long before coming to
      an end of the first. He was always so dissatisfied with what he did, that
      whereas there are remaining several beginnings of one or two pages on one
      subject or another, there is no paper of his which is more than a fragment&mdash;that
      is, in English. There is one series of Notes on the Catechism in Mota
      complete. In those days I was not myself able to converse sufficiently in
      Mota to learn much from the elder boys about the teaching they were
      receiving; but it was evident that they were much impressed and stirred
      up, they spent much time with their books by themselves, and one could not
      fail to form a high estimate of the work that was going on. Now they say
      they never had school like that before or since. The Bishop was, in fact,
      luxuriating in the unbroken opportunity of pouring out instruction to
      intelligent and interested scholars. I think it was altogether a happy
      time to him; he enjoyed the solitude, the advantages of the move to the
      island were apparent in the school work, and were anticipated in the farm,
      and the hope of doing something for the Pitcairn people, which I believe
      had much to do with fixing the Mission here, was fresh.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This judgment is thoroughly borne out by the Bishop's own letter to his
      sisters of October 27, wherein it appears how considerable an element of
      his enjoyment and comfort was Mr. Codrington's own companionship, partly
      as a link with the younger members of the little community:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do I feel doubtful about an early Communion Service, Codrington, when I
      broach the matter, takes it up more eagerly almost than I do; and then I
      leave him to talk with the others, who could hardly differ from me on such
      a point if they wished to do so, but will speak freely to him. Not that,
      mind, I am aware of there being anything like a feeling of distance
      between me and them, but necessarily they must just feel that I am forty
      and their Bishop, and so I might perhaps influence them too much, which
      would be undesirable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I can talk with him on matters which of course have special interest
      for me, for somehow I find that I scarcely ever read or think on any
      points which do not concern directly my work as clergyman or
      language-monger. It is very seldom that I touch a book which is not a
      commentary on the Bible or a theological treatise, scarcely ever, and of
      course one likes to talk about those things of which one's mind is full.
      That made the talks with the Judge so delightful. Now young people, of
      course, have their heads full (as I used to have mine) of other things,
      and so my talk would be dull and heavy to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No doubt, if you had me at home you would find that I am pretty full of
      thoughts on some points, but not very well able to express myself, and to
      put my thoughts into shape. It is partly want of habit, because, except as
      one speaks somewhat dictatorially to pupils, I do not arrange my ideas by
      conversing with others&mdash;to a great extent, from want of inclination,
      i.e., indolence, and also I have not the brains to think out a really
      difficult subject. I am amused occasionally to see what a false estimate
      others form of me in that way. You see it has pleased God to give me one
      faculty in rather an unusual degree, that of learning languages, but in
      every other respect my abilities are very moderate indeed. Distance
      exaggerates of course, and I get credit with some folks for what if I had
      it would simply be a gift and no virtue in me; but I attain anything I
      work at with very considerable labour, and my mind moves very sluggishly,
      and I am often very dull and stupid. You may judge, therefore, of the
      great advantage of having a bright, cheery, intelligent, well-informed man
      among us, without whom every meal would be heavy and silent, and we should
      (by my fault) get into a mechanical grind....
    </p>
    <p>
      'As for your own worthy Brother, I don't think I knew what rest meant till
      I got here. I work, in one sense, as hard as before, i.e., from early morn
      till 10 P.M., with perhaps the intermission of a hour and a half for
      exercise, besides the twenty minutes for each of the three meals; and did
      my eyes allow it, I could go on devouring books much later. But then I am
      not interrupted and distracted by the endless occupation of the New
      Zealand life. Oh! how utterly distasteful to me were all those trustee
      meetings, those English duties of all kinds, and most of all, those
      invasions of Kohimarama by persons for whom I could get up no interest. I
      am not defending these idiosyncrasies as if they were all right, but
      stating what I felt and what I feel. I am indeed very happy here; I trust
      not less useful in my way. School of course flourishes. You would be
      surprised at the subjects that I and my first class work at. No lack of
      brains! Perhaps I can express it briefly by saying that I have felt for a
      year or more the need of giving them the Gospel of St. John. Because they
      were ready, thank God, for those marvellous discourses and arguments in
      that blessed Gospel, following upon the record of miracles wrought or
      events that happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course the knowledge of the facts must come first, but there was
      always in school with me&mdash;either they have it as a natural gift, or
      my teaching takes naturally that line&mdash;a tendency to go deeper than
      the mere apprehension of a fact, a miracle wrought, or a statement made.
      The moral meaning of the miracle, the principle involved in the less
      important expression of it, or particular manifestation of it, these
      points always of late I am able to talk about as to intelligent and
      interested listeners. I have these last six weeks been translating St.
      John; it is nearly done. Think, Fan, of reading, as I did last night, to a
      class of fifteen Melanesian Christians, the very words of St. John vi. for
      the first time in their ears! They had heard me paraphrase much of it at
      different times. I don't notice these things, unless (as now) I chance to
      write about them. After 6 P.M. Chapel, I remain with some of the lads, the
      first class of boys, men, and women, every night, and in addition, the
      second class every other night (not on the nights when I have had them
      from 7 to 8). I used to catechise them at first, starting the subject
      myself. Now, I rejoice to say, half goes very quickly in answering
      questions, of which they bring me plenty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, at about 8.50 or 9, I leave them alone in the Chapel (which opens,
      as you know, into my sitting-room), and there they stay till past 10,
      talking over points among themselves, often two or three coming in to me,
      "Bishop, we can't quite make out this." What do they know and ask? Well,
      take such a subject as the second Psalm, and they will answer you, if you
      ask them, about prophecy and the prophetic state. Test them as to the idea
      they form of a spiritual vision of something seen, but not with the
      fleshly eye, and they will say, "Yes, our minds have that power of seeing
      things. I speak of Mota, it is far off, but as I speak of it, I see my
      father and my mother and the whole place. My mind has travelled to it in
      an instant. I am there. Yes, I see. So David, so Moses, so St. Peter on
      the housetop, so St. Paul, caught up into the third heaven, so with his
      mind."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"But was it like one of our dreams?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes and No&mdash;Yes, because they were hardly like waking-men. No,
      because it was a real true vision which God made them see."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ask them about the object of prophecy, and they will say, in quaint
      expression, it is true, what is tantamount to this&mdash;it was not only a
      prediction of things to come, but a chief means of keeping before the
      minds of the Jews the knowledge of God's true character as the moral
      Governor of their nation, and gradually the knowledge was given of His
      being the Lord and Ruler of all men. The Prophet was the teacher of the
      present generation as well as the utterer of truths that, when fulfilled
      in after ages, would teach future ages.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mention these fragmentary sentiments, merely to show you how I can
      carry these fellows into a region where something more than memory must be
      exercised. The recurrence of the same principles upon which God deals with
      us is an illustration of what I mean; e.g., the Redemption out of Egypt
      from the Captivity and the Redemption involve the same principle. So the
      principle of Mediation runs through the Bible, the Prophet, Priest, King,
      &amp;c. Then go into the particular Psalm, ask the meaning of the words,
      Anointed, Prophet, Priest, King&mdash;how our Lord discharged and
      discharges these offices. What was the decree? The Anointed is His Son.
      "This day have I begotten Thee"&mdash;the Eternal Generation&mdash;the
      Birth from the grave. His continual Intercession. Take up Psalm cx., the
      Priest, the Priest for ever, not after the order of Aaron. Go into the
      Aaronical Priesthood. Sacrifices, the idea of sacrifice, the Mosaic
      ritual, its fulfilment; the principle of obedience, as a consequence of
      Faith, common to Old and New Testaments, as, indeed, God's Moral Law is
      unchangeable, but the object of faith clearly revealed in the New
      Testament for the first time, &amp;c., &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Christ's Mediatorial reign, His annihilation of all opposition in the
      appointed time, the practical Lesson the Wrath of the Lamb.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Often you would find that pupils who can be taught these things seem and
      are very ignorant of much simpler things; but they have no knowledge of
      books, as you are aware, and my object is to teach them pretty fully those
      matters which are really of the greatest importance, while I may fill up
      the intervening spaces some day, if I live. To spend such energy as they
      and I have upon the details of Jewish history, e.g., would be unwise. The
      great lessons must be taught, as, e.g., St. Paul in 1 Cor. x. uses Jewish
      history.
    </p>
    <p>
      'October 15, I finished my last chapter of St. John's Gospel in the Mota
      language; we have also a good many of the Collects and Gospels translated,
      and some printed. What is better than to follow the Church's selection of
      passages of Scripture, and then to teach them devotionally in connection
      with the Collects?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Brooke works away hard at his singing class in the afternoon. We sing the
      Venite, Magnificat, Nunc dimittis, &amp;c., in parts, to single and double
      chants, my old favourite "Jacob's" for the Venite, also a fine chant of G.
      Elvey's. They don't sing at all well, but nevertheless, though apt to get
      flat, and without good voices, there is a certain body of sound, and I
      like it. Brooke plays the harmonium nicely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Norfolk Island people, two or three only, have been here at evening
      service, and are extremely struck with the reverence of the Melanesians.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I work away with my Confirmation class, liking them personally, but
      finding no indication of their having been taught to think in the least.
      It is a relief to get back to the Melanesians.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The visit of the Bishop of New Zealand which had been hoped for, had been
      prevented by the invitation to attend the Synod of the Church held at
      Lambeth, in the autumn of 1867, and instead of himself welcoming his
      friends, Bishop Patteson was picturing them to himself staying with his
      sisters at Torquay, and joining in the Consecration Services of the Church
      of All Saints, at Babbicombe, where the altar stood, fragrant with the
      sandal wood of the Pacific isles. The letters sent off by an opportunity
      in November were to family and friends, both in England. The one to his
      sister Joanna narrates one of those incidents that touched the Bishop most
      deeply:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Friday last we had such a very, very solemn service in our little
      Chapel. Walter Hotaswol, from Matlavo Island, is dying&mdash;he has long
      been dying, I may say&mdash;of consumption. For two winters past he has
      remained with us rather than in his own island, as he well knew that
      without good food and care he would sink at once. Years ago he was
      baptized, and after much time spent in preparation, Tuesday, at 7.30 A.M.,
      was the day when we met in Chapel. Walter leant back in a chair. The whole
      service was in the Mota language, and I administered the Holy Communion to
      eleven of our Melanesian scholars, and last of all to him. Three others I
      trust I may receive to Holy Communion Sunday next. Is not this a blessed
      thing? I think of it with thankfulness and fear. My old text comes into my
      mind&mdash;"Your heart shall fear and be enlarged." I think there is good
      hope that I may baptize soon seven or eight catechumens.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The letter to Bishop Selwyn despatched by the same vessel on November 16,
      gives the first hint of that 'labour traffic' which soon became the chief
      obstacle to the Mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      After describing an interview with an American captain, he continues:&mdash;'Reports
      are rife of a semi-legalised slave-trading between the South Sea Islands
      and New Caledonia and the white settlers in Fiji. I have made a little
      move in the matter. I wrote to a Wesleyan Missionary in Fiji (Ovalau) who
      sent me some books. I am told that Government sanctions natives being
      brought upon agreement to work for pay, &amp;c., and passage home in two
      years. We know the impossibility of making contracts with New Hebrides or
      Solomon natives. It is a mere sham, an evasion of some law, passed, I dare
      say, without any dishonourable intention, to procure colonial labour. If
      necessary I will go to Fiji or anywhere to obtain information. But I saw a
      letter in a Sydney paper which spoke strongly and properly of the
      necessity of the most stringent rules to prevent the white settlers from
      injuring the coloured men.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So first loomed the cloud that was to become so fatal a darkening of the
      hopes of the Mission, all the more sad because it was caused by Christian
      men, or men who ought to have been Christian. It will be seen, however,
      that Bishop Patteson did not indiscriminately set his face against all
      employment of natives. Occupation and training in civilised customs were
      the very things he desired for them, but the whole question lay in the
      manner of the thing. However, to him as yet it was but a report, and this
      Advent and Christmas of 1867 were a very happy time. A letter to me
      describes the crowning joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: Christmas Day, 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;One line to you to-day of Christmas feelings and
      blessings. Indeed, you are daily in my thoughts and prayers. You would
      have rejoiced could you have seen us last Sunday or this morning at 7 A.M.
      Our fourteen Melanesian Communicants so reverent, and (apparently)
      earnest. On Sunday I ordained Mr. Palmer Priest, Mr. Atkin and Mr. Brooke
      Deacons.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The service was a solemn one, in the Norfolk Island Church, the people
      joining heartily in the first ordination they had seen; Codrington's
      sermon excellent, the singing good and thoroughly congregational, and the
      whole body of confirmed persons remaining to receive the Holy Communion.
      Our own little Chapel is very well decorated (Codrington again the leader)
      with fronds of tree-ferns, arums, and lilies; "Emmanuel, God amemina"
      (with us), in large letters over the altar.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now (9.30P.M.) they are practising Christmas hymns in Mota for our 11
      A.M. service. Then we have a regular feast, and make the day a really
      memorable one for them. The change from the old to the new state of
      things, as far as our Banks Islanders are concerned, is indeed most
      thankworthy. I feel that there is great probability of George Sarawia's
      ordination before long. This next year he will be left alone (as far as we
      whites are concerned) at Mota, and I shall be able to judge, I hope, of
      his fitness for carrying on the work there. If it be God's will to give
      him health of body and the will and power to serve Him, then he ought to
      be ordained. He is an excellent fellow, thoughtful, sensible, and my right
      hand among the Melanesians for years. His wife, Sara Irotaviro, a nice
      gentle creature, with now a fine little boy some seven months old. She is
      not at all equal to George in intelligence, and is more native in habits,
      &amp;c. But I think that she will do her best.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know I have long felt that there is almost harm done by trying to
      make these islanders like English people. All that is needful for decency
      and propriety in the arrangement of houses, in dress, &amp;c., we must get
      them to adopt, but they are to be Melanesian, not English Christians. We
      are so far removed from them in matters not at all necessarily connected
      with Christianity, that unless we can denationalise ourselves and
      eliminate all that belongs to us as English, and not as Christians, we
      cannot be to them what a well-instructed fellow-countryman may be. He is
      nearer to them. They understand him. He brings the teaching to them in a
      practical and intelligible form.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope and pray that dear old George may be the first of such a band of
      fellow-workers. Others&mdash;Henry Tagalana, who is, I suppose, about
      eighteen, Fisher Pantatun, about twenty-one, Edward Wogale (George's own
      brother), about sixteen, Robert Pantatun, about eighteen&mdash;are
      excellent, all that I could wish; and many younger ones are coming up.
      They stay with us voluntarily two or three years now without any going
      home, and the little ones read and write surprisingly well. They come to
      me very often and say, "Bishop, I wish to stop here again this winter."
    </p>
    <p>
      'They come for help of the best kind. They have their little printed
      private prayers, but some are not content with this. Marosgagalo came last
      week with a slip of paper&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Well, Maros, what is it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is a shy little fellow who has been crippled with rheumatism.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Please write me my prayer."
    </p>
    <p>
      'And as my room opens into the Chapel, and they are told to use that at
      all times (their sleeping-rooms not allowing much privacy), I know how
      they habitually come into it early (at 5 A.M.) and late at night for their
      private prayers. You cannot go into the Chapel between 5 and 6.30 A.M.
      without seeing two or three kneeling about in different corners. As for
      their intelligence, I ought to find time to send you a full account of
      them, translations of their answers, papers, &amp;c., but you must be
      content to know that I am sure they can reason well upon facts and
      statements, that they are (the first class) quite able to understand all
      the simpler theological teaching which you would expect Communicants and
      (I pray) future clergymen to understand. Of some six or seven I can thus
      speak with great confidence, but I think that the little fellows may be
      better educated still, for they are with us before they have so much
      lee-way to make up&mdash;jolly little fellows, bright and sharp. The whole
      of the third Banks Island class (eight of them) have been with me for
      eighteen months, and they have all volunteered to stay for eighteen months
      more. They ought to know a great deal at the end of that time, then they
      will go home almost to a certainty only for two or three months, and come
      back again for another long spell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All this is hopeful, and we have much to be thankful for indeed; but I
      see no immediate prospect of anything like this in the other islands at
      present. We know very many of the islanders and more or less of their
      languages; we have scholars who read and write, and stop here with us, and
      who are learning a good deal individually, but I have as yet no sense of
      any hold gained upon the people generally. We are good friends, they like
      us, trust young people with us, but they don't understand our object in
      coming among them properly. The trade and the excitement of our visit has
      a good deal to do with their willingness to receive us and to give us
      children and young men. They behave very well when here, and their people
      treat us well when we are with them. But as yet I see no religious
      feeling, no apprehension of the reality of the teaching: they know in one
      sense, and they answer questions about the meaning of the Creed, &amp;c.,
      but they would soon fall again into heathen ways, and their people show no
      disposition to abandon heathen ways. In all this there is nothing to
      surprise or discourage us. It must be slow work, carried on without
      observation amidst many failures and losses and disappointments. If I
      wished to attribute to secondary causes any of the results we notice, I
      might say that our having lived at Mota two or three months each year has
      had a great deal to do with the difference between the Banks and the other
      islanders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It may be that, could we manage to live in Bauro, or Anudha, or Mahaga,
      or Whitsuntide, or Lepers' Island, or Espiritu Santo, we might see soon
      some such change take place as we notice in Mota; but all that is
      uncertain, and such thoughts are useless. We must indeed live in those
      other islands as soon as we can, but it is hard to find men able to do so,
      and only a few of the islands are ripe for the attempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel often like a horse going his regular rounds, almost mechanically.
      Every part of the day is occupied, and I am too tired at night to think
      freshly. So that I am often like one in a dream, and scarcely realise what
      I am about. Then comes a time when I wish to write, e.g. (as to you now)
      about the Mission, and it seems so hard to myself to see my way, and so
      impossible to make others see what is in my mind about it. Sometimes I
      think these Banks Islanders may be evangelists beyond the limits of their
      own islands. So many of the natives of other islands live here with them,
      and speak the language of Mota, and then they have so much more in common
      with them than with us, and the climate and food and mode of life
      generally are familiar to them alike. I think this may come to pass some
      day; I feel almost sure that I had better work on with promising islanders
      than attempt to train up English boys, of which I once thought. I am more
      and more confirmed in my belief that what one wants is a few right-minded,
      well-educated English clergymen, and then for all the rest trust to native
      agency.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I think of Mr. Robertson and such men, and think how they work on,
      it encourages me. And so, where do I hear of men who have so many
      comforts, so great immunity from hardship and danger as we enjoy? This is
      nothing to the case of a London parish.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fanny has sent me out my old engravings, which I like to look at once
      more, although there is only one really good one among them, and yet I
      don't like to think of her no longer having them. I have also a nice
      selection of photographs just sent out, among which the cartoons from
      Hampton Court are especially good. That grand figure of St. Paul at
      Athens, which Raphael copied from Masaccio's fresco, always was a
      favourite of mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel at home here, more so than in any place since I left England; but
      I hope that I may be able to spend longer intervals in the islands than
      the mere sixteen or eighteen weeks of the voyage, if I have still my
      health and strength. But I think sometimes that I can't last always; I
      unconsciously leave off doing things, and wake up to find that I am
      shirking work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Holy Innocents' Day.&mdash;I don't think I have sufficiently considered
      your feelings in suffering the change of name in the Mission School that
      took place, and I am rather troubled about it. I came back from the last
      voyage to find that as I had selected a site for the buildings on St.
      Barnabas Day, which was, by a coincidence, the day I spent here on my
      outward voyage in 1866, the people had all named the place St. Barnabas.
      Then came the thought of the meetings on St. Barnabas, and the
      appropriateness of the Missionary Apostle's name, and I, without thinking
      enough about it, acquiesced in the change of name. I should have consulted
      you,&mdash;not that you will feel yourself injured, I well know; but for
      all that, I ought to have done it. It was the more due to you, because you
      won't claim any right to be consulted. I am really sorry for it, and
      somewhat troubled in mind. (Footnote: 'He need not have been sorry. I give
      this to show his kind, scrupulous consideration; but I, like everyone
      else, could not help feeling that it was more fitting that the germ of a
      missionary theological college should not bear a name even in allusion to
      a work of fiction.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'The occasional notices of Mr. and Mrs. Keble in your letters, and the
      full account of him and her as their end drew nigh, is very touching. How
      much, how very much there is that I should like to ask him now! How I
      could sit at his feet and listen to him! These are great subjects that I
      have neither time nor brains to deal with, and there is no one here who
      can give me all the help I want. I think a good deal about Ritualism, more
      about Union, most about the Eucharistic question; but I need some one with
      whom to talk out these matters. When I have worked out the mind of Hooker,
      Bull, Waterland, &amp;c., and read Freeman's "Principles," and Pusey's
      books, and Mr. Keble's, &amp;c., then I want to think it out with the aid
      of a really well-read man. It is clearly better not to view such holy
      subjects in connection with controversy; but then comes the thought&mdash;"How
      is Christendom to be united when this diversity exists on so great a
      point?" And then one must know what the diversity really amounts to, and
      then the study becomes a very laborious and intricate enquiry into the
      ecclesiastical literature of centuries. Curiously enough, I am still
      waiting for the book I so much want, Mr. Keble's book on "Eucharistic
      Adoration." I had a copy, of course, but I lent it to some one. I lose a
      good many books in that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The extraordinary change in the last thirty years will of course mark
      this time hereafter as one of the most noticeable periods in the history
      of the Church, indeed one can't fail to see it, which is not always the
      case with persons living in the time of great events. The bold, outspoken
      conduct of earnest men, the searching deeply into principles, the
      comparative rejection of conventionalities, local prejudices, exclusive
      forms of thought and practice, must strike everyone. But one misses the
      guiding, restraining hand...the man in the Church corresponding to "the
      Duke" at one time in the State, the authority.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One thing I do think, that the being conversant only with thoughtful
      educated Christians may result in a person ignoring the simpler idea of
      the Eucharist which does not in the least divest it of its mysterious
      character, but rather, recognising the mystery, seeks for no solution of
      it. How can I teach my fifteen Melanesian Communicants the points which I
      suppose an advanced Ritualist would regard as most essential? But I can
      give them the actual words of some of the ancient, really ancient,
      Liturgies, and teach them what Christ said, and St. Paul said, and the
      Church of England says, and bid them acquiesce in the mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet I would fain know more. I quite long for a talk with Mr. Keble.
      Predisposed on every account to think that he must be right, I am not sure
      that I know what he held to be the truth, nor am I quite sure that I would
      see it without much explanation; but to these holy men so much is revealed
      that one has no right to expect to know. What he held was in him at all
      events combined with all that a man may have of humility, and learning,
      and eagerness for union with God.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This letter was sent with these:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: December 16, 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Mr. Atkin,&mdash;The "Pacific" arrived on Friday after a quick
      passage. All our things came safely. She leaves to-morrow for Sydney, and
      we are in a great hurry. For (1) we have three mails all at once, and I
      have my full share of letters, public and private; and (2) we have had
      last week our first fall of rain for some three and a half months, and we
      are doing our best to plant kumaras, &amp;c., which grow here wonderfully,
      if only they get anything like a fair chance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Joe as usual is foremost at all work; fencing, well-sinking, &amp;c. And
      he proves the truth of the old saying, that "the head does not suffer by
      the work of the hand." His knowledge of Scripture truth, of what I may
      fairly call the beginning of theological studies, gives me great comfort.
      I am quite sure that in all essentials, in all which by God's blessing
      tends to qualify a man for teaching faithfully, and with sufficient
      learning and knowledge of the Word of God, he is above the average of
      candidates for ordination in England.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't say that he would pass the kind of examination before an English
      Bishop so well as a great many&mdash;they insist a good deal on technical
      points of historical knowledge, &amp;c.&mdash;but in all things really
      essential&mdash;in his clear perception of the unity of the teaching of
      the Bible; in his knowledge of the Greek Testament, in his reading with me
      the Articles, Prayer Book, &amp;c., I am convinced that he is well fitted
      to do his work well and truly. We have had more than one talk on deeper
      matters still, on inward feelings and thoughts, on prayer and the
      devotional study of God's Word, and divinity in general. I feel the
      greatest possible thankfulness and happiness as I think of his ordination,
      and of what, by the grace of God, he may become to very many both heathens
      and Christians, if his life be spared.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Once again, my dear friends, I thank you for giving him to this work. He
      is the greatest conceivable comfort and help to me. I always feel when he
      is walking or working with others, that there is one on whose steadiness
      and strong sense of duty I can always rely. May God bless him with His
      richest blessings....
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Sunday next (D.V.) we shall not forget you, as I well know your
      thoughts and prayers will be with us; and we sing "Before JEHOVAH'S awful
      Throne" to the Old Hundredth; 2nd, No. 144 of the Hymnal, after third
      Collect; and before sermon, 3rd, No. 143; after sermon, 4th, No. 19; after
      Litany, 5th, Veni Creator to All Saints.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ordination will be in the Norfolk Island Church.&mdash;My kind regards
      to Mrs. Atkin and Mary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always, my dear friend, very truly yours,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      'December 16, 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Miss Mackenzie,&mdash;Your brother's pedometer reached me safely
      three days ago. I feel most truly unworthy to receive such gifts. I have
      now his sextant, his pedometer, and, most precious of all, his "Thomas a
      Kempis"; they ought to help me to think more of him, and his holy example.
      Your letter commenting on the published life makes me know him pretty
      well. He was one to love and honour; indeed, the thorough humility and
      truthfulness, the single-mindedness of the man, the simple sense of duty
      and unwearied patience, energy, and gentleness&mdash;indeed you must love
      to dwell on the memory of such a brother, and look forward with hope and
      joy to the reunion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are fast settling ourselves into our headquarters here. Our buildings
      already sufficient to house eighty or one hundred Melanesians. We are
      fencing, planting, &amp;c., &amp;c., vigorously, and the soil here repays
      our labours well. The yam and sweet potatoes grow excellently, and the
      banana, orange, lemon, and nearly all semi-tropical fruits and vegetables.
      I think that our commissariat expenditure will soon be very small, and we
      ought to have an export before long.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two things seem to be pretty clear: that there is no lack of capacity in
      the Melanesian, and no probability of any large supply of English teachers
      and clergymen, even if it were desirable to work the Mission with foreign
      rather than native clergymen. My own mind is, and has long been in favour
      of the native pastorate; but it needs much time to work up to such a
      result.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All our party are well in health, save one good fellow, Walter Hotaswol,
      who is dying of consumption, in faith and hope. "Better," he says, "to die
      here with a bright heart than to live in my own land with a dark one." It
      is a solemn Ember week for us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remain, dear Miss Mackenzie, very truly yours,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'I quite agree with you that you cannot educate tropical and semi-tropical
      people in England; and you don't want to make them English Christians, you
      know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Walter's history is here completed:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'January 22, 1868.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;I write you a line: I have not time for more in
      addition to my other epistle, to tell you that I purpose to baptize, on
      Sunday next, eight Melanesian youths and one girl. You will, I know, thank
      God for this. Indeed I hope (though I say it with a kind of trembling and
      wonder) that a succession of scholars is now regularly established from
      the Banks Islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These nine are being closely followed by some ten or twelve more, younger
      than they, averaging from seven to eleven years, who all read and write
      and know the elements of Christian teaching, but you should see them,
      bright merry little fellows, and the girls too, full of play and fun. Yet
      so docile, and obedient, and good-tempered. They all volunteer to stay
      here again this winter, though they have not been at home since they first
      left it, in July and August 1866. They have a generation of Christians&mdash;I
      mean one of our generations&mdash;some two dozen or more, to help them;
      they have not the brunt of the battle to bear, like dear George and Henry
      and others; and because, either here or there, they will be living with
      Christians; I need not, I think, subject them to a probation. Next year
      (D.V.) they may be baptized, and so the ranks are being filled up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would call the girl Charlotte were she a favourite of mine, but I wait
      in hopes that a nicer girl (though this one is good and nice too) may be
      baptized by your and Mrs. Keble's name. You may well believe that my heart
      and mind are very full of this. May God grant that they may continue His
      for ever!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I confirm on the same day fourteen Norfolk Islanders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Walter Hotaswol, from Matlavo, the southern part of Saddle Island, died
      on the evening of the Epiphany: a true Epiphany to him, I trust. He was
      remarkably gentle and innocent for one born in a heathen land. His
      confession, very fully made to me before his first Communion, was very
      touching, simply given, and, thank God, he had been wonderfully kept from
      the sins of heathenism. With us, his life for years was blameless. He died
      almost without pain, after many weeks of lingering in consumption, I
      verily believe in full faith in his Saviour and his God.
    </p>
    <p>
      'During his last illness, and for a short time before he actually took to
      his bed, he frequently received the Holy Communion. And very remarkable
      were his words to me the day after his first Communion. I was sitting by
      him, when he said, apropos of nothing, "Very good!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What is very good, Walter?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The Lord's Supper."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Why do you think so?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I can't talk about it. I feel it here (touching his heart), I don't feel
      as I did!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"But you have long believed in Him."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes, but I feel different from that; I don't feel afraid for death. My
      heart is calm (me masur kal, of a calm following a gale)." His look was
      very earnest as he added: "I do believe that I am going to Him."
      Presently, "Bishop!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Well."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Last night&mdash;no, the night before I received the Lord's Supper, I
      saw a man standing there, a tanum liana (a man of rank, or authority). He
      said Your breath is bad, I will give you a new breath.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I thought it meant, I will give you a new life. I thought it must be
      JESUS."
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was weak, but not wandering. "Yes, better to die here with a bright
      heart than to live in my old home with a dark one."
    </p>
    <p>
      'January 28th.&mdash;The nine young Christians were baptized on Sunday
      evening; a very touching and solemn service it was, very full of comfort.
      It may be that now, in full swing of work, I am too sanguine, but I try to
      be sober-minded, thankful, and hopeful. I try, I say&mdash;it is not easy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless you, my dear Cousin, and as I pray for you, so I know you pray
      for us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      A long letter to James Patteson, which was begun a few days later, goes
      into the man's retrospect of the boy's career:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'March 3rd.&mdash;I think often of your boys. Jack, in two or three years,
      will be old enough for school, and I suppose it must make you anxious
      sometimes. I look back on my early days, and see so much, so very much to
      regret and grieve over, such loss of opportunities, idleness, &amp;c.,
      that I think much of the way to make lessons attractive to boys and girls.
      I think a good deal may be done simply by the lessons being given by the
      persons the children love most, and hence (where it can be done) the
      mother first, and the father too (if he can) are the best people. They
      know the ways of the child, they can take it at the right times. Of
      course, at first it is the memory, not the reasoning power, that must be
      brought into exercise. Young children must learn by heart, learn miles
      which they can't understand, or understand but very imperfectly. I think I
      forget this sometimes, and talk to my young Melanesians as I should to
      older persons. But I feel almost sure that children can follow a simple,
      lively account of the meaning and reasons of things much more than one is
      apt to fancy. And I don't know how anything can be really learnt that is
      not understood. A great secret of success here is an easy and accurate use
      of illustration&mdash;parabolic teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Every day of my life I groan over the sad loss I daily experience in not
      having been grounded properly in Latin and Greek. I have gone on with my
      education in these things more than many persons, but I can never be a
      good scholar; I don't know what I would not give to have been well taught
      as a boy. And then at Eton, any little taste one might have had for
      languages, &amp;c., was never called out.
    </p>
    <p>
      My fault again, but I can't help thinking that it was partly because the
      reason of a rule was never explained. Who ever taught in school the
      difference between an aorist and a perfect, e.g.? And at college I was
      never taught it, because it was assumed that I knew it. I know that at
      ten, fifteen, or twenty, I should not in any case have gone into languages
      as I do now. But I might have learnt a good deal, I think. A thoroughly
      good preparatory school is, I dare say, very difficult to find. I would
      make a great point, I think, to send a boy to a good one; not to cram him
      or make a prig of him, but simply to give him the advantage which will
      make his whole career in life different from what it will be if his
      opening days pass by unimproved. Cool of me, Jem, to write all this; but I
      think of this boy, and my boyish days, and what I might have been, and am
      not.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was always shallow, learned things imperfectly, thought I knew a thing
      when I knew scarce any part of it, scrawling off common-place verses at
      Eton, and, unfortunately, getting sent up for them. I had a character
      which passed at school and at home for that of a fair scholar. Thence came
      my disgrace at being turned out of the select, my bad examination for the
      Balliol scholarship, my taking only a second, &amp;c. Nothing was really
      known! Pretty quick in seizing upon a superficial view of a matter, I had
      little patience or determination to thoroughly master it. The fault
      follows me through life. I shall never, I fear, be really accurate and
      able to think out a matter fully. The same fault I see in my inner life.
      But it is not right to talk perhaps too much of that, only I know that I
      get credit for much that I don't do, and for qualities which I don't
      possess. This is simple truth, not false humility. Some gifts I have,
      which, I thank God, I have been now taught to employ with more or less of
      poverty in the service.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The vessel that took away the above despatches brought the tidings of New
      Zealand's beloved Primate being appointed to the See of Lichfield. It was
      another great wrench to the affectionate heart, as will be seen in this
      filial reply to the intelligence:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '2nd Sunday in Lent, 10 P.M.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear, dear Bishop,&mdash;I don't think I ever quite felt till now what
      you have been to me for many a long year. Indeed, I do thank God that I
      have been taught to know and dearly love you; and much I reproach myself
      (not now for the first time) that I have been wilful, and pained you much
      sometimes by choosing for myself when I ought to have followed your
      choice. I could say much, but I can't say it now, and you don't desire it.
      You know what I think and feel. Your letter of the 3rd reached me last
      night. I don't yet realise what it is to me, but I think much more still
      of those dear people at Taurarua. It is perfectly clear to my mind that
      you could not have acted otherwise. I don't grudge you to the Mother
      Church one atom!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I write at this time because I think you may possibly be soon beginning
      your first Ordination Service in your Cathedral. It was almost my first
      thought when I began to think quietly after our 8 P.M. prayers. And I pray
      for those whom you may be leading to their work, as so often you have laid
      your hands on me. I understand Bishop Andrewes' [Greek text] now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What it must have been to you and still is!...
    </p>
    <p>
      'This move to Norfolk Island does make a great difference, no doubt. And
      full well I know that your prayers will be around us; and that you will do
      all that mortal man can do for us and for the islands. Indeed, you must
      not trouble yourself about me too much. I shall often need you, often
      sadly miss you, a just return for having undervalued the blessing of your
      presence. But I do feel that it is right. I humbly pray and trust that
      God's blessing may be on us all, and that a portion of your spirit may be
      with us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'More than ever affectionately yours,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The tidings had come simultaneously with the history of the Consecration
      of All Saints, Babbicombe, for indeed the Bishop and Mrs. Selwyn were
      staying with Joanna and Fanny Patteson for the Octave Services when the
      first offer arrived. So that the two mails whose contents were transported
      together to Norfolk Island contained matter almost overwhelming for the
      brother and friend, and he had only one day in which to write his answers.
      To the sisters the assurance is, 'Only be quite comforted about me!' and
      then again, 'No, I don't grudge him one bit. There is no room for small
      personal considerations when these great issues are at stake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think I quite know yet what it is to me. I can't look at his
      photograph with quite dry eyes yet. But I don't feel at all sad or
      unhappy. You know the separation, if God, in His mercy, spare me at last,
      can't be long; and his prayers are always around us, and he is with us in
      spirit continually, and then it will be such joy and delight to me to
      watch his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think with such thankfulness of the last Holy Week; the last Easter
      Sunday spent wholly with him. I think too, and that sadly enough, of
      having pained him sometimes by being self-willed, and doing just what he
      has not done, viz., chosen for myself when I ought to have followed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you remember when, on the morning of Mamma's death, we came into the
      study where Uncle and Aunt Frank were, and our dear Father in his great
      faith and resignation said, with broken voice, "I thank God, who spared
      her to me so long"? Surely I may with far greater ease say, "I thank God
      for the blessing for now thirteen, years of his example and loving care of
      me." Had he been taken away by death we must have borne it, and we can
      bear this now by His grace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The thought engrossed him most completely. It is plain in all his letters
      that it was quite an effort to turn his mind to anything but the
      approaching change. His Primate had truly been a 'Father in God' to him.
      His affections had wound themselves about him and Mrs. Selwyn, and the
      society that they formed together with Sir William and Lady Martin had
      become the next thing to his home and family. Above all, the loneliness of
      sole responsibility was not complete while the Primate was near to be
      consulted. There had been an almost visible loss of youth and playfulness
      ever since the voyages had been made without the leader often literally at
      the helm; and though Bishop Patteson had followed his own judgment in two
      decided points&mdash;the removal to Norfolk Island, and the use of Mota
      language instead of English, and did not repent having done so, yet still
      the being left with none to whom to look up as an authority was a heavy
      trial and strain on mind and body, and brought on another stage in that
      premature age that the climate and constant toil were bringing upon him
      when most men are still in the fulness of their strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next letter spoke the trouble that was to mark the early part of the
      year 1868 as one of sickness and sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our two Ambrym boys are coming out; and I am hopeful as to some more
      decided connection with the north face of the Island. Mahaga lads very
      promising, but at present Banks Islanders much ahead of the rest. Indeed,
      of some of them, I may say that while they have no knowledge of many
      things that an English lad ought to know, yet they have a very fair share
      of intelligence concentrated on the most important subject, and know a
      good deal about it. They think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then follows a working out of one of the difficult questions that always
      beset missionaries respecting the heathen notions&mdash;or no notions&mdash;about
      wedlock. Speaking of the persons concerned, the journal continues:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'They were not able to understand&mdash;and how can a man and woman, or
      rather a girl and boy, understand&mdash;what we understand by marriage.
      They always saw men and women exchanging husbands and wives when they
      pleased, and grew up in the midst of such ideas and practices, so that
      there never was a regular contract, nor a regularly well-conceived and
      clearly-understood notion of living together till "death us do part" in
      their minds. You will say, "And yet they were baptized." Yes, but I did
      not know so much about heathen ways then, and, besides, read St. Paul to
      the Corinthians, and see how the idea of sanctity of marriage, and of
      chastity in general is about the last idea that the heathen mind
      comprehends. Long after the heathen know that to break the sixth, eighth,
      even the ninth and tenth Commandments is wrong, and can understand and
      practically recognise it to be so, the seventh is a puzzle to them. At the
      best they only believe it because we say that it is a Commandment of God.
      Look at the Canons of the early Church on the question; look how Luther
      sanctioned the polygamy, the double marriage, of the Landgrave of Hesse!
      So that although now, thank God, our scholars understand more of what is
      meant by living with a woman, and the relation of husband and wife is not
      altogether strange to them, yet it was not so at first, and is not likely
      to be so with any but our well-trained scholars for a long time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: March 26, 1868. 'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;How you are
      thinking of me this anniversary? Thirteen years since I saw your dear
      faces and his face. Oh! how thankful I am that it is so long ago. It was
      very hard to bear for a long long time. Last night as I lay awake I
      thought of that last Sunday, the words I said in church (how absurdly
      consequential they seem to me now), the walk home, calling to see C. L.,
      parting with the Vicar and M., the last evening&mdash;hearts too full to
      say what was in them, the sitting up at night and writing notes. And then
      black Monday! Well, I look back now and see that it was very hard at
      first, and I don't deny that I found the mere bodily roughnesses very
      trying at first, but that has long past. My present mode of life is
      agreeable to me altogether now. Servants and company would be a very great
      bore indeed. So even in smaller ways, you see, I have all that I can
      desire. I always try to remember that I may miss these things, and
      specially miss you if it should please God to send any heavy sickness upon
      me. I dare say I should be very impatient, and need kind soothing nurses.
      But I must hope for the best.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just now we have some anxiety. There has been and is a bad typhoid fever
      among the Pitcairners: want of cleanliness, no sewerage, or very bad
      draining, crowded rooms, no ventilation, the large drain choked up, a dry
      season, so that the swampy ground near the settlement has been dry, these
      are secondary causes. For two months it has been going on. I never
      anticipated such a disease here.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But the fever is bad. Last night two died, both young women of about
      twenty. Two, one a married man of thirty, with five children, the other a
      girl of twelve, had died before. I have been backwards and forwards, but
      no one else of the party. The poor people like to see me. For three weeks
      I have felt some anxiety about four or five of our lads, and they have
      been with me in my room. I don't like the symptoms of one or two of them.
      But it is not yet a clear case of the fever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Easter Eve.&mdash;Dear Sisters, once more I write out of a sick hospital.
      This typhoid fever, strongly marked, as described in Dr. Watson's books,
      Graye's edition of Hooper's "Vade Mecum," and, as a very solemn lesson of
      Lent and Holy Week, seven Pitcairners have died. For many weeks the
      disease did not touch us; we established a regular quarantine, and used
      all precautions. We had, I think, none of the predisposing causes of fever
      at our place. It is high, well-drained, clean, no dirt near, excellent
      water, and an abundant supply of it; but I suppose the whole air is
      impregnated with it. Anyhow, the fever is here.
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 23rd.&mdash;My house consists, you know, of Chapel, my rooms, and
      hospital. This is the abode of the sick and suspected. The hospital is a
      large, lofty, well-ventilated room; a partition, 6 feet high, only divides
      it into two; on one side are the sick, on the other side sleep those who
      are sickening.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As yet twenty have been in my quarters. Of these seven are now in
      Codrington's house, half-way between hospital and ordinary school life.
      They are convalescents, real convalescents. You know how much so-called
      convalescents need care in recovering from fever, but these seven have had
      the fever very slightly indeed, thank God; the type of the disease is much
      less severe than it was at first. One lad of about sixteen, Hofe from
      Ysabel Island, died last Friday morning. The fever came on him with power
      from the first. He was very delirious for some days, restless, sleepless,
      then comatose. The symptoms are so very clearly marked, and my books are
      so clear in detail of treatment, that we don't feel much difficulty now
      about the treatment, and the nursery and hospital work we are pretty well
      used to.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Barasu, from Ysabel Island, who was near dying on Thursday week, a
      fortnight ago to-day, has hovered between life and death. I baptized him
      at 9 P.M. on Holy Thursday (the anniversary of Mr. Keble's death). John
      Keble: rather presumptuous to give such a name, but I thought he would not
      have been named here by it for many hours. He is now sitting by the
      hospital fire. I have just fed him with some rice and milk; and he is well
      enough to ask for a bit of sweet potato, which he cannot yet hold, nor
      guide his hand to his mouth. He has had the regular fever, and is now,
      thank God, becoming convalescent. No other patient is at present in a
      dangerous state; all have the fever signs more or less doubtful. No one is
      at present in a precarious state. It has been very severe in the town, and
      there are many cases yet. Partly it is owing to the utter ignorance or
      neglect of the most ordinary rules of caution and nursing. Children and
      men and women all lie on the ground together in the fever or out of it.
      The contagion fastens upon one after another. In Isaac Christian's house,
      the mother and five children were all at one time in a dangerous state,
      wandering, delirious, comatose. Yet the mortality has been small. Only
      seven have died; some few are still very ill, yet the character of the
      fever is less severe now. We had some sharp hospital work for a few days
      and nights, all the accompaniments of the decay of our frail bodies. Now
      we have a respite. Codrington, Palmer, and I take the nursing; better that
      the younger ones, always more liable to take fever, should be kept out of
      contagion; to no one but I have gone among the sick in town, or to town at
      all. We are all quite well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beef tea, chicken broth, mutton broth, wine, brandy, milk to any extent,
      rice, &amp;c.&mdash;Palmer manufactures all. The Pitcairners, most
      improvident people, are short of all necessary stores. I give what I can,
      but I must be stingy, as I tell them, for I never anticipated an attack of
      typhus here. They will, I trust, learn a lesson from it, and not provoke a
      recurrence of it by going on in their old ways.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't deny that at times I have been a good deal depressed: about Holy
      Week and Easter Week was the worst time. Things are much brighter now;
      though I fully expect that several others, perhaps many others, will yet
      have the attack, but I trust and fancy it may be only in a modified form.
      We have regular Chapel and school, but the school is a mild affair now; I
      who am only in bed from 12.30 or 1 to 5, and in the hospital all day,
      cannot be very bright in school. I just open a little bit of my red baize
      door into Chapel, so that the sick in my room join in the service. Nice,
      is it not?
    </p>
    <p>
      'This will greatly unsettle plans for the voyage. The "Southern Cross" is
      expected here about May 10; but I can't leave any sick that may want my
      care then, and I can't take back to the islands any that are only just
      convalescent, or indeed any of the apparently healthy who may yet have the
      seeds of the fever in them. It would be fearful if it broke out on the
      islands. I must run no risk of that; so I think that very likely I may
      keep the whole party here another year, and make myself a short
      visitation. I suppose that the Bishop will come to New Zealand, and I must
      try to meet him; I should like to see his face once more; but if he
      doesn't come, or if I can't (by reason of this sickness) go to meet him&mdash;well,
      I shall be spared the parting if I don't have the joy of the meeting, and
      these things are not now what they once were.
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 28th.&mdash;Barasu (John Keble) died this morning as I read the
      Commendatory Prayer by his side. He had a relapse some five days ago, how
      we cannot say, he was always watched day and night. I had much comfort in
      him, he was a dear lad, and our most hopeful Ysabel scholar. His peaceful
      death, for it was very peaceful at the last, may work more than his life
      would have done; some twenty others convalescent, or ailing, or sick. At
      this moment another comes to say that he feels out of sorts; you know that
      sensation, and how one's heart seems to stop for a minute, and then one
      tries to look and speak cheerfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 29th.&mdash;I read the Service over another child to-day, son of
      James and Priscilla Quintall, the second child they have lost within a few
      days, and Priscilla herself is lying ill of the fever. Poor people, I did
      what little I could to comfort them; the poor fellow is laid up too with a
      bad foot; a great many others are very ill, some young ones especially.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 5th.&mdash;Jemima Young sent for me yesterday morning. I was with her
      the day before, and she was very ill. I reached the room at 11.45, and she
      died at noon. [Jemima Young had been particularly bright, pleasant, and
      helpful when Mrs. Selwyn was on the island].
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 7th.&mdash;The sick ones doing pretty well. You must not think it is
      all gloom, far from it, there is much to cheer and comfort us. The hearty
      co-operation of these excellent fellow-workers is such a support, and is
      brought out at such times.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are going on with divers works, but not very vigorously just now. We
      are sawing the timber for our large hall: the building still to be put up,
      and then our arrangements will be complete for the present.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then our fencing goes on. We have one large field of some ninety or one
      hundred acres enclosed, the sea and a stream bounding two sides, and two
      other fields of about forty and twenty acres. I have good cart mares and
      one cart horse, a riding mare which I bought of Mr. Pritt, and Atkin has
      one also, eleven cows, and as many calves, poultry (sadly destroyed by
      wild cats) and pigs, and two breeding sows, and a flock of fifty well-bred
      sheep imported. These cost me £4. 10s. a head; I hope they are the
      progenitors of a fine flock. The ram cost £12. We have plenty of work, and
      must go on fencing and subdividing our fields. Most of the land is wooded;
      but a considerable quantity can easily be cleared. Indeed 200 or 300 acres
      are clear now of all but some smaller stuff that can easily be removed. A
      thick couch-grass covers all. It is not so nutritious as the ordinary
      English grasses; but cattle, sheep, and horses like it, only a larger
      quantity is needed by each animal. It gives trouble when one wants to
      break it up, it is such a network of roots; but once out of the ground and
      the soil clear, and it will grow anything. Our crops of sweet potatoes are
      excellent. The ordinary potato does very well too; and maize, vegetables
      of all sorts, many fruit trees, all the semi-tropical things, capitally;
      guavas by the thousand, and very soon I hope oranges; lemons now by
      thousands, melons almost a weed, bananas abundant; by-and-by coffee,
      sugar-cane, pineapples (these last but small), arrowroot of excellent
      quality. Violets from my bed, and mignonette from Palmer's, scent my room
      at this minute. The gardeners, Codrington, Palmer, and Atkin, are so kind
      in making me tidy, devising little arrangements for my little plot of
      ground, and my comfort and pleasure generally. Well, that is a nice little
      chat with you. Now it is past 8 P.M., and the mutton broth for Clement and
      Mary is come. I must feed my chicks. Excellent patients they are, as good
      as can be. They don't make the fuss that I did in my low fever when I was
      so savage with your doves that would go on cooing at my window, don't you
      remember?
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Bishop will be touched by the confidence in him shown by his late
      Diocesan Synod in entrusting to him the nomination of his successor. It
      was clearly the right thing to do. As for me, no one who knows anything
      about it or me would dream of removing me from Melanesia, as long as I
      have health and strength, and still less of putting me into another
      diocese. When I break down, or give up, it will not be to hold any other
      office, as I think.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 8th.&mdash;All going on pretty well, thank God. Mary is weak, but I
      think better; did not wander last night. Clement, with strong typhoid
      symptoms, yet, at all events, not worse. But he is a very powerful,
      thickset fellow, not a good subject for fever. I feel that I am beginning
      to recover my interest in things in general, books, &amp;c. For two months
      I was entirely occupied with hospital work, and with visiting daily the
      sick Pitcairners, and I was weary and somewhat worn out. Now I am better
      in mind and body; some spring in me again. This may be to fit me for more
      trials in store; but I think that the sunshine has come again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There were, however, two more deaths&mdash;the twins of Mwerlau. Clement
      died on the 24th of May; the other brother, Richard, followed him a
      fortnight later. They were about seventeen, strong and thick-set; Clement
      had made considerable progress during his two years of training, and had
      been a Communicant since Christmas. Before passing to the other topics
      with which, as the Bishop said, he could again be occupied, here is Mr.
      Codrington's account of this period of trouble:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'A great break in the first year was caused by the visitation of typhus
      fever in the earlier part of 1868. This disease, brought as I always
      believed by infection from a vessel that touched here, first attacked a
      Norfolk Islander who did not live in the town. He was ill in the middle of
      February, others of the Pitcairn people soon after. The Bishop began at
      once to visit the sick very diligently, and continued to visit them
      throughout, though after a time our own hospital was full. Our first case
      was on the llth of March, and our last convalescents did not go out until
      near the end of June. For some time there was hard work to be done with
      nursing the sick. The Bishop had the anxiety and the charge of medically
      treating the sick. Mr. Nobbs, as always, was most kind in giving the
      benefit of his experience, but he was too fully occupied with the care of
      his own flock to be able to help us much. It was agreed, as soon as we saw
      the disease was among us, that the three elder members of the Mission
      should alone come into communication with the sick. We kept watch in
      turns, but the Bishop insisted on taking a double share, i.e., he allowed
      us only to take regular watches in the night, undertaking the whole of the
      day's work, except during the afternoon when he was away with the Pitcairn
      people. He seemed quite at home in the hospital, almost always cheerful,
      always very tender, and generally very decided as to what was to be done.
      He was fond of doctoring, read a good deal of medical books, and knew a
      good deal of medical practice; but the weight of such a responsibility as
      belonged to the charge of many patients in a fever of this kind was
      certainly heavy upon him. The daily visit to the Pitcairn people on foot
      or on horseback was no doubt a relief, though hard work in itself. Of the
      four lads we lost, two, twins, had been some time christened, one was
      baptized before his death, the first who died had not been long with the
      Mission. It is characteristic of Bishop Patteson that I never heard him
      say a word that I remember of religion to one of the sick. On such things
      he would not, unless he was obliged, speak except with the patient alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Before the sickness was quite over, the "Southern Cross" arrived for the
      winter voyage. The danger of carrying infection to the islands could not
      be incurred, and the vessel was sent back to Auckland for a time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The letters she carried back refer again to the growing anxiety about the
      'labour traffic.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'May 6th.&mdash;I am corresponding with a Wesleyan Missionary in Ovalau
      (Fiji) on a matter that you may see mentioned some day in the papers, a
      very questionable practice of importing from the Southern New Hebrides
      (principally Tanna) natives to work on the cotton plantations of white
      settlers in Fiji. It is all, as I am assured, under the regulation of the
      Consul at Ovalau, and "managed" properly. But I feel almost sure that
      there is, or will be, injuries done to the natives, who (I am sure) are
      taken away under false pretences. The traders don't know the Tannese
      language, and have no means of making the people understand any terms, and
      to talk of any contract is absurd. Yet, a large number of Tanna men,
      living on really well-conducted plantations, owned by good men, might lead
      to a nucleus of Christian Tannese. So says Mr. M. True, say I, if (!) you
      can find the good planters and well-conducted plantations. Mr. M. assures
      me that they (the Wesleyan Missionaries) are watching the whole thing
      carefully. He writes well and sensibly on the whole, and kindly asks me to
      visit his place, and judge for myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tanna is in the hands of the Nova Scotia Presbyterians&mdash;Mr. Greddie,
      Inglis, and others; but the adjacent islands we have always visited and
      considered ours, and of course a plague of this kind soon spreads. My
      letter to Mr. Attwood on the matter was read by Sir John Young and
      Commodore Lambert, and they expressed a warm interest in the matter. Mr.
      M. says that they think it would be well to accept some rule of conduct in
      the matter from the Commodore, which is, I think, likely to do good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      By the 15th of June the glad intelligence was received that the hospital
      had been empty for a fortnight; and the house that was to have been
      carried to Mota was put up for the married couples, for whom it afforded
      separate sleeping rooms, though the large room was in common. Two weddings
      were preparing, and B&mdash;&mdash; and his wife had become reconciled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We may hope that this time it is not a case of two children, then
      unbaptized, living together, heathen fashion, obeying mere passion,
      ignorant of true love, but a sober, somewhat sad reunion of two clever and
      fairly-educated grown-up people, knowing much of life and its sad
      experience, understanding what they are about, and trying to begin again
      with prayer to God and purposes of a good life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This time of convalescence was a time of great progress. A deep impression
      had been made on many, and there was a strong spirit of enquiry among
      them. The Bishop then began a custom of preaching to his black scholars
      alone after the midday service, dismissing his five or six white
      companions after prayers, because he felt he could speak more freely and
      go more straight to the hearts of his converts and catechumens if he had
      no other audience.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other inhabitants of the island suffered long after the St. Barnabas
      scholars were free, and deaths continued. It was impossible to enforce on
      such an undisciplined race the needful attention to cleanliness, or even
      care of the sick; the healthy were not kept apart, nor was the food
      properly prepared for the sick. It was impossible to stir or convince the
      easy-going tropical nature, and there was no authority to enforce sanitary
      measures, so the fever smouldered on, taking first one, then another
      victim, and causing entire separation from St. Barnabas, except as far as
      the Bishop was concerned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, a house was being put up to receive Mr. Palmer's intended wife,
      the daughter of that Mr. Ashwell who had shared in the disastrous voyage
      when the 'Southern Cross' had been wrecked. She had been brought up to
      Mission work, and was likely to be valuable among the young girls. After
      this announcement, the Bishop continues:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My mind is now made up to take the great step of ordaining dear George
      Sarawia, for nine years my pupil, and for the last three or four my friend
      and helper. Codrington is only surprised that he is not ordained already.
      Humanly speaking, there can be no doubt of his steadfastness. He is,
      indeed, a thoroughly good conscientious man, humble without servility,
      friendly and at his ease without any forwardness, and he has a large share
      of good sense and clear judgment. Moreover, he has long held a recognised
      position with all here and in New Zealand, and for the last two years the
      Mota people and the neighbouring islanders have quite regarded him as one
      whom they recognise as their leader and teacher, one of our own race, yet
      not like us&mdash;different; he knows and does what we can't do and don't
      know.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They quite look upon him as free from all the difficulties which attend a
      man's position as inheriting feuds, animosities, &amp;c. He goes anywhere;
      when the island may be in a disturbed state, no one would hurt him; he is
      no partisan in their eyes, a man of other habits and thoughts and
      character, a teacher of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think, oh! with such feelings of thankfulness and hope too, of the
      first Melanesian clergyman! I should almost like to take him to Auckland,
      that the Bishop might ordain him; but he ought to be ordained here, in the
      presence of the Melanesians; and in the hasty confusion of the few weeks
      in New Zealand, George would be at a sad loss what to do, and the month of
      October is cold and raw. But you may get this just in time to think of his
      Ordination, and how you will pray for him! His wife Sara is a weakly body,
      but good, and she and I are, and always have been, great friends. She has
      plenty of good sense. Their one child, Simon, born in Norfolk Island some
      fourteen months ago, is a very nice-looking child, and healthy enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the spirit of enquiry and faith was making-marked progress. Mr.
      Codrington says: 'The stir in the hearts and minds of those already
      christened might be called a revival, and the enquiring and earnest spirit
      of many more seemed to be working towards conversions. During this time,
      there might be seen on the cliff or under the trees in the afternoon, or
      on Sundays, little groups gathered round some of the elder Christians,
      enquiring and getting help. It was the work that George evidently was
      enabled to do in this way that convinced everyone that the time had quite
      come for his Ordination. It is worth mentioning that the boys from one
      island, and one individual in particular, were much influenced by the last
      conversations of the first Christian who died here (Walter Hotaswol), who
      had told his friends to be "sure that all the Bishop had told them was
      true."'
    </p>
    <p>
      This quickening and its results are further described in the ensuing
      letter, wherein is mention of the Bauro man Taroniara, the most remarkable
      of the present conversions, and destined three years after to die with the
      Bishop and Mr. Atkin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'June 20, 9 P.M., 1868.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Sisters,&mdash;You know how I am thinking of him to-day. Seven
      years ago! I think that he seems more and more present to my mind than
      ever. How grateful it is to me to find the dear Bishop ever recurring to
      him in his sermons, &amp;c.; but indeed we all have the great blessing and
      responsibility of being his children. The thought of meeting him again, if
      God be so merciful, comes over me sometimes in an almost overpowering way:
      I quite seem to see and feel as if kneeling by his side before the Great
      Glory, and even then thinking almost most of him. And then, so many others
      too&mdash;Mamma, Uncle James, Frank, &amp;c., and you, dear Joan, think of
      your dear Mother. It seems almost too much. And then the mind goes on to
      think of the Saints of God in every generation, from one of the last
      gathered in (dear Mr. Keble) to the very first; and as we realise the fact
      that we may, by God's wonderful mercy, be companions, though far beneath
      the feet, of Patriarchs, and Apostles, and Martyrs, and even see Him as He
      is&mdash;it is too great for thought! and yet, thank God, it is truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My heart is full too of other blessed thoughts. There seems to be a
      stirring of heart among our present set of scholars, the younger ones I
      mean; they come into my room after evening Chapel and school, one or two
      at a time, but very shy, sit silent, and at last say very softly, "Bishop,
      I wish to stop here for good."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Why?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I do wish to be good, to learn, to be like George and Henry and the
      rest."
    </p>
    <p>
      'This morning I baptized Charlotte and Joanna. Charlotte will be married
      to Fisher on Wednesday, when Benjamin and Marion will also be married. Oh,
      what blessings are these! I spoke earnestly of the service in my
      preachment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Taroniara, from San Cristoval, said to me the other night, "Bishop, why
      is it that now I think as I never thought before? I can't tell quite what
      I think. You know I used to be willing to learn, but I was easily led away
      on my own island; but I think that I shall never wish again to listen to
      anything but the Word of God. I know I may be wrong, but I think I shall
      never be inclined to listen to anything said to me by my people to keep me
      from you and from this teaching. I feel quite different: I like and wish
      for things I never really used to care for; I don't care for what I used
      to like and live for. What is it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What do you think it is?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I think&mdash;but it is so (mava) great&mdash;I think it is the Spirit
      of God in my heart."
    </p>
    <p>
      'As for the Mota and Matlavo fellows, and the girls too, they have now
      good examples before them, and one and all wish to stop here as long as I
      please. And that being so, the return to their homes not being a return to
      purely heathen islands, I trust that they may soon be baptized. So my
      heart is full of thankfulness and wonder and awe.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All this time I write with a full sense of the uncertainty of this and
      every human work. I know the Bishop is preaching on failures, and I try to
      think he is preaching to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 2nd, 8 A.M.&mdash;My dear Sisters, what a day we had yesterday! so
      full of happiness and thankfulness. It was the wedding-day of Fisher and
      Charlotte, Benjamin and Marion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The chapel was so prettily dressed up by Mr. Codrington and Mr. Bice,
      under whose instructions some of the lads made evergreen ornaments, &amp;c.,
      large white arums and red flowers also.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At 7 A.M. Morning-Prayers, as usual. At 9.30 the wedding. All the
      Melanesians in their places in Chapel; and as we came into the Chapel from
      my room, the 100th Psalm was chanted capitally. Mr. Codrington said he
      never was present at so thoroughly devotional a wedding. It was a really
      solemn religious service.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I gave good presents to everyone in the school, even the smallest
      boys came in for a knife, beads, &amp;c. Then cricket, for the day was
      beautifully fine, though it is midwinter. And all sorts of fun we had.
      Then a capital dinner, puddings, &amp;c. Then cricket, running races,
      running in sacks (all for prizes), then a great tea, 7 P.M. Chapel, then
      native dances by a great bonfire. Then at 10 P.M. hot coffee and biscuits,
      then my little speech, presenting all our good wishes to the married
      couples, and such cheering, I hope it may be well remembered. The deeper
      feeling of it all is bearing fruit. Already lads and young men from the
      Solomon Islands say, "We begin to see what is meant by a man and woman
      living together." The solemnity of the service struck them much.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The bridegrooms wore their Sunday dresses, nice tidy trousers of dark
      tweed, Crimean shirt, collar and tie, and blue serge coat. The brides,
      white jackets trimmed with a bit of red, white collar and blue skirts. All
      the answers quietly and reverently made; the whole congregation answering
      "Amen" to the word of blessing in an unmistakeable way. The 67th Psalm was
      chanted, of course.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My plan is to have Psalms, with reading and singing to suit each day,
      regarded as commemorative of the great facts and doctrines, so that every
      week we read in chapel about forty Psalms, and sing about twelve hymns.
      These are pretty well known by heart, and form already a very considerable
      stock of Scriptural reference. The Resurrection and the Gift of the
      Spirit, the Nativity, Manifestation, Betrayal, Ascension, Crucifixion,
      Burial, with the doctrines connected with them, come in this way every
      week before their minds. I translated Psalms chosen with reference to this
      plan, and wrote hymns, &amp;c. in the same way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you could have been with us yesterday. It was really a strikingly
      solemn service. Then our fortnightly 7 A.M. Communions, our daily 7 A.M.
      and 7 P.M. Services, our Baptisms, yes and our burials too, all are so
      quiet, and there is so much reverence. You see that they have never learnt
      bad habits. A Melanesian scholar wouldn't understand how one could pray in
      any other posture than kneeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The evening Catechumen classes, so happy. And then the dear fellows at
      their private prayers. The Chapel is always open, you know, and in the
      early morning and late evening little knots of three and four, or eight
      and ten, are kneeling about, quietly saying their prayers. The sick lads&mdash;dear
      Clement and Richard who died&mdash;as long as they could move, knelt up in
      hospital to say their prayers, and all but quite the new comers did the
      same. It was touching to see them, weak and in much pain, yet I did not of
      course tell them that they might as well pray as they lay on their rugs.
      Better for them even if it did a little exhaust them. It is no mere formal
      observance of a rule, for there never has been any rule about it. I have
      given them short simple prayers, and they first learn to kneel down with
      me here in my room, or with Codrington in his room, &amp;c. But I merely
      said (long ago at Kohimarama), "You know you can always go into the Chapel
      whenever you like."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sometimes I do wish you could see them; but then unless you could talk
      with them, and indeed unless you knew the Melanesian mind and nature, you
      couldn't estimate these things rightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But never did I feel so hopeful, though my old text is ever in my mind,
      Isaiah lx. 5: "Thine heart shall fear, and be enlarged." That's exactly
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 18th.&mdash;To-morrow I baptize Taroniara, of San Cristoval, a young
      man full of promise. He has a wife and little girl of about four years
      old. He may become, by God's blessing, the teacher of the people of his
      island.'
    </p>
    <p>
      (From a letter of the same date to myself, I add the further particulars
      about one who was to teach by his death instead of his life, and for whom
      the name of the first martyr was chosen):&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has been with me for some years, always good and amiable; but too
      good-natured, too weak, so that he did not take a distinct line with his
      people. He is a person of some consequence in his neighbourhood. Now he
      gives all the proofs that can well be given of real sincerity. He wonders
      himself, as he contrasts his present with his former thoughts. I feel,
      humanly speaking, quite convinced that he is thoroughly in earnest. His
      wife and little child are in the islands. "How foolish of me not to have
      listened to you, and brought them here at once. Then we could stop here
      for good." But he will return with them, all being well, or without them,
      if anything has happened to them, and I see in him, as I hope and pray,
      the pioneer for San Cristoval at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      '(Resuming the home letter.) The language of Mota now is beginning to be a
      very fair channel for communicating accurate theological teaching. We
      have, of course, to a large extent made it so by assigning deeper meanings
      to existing words (we have introduced very few words). This is the case in
      every language. On Sunday night, if you had been here, and been able to
      understand my teaching on St. John vi. to the Communicants, you would have
      been surprised, I think. Something of Hooker's fifth book was being
      readily taken in by several of those present. An Old Testament history
      they don't learn merely as certain events. They quickly take up the
      meaning, the real connection. I use the "Sunday Teaching," or work them at
      all events on that plan. Well, you mustn't say too much of the bright side
      of the picture. It is so easy to misunderstand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The time has been bad for our "lambing." We have thirty-five lambs,
      looking well, and have lost, I think, nine. Yesterday a great event
      occurred. One of the cart-mares foaled; great was the satisfaction of the
      Melanesians at the little filly. Calves are becoming too common, as we
      have now fourteen or fifteen cows, and five more are owing to us for goods
      which the people take in exchange&mdash;not money, which would not suit
      them as well. We have fenced in plenty of grass, and I don't wan't to pay
      any more for keep. Of course, we use a good deal of salt beef on shore
      here, as well as seek to supply the "Southern Cross" on her voyages.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is pleasant to walk about and see the farm and gardens thriving. All
      being well, we shall have some 300 bananas next year, lots of sugar-canes;
      many fruit trees are being planted, pine-apples, coffee, &amp;c. Guavas
      grow here like weeds. I don't care for these things; but the others do,
      and of course the scholars rejoice in them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think of the islands, and see them in my waking dreams, and it seems as
      if nothing was done. But I think again of what it was only a very short
      time ago, and oh! I do feel thankful indeed, and amazed, and almost
      fearful. I should like much, if I am alive and well, to see my way to
      spending more of my time on the islands. But the careful training of
      picked scholars for future missionaries is, I am sure, the most important
      part of our work (though it must be combined as much as possible with
      residence in the islands). If I could feel that the school was well able
      to get on without me, I would be off to the islands for a good spell. On
      the other hand, I feel most strongly that my chief business is to make
      such provision as I may for the multiplication of native missionaries, and
      the future permanent development and extension of the Mission; and to do
      this, our best scholars must be carefully trained, and then we may hope to
      secure a competent staff of native clergymen for the islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind, I am not disposed to act in a hasty way. Only I don't mean to let
      conventional notions about an English clergyman hinder my providing
      Melanesian islands with a Melanesian ministry. These scholars of ours know
      very much more, and I imagine possess qualifications of all kinds for
      their work in Melanesia, greater than the majority of the missionaries in
      the old missionary times.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How many men did good work who could hardly read, only repeat a few
      portions of the Service-book, &amp;c.!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not say that we wish to educate them up to the maximum point of
      usefulness for their practical work. But, given earnestness and
      steadfastness of character, a fair amount of teaching power, and a sound
      knowledge of fundamental truths, of the Church Services, and the meaning
      and spirit of the Prayer-book, and we may surely trust that, by God's
      grace, they may execute the office of the Ministry to the glory of God,
      and the edification of the Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They have now in Mota, in print, St. Luke, the Acts; soon will have St.
      John, which is all ready; the Prayer-book, save some of the Psalms, and a
      few other small portions. And in MS. they have a kind of manual of the
      Catechism, abstract of the Books of the Old Testament, papers on Prophecy,
      &amp;c., &amp;c. All this work, once done in Mota, is, without very much
      labour, to be transferred into Bauro, Mahaga, Mara, &amp;c., &amp;c. as I
      hope; but that is in the future.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In the birthday letter to his sister Fanny, his chilly nature confesses
      that August cold was making itself felt; and it was becoming time for him
      to make a journey to the settled world, both on account of a small tumour
      under his eyelid, and of the state of his teeth. Moreover, no letters from
      home had reached him since the 2nd of March. But he writes on the 7th of
      September to his brother:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'This does not a bit distress me. I like the freedom from all external
      excitement. It gives me uninterrupted time from my own work; and the world
      does not suffer from my ignorance of its proceedings. How you exist with
      all the abominations of daily papers, I can't imagine. Your life in
      England seems to be one whirl and bustle, with no real time for quiet
      thought and patient meditation, &amp;c. And yet men do think and do great
      things, and it doesn't wear them out soon either. Witness Bishops and
      Judges, &amp;c., living to eighty and even ninety in our own days.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I like quiet and rest, and no railroads and no daily posts; and, above
      all, no visitors, mere consumers of time, mere idlers and producers of
      idleness. So, without any post, and nothing but a cart on wheels, save a
      wheelbarrow, and no visitors, and no shops, I get on very happily and
      contentedly. The life here is to me, I must confess, luxurious, because I
      have what I like, great punctuality, early hours, regular school work,
      regular reading, very simple living; the three daily meals in hall take
      about seventy minutes all put together, and so little time is lost; and
      then the climate is delightful. Too cold now, but then I ought to be in
      the islands. The thermometer has been as low as 56° in my room; and I am
      standing in my room and writing now with my great coat on, the thermometer
      being 67°.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know that I am not cut out for society, never was at my ease in it,
      and am glad to be out of it. I am seldom at my ease except among
      Melanesians: they and my books are my best companions. I never feel the
      very slightest desire for the old life. You know how I should like to see
      you dear ones, and...[others by name] but I couldn't stand more than a
      week in England, if I could transplant myself there in five minutes! I
      don't think this augurs any want of affection; but I have grown into this
      life; I couldn't change it without a most unpleasant wrench.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The letter was at this point, when the 'Southern Cross' arrived, on
      September 10, to carry off the Bishop and Mr. Palmer: the one to the
      General Synod, and to take leave of his most loved and venerated friend;
      the other, to fetch his bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      He arrived on the 18th of the month, looking ill, and much worn and even
      depressed, more so than Lady Martin had ever seen him, for the coming
      parting pressed heavily upon him. The eye and teeth were operated upon
      without loss of time, and successfully; but this, with the cold of the
      voyage, made him, in his own word, 'shaky,' and it was well that he was a
      guest at Taurarua, with Lady Martin to take care of him, feed him on food
      not solid, and prevent him on the ensuing Sunday from taking more than one
      of the three services which had been at once proffered to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was no small plunge from the calm of St. Barnabas. 'We agree,' said
      Lady Martin, in a note within his envelope, 'that we cannot attempt to
      write letters just now. We are in a whirl, mental and bodily; one bit of
      blue sky has just shown itself, viz. that Coley may possibly stay on with
      us for a week or two after the Selwyns have left us. This really is
      proeter spem, and I mean to think that it will come to pass.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But in all this bustle, he found time to enclose a kind little note to me;
      showing his sympathy with the sorrow of that summer, in my mother's
      illness:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Auckland. October 3, 1868.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I add one line, my dear Cousin, to assure you of my prayers being offered
      for you, now more especially when a heavy trial is upon you and a deep
      sorrow awaiting you. May God comfort and bless you! Perhaps the full
      experience of such anxiety and the pressure of a constant weight may, in
      His good Providence, qualify you more than ever to help others by words
      put into your mouth out of your own heart-felt troubles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet in whatever form the sorrow comes, there is the blessing of knowing
      that she is only being mysteriously prepared for the life of the world to
      come. There is no real sorrow where there is no remorse, nor misery for
      the falling away of those we love. You have, I dare say, known (as I have)
      some who have the bitterness of seeing children turn out badly, and this
      is the sorrow that breaks one down.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was during these spring days of October, that last Sunday before the
      final parting, that being hindered by pouring rain from going with the
      Primate, who was holding a farewell service with the sick at the hospital,
      Bishop Patteson said the prayers in the private chapel. After these were
      ended (Lady Martin says), 'he spoke a few words to us. He spoke of our
      Lord standing on the shore of the Lake after His Resurrection; and he
      carried us, and I think himself too, out of the heaviness of sorrow into a
      region of peace and joy, where all conflict and partings and sin shall
      cease for ever. It was not only what he said, but the tones of his musical
      voice, and expression of peace on his own face, that hushed us into a
      great calm. One clergyman, who was present, told Sir William Martin that
      he had never known anything so wonderful. The words were like those of an
      inspired man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three days after, our dear friends sailed. I will not dwell on the last
      service at St. Paul's Church, when more than four hundred persons received
      the Holy Communion, where were four Bishops administering in the body of
      the church and the transepts; but in the chancel, the Primate and his
      beloved son in the faith were partaking together for the last time of the
      Bread of Life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From the Church we accompanied our beloved friends to the ship, and drove
      back on a cold, dry evening, a forlorn party, to the desolate house. But
      from that time dear Bishop Patteson roused himself from his natural
      depression (for to whom could the loss be greater than to him?) and set
      himself to cheer and comfort us all. How gentle and sympathising he was!
      He let me give him nourishing things, even wine&mdash;which he had long
      refused to take&mdash;because I told him Mrs. Selwyn wished him to have
      it. Many hearts were drooping, and he no longer shrank from society, but
      went about from one to another in the kindest manner. I do not know how we
      could have got on without him. He loved to talk of the Bishop. In his
      humility he seemed to feel as if any power of usefulness in himself had
      been gained from him. It was like him to think of our Auckland poor at
      this time. They would so miss the Bishop and Mrs. Selwyn. He prayed me to
      draw £50 a year for the next year or two, to be spent in any way I should
      think best. And he put it as a gift from his dear Father, who would have
      wished that money of his invested here should be used in part for the good
      of the townspeople. This did not include his subscriptions to the Orphan
      Home and other charities.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To make his very liberal gifts in time of need in the name of his Father,
      was his favourite custom; as his former fellow-labourer, the Rev. B. T.
      Dudley, found when a case of distress in his own parish in the Canterbury
      Settlement called forth this ready assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps the young Church of New Zealand has never known so memorable or so
      sorrowful a day as that which took from her her first Bishop: a day truly
      to be likened to that when the Ephesians parted with their Apostle at
      Miletus. The history of this parting Bishop Patteson had himself to read
      on Saturday, October 17, the twenty-seventh anniversary of Bishop Selwyn's
      Consecration. It was at the Celebration preceding the last meeting of the
      Synod, when Collect, Epistle, and Gospel were taken from the Order for the
      Consecration of Bishops; and as the latter says,&mdash;'He has always told
      me to officiate with him, and I had, by his desire, to read Acts xx. for
      the Epistle. I did read it without a break-down, but it was hard work.'
      Then followed the Sunday, before described by Lady Martin; and on Tuesday
      the 20th, that service in St. Mary's&mdash;the parting feast:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' writes the younger Bishop, 'the crowded streets and wharf, for all
      business was suspended, public offices and shops shut, no power of moving
      about the wharf, horses taken from the carriage provided for the occasion,
      as a mixed crowd of English and Maoris drew them to the wharf. Then
      choking words and stifled efforts to say, "God bless you," and so we
      parted!
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is the end of a long chapter. I feel as if "my master was taken from
      my head."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! well, they are gone, and we will try to do what we can.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel rather no-how, and can't yet settle down to anything!'
    </p>
    <p>
      But to the other sister on the same day comes an exhortation not to be
      alarmed if friends report him as 'not up to the mark.' How could it be
      otherwise at such a time? For truly it was the last great shock his
      affections sustained. In itself, it might not be all that the quitting
      home and family had been; but not only was there the difference between
      going and being left behind, but youth, with its spirit of enterprise and
      compensation, was past, and he was in a state to feel the pain of the
      separation almost more intensely than when he had walked from the door at
      Feniton, and gathered his last primrose at his mother's grave. Before
      leaving Auckland, the Bishop married the Rev. John Palmer to Miss Ashwell;
      and while they remained for a short time in New Zealand, he returned for
      the Ember Week.
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Thomas, Norfolk Island: December 21, 1868.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;I must write you a few lines, not as yet in answer
      to your very interesting letter about Mr. Keble and about Ritualism, &amp;c.,
      but about our great event of yesterday.
    </p>
    <p>
      'George Sarawia was ordained Deacon in our little chapel, in the presence
      of fifty-five Melanesians and a few Norfolk Islanders. With him Charles
      Bice, a very excellent man from St. Augustine's, was ordained Deacon also.
      He has uncommon gifts of making himself thoroughly at home with the
      Melanesians. It comes natural to him, there is no effort, nothing to
      overcome apparently, and they of course like him greatly. He speaks the
      language of Mota, the lingua franca here, you know.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But what am I to say of George that you cannot imagine for yourself? It
      was in the year 1857 that the Bishop and I first saw him at Vanua Lava
      Island. He has been with us now ten years; I can truly say, that he has
      never given me any uneasiness. He is not the cleverest of our scholars;
      but no one possesses the confidence of us all in the same degree. True, he
      is the oldest of the party, he can hardly be less than twenty-six years
      old, for he had been married a year when first we saw him; but it is his
      character rather than his age which gives him his position. For a long
      time he has been our link with the Melanesians themselves whenever there
      was something to be done by one of themselves rather than by us strangers.
      Somehow the other scholars get into a way of recognising him as the A 1 of
      the place, and so also in Mota and the neighbouring islands his character
      and reputation are well known. The people expect him to be a teacher among
      them, they all know that he is a person of weight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The day was warm and fine.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At 7.20 A.M. we had the Morning Service, chanting the 2nd Psalm. I read
      Isa. xlii. 5-12 for the First Lesson, and 1 Tim. iii. 8-13 for the Second,
      and the Collect in the Ordination Service before the Prayer of St.
      Chrysostom. Mr. Codrington, as usual, read the prayers to the end of the
      third Collect, after which we sang our Sunday hymn.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At 11 A.M. we began the Ordination Service. One Epiphany hymn, my short
      sermon, then Mr. Codrington presented the candidates, speaking Mota for
      one and English for the other. The whole service was in Mota, except that
      I questioned Bice, and he answered in English, and I used the English
      words of Ordination in his case. George was questioned and answered in
      Mota, and then Bice in English, question by question. Mr. Nobbs was here
      and a few of the people, Mr. Atkin, Mr. Brooke, so we made a goodly little
      party of seven in our clerical supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What our thoughts were you can guess as we ordained the first Melanesian
      clergyman. How full of thankfulness, of awe, of wonderment, the fulfilment
      of so much, the pledge of it, if it be God's will, of so much more! And
      not a little of anxiety, too&mdash;yet the words of comfort are many; and
      it does not need much faith, with so evident a proof of God's Love and
      Power and Faithfulness before our very eyes, to trust George in His Hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The closing stanzas of the Ordination Hymn in the "Christian Year"
      comforted me as I read them at night; but I had peace and comfort, thank
      God, all through.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Others, too, are pressing on. I could say, with truth, to them in the
      evening in the Chapel, "This is the beginning, only the beginning, the
      first fruit. Many blossoms there are already. I know that God's Spirit is
      working in the hearts of some of you. Follow that holy guidance, I pray
      always that you may be kept in the right way, and that you may be enabled
      to point it out to others, and to guide them in it."
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet no words can express what the recoil of the wave heathenism is,
      but "when the enemy shall come in like a flood," and it has indeed its own
      glorious word of Promise. It is like one who was once a drunkard and has
      left off drinking, and then once more tastes the old deadly poison, and
      becomes mad for drink; or like the wild furious struggles (as I suppose)
      of poor penitents in penitentiaries, when it seems as if the devil must
      whirl them back into sin. You know we see things which look like
      "possession," a black cloud settling down upon the soul, overwhelming all
      the hopeful signs for a time. And then, when I have my quiet talk with
      such an one (and only very few, and they not the best among us), he will
      say, "I can't tell, I didn't mean it. It was not I. What was it?" And I
      say, "It was the devil, seeking to devour you, to drag you back into the
      old evil dark ways." "It is awful, fearful." "Then you must gird your
      loins and pray the more, and remember that you are Christ's, that you
      belong to Him, that you are God's child, that Satan has no right to claim
      you now. Resist him in this name, in the strength of the Spirit whom
      Christ has sent to us from the Father, and he will flee from you."
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is of course the same more or less with us all, but it comes out in, a
      shape which gives it terrible reality and earnestness. Only think, then,
      more than ever, of them and of me, and pray that "the Spirit of the Lord
      may lift up a standard against the enemy." At times we do seem to realise
      that it is a downright personal struggle for life or death.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There the writer paused, and the next date is
    </p>
    <p>
      'Christmas Day, 1868.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;What a happy happy day! At 12.5 A.M. I was
      awoke by a party of some twenty Melanesians, headed by Mr. Bice, singing
      Christmas carols at my bedroom door. It is a glass window, opening on to
      the verandah. How delightful it was! I had gone to bed with the Book of
      Praise by my side, and Mr. Keble's hymn in my mind; and now the Mota
      versions, already familiar to us, of the Angels' Song and of the "Light to
      lighten the Gentiles," sung too by some of our heathen scholars, took up
      as it were the strain. Their voices sounded so fresh and clear in the
      still midnight, the perfectly clear sky, the calm moon, the warm genial
      climate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I lay awake afterwards, thinking on the blessed change wrought in their
      minds, thinking of my happy happy lot, of how utterly undeserved it was
      and is, and (as is natural) losing myself in thoughts of God's wonderful
      goodness and mercy and love.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then at 4.45 A.M. I got up, a little later perhaps than usual. Codrington
      and Brooke were very soon at work finishing the decorations in the Chapel;
      branches of Norfolk Island pines, divers evergreens, pomegranates and
      oleanders and lilies (in handfuls) and large snow-white arums; on the
      altar-table arums above, and below lilies and evergreens. Oleanders and
      pomegranates marked the chancel arch. The rugs looked very handsome, the
      whole floor at the east end is covered with a red baize or drugget to
      match the curtains.
    </p>
    <p>
      '7 A.M., Holy Communion. Six clergymen in surplices and fifteen other
      communicants. At 10 A.M., a short, very bright, joyful service, the
      regular Morning Prayers, Psalms xcv. xix. cx. all chanted. Proper Lessons,
      two Christmas hymns.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then games, cricket, prisoner's base, running races. Beef, pork,
      plum-puddings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now we shall soon have evening Chapel, a great deal of singing, a few
      short words from me; then a happy, merry, innocent evening, native dances,
      coffee, biscuit, and snapdragons to finish with.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you had been here to-day, you would indeed have been filled with
      surprise and thankfulness and hope. There is, I do think, a great deal to
      show that these scholars of ours so connect religion with all that is
      cheerful and happy. There is nothing, as I think, sanctimonious about
      them. They say, "We are so happy here! How different from our lands!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I think I can truly say that this is not from want of seriousness in
      those of an age to be serious.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I pour this out to you in my happy day&mdash;words of hope and joy and
      thankfulness! But remember that I feel that all this should make me
      thoughtful as well as hopeful. How can I say but what sorrow and trial may
      even now be on their way hither? But I thank God, oh! I do thank Him for
      his great love and mercy, and I do not think it wrong to give my feelings
      of joy some utterance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this year the Eucharist was administered weekly, the Melanesians
      still attending fortnightly; but it proved to have been a true foreboding
      that a sorrow was on its way:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'January 8th.&mdash;A very joyful Christmas, but a sad Epiphany!
    </p>
    <p>
      'U&mdash;-, dearer to me than ever, has (I now hear from him) been putting
      himself in the way of temptation. I had noticed that he was not like
      himself, and spoke to him and warned him. I told him that if he wished to
      be married at once, I was quite willing to marry him; but he said they
      were too young, and yet he was always thinking of the young fiancee. Alas!
      he had too often (as he says) put himself in the way of temptation with
      his eyes open, and he fell. He was frightened, terrified, bewildered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alas! it is our first great sorrow of the kind, for he was a Communicant
      of nearly three years' standing. Yet I have much comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can have no doubt, 1st, that a fall was necessary, I believe fully. His
      own words (not suggested by me) were, "I tempted God often, and He let me
      fall; I don't mean He was the cause of it, it is of course only my fault;
      but I think I see that I might have gone on getting more and more careless
      and wandering further and further from Him unless I had been startled and
      frightened." And then he burst out, "Oh! don't send me away for ever. I
      know I have made the young ones stumble, and destroyed the happiness of
      our settlement here. I know I must not be with you all in Chapel and
      school and hall. I know I can't teach any more, I know that, and I am
      miserable, miserable. But don't tell me I must go away for ever. I can't
      bear it!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did manage to answer almost coldly, for I felt that if I once let loose
      my longing desire to let him see my real feeling, I could not restrain
      myself at all. "Who wishes to send you away, U&mdash;? It is not me whom
      you have displeased and injured."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I know. It is terrible! But I think of the Prodigal Son. Oh! I do long
      to go back! Oh! do tell me that He loves me still."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor dear fellow! I thought I must leave him to bear his burthen for a
      time. We prayed together, and I left him, or rather sent him away from my
      room, but he could neither eat nor sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The next day his whole manner, look, everything made one sure (humanly
      speaking) that he was indeed truly penitent; and then when I began to
      speak words of comfort, of God's tender love and compassion, and told him
      how to think of the Lord's gentle pity when He appeared first to the
      Magdalene and Peter, and when I took his hand in the old loving way, poor
      fellow, he broke down more than ever, and cried like a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! it is very sad; but I do think he will be a better, more steadfast
      man: he has learnt his weakness, and where to find strength, as he never
      had before. And the effect on the school is remarkable. That there should
      be so much tenderness of conscience and apprehension of the guilt of
      impurity among the children of the heathen in among many brought up in
      familiarity with sin, is a matter for much thankfulness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this may well be added an extract from Joseph Atkin's journal, showing
      his likemindedness both in thoughtfulness and charity:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel quite sure that we must be prepared for many such cases. The whole
      associations and training of the early lives of these people must
      influence them as long as they live. The thought of what my mother and
      sister would think, never occur to them as any influence for good; and
      although this may be said to be a low motive for doing right, it is a very
      powerful one, and it is more tangible because it is lower.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop, in speaking of it to-day, told the boys that they ought not
      to do right to please him, but because it was right to please God; but I
      can't help thinking that pleasing the Bishop may and can help the other
      very much. Is it not right for a child to do right to please its parents,
      and for older children too to be helped by the thought that they are
      pleasing those they love and honour?
    </p>
    <p>
      'We had a council to-day of all the Church members to talk about how U&mdash;&mdash;
      was to be treated. For himself, poor fellow, I should think kindness would
      be harder to bear than neglect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Codrington says, "On this occasion all the male Communicants went
      together to some little distance, where a group of boulders under the
      pines gave a convenient seat. The Bishop set out the case, and asked what
      was the opinion of the elder boys as to the treatment of the offender.
      They were left alone to consider; and when we came back, they gave their
      judgment, that he should not eat in the hall at what may be called the
      high table, that he should not teach in school, and should not come into
      Chapel."
    </p>
    <p>
      'This was of course what was intended, but the weight of the sentence so
      given was greater with the school, and a wholesome lesson given to the
      judges. How soon the Bishop's severity, which never covered his pity, gave
      way to his affection for one of his oldest and dearest pupils, and his
      tenderness for the penitent, and how he took a large share of blame upon
      himself, just where it was not due, can well be understood by all who knew
      him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was soon a brighter day. On January 25, writes Mr. Atkin:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'We had a great day. In the morning some who were baptized last summer
      were confirmed, and at night there were baptized three girls and thirteen
      boys. Most of them were quite little fellows. I don't think any of us will
      easily forget their grave and sober but not shy looks, as one by one they
      stepped up to the Bishop. I think that all understood and meant what they
      said, that Baptism was no mere form with them, but a real solemn compact.
      All who were in my class (nine), or the Sunday morning school, were
      baptized in the evening. While we were standing round the font, I thought
      of you at home, and half wished that you could have seen us there. I was
      witness for my son (Wate); he was called Joseph, so that I shall lose my
      name that I have kept so long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph Wate, the little Malanta boy, was always viewed by the Atkin family
      as a kind of child, and kept up a correspondence with his godfather's
      sister, Mother Mary as he called her.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the same day the Bishop wrote to Judge Pohlman:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My very dear Friend,&mdash;I must not let our correspondence drop, and
      the less likely it seems to be that we may meet, the more I must seek to
      retain your friendship, by letting you know not only the facts that occur
      here, but my thoughts and hopes and fears about them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      (Then, after mentioning the recent transgression, the letter continues
      respecting the youth.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'His fright and terror, his misery and deep sorrow, and (I do believe)
      godly repentance, make me say that he is still, as I trust, one of our
      best scholars. But it is very sad. For three weeks he did not come even
      into chapel with us. He not only acquiesced, but wished that it should be
      so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last Saturday evening he was readmitted, without any using of fine names.
      I did as a matter of fact do what was the practice of the early
      Christians, and is recognised in our Ash Wednesday service now. It was
      very desirable that great notice should be taken of the commission of an
      act which it is hard for a heathen to understand to be an act of sin, and
      the effect upon the whole school of the sad and serious way in which this
      offence was regarded has been very good.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the circumstances it is so easy to see how the discipline of the early
      Church was not an artificial, but a necessary system, though by degrees
      elaborated in a more complicated manner. But I find, not seldom, that
      common sense dictates some course which afterwards I come across in
      Bingham, or some such writer, described as a usage of the early
      Christians.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In our English nineteenth century life such practices could hardly be
      reintroduced with benefit. Yet something which might mark open offences
      with the censure of the Christian Body is clearly desirable when you can
      have it; and of course with us there is no difficulty whatever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot be surprised, however deeply grieved at this sad occurrence; and
      though it is no comfort to think how many English persons would think
      nothing of this, and certainly not show the deep compunction and sorrow
      which this poor fellow shows, yet, as a matter of fact, how few young
      Englishmen are there who would think such an act, as this young Melanesian
      thinks it to be, a grievous sin against God, and matter for continual
      sorrow and humiliation. So I do rejoice that he is sorrowing after a godly
      sort.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In other respects there is a very hopeful promising appearance just now.
      We number seven clergymen, including myself. We have a very efficient band
      of Melanesian teachers, and could at this moment work a school of 150
      scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
      'George Sarawia will (D.V.) start with a little company of Christian
      friends at his own island. The scholars from all the different islands
      fraternise excellently well, and in many cases the older and more advanced
      have their regular chums, by private arrangement among themselves, whom
      they help, and to whose islands they are quite prepared to be sent, if I
      think fit so to arrange; and I really do believe that from the Banks
      Islands we may send out missionaries to many of the Melanesian islands, as
      from Samoa and Karotonga they have gone out to the islands of the Eastern
      Pacific. Humanly speaking, I see no difficulty in our drawing into our
      central school here any number of natives that we can support, from the
      New Hebrides, Banks and Solomon Islands, and I trust soon from the Santa
      Cruz Islands also.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here must be the principal work, the training up missionaries and
      steadfast Christian men and women, not of ability sufficient to become
      themselves missionaries, but necessary to strengthen the hands of their
      more gifted countrymen. This training must be carried on here, but with it
      must be combined a frequent visitation and as lengthened sojourns in the
      islands as possible. The next winter we hope that the Rev. J. Atkin will
      be some time at San Cristoval, the Rev. C. H. Brooke at Florida, the Rev.
      J. Palmer at Mota. But I am more than ever convinced that the chiefest
      part of our work is to consist in training up Melanesian clergymen, and
      educating them up to the point of faithfully reproducing our simple
      teaching. We must hope to see native self-supporting Melanesian Churches,
      not weak indolent Melanesians dependent always on an English missionary,
      but steadfast, thoughtful men and women, retaining the characteristics of
      their race so far as they can be sanctified by the Word of God in prayer,
      and not force useless imitations of English modes of thought and
      nineteenth century civilisation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is sometimes a consequence of our national self-conceit, sometimes of
      want of thought, that no consideration is shown to the characteristic
      native way of regarding things. But Christianity is a universal religion,
      and assimilates and interpolates into its system all that is capable of
      regeneration and sanctification anywhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Before long I hope to get something more respectable in the way of a
      report printed and circulated. It seems unreasonable to say so, but really
      I have very little time that I can spare from directly Melanesian work,
      what with school, translations, working out languages, and (thank God) the
      many, many hours spent in quiet interviews with Melanesians of all ages
      and islands, who come to have private talks with me, and to tell me of
      their thoughts and feelings. These are happy hours indeed. I must end.
      Always, my dear friend, affectionately and sincerely yours,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The readmission thus mentioned was by the imposition of hands, when the
      penitent was again received, and his conduct ever since has proved his
      repentance true.
    </p>
    <p>
      February brought Mr. and Mrs. Palmer to their new home, and carried away
      Mr. Codrington for a holiday. The budget of letters sent by this
      opportunity contained a remarkable one from young Atkin. Like master, like
      scholar:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'February 24, 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Mother,&mdash;You must not think about my coming back; I may have
      to do it, but if I do, it will seem like giving up the object of my life.
      I did not enter upon this work with any enthusiasm, and it is perhaps
      partly from that cause that I am now so attached to it that little short
      of necessity would take me away; my own choice, I think, never. I know it
      is much harder for you than for me. I wish I could lighten it to you, but
      it cannot be. It is a great deal more self-denial for you to spare me to
      come away than for me to come away. You must think, like David, "I will
      not offer unto the Lord my God of that which doth cost me nothing." If you
      willingly give Him what you prize most, however worthless the gift may be,
      He will prize it for the willingness with which it is given. If it had
      been of my own choosing that I came away, I should often blame myself for
      having made a selfish choice in not taking harder and more irksome work
      nearer home, but it came to me without choosing. I can only be thankful
      that God has been so good to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Well might the Bishop write to the father, 'I thank you in my heart for
      Joe's promise.'
    </p>
    <p>
      How exactly his own spirit, in simple, unconscious self-abnegation and
      thorough devotion to the work. How it chimes in with this, written on the
      self-same morning to the Bishop of Lichfield:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Matthias Day, 6.45 A.M., 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      My dear Bishop,&mdash;You do not doubt that I think continually of you,
      yet I like you to have a line from me to-day. We are just going into
      Chapel, altering our usual service to-day that we may receive the Holy
      Communion with special remembrance of my Consecration and special prayer
      for a blessing on the Mission. There is much to be thankful for indeed,
      much also that may well make the retrospect of the last eight years a
      somewhat sad and painful one as far as I am myself concerned. It does seem
      wonderful that good on the whole is done. But everything is wonderful and
      full of mystery....
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is rather mean of me, I fear, to get out of nearly all troubles by
      being here. Yet it seems to me very clear that the special work of the
      Mission is carried on more conveniently (one doesn't like to say more
      successfully) here, and my presence or absence is of no consequence when
      general questions are under discussion....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your very affectionate
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The same mail brought a letter to Miss Mackenzie, with much valuable
      matter on Mission work:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'February 26, 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Miss Mackenzie,&mdash;I have just read your letter to me of April
      1867, which I acknowledged, rather than answered, long ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't answer it as it deserves to be answered now. I think I have
      already written about thirty-five letters to go by this mail, and my usual
      work seldom leaves me a spare hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I am truly thankful for the hopes that seem to show themselves
      through the mists, in places where all Christian men must feel so strong
      an interest. I do hope to hear that the new Bishopric may soon be founded,
      on which Mr. Robertson and you and others have so set your hearts. That
      good man! I often think of him, and hope soon to send him, through you,
      £10 from our Melanesian offertory.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know we have, thank God, thirty-nine baptized Melanesians here, of
      whom fifteen are communicants, and one, George Sarawia, a clergyman. He
      was ordained on December 20.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are many little works usually going ons which I don't consider it
      fair to reckon among the regular industrial work of the Mission. I pay the
      young men and lads and boys small sums for such things, and I think it
      right to teach the elder ones the use of money by giving them allowances,
      out of which they buy their clothing, &amp;c., when necessary, all under
      certain regulations. I say this that you may know that our weekly
      offertory is not a sham. No one knows what they give, or whether they give
      or not. A Melanesian takes the offertory bason, and they give or not as
      they please. I take care that such moneys as are due to them shall be
      given in 3d., 4d., and 6d. pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last year our offertory rather exceeded £40, and it is out of this that
      my brother will now pay you £10 for the Mackenzie fund. I write all this
      because you will like to think that some of this little offertory comes
      bond fide from Melanesians.
    </p>
    <p>
      '...You take me to mean, I hope, that Christianity is the religion for
      mankind at large, capable of dealing with the spiritual and bodily needs
      of man everywhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is easy for us now to say that some of the early English Missions,
      without thinking at all about it, in all probability, sought to impose an
      English line of thought and religion on Indians and Africans. Even English
      dress was thought to be almost essential, and English habits, &amp;c.,
      were regarded as part of the education of persons converted through the
      agency of English Missions. All this seems to be burdening the message of
      the Gospel with unnecessary difficulties. The teacher everywhere, in
      England or out of it, must learn to discriminate between essentials and
      non-essentials. It seems to me self-evident that the native scholar must
      be educated up to the highest point that is possible, and that unless one
      is (humanly speaking) quite sure that he can and will reproduce faithfully
      the simple teaching he has received, he ought not to teach, much less to
      be ordained.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All our elder lads and girls here teach the younger ones, and we know
      what they teach. Their notes of our lessons are brought to me, books full
      of them, and there I see what they know; for if they can write down a
      plain account of facts and doctrines, that is a good test of their having
      taken in the teaching. George Sarawia's little essay on the doctrine of
      the Communion is to me perfectly satisfactory. It was written without my
      knowledge. I found it in one of his many note-books accidentally.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As for civilisation, they all live entirely with us, and every Melanesian
      in the place, men and women, boys and girls, three times a day take their
      places with all of us in hall, and use their knives and forks, plates,
      cups and saucers (or, for the passage, one's pannikins) just as we do.
      George and two others, speaking for themselves and their wives, have just
      written out, among other things, in a list which I told them to make out:
      plates, cups, saucers, knives, forks, spoons, tubs, saucepans, kettles,
      soap, towels, domestic things for washing, ironing, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The common presents that our elder scholars take or send to their friends
      include large iron pots for cooking, clothing, &amp;c. They build improved
      houses, and ask for small windows, &amp;c., to put in them, boxes, carpet
      bags for their clothes, small writing desks, note-books, ink, pens. They
      keep their best clothes very carefully, and on Sundays and great days look
      highly respectable. And for years we know no instance of a baptized
      Melanesian throwing aside his clothing when taking his holiday at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As far as I can see my way to any rule in the matter, it is this: all
      that is necessary to secure decency, propriety, cleanliness, health, &amp;c.,
      must be provided for them. This at once involves alteration of the houses,
      divisions, partitions. People who can read and write, and cut out and sew
      clothes, must have light in their houses. This involves a change of the
      shape and structure of the hut. They can't sit in clean clothes on a dirty
      floor, and they can't write, or eat out of plates and use cups, &amp;c.,
      without tables or benches, and as they don't want to spend ten hours in
      sleep or idle talk, they must have lamps for cocoa-nut and almond oil.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These people are not taught to adopt these habits by word of mouth. They
      live with us and do as we do. Two young married women are sitting in my
      room now. I didn't call them in, nor tell them what to do. "We didn't
      quite understand what you said last night." "Well, I have written it out,&mdash;there
      it is." They took, as usual, the MS., sat down, just as you or anyone
      would do, at the table to read it, and are now making their short notes of
      it. Anyone comes in and out at any time, when not at school, chapel, or
      work, just as they please. We each have our own sitting-room, which is in
      this sense public property, and of course they fall into our ways.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is perhaps no such thing as teaching civilisation by word of
      command, nor religion either. The sine qua non for the missionary&mdash;religious
      and moral character assumed to exist&mdash;is the living with his scholars
      as children of his own. And the aim is to lift them up, not by words, but
      by the daily life, to the sense of their capacity for becoming by God's
      grace all that we are, and I pray God a great deal more; not as literary
      men or scholars, but as Christian men and women, better suited than we are
      for work among their own people. "They shall be saved even as we." They
      have a strong sense of and acquiescence in, their own inferiority. If we
      treat them as inferiors, they will always remain in that position of
      inferiority.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But Christ humbled Himself and became the servant and minister that He
      might make us children of God and exalt us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is surely very simple, but if we do thus live among them, they must
      necessarily accept and adopt some of our habits. Our Lord led the life of
      a poor man, but He raised His disciples to the highest pitch of excellence
      by His Life, His Words, and His Spirit, the highest that man could receive
      and follow. The analogy is surely a true one. And exclusiveness, all the
      pride of race must disappear before such considerations.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But it is not the less true that He did not make very small demands upon
      His disciples, and teach them and us that it needs but little care and
      toil and preparation to be a Christian and a teacher of Christianity. The
      direct contrary to this is the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The teacher's duty is to be always leading on his pupils to higher
      conceptions of their work in life, and to a more diligent performance of
      it. How can he do this if he himself acquiesces in a very imperfect
      knowledge and practice of his duty?
    </p>
    <p>
      '"And yet the mass of mediaeval missionaries could perhaps scarce read."
      That may be true, but that was not an excellence but a defect, and the
      mass of the gentry and nobility could not do so much. They did a great
      work then. It does not follow that we are to imitate their ignorance when
      we can have knowledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I am wasting your time and mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours very truly,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.
    </h5>
    <p>
      'P.S.&mdash;George and his wife and child, Charles and his wife, Benjamin
      and his wife, will live together at Mota on some land I have bought. A
      good wooden house is to be put up by us this winter (D.V.) with one large
      room for common use, school, &amp;c., and three small bed-rooms opening on
      to a verandah. One small bed-room at the other end which any one, two or
      three of us English folks can occupy when at Mota. I dare say, first and
      last, this house will cost seventy or eighty pounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then we hope to have everything that can be sown and planted with profit
      in a tropical climate, first-class breed of pigs, poultry, &amp;c., so
      that all the people may see that such things are not neglected. These
      things will be given away freely-settings of eggs, young sows, seeds,
      plants, young trees, &amp;c. All this involves expense, quite rightly too,
      and after all, I dare say that dear old George will cost about a sixth or
      an eighth of what we English clergymen think necessary. I dare say £25 per
      annum will cover his expenses.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On Easter Sunday the penitent was readmitted to the Lord's Table. A happy
      letter followed:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Easter Tuesday, 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;Another opportunity of writing. I will only say
      a word about two things. First, our Easter and the Holy Week preceding it;
      secondly, how full my mind has been of Mr. Keble, on his two
      anniversaries, Holy Thursday and March 29. And I have read much of the
      "Christian Year," and the two letters I had from him I have read again,
      and looked at the picture of him, and felt helped by the memory of his
      holy saintly life, and I dared to think that it might be that by God's
      great mercy in Christ, I might yet know him and other blessed Saints in
      the Life to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our Holy Week was a calm solemn season. All the services have long been
      in print. Day by day in school and chapel we followed the holy services
      and acts of each day, taking Ellicott's "Historical Lectures" as a guide.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Each evening I had my short sermonet, and we sought to deepen the
      impressions made evidently upon our scholars by whatever could make it a
      real matter of life and death to them and us. Then came Good Friday and
      Easter Eve, during which the Melanesians with Mr. Brooke were busily
      engaged in decorating the Chapel with fronds of tree-ferns, bamboo, arums,
      and oleander blossoms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, at 7 A.M. on Easter Morning, thirty of us&mdash;twenty-one, thank
      God, being Melanesians&mdash;met in Chapel for the true Easter Feast.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, at 11 A.M., how we chanted Psalms ii, cxiii, cxiv, and Hymn, and
      the old Easter Hallelujah hymn to the old tune with Mota words. Then at 7
      P.M. Psalms cxviii, cxlviii, to joyful chants, and singing Easter and
      other hymns.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So yesterday and so to-day. The short Communion Service in the morning
      with hymn, and in the evening we chant Psalm cxviii, and sing out our
      Easter hymn. Ah well! it makes my heart very full. It is the season of
      refreshing, perhaps before more trails.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear U&mdash;&mdash; was with us again on Easter morn, a truly repentant
      young man, I verily believe, feeling deeply what in our country districts
      is often not counted a sin at all to be a foul offence against his Father
      and Saviour and Sanctifier.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Six were there for their first Communion, among them honest old Stephen
      Taroniara, the first and only communicant of all the Solomon Isles&mdash;of
      all the world west of Mota, or east of any of the Bishop of Labuan's
      communicants. Think of that! What a blessing! What a thought for praise
      and hope and meditation!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I sit in my verandah in the moonlight and I do feel happy in spite of
      many thoughts of early days which may well make me feel unhappy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I do feel an almost overpowering sensation of thankfulness and peace
      and calm tranquil happiness, which I know cannot last long. It would not,
      I suppose, be good: anyhow it will soon be broken by some trial which may
      show much of my present state to be a delusion. Yet I like to tell you
      what I think, and I know you will keep it to yourselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, and all Easter blessings be with you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON '
    </h5>
    <p>
      The island voyage was coming near, and was to be conducted, on a larger
      scale, after the intermission of a whole year. Mr. Brooke was to make some
      stay at Florida, Mr. Atkin at Wango in Bauro, and the Bishop himself was
      to take the party who were to commence the Christian village at Mota,
      while Mr. Codrington and Mr. Bice remained in charge of twenty-seven
      Melanesians. The reports of the effects of the labour traffic were
      becoming a great anxiety, and not only the Fiji settlers, but those in
      Queensland were becoming concerned in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The 'Southern Cross' arrived in June, but the weather was so bad that,
      knocking about outside the rocks, she sustained some damage, and could not
      put her freight ashore for a week. However, on the 24th she sailed, and
      put down Mr. Atkin at Wango, the village in Bauro where the Bishop had
      stayed two years previously.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Atkin gives a touching description of Taroniara's arrival:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stephen was not long in finding his little girl, Paraiteka. She was soon
      in his arms. The old fellow just held her up for the Bishop to see, and
      then turned away with her, and I saw a handkerchief come out privately and
      brush quickly across his eyes, and in a few minutes he came back to us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The little girl's mother, for whose sake Taroniara had once refused to
      return to school, had been carried off by a Maran man; and as the heathen
      connection had been so slight, and a proper marriage so entirely beyond
      the ideas of the native state, it was thought advisable to leave this as a
      thing of heathen darkness, and let him select a girl to be educated into
      becoming fit for his true wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides Stephen, Joseph Wate and two other Christian lads were with Mr.
      Atkin, and he made an expedition of two days' visit to Wate's father. At
      Ulava he found that dysentery had swept off nearly all the natives, and he
      thought these races, even while left to themselves, were dying out. 'But,'
      adds the brave man in his journal, 'I will never, I hope, allow that
      because these people are dying out, it is of no use or a waste of time
      carrying the Gospel to them. It is, I should rather say, a case where we
      ought to be the more anxious to gather up the fragments.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So he worked on bravely, making it an object, if he could do no more, to
      teach enough to give new scholars a start in the school, and to see who
      were most worth choosing there. He suffered a little loss of popularity
      when it was found that he was not a perpetual fountain of beads, hatchets,
      and tobacco, but he did the good work of effecting a reconciliation
      between Wango and another village named Hane, where he made a visit, and
      heard a song in honour of Taroniara. He was invited to a great
      reconciliation feast; which he thus describes, beginning with his walk to
      Hane by short marches:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'We waited where we overtook Taki, until the main body from Wango came up.
      They charged past in fine style, looking very well in their holiday dress,
      each with his left hand full of spears, and one brandished in the right.
      It looked much more like a fighting party than a peace party; but it is
      the custom to make peace with the whole army, to convince the enemy that
      it is only for his accommodation that they are making peace, and not
      because they are afraid to fight him. It was about 12 o'clock when we
      reached the rendezvous. There was a fine charge of all, except a dozen of
      the more sedate of the party; they rattled their spears, and ran, and
      shouted, and jumped, even crossing the stream which was the neutral
      ground. We halted by the stream for some time; at last some Hane people
      came to their side; there was a charge again almost up to them, but they
      took it coolly. At about 10 o'clock the whole body of the Hane men came,
      and two or three from Wango went across to them. I was tired of waiting,
      and asked Taki if I should go. "Yes, and tell them to bring the money," he
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'While I was wading through the stream, the Hane men gathered up and
      advanced; I turned back with them. They rushed, brandishing their spears,
      to within ten or twelve paces of the Wango party, who had joined into a
      compact body, and so seated themselves as soon as they saw the movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kara, a Hane man, made his speech, first running forwards and backwards,
      shaking his spear all the time; and at the end, he took out four strings
      of Makira money, and gave it to Taki. Hane went back across the stream;
      and Wango went through the same performance, Taki making the speech. He
      seemed a great orator, and went on until one standing by him said, "That's
      enough," when he laughed, and gave over. He gave four strings of money,
      two shorter than the others, and the shortest was returned to him, I don't
      know why; but in this way the peace was signed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After nineteen days, during which the Bishop had been cruising about, Mr.
      Atkin and his scholars were picked up again, and likewise Mr. Brooke, who
      had been spending ten days at Florida with his scholars, in all
      thirty-five; and then ensued a very tedious passage to the Banks Islands,
      for the vessel had been crippled by the gale off Norfolk Island, and could
      not be pressed; little canvas was carried, and the weather was
      unfavourable.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, on September 6, Mota was safely reached; and great was the joy,
      warm the welcome of the natives, who eagerly assisted in unloading the
      vessel, through storms of rain and surf.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old station house was in entire decay; but the orange and lemon trees
      were thirty feet high, though only the latter in bearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The new village, it was agreed, should bear the name of Kohimarama, after
      the old home in New Zealand, meaning, in Maori, 'Focus of Light.' After
      landing the goats, the Bishop, Mr. Atkin, and five more crossed to Valua.
      They were warmly welcomed at Ara, where their long absence had made the
      natives fancy they must all be dead. The parents of Henry, Lydia, and
      Edwin were the first to approach the boat, eager to hear of their children
      left in Norfolk Island; and the mother walked up the beach with her arm
      round Mr. Atkin's neck. But here it appeared that the vessels of the
      labour traffic had come to obtain people to work in the cotton plantations
      in Queensland, and that they had already begun to invite them in the name
      of the Bishop, whose absence they accounted for by saying his ship had
      been wrecked, he had broken his leg, he had gone to England, and sent them
      to fetch natives to him. No force had been used as yet, but there was
      evident dread of them; and one vessel had a Mota man on board, who
      persuaded the people to go to Sydney. About a hundred natives had been
      taken from the islands of Valua, Ara, and Matlavo, and from Bligh Island
      twenty-three were just gone, but Mota's inaccessibility had apparently
      protected it. It will be remembered that it has a high fortification of
      coral all round the beach, with but one inconvenient entrance, and that
      the people are little apt to resort to canoes. This really has hitherto
      seemed a special Providence for this nucleus of Christianity.
    </p>
    <p>
      They spent the night at Ara, making a fire on the sandy beach, where they
      boiled their chocolate, and made gravy of some extract of meat to season
      their yam, and supped in public by firelight, reclining upon mats.
      Afterwards they went up to the Ogamal, or barrack tent: it was not an
      inviting bed-chamber, being so low that they could only kneel upright in
      it, and so smoky that Stephen remarked, 'We shall be cooked ourselves if
      we stay here,' proving an advance in civilisation. One of the private
      houses was equally unattractive, and the party slept on the beach.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning they started to walk round the island: taking two cork
      beds, a portmanteau and a basket of provisions; stopping wherever a few
      people were found, but it was a thinly peopled place, and the loss of the
      men carried off was sensibly felt.
    </p>
    <p>
      One village had had a fight with a boat's crew from Sydney. They made no
      secret of it, saying that they would not have their men taken away; and
      they had been sharp enough to pour water into the guns before provoking
      the quarrel.
    </p>
    <p>
      Further on there was a closer population, where the Bishop was
      enthusiastically welcomed, and an Ogamal was found, making a good shelter
      for the night. Then they returned to Ara, where Mr. Atkin notes, in the
      very centre of the island, a curious rock, about 200 feet high, and on the
      top, 20 or 30 feet from the nearest visible soil, a she-oak stump, and two
      more green and flourishing a little below. The rock was of black scoriae,
      too hot in the middle of the day to sit upon, and near it was a pool of
      water. 'Such water, so rotten.' The water used by the visitors had been
      brought from Auckland. The natives do not trouble water much, I don't
      think they ever drink it, and they certainly don't look as if they ever
      washed.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the following day they recrossed to Vanua Lava, where they spent a
      quiet calm Sunday in the vessel, landing in the afternoon to see Fisher
      Young's grave, which they found well kept and covered with a pretty blue
      creeper.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next Sunday they spent at Kohimarama: beginning with Celebration at
      7.30 A.M., and in the afternoon making the circuit of the island, about
      ten miles. In one place Mr. Atkin bent over the edge of the natural sea
      wall, and saw the sea breaking 150 or 200 feet below!
    </p>
    <p>
      After a fortnight spent in this manner, he and the other two clergymen
      carried off their Melanesians to Norfolk Island, leaving the Bishop to be
      fetched away in a month's time. Here is the letter written during his
      solitude:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kohimarama, Mota Island: September 23, 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Joan and Fan,&mdash;Here I am sitting in a most comfortable
      house in our new Kohimarama, for so the Melanesians determine to call our
      station in Mota. The house is 48 feet by 18, with a 9-foot verandah on two
      sides. It has one large room, a partition at each end, one of which is
      subdivided into two small sleeping rooms for George and his wife, and
      Charles and his wife. There is no ceiling, so that we have the full
      advantage of the height of the house, and plenty of ventilation, as the
      space beyond where the roof comes down upon the wall plates is left open.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The verandah is a grand lounging place; very commodious for school also,
      when other classes fill the large room, and a delightful place to sit or
      lie about on in this genial warm climate. These bright moonlight nights
      are indeed delicious. The mosquito gives no trouble here to speak of. The
      cocoa-nut trees, the bread-fruit trees, yam gardens, and many kinds of
      native trees and shrubs, are all around us; the fine wooded hill of Mota
      shows well over the house. The breeze always plays round it; and though it
      is very hot, it is only when the wind comes from the north and north-west,
      as in the midsummer, that the heat is of an oppressive and sickly nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About twenty lads and young men live here, and about forty attend daily
      school; but I think there is every indication of all Mota sending its
      young people here as soon as we have our crops of yams, &amp;c., &amp;c.,
      to provide sufficient food. Improved native huts will, I think, soon be
      built over our little estate here.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Many girls I hope to take to Norfolk Island. They could hardly be brought
      together with safety to this place yet. The parents see and admit this,
      and consent to my taking them. I tell them that their sons will not marry
      ignorant heathen girls (their sons I mean who have been and are still with
      us); that all the young fellows growing up at Kohimarama must have
      educated wives provided for them, and that I must therefore take away many
      young girls with me to Norfolk Island. The fashion here is to buy at an
      early age young girls for their sons, though occasionally a girl may be
      found not already betrothed, but almost grown up. I now say, "I want to
      train up wives for my sons," and the fashion of the place allows of my
      buying or appropriating them. You would be amused to see me engaged in
      this match-making. It is all the same a very important matter, for clearly
      it is the best way to secure, as I trust, the introduction of Christian
      family life among these people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'George and I are satisfied that things are really very promising here. Of
      course, much old heathen ignorance, and much that is very wrong, will long
      survive. So you recollect perhaps old Joe (great-Uncle Edward's coachman)
      declaring that C. S. as a witch, and there is little proof of practical
      Christianity in the morals of our peasants of the west, and of Wales
      especially.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not that one should acquiesce in what is wrong here, but one ought
      not to be surprised at it. Public opinion, the constraint of law,
      hereditary notions, are more effective in preventing the outbreak of evil
      passions into criminal acts in very many cases and districts in England.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now these restraints are, indeed, indirect consequences of Christianity,
      but do not imply any religion in the individuals who are influenced by
      them. These restraints don't exist here. If they did, I think these Mota
      people now would live just as orderly decent lives as average English
      folk. Christianity would not be a vigorous power in the one case or in the
      other. Exceptional cases would occur here and there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I am asked for proofs of the "conversion" of this people, I should
      say, "Conversion from what to what?" and then I should say, "Ask any close
      observer in England about the commercial and social morality existing in
      not only the most ignorant ranks of society: how much is merely formal,
      and therefore, perhaps, actually detrimental to a true spirit of
      religion!" Here you don't find much that you associate with religion in
      England, in the external observances of it; but there are not a few
      ignorant people (I am not speaking of our trained scholars) who are giving
      up their old habits, adopting new ways, accepting a stricter mode of life,
      foregoing advantages of one kind and another, because they believe that
      this "Good news," this Gospel, is true, and because the simple truths of
      Christianity are, thank God, finding some entrance into their hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dread the imposition from without of some formal compliances with the
      externals of religion while I know that the meaning and spirit of them
      cannot as yet be understood. Can there be conceived anything more formal,
      more mischievous, than inculcating a rigid Sabbatarian view of the Lord's
      Day upon a people who don't know anything about the Cross and the
      Resurrection? Time enough to talk about the observance when the people
      have some knowledge of the vital living truth of a spiritual religion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So about clothing. If I tried to do it, I think I could make the people
      here buy, certainly accept, and wear, clothing. With what result at
      present? That they would think that wearing a yard of unbleached calico
      was a real evidence of the reception of the new teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such things are, in this stage of Mission work, actually hurtful. The
      mind naturally takes in and accepts the easy outward form, and by such
      treatment you actually encourage it to do so, and to save itself the
      trouble of thinking out the real meaning and teaching which must of course
      be addressed to the spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These outward things all follow as a matter of course after a time, as
      consequences of the new power and light felt in the soul; but they may be
      so spoken of as to become substitutes for the true spiritual life, and
      train up a people in hypocrisy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon really for parading all these truisms. Throw it in the
      fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't for a moment mean or think that religion is to be taught by mere
      prudence and common sense. But a spiritual religion is imperilled the
      moment that you insist upon an unspiritual people observing outward forms
      which are to them the essence of the new teaching. Anything better than
      turning heathens into Pharisees! What did our Lord call the proselytes of
      the Pharisee and the Scribe?
    </p>
    <p>
      'And while I see and love the beauty of the outward form when it is known
      and felt to be no more than the shrine of the inward spiritual power;
      while I know that for highly advanced Christians, or for persons trained
      in accurate habits of thought, all that beauty of holiness is needful; yet
      I think I see that the Divine wisdom of the Gospel would guard the teacher
      against presenting the formal side of religion to the untaught and
      ignorant convert. "God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him must worship
      Him in spirit and in truth," is the great lesson for the heathen mind
      chained down as it is to things of sense.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"He that hateth his brother is a murderer:" not the outward act, but the
      inward motive justifies or condemns the man. Every day convinces me more
      and more of the need of a different mode of teaching than that usually
      adopted for imperfectly taught people. How many of your (ordinary)
      parishioners even understand the simple meaning of the Prayer-book, nay,
      of their well-known (as they think) Gospel miracles and parables? Who
      teaches in ordinary parishes the Christian use of the Psalms? Who puts
      simply before peasant and stone-cutter the Jew and his religion, and what
      he and it were intended to be, and the real error and sin and failure?&mdash;the
      true nature of prophecy, the progressive teaching of the Bible, never in
      any age compromising truth, but never ignoring the state, so often the
      unreceptive state, of those to whom the truth must therefore be presented
      partially, and in a manner adapted to rude and unspiritual natures? What
      an amount of preparatory teaching is needed! What labour must be spent in
      struggling to bring forth things new and old, and present things simply
      before the indolent, unthinking, vacant mind! How much need there is of a
      more special training of the Clergy even now! Many men are striving nobly
      to do all this. But think of the rubbish that most of us chuck lazily out
      of our minds twice a week without method or order. It is such downright
      hard work to teach well. Oh! how weary it makes me to try. I feel as if I
      were at once aware of what should be attempted, and yet quite unable to do
      it!
    </p>
    <p>
      'St. Michael's Day.&mdash;[After an affectionate review of most of his
      relations at home.]&mdash;When the Bishop and Mrs. Selwyn pressed me a
      good deal to go with them to England, it obliged me a little to analyse my
      feelings. You won't suspect me of any want of longing to see you, when I
      say that it never was a doubtful matter to me for five minutes. I saw
      nothing to make me wish to go to England in comparison with the crowd of
      reasons for not doing so. They, good people, thought it would be rest and
      refreshment to me. Little they know how a man so unlike them takes his
      rest! I am getting it here, hundreds of miles out of reach of any white
      man or woman, free from what is to me the bother of society. I am not
      defending myself; but it is true that to me it is a bore, the very
      opposite of rest, to be in society. I like a good talk with Sir William
      Martin above anything, but I declare that even that is dearly purchased by
      the other accompaniments of society.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I could not spend a quiet month with you at Weston. I should have
      people calling, the greatest of all nuisances, except that of having to go
      out to dinner. I should have to preach, and perhaps to go to meetings, all
      in the way of my business, but not tending to promote rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Seriously, I am very well now; looking, I am sure, and feeling stronger
      and stouter than I was in New Zealand in the winter. So don't fret
      yourself about me, and don't think that I shouldn't dearly love to chat
      awhile with you. What an idle, lazy letter. You see I am taking my rest
      with you, writing without effort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He was looking well. Kohimarama must be more healthily situated than the
      first station, for all his three visits there were beneficial to him; and
      there seems to have been none of the tendency to ague and low fever which
      had been the trouble of the first abode.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Codrington and Mr. Bice came back in the schooner early in October,
      and were landed at Mota, while the Bishop went for a cruise in the New
      Hebrides; but the lateness of the season and the state of the vessel made
      it a short one, and he soon came back with thirty-five boys. Meanwhile, a
      small harmonium, which was to be left with the Christian settlement, had
      caused such an excitement that Mr. Bice was nearly squeezed to death by
      the crowds that came to hear it. He played nearly all day to successive
      throngs of men, but when the women arrived, they made such a clatter that
      he was fain to close the instrument. Unbleached calico clothing had been
      made for such of the young ladies as were to be taken on board for Norfolk
      Island, cut out by the Bishop and made up by Robert, William, and
      Benjamin, his scholars; and Mr. Codrington says, 'It was an odd sight to
      see the Bishop on the beach with the group of girls round him, and a
      number of garments over his arm. As each bride was brought by her friends,
      she was clothed and added to the group.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Esthetically, clothes were no improvement. "A Melanesian clothed," the
      Bishop observes, "never looks well; there is almost always a stiff,
      shabby-genteel look. A good specimen, not disfigured by sores and ulcers,
      the well-shaped form, the rich warm colour of the skin, and the easy,
      graceful play of every limb, unhurt by shoe or tight-fitting dress, the
      flower stuck naturally into the hair, &amp;c., make them look pleasant
      enough to my eye. You see in Picture Bibles figures draped as I could wish
      the Melanesians to be clothed."'
    </p>
    <p>
      To continue Mr. Codrington's recollections of this stay in Mota:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember noticing how different his manner was from what was common at
      home. His eyes were cast all about him, keeping a sharp look-out, and all
      his movements and tones were quick and decisive. In that steaming climate,
      and those narrow paths, he walked faster than was at all agreeable to his
      companions, and was dressed moreover in a woollen coat and waistcoat all
      the time. In fact, he thoroughly enjoyed the heat, though no doubt it was
      weakening him; he liked the food, which gave him no trouble at all to eat,
      and he liked the natives.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He felt, of course, that he was doing his work all the while; but the
      expression of his countenance was very different while sitting with a
      party of men over their food at Mota, and when sitting with a party in
      Norfolk Island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The contrast struck me very much between his recluse studious life there,
      and his very active one at Mota, with almost no leisure to read, and very
      little to write, and with an abundance of society which was a pleasure
      instead of a burthen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that the alert and decisive tone and habit which was so
      conspicuous in the islands, and came out whenever he was roused, was not
      natural to his disposition, but had been acquired in early years in a
      public school, and faded down in the quiet routine of St. Barnabas, and
      was recalled as occasion required with more effort as time went on. No
      doubt, his habitual gentleness made his occasional severity more felt, but
      at Mota his capacity for scolding was held in respect. I was told when I
      was last there, that I was no good, for I did not know how to scold, but
      that the Bishop perfectly well understood how to do it. Words certainly
      would never fail him in twenty languages to express his indignation, but
      how seldom among his own scholars had he to do it in one!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This voyage is best summed up in the ensuing letter to one of the Norfolk
      relations:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Southern Cross" Schooner, 20 miles East of Star Island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;We are drawing near the end of a rather long
      cruise, as I trust, in safety. We left Norfolk Island on the 24th June,
      and we hope to reach it in about ten days. We should have moved about in
      less time, but for the crippled state of the schooner. She fell in with a
      heavy gale off Norfolk Island about June 20th-23rd; and we have been
      obliged to be very careful of our spars, which were much strained. Indeed,
      we still need a new mainmast, main boom, and gaff, a main topmast,
      foretopmast, and probably new wire rigging, besides repairs of other
      kinds, and possibly new coppering. Thank God, the voyage has been so far
      safe, and, on the whole, prosperous. We sailed first of all to the Banks
      Islands, only dropping two lads at Ambrym Island on our way. We spent a
      week or more at Mota, while the vessel was being overhauled at the harbour
      in Vanua Lava Island, seven miles from Mota. It was a great relief to us
      to get the house for the station at Mota out of the vessel, the weight of
      timber, &amp;c., was too much for a vessel not built for carrying freight.
      After a few days we left Mr. Palmer, George Sarawia, and others at Mota,
      busily engaged in putting up the house, a very serious matter for us, as
      you may suppose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our party was made up of Mr. Atkin, Mr. Brooke, and two Mota volunteers
      for boat work, and divers Solomon Islanders. We were absent from Mota
      about seven years, during which time we visited Santa Cruz, and many of
      the Solomon Isles. Mr. Atkin spent three weeks in one of the isles, and
      Mr. Brooke in another, and we had more than thirty natives of the Solomon
      Islands on board, including old scholars, when we left Ulava, the last
      island of the Solomon group at which we called.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Palmer, Mr. Atkin, and Mr. Brooke went on to Norfolk Island, the
      whole number of Melanesians on board being sixty-two. I had spent a very
      happy month at Mota when the vessel returned from Norfolk Island both with
      Mr. Codrington and Mr. Bice on board, bringing those of the Melanesians
      (nearly thirty in all) who chose to stay on Norfolk Island. Then followed
      a fortnight's cruise in the New Hebrides, and now with exactly fifty
      Melanesians on board from divers islands, we are on our way to Norfolk
      Island. We have fourteen girls, two married, on board, and there are ten
      already at Norfolk Island. This is an unusual number; but the people
      understand that the young men and lads who have been with us for some
      time, who are baptized and accustomed to decent orderly ways, are not
      going to marry heathen wild girls, so they give up these young ones to be
      taught and qualify to become fit wives for our rapidly increasing party of
      young men.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is quite clear that we must aim at exhibiting, by God's blessing,
      Christian family life in the islands, and this can only be done by
      training up young men and women.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three married couples, all Communicants, live now at Kohimarama, the
      station at Mota. George has two children, Benjamin one. It is already a
      small specimen of a little Christian community, and it must be reinforced,
      year by year, by accessions of new couples of Christian men and women.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About twenty lads live at the station, and about forty more come daily to
      school. It may grow soon into a real working school, from which the most
      intelligent and best conducted boys may be taken to Norfolk Island for a
      more complete education. I am hopeful about a real improvement in Mota and
      elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But a new difficulty has lately been caused by the traders from Sydney
      and elsewhere, who have taken many people to work in the plantations at
      Brisbane, Mimea, (New Caledonia), and the Fiji Islands, actual kidnapping,
      and this is a sad hindrance to us. I know of no case of actual violence in
      the Banks Islands; but in every case, they took people away under false
      pretences, asserting that "the Bishop is ill and can't come; he has sent
      us to bring you to him." "The Bishop is in Sydney, he broke his leg
      getting into his boat, and has sent us to take you to him," &amp;c., &amp;c.
      In many of these places some of our old scholars are found who speak a
      little English, and the traders communicated with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In most places where any of our young people happened to be on shore,
      they warned their companions against these men, but not always with
      success. Hindrances there must be always in the way of all attempts to do
      some good. But this is a sad business, and very discreditable to the
      persons employed in it and the Government which sanctions it, for they
      must know that they cannot control the masters of the vessels engaged in
      the trade; they may pass laws as to the treatment the natives are to
      receive on the plantations, as to food, pay, &amp;c., the time of service,
      the date of their being taken home, but they know that the whole thing is
      dishonest. The natives don't intend or know anything about any service or
      labour; they don't know that they will have to work hard, and any regular
      steady work is hard work to South Sea Islanders. They are brought away
      under false pretences, else why tell lies to induce them to go on board?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dare say that many young fellows go on board without much persuasion.
      Many causes may be at work to induce them to do so, e.g., sickness in the
      island, quarrels, love of excitement, spirit of enterprise, &amp;c., but
      if they knew what they were taken for, I don't think they would go.
    </p>
    <p>
      'November 2nd.&mdash;In sight of Norfolk Island. All well on board.
    </p>
    <p>
      'November 6th.&mdash;Yesterday we all landed safely, and found our whole
      party quite well. Our new hall is finished, and in good time to receive
      134 Melanesians.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the full accumulation of letters arrived from Auckland, a report by
      a passing ship from Sydney stirred the hermit Bishop deeply, and elicited
      the following warm congratulation:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: November 17, 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Dr. Moberly,&mdash;Since my return&mdash;a fortnight since&mdash;from
      the islands a rumour has reached us, brought hither in a small trader,
      that the Bishop of Winchester has resigned his see, and that you are his
      successor. It is almost too good to be true. I am waiting with great
      anxiety for a vessel expected soon; I have had no English news since
      letters of April. But in all seriousness, private news is of small moment
      compared with the news of what is to become of that great Diocese. And
      especially now, when almost all the south of England is so sadly in want
      of officers to command the Church's army. Exeter, Bath and Wells,
      Salisbury, Chichester (very old), and till now (if this rumour be true)
      Winchester, from old age or sickness almost, if not quite, unfit for work.
      If indeed I hear that God's Providence has placed you in charge of that
      great see, it will give a different hue to the prospect, dreary enough, I
      confess, to me; though I hope I am mistaken in my gloomy forebodings of
      the results of all those many Dioceses being so long without active
      Bishops. Salisbury of course I except, and Chichester is a small Diocese
      comparatively, and the good Bishop, I know, works up to the maximum of his
      age and strength. But if this be a true rumour, and I do sincerely trust
      and pray that it may be so, indeed it will give hope and courage and fresh
      life and power to many and many a fainting soul. If I may presume to say
      so, it is (as Mrs. Selwyn wrote to me when he was appointed to Lichfield)
      "a solemn and anxious thing to undertake a great charge on the top of such
      great expectations." But already there is one out here anyhow who feels
      cheered and strengthened by the mere hope that this story is true; and
      everywhere many anxious men and women will lift up their hearts to God in
      thankfulness, and in earnest prayers that you may indeed do a great work
      to His glory and to the good of His Church in a new and even greater
      sphere of usefulness. No doubt much of my thoughts and apprehensions about
      the religious and social state of England is very erroneous. I have but
      little time for reading about what is going on, and though I have the
      blessing of Codrington's good sense and ability, yet I should like to have
      more persons to learn from on such matters. I am willing and anxious to
      believe that I am not cheerful and faithful enough to see the bright side
      as clearly as I ought. Your letters have always been a very great help to
      me; not only a great pleasure, much more than a pleasure. I felt that I
      accepted, occasionally even that I had anticipated, your remarks on the
      questions of the day, the conduct of parties and public men, books, &amp;c.
      It has been a great thing for me to have my thoughts guided or corrected
      in this way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your last present to me was your volume of "Bampton Lectures," of which I
      need not say how both the subject and the mode of treating it make them
      especially valuable just now. And there is a strong personal feeling about
      the work and writings of one where the public man is also the private
      friend, which gives a special zest to the enjoyment of reading a work of
      this kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly it is one of the many blessings of my life that I should
      somehow have been allowed to grow into this degree of intimacy with you,
      whom I have always known by name, though I don't remember ever to have
      seen you. I think I first as a child became familiar with your name
      through good Miss Rennell, whom I dare say you remember: the old Dean's
      daughter. What a joy this would have been to dear Mr. and Mrs. Keble; what
      a joy it is to Charlotte Yonge; and there may be others close to
      Winchester whose lives have been closely bound tip with yours.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, humanly speaking, the thing is to have Bishops who can command the
      respect and love and dutiful obedience of their clergy and laity alike.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One wants men who, by solid learning, and by acquaintance too with modern
      modes of criticism and speculation, by scholarship, force of character,
      largeness of mind, as well as by their goodness, can secure respect and
      exercise authority. It is the lawlessness of men that one deplores; the
      presumption of individual priests striking out for themselves unauthorised
      ways of managing their parishes and officiating in their churches. And, if
      I may dare to touch on such a subject, is there not a mode of speaking and
      writing on the Holy Eucharist prevalent among some men now, which has no
      parallel in the Church of England, except, it may be, in some of the
      non-jurors, and which does not express the Church of England's mind; which
      is not the language of Pearson, and Jackson, and Waterland, and Hooker,
      no, nor of Bull, and Andrewes, and Taylor, &amp;c.? I know very little of
      such things&mdash;very little indeed. But it is oftentimes a sad grief to
      me that I cannot accept some of the reasonings and opinions of dear Mr.
      Keble in his book on "Eucharistic Adoration." I know that I have no right
      to expect to see things as such a man saw them: that most probably the
      instinctive power of discerning truth&mdash;the reward of a holy life from
      early childhood&mdash;guided him where men without such power feel all
      astray. But yet, there is something about the book which may be quite
      right and true, but does not to me quite savour of the healthy sound
      theology of the Church of England; the fragrance is rather that of an
      exotic plant; here and there I mean&mdash;though I feel angry with myself
      for daring to think this, and to say it to you, who can understand him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'November 27th.&mdash;I leave this as I wrote it, though now I know from
      our mails, which have come to us, that you are Bishop of Salisbury, not of
      Winchester. I hardly stop to think whether it is Winchester or Salisbury,
      so great is my thankfulness and joy at the report being substantially
      true. Though it did seem that Winchester was a natural sphere for you, I
      can't help feeling that at Salisbury you can do (D.V.) what perhaps
      scarcely any one else could do. And now I rejoice that you have had the
      opportunity of speaking with no uncertain sound in your "Bampton
      Lectures." Anyone can tell what the Bishop of Salisbury holds on the great
      questions of Church Doctrine and Church Government. The diocese knows
      already its Bishop, not only by many former but by his latest book. Surely
      you will have the confidence of all Churchmen, and be blessed to do a
      great work for the glory of God and the edification of the Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now, my dear Bishop of Salisbury, you will excuse my writing on so
      freely, too freely I fear. I do like to think of you in that most perfect
      of Cathedrals. I hope and trust that you will have ere long, right good
      fellow-workers in Exeter, Winton, and Bath and Wells.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But in the colonies you have a congeries of men from all countries, and
      with every variety of creed, jumbled up together, with nothing whatever to
      hold them together&mdash;no reverence&mdash;no thoughts of the old parish
      church, &amp;c. They are restless, worldly people to a great extent,
      thinking of getting on, making money. To such men the very idea of the
      Church as a Divine Institution, the mystical Body of the Lord, on which
      all graces are bestowed, and through whose ministrations men are trained
      in holiness and truth, is wholly unknown. The personal religion of many a
      man is sincere; his position and duty as a Churchman he has never thought
      about. I wish the clergy would master that part, at all events, of your
      Lectures which deals with this great fundamental point, and then, as they
      have opportunity, teach it to their people. And by-and-by, through the
      collective life of the Church in its synods, &amp;c., many will come to
      see it, we may hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that I may give you a cheering account of ourselves. I was
      nineteen weeks in the islands&mdash;met with no adventures worth
      mentioning, only one little affair which was rather critical for a few
      minutes, but ended very well&mdash;and in some of the Solomon Islands made
      more way than heretofore with the people. We have 134 Melanesians here and
      a baby. George Sarawia and his wife and two children, and two other
      married couples&mdash;all Communicants&mdash;are at Mota, in a nice place,
      with some twenty-two lads "boarding" with them, and about thirty more
      coming to daily school.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The vessel was much knocked about in a violent gale in June off Norfolk
      Island, and we had to handle her very carefully. The whole voyage was made
      with a mainmast badly sprung, and fore topmast very shaky. Mr. Tilly was
      very watchful over the spars, and though we had a large share of squally
      weather, and for some days, at different times, were becalmed in a heavy
      swell, the most trying of all situations to the gear of a vessel, yet,
      thank God, all went well, and I have heard of the schooner safe in
      Auckland harbour. About forty of our Melanesians here are Solomon
      Islanders, from seven different islands; a few came from the New Hebrides,
      the rest from the Banks Islands. We are already pretty well settled down
      to our work. Indeed, it took only a day or two to get to work; our old
      scholars are such great helpers to us. We number six clergymen here (G.
      Sarawia being at Mota). Ten or twelve of the sixth form are teachers. If
      you care to hear more; I must refer you to a letter just written to Miss
      Yonge. But it is not easy to write details about 134 young people. Their
      temptations are very great when they return to their islands; every
      inducement to profligacy, &amp;c., is held out to them. One of our young
      baptized lads fell into sinful ways, and is not now with us. He was not
      one of whom we had great expectations, though we trusted that he would go
      on steadily. Many others, thank God, were kept pure and truthful in the
      midst of it all, refusing even to sleep one night away from our little
      hut, and in some cases refusing even to leave the schooner. "No, I will
      wait till I am married," said two lads to me, who were married here to
      Christian girls on November 24th, "and then go ashore for a time with my
      young wife. I don't think I should yield, but I don't want to put myself
      in the way of such temptations." And so, when I had naturally expected
      that they would take their six weeks' holiday on shore, while the
      "Southern Cross" went from Mota to Norfolk Island and back (during my stay
      at Mota), they remained on board, rejoining me, as they were two of my
      boating crew, for the New Hebrides trip! This was very comforting. And
      when I married three couples on November 24th, and knew that they were
      pure, youths and girls alike, from the great sin of heathenism, you can
      well think that my heart was very full of thankfulness and hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must end my long letter. How will you find time to read it? Send me
      some day a photograph of your beautiful Cathedral.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours very faithfully,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Before the letter to which Bishop Moberly is referred, Mr. Codrington's
      bit about the weddings seems appropriate:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'These wedding days were great festivals, especially before many had been
      seen. The Chapel was dressed with flowers, the wedding party in as new and
      cheerful attire as could be procured, the English Marriage Service
      translated into Mota. We make rings out of sixpences or threepenny bits.
      The place before is full of the sound of the hammer tapping the silver on
      the marlingspike. The wedding ceremony is performed with as much solemnity
      as possible, all the school present in their new clothes and with flowers
      in their hair. There is even a kind of processional Psalm as the wedding
      party enters the Chapel. There is of course a holiday, and after the
      service they all go off, taking with them the pig that has been killed for
      the feast. An enormous quantity of plum pudding awaits them when, in the
      evening, they come back to prayers and supper. Rounds of hearty cheers,
      led off by the Bishop, used to complete the day. Weddings of this kind
      between old scholars, christened, confirmed, and trustworthy, represented
      much anxiety and much teaching and expense, but they promise so much, and
      that so near of what has been worked for, that they have brought with them
      extraordinary pleasure and satisfaction.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: November 24, 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;To-day we married three young couples: the
      bridegrooms. Robert Pantatun, William Pasvorang, and Marsden Sawa, who
      have been many years with us, and are all Communicants; the brides, Emily
      Milerauwe, Lydia Lastitia, and Rhoda Titrakrauwe, who were baptized a year
      ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Chapel was very prettily dressed up with lilies and many other
      flowers. The bridegrooms wore white trousers, shirts, &amp;c., the brides
      wore pretty simple dresses and flowers in their hair. We crowded as many
      persons as possible into our little Chapel. Mr. Nobbs and some ten or
      twelve of our Pitcairn friends were all the visitors that we could manage
      to make room for.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Great festivities followed, a large pig was killed yesterday and eaten
      to-day, and Mr. Palmer had manufactured puddings without end, a new kind
      of food to many of the present set of scholars, but highly appreciated by
      most of them. Then followed in the evening native dances and songs, and a
      supper to end with, with cheers for the brides and bridegrooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are now six married couples here, three more at Mota, and one or
      two more weddings will take place soon. Very fortunately, a vessel came
      from Auckland only three or four days ago, the first since the "Southern
      Cross," in June, It brought not only five mails for us English folk, but
      endless packages and boxes for the Mission, ordered by us long ago,
      stores, clothing, &amp;c. We had all ordered more or less in the way of
      presents for scholars, and though we keep most of these treasures for
      Christmas gifts, yet some are distributed now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These presents are for the most part really good things. It is quite
      useless for kind friends to send presents to Melanesians as they would do
      to an English lad or girl. To begin with, most of our scholars are grown
      up, and are more like English young people of twenty or eighteen years old
      than like boys and girls, and not a few are older still; and secondly, no
      Melanesian, old or young, cares a rush about a toy. They, boys and girls,
      men and women, take a practical view of a present, and are the very
      reverse of sentimental about it, though they really do like a photograph
      of a friend. But a mere Brummagem article that won't stand wear is quite
      valueless in their eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whatever is given them, cheap or dear, is estimated according to its
      usefulness; and whatever is given, though it may cost but a shilling, must
      be good of its kind. For example, a rough-handled, single-bladed knife,
      bought for a shilling, they fully appreciate; but a knife with
      half-a-dozen blades, bought for eighteen-pence, they would almost throw
      away. And so about everything else. I mention this as a hint to kind
      friends. They do like to hear that people think of them and are kind to
      them, but they don't understand why useless things should be sent from the
      other end of the world when they could buy much better things with their
      own money out of the mission store here.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are very fond of anything in the way of notebooks, 8vo and 12mo
      sizes (good paper), writing-cases (which must be good if given at all),
      patent safety inkstands&mdash;these things are useful on board ship, and
      can be carried to the islands and brought back again safely. Work-baskets
      or boxes for the girls, with good serviceable needles, pins, thread,
      scissors, thimbles, tapes, &amp;c. &amp;c., not a plaything. Here we can
      buy for them, or keep in the store for them to buy, many things that are
      much too bulky to send from a distance, the freight would be ruinous. The
      "Southern Cross" brings them usually to us. Such things I mean as good
      carpet-bags, from 5s. to 10s., stout tin boxes with locks and keys, axes,
      tools, straw hats, saucepans, good strong stuff (tweed or moleskin) for
      trousers and shirts, which they cut out and make up for themselves, quite
      understanding the inferior character of "slop" work, good flannel for
      under-shirts, or for making up into Crimean shirts, Nottingham drill, good
      towelling, huckaback, &amp;c., ought to be worth while to send out, and if
      bought in large quantities at the manufacturer's, it would pay us to get
      it in England, especially if the said manufacturer reduced the price a
      little in consequence of the use to be made of his goods.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dull small blue beads are always useful, ditto red. Bright glittering
      ones are no use, few Melanesians would take them as a gift. Some islanders
      like large beads, as big or bigger than boys' marbles. These are some
      hints to any kind people who may wish to contribute in kind rather than in
      money.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Codrington has given these fellows a great taste for gardening. Much
      of their spare hours (which are not many) are spent in digging up, fencing
      in and preparing little pieces of land close about the station, two or
      three lads generally making up a party, and frequently the party consists
      of lads and young men from different islands. Then they have presents of
      seeds, cuttings, bulbs, &amp;c., from Mr. Codrington chiefly, and Mrs.
      Palmer and others contribute. Some of these little gardens are really very
      nicely laid out in good taste and well looked after. They have an eye to
      the practically useful here too, as every garden has its stock of bananas,
      and here and there we see the sugar-cane too.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From 3.30 P.M. to 6 P.M. is the play time, although they do not all have
      this time to themselves. For three lads must milk from 5 to 6, one or two
      must drive in the cows, seven or eight are in the kitchen, three or four
      must wash the horses, one must drive the sheep into the fold, all but the
      milkers have only their one week of these diverse occupations. There are
      about twelve head cooks, who choose their helpers (the whole school, minus
      the milkers and two or three overlookers, being included), and so the
      cooking work comes only once in twelve weeks. The cooks of the one week
      drive up the cows and water the horses the next week, and then there is no
      extra work, that is, nothing but the regular daily work from 9.30 A.M.
      after school to 1 P.M. Wednesday is a half-holiday, Saturday a whole
      holiday. There are six milkers, one of whom is responsible for the whole.
      One receives 2s. 0d. per week, his chief mate 1s. 6d., and the other four
      1s. each. They take it in turns, three each week. This is the hardest work
      in one sense; it brings them in from their play and fishing, or gardening,
      &amp;c., and so they are paid for it. We do not approve of the white man
      being paid for everything, and the Melanesian being expected to work
      habitually extra hours for nothing. There are many other little extra
      occupations for which we take care that those engaged in them shall have
      some reward, and as a matter of fact a good deal of money finds its way
      into the hands of the storekeeper, and a very fair amount of 3d., 4d. and
      6d. pieces may be seen every Sunday in the offertory bason.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps I should say that we have seldom seen here any indications of
      these Melanesians expecting money or presents; but we want to destroy the
      idea in their minds of their being fags by nature, and to help them to
      have some proper self-respect and independence of character. We see very
      little in them to make us apprehensive of their being covetous or stingy,
      and indisposed to give service freely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'School hours 8-9.20, 2-3.30, singing 7-8 P.M., chapel 6.45 A.M., 6.30
      P.M.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of the 134 Melanesians, besides the baby, ten are teachers, and with
      their help we get on very fairly. There are sixteen of us teachers in all,
      so that the classes are not too large.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Codrington takes at present the elder Banks Islanders, Mr. Palmer the
      next class, and Mr. Bice the youngest set of boys from the same group.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Atkin takes the Southern Solomon Islanders, and Mr. Brooke those from
      the northern parts of the same group. I have been taking some Leper's
      Islanders and Maiwo or Aurora Islanders as new comers, and other classes
      occasionally.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Out of so many we shall weed out a good number no doubt. At present we
      don't condemn any as hopelessly dull, but it will not be worth while to
      spend much time upon lads who in five months must go home for good, and
      some such there must be; we cannot attempt to teach all, dull and clever
      alike. We must make selections, and in so doing often, I dare say, make
      mistakes. But what can we do?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our new hall is a great success. We had all the framework sawn out here;
      it is solid, almost massive work, very unlike the flimsy wooden buildings
      that are run up in a week or two in most colonial villages. It is so large
      that our party of 145, plus 9 English, sit in the aisles without occupying
      any part of the middle of the room. This gives us ample accommodation for
      the present. Indeed we might increase our numbers to 200 without any more
      buildings being necessary. The married people give the most trouble in
      this respect, as they have their separate rooms, and four or five married
      couples take up more room than three times the number of single folk.
      However we have here room for all, I am thankful to say, though we must
      build again if more of our young people take it into their heads to be
      married. They pass on quickly, however, when married, into the next stage,
      the life in their own islands, and so they leave their quarters here for
      some successors.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope you can understand this attempt at a description, but I never
      could write properly about such things, and never shall do so, I suppose.
      I like the life, I know, a great deal better than I can write about it.
      Indeed, it is a quiet restful life here, comparatively. Some anxieties
      always, of course, but, as compared with the distractions of New Zealand
      life, it is pleasant indeed. We have very few interruptions here to the
      regular employment of our time, and need not waste any of it in visits or
      small talk, which seems to be a necessary, though most wearisome part of
      civilised life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your namesake goes on well; not a clever girl, but very steady and good;
      her sister and brother are here; the sisters are much alike in character
      and ability, the brother is sharper. You will, I know, specially think of
      George Sarawia and his wife Sarah at Mota, with Charles and Ellen,
      Benjamin and Marion. They are all Communicants, but the temptations which
      surround them are very great, and early familiarity with heathen practices
      and modes of thought may yet deaden the conscience to the quick
      apprehension of the first approaches of sin. They do indeed need the
      earnest prayers of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      How many sons who have lost a mother at fifteen or sixteen dwell on the
      thought like this affectionate spirit, twenty-seven years later?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Advent Sunday, November 20, 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a solemn thing to begin a new year on the anniversary of our dear
      Mother's death. I often think whether she would approve of this or that
      opinion, action, &amp;c. Wright's painting is pleasant to look upon. I
      stand in a corner of my room, at father's old mahogany desk. Her picture
      and his, the large framed photographs from Richmond's drawing, and a good
      photograph of the Bishop are just above. I wish you could see my room. I
      write now on December 3, a bright summer day, but my room with its deep
      verandah is cool and shady. It is true that I refuse carpet and curtains.
      They only hold dust and make the room fusty. But the whole room is filled
      with books, and those pictures, and the Lionardo da Vinci over the
      fireplace, and Mr. Boxall's photograph over it, and his drawing vis-a-vis
      to it at the other end of the room, and by my window a splendid gloxinia
      with fine full flowers out in a very pretty porcelain pot, both Mr.
      Codrington's gift. On another glass stand (also his present) a Mota flower
      imported here, a brilliant scarlet hibiscus, and blossoms of my creepers
      and bignonia, most beautiful. So fresh and pretty. The steps of the
      verandah are a mass of honeysuckle. The stephanotis, with the beautiful
      scented white flowers and glossy leaves, covers one of the posts. How
      pleasant it is. Everyone is kind, all are well, all are going on well just
      now. Such are missionary comforts. Where the hardships are I have not yet
      discovered. Your chain, dear Joan, is round my neck, and the locket
      (Mamma's) in which you, Fan, put the hair of you five, hangs on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am dipping my pen into the old silver inkstand which used to be in the
      front drawing-room. Every morning at about 5 A.M. I have a cup of tea or
      coffee, and use Grandmamma Coleridge's old-fashioned silver cream-jug, and
      the cup and saucer which Augusta sent out years ago, my old christening
      spoon, and the old silver tea-pot and salver. Very grand, but I like the
      old things.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This day fortnight (D.V.) I ordain J. Atkin and C. H. Brooke Priests.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have no time to answer your April and September letters. I rejoice with
      all my heart to hear of Dr. Moberly's appointment. What a joyful event for
      Charlotte Yonge. That child Pena sent me Shairp's (dear old Shairp) book,
      which I wanted. I must write to Sophy as soon as I can. You will forgive
      if I have seemed to be, or really have been, unmindful of your sorrows and
      anxieties. Sometimes I think I am in too great a whirl to think long
      enough to realise and enter into all your doings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The intended letter to Mrs. Martyn was soon written. The death there
      referred to was that of Mrs. William Coleridge, widow of the Bishop of
      Barbadoes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: December 14, 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Sophy,&mdash;I should be specially thinking of you as Christmas
      draws nigh with its blessed thoughts, and hopes, and the St. Stephen's
      memories in any case I should be thinking of you. But now I have lately
      received your long loving letter of last Eastertide, partly written in
      bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then your dear child's illness makes me think greatly (and how lovingly!)
      of you three of the three generations. Lastly, I hear of dear Aunt
      William's death. You know that I had a very great affection for her, and I
      feel that this is a great blow probably to you all, though dear Aunty (as
      I have noticed in all old persons, especially when good as well as old)
      takes this quietly, I dare say. The feeling must be, "Well, I shall soon
      meet her again; a few short days only remain."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose that you, with your quarter of a century's widowhood, still
      feel as if the waiting time was all sanctified by the thought of the
      reunion. Oh! what a thought it is: too much almost to think that by His
      wonderful mercy, one may hope to be with them all, and for ever; to behold
      the faces of Apostles, and Apostolic men, and Prophets, and Saints, holy
      men and women; and, as if this were not enough, to see Him as He is, in
      His essential perfections, and to know Him. One can't sustain the effort
      of such a thought, which shows how great a change must pass on one before
      the great Consummation. Well, the more one can think of dear Father and
      Mother, and dear dear Uncle James and Uncle Frank, and Cousin George, and
      Uncle and Aunt William, others too, uncles and aunts, and your dear Fanny,
      and your husband, though it would be untrue to say I knew him, taken so
      early&mdash;the more one thinks of them all the better. And I have, Sophy,
      so many very different ones to think of Edwin and Fisher, and so many
      Melanesians taken away in the very first earnestness and simplicity of a
      new convert's faith. How many have died in my arms&mdash;God be thanked&mdash;in
      good hope!
    </p>
    <p>
      'If by His great mercy there be a place for me there, I feel persuaded
      that I shall there find many of those dear lads, whom indeed I think of
      with a full heart, full of affection and thankfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been reading the "Memoir of Mr. Keble," of course with extreme
      interest. It is all about events and chiefly about persons that one has
      heard about or even known. I think we get a little autobiography of our
      dear Uncle John in it too, for which I don't like it the less.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are passages, as against going to Borne, which I am glad to see in
      print; they are wanted now again, I fear. I am glad you like Moberly's
      "Bampton Lectures." His book on "The Great Forty Days," his best book (?)
      after all, has the germ of it all. I am so thankful for his appointment to
      Salisbury. I dare say you know that he is kind enough to write to me
      occasionally; and he sends me his books, one of the greatest of the
      indirect blessings of being known to Mr. Keble. I do very little in the
      way of reading, save that I get a quiet hour for Hebrew, 5-6 A.M., and I
      do read some theology. In one sense it is easier reading to me than other
      books, history, poetry, because, though I don't know much about it, I know
      nothing about them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My pleasure would be, if with you, in talking over such little insight as
      I may have received into the wondrous harmony and symmetry of the whole
      Bible, by tolerably close examination of the text of the Greek, and to
      some extent of the Hebrew. The way in which a peculiar word brings a whole
      passage or argument en rapport with a train of historical associations or
      previous statements is wonderful; e.g., the verb of which Moses is formed
      occurs only in Exodus ii. 10, 2 Samuel xxii. 17, Psalm xviii. 16. See how
      the magnificent description of the Passage of the Red Sea in Psalm xviii.
      is connected with Moses by this one word. These undesigned coincidences,
      and (surely) proofs of inspiration are innumerable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do delight in it: only I want more help, far more. We have great
      advantages in this generation. Dear Uncle James had no Commentary, one
      might almost say, on Old Testament or New Testament. Ellicott, Wordsworth,
      and Alford on the New Testament were not in existence; and the Germans,
      used with discrimination, are great helps. An orthodox Lutheran, one
      Delitzsch (of whom Liddon wrote that Dr. Pusey thinks highly of his Hebrew
      scholarship), helps me much in Isaiah. He has sucked all the best part out
      of Vitringa's enormous book, and added much minute, and I am told correct
      criticism. And how grand it is! This morning&mdash;it is now 6.15 A.M.&mdash;I
      have been reading part of that wonderful chapter xxvi.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It strikes me that the way to teach a class or a congregation is to bring
      out the doctrine from the very words of Scripture carefully, critically
      examined and explained. Only think, Sophy, of the vague desultory way in
      which we all, more or less, read; and we have accepted a phraseology
      without enquiring to a great extent, and use words to which we attach no
      definite meaning. Few in the congregation could draw out in clear words
      what they mean when they talk of faith, justification, regeneration,
      conversion, &amp;c. &amp;c. All language denoting ideas and thoughts is
      transferred to the region of the mind from denoting at first only external
      objects and sensations. This is in accordance with the mystery of all, the
      union of mind and matter&mdash;which no pagan philosopher could comprehend&mdash;the
      extreme difficulty of solving which caused Dualism and Asceticism on the
      one hand, and neglect of all bodily discipline on the other. Mind and
      matter must be antagonistic, the work of different beings: man must get
      rid of his material part to arrive at his true end and perfection.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So some said, "Mortify, worry the body, which is essentially and
      inherently evil." "No," said others, "the sins of the body don't hurt the
      mind; the two things are distinct, don't react on one another." (St. Paul
      deals with all this in the Colossians.) The Incarnation is the solution or
      the culmination of the mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a prose! but I meant, that people so often use words as if the use
      of a word was equivalent to the knowledge of the thought which, in the
      mind of an accurate thinker, accompanies the utterance of the word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should think that three-fourths of what we clergymen say is
      unintelligible to the mass of the congregation. We assume an acquaintance
      with the Bible and Prayer-book, thought, and a knowledge of the meaning of
      words which few, alas! possess. We must begin, then, with the little ones;
      as far as I see, all children are apt to fail at the point when they ought
      to be passing from merely employing the memory (in learning by heart,
      e.g., the Catechism) by exercising the reasoning and thinking faculty.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Well now, you have said that very well, now let us think what it means."
    </p>
    <p>
      'How well Dr. Pusey says, in his Sermons, "Not altogether intentional
      deliberate vice, but thoughtlessness is destroying souls."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I run on at random, dear Sophy, hoping to give you one and a half hour's
      occupation on a sick bed or couch, and because, as you say, this is the
      only converse we are likely to have on earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I am too exclusively fond of this reading, very little else
      interests me. I take up a theological book as a recreation, which is,
      perhaps, hardly reverent, and may narrow the mind; but even Church history
      is not very attractive to me. I like Jackson and Hooker, and some of the
      moderns, of whom I read a good many; and I lose a good deal of time in
      diving into things too deep by half for me, while I forget or don't learn
      simple things.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All this modern rage for reviews, serials, magazines, I can't abide. My
      mind is far too much distracted already, and that fragmentary mode of
      reading is very bad for many people, I am sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Naturally enough at forty-two years of age ninety-nine hundredths of the
      "lighter" books seem to me mere rubbish. They come to me occasionally.
      However, there are younger ones here, so it isn't sheer waste to receive
      such donations: they soon get out of my room. Not, mind you, that I think
      this the least evidence of my being wiser, or employing my time more
      carefully than other folk. Only I want you to know what I am, and what I
      think.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pena has sent me a nice book which I wanted: 1st. Because I have a great
      personal liking for Shairp, a simple-minded, affectionate man, with much
      poetical feeling and good taste-a kindly-natured man. 2nd. Because he
      writes in an appreciative kind of way, and is the very opposite of ....
      whom I can't stand with his insufferable self-sufficiency, and incapacity
      for appreciating the nobler, simpler, more generous natures who are unlike
      him. Well! that is fierce. But there is a school of men whom I can't
      stand. Their nature repels me, and I hardly wish to like them; which is an
      evil feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall add a line in a few days.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My very dearest love to Aunty&mdash;dear Aunty; and if I can't write to
      Pena, give her my best love and thanks for her book.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Sophy, your loving Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Two other letters, one to each of the sisters, were in progress at this
      time. To Joanna, who had been grieved for the poor girl whose
      transgression had occurred in the beginning of the year, he says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'About Semtingvat, you must be comforted about her. For a poor child who,
      two short years before, had assumed as a matter of course that a woman
      simply existed to be a man's slave in every kind of way, her fault could
      not, I think, be regarded as very great. Indeed, there was much comfort
      from the first; and since that time they not only have gone on well, but I
      do believe that their religious character has been much strengthened by
      the kind of revelation they then obtained of what Christianity really does
      mean. Anyhow, all notice the fact that U&mdash;&mdash; has improved very
      much, and they all sing Semtingvat's praises. I had no difficulty about
      marrying them after a little while. I spoke openly in chapel to everyone
      about it. Their wedding was not as other weddings&mdash;no festivity, no
      dressing of the chapel, no feast, no supper and fun and holiday. It was
      perfectly understood to be in all respects different from a bright, happy
      wedding. But it was quite as much for the sake of all, for the sake of
      enforcing the new teaching about the sanctity of marriage, that we made so
      very much of what (as men speak) was under the circumstances a
      comparatively light fault, less than an impure thought on the part of such
      as have been taught their duty from their childhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am almost confused with the accounts from England. All seems in a state
      of turmoil and confusion; all the old landmarks being swept away by a
      deluge of new opinions as to all matters civil and ecclesiastical. I don't
      think that we ought to refuse to see these signs of a change in men's mode
      of regarding great political and religious questions. A man left high and
      dry on the sand-bank of his antiquated notions will do little good to the
      poor folk struggling in the sea way, though he is safer as far as he is
      himself concerned by staying where he is than by plunging in to help them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a critical time in every sense. Men and women can hardly be
      indifferent; they must be at the pains of making up their minds. As for us
      clergy, everywhere but in Norfolk Island, we must know that people are
      thinking of matters which all were content a few years ago to keep back in
      silence, and that they expect us to speak about them. How thankful I am
      that we fortunate ones are exempt from this. Yet in my way I, too, try to
      think a bit about what is going on; and I don't want to be too gloomy, or
      to ignore some good in all this ferment in men's minds. It is better than
      stagnation and indolent respectability. There is everywhere a
      consciousness of a vast work to be done, and sincere efforts are made to
      do it. I suppose that is a fact; many, many poor souls are being taught
      and trained for heaven through all these various agencies which seem to a
      distant and idle critic to be so questionable in some ways.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of old one thought that the sober standard of Church of England divinity
      was the rule to which all speculations should be reduced; and one thought
      that Pearson, Hooker, Waterland, Jeremy Taylor also, and Andrewes, and
      Bull, and Jackson, and Barrow, &amp;c., stood for the idea of English
      divinity. Now we are launched upon a wider sea. Catholic usage and
      doctrine take the place of Church of England teaching and practice;
      rightly, I dare say, only it may be well to remember that men who can
      perhaps understand a good deal of the English divines, can hardly be
      supposed to be equally capable of understanding the far wider and more
      difficult range of ecclesiastical literature of all ages and all writers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Everyone knows and is struck by the fact that passages of old writers are
      continually quoted by men of quite different schools of thought in favour
      of their own (different) views. Clearly they can't both understand the
      mind and spirit of these writers; and the truth is, isn't it, that only
      they who by very long study, and from a large share of the true historical
      imagination, sympathise with and really enter into the hearts and minds of
      these writers, are competent to deal with and decide upon such wide and
      weighty matters?
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems to me as if men who are in no sense divines, theologians, or
      well read, speak strongly and use expressions and teach doctrines which,
      indeed, only very few men should think of uttering or teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet, don't think I wish to be only an exclusive Anglican, without
      sympathy for East or West; still less that I wish to ignore the Catholic
      Church of the truly primitive times; but I take the real, so to say,
      representative teaching of the Church of England to be the divinity of the
      truly primitive Church, to which our formularies and reformers appeal. I
      know, moreover, that our dear Father accepted Jackson and Waterland; and I
      don't feel disposed to disparage them, as it is the fashion to do
      nowadays. Few men, in spite of occasional scholastic subtlety, go so deep
      in their search right down into principles as Jackson. Few men so analyse,
      dissect, search out the precise, exact meaning of words and phrases, so
      carry you away from vague generalities to accurate defined meanings and
      doctrines. He had an honest and clear brain of his own, though he was a
      tremendous book-worm; and I think he is a great authority, though I know
      about him and his antagonism to Rome. I don't fear to weary you by this
      kind of talk; but don't I wish I could hear three or four of our very best
      men discuss these points thoroughly. In all sincerity I believe that I
      should be continually convinced of error, shallow judgments, and
      ignorance. But then I should most likely get real light on some points
      where I would fain have it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this unconscious token of humility, another must be added, from the
      same letter, speaking of two New Zealand friends:&mdash;'To me she has
      always been kindness itself, with her husband overrating me to such an
      amusing extent that I don't think it hurt even my vanity.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Full preparation was going on for the ordination, of the two priests.
    </p>
    <p>
      No special account of the actual service seems to have been written; and
      the first letter of January was nearly absorbed by the tidings of the
      three Episcopal appointments of the close of 1869, the Oxford choice
      coming near to Bishop Patteson by his family affections, and the
      appointment to Exeter as dealing with his beloved county at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now, before turning the page, and leaving the period that had, on the
      whole, been full of brightness, will be the best time to give Mr.
      Codrington's account of the manner of life at St. Barnabas, while the
      Bishop was still in his strength:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly one of the most striking points to a stranger would have been
      the familiar intercourse between the Bishop and his boys, not only the
      advanced scholars, but the last and newest comers. The kindly and friendly
      disposition of the Melanesians leads to a great deal of free and equal
      familiarity even where there are chiefs, and the obsequious familiarity of
      which one hears in India is here quite unknown. Nevertheless, I doubt very
      much whether other Melanesians live in the same familiarity with their
      missionaries&mdash;e.g., Carry, wife of Wadrokala, writes thus:&mdash;"I
      tremble very much to write to you, I am not fit to write to you, because,
      does an ant know how to speak to a cow? We at Nengone would not speak to a
      great man like you; no, our language is different to a chief and a
      missionary."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Making every allowance, and, looking at the matter from within, that
      perfect freedom and affectionateness of intercourse that existed with him
      seems very remarkable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The secret of it is not far to seek. It did not lie in any singular
      attractiveness of his manner only, but in the experience that everyone
      attracted gained that he sought nothing for himself; he was entirely free
      from any desire to be admired, or love of being thought much of, as he was
      from love of commanding for the sake of being obeyed. The great
      temptations to missionaries among savage people, as it seems, are to
      self-esteem, from a comparison of themselves with their European
      advantages and the natives among whom they live; and to a domineering
      temper, because they find an obedience ready, and it is delightful to be
      obeyed. Bishop Patteson's natural disposition was averse to either, and
      the principles of missionary work which he took up suited at once his
      natural temper and his religious character. He was able naturally, without
      effort, to live as a brother among his black brothers, to be the servant
      of those he lived to teach. The natural consequence of this was, the
      unquestioned authority which he possessed over those with whom he lived on
      equal terms. No one could entertain the idea that anything was ordered
      from a selfish motive, for any advantage to himself, or that anything was
      forbidden without some very good reason. This familiarity with a superior,
      which is natural with Melanesians, is accompanied, especially in Banks
      Islanders, with a very great reserve about anything that touches the
      feelings or concerns character. Thus a boy, who would use the Bishop's
      room as if it were his own, coming in unasked, to read or write, or sit by
      the fire there, would with very great difficulty get over the physical
      trembling, which their language implies, that would come upon him, if he
      wished to speak about his own feelings on religious matters, or to tell
      him something which he well knew it was his duty to make known. When one
      knows how difficult it is to them to speak openly, their openness with the
      Bishop is more appreciated, though he indeed often enough complained of
      their closeness with him. The real affection between the boys and the
      Bishop required no acquaintance with the character of either to discern,
      and could surprise no one who knew anything of the history of their
      relation one to another. It is well known that he wished his elder boys to
      stand in the place of the sixth form of a public school; and to some
      extent they did so, but being mostly Banks Islanders, and Banks Islanders
      being peculiarly afraid of interfering with one another, his idea was
      never reached. Still no doubt a good deal is attained when they arrive
      rather at the position of pupil-teacher in a National School; and this at
      least they occupy very satisfactorily, as is shown by the success with
      which so large a school has been carried on since the Bishop's death. No
      doubt the Ordination of more from among their number would go far to raise
      them in their own estimation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In truth, the carrying out of the principle of the equality of black and
      white in a missionary work, which is the principle of this mission, is
      very difficult, and cannot be done in all particulars in practice by
      anyone, and by most people, unless brought up to it, probably not at all.
      Nevertheless, it is practicable, and, as we think, essential, and was in
      all main points carried out by Bishop Patteson. But the effect of this
      must not be exaggerated. It is true that we have no servants, yet a boy
      regularly brought water, &amp;c., for the Bishop, and a woman regularly
      swept and cleaned his rooms, and received regular wages for it. The Bishop
      never cooked his dinner or did any such work except upon occasions on
      which a bachelor curate in England does much of the kind, as a matter of
      course. The extraordinary thing is that it is, as he at any rate supposed,
      the custom in other missions to make scholars and converts servants as a
      matter of course; and the difference lies not in the work which is done or
      not done by the one party or the other, but in the social relation of
      equality which subsists between them, and the spirit in which the work is
      asked for and rendered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The main thing to notice about the Bishop is that there was nothing
      forced or unnatural in his manner of taking a position of equality, and
      equality as real in any way as his superiority in another. Consequently,
      there was never the least loss of dignity or authority on his part.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There never was visible the smallest diminution of freedom and affection
      in the intercourse that went on. It required some knowledge in one respect
      to appreciate the extraordinary facility with which he conversed with boys
      from various islands. A stranger would be struck with his bright smiles
      and sweet tones as he would address some little stranger who came into his
      room; but one who knew a little of the languages alone could know with
      what extraordinary quickness he passed from one language to another,
      talking to many boys in their own language, but accommodating his tongue
      with wonderful readiness to each in succession. It would be hard to say
      how many languages he could speak; those which he spoke quite freely, to
      my knowledge, were not so many: Mota, Bauro, Mahaga, and Nengone,
      certainly; some others no doubt quite readily when among the people who
      spoke them; and very many only with a small vocabulary which was every
      instant being enlarged. It does not appear to me that his scientific
      philological acquirements were extraordinary; but that his memory for
      words giving him such a command of vocabulary, and so wide a scope for
      comparison, and his accurate and delicate ear to catch the sounds, and
      power of reproducing them, were altogether wonderful and very rarely
      equalled. A man of his faculty of expression and powers of mind could not
      speak like a native; he spoke better than a native, than a native of Mota
      at least. That is that, although no doubt he never was quite master of the
      little delicate points of Mota scholarship, which no one not a native can
      keep quite right, and no native can account for, yet his vocabulary was so
      large and accurate, and his feeling of the native ways of looking at
      things and representing them in words so true, that he spoke to them more
      clearly and forcibly than even any native spoke, and with the power of an
      educated mind controlling while following the native taste. He was an
      enthusiast, no doubt, about these languages, and jealous of their claim to
      be considered true language, and not what people suppose them to be, the
      uncouth jargon of savages. I will only say that his translations of some
      of the Psalms into Mota are as lofty in their diction and as harmonious in
      their rhythm, in my estimation, as anything almost I read in any language.
      This no doubt sounds exaggerated, and must be taken only for what it is
      worth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was probably in a great measure because his natural power of acquiring
      languages was so extraordinary, and needed so very little labour in him,
      that he did so very little to put on paper what he knew of all those many
      tongues. All there is in print I have put together. Besides this, he
      carried the same unfortunate way of leaving off what he had begun into
      these notes on language also. In the year '63-'64 he got printed a number
      of small grammatical papers in almost all the languages he knew, because
      he felt he ought not to subject them to the risk of being lost. Another
      reason why he did not go into any laborious manuscript or printing work
      with the various languages was, that he saw as time went on, first, that
      it was so very uncertain what language would come in practice into
      request; and, secondly, that one language would suffice for the use, in
      practice, of all natives of a neighbourhood. For example, the language of
      part of Mae (Three Hills), in the New Hebrides, was once studied and well
      known. Nothing whatever came of the intercourse with that island, once so
      constant, I don't know why, and now the people themselves are destroyed
      almost, and hopes of doing them good destroyed by the slave trade. And,
      secondly, the use of the Mota language in our ordinary intercourse here
      has very much diminished the need for any one's knowing a particular
      language beyond the missionary who has charge of the boys who speak it.
      Thus the Bishop rather handed over the language of Bauro to Mr. Atkin, of
      Florida to Mr. Brooke, of Leper's Island to Mr. Price; and as the common
      teaching of all boys who belonged to either of the principal groups into
      which the school fell went on in Mota, there was no practical use in the
      other tongues the Bishop knew, except in his voyages, and in giving him
      more effectual powers of influencing those to whom he could speak in their
      own tongue. Besides, he saw so clearly the great advantage, on the one
      hand, of throwing together in every possible way the boys from all the
      islands, which was much helped by the use of one language, and, on the
      other hand, the natural tendency in a group of boys from one island or
      neighbourhood to keep separate, and of the teacher of a particular set to
      keep them separate with himself, that, without saying much about it, he
      discouraged the printing of other languages besides Mota, and in other
      ways kept them rather in the background. How things would have arranged
      themselves if Mota had not by circumstances come into such prominence I
      cannot say, but the predominance of Mota came in with the internal
      organisation of the Mission by Mr. Pritt. It is impossible for one who
      knew Bishop Patteson intimately, and the later condition of the Mission
      intimately, to lose sight for long of Mr. Pritt's influence and his useful
      work.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps this chapter can best be completed by the external testimony of a
      visitor to Norfolk Island, given in a letter to the Editor of the
      'Australian Churchman':&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Daily at 7 A.M. the bell rings for chapel about one minute, and all hands
      promptly repair thither. In spite of the vast varieties of language and
      dialect spoken by fifty or sixty human beings, collected from twenty or
      thirty islets of the Pacific main, no practical difficulty has been found
      in using the Mota as the general language in Chapel and school, so that in
      a short time a congregation of twenty languages are able to join in
      worship in the one Mota tongue, more or less akin to all the rest, and a
      class of, say, nine boys, speaking by nature five different languages,
      easily join in using the one Mota language, just as a Frenchman, a German,
      a Russian, a Pole, an Italian, and an Englishman, all meeting in the same
      cafe or railway carriage, on the same glacier or mountain top, might
      harmoniously agree to use the French language as their medium of
      communication. So the service is conducted in Mota with one exception
      only. The collect for the day is read in English, as a brief allowable
      concession to the ears and hearts of the English members of the Mission.
      The service consists of the greater part of the Church of England Service
      translated. Some modifications have been made to suit the course of
      religious instruction. The Psalms are chanted and hymns sung in parts, and
      always in admirable tune, by the congregation. Noteworthy are the perfect
      attention, the reverent attitude, the hearty swing and unison of the
      little congregation, a lesson, I felt with shame, to many of our white
      congregations.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Immediately after service clinks out the breakfast bell, and, with
      marvellous promptitude and punctuality, whites and blacks, lay and
      clerical, are seen flocking to the mess-room. The whites sit at the upper
      end of the table, but beyond the special privilege of tea, all fare alike,
      chiefly on vegetables: yams or sweet potatoes, and carrots or vegetable
      marrows, as may suit the season, with plenty of biscuit for more ambitious
      teeth, and plenty of milk to wash it down. Soon afterwards comes school
      for an hour and a half. Then work for the boys and men, planting yams,
      reaping wheat, mowing oats, fencing, carting, building, as the call may
      be, only no caste distinction or ordering about; it is not go and do that,
      but come and do this, whether the leader be an ordained clergyman, a white
      farm bailiff, or a white carpenter. This is noteworthy, and your readers
      will gain no clear idea of the Mission if they do not seize this point,
      for it is no matter of mere detail, but one of principle. The system is
      not that of the ship or the regiment, of the farm or the manufactory of
      the old country, but essentially of the family. It is not the officer or
      master saying "Go" but the father or the brother saying "Come." And to
      this, I firmly believe, is the hearty cheerful following and merry work of
      the blacks chiefly due. At 1 P.M. is dinner, much the same as breakfast.
      Meat, though not unknown, is the weak point of the Mission dietary. In the
      afternoon, work. At 6, tea. In the evening, class again for an hour or
      two; this evening class being sometimes a singing lesson, heartily enjoyed
      by the teacher. I forget precisely when the boys have to prepare matter
      arising out of the lessons they have received viva voce.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are evening prayers, and bed-time is early. Noteworthy are the
      happy conjunctions of perfect discipline with perfect jollity, the
      marvellous attainment of a happy familiarity which does not "breed
      contempt."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I presume I need scarcely say to your readers that besides education in
      reading, writing, and arithmetic, through the medium of the Mota language,
      instruction in the Holy Scriptures and the most careful explanations of
      their meaning and mutual relation, forms a main part of the teaching
      given. The men and boys of the senior classes take notes; notes not by
      order expressly to be inspected, but, so to say, private notes for the aid
      of their memories; and from the translation given to me by Bishop Patteson
      of some of these, I should say that few, if any, of the senior class of an
      English Sunday School could give anything like so close, and sometimes
      philosophical, an explanation of Scripture, and that sometimes in
      remarkably few words.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There remains to be noticed one most effectual means of doing good. After
      evening school, the Bishop, his clergy, and his aides, retire mostly into
      their own rooms. Then, quietly and shyly, on this night or the other
      night, one or two, three or four of the more intelligent of the black boys
      steal silently up to the Bishop's side, and by fits and starts, slowly,
      often painfully, tell their feelings, state their difficulties, ask for
      help, and, I believe, with God's blessing, rarely fail to find it. They
      are not gushing as negroes, but shy as Englishmen; we Englishmen ought,
      indeed, to have a fellow-feeling for these poor black boys and help them
      with all our hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such is the routine for five of the six work days. Saturday is whole
      holiday, and all hands go to fish if the sea permits; if not, to play
      rounders or what not. Merry lads they are, as ever gladdened an English
      playground.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Sunday, the early Chapel is omitted. The full Liturgy is divided into
      two services&mdash;I forget the laws&mdash;and a kind of sermon in Mota is
      given; and in the afternoon, the Bishop, or one of the ordained members of
      the Mission, usually goes down to the town to relieve Mr. Nobbs in his
      service for the Pitcairners.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As regards the manual work of the station, this general principle is
      observed&mdash;women for washing and house-work; the men for planting and
      out-of-door work; but no one, white or black, is to be too grand to do his
      share. The Bishop's share, indeed, is to study and investigate and compare
      the languages and necessary translations, but no one is to be above manual
      labour. No one, because he is a white man, is to say, "Here, black fellow,
      come and clean my boots." "Here, black people, believe that I have come to
      give you a treasure of inestimable price. Meantime, work for me, am I not
      your superior? Can I not give you money, calico, what not?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'This Christian democracy, if I may so call it, has worked well in the
      long run.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This observer does seem to have entered well into the spirit of the place;
      and there can be no doubt that the plan and organisation of the Mission
      had by this time been well tested and both found practicable, and, as at
      present worked, more than ordinarily successful. The college was in full
      working order, with a staff of clergy, all save one formed under the
      Bishop, one native deacon and two teachers living with their wives in a
      population that was fast becoming moulded by the influence of
      Christianity, many more being trained up, and several more islands in
      course of gradual preparation by the same process as was further advanced
      in Mota.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the achievements which could be thankfully recounted by the end
      of 1869.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII. THE LAST EIGHTEEN MONTHS. 1870-1871.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The prosperous days of every life pass away at last. Suffering and sorrow,
      failure and reverse are sure to await all who live out anything like their
      term of years, and the missionary is perhaps more liable than other men to
      meet with a great disappointment. 'Success but signifies vicissitude,' and
      looking at the history of the growth of the Church, it is impossible not
      to observe that almost in all cases, immediately upon any extensive
      progress, there has followed what seems like a strong effort of the Evil
      One at its frustration, either by external persecution, reaction of
      heathenism, or, most fatally and frequently during the last 300 years,
      from the reckless misdoings of unscrupulous sailors and colonists. The
      West Indies, Japan, America, all have the same shameful tale to tell&mdash;what
      wonder if the same shadow were to be cast over the Isles of the South?
    </p>
    <p>
      It is one of the misfortunes, perhaps the temptations of this modern
      world, that two of its chief necessaries, sugar and cotton, require a
      climate too hot for the labour of men who have intelligence enough to grow
      and export them on a large scale, and who are therefore compelled, as they
      consider, to employ the forced toil of races able to endure heat. The
      Australian colony of Queensland is unfit to produce wheat, but well able
      to grow sugar, and the islands of Fiji, which the natives have implored
      England to annex, have become the resort of numerous planters and
      speculators. There were 300 white inhabitants in the latter at the time of
      the visit of the 'Curacoa' in 1865. In 1871 the numbers were from 5,000 to
      6,000. Large sheep farms have been laid out, and sugar plantations
      established.
    </p>
    <p>
      South Sea Islanders are found to have much of the negro toughness and
      docility, and, as has been seen, when away from their homes they are
      easily amenable, and generally pleasant in manner, and intelligent. Often
      too they have a spirit of enterprise, which makes them willing to leave
      home, or some feud with a neighbour renders it convenient. Thus the
      earlier planters did not find it difficult to procure willing labourers,
      chiefly from those southern New Hebrides, Anaiteum, Tanna, Erromango,
      &amp;c., which were already accustomed to intercourse with sandal-wood
      traders, had resident Scottish or London missionaries, and might have a
      fair understanding of what they were undertaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Fiji islanders themselves had been converted by Wesleyan Missionaries,
      and these, while the numbers of imported labourers were small, did not
      think ill of the system, since it provided the islanders with their great
      need, work, and might give them habits of industry. But in the years 1868
      and 1869 the demand began, both in Queensland and Fiji, to increase beyond
      what could be supplied by willing labour, and the premium, £8 a head, on
      an able-bodied black, was sufficient to tempt the masters of small craft
      to obtain the desired article by all possible means. Neither in the colony
      nor in Fiji were the planters desirous of obtaining workers by foul means,
      but labour they must have, and they were willing to pay for it.
      Queensland, anxious to free herself from any imputation of slave-hunting,
      has drawn up a set of regulations, requiring a regular contract to be made
      with the natives before they are shipped, for so many years, engaging that
      they shall receive wages, and be sent home again at the end of the
      specified time. No one denies that when once the labourer has arrived,
      these rules are carried out; he is well fed, kindly treated, not over
      worked, and at the end of three or five years sent home again with the
      property he has earned.
    </p>
    <p>
      A recent traveller has argued that this is all that can be desired, and
      that no true friend of the poor islander can object to his being taught
      industry and civilisation. Complaints are all 'missionary exaggeration,'
      that easy term for disposing of all defence of the dark races, and as to
      the difficulty of making a man, whose language is not understood,
      understand the terms of a contract&mdash;why, we continually sign legal
      documents we do not understand! Perhaps not, but we do understand enough
      not to find ourselves bound to five years' labour when we thought we were
      selling yams, or taking a pleasure trip. And we have some means of
      ascertaining the signification of such documents, and of obtaining redress
      if we have been deceived.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the boasted civilisation, a sugar plantation has not been found a
      very advanced school for the American or West Indian negro, and as a
      matter of fact, the islander who has fulfilled his term and comes home,
      bringing tobacco, clothes, and fire-arms, only becomes a more dangerous
      and licentious savage than he was in his simplicity. It is absolutely
      impossible, even if the planters wished it, to give any instruction to
      these poor fellows, so scattered are the settlements, so various the
      languages on each, and to send a man home with guns and gunpowder, and no
      touch of Christian teaching, is surely suicidal policy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, as long as the natives went in any degree willingly, though the
      Missionaries might deplore their so doing for the men's own sakes, and for
      that of their islands, it was only like a clergyman at home seeing his
      lads engage themselves to some occupation more undesirable than they knew.
      Therefore, the only thing that has been entreated for by all the missions
      of every denomination alike in the South Seas, has been such sufficient
      supervision of the labour traffic as may prevent deceit or violence from
      being used.
    </p>
    <p>
      For, in the years 1869 and 1870, if not before, the captains of the labour
      ships, finding that a sufficient supply of willing natives could not be
      procured, had begun to cajole them on board. When they went to trade, they
      were thrust under hatches, and carried off, and if the Southern New
      Hebrides became exhausted, and the labour ships entered on those seas
      where the 'Southern Cross' was a welcome visitor, these captains sometimes
      told the men that 'the Bishop gave no pipes and tobacco, he was bad, they
      had better hold with them.' Or else 'the Bishop could not come himself,
      but had sent this vessel to fetch them.' Sometimes even a figure was
      placed on deck dressed in a black coat, with a book in his hand, according
      to the sailors' notion of a missionary, to induce the natives to come on
      deck, and there they were clapped under hatches and carried off.
    </p>
    <p>
      In 1870, H.M.S. 'Rosario,' Captain Palmer, brought one of these vessels,
      the 'Daphne,' into Sydney, where the master was tried for acts of
      violence, but a conviction could not be procured, and, as will be seen in
      the correspondence, Bishop Patteson did not regret the failure, as he was
      anxious that ships of a fair size, with respectable owners, should not be
      deterred from the traffic, since the more it became a smuggling,
      unrecognised business, the worse and more unscrupulous men would be
      employed in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But decoying without violence began to fail; the natives were becoming too
      cautious, so the canoes were upset, and the men picked up while struggling
      in the water. If they tried to resist, they were shot at, and all
      endeavours at a rescue were met with the use of firearms.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were thus swept off in such numbers, that small islands lost almost
      all their able-bodied inhabitants, and were in danger of famine for want
      of their workers. Also, the Fiji planters, thinking to make the men
      happier by bringing their wives, desired that this might be done, but it
      was not easy to make out the married couples, nor did the crews trouble
      themselves to do so, but took any woman they could lay hands on. Husbands
      pursued to save the wives, and were shot down, and a deadly spirit of
      hatred and terror against all that was white was aroused.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a still lower depth of atrocity, but as far as enquiry of the
      Government at Sydney can make out, unconnected with labour traffic, but
      with the tortoise-shell trade. Skulls, it will be remembered, were the
      ornament of old Iri's house at Bauro, and skulls are still the trophies in
      the more savage islands. It seems that some of the traders in
      tortoise-shell are in the habit of assisting their clients by conveying
      them in their vessels in pursuit of heads. There is no evidence that they
      actually do the work of slaughter themselves, though suspicion is strong,
      but these are the 'kill-kill' vessels in the patois of the Pacific, while
      the kidnappers are the 'snatch-snatch.' Both together, these causes were
      working up the islanders to a perilous pitch of suspicion and exasperation
      during the years 1870, 1871, and thus were destroying many of the best
      hopes of the fruit of the toils of all these years. But the full extent of
      the mischief was still unknown in Norfolk Island, when in the midst of the
      Bishop's plans for the expedition of 1870 came the illness from which he
      never wholly recovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Already he had often felt and spoken of himself as an elderly man. Most
      men of a year or two past forty are at the most vigorous period of their
      existence, generally indeed with the really individual and effective work
      of their lives before them, having hitherto been only serving their
      apprenticeship; but Coleridge Patteson had begun his task while in early
      youth, and had been obliged to bear at once responsibility and active toil
      in no ordinary degree. Few have had to be at once head of a college, sole
      tutor and steward, as well as primary schoolmaster all at once, or
      afterwards united these charges with those of Bishop, examining chaplain
      and theological professor, with the interludes of voyages which involved
      intense anxiety and watchfulness, as well as the hardships of those
      unrestful nights in native huts, and the exhaustion of the tropical
      climate. No wonder then that he was already as one whose work was
      well-nigh done, and to whom rest was near. And though the entrance into
      that rest was by a sudden stroke, it was one that mercifully spared the
      sufferings of a protracted illness, and even if his friends pause to claim
      for it the actual honours (on earth) of martyrdom, yet it was no doubt
      such a death as he was most willing to die, full in his Master's service&mdash;such
      a death as all can be thankful to think of. And for the like-minded young
      man who shared his death, only with more of the bitterness thereof, the
      spirit in which he went forth may best be seen in part of a letter written
      in the January of 1870, just after his Ordination:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The right way must be to have a general idea of what to aim at, and to
      make for the goal by what seem, as you go, the best ways, not to go on a
      course you fixed to yourself before starting without having seen it. It is
      so easy for people to hold theories, and excellent ones too, of the way to
      manage or deal with the native races, but the worst is that when you come
      to work the theory, the native race will never be found what it ought to
      be for properly carrying it out. I am quite sure that nothing is to be
      done in a hurry; a good and zealous man in ignorance and haste might do
      more harm in one year than could be remedied in ten. I would not root out
      a single superstition until I had something better to put in its place,
      lest if all the weeds were rooted up, what had before been fertile should
      become desert, barren, disbelieving in anything. Is not the right way to
      plant the true seed and nourish it that it may take root, and out-grow and
      choke the weeds? My objection to Mission reports has always been that the
      readers want to hear of "progress," and the writers are thus tempted to
      write of it, and may they not, without knowing it, be at times hasty that
      they may seem to be progressing? People expect too much. Those do so who
      see the results of Mission work, who are engaged in it; those do so who
      send them. We have the precious seed to sow, and must sow it when and
      where we can, but we must not always be looking out to reap what we have
      sown. We shall do that "in due time" if we "faint not." Because missionary
      work looks like a failure, it does not follow that it is.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our Saviour, the first of all Christian Missionaries, was thirty years of
      His life preparing and being prepared for His work. Three years He spake
      as never man spake, and did not His work at that time look a failure? He
      made no mistakes either in what He taught or the way of teaching it, and
      He succeeded, though not to the eyes of men. Should not we be contented
      with success like His? And with how much less ought we not to be
      contented! So! The wonder is that by our means any result is accomplished
      at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      These are remarkable words for a young man of twenty-seven, full of life,
      health, and vigour, and go far to prove the early ripening of a spirit
      chastened in hopes, even while all was bright.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the latter part of February, Bishop Patteson, after about six days of
      warning, was prostrated by a very severe attack of internal inflammation,
      and for three days&mdash;from the 20th to the 22nd&mdash;was in
      considerable danger as well as suffering. Mr. Nobbs's medical knowledge
      seems, humanly speaking, to have brought him through, and on the 28th,
      when an opportunity occurred of sending letters, he was able to write a
      note to his brother and sisters&mdash;weak and shattered-looking writing
      indeed, but telling all that needed to be told, and finishing with 'in a
      few days (D.V.) I may be quite well;' then in a postscript: 'Our most
      merciful Father, Redeemer and Sanctifier is merciful indeed. There was a
      time when I felt drawing near the dark valley, and I thought of Father,
      Mother, of Uncle Frank, and our little ones, Frankie and Dolly,'&mdash;a
      brother and sister who had died in early infancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was not the Divine will that he should be well in a few days. Day
      after day he continued feeble; and suffering much, though not so acutely
      as in the first attack, Mr. Nobbs continued to attend him, and the
      treatment was approved afterwards by the physicians consulted. All the
      clergy took their part in nursing, and the Melanesian youths in turn
      watched him day and night. He did not leave his room till the beginning of
      April, and then was only equal to the exertion of preparing two lads for
      Baptism and a few more for Confirmation. On Easter Sunday he was able to
      baptize the first mentioned, and confirm the others; and, the 'Southern
      Cross' having by this time arrived for the regular voyage, he embarked in
      her to obtain further advice at Auckland.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Martin, his kind and tender hostess and nurse, thus describes his
      arrival:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'We had heard of his illness from himself and others, and of his being out
      of danger in the middle of March. We were therefore much surprised when
      the "Southern Cross," which had sailed a fortnight before for Norfolk
      Island, came into the harbour on the morning of the 25th of April, and
      anchored in our bay with the Bishop's flag flying. We went down to the
      beach with anxious hearts to receive the dear invalid, and were greatly
      shocked at his appearance. His beard, which he had allowed to grow since
      his illness, and his hair were streaked with grey; his complexion was very
      dark, and his frame was bowed like an old man's.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Captain and Mr. Bice almost carried him up the hill to our house. He
      was very thankful to be on shore, and spoke cheerfully about the
      improvement he had made on the voyage. It was not very apparent to us who
      had not seen him for two years. Even then he was looking worn and ill, but
      still was a young active man. He seemed now quite a wreck. For the first
      fortnight his faithful attendant Malagona slept in his room, and was ready
      at all hours to wait upon his beloved Bishop. Day by day he used to sit by
      the fire in an easy chair, too weak to move or to attend to reading. He
      got up very early, being tired of bed. His books and papers were all
      brought out, but he did little but doze.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, in his despatch of the 2nd of May, where the manuscript is as firm,
      clear, and beautiful as ever, only somewhat less minute, he says that he
      had improved wonderfully on the voyage, though he adds that the doctor
      told him, 'At an office, they would insure your life at fifty, instead of
      forty-three years of age.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Goldsboro had, on examination, discovered a chronic ailment, not
      likely, with care and treatment, to be dangerous to life, but forbidding
      active exertion or horse exercise, and warning him that a sudden jar or
      slip or fall on rugged ground would probably bring on acute inflammation,
      which might prove fatal after hours of suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      After, in the above-mentioned letter, communicating his exact state, he
      adds:&mdash;'The pain has been at times very severe, and yet I can't tell
      you of the very great happiness and actual enjoyment of many of those
      sleepless nights; when, perhaps at 2 A.M., I felt the pain subsiding, and
      prayer for rest, if it were His will, was changed into thanksgiving for
      the relief; then, as the fire flickered, came restful, peaceful, happy
      thoughts, mingled with much, I trust, heart-felt sorrow and remorse. And
      Psalms seemed to have a new meaning, and prayers to be so real, and
      somehow there was a sense of a very near Presence, and I felt almost sorry
      when it was 5.30, and I got up, and my kind Melanesian nurse made me my
      morning cup of weak tea, so good to the dry, furred tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, that is all past and gone; and now the hope and prayer is, that
      when my time is really come, I may be better prepared to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir William and Lady Martin are pretty well; and I am in clover here,
      getting real rest, and gaining ground pretty well. I have all confidence
      in the prudence of the other missionaries and leave the work thankfully in
      their hands, knowing well Whose work it is, and to Whose guidance and
      protection we all trust.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 9th, in a letter sent by a different route, he adds:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I think it will come to my doing my work on Norfolk Island just as
      usual, with only occasional inconvenience or discomfort. But I think I
      shall have to forego some of the more risky and adventurous part of the
      work in the islands. This is all right. It is a sign that the time is come
      for me to delegate it to others. I don't mean that I shall not take the
      voyages, and stop about on the islands (D.V.) as before. But I must do it
      all more carefully, and avoid much that of old I never thought about. Yet
      I think it will not, as a matter of fact, much interfere with my work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have, you understand, no pain now, only some discomfort. The fact that
      I can't do things, move about, &amp;c., like a sound healthy person is not
      a trial. The relief from pain, the <i>resty</i> feeling, is such a
      blessing and enjoyment that I don't seem, as yet at all events, to care
      about the other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So of that restful state Lady Martin says: 'Indeed it was a most happy
      time to us, and I think on the whole to him. It was a new state of things
      to keep him without any pricks of conscience or restlessness on his part.
      He liked to have a quiet half-hour by the fire at night; and before I left
      him I used to put his books near him: his Bible, his Hebrew Psalter, his
      father's copy of Bishop Andrewes. Sometimes I would linger for a few
      minutes to talk about his past illness. He used to dwell specially on his
      dear father's nearness to him at that time. He spoke once or twice with a
      reverent holy awe and joy of sleepless nights, when thoughts of God had
      filled his soul and sustained him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'His face, always beautiful from the unworldly purity of its expression,
      was really as the face of an angel while he spoke of these things and of
      the love and kindness he had received. He seemed to have been standing on
      the very brink of the river, and it was yet doubtful whether he was to
      abide with us. Now, looking back, we can see how mercifully God was
      dealing with His servant. A time of quiet and of preparation for death
      given to him apart from the hurry of his daily life, then a few months of
      active service, and then the crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At the end of a fortnight (?&mdash;you must please to rectify dates) the
      "Southern Cross" sailed again, with Mr. Bice and Malagona on board; when,
      just as we were expecting she would have reached Norfolk Island, she was
      driving back into the harbour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The following letter to the Bishop of Lichfield gives an account of her
      peril:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Taurarua: May 11, 1870.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Bishop,&mdash;I have to tell you of another great mercy. The
      "Southern Cross" left Auckland on May 3&mdash;fair wind and fine weather.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On May 5 she was within 185 miles of Norfolk Island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then came on a fearful gale from the east and northeast to north-west.
      They were hove-to for three days, everything battened down; port boat and
      davits carried away by a sea; after a while the starboard boat dashed to
      pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Malagona, my nurse at Norfolk Island, who was brought up for a treat, was
      thrown completely across the cabin by one lurch, when she seemed almost
      settling down. It was dark. The water in the cabin, which had come through
      the dead-light, showed a little phosphoric glimmer. "Brother," he said to
      Bice, "are we dying?" "I don't know; it seems like it. We are in God's
      hands." "Yes, I know."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. (Captain) Jacobs was calm and self-possessed. He even behaved
      excellently. Once, all on deck were washed into the lee scuppers, and one
      man washed overboard; but he held a rope, and with it and the recoil was
      borne in again upon the deck. Lowest barometer, 28° 65'! We were startled
      yesterday at about 4 P.M. with the news of the reappearance of the vessel.
      I think that some £30 and the replacing the boats will pay damages, but
      one doesn't think of that.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We hope to get, at all events, one ready-made boat, so as to cause no
      delay. The good people at Norfolk Island will be anxious if the vessel
      does not reappear soon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Auckland, June 6th&mdash;"Southern Cross" could not sail till May 23. If
      I am not found by them at Norfolk Island on their return, they are to come
      on for me. I hope to make a two months' cruise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'General health quite well, no pain for weeks past. Dr. Goldsboro' says I
      shall be better in a hot climate; but he won't let me out of his hands
      yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I really think I shall do very well by-and-by.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your very affectionate
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      'The repairs took some time (continues Lady Martin). The delay must have
      been very trying to the Bishop in his weak state, as it threw out all the
      plans for the winter voyage; but he showed no signs of fretfulness or of a
      restless desire to go himself to see after matters. The winter was
      unusually cold after the vessel sailed again; and I used to wonder
      sometimes whether he lay awake listening to the wind that howled in gusts
      round the house; he may have, but certainly there was always a look of
      unruffled calm and peace on his face when we met in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tis enough that Thou shouldst care Why should I the burden bear?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our dear friend mended very slowly. It was more than a month before he
      could bear even to be driven up to Bishop's Court to receive the Holy
      Communion in the private Chapel, and some time longer before he could sit
      through the Sunday services. I cannot be sure whether he went first on
      Ascension Day. His own letters may inform you. I only remember how
      thankful and happy he was to be able to get there. He had felt the loss of
      the frequent Communions in which he could join all through his illness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He was making a real step towards recovery, and by the 10th of June he was
      able to go and stay at St. Sepulchre's parsonage with Mr. Dudley, and
      attend the gathering at the Bishop of Auckland's Chapel on St. Barnabas
      Day; but the calm enjoyment and soothing indifference which seems so often
      a privilege of the weakness of recovery was broken by fuller tidings
      respecting the labour traffic that imperilled his work. A schooner had
      come in from Fate with from fifteen to twenty natives from that and other
      islands to work in flax mills; and a little later a letter arrived from
      his correspondent in Fiji, showing to what an extent the immigration
      thither had come, and how large a proportion of the young men working in
      the sugar plantations had been decoyed from home on false pretences.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the point, as far as at the time appeared in New Zealand. If
      violence had then begun, no very flagrant instances were known; and the
      Bishop was not at all averse to the employment of natives, well knowing
      how great an agent in improvement is civilisation. But to have them
      carried off without understanding what they were about, and then set to
      hard labour, was quite a different thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The difficulty is (he writes) to prove in a court of law what everyone
      acknowledges to be the case, viz., that the natives of the islands are
      inveigled on board these vessels by divers means, then put under the
      hatches and sold, ignorant of their destination or future employment, and
      without any promises of being returned home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It comes to this, though of course it is denied by the planters and the
      Queensland Government, which is concerned in keeping up the trade.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There will always be some islanders who from a roving nature, or from a
      necessity of escaping retaliation for some injury done by them, or from
      mere curiosity, will paddle off to a ship and go on board. But they can't
      understand the white men: they are tempted below to look at some presents,
      or, if the vessel be at anchor, are allowed to sleep on board. Then, in
      the one case, the hatches are clapped on; in the other, sail is made in
      the night, and so they are taken off to a labour of which they know
      nothing, among people of whom they know nothing!
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is the regulation rather than the suppression of the employment of
      native labourers that I advocate. There is no reason why some of these
      islanders should not go to a plantation under proper regulations. My
      notion is that&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '1. A few vessels should be licensed for the purpose of conveying these
      islanders backwards and forwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      '2. That such vessels should be in charge of fit persons, heavily bound to
      observe certain rules, and punishable summarily for violating them.
    </p>
    <p>
      '3. That the missionaries, wherever they be situated, should be informed
      of the names of the vessels thus licensed, of the sailing masters, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      '4. That all other vessels engaged in the trade should be treated as
      pirates, and confiscated summarily when caught.
    </p>
    <p>
      '5. That a small man-of-war, commanded by a man fit for such work, should
      cruise among the islands from which islanders are being taken.
    </p>
    <p>
      '6. That special legislative enactments should be passed enabling the
      Sydney Court to deal with the matter equitably.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Something of this kind is the best plan I can suggest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is right and good that the "Galatea" should undertake such work; and
      yet we want a little tender to the "Galatea" rather than the big vessel,
      as I think my experience of large vessels is that there is too much of
      routine; and great delay is occasioned by the difficulty of turning a
      great ship round, and you can't work near the shore, and even if chasing a
      little vessel which could be caught at once in the open sea, you may be
      dodged by her among islands. Yet the sense of the country is expressed
      very well by sending "Captain Edinburgh" himself to cruise between New
      Caledonia, Fiji, and the Kingsmill Islands, for the suppression of the
      illegal deportation of natives. So reads the despatch which the Governor
      showed me the other day. He asked me to give such information as might be
      useful to the "Galatea."'
    </p>
    <p>
      With the Governor, Sir George Bowen, an old Oxford friend, Bishop Patteson
      spent several days, and submitted to him a memorial to Government, on the
      subject, both at home and in Queensland, stating the regulations, as above
      expressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The 'Rosario,' Captain Palmer, had actually captured the 'Daphne,' a
      vessel engaged in capturing natives, and brought her into Sydney, where
      the master was tried; but though there was no doubt of the outrage, it was
      not possible to obtain a conviction; and a Fiji planter whom the Bishop
      met in Auckland told him that the seizure of the 'Daphne' would merely
      lead to the exclusion of the better class of men from the trade, and that
      it would not stop the demand for native labourers. It would always pay to
      'run' cargoes of natives into the many islets of Fiji; and they would be
      smuggled into the plantations. And there the government was almost
      necessarily by the whip. 'I can't talk to them,' said the planter; 'I can
      only point to what they are to do; and if they are lazy, I whip them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was no wonder that Mr. Dudley thought the Bishop depressed; and,
      moreover, he over-exerted himself, walking a mile and a half one day, and
      preaching in the little Church of St. Sepulchre's. He longed to return to
      St. Barnabas, but was in no state to rough it in a common little sailing
      vessel, so he waited on. 'I am very lazy,' he says: 'I can't do much work.
      Sir William and I read Hebrew, and discuss many questions in which his
      opinion is most valuable. I have business letters to write, e.g., about
      the deportation of islanders and about a clergyman whom the Melbourne
      people are helping to go to Fiji.... This is perhaps a good trial for me,
      to be sitting lazily here and thinking of others at work!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was written about the middle of July, when the convalescent had
      regained much more strength, and could walk into town, or stand to read
      and write according to his favourite custom, as well as thoroughly enjoy
      conversations with his hosts at Taurarua.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never saw (observes Lady Martin) a larger charity united to a more
      living faith. He knew in Whom he believed; and this unclouded confidence
      seemed to enable him to be gentle and discriminating in his judgments on
      those whose minds are clouded with doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was pleasant to see how at this time his mind went back to the
      interests which he had laid aside for years. He liked to hear bits of
      Handel, and other old masters, and would go back to recollections of
      foreign travels and of his enthusiasm for music and art as freshly and
      brightly as he had done in the first days of our acquaintance. But this
      was only in the "gloaming" or late in the evening when he was resting in
      his easy chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At the end of July we were expecting a young relation and his bride to
      spend a week with us before returning to England, and we gave the Bishop
      the option of going to Bishop's Court for the time, where he was always
      warmly welcomed. Some years before, he would certainly have slipped away
      from the chatter and bustle; but now he decided to remain with us, and
      throw himself into the small interests around, in a way which touched and
      delighted the young couple greatly. He put away his natural shrinking from
      society and his student ways, and was willing to enjoy everything as it
      came. We had a curious instance at this time of the real difficulty the
      Bishop felt about writing sermons. He had not attempted to preach, save at
      Mr. Dudley's Church; but a week or two before he left us, Archdeacon
      Maunsell came to beg of him to preach at St. Mary's, where he had often
      taken service formerly. He promised to do so without any apparent
      hesitation, and said afterwards to us that he could not refuse such a
      request. So on Wednesday he began to prepare a sermon. He was sitting each
      morning in the room where I was at work, and he talked to me from time to
      time of the thoughts that were in his mind. The subject was all that was
      implied in the words, "I have called thee by thy name," the personal
      knowledge, interest, &amp;c.; and I was rejoicing in the treat in store,
      when, to my dismay, I saw sheet after sheet, which had been written in his
      neat, clear hand as though the thoughts flowed on without effort, flung
      into the fire. "I can't write," was said again and again, and the work put
      by for another day. At last, on Saturday morning, he walked up to the
      parsonage to make his excuses. Happily Dr. Maunsell would not let him off,
      so on Sunday the Bishop, without any notes or sermon, spoke to us out of
      the fulness of his heart about the Mission work, of its encouragements and
      its difficulties. He described, in a way that none can ever forget who
      heard the plaintive tones of his voice and saw his worn face that day,
      what it was to be alone on an island for weeks, surrounded by noisy
      heathen, and the comfort and strength gained then by the thought that we
      who have the full privileges of Christian worship and communion were
      remembering such in our prayers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our young friends sailed on Sunday, August 7; and we expected the Bishop
      to sail the next day, but the winds were foul and boisterous, and we had
      him with us till Friday morning, the 12th. Those last days were very happy
      ones. His thoughts went back to Melanesia and to his work; and every
      evening we drew him to tell of adventures and perils, and to describe the
      islands to us in a way he had scarcely ever done before. I think it was
      partly to please our Maori maiden, who sat by his side on a footstool in
      the twilight, plying him with questions with so much lively natural
      interest that he warmed up in return. Generally, he shrank into himself,
      and became reserved at once if pressed to tell of his own doings. He spoke
      one evening quite openly about his dislike to ship life. We were laughing
      at some remembrance of the Bishop of Lichfield's satisfaction when once
      afloat; and he burst into an expression of wonder, how anyone could go to
      sea for pleasure. I asked him what he disliked in particular, and he
      answered, Everything. That he always felt dizzy, headachy, and unable to
      read with comfort; the food was greasy, and there was a general sense of
      dirt and discomfort. As the time drew nigh for sailing, he talked a good
      deal about the rapidly growing evil of the labour trade. He grew very
      depressed one day, and spoke quite despondingly of the future prospects of
      the Mission. He told us of one island, Vanua Lava, I think, where, a few
      years ago, 300 men used to assemble on the beach to welcome him. Now, only
      thirty or forty were left. He saw that if the trade went on at the same
      rate as it had been doing for the last year or two, many islands would be
      depopulated, and everywhere he must expect to meet with suspicion or open
      ill will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The next morning the cloud had rolled away, and he was ready to go forth
      in faith to do the work appointed him, leaving the result in God's hands.
      We accompanied him to the boat on Friday morning. Bishop and Mrs. Cowie
      came down, and one or two of the clergy, and his two English boys who were
      to go with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was a lovely morning. We rejoiced to see how much he had improved in
      his health during his stay. He had been very good and tractable about
      taking nourishment, and certainly looked and was all the better for
      generous diet. He had almost grown stout, and walked upright and briskly.
      Sir William parted with him on the beach, where we have had so many
      partings; and I meant to do so too, but a friend had brought another boat,
      and invited me to come, so I gladly went off to the "Southern Cross,"
      which was lying about half-a-mile off. The Cowies were very anxious to see
      the vessel, and the Bishop showed them all about. I was anxious to go down
      to his cabin, and arrange in safe nooks comforts for his use on the
      voyage. In half an hour the vessel was ready to sail. One last grasp of
      the hand, one loving smile, and we parted&mdash;never to meet again on
      earth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So far this kind and much-loved friend! And to this I cannot but add an
      extract from the letter she wrote to his sisters immediately after the
      parting, since it adds another touch to the character now ripened:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think you are a little mistaken in your notion that your brother would
      feel no interest in your home doings. He has quite passed out of that
      early stage when the mind can dwell on nothing but its own sphere of work.
      He takes a lively interest in all that is going on at home, specially in
      Church matters, and came back quite refreshed from Bishop's Court with all
      that Bishop Cowie had told him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What he would really dread in England would be the being lionised, and
      being compelled to speak and preach here, there, and everywhere. And yet
      he would have no power to say nay. But the cold would shrivel him up, and
      society&mdash;dinners, table talk&mdash;would bore him, and he would pine
      for his warmth and his books. Not a bit the less does he dearly love you
      all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The brother and sisters knew it, and forebore to harass him with
      remonstrances, but resigned themselves to the knowledge that nothing would
      bring him home save absolute disqualification for his mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      His own last letter from Taurarua dwells upon the enjoyment of his
      conversations with Sir William Martin and Bishop Cowie; and then goes into
      details of a vision of obtaining young English boys to whom a good
      education would be a boon, bringing them up at St. Barnabas, and then, if
      they turned out fit for the Mission there, they would be prepared&mdash;if
      not, they would have had the benefit of the schooling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the 'Southern Cross,' with three of the clergy, had made the
      voyage according to minute directions from the Bishop. Mr. Atkin made his
      yearly visit to Bauro. He says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hardly expected that when we came back we should have found the peace
      still unbroken between Wango and Hane, but it is. Though not very good
      friends, they are still at peace. In the chief's house I was presented
      with a piece of pork, about two pounds, and a dish of tauma (their
      favourite), a pudding made of yams, nuts, and cocoa-nut milk, and cooked
      by steaming. Fortunately, good manners allowed me to take it away. Before
      we left the village, it took two women to carry our provisions. A little
      boy came back with us, to stay with Taki. The two boys who ought to have
      come last year are very anxious to do so still.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 12th.&mdash;We anchored the boat on the beach at Tawatana, and I
      went into the oka (public house) to see the tauma prepared for the feast.
      There were thirty-eight dishes. The largest, about four feet long, stood
      nearly three feet high. I tried to lift one from the ground, but could
      not; it must have been five hundredweight; the smallest daras held eighty
      or a hundred pounds. I calculated that there was at least two tons. When
      freshly made it is very good, but at these feasts it is always old and
      sour, and dripping with cocoa-nut oil. The daras, or wooden bowls, into
      which it is put, are almost always carved and inlaid with mother-of-pearl
      shell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was a great crowd at the landing-place at Saa (Malanta) to meet us.
      Nobody knew Wate at first, but he was soon recognised. The boat was pulled
      up into a little river, and everything stealable taken out. We then went
      up to the village, passing some women crying on the way; here, as at
      Uleawa, crying seems to be the sign of joy, or welcome. Wate's father's
      new house is the best I have seen in any of these islands. It has two
      rooms; the drawing-room is about forty-five feet long by thirty wide, with
      a roof projecting about six feet outside the wall at the end and four feet
      at the eaves; the bed-room is about eighteen feet wide, so that the whole
      roof covers about seventy feet by forty. Wate's father lives like a chief
      of the olden time, with large property, but nothing of his own; all that
      he has or gets goes as soon as he gets it to his retainers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 3rd.&mdash;Went to Heuru. The bwea began about ten o'clock. A bwea
      means a stage, but the word is used as we speak of "the stage." There is a
      stage in this case about three feet square, twenty feet from the ground,
      walled in to three feet height on three sides, with a ladder of two stout
      poles. On the bwea sit or stand two or three men, on either side having a
      bag; visitors run up the ladder, put their money or porpoise teeth into
      the bags if small, give it to the men if large; and, if their present is
      worth it, make a speech a little way down the ladder. A party from a
      village generally send up a spokesman, and when he has done go up in a
      body and give their money. Taki was orator for Waiio, and I led the party
      with my present of beads, which if red or white pass as money. The object
      of a bwea is to get money, but it may only be held on proper occasions.
      The occasion of this was the adoption of a Mara lad by the chief man at
      Heuru; to get money to pay the lad's friends he held a bwea that all his
      friends might help him. As he was a connection of Taki's, and Waiio is the
      richest of the settlements, he got great spoils from thence.... At
      Tawatana the young men put on petticoats of cocoa-nut leaves, and danced
      their graceful "mao." I had only seen it before at Norfolk Island; it is
      very pretty, but must be very difficult to learn; they say that not many
      know it. At Nora they danced another most dirty dance: all the performers
      were daubed from head to foot with mud, and wore masks covered with mud
      and ashes; the aim of the dance, as far as I could see, was to ridicule
      all sorts of infirmities and imbecilities, tottering, limping, staggering,
      and reeling, but in time and order. One man had a basket of dripping mud
      on his head which was streaming down his face and back all the time. A
      great point is that the actors should not be recognised. Mr. Brooke was
      likewise dropped at Florida. After this the rest of the party had gone on
      to Mota, where George Sarawia was found working away well at his school,
      plenty of attendants, and the whole place clean, well-ventilated, and
      well-regulated.
    </p>
    <p>
      A watch sent out as a present to Sarawia was a delight which he could
      quite appreciate, and he had sent back very sensible right-minded letters.
      Of Bishop Patteson's voyage the history is pieced together from two
      letters, one to the sisters, the other to the Bishop of Lichfield. Neither
      was begun till September, after which they make a tolerably full diary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'More than five weeks have passed since I left New Zealand, more than
      three since I left Norfolk Island. Mr. Codrington and I reached Mota on
      the morning of the eighth day after leaving Norfolk Island. I spent but
      half an hour on shore with George Sarawia and his people; sailed across to
      Aroa and Matlavo, where I landed eight or ten of our scholars; and came on
      at once to the Solomon Islands. On Sunday morning (September 4) what joy
      to find Mr. Atkin well and hearty!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Brooke, who took up his abode at the village of Mboli, had with him
      Dudley Lankana and Richard Maru, but they were a good deal absorbed by
      their relations, and not so useful to him as had been hoped, though they
      kept out of heathen habits, and remained constant to their intention of
      returning.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Brooke," says the Bishop, "knows and speaks the one language of Anudha
      very well, for there is but one language, with a few dialectical varieties
      of course."
    </p>
    <p>
      'A nice little house was built for him at Mboli, which I have always
      thought to be a very healthy place.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The coral grit and sand runs a long way in shore under cocoa-nut groves,
      but there is no very dense undergrowth. The wind when easterly blows
      freely along and is drawn rather upon the shore there. Two miles to
      windward of Mboli is the good harbour of Sara, where the vessel anchored
      with us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Brooke's house was raised on poles, five feet from the ground; the floor
      made of neat smooth bamboos, basket-worked. He had his table and two
      benches, one easy cane chair, cork bed, boxes, harmonium, and plenty of
      food.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Close to his house is the magnificent kiala, or boat house, about 180
      feet long, 42 high, and about as many feet broad, a really grand, imposing
      place. Here Brooke, in surplice, with his little band, had his Sunday
      services, singing hymns, and chanting Psalms, in parts, in the presence of
      from 150 to 300, once nearly 400 people, to whom he spoke of course,
      usually twice, making two sermonets.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The island is unlike any other; much more open, much less bush, but it is
      not coral crag that crops out, but almost bare reddish rock, with but
      little soil on it, and the population, which is large, finds it hard to
      procure food.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three brothers, Takua, Savai, and Dikea, are the principal men. Local
      chiefs exercise some small authority in each village. Anudha, or Aunta, is
      properly the name of a small island, for there is no one great mainland,
      but many islands separated by very narrow salt-water creeks and rivers,
      along which a skiff may be sculled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Brooke has been over every part of it. His only difficulties arose from
      jealousy on the part of Takua and Savai, who, living at Mboli, were very
      wroth at his not being their tame Pakeha, at his asserting his
      independence, his motive in coming to teach all, and make known to all
      alike a common message. Especially they were indignant at his making up
      small parties of boys from different parts of the island, as they of
      course wanted to monopolise him, and through him the trade. He has
      evidently been firm and friendly too, keeping his temper, yet speaking out
      very plainly. The result, as far as bringing boys goes, is that we have
      now thirteen on board, including Dudley and Richard, from six different
      parts of the island. But so vexed was Takua, that he would not fulfil his
      promise of sending his two little girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The fortnight spent in the Solomon Islands has been very fine; winds very
      light, and very little rain. We have at length got Stephen Taroniara's
      child, a little girl of about seven years old, Paraitaku, from the old
      grandmother and aunts. So, thank God, she will be brought up as a
      Christian child. She is a dear little thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This work of Mr. Atkin and Mr. Brooke in the easterly and more
      north-westerly parts of the Solomon Islands respectively, is the nearest
      approach that has yet been made to regular missionary operations there.
      Our short visits in the "Southern Cross," or my short three to ten days'
      visits on shore are all useful as preparing the way for something more.
      But it is the quiet, lengthened staying for some months among these
      islanders that gives opportunities for knowing them and their ways. They
      do everything with endless talk and discussion about it; and it is only by
      living with, and moving about constantly among them, that any hold can be
      gained over them. I think that the Mission is now in a more hopeful state
      than ever before in these islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our parties of scholars are large. They trust quite little fellows with
      us, and for any length of time. True, these little fellows cannot exercise
      any influence for years to come; but if we take young men or lads of
      sixteen or eighteen years old, it needs as many years to qualify them
      (with heathen habits to be unlearned, and with the quickness of
      apprehension of new teaching already gone) for being useful among their
      people as would suffice for the arrival of these young children at mature
      age.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Three Tikopian giants had made a visit at Mota in the course of this year,
      attracted by the fame of the hospitality and fertility of the place.
      George Sarawia had got on well with them, and tried to keep them to meet
      the Bishop, but one of them fell sick, and the others took him away. This
      was hailed as a possible opening to those two curious isles, Oanuta and
      Tikopia, in so far as the 'Southern Cross' work was concerned. The Bishop
      continues, to his former Primate:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'On the whole, things seem to be going on favourably. The Banks Islanders
      are very shy now of the vessels sent to carry off men to Fiji or
      Queensland. They will find their way into the Solomon Islands soon. One,
      indeed, a cutter, has taken about twenty men from Ulava. They were all
      kept under hatches. We warn the people wherever we go.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The pressing question now is how to supply our young men and women,
      married Christian couples, with proper occupations to prevent their
      acquiescing in an indolent, useless, selfish life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When their "education is finished," they have no profession, no need to
      work to obtain a livelihood for themselves, wives, and children. They
      can't all be clergymen, nor all even teachers in such a sense as to make
      it a calling and occupation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some wants they have&mdash;houses fit for persons who like reading and
      writing, a table, a bench, a window becomes necessary. Coral lime houses
      would be good for them. They make and wear light clothing, they wash and
      cook on new principles, &amp;c.; but these wants are soon supplied. Only a
      practical sense of the duty of helping others to know what they have been
      taught will keep them from idleness and its consequences. And how few of
      us, with no other safeguard against idleness, would be other than idle!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some, I think, may be helped by being associated with us, and with their
      friends of the Solomon Isles, New Hebrides, in spending some months on
      shore, where they would soon acquire a fair knowledge of the language, and
      might be of great use to less advanced friends. This would be a real work
      for them. Just as Mission work is the safeguard of the settled Church, so
      it must be the safeguard of these young native Churches.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No doubt the Missionary spirit infused into the Samoan and Karotongan
      Churches kept them living and fruitful. I am trying to think upon these
      points.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If the contrast be too violent between the Mission station with its daily
      occupations and the island life, it becomes very difficult for the natives
      to perpetuate the habits of the one amidst the circumstances of the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The habits acquired at Norfolk Island ought to be capable of being easily
      transferred to the conditions of the Melanesian isles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They ought, I think, to wear (in the hot summer and on week days) light
      loose clothing, which could be worn at home; or clothing of the same shape
      and fit (though perhaps of warm materials) might be worn.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The circumstances of the two places must be different, but we must
      minimise the difference as much as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I often think of the steady-going English family, with regular family
      prayers, and attendance twice at Church on Sunday, and the same people
      spending two months on the Continent. No opportunity is made for family
      prayers before the table d'hôte breakfast; and at least one part of the
      Sunday is spent in the Roman Catholic Cathedral, or in a different way
      from the home use. And if this be so with good respectable folk among
      ourselves, what must be the effect of altered circumstances on our
      Melanesians?
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not easy to keep up the devotional life on shore at home, or in the
      islands, or on board ship with the same regularity. And where the convert
      must be more dependent than we ought to be on external opportunities, the
      difficulty is increased. So if the alteration be as little as possible, we
      gain something, we make it easier to our scholars to perpetuate
      uninterruptedly the Norfolk Island life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To live with them and try to show them how, on their island, to keep up
      the religious life unchanged amidst the changed outward circumstances is a
      good way, but then we can't live among them very long, and our example is
      so often faulty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Curiously do these practical difficulties make us realise that there may
      really be some benefit in artificial wants; and that probably the most
      favourable situation for the development of the human character is a
      climate where the necessaries of life are just sufficiently difficult of
      production to require steady industry, and yet that nature should not be
      so rigorous as to make living so hard a matter as to occupy the whole
      attention, and dwarf the mental faculties.'
    </p>
    <p>
      How remarkable, is the date of the following thoughts, almost like a
      foreboding:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 19th, 10 A.M. (to the sisters).&mdash;We are drawing near Santa
      Cruz, about 100 miles off. How my mind is filled with hopes, not unmingled
      with anxiety. It is more than eleven years since we sought to make an
      opening here, and as yet we have no scholar. Last year, I went ashore at a
      large village called Taive, about seven miles from the scene of our
      disaster. Many canoes came to us from that spot, and we stood in quite
      close in the vessel, so that people swam off to us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are all fighting among the various villages and neighbouring islets
      of the Reef Archipelago, twenty miles north of the main island. It is very
      difficult what to do or how to try to make a beginning. God will open a
      door in His own good time. Yet to see and seize on the opportunity when
      given is difficult. How these things make one feel more than ever the need
      of Divine guidance, the gift of the Spirit of Wisdom and Counsel and
      ghostly strength. To human eyes it seems almost hopeless. Yet other
      islanders were in a state almost as hopeless apparently. Only there is a
      something about Santa Cruz which is probably very unreal and imaginary,
      which seems to present unusual difficulties. In a few days, I may, by
      God's goodness, be writing to you again about our visit to the group. And
      if the time be come, may God grant us some opening, and grace to use it
      aright!
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Piteni, Matama, Nupani, Analogo, I can talk somewhat to the people,
      who are Polynesians, and speak a dialect connected with the Maori of New
      Zealand. I think that the people of Indeni (the native name for Santa
      Cruz) are also more than half Polynesians; but I don't know a single
      sentence of their language properly. I can say nothing about it. They
      destroy and distort their organs of pronunciation by excessive use of the
      betel-nut and pepper leaf and lime, so that no word is articulately
      pronounced. It is very hard to catch the sounds they make amidst the
      hubbub on deck or the crowds on shore; yet I think that if we had two or
      three lads quietly with us at Norfolk Island, we should soon make out
      something.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't think I am depressed by this. I only feel troubled by the sense
      that I frequently lose opportunities from indolence and other faults. I am
      quite aware that we can do very little to bring about an introduction to
      these islanders; and I fully believe that in some quite unexpected way, or
      at all events in some way brought about independently of our efforts, a
      work will be begun here some day, in the day when God sees it to be fit
      and right.
    </p>
    <p>
      (To the Bishop of Lichfield.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 27th.&mdash;Leaving Santa Cruz we came to this group from Ulava
      with light fair winds; left Ulava on Saturday at 6 P.M., and sighted the
      island, making the west side of Graciosa Bay on the next Wednesday; sea
      quite smooth; thermometer reached 92 degrees.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sunday.&mdash;Very calm, but a light breeze took us into Nukapu. A canoe
      came off, I made them understand that it was our day of rest, and that I
      would visit them atainu (to-morrow), a curious word. I gave a few
      presents, and we slowly sailed on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Monday, 6 A.M.&mdash;Off Piteni, canoe off, went ashore, low tide, got
      into a canoe, and so reached the beach, people well behaved, much talk of
      taking lads, quite well understood. The speech is (you remember) very
      Maori indeed. There were some nice lads, but no one came away. Four canoes
      from Taumaho were here, and two Piteni men came back from Taumaho while I
      was on shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Nukapu at 2.30 P.M. High water, went in easily over the reef by a
      short cut, not by our old winding narrow passage. I was greatly pleased by
      the people asking me on board, "Where is Bisambe?" "Here I am." "No, no,
      the Bisambe tuai (of old). Your mutua (father). Is he below? Why doesn't
      he come up with some hatchets?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you see they remember you. A tall middle-aged man, Moto, said that he
      was with us in the boat in 1859, and he and I remembered the one-eyed man
      who piloted us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I went here also into the houses. Here is a quaint place; many things,
      not altogether idols, but uncanny, and feared by the people. Women danced
      in my honour, people gave small presents, &amp;c., but no volunteers. I
      could talk with them with sufficient ease; and took my time, lying at my
      ease on a good mat with cane pillow, Anaiteum fashion. I told them that
      they had seen on board many little fellows from many islands; that they
      need not fear to let their children go; that I could not spend time and
      property in coming year by year and giving presents when they were
      unwilling to listen to what I said, but they only made unreal promises,
      put boys in the boat merely to take them out again, and so we went away
      atrakoi.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a little weariness of spirits&mdash;not of spirit&mdash;in the
      contemporaneous words to the home party:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what to write about this voyage. You have heard all about
      tropical vegetation, Santa Cruz canoes, houses, customs, &amp;c. If indeed
      I could draw these fellows, among whom I was lying on a mat on Monday; if
      you could see the fuzzy heads, stained white and red, the great shell
      ornaments on the arms, the round plate of shell as big as a small dinner
      plate hanging over the chest, the large holes in the lobes of the ears
      rilled with perhaps fifteen or twenty rings of tortoise-shell hung on to
      one another; the woven scarves and girdles stained yellow with turmeric
      and stamped with a black pattern: then it would make a curious sight for
      you; and your worthy brother, much at his ease, lying flat on his back on
      two or three mats, talking to the people about his great wish to take away
      some of the jolly little fellows to whom he was giving fish-hooks, would
      no doubt be very "interesting." But really all this has become so
      commonplace, that I can't write about it with any freshness. The volcano
      in this group, Tenakulu, is now active, and was a fine sight at night,
      though the eruption is not continuous as it was in 1859.
    </p>
    <p>
      'October 9th&mdash;Near Ambrym [to the Bishop]. Some people from Aruas,
      the large western bay of Vanua Lava, had been taken by force to Queensland
      or Fiji. The natives simply speak of "a ship of Sydney."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wednesday.&mdash;Aroa and Matlavo. 'Henry Tagalana and Joanna and their
      baby Elizabeth, William Pasvorang and Lydia, and six others, all baptized,
      and four communicants among them, had spent five weeks on shore; a very
      nice set. Six of them lived together at Aroa, had regular morning and
      evening prayers, sang their hymns, and did what they could, talking to
      their people. Codrington went over in a canoe, and spent four days with
      them, much pleased. We brought three scholars for George from thence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thursday, Mota.&mdash;Codrington says the time is come, in his opinion,
      for some steps to be taken to further the movement in Mota. Grown-up
      people much changed, improved, some almost to be regarded as catechumens.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We left Mota, bringing all that were to come; indeed, we scarcely know
      what it is nowadays to lose a boy or man&mdash;a great blessing. There had
      been another visit of eleven canoes of Tikopians; friendly, though unable
      to converse, and promising to return again in two months.
    </p>
    <p>
      'October 11th.&mdash;A topsail schooner in sight, between Ambrym and Paama&mdash;one
      of those kidnapping vessels. I have any amount of (to me) conclusive
      evidence of downright kidnapping. But I don't think I could prove any case
      in a Sydney Court. They have no names painted on some of their vessels,
      and the natives can't catch nor pronounce the names of the white men on
      board. They describe their appearance accurately, and we have more than
      suspicions about some of these fellows.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The planters in Queensland and Fiji, who create the demand for labourers,
      say that they don't like the kidnapping any more than I do. They pay
      occasionally from £6 to £12 for an "imported labourer," and they don't
      want to have him put into their hands in a sullen irritable state of
      mind.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Touching at Nengone, the Bishop saw Mr. Creagh, who had recently visited
      New Caledonia, whither Basset, the poor chief who had been banished to
      Tahiti for refusing to receive a French priest, had been allowed to
      return, on the Emperor Napoleon forbidding interference with Protestant
      missionaries or their converts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wadrokala and his wife and child were brought away, making up a number of
      65 black passengers, besides the 60 scholars already at Norfolk Island.
      The weather throughout the voyage had been unusually still, with frequent
      calms, the sea with hardly any swell. And this had been very happy for the
      Bishop; but he was less well than when he had left Taurarua, and was
      unequal to attending the General Synod in New Zealand, far more so to
      another campaign in Australia, though he cherished the design of going to
      see after the condition of the labourers in Fiji.
    </p>
    <p>
      He finishes his long letter to his former Primate:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      It is perhaps cowardly to say that I am thankful that I am not a clergyman
      in England. I am not the man even in a small parish to stand up and fight
      against so many many-headed monsters. I should give in, and shirk the
      contest. The more I pray that you may have strength to endure it. I don't
      think I was ever pugnacious in the way of controversy; and I am very very
      thankful to be out of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, the tone of the references to Church matters at home had become
      increasingly cautious; and one long letter to Mrs. Martyn he actually tore
      up, lest it should do harm. His feeling more and more was to wish for
      patience and forbearance, and to deprecate violent words or hasty actions&mdash;looking
      from his hermit life upon all the present distress more as a phase of
      Church history that would develop into some form of good, and perhaps
      hardly sensible of the urgency of the struggle and defence. For peace and
      shelter from the strife of tongues was surely one of the compensating
      blessings conferred on him. But, as all his companions agree, he was never
      the same man again after his illness. There was a lower level of spirits
      and of energy, a sensitiveness to annoyances, and an indisposition to
      active exertion, which distressed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      His day began as early as ever, and was mapped out as before, for classes
      of all kinds, Hebrew and reading; but he seldom left his room, except for
      Chapel and meals, being unable to take much out-door exercise. He did not
      see so much of his elder scholars as before, chiefly because the very
      large number of newer pupils made it necessary to employ them more
      constantly; but he never failed to give each of them some instruction for
      a short time every day, though with more effort, for indeed almost
      everything had become a burthen to him. Mr. Codrington's photograph taken
      at this time shows how much changed and aged he had become. The quiet in
      which he now lived resulted in much letter-writing, taking up
      correspondences that had slumbered in more busy times, as his mind flew
      back to old friends: though, indeed, the letters given in the preceding
      Memoir must not be taken by any means to represent the numbers he wrote.
      When he speaks of sending thirty-five by one mail, perhaps only one or two
      have come into my hands; and of those only such portions are of course
      taken as illustrate his life, work, character, and opinions without
      trenching on the reserve due to survivors. Thus multitudes of affectionate
      letters, participating in the joys and sorrows of his brother, his cousins
      and friends, can necessarily find no place here; though the idea of his
      character is hardly complete without direct evidence of the unbroken or
      more truly increasing sympathy he had with those whom he had not met for
      sixteen years, and his love for his brother's wife and children whom he
      had never seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon after his return to Norfolk Island came a packet with a three months'
      accumulation of home despatches. He read and replied in his old
      conversational way, with occasionally a revelation of his deep inner self:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been thinking, dear old Fan, about your words, "there would be a
      good deal to give and take if you came home for a time;" less perhaps now
      than before I was somewhat tamed by my illness. I see more of the meaning
      of that petition, "from all blindness of heart, from pride, vainglory, and
      hypocrisy; and from all uncharitableness."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alas! you don't know what a misspent life I looked back upon, never
      losing hold, God be praised, of the sure belief in His promises of pardon
      and acceptance in Christ. I certainly saw that a want of sympathy, an
      indifference to the feelings of others, want of consideration,
      selfishness, in short, lay at the bottom of very much that I mourned over.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is one thing, that I don't mention as an excuse for a fault which
      really does exist, but simply as a fact, viz., that being always, even
      now, pressed for time, I write very abruptly, and so seem to be much more
      positive and dogmatic than I hope, and really think, is the case. I don't
      remember ever writing you a letter in which I was able to write but as I
      would have talked out the matter under discussion in all its bearings.
      This arises partly from impatience, my pen won't go fast enough; but as I
      state shortly my opinion, without going through the reasons which lead me
      to adopt it, no doubt much that I say seems to be without reason, and some
      of it no doubt is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I need make no excuse for giving as much as possible of the correspondence
      of these last few months, when&mdash;though the manner of his actual
      departure was violent, there was already the shadow, as it were, of death
      upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Sir J. T. Coleridge the letter was:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'December 9, 1870.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Uncle,&mdash;How long it is since I wrote to you!... And yet
      it is true that I think more often of you than of anyone, except Jem, Joan
      and Fan. In fact, your name meets me so often in one way or another&mdash;in
      papers from England, and much more in books continually in use, that I
      could not fail to think of you if I had not the true, deep love that
      brings up the old familiar face and voice so often before my eyes....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish I could talk with you, or rather hear you answer my many questions
      on so many points. I get quite bewildered sometimes. It is hard to read
      the signs of our times; so hard to see where charity ends and compromise
      begins, where the old opinion is to be stoutly maintained, and where the
      new mode of thought is to be accepted. I suppose there always was some
      little difference among divines as to "fundamentals," and no ready-made
      solution exists of each difficult question as it emerges.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is reason for that being so, because it is part of our duty and
      trial to exercise our own power of discretion and judgment. But so much
      now seems to be left to individuals, and so little is accepted on
      authority. In Church matters I have for years thought Synods to be the one
      remedy. If men meet and talk over a difficulty, there is a probability of
      men's understanding each other's motives, and thus preserving charity. If
      one-twentieth part of a diocese insists upon certain observances which
      nineteen-twentieths repudiate, it seems clear that the very small minority
      is put out of court. Yet how often the small minority contains more salt
      than the large majority!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know indeed I am speaking honestly, that I am not worthy to understand
      dear Mr. Keble on many points. "The secret of our Lord" is with such men,
      and we fail to understand him, nous autres I mean, outside the sanctuary.
      Yet there is, I must confess it to you, my dear uncle, a something about
      his book on Eucharistic Adoration which has the character to me of foreign
      rather than of English divinity. I don't want to be exclusive, far from
      it. I don't want to be Anglican versus Primitive; but yet somehow, to me,
      there is a something which belongs more to French or Italian than to
      English character about some parts of the book. It is no doubt because I
      can't see what to his eye was plain.'
    </p>
    <p>
      [An account of the voyage follows as before given.] 'The islanders are
      beginning to find out the true character of the many small vessels
      cruising among them, taking away people to the plantations in Queensland,
      Fiji, &amp;c. So now force is substituted for deceit. Natives are enticed
      on board under promises (by signs of course, for nowhere can they talk to
      them) of presents, tempted down below into the hold to get tomahawks,
      beads, biscuit, &amp;c., then the hatches are clapped on, and they are
      stolen away. I have to try and write a statement about it, which is the
      last thing I can do properly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      [Then the history of the weddings and baptisms.] 'There is another
      pleasant feature to be noticed. The older scholars, almost all of whom are
      Banks Islanders, talk and arrange among themselves plans for helping
      natives of the islands. Thus Edward Wogale, of Mota, volunteers to go to
      Anudha, 300 or 400 miles off, to stay there with his friend Charles
      Sapinamba of that island, to aid him in working among his people. Edward
      is older and knows more than Charles. They talk in Mota, but Edward will
      soon have to speak the tongue of Anudha when living there. B&mdash;&mdash;
      and his wife offer to go to Santa Maria, Robert Pantatun and his wife to
      go to Matlavo, John Nonono to go to Savo, and Andrew Lalena also. This is
      very comforting to me. It is bona fide giving up country and home. It is
      indicative of a real desire to make known the Gospel to other lands. So
      long as they will do this, so long I think we may have the blessed
      assurance that God's Holy Spirit is indeed working in their hearts. Dear
      fellows! It makes me very thankful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My clerical staff is increased by a Mr. Jackson, long a friend and
      supporter of the Mission....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Atkin is a steady-going fellow, most conscientious, with a good
      head-piece of his own, diligent and thoughtful rather than quick. He and
      Bice read Hebrew daily with me, and they will have soon a very fair
      knowledge of it. Joe Atkin knows his Greek Testament very fairly indeed:
      Ellicott, Trench, Alford, Wordsworth and others are in use among us.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you could see some of these little fellows. It is, I suppose,
      natural that an old bachelor should have pleasure in young things about
      him, ready-made substitutes for children of his own. I do like them. With
      English children, save and except Pena, I never was at my ease, partly I
      think from a worse than foolish self-consciousness about so ugly a fellow
      not being acceptable to children. Anyhow, I don't feel shy with
      Melanesians; and I do like the little things about me, even the babies
      come to me away from almost anyone, chiefly, perhaps, because they are
      acquainted at a very early age with a corner of my room where dwells a tin
      of biscuits.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To this day I shut up and draw into my shell when any white specimen of
      humanity looms in sight. How seldom do one's natural tastes coincide with
      one's work. And I may be deceiving myself all along. It is true that I
      have a very small acquaintance with men; not so very small an acquaintance
      with men passed from this world who live in their books; and some living
      authors I read&mdash;our English Commentators are almost all alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that I read too exclusively one class of books. I am not drawn
      out of this particular kind of reading, which is alone really pleasant and
      delightful to me, by meeting with persons who discuss other matters. So I
      read divinity almost if not quite exclusively. I make dutiful efforts to
      read a bit of history or poetry, but it won't do. My relaxation is in
      reading some old favourite, Jackson, Hooker, Jeremy Taylor, &amp;c. Not
      that I know much about them, for my real studying time is occupied in
      translating and teaching. And so I read these books, and others some
      German, occasionally (but seldom) French: Reuss, for example, and Guizot.
      And on the whole I read a fair amount of Hebrew; though even now it is
      only the narrative books that I read, so to say, rapidly and with ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish some of our good Hebrew scholars were sound Poly- and Melanesian
      scholars also. I believe it to be quite true that the mode of thought of a
      South Sea islander resembles very closely that of a Semitic man. And their
      state of mental knowledge or ignorance, too. It is certainly a mistake to
      make the Hebrew language do the work of one of our elaborated European
      languages, the products of thoughts and education and literary knowledge
      which the Hebrew knew nothing of. A Hebrew grammar constructed on the
      principle of a Greek or a Latin grammar is simply a huge anachronism.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How did the people of the time of Moses, or David, or Jeremiah think? is
      the first question. How did they express their thoughts? is the second.
      The grammar is but the mode adapted in speech for notifying and
      communicating thoughts. That the Jew did not think, consequently did not
      speak, like a European is self-evident. Where are we to find people,
      children in thought, keenly alive to the outer world, impressible,
      emotional, but devoid of the power of abstract thought, to whom long
      involved processes of thought and long involved sentences of speech are
      unknown? Consequently, the contrivances for stringing together dependent
      clauses don't exist. Then some wiseacre of an 18th or 19th century German
      writes a grammar on the assumption that a paulo-post-futurum is
      necessarily to be provided for the unfortunate Israelite who thought and
      talked child's language. Now, we Melanesians habitually think and speak
      such languages. I assure you the Hebrew narrative viewed from the
      Melanesian point of thought is wonderfully graphic and lifelike. The
      English version is dull and lifeless in comparison. No modern Hebrew
      scholar agrees with any other as to the mode of construing Hebrew. Anyone
      makes anything out of those unfortunately misused tenses. Delitzsch,
      Ewald, Gesenius, Perowne, Thrupp, Kay too, give no rule by which the
      scholar is to know from the grammar whether the time is past, present, or
      future, i.e., whether such and such a verse is a narrative of a past fact
      or the prophecy of a future one. It is much a matter of exegesis; but
      exegesis not based on grammar is worth very little.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really the time is not inherent in the tense at all. But that is a strong
      assertion, which I think I could prove, give me time and a power of
      writing clearly. Sir William Martin is trying to prove it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All languages of the South Seas are constructed on the same principle. We
      say, "When I get there, it will be right." But all South Sea Islanders, "I
      am there, and it is right." The time is given by something in the context
      which indicates that the speaker's mind is in past, present, or future
      time. "In the beginning God made" rightly, so, but not because the tense
      gives the past sense, for the same tense very often can't have anything to
      do with a past sense, but in the beginning indicates a past time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The doctrine of the Vaw conversive is simply a figment of so-called
      grammarians; language is not an artificial product, but a natural mode of
      expressing ideas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And if they assume that Hebrew has a perfect and imperfect, or past and
      future (for the grammars use all kinds of names), why on earth should
      people who have, on their showing, a past tense, use a clumsy contrivance
      of turning a future tense into a past, and vice versa?
    </p>
    <p>
      'If people had remembered that language is not a trick invented and
      contrived by scholars at their desks, but a natural gift, simple at first,
      and elaborated by degrees, they could not have made such a mess.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The truth is, I think, that such a contrivance was devised to make Hebrew
      do what European scholars decided it must do, these very men being
      ignorant of languages in a simple uncivilised form.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, my dear Uncle, what a prose! Only, as I think a good deal about it,
      you will excuse it, I know.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, it is time for the weddings! The Chapel looks so pretty, and (you
      can't believe it) so do the girls, Emma, Eliza, and Minnie, to be married
      to Edwin, Mulewasawasa, Thomas. The native name is a baptismal one,
      nevertheless, and a good fellow he is, my head nurse in my illness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't write about politics. Then comes the astounding news of this
      fearful war. What am I to say to my Melanesians about it? Do these nations
      believe in the Gospel of peace and goodwill? Is the Sermon on the Mount a
      reality or not? Is such conduct a repudiation of Christianity or not? Are
      nations less responsible than individuals? What possible justification is
      there for this war? It is fearful, fearful on every ground. Oh, this
      mighty belauded nineteenth-century civilisation!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet society has improved in some ways. Even war is not without its
      accompaniment of religion. And it brings out kindly sympathy and
      stimulates works of charity. But what a fearful responsibility lies upon
      the cause of the war. It is hard to acquit Louis Napoleon of being really
      the cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There would be great pleasure in seeing all the younger ones, not equal
      of course to that of seeing you all; but as I get older in my ways and
      habits, I think that my mind goes back more to the young ones. True, I
      have a large family about me, 145 Melanesians here now. Yet there is the
      want of community of thought on some subjects, and the difficulty of
      perfectly easy communication with them. No Melanesian tongue is like
      English to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wrote a first sheet, but filled it up with mere stupid thoughts about
      questions of the day, not worth sending. And this long letter, badly
      written, too, will weary your eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must end. My kindest love to Aunt, Mary, and all. Always, my dearest
      Uncle,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving and grateful Nephew,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Two letters of December 12 follow; the first to Bishop Abraham.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Palmer's picture of the brides, at the last of the weddings the
      Bishop so enjoyed, may be acceptable. It went to Mrs. Abraham by the same
      opportunity:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three were married a short time before Christmas; they, with five others,
      were baptized on Advent Sunday. They had been here about thirteen months,
      and had got on very well during that time, improved in every way. I think
      some of them are loveable girls, and it is pleasant to see them so happy
      and at home here.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They were a queer-looking set when they first came, or I suppose I
      thought them so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I got some of the older girls to give them a good wash all over in warm
      water, and then gave them the new clothes. They looked at me in such a
      curious way. They had heard of me, "Palmer's wife," from the others, but
      had not seen an Englishwoman before. A few days after they came, I ran
      into their room with my hair down, and they exclaimed with wonder "We ura
      ras" ("very good"), almost shouting, and then I told them to feel it, and
      some kissed it with gentle reverence, as though it were something very
      extraordinary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are very kind and obliging in doing anything I want. They have to be
      looked after a good bit, but are very obedient. I did not imagine they
      would give so little trouble. They are great chatterboxes, and very noisy,
      but all in an innocent way. They seldom quarrel among themselves. I don't
      think their feelings are so strong as those of the Maoris, either of love
      or hate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you could have been present at the baptism. They looked so solemn,
      and spoke out very distinctly. They wore white calico jackets, and the
      Font was prettily decorated. The whole service was impressive, and not
      less so our good Bishop's voice and manner. They looked very nice, and it
      was amusing to see how they took it. Only one could I get to look in the
      glass; and she said the flowers were too large: the other two only
      submitted to being beautified.'
    </p>
    <p>
      I return to the Bishop's correspondence:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: Fourth Sunday in Advent, 1870.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Joan,&mdash;I am choosing&mdash;a strange moment to write in.
      It is 8.30 A.M., and in an hour I am going to the New Church, built by the
      Pitcairners, to ordain Mr. C. Bice, Priest. I was up as usual early this
      morning, and I am not well, and feeling queer, and having already read and
      had Morning Chapel Service, I take now this means of quieting myself. You
      see it is nearly three miles to the "town;" the service will be nearly
      three hours; I don't quite know how I shall get through it. I thought of
      having the service here; but our little Chapel won't hold even our
      Melanesian party (80 out of 145) who attend public prayers, and of course
      the islanders want to see, and it is good for them to see an ordination.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is my first expedition to the town since I came from the islands, I
      shall have a horse in case I am very tired, but I would rather walk all
      the way if I can.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just now I am headachy, and seedy too; but I think it is all coming right
      again. I hope to have a bright happy Christmas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'After this day's Ordination we shall number one Bishop, six Priests, and
      one Deacon. There are three or four Melanesians who ought soon to be
      ordained; and if it is possible for me to spend two or three months this
      next winter at Mota, I must read with George, and perhaps ordain him
      Priest. It troubles me much that during all these summer months there can
      be no administration of the Holy Communion, though there are six
      communicants, besides George, now living for good at Mota. There will be
      four or five next year taking up their abode at the neighbouring island of
      Aroa.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Joan! At such times as these, when one is engaged in a specially
      solemn work, there is much heart-searching, and I can't tell you how my
      conscience accuses me of such systematic selfishness during many long
      years. I do see it now, though only in part. I mean, I see how I was all
      along making self the centre, and neglecting all kinds of duties, social
      and others, in consequence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that self-consciousness, a terrible malady, is one's misfortune
      as well as one's fault. But the want of any earnest effort at correcting a
      fault is worse perhaps than the fault itself. And I feel such great, such
      very great need for amendment here. This great fault brings its punishment
      in part even now. I mean, there is a want of brightness, cheerfulness,
      elasticity of mind about the conscious man or woman. He is prone to have
      gloomy, narrow, sullen thoughts, to brood over fancied troubles and
      difficulties; because, making everything refer to and depend on self, he
      naturally can get none of that comfort which they enjoy whose minds
      naturally turn upwards for help and light.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In this way I do suffer a good deal. My chariot-wheels often drag very
      heavily. I am not often in what you may call good spirits. And yet I am
      aware that I am writing now under the influence of a specially depressing
      disorder, and that I may misinterpret my real state of mind. No one ought
      to be happier, as far as advantages of employment in a good service, and
      kindness of friends, &amp;c., can contribute to make one happy. And, on
      the whole, I know my life is a happy one. I am sure that I have a far
      larger share of happiness than falls to the lot of most people. Only I do
      feel very much the lack, almost the utter lack of just that grace which
      was so characteristic of our dear Father, that simplicity and real
      humility and truthfulness of character!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, one doesn't often say these things to another person! But it is a
      relief to say them. I know the remedy quite well. It is a very simple case
      for the doctor to deal with; but it costs the patient just everything
      short of life, when you have to dig right down and cut out by the roots an
      evil of a whole life standing. I assure you that it is hard work, because
      these feelings of ours are such intangible, untractable things! It is hard
      to lay hold of, and mould and direct them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I pray God that I may not willingly yield to these gloomy unloving
      feelings. As often as I look out of myself upon Him, His love and
      goodness, then I catch a bright gleam. I think that you will not suspect
      me of being in a morbid state of mind. You will say, "Poor old fellow! he
      was seedy and depressed when he wrote all that." And that's true, but not
      the whole truth. I have much need of your prayers, indeed, for grace and
      strength to correct faults of which I am conscious, to say nothing of
      unknown sin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Ordination is over, a quiet solemn service. The new Church, which I
      had not seen, is very creditable to the people, who built it themselves.
      It is wooden, about thirty-six or thirty-eight feet high, will hold 500
      people well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nobbs preached a very good sermon. I got on very well. Singing very
      good. Five Priests assisting in this little place!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Christmas Eve.&mdash;What a meaning one of my favourite hymns (xxxviii.
      in "Book of Praise") has, when one thinks of this awful war, how hard to
      realize the suffering and misery; the rage and exasperation; the pride and
      exaltation! How hard to be thankful enough for the blessings of peace in
      this little spot!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our Chapel is beautifully decorated. A star at the east end over the word
      Emmanuel, all in golden everlasting flame, with lilies and oleanders in
      front of young Norfolk Island pines and evergreens.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Seven new Communicants to-morrow morning. And all things, God be praised,
      happy and peaceful about us. All Christmas blessings and joys to you, dear
      ones!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Christmas Day, 3 P.M.&mdash;Such a happy day! Such a solemn, quiet
      service at 7 A.M., followed by a short joyous 11 A.M. service. Christmas
      Hymn, one with words set to the tune for "Hark! the herald Angels sing."
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know we never have the Litany on Sundays, because everybody is in
      Chapel twice a day, and we of course have it on Wednesday and Friday, and
      every native Communion Sunday, i.e., every alternate Sunday; we have no
      Communion Service at 11 A.M. as our Communicants have been in Chapel at
      the 7 o'clock service; so to-day, the Lessons being short, the service,
      including my short service, was over by 11.20.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now we have a week's holiday, that is, no school; though I think it is
      hard work, inasmuch as the preparing plans for school lessons, rearranging
      classes, sketching out the work, is tiring to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I have such heaps of letters, which do worry me. But, on the other
      hand, I get much quiet time for some reading, and I enjoy that more than
      anything. Ten of our party were in Chapel at 11 A.M. with us for the first
      time. You know that we don't allow everyone to come, but only those that
      we believe to be aware of the meaning of Prayer, and who can read, and are
      in a fair way to be Catechumens. All these ten will, I hope, be baptized
      this summer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are obliged, seriously, to think of a proper Chapel. The present one
      is 45 ft. by 19 ft. and too small. It is only a temporary oblong room;
      very nice, because we have the crimson hangings, handsome sandal-wood
      lectern, and some good carving. But we have to cram about eighty persons
      into it, and on occasions (Baptisms and Confirmations, or at an
      Ordination) when others come, we have no room. Mr. Codrington understands
      these things well, and not only as an amateur archaeologist; he knows the
      principle of building well in stone and wood. Especially useful in this
      knowledge here, where we work up our own material to a great extent. Our
      notion&mdash;his notion rather&mdash;is to have stone foundations and
      solid stone buttresses to carry a light roof. Then the rest will be wood.
      It ought to be about sixty feet by thirty, exclusive of chancel and apse.
      When we get all the measurements carefully made, we shall send exact
      accounts of the shape and size of the windows, and suggest subjects for
      stained glass by Hardman, or whoever might now be the best man. I hope
      that it won't cost very much, £perhaps 500.
    </p>
    <p>
      December 21st.&mdash;We have not had a fine Christmas week, heavy rain and
      hot winds. But the rain has done much good. The Norfolk Islanders have
      much influenza, but we are at present quite free from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yesterday I spent two hours in training and putting to rights my
      stephanotis, which now climbs over half my verandah. I have such Japanese
      lilies making ready to put forth their splendours. Two or three azaleas
      grow well. Rhododendrons won't grow well. My little pines grow well, and
      are about seven feet high. It is very pleasant to see the growth of these
      things when I return from the voyage. The "pottering about" the little
      gardens, the park-like paddocks, with our sheep and cattle and horses,
      gives me some exercise every day. I go about quietly, and very often by
      myself, with a book. After thinking of all kinds of things and persons, I
      think that my increased and increasing unwillingness to write is one proof
      of my not being so strong or vigorous. I can't tell you what an effort it
      is to me to write a business letter; and I almost dread a long effusion
      from anyone, because, though I like reading it, I have the thought of the
      labour of answering it in my mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then again, I who used to be so very talkative, am taciturn now.
      Occasionally, I victimize some unfortunate with a flow of language about
      some point of divinity, or if I get a hearer on South Sea languages, I can
      bore him with much satisfaction to myself. But I am so stupid about small
      talk. I cannot make it. When I have to try with some Norfolk Islander,
      e.g. it does weary me so! Mind, I don't despise it. But instead of being a
      relaxation, it is of all things the hardest work to me. I am very dull in
      that way, you know. And sometimes I think people must take me to be
      sullen, for I never know how to keep the talk going. Then if I do talk, I
      get upon some point that no one cares for, and bore everybody. So here,
      too, I fall back on my own set of friends, who are most tolerant of my
      idiosyncrasies, and on my Melanesians who don't notice them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your loving Brother,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. P.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      In spite of this distaste for writing, a good many letters were sent forth
      during the early months of 1871, most of them the final ones to each
      correspondent. The next, to Miss Mackenzie, is a reply to one in which, by
      Bishop Wilkinson's desire, she had sought for counsel regarding the Zulu
      Mission, especially on questions that she knew by experience to be most
      difficult, i.e., of inculcating Christian modesty, and likewise on the
      qualifications of a native ministry:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: Jan. 26, 1871.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Miss Mackenzie,&mdash;In addition to a very long and interesting
      letter of yours, I have a letter from my sister, who has just seen you at
      Havant, so I must lose no more time in writing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'First, let me say that I am as sure as I can be of anything that I have
      not registered, that I wrote to thank you for the prints long ago. Indeed,
      all these many gifts of yours are specially valuable as having been once
      the property of your brother, of whom it seems presumptuous for me to
      speak, and as having actually been used in Mission work in so distant a
      part of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not say that "Thomas a Kempis," his sextant, and his pedometer,
      are among my few real valuables. For the use of the prints, I can't say
      much on my own knowledge. My classes are for the most part made up of lads
      and young men, teachers, or preparing for Confirmation or Holy Communion;
      one class, always of younger ones, being prepared for Baptism; and
      sometimes youths, newcomers, when we have to take in hand a new language.
      Those prints are not of much use, therefore, to my special classes. Most
      of them have passed beyond the stage of being taught by pictures, though
      they like to look at them. But Mrs. Palmer has been using them constantly
      with the girls' classes, and so with the less advanced classes throughout
      the school.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One difficulty will to the end be, that by the time we can talk freely to
      our scholars, and they can understand their own language employed as a
      vehicle for religious teaching, they are not sufficiently supplied with
      books. True, we have translations of such parts of the Bible as quite
      enable us to teach all that a Christian need know and do; but I often wish
      for plenty of good useful little books on other subjects, and I don't see
      my way to this. Our own press is always at work printing translations,
      &amp;c. It is not easy to write the proper kind of book in these
      languages, and how are they to be printed? We haven't time to print them
      here, and who is to correct the press elsewhere? The great fact in your
      letter is the account of Bishop Wilkinson's Consecration. I am heartily
      glad to hear of it, and I will send, if I can, now, if not, soon, an
      enclosure to him for you to forward. I doubt if I can help him by any
      means as to qualifications of candidates for Holy Orders, &amp;c. Our work
      is quite in a tentative state, and I am sometimes troubled to see that
      this Mission is supposed to be in a more advanced state than is really the
      case.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For example, the report of a man going ashore dressed as a Bishop with a
      Bible in his hand to entice the natives away, assumes islands to be in a
      state where the conventional man in white tie and black-tail coat preaches
      to the natives. My costume, when I go ashore, is an old Crimean shirt, a
      very ancient wide-awake. Not a syllable has in all probability ever been
      written, except in our small note-books, of the language of the island. My
      attention is turned to keeping the crowd in good-humour by a few simple
      presents of fish-hooks, beads, &amp;c. Only at Mota is there a resident
      Christian; and even there, people who don't know what Mota was, and what a
      Melanesian island, for the most part, alas! still is, would see nothing to
      indicate a change for the better, except that the people are unarmed, and
      would be friendly and confiding in their manner to a stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hardly know how to bring my Melanesian experience to bear upon
      Zululand. The immorality, infanticide, superstition, &amp;c., seem to be
      as great in a Melanesian island as in any part of the heathen world. And
      with our many languages, it is not possible for us to-know the "slang" of
      the various islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must be cheery about it all. Just see what the old writers, e.g.
      Chrysostom, say about Christian (nominally) morals and manners at wedding
      feasts, and generally. Impurity is the sin, par excellence, of all
      unchristian people. Look at St. Paul's words to the Corinthians and
      others. And we must not expect, though we must aim at, and hope, and pray
      for much that we don't see yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What opportunity will Bishop Wilkinson have for testing the practical
      teaching power and steady conduct of his converts?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Many of our Melanesians have their classes here, and we can form an
      opinion of their available knowledge, how far they can reproduce what they
      know, &amp;c. We can see, too, whether they exercise any influence over
      the younger ones.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Twelve (this season) are counted as sixth form, or monitors, or whatever
      you please to call them. [Then ensues an account of the rotation of
      industrial work, &amp;c.]
    </p>
    <p>
      'The other day I was examining an Ysabel lad, not formally in school, but
      he happened to be in my room, as they are always hanging about (as you
      know). He knew much more than I expected: "Who taught you all this? I am
      very well pleased."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Wogale," was the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Edward Wogale is George Sarawai's own brother, volunteering now to go to
      Anudha (Florida), near Ysabel Island. If I see that a young man (by his
      written notes, little essays so to say, analysis of lessons) understands
      what he has been taught; and if I see (by the proficiency of his pupils)
      that he can reproduce and communicate this teaching to others, then one
      part of the question of his fitness is answered. If he has been here for
      years, always well conducted, and if when at home occasionally he has
      always behaved well and resisted temptation; and perhaps I should add, if
      he is respectably married, or about to be married, to a decent Christian
      girl, then we may hope that the matter of moral fitness may be hopefully
      settled. Assuming this, and thank God, I believe I may assume that it is
      the case with several here now, as soon as a Deacon is required in any
      place that he is willing to work in, I should not hesitate to ordain him;
      but I can't specify exactly what his qualifications ought to be, because I
      can't undertake to settle the difficult question of what constitutes
      absolutely essential teaching for a Christian, i.e., the doctrine of
      fundamentals. Practically one can settle it; and that quite as well as in
      England, where there is, and must be any amount of inequality in the
      attainments and earnestness of the candidates, and where no examination
      can secure the fitness or even the mental capacity of the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say to myself, "Here is an island or a part of an island from which we
      have had a good many scholars. Some married ones are going back to live
      permanently. They are Christians, and some are Communicants. They wish to
      do what they can to get the young ones about them for regular school and
      to talk to the older people. They all have and can use their Prayer-books.
      The people are friendly. Is there one among them of whom I can (humanly
      speaking) feel sure that, by God's blessing, he will lead a good life
      among them, and that he can and will teach them faithfully the elements of
      Christian truth and practice? If we all agree that there is such a one,
      why not ordain him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I want to see people recognising the office of Deacon as something
      very distinct indeed from that of the Priest. It is a very different
      matter indeed, when we come to talk about candidates for Priest's orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Again, look at the missionary clergy of old times. No doubt in mediaeval
      times so much stress was laid upon the mere perfunctory performance of the
      ministerial act, as apart from careful teaching of the meaning and purport
      of the act, that the mediaeval missionary is so far not a very safe model
      for us to imitate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I suppose that multitudes of men did good work who could no more
      comprehend nor write out the result of lessons that Edward, Henry, Edmund,
      Robert and twenty others here are writing out, than our English peasant
      can comprehend a learned theological treatise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And we must consider the qualifications of one's native clergy in
      relation to the work that they have to do. They have not to teach theology
      to educated Christians, but to make known the elements of Gospel truth to
      ignorant heathen people. If they can state clearly and forcibly the very
      primary leading fundamental truths of the Gospel, and live as
      simple-minded humble Christians, that is enough indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps this is as likely to make the Bishop understand my notions on the
      subject as any more detailed account of the course of instruction. I
      really have not time to copy out some ten or twelve pages of some older
      lad's note-book. I think you would be satisfied with their work. I don't
      mean, of course, the mere writing, which is almost always excellent, but
      there is a ready apprehension of the meaning of any point clearly put
      before them, which is very satisfactory. I am now thinking of the twenty
      or thirty best among our 145 scholars. This is a confused, almost
      unintelligible scrawl; but I am busy, and not very fresh for work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours very truly,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      A letter to Bishop Abraham was in hand at the same time, full of replies
      to the information in one newly received from this much valued friend.
      After deploring an attack of illness from which Mrs. Abraham had been
      suffering, comes the remark&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know what one always feels, that one can't be unhappy about good
      people, whatever happens to them. I do so enjoy your talk about Church
      works in England. It makes the modern phraseology intelligible. I know now
      what is meant by "missions" and "missioners" and "retreats."
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was thinking lately of George Herbert at Hereford, as I read the four
      sermons which Vaughan lately preached there, one on the Atonement, which I
      liked very much indeed. The Cathedral has been beautifully restored, has
      it not? Then, I think of you in York Minster on November 20, with that
      good text from Psalm xcvi. I read your letter on Tuesday; on which day our
      morning Psalms in Chapel are always chanted, xcv., xcvi., xcvii. The
      application seems very natural, but to work out those applications is
      difficult. The more I read sermons, and I read a good many, the more I
      wonder how men can write them!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind, I will gladly pay Charley ten shillings a sermon, if he will copy
      it out for me. It will do the boy good. Dear old Tutor used to fag me to
      write copies of the Bishop's long New Zealand letters, as I wrote a decent
      hand then. Don't I remember a long one from Anaiteum, and how I wondered
      where on earth or sea Anaiteum could be!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want to hear men talk on these matters (the Eucharistic question) who
      represent the view that is least familiar to me. And then I feel, when it
      comes to a point of Greek criticism, sad regret and almost remorse at my
      old idleness and foolish waste of time when I might have made myself a
      decent scholar. I cram up passages, instead of applying a scholarly habit
      of mind to the examination of them. And now too, it is harder than ever to
      correct bad habits of inattention, inaccuracy, &amp;c. I am almost too
      weary oftentimes to do my work anyhow, much less can I make an effort to
      improve my way of doing it. But I must be content, thankful to get on
      somehow or other, and to be able to teach the fellows something.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is quite curious to see how often one is baffled in one's attempts to
      put oneself en rapport with the Melanesian mind. If one can manage it,
      they really show one that they know a good deal, not merely by heart, or
      as matter of memory, that is worth little; but they show that they can
      think. But often they seem utterly stupid and lost, and one is perplexed
      to know what their difficulty can possibly be. One thing is clear, that
      they have little faculty of generalization. As you know, they seldom have
      a name for their island, but only names for each tiny headland, and bay,
      and village. The name for the island you must learn from the inhabitants
      of another island who view the one whose name you are seeking as one
      because, being distant, it must appear to them in its oneness, not in its
      many various parts. Just so, they find it very difficult to classify any
      ideas under general heads. Ask for details, and you get a whole list of
      them. Ask for general principles, and only a few can answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For example, it is not easy to make them see how all temptations to sin
      were overcome in the three representative assaults made upon Him in the
      wilderness; how love is the fulfilling of the Law; or how the violation of
      one Commandment is the violation (of the principle) of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then they have much difficulty (from shyness partly, and a want of
      teaching when young) in expressing themselves. They really know much that
      only skilful questioning, much more skilful than mine, can get out of
      them. It wants&mdash;all teaching does&mdash;a man with lots of animal
      spirits, health, pluck, vigour, &amp;c. Every year I find it more
      difficult.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To another of the New Zealand friends who had returned to England there
      was a letter on Jan. 31:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Mr. Lloyd,&mdash;I must send you a line, though I have little to
      say. And I should be very sorry if we did not correspond with some attempt
      at regularity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What can one think of long without the mind running off to France? What a
      wonderful story it is! Only Old Testament language can describe it, only a
      Prophet can moralise upon it. It is too dreadful in its suddenness and
      extent. One fears that vice and luxury and ungodliness have destroyed
      whatever of chivalry and patriotism there once was in the French
      character. To think that this is the country of St. Louis and Bayard! The
      Empire seems almost systematically to have completed the demoralisation of
      the people. There is nothing left to appeal to, nothing on which to rally.
      It is an awful thing to see such judgments passing before our very eyes.
      So fearful a humiliation may do something yet for the French people, but I
      dread even worse news. It nearly came the other day to a repetition of the
      old Danton and Robespierre days.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here we are going on happily.... I would give something to spend a quiet
      Sunday with you in your old Church. How pleasant to have an old Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always yours affectionately,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      My own last letter came at the same time:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island: February 16th, 1871.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Cousin,&mdash;I must not leave your letter of last October
      without an instalment of an answer, though this is only a chance
      opportunity of sending letters by a whaler, and I have only ten minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your account of the Southampton Congress is a regular picture. I thinly I
      can see the Bishops of Winton, Sarum, and Oxon; and all that you say by
      way of comment on what is going off in the Church at home interests me
      exceedingly. You can't think what a treat your letters are.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see Mr. Codrington is the only one of my age, and (so to say)
      education here, and so to commune with one who thinks much on these
      matters, which of course have the deepest interest for me, is very
      pleasant and useful. On this account I do so value the Bishop of
      Salisbury's letters, and it is so very kind of him to write to me in the
      midst of the overwhelming occupations of an English diocese.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think you have mentioned Dr. Vaughan. I read his books with much
      interest. He doesn't belong to the Keble theology; but he seems to me to
      be a thoughtful, useful, and eminently practical writer. He seems to know
      what men are thinking of, and to grapple with their difficulties. I am
      pleased with a little book, by Canon Norris, "Key to the New Testament":
      the work of a man who has read a good deal, and thought much.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He condenses into a 2s. 6d. book the work of years.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are all alive now, trying to work up your parochial schools to
      "efficiency" mark&mdash;rather you were doing so, for I think there was
      only time allowed up to December 31, 1870. I hope that the efforts were
      successful. At such times one wishes to see great noble gifts, men of
      great riches giving their £10,000 to a common fund. Then I remember that
      the claims and calls are so numerous in England, that very wealthy men can
      hardly give in that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly I am spared the temptation myself of seeing the luxury and
      extravagance which must tempt one to feel hard and bitter, I should fear.
      We go on quietly and happily. You know our school is large. Thank God, we
      are all well, save dear old Fisher, who met with a sad boating accident
      last week. A coil of the boat raft caught his ankle as the strain was
      suddenly tightened by a rather heavy sea, and literally tore the front
      part of his foot completely off, besides dislocating and fracturing the
      ankle-bone. He bears the pain well, and he is doing very well; but there
      may be latent tetanus, and I shall not feel easy for ten days more yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'His smile was pleasant, and his grasp of the hand was an indication of
      his faith and trust, as he answered my remark, "You know Fisher, He does
      nothing without a reason: you remember our talk about the sparrows and the
      hairs of our heads."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I know," was all he said; but the look was a whole volume....
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your Charlotte is Fisher's wife, you know, and a worthy good creature she
      is. Poor old Fisher, the first time I saw tears on his cheeks was when his
      wife met him being carried up, and I took her to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The mail goes. Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      It may as well be here mentioned that Fisher Pantatun escaped tetanus,
      lived to have his limb amputated by a medical man, who has since come to
      reside at Norfolk Island, and that he has been further provided with a
      wooden leg, to the extreme wonder and admiration of his countrymen at
      Mota, where he has since joined the Christian community.
    </p>
    <p>
      The home letter, finished the last, had been begun before the first, on
      Feb. 11, 'My birthday,' as the Bishop writes, adding:&mdash;'How as time
      goes on we think more and more of him and miss him. Especially now in
      these times, with so many difficult questions distressing and perplexing
      men, his wise calm judgment would have been such a strength and support.
      You know I have all his letters since I left England, and he never missed
      a mail. And now it is nearly ten years since he passed away from this
      world. What would he say to us all? What would he think of all that has
      taken place in the interval? Thank God, he would certainly rejoice in
      seeing all his children loving each other more and more as they grow older
      and learn from experience the blessedness and infrequency of such a
      thoroughly united, happy set of brothers and sisters. Why, you have never
      missed a single mail in all these sixteen years; and I know, in spite of
      occasional differences of opinion, that there is really more than ever of
      mutual love, and much more of mutual esteem than ever. There is no
      blessing like this. And it is a special and unusual blessing. And surely,
      next to God, we owe it to our dear parents, and perhaps especially to him
      who was the one to live on as we grew up into men and women. What should I
      have done out here without a perfect trust in you three, and without your
      letters and loving remembrances in boxes, &amp;c.? I fancy that I should
      have broken down altogether, or else have hardened (more than I have
      become) to the soft and restful influences of the home life. I see some
      people really alone in these countries, really expatriated. Now I never
      feel that; partly because I have your letters, partly because I have the
      knowledge that, if ever I did have to go to England, I should find all the
      old family love, only intensified and deepened. I can tell you that the
      consciousness of all this is a great help, and carries one along famously.
      And then the hope of meeting by-and-by and for ever!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True to the kindred points of heaven and home.' Surely such loyalty of
      heart, making a living influence of parents so long in their graves, has
      been seldom, at least, put on record, though maybe it often and often has
      existed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, on March 8:&mdash;'Such a fit came over me yesterday of old
      memories. I was reading a bit of Wordsworth (the poet).
    </p>
    <p>
      I remembered dear dear Uncle Frank telling me how Wordsworth came over to
      Ottery, and called on him, and how he felt so honoured; and so I felt on
      thinking of him, and the old (pet) names, and most of all, of course, of
      Father and Mother, I seemed to see them all with unusual clearness. Then I
      read one of the two little notes I had from Mr. Keble, which live in my
      "Christian Year," and so I went on dreaming and thinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, if by His mercy I may indeed be brought to the home where they
      dwell! But as the power of keen enjoyment of this world was never mine, as
      it is given to bright healthy creatures with eyes and teeth and limbs
      sound and firm, so I try to remember dear Father's words, that "he did not
      mean that he was fit to go because there was little that he cared to stop
      here for." And I don't feel morbid like, only with a diminished capacity
      for enjoying things here. Of the mere animal pleasures, eating and
      drinking are a serious trouble. My eyes don't allow me to look about much,
      and I walk with "unshowing eye turned towards the earth." I don't converse
      with ease; there is the feeling of difficulty in framing words. I prefer
      to be alone and silent. If I must talk, I like the English tongue least of
      all. Melanesia doesn't have such combinations of consonants and harsh
      sounds as our vernacular rejoices in. If I speak loud, as in preaching, I
      am pretty clear still; but I can't read at all properly now without real
      awkwardness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am delighted with Shairp's "Essays" that Pena sent me. He has the very
      nature to make him capable of appreciating the best and most thoughtful
      writers, especially those who have a thoughtful spirit of piety in them.
      He gives me many a very happy quiet hour. I wish such a book had come in
      my way while I was young. I more than ever regret that Mr. Keble's
      "Praelectiones" was never translated into English. I am sure that I have
      neglected poetry all my life for want of some guide to the appreciation
      and criticism of it, and that I am the worse for it. If you don't use
      Uncle Sam's "Biographia Literaria," and "Literary Remains," I should much
      like to have them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you, Fan, care to have any of my German books? I have, indeed, scarce
      any but theological ones. But no one else reads German here, and I read
      none but the divinity; and, indeed, I almost wish I had them in
      translations, for the sake of the English type and paper. My eyes don't
      like the German type at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Moreover, now (it was not so years ago), all that is worth reading in
      their language is in a good serviceable English dress, and passed,
      moreover, through the minds of clear English thinkers&mdash;and the
      Germans are such wordy, clumsy, involved writers. A man need not be a
      German scholar to be well acquainted with all useful German theology.
      Döllinger is almost the only clear, plain writer I know among them.
      Dorner, the great Lutheran divine, gives you about two pages and a half of
      close print for a single sentence&mdash;awful work, worse than my
      English!... But I know that if I read less, and thought more, it would be
      better. Only it is such hard work thinking, and I am so lazy! I was amused
      at hearing, through another lad, of Edward Wogale's remark, "This helping
      in translation" (a revisal of the "Acts" in Mota) "is such hard work!"
      "Yes, my boy, brain work takes it out of you." I wish I had Jem's power of
      writing reports, condensing evidence into clear reliable statements.
      Lawyers get that power; while we Clergymen are careless and inaccurate,
      because, as old Lord Campbell said, "there is no reply to our sermons."
    </p>
    <p>
      'What would I give to have been well drilled in grammar, and made an
      accurate scholar in old days! Ottery School and Eton didn't do much for me
      in that way, though of course the fault was chiefly in myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But most of all, I think that I regret the real loss to us Eton boys of
      the weekly help that Winchester, Rugby, and Harrow boys had from Moberly,
      Arnold, and Vaughan in their sermons! I really think that might have
      helped to keep us out of harm!
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is now 4.30 P.M., calm and hot. Such a tiger-lily on my table, and the
      pretty delicate achimenes, and the stephanotis climbing up the verandah,
      and a bignonia by its side, with honeysuckle all over the steps, and
      jessamine all over the two water-tanks at the angle of the verandah. The
      Melanesians have, I think, twenty-nine flower gardens, and they bring the
      flowers, &amp;c.&mdash;lots of flowers, and the oleanders are a sight!
      Some azaleas are doing well, verbenas, hibiscus of all kinds. Roses and,
      alas! clove carnations, and stocks, and many of the dear old cottage
      things won't grow well. Scarlet passion flowers and splendid Japanese
      lilies of perfect white or pink or spotted. The golden one I have not yet
      dared to buy. They are most beautiful. I like both the red and the yellow
      tritoma; we have both. But I don't think we have the perfume of the
      English flowers, and I miss the clover and buttercup. And what would I
      give for an old-fashioned cabbage rose, as big as a saucer, and for fresh
      violets, which grow here but have little scent, and lilies of the valley!
      Still more, fancy seeing a Devonshire bank in spring, with primroses and
      daisies, or meadows with cowslip and clover and buttercups, and hearing
      thrushes and blackbirds and larks and cuckoos, and seeing trout rise to
      the flies on the water! There is much exaggeration in second-rate books
      about tropical vegetation. You are really much better off than we are. No
      trees equal English oaks, beeches, and elms, and chestnuts; and with very
      little expense and some care, you have any flowers you like, growing out
      of doors or in a greenhouse. You can make a warmer climate, and we can't a
      colder one. But we have plenty to look at for all that. There, what a nice
      hour I have spent in chatting with you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This same dreamy kind of 'chat,' full of the past, and of quiet meditation
      over the present, reminding one of Bunyan's Pilgrims in the Land of
      Beulah, continues at intervals through the sheets written while waiting
      for the 'Southern Cross.' Here is a note (March 14) of the teaching:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am working at the Miracles with the second set, and I am able to
      venture upon serious questions, viz. the connection between sin and
      physical infirmity or sickness, the Demoniacs, the power of working
      miracles as essential to the Second Adam, in whom the prerogative of the
      Man (the ideal man according to the idea of his original condition) was
      restored. Then we go pretty closely into detail on each miracle, and try
      to work away till we reach a general principle or law.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With another class I am making a kind of Commentary on St. Luke. With a
      third, trying to draw out in full the meaning of the Lord's Prayer. With a
      fourth, Old Testament history. It is often very interesting; but, apart
      from all sham, I am a very poor teacher. I can discourse, or talk with
      equals, but I can't teach. So I don't do justice to these or any other
      pupils I may chance to have. But they learn something among us all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He speaks of himself as being remarkably well and free from the
      discomforts of illness during the months of March and April: and these
      letters show perfect peace and serenity of spirit; but his silence and
      inadequacy for 'small talk' were felt like depression or melancholy by
      some of his white companions, and he always seemed to feel it difficult to
      rouse himself. To sit and study his Hebrew Isaiah with Delitzsch's comment
      was his chief pleasure; and on his birthday, April 1, Easter Eve, and the
      ensuing holy days, he read over all his Father's letters to him, and
      dwelt, in the remarks to his sisters, upon their wisdom and tenderness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Codrington says: 'Before starting on the voyage he had confirmed some
      candidates in the Church in town: on which occasion he seemed to rouse
      himself with difficulty for the walk, and would go by himself; but he was
      roused again by the service, and gave a spirited and eloquent address, and
      came back, after a hearty meal and lively conversation, much refreshed in
      mind and body. This was on Palm Sunday. On Easter Day he held his last
      confirmation of three girls and two Solomon Island boys.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then came the 'Southern Cross,' bringing with her from New Zealand a box
      with numerous books and other treasures, the pillow that the old Bishop of
      Exeter was leaning on when he died; a photograph, from the Bishop of
      Salisbury, of his Cathedral, and among the gifts for the younger
      Melanesians, a large Noah's ark, which elicited great shouts of delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well! [after mentioning the articles in order] all these things, and
      still more the thought of the pains taken and the many loving feelings
      engaged in getting them together, will help me much during the coming
      months. All the little unexpected things are so many little signs of the
      care and love you always have for me, and that is more than their own
      value, after all. I always feel it solemn to go off on these voyages. We
      have had such mercies. Fisher is doing quite well, getting about on
      crutches; and that is the only hospital case we have had during the whole
      summer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'April 27th.&mdash;We start in a few hours (D.V.). The weather is better.
      You have my thoughts and hopes and prayers. I am really pretty well: and
      though often distressed by the thought of past sins and present ones, yet
      I have a firm trust in God's mercy through Christ, and a reasonable hope
      that the Holy Spirit is guiding and influencing me. What more can I say to
      make you think contentedly and cheerfully about me? God bless you all!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So the last voyage was begun. The plan was much the same as usual. On the
      way to Mota, the Bishop landed on Whitsuntide Island, and there was told
      that what the people called a 'thief ship' had carried off some of their
      people. Star Island was found nearly depopulated. On May 16, the Bishop,
      with Mr. Bice and their scholars, landed at Mota, and the 'Southern Cross'
      went on with Mr. Brooke to Florida, where he found that the
      'Snatch-snatch' vessels, as they were there called, had carried off fifty
      men. They had gone on board to trade, but were instantly clapped under
      hatches, while tobacco and a hatchet were thrown to their friends in the
      canoe. Some canoes had been upset by a noose from the vessel, then a gun
      was fired, and while the natives tried to swim away, a boat was lowered,
      which picked up the swimmers, and carried them off. One man named Lave,
      who jumped overboard and escaped, had had two fingers held up to him,
      which he supposed to mean two months, but which did mean two years.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was plain that enticing having failed, violence was being resorted to;
      and Mr. Brooke was left to an anxious sojourn, while Mr. Atkin returned to
      Mota on his way to his own special charge at Bauro. He says, on June 9:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop had just come back from a week's journeying with William in
      his boat. They had been to Santa Maria, Vanua Lava, and Saddle Island; the
      weather was bad, but the Bishop, although he is tired, does not think he
      is any the worse for his knocking about. He is not at all well; he is in
      low spirits, and has lost almost all his energy. He said, while talking
      about the deportation of islanders to Fiji, that he didn't know what was
      to be done; all this time had been spent in preparing teachers qualified
      to teach their own people, but now when the teachers were provided, all
      the people were taken away. The extent to which the carrying off of the
      natives has gone is startling. It certainly is time for us to think what
      is to be done next. I do not think that it is an exaggerated estimate,
      others would say it is under the mark, that one half the population of the
      Banks Islands over ten years of age have been taken away. I am trying not
      to expect anything about the Solomon Islands before we are there, but we
      have heard that several vessels have cargoes from there. If the people
      have escaped a little longer for their wildness, it will not be for long.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop still remained at Mota, while I went back to the Solomon
      Islanders. The cliffs of Mota, and perhaps the intelligence of the people,
      had comparatively protected it, though Port Patteson had become a station
      of the "labour ships." The village of Kohimarama was not a
      disappointment.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Bishop Patteson proceeds:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Things are very different. I think that we may, without danger, baptize a
      great many infants and quite young children&mdash;so many parents are
      actually seeking Christian teaching themselves, or willing to give their
      children to be taught. I think that some adults, married men, may possibly
      be baptized. I should think that not less than forty or fifty are daily
      being taught twice a day, as a distinct set of Catechumens. Besides this,
      some of the women seem to be in earnest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About two hours and a half are spent daily by me with about twenty-three
      grown-up men. They come, too, at all hours, in small parties, two or
      three, to tell their thoughts and feelings, how they are beginning to
      pray, what they say, what they wish and hope, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is more indication than I ever saw here before of a "movement," a
      distinct advance, towards Christianity. The distinction between passively
      listening to our teaching, and accepting it as God's Word and acting upon
      it, seems to be clearly felt. I speak strongly and habitually about the
      necessity of baptism. "He that believeth, and is baptized" &amp;c.
      Independently of the doctrinal truth about baptism, the call to the
      heathen man to take some step, to enter into some engagement, to ally
      himself with a body of Christian believers by some distinct act of his
      own, needing careful preparation, &amp;c., has a meaning and a value
      incalculably great.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes, JESUS is to us all a source of pardon, light, and life, all these
      treasures are in Him. But he distributes these gifts by His Spirit in His
      appointed ways. You can't understand or receive the Gospel with a heart
      clinging to your old ways. And you can't remake your hearts. He must do
      it, and this is His way of doing it. You must be born again. You must be
      made new men."
    </p>
    <p>
      'But why write all this, which is so commonplace?
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel more than ever the need of very simple, very short services for
      ignorant Catechumens.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They used to throng our morning and evening prayer, perhaps 130 being
      present, for about that number attend our daily school; but they could not
      understand one sentence in ten of the Common Prayer-book. And it is bad
      for people to accustom themselves to a "formal" service. So I have stopped
      that. We baptized people have our regular service and at the end of my
      school, held in the dark, 7-8.30 P.M., in the verandah, we kneel down, and
      I pray extempore, touching the points which have formed the lesson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't like teaching these adults who can't read a form of private
      prayer. I try to make them understand that to wish earnestly is to pray;
      that they must put what they wish for clearly before their own minds, and
      then pray to God for it, through Christ. But I must try to supply
      progressive lessons for the Catechumens and others, with short prayers to
      be read by the teacher at the end (and beginning, too, perhaps) of the
      lesson. Much must depend on the individual teacher's unction and force.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I hope and trust to be able to tell you two months hence of some of
      these people being baptized. Only three adults have been baptized here on
      the island, and all three were dying.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is very comforting to think that all of us have been engaged in this
      Mota work, Dudley, and Mr. Pritt, and Mr. Kerr, too, and all our present
      staff have had much to do with it. Especially I think now of three young
      men, all married, who came to me lately, saying, "All these years (an
      interval of six or seven years) we have been thinking now and then about
      what we heard years ago, when we were with you in New Zealand for a few
      months." They are now thoroughly in earnest, as far as I can judge, and
      their wives, as I hope, move along with them. How one old set must have
      influenced them a long time ago. Bice, who speaks Mota very well, was very
      energetic during his fortnight here. He is now gone on with Mr. Brooke and
      Mr. Atkin that he may see the work in the Solomon Isles. I meant to go;
      but there seemed to be a special reason why I should stay here just now,
      vessels seeking labourers for Fiji and Queensland are very frequently
      calling at these islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Thurston, late Acting Consul at Fiji, was with me the day before
      yesterday. He has taken a very proper view of this labour question; and he
      assures me that the great majority of the Fiji planters are very anxious
      that there should be no kidnapping, no unfair treatment of the islanders.
      I have engaged to go to Fiji (D.V.) at the end of my island work, i.e., on
      my return to Norfolk Island, probably about the end of September. I shall
      go there in the "Southern Cross," send her on to her summer quarters in
      New Zealand, and get from Fiji to New Zealand, after six or eight weeks in
      Fiji, in some vessel or other. There are about 4,000 or 5,000 white people
      in Fiji, mostly Church of England people, but (as I suppose) not very
      clearly understanding what is really meant by that designation. It is
      assumed that I am to act as their Bishop; and I ought to have been there
      before. But really a competent man might work these islands into a
      Bishopric before long.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must try to follow these islanders into Fiji or Queensland. But how to
      do it? On a plantation of, say, one hundred labourers, you may find
      natives of eight or ten islands. How can we supply teachers at the rate of
      one for every fifteen or twenty people? And there are some 6,000 or 7,000
      islanders already on the Fiji plantations, and I suppose as many in
      Queensland.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some one knowing several languages, and continually itinerating from one
      plantation to another, might do something; but I don't think a native
      clergyman could do that. He must move about among white people continually
      in the boats, &amp;c. I ought to do it; but I think my day has gone by for
      that kind of thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope to judge of all this by-and-by. It might end in my dividing my
      year into Melanesian work as of old, and Melanesian work in Fiji, combined
      with the attempt to organise the white Church of England community, and
      only a month or two's work in Norfolk Island. To do this I must be in
      pretty good health. I may soon find out the limit of my powers of work,
      and then confine myself to whatever I find I can do with some degree of
      usefulness. We ought to make no attempt to proselytise among the Fiji
      natives, who have been evangelised by the Wesleyans. But there is work
      among our Western Pacific imported islanders and the white people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island could be quite well managed without me. Mr. Codrington
      could take that entirely into his own hands. I might spend a month or two
      there, and confirm Melanesians and Norfolk Islanders, and quietly fall
      into a less responsible position and be a moveable clergyman in Fiji or
      anywhere else, as long as my strength lasts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Norfolk Island certainly was rather my resting-place. But I think I am
      becoming more and more indifferent to that kind of thing. A tropical
      climate suits me, and Fiji is healthy&mdash;no ague. Dysentery is the
      chief trouble there. These are notions, flying thoughts, most likely never
      to be fully realised. Indeed, who can say what may befall me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Never to be fully realised! No. He, who in broken health so freely and
      simply sacrificed in will his cherished nook of rest on earth for a life
      so trying and distasteful, was very near the 'Rest that remaineth for the
      people of God.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On June 26, the first public baptism in Mota took place, of one man, the
      Bishop and Sarawia in surplices in front of their verandah, the people
      standing round; but unfortunately it was a very wet day, and the rush of
      rain drowned the voices, as the Bishop made his convert Wilgan renounce
      individually and by name individual evil fashions of heathenism, just as
      St. Boniface made the Germans forsake Thor and Odin by name. There were
      twenty-five more nearly ready, and a coral-lime building was finished,
      'like a cob wall, only white plaster instead of red mud,' says the
      Devonshire man. It was the first Church of Mota, again reminding us of the
      many 'white churches' of our ancestors; and on the 25th of June at 7 A.M.,
      the first Holy Eucharist was celebrated there. It is also the place of
      private prayer for the Christians and Catechumens of Kohimarama.
    </p>
    <p>
      The weather was exceedingly bad, drenching rain continually, yet the
      Bishop continued unusually well. His heart might well be cheered, when, on
      that Sunday evening in the dark, he was thus accosted:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have for days been watching for a chance of speaking to you alone!
      Always so many people about you. My heart is so full, so hot every word
      goes into it, deep deep. The old life seems a dream. Everything seems to
      be new. When a month ago I followed you out of the Said Goro, you said
      that if I wanted to know the meaning and power of this teaching, I must
      pray! And I tried to pray, and it becomes easier as every day I pray as I
      go about, and in the morning and evening; and I don't know how to pray as
      I ought, but my heart is light, and I know it's all true, and my mind is
      made up, and I have been wanting to tell you, and so is Sogoivnowut, and
      we four talk together, and all want to be baptized.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This man had spent one season at St. John's, seven years before; but on
      his return home had gone back to the ordinary island life, until at last
      the good seed was beginning to take root.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next Sunday, the 2nd of July, ninety-seven children were baptized, at
      four villages, chosen as centres to which the adjacent ones could bring
      their children. It was again a wet day, but the rain held up at the first
      two places. The people stood or sat in a great half-circle, from which the
      eldest children, four or five years old, walked out in a most orderly
      manner, the lesser ones were carried up by their parents, and out of the
      whole ninety-seven only four cried! The people all behaved admirably, and
      made not a sound. At the last two places there was a deluge of rain; but
      as sickness prevailed in them, it was not thought well to defer the
      Baptism.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was a day full of thankful and anxious feelings. I was too tired, and
      too much concerned with details of arrangements, new names, &amp;c., to
      feel the more contemplative devotional part of the whole day's services
      till the evening. Then, for I could not sleep for some hours, it came on
      me; and I thought of the old times too, the dear Bishop's early visits, my
      own fourteen years' acquaintance with this place, the care taken by many
      friends, past and present members of the Mission. The Sunday Collects as
      we call them, St. Michael's, All Saints', Saint Simon and St. Jude's
      calmed me, and my Sunday prayer, (that beautiful prayer in the Ordination
      of Priests, 'Almighty God and Heavenly Father,' slightly altered) was very
      full of meaning. So, thank God, one great step has been taken, a great
      responsibility indeed, but I trust not rashly undertaken.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On July 4 the 'Southern Cross' returned, and the cruise among the New
      Hebrides was commenced. Mr. Bice was left to make a fortnight's visit at
      Leper's Island; and the Bishop, going on to Mai, found only three men on
      the beach, where there used to be hundreds, and was advised not to go to
      Tariko, as there had been fighting.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Ambrym there was a schooner with Mr. Thurston on board, and fifty-five
      natives for Fiji. On the north coast was the 'Isabella,' with twenty-five
      for Queensland. The master gave Captain Jacob his credentials to show to
      the Bishop, and said the Bishop might come on board and talk to the
      people, so as to be convinced they came willingly, but weighed anchor
      immediately after, and gave no opportunity; and one man who stood on the
      rail calling out 'Pishopa, Pishopa,' was dragged back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Bice was picked up again on the 17th, having been unmolested during
      his visit; but two of the 'Lepers,' who had been at Espiritu Santo, had
      brought back a fearful story that a small two-masted vessel had there been
      mastered by the natives, and the crew killed and eaten in revenge for the
      slaughter of some men of their own by another ship's company some time
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the voyage he wrote to the Bishop of Lichfield:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Off Tariko. Sloop: July 8, 1871.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Bishop,&mdash;Towards the end of April I left Norfolk Island, and
      after a six days' passage reached Mota. I called at Ambrym (dropping three
      boys) at three places; at Whitsuntide; at Leper's Island, dropping seven
      boys; Aurora, two places; Santa Maria, where I left B&mdash;&mdash;, and
      so to Mota on the day before Ascension Day, and sent the vessel back at
      once to Norfolk Island for the Solomon Island scholars. All our Aroa and
      Matlavo party wished to spend Ascension Day with us; and after Holy
      Communion they went across with Commodore William Pasvorang in a good
      whale boat, which I brought down on the deck of the schooner, and which
      Willy looks after at Aroa. We want it for keeping up a visitation of the
      group.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bice, ordained Priest last Christmas, was with me. We found George and
      all well, George very steady and much respected. Charles Woleg, Benjamin
      Vassil and James Neropa, all going on well. The wives have done less than
      I hoped; true, they all had children to look after, yet they might have
      done more with the women. [Then as before about the movement.]
    </p>
    <p>
      'After a week I went off in the boat, leaving Bice at Kohimarama, the Mota
      station. I went to B&mdash;&mdash; first at the north-east part of the
      island; back to Tarasagi (north-east point); sailed round to Lakona, our
      old Cock Sparrow Point, where B&mdash;&mdash; and I selected one or two
      boys to stay with him at Tarasagi. Thence we sailed to Avreas Bay, the
      great bay of Vanua Lava, B&mdash;&mdash; going back to Tarasagi by land.
      Heavy sea and rain; reached land in the dark 8 P.M., thankful to be safe
      on shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On to Aroa, where I spent two days; Willie and Edwin doing what they can.
      Twenty children at school; but the island is almost depopulated, some
      seven hundred gone to Brisbane and Fiji. I did not go to Uvaparapara; the
      weather was bad, I was not well, and I expected the "Southern Cross" from
      Norfolk Island. Next day, after just a week's trip in the boat, I got to
      Mota; and the next day the "Southern Cross" arrived with Joe Atkin and
      Brooke and some twenty-four Solomon Islanders, many of them pressing to
      stay at Norfolk Island, where about eighty scholars in all are under the
      charge of Codrington, Palmer, and Jackson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I sent Bice on in the "Southern Cross," as he ought to see something of
      his brethren's work in the north and west. I had just a month at Mota,
      very interesting.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope to spend three weeks more at Mota, if this New Hebrides trip is
      safely accomplished, and to baptize the rest of the children, and probably
      some ten or fifteen adults. All seem thoroughly in earnest. Some of the
      first scholars, who for years have seemed indifferent, are now among my
      class of thirty-three adults. It would be too long a story to tell you of
      their frequent private conversations, their stories, their private
      prayers, their expressions of earnest thankfulness that they are being led
      into the light.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some of the women, wives of the men, are hopeful. George's old mother
      said to me, "My boys are gone; George, Woleg, Wogale&mdash;Lehna died a
      Christian; Wowetaraka (the first-born) is going. I must follow. I listen
      to it all, and believe it all. When you think fit, I must join you," i.e.
      be baptized.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is very comforting that all the old party from the beginning are
      directly (of course indirectly also) connected with this movement. Some of
      those most in earnest now came under the influence of the early workers,
      Dudley, Mr. Pritt, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We need this comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From Mota some thirty or more have gone or been taken away, but the other
      islands are almost depopulated. Mr. Thurston, late Acting Consul in Fiji,
      was at Mota the other day seeking labourers. He says that about 3,000
      natives from Tanna and Uvaparapara are now in Fiji, and Queensland has
      almost as many.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He admits that much kidnapping goes on. He, with all his advantages of
      personal acquaintance with the people and with native interpreters on
      board, could only get about thirty. Another, Captain Weston, a respectable
      man who would not kidnap, cruised for some weeks, and left for Fiji
      without a single native on board. How then do others obtain seventy or one
      hundred more?
    </p>
    <p>
      'But the majority of the Fiji settlers, I am assured, do not like these
      kidnapping practices, and would prefer some honest way of obtaining men.
      Indeed, many natives go voluntarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the Solomon Isles a steamer has been at Savo and other places, trying
      to get men.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three or four of these vessels called at Mota while I was there. On one
      day three were in sight. They told me they were shot at at Whitsuntide,
      Sta. Maria, Vanua Lava, &amp;c. And, indeed, I am obliged to be very
      careful, more so than at any time; and here, in the North Hebrides, I
      never know what may happen, though of course in many places they know me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are now at our maximum point of dispersion: Brooke at Anudha, J. Atkin
      at or near San Cristoval, Gr. Sarawia at Mota, B&mdash;&mdash; at Santa
      Maria, Bice at Leper's Island, Codrington at Norfolk Island, I on board
      "Southern Cross."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Leper's Island is very pleasant; I longed to stay there. All the people
      wanting to come with us, and already discriminating between us and the
      other white visitors, who seem to have had little or no success there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'July 21st.&mdash;At anchor, Lakona, west side of Santa Maria. Pleasant to
      be quietly at anchor on our old "shooting ground." We anchored for a day
      and a night at Ambrym, near the east point, very safe and comfortable
      place. Nine lads from five villages are on board. I bought about three and
      a half tons of yams there. Anchored again at the end of Whitsuntide, where
      I am thankful to say we have at last received two lads, one a very
      pleasant-looking fellow. That sad year of the dysentery, 1862, when Tanau
      died and Tarivai was so ill, two out of only three scholars from the
      island, made them always unwilling to give up lads.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Next day at Leper's Island. Anchored a night off Wehurigi, the east end
      of the high land, the centre part of the island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bice was quite feted by the people. We brought away three old and twelve
      new scholars, refusing the unpromising old scholars. There is, I hope, a
      sufficient opening now at Ambrym and Leper's Island to justify my
      assigning these islands to Jackson and Bice respectively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our plan now is to take very few people indeed from the Banks Islands to
      Norfolk Island, as they have a permanent school and resident clergyman at
      Mota. The lads who may turn out clever and competent teachers are taken to
      Norfolk Island, none others.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must take our large parties from islands where there is as yet no
      permanent teacher: Ambrym, Leper's Island, the Solomon Islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Meanwhile the traders are infesting these islands, as Captain Jacobs
      says, "like mosquitoes." Three vessels anchored at Mai during the day I
      was there. Three different vessels were at Ambrym. To-day I saw four,
      three anchored together near the north-east side of Santa Maria. B&mdash;&mdash;
      saw six yesterday.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The people now refuse to go in them, they are much exasperated at their
      people being kept away so long. Sad scenes are occurring. Several white
      men have been killed, boats' crews cut off, vessels wrecked.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall hear more of such doings; and really I can't blame the
      islanders. They are perfectly friendly to friends; though there is much
      suspicion shown even towards us, where we are not well known.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As far as I can speak of my own plans, I hope to stay at Mota for a time,
      till the "Southern Cross" returns from Norfolk Island; then go to the
      Solomon Islands; return by way of Santa Cruz and probably Tikopia, to
      Mota; thence to Norfolk Island; thence probably to New Zealand, to take
      the steamer for Fiji. We have no chart on board of Fiji; and I don't think
      it right to run the risk of getting somehow to Levuka with only the
      general chart of the South Pacific, so I must go, as I think, to New
      Zealand, and either take the steamer or procure charts, and perhaps take
      Mr. Tilly as pilot. I don't like it; it will be very cold; but then I
      shall (D.V.) see our dear Taurarua friends, the good Bishop and others,
      and get advice about my Fiji movements. The Church of England folk there
      regard me as their Bishop, I understand; and the Bishops of Sydney and
      Melbourne assume this to be the fitting course. A really able energetic
      man might do much there, and, in five years, would be Bishop of Levuka.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is all of Melanesia and myself; but you will like to have this
      scrawl read to you.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How I think of you as I cruise about the old familiar places, and think
      that you would like to have another trip, and see the old scenes with here
      and there, thank God, some little changes for the better. Best love, my
      dear dear Bishop, to Mrs. Selwyn, William and John.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your very affectionate
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      About forty, old scholars and new, had been collected and brought back to
      Mota; where, after landing the Bishop, Captain Jacobs sailed back to
      Norfolk Island, carrying with him the last letters that were to be
      received and read as from a living man. All that follow only came in after
      the telegram which announced that the hand that had written them was
      resting beneath the Pacific waters. But this was not until it had been
      granted to him to gather in his harvest in Mota, as will be seen:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mota: July 31, 1871.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dearest Sisters,&mdash;You will be glad to know that on my return
      hither after three weeks' absence, I found no diminution of strong earnest
      feeling among the people. George Sarawia had, indeed, been unable to do
      very much in the way of teaching 60 or 90 men and women, but he had done
      his best, and the 100 younger people were going on with their schooling
      regularly. I at once told the people that those who wished to be baptized
      must let me know; and out of some 30 or 40 who are all, I think, in
      earnest, 15, and some few women are to be baptized next Sunday. These will
      be the first grown-up people, save John Wilgan, baptized in Mota, except a
      few when in an almost dying state. They think and speak much of the fact
      that so many of their children have been baptized, they wish to belong to
      the same set. But I believe them all to be fairly well instructed in the
      great elementary truths. They can't read; all the teaching is oral, no
      objection in my eyes. It may be dangerous to admit it, but I am convinced
      that all that we can do is to elevate some few of the most intelligent
      islanders well, so that they can teach others, and be content with careful
      oral teaching for the rest. How few persons even among ourselves know how
      to use a book! And these poor fellows, for I can only except a percentage
      of our scholars, have not so completely mastered the mechanical difficulty
      of reading as to leave their minds free for examination of the meaning and
      sense of what they read. I don't undervalue a good education, as you know.
      But I feel that but few of these islanders can ever be book-learned; and I
      would sooner see them content to be taught plain truths by qualified
      persons than puzzling themselves to no purpose by the doubtful use of
      their little learning. You know that I don't want to act the Romish Priest
      amongst them. I don't want to domineer at all. And I do teach reading and
      writing to all who come into our regular school, and I make them read
      passages to verify my teaching. At the same time, I feel that the
      Protestant complaint of "shutting up the Bible from the laity," is the
      complaint of educated persons, able to read, think, and reflect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The main difficulty is, of course, to secure a supply of really competent
      teachers. George, Edward, Henry, Robert, and some three or four others are
      trustworthy. I comfort myself by thinking that a great many of the
      mediaeval Clergy certainly did not know as much nor teach as well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yesterday I baptized 41 more children and infants on again an
      unpropitious day. I was obliged to leave 42 to be baptized at some future
      time. The rain poured down. The people will bring them over to-morrow. The
      whole number of infants and children will amount to 230 or more, of adults
      to perhaps 25 or 30. You will pray earnestly for them that they may lead
      the rest of their lives "according to this beginning."
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is much talk, something more than talk, I think, about putting up a
      large church-house here, on this side of the island (north-west side) and
      of a school-house, for church also, on the south-east side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have all heavy coughs and colds; and I have had two or three very
      disturbed nights, owing to the illness of one of the many babies. The
      little thing howls all night.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All our means of housing people are exhausted. People flock here for the
      sake of being taught. Four new houses have been built, three are being
      built. We shall have a large Christian village here soon, I hope and
      trust. At present every place is crammed, and 25 or 30 sleep on the
      verandah. The little cooking house holds somehow or other about 24 boys;
      they pack close, not being burdened with clothes and four-posters. I sleep
      on a table, people under and around it. I am very well, barring this heavy
      cold and almost total loss of voice for a few hours in the morning and
      evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 1st.&mdash;Very tired 7 A.M., Prayers 7.20-8.20, school 8.20-10;
      baptized 55 infants and young children. Now it is past 1; a boisterous
      day, though as yet no rain. I had a cup of cocoa at 6.30, and at 10.30 a
      plate of rice and a couple of eggs, nice clean fare. The weather is
      against me, so cold, wet, and so boisterous. I got a good night though,
      for I sent Mrs. Rhoda and her squalling baby to another house, and so
      slept quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sorry that teaching is so irksome to me. I am, in a sense, at it all
      day. But there is so much to be done, and the people, worthy souls, have
      no idea that one can ever be tired. After I was laid down on my table,
      with my air-pillow under my head and my plaid over me, I woke up from a
      doze to find the worthy Tanoagnene sitting with his face towards me,
      waiting for a talk about the rather comprehensive subject of Baptism.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And at all odd times I ought to be teaching George and others how to
      teach, the hardest work of all. I think what a life a real pedagogue must
      have of it. There is so much variety with me, so much change and holiday,
      and so much that has its special interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The "Southern Cross" has been gone a week. I hope they have not this kind
      of weather. If they have, they are getting a good knocking about, and they
      number about 55 on board.
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 6th.&mdash;To-day there is no rain, for the first time for weeks.
      It blew a heavy gale all night, and had done so with heavy rain for some
      days before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At 8 A.M. to-day I baptized 14 grown men, one an old bald man, and
      another with a son of sixteen or so, five women and six lads, taught
      entirely in George's school. Afterwards, at a different service, 7 infants
      and little children were baptized. 238 + 5 who have died have now been
      baptized since the beginning of July. To-day's service was very
      comforting. I pray and trust that these grown-up men and women may be kept
      steadfast to their profession. It is a great blessing that I could think
      it right to take this step. You will, I know, pray for them; their
      position is necessarily a difficult one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is 2 P.M., and I feel tired: the crowds are gone, though little
      fellows are as usual sitting all round one. I tell them I can't talk; I
      must sit quietly, with Charlotte Yonge's "Pupils of St. John the Divine."
      Dear me, what advantage young folks have nowadays, though indeed the
      dangers of these times far outweigh those of our young days.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose Lightfoot's "Commentaries" hardly come in your way. They are
      critical and learned on the Greek of St. Paul's Epistles. But there are
      dissertations which may be read by the English reader. He seems to me to
      be a very valuable man, well fitted by his learning, and moderation, and
      impartiality, and uncontroversial temper to do much good. His sympathies
      with the modern school of thought are, I fancy, beyond me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is no doubt that Matthew Arnold says much that is true of the
      narrowness, bigotry, and jealous un-Christian temper of Puritanism; and I
      suppose no one doubts that they do misrepresent the true doctrine of
      Christianity, both by their exclusive devotion to one side only of the
      teaching of the Bible, and by their misconception of their own favourite
      portions of Scripture. The doctrine of the Atonement was never in ancient
      times, I believe, drawn out in the form in which Luther, Calvin, Wesley,
      and others have lately stated it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The fact of the Atonement through the Death of Christ was always clearly
      stated; the manner, the "why," the "how" man's Redemption and
      Reconciliation to God is thus brought about, was not taught, if at all,
      after the Protestant fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oxenham's "History of the Catholic Doctrine of the Atonement" is a
      fairly-written statement of what was formerly held and taught. Such words
      as "substitution," "satisfaction," with all the ideas introduced into the
      subject from the use of illustrations, e.g. of criminals acquitted, debts
      discharged, have perplexed it perhaps, rather than explained, what must be
      beyond explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The ultra-Calvinistic view becomes in the mind and language of the
      hot-headed ignorant fanatic a denial of God's Unity. "The merciful Son
      appeasing the wrath of the angry Father" is language which implies two
      Wills, two Counsels in the Divine Mind (compare with this John iii. 16).
    </p>
    <p>
      I suppose that an irreverent man, being partly disgusted with the popular
      theology, having no scruples about putting aside Inspiration, &amp;c., and
      conceiving that he himself is an adequate representative of the nineteenth
      century's intelligence, and that the nineteenth century's intelligence is
      most profound and infallible, sets to work to demolish what is distasteful
      to himself, and what the unerring criticism of the day rejects, correcting
      St. Paul's mistakes, patronising him whenever he is fortunate enough to
      receive the approbation of the great thinkers of our day, and so
      constructs a vague "human" religion out of the Christianity which he
      criticises, eliminating all that lies beyond the speculative range of the
      mind, and that demands assent by its own authority as God's Revelation. I
      don't know how to state briefly what I mean.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I can understand that this temper of mind is very prevalent in
      England now, and that I can partly trace the growth of it. Moreover, I
      feel that to ignore, despise, or denounce it, will do no good.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As a matter of fact, thousands of educated men are thinking on these
      great matters as our fathers did not think of them. Simplicity of belief
      is a great gift; but then the teaching submitted to such simple believers
      ought to be true, otherwise the simple belief leads them into error. How
      much that common Protestant writers and preachers teach is not true!
      Perhaps some of their teaching is untrue absolutely, but it is certainly
      untrue relatively, because they do not hold the "proportion of the faith,"
      and by excluding some truths and presenting others in an extravagant form
      they distort the whole body of truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But when a man not only points out some of the popular errors, but claims
      to correct St. Paul when he Judaizes, and to do a little judicious
      Hellenizing for an inspired Apostle, one may well distrust the nineteenth
      century tone and spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do really and seriously think that a great and reverently-minded man,
      conscious of the limits of human reason&mdash;a man like Butler&mdash;would
      find his true and proper task now in presenting Christian teaching in an
      unconventional form, stripped of much error that the terms which we all
      employ when speaking doctrine seem unavoidably to carry with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a man might ask, "What do you mean by your theory of Substitution,
      Satisfaction, &amp;c.?" "Where do you find it?" "Prove it logically from
      the Bible." "Show that the early Church held it."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Butler, as you know, reproved the curiosity of men who sought to find out
      the manner of the Atonement. "I do not find," he says, "that it is
      declared in the Scriptures." He believed the fact, of course, as his very
      soul's treasure. "Our ignorance," he says, "is the proper answer to such
      enquiries."
    </p>
    <p>
      'At the same time, no one now can do, it seems, what another Butler might
      do, viz., deal with the Bible as the best of the nineteenth-century men
      wish to hear a divine deal with it. He would never make mere assertions.
      He would never state as a proved truth, to be presented to a
      congregation's acceptance, a statement or a doctrine which really equalled
      only an opinion of Wesley or any other human teacher. He would never make
      arbitrary quotations from Scripture, and try to prove points by illogical
      reasoning, and unduly pressing texts which a more careful collation of
      MSS. has shown to be at least doubtful. And by fairness and learning he
      would win or conciliate right-minded men of the critical school. What
      offends these men is the cool reckless way in which so many preachers make
      the most audacious statements, wholly unsupported by any sound learning
      and logical reasoning. A man makes a statement, quotes a text or two,
      which he doesn't even know to be capable of at least one interpretation
      different from that which he gives to it; and so the critical hearer is
      disgusted, and no wonder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One gain of this critical spirit is, that it makes all of us Clergy more
      circumspect in what we say, and many a man looks at his Greek Testament
      nowadays, and at a good Commentary too, before he ventures to quote a text
      which formerly would have done duty in its English dress and passed muster
      among an uncritical congregation. Nowadays every clergyman knows that
      there are probably men in his congregation who know their Bible better
      than he does, and as practical lawyers, men of business, &amp;c., are more
      than his match at an argument. It offends such men to have a
      shallow-minded preacher taking for granted the very points that he ought
      to prove, giving a sentence from some divine of his school as if it
      settled the question without further reference even to the Bible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This critical spirit becomes very easily captious; and a man needn't be
      unbelieving because he doesn't like to be credulous. Campbell's book on
      the Atonement is very hard, chiefly because the man writes such
      unintelligible English. I think Shairp in his "Essays," gives a good
      critique as far as it goes on the philosophical and religious manner of
      our day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alexander Knox says somewhere in his correspondence with Bishop Jebb that
      he couldn't understand the Protestant theory of Justification. And it does
      seem to be often stated as if the terms employed in describing a mere
      transaction could adequately convey the true power and meaning of a Divine
      mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I only puzzle you, I dare say, and certainly I am liable to the
      charge of not writing intelligible English. I can tell you I am glad
      enough that I am not called on to preach on these subjects after the
      fashion that a preacher in England must go to work.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a cool thing to say, but I do believe that what half our English
      congregations want is just the plain simple teaching that our Melanesians
      get, only the English congregations wouldn't stand it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter to Arthur Coleridge is of the same date:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mota Island: August 6, 1871&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Arthur,&mdash;I have had a busy day, having baptized thirty-two
      persons, of whom twenty-five are adults; and then the crowd, the incessant
      talking, teaching, and the anxious feeling which attend any step of so
      much importance as the Baptism from heathenism. Fourteen of the men are
      married, two are elderly, several are middle-aged, five women are among
      the number. I believe that God's spirit is indeed working in the hearts of
      these people. Some twelve or thirteen years have passed, and only now have
      I felt that I could take the step of baptizing the infants and young
      children here, the parents promising that they shall be sent to school as
      they grow up. About 200 young children have during the past month been
      baptized: things seem hopeful. It is very happy work; and I get on pretty
      well, often very tired, but that doesn't matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I could wish all my good friends were here, that those who have been
      enabled to contribute to this end might see for themselves something of
      the long hoped for beginning of a new state of things in this little
      island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 11.&mdash;In a little more than a month 248 persons have been
      baptized here, twenty-five of them adults, the rest infants and young
      children. I am very sorry to think that I must leave them soon, for I
      expect the "Southern Cross" in a few days; and I must go to the Solomon
      Islands, from them to Santa Cruz Island, and so to Norfolk Island, calling
      here on the way. Then I am off to the Fiji Islands for, I suppose, a month
      or six weeks. There are some 6,000 or 7,000 white people there, and it is
      assumed by them and the Church people in this part of the world that I
      must be regarded as their Bishop. Very soon a separate Bishop ought to be
      at work there, and I shall probably have to make some arrangement with the
      settlers. Then, on the other hand, I want to look into the question of
      South Sea Islanders who are taken to the Fiji plantations.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How far I can really examine into the matter, I hardly know. But many of
      the settlers invite me to consider the matter with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe that for the most part the islanders receive good treatment
      when on the plantations, but I know that many of them are taken away from
      their islands by unfair means.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The settlers are only indirectly responsible for this. The traders and
      sailing masters of the vessels who take away the islanders are the most
      culpable. But the demand creates the supply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Among all my multifarious occupations here, I have not much time for
      reading; I am never alone night or day. I sleep on a table, with some
      twelve or more fellows around me; and all day long people are about me, in
      and out of school hours. But I have read, for the third time I think,
      Lightfoot's "Galatians"&mdash;and I am looking forward to receiving his
      book on the Ephesians. He doesn't lay himself out to do exactly the work
      that Bishop Ellicott has done so excellently, and his dissertations are
      perhaps the most valuable part of his work. He will gain the ear of the
      men of this generation, rather than Ellicott; he sympathises more with
      modern modes of thought, and is less rigid than Ellicott. But he seems
      very firm on all the most essential and primary points, and I am indeed
      thankful for such a man. I don't find much time for difficult reading; I
      go on quietly, Hebrew, &amp;c. I have many good books on both Old and New
      Testaments, English and German, and some French, e.g. Keuss and Guizot.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I like to hear something of what this restless speculative scientific
      generation is thinking and doing. But I can't read with much pleasure the
      fragmentary review literature of the day. The "Cornhill" and that class of
      books I can't stand, and sketchy writings. The best specimens of light
      reading I have seen of late are Charlotte Yonge's "Pupils of St. John the
      Divine," and Guizot's "St. Louis," excellent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did read, for it was put on board, Disraeli's novel. I was on my back
      sea-sick for four days; what utter rubbish! clever nonsense! And I have
      read Mr. Arnold's "St. Paul and Protestantism." He says some clever things
      about the Puritan mind, no doubt. But what a painful book it is: can't he
      see that he is reducing all that the spirit of a man must needs rest on to
      the level of human criticism? simply eliminating from the writings of the
      Apostles, and I suppose from the words of the Saviour, all that is
      properly and strictly Divine.&mdash;[Then follows much that has been
      before given.]&mdash;How [winding up thus] thankful I am that I am far
      away from the noise and worry of this sceptical yet earnest age!
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is something hazy about your friend Davis's writings. I know some
      of his publications, and sympathise to a very considerable extent with
      him. But I can't be sure that I always understand him: that school has a
      language of its own, and I am not so far initiated as to follow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't understand Maurice, much as I respect him. It is simply wasting
      my time and my brains to attempt to read him; he has great thoughts, and
      he makes them intelligible to people less stupid than me, and many writers
      whom I like and understand have taken their ideas from him; but I cannot
      understand him. And I think many of his men have his faults. At least I am
      so conceited as to think it is not all my fault.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know two little books by Norris, Canon of Bristol, "Key to the
      Gospel History," and a Manual on the Catechism?
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are well worth reading, indeed I should almost say studying, so as
      to mould the teaching of your young ones upon them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How you would be amused could you see the figures and scenes which
      surround me here! To-day about 140 men, women, lads and girls are working
      voluntarily here, clearing and fencing the gardens, and digging the holes
      for the yams, and they do this to help us in the school; we have two pigs
      killed, and give them a bit of a feast. The feeling is very friendly. A
      sculptor might study them to great advantage, though clothing is becoming
      common here now. Our thirty-four baptized adults and our sixteen or twenty
      old scholars wear decent clothing, of course.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I must leave off.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think very often of you, your wife and children, and, indeed, of you
      all. It would be very nice to spend a few weeks with you, but I should not
      get on well in your climate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The heat seems to suit me better, and I am pretty well here. Indeed I am
      better than I have been for more than a year, though I have a good deal of
      discomfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, dear Arthur. How often I think of your dear dear Father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate Cousin,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      To the sisters, the journal continues&mdash;recording, on August 14, the
      Baptism of twelve men and women the day before, the Communion of sixteen
      at 7 A.M., the presence of fifty-six baptized persons at morning service.
      More than 100 were working away the ensuing day in preparing yam gardens
      for Kohimarama, while two pigs were stewing in native ovens to feast them
      afterwards; and the Bishop was planting cocoa-nut trees and sowing flower
      seeds, or trying experiments with a machine for condensing water, in his
      moments of relaxation, which were few, though he was fairly well, and very
      happy, as no one can doubt on reading this:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lots of jolly little children, and many of them know me quite well and
      are not a bit shy. They are often very sad-looking objects, and as they
      don't get regularly washed, they often have large sores and abscesses,
      poor little things. But there are many others&mdash;clean-skinned, reddish
      brown, black-eyed, merry little souls among them. The colour of the people
      is just what Titian and the Venetian painters delighted in, the colour of
      their own weather-beaten Venetian boatmen, glowing warm rich colour. White
      folks look as if they were bleached and had all the colour washed out of
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some of the Solomon Islanders are black, and some of the New Hebrides
      people glossy and smooth and strong-looking; but here you seldom see any
      very dark people, and there are some who have the yellow, almost olive
      complexion of the South European. Many of the women are tattooed from head
      to foot, a regular network of a bluish inlaid pattern. It is not so common
      with the men, rather I ought to say very unusual with them, though many
      have their bodies marked pretty freely.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 17th sixteen more adults were baptized, elderly men, whose sons had
      been baptized in New Zealand coming in, and enemies resigning deadly
      feuds.
    </p>
    <p>
      The work in Mota is best summed up in this last letter to Bishop Abraham,
      begun the day after what proved the final farewell to the flock there, for
      the 'Southern Cross' came in on the 19th, and the last voyage was at once
      commenced:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Southern Cross": Sunday, August 20, 1871.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear dear Friends,&mdash;Yesterday the "Southern Cross" came to me at
      Mota, twenty-seven days after leaving that island for Norfolk Island with
      some fifty Melanesians on board under charge of Bice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Into what a new world your many kind affectionate letters take me! And
      how good it must be for me to be taught to think more than I, alas!
      usually do, about the trials and sorrows of others.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have had such a seven weeks at Mota, broken by a three weeks' course in
      the New Hebrides, into two portions of three and four weeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last year we said in our Report, that the time seemed to be come when we
      should seek to move the people in Mota to do more than assent to the truth
      of our words and the blessings promised in the Gospel, when we should urge
      them to appropriate to themselves those blessings, by abandoning their
      ignorant heathen ways, and embracing Christianity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That time has come in the good Providence of God, in answer to His
      all-prevailing Intercession, and hastened (who can doubt it?) by the
      prayers of the faithful everywhere&mdash;your Whit-Sunday thoughts and
      prayers, your daily thoughts and prayers, all contributing to bring about
      a blessed change indeed in the little island.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In these two months I have baptized 289 persons in Mota, 231 children and
      infants, seventeen of the lads and boys at Kohimarama, George Sarawia's
      school, and forty-one grown and almost all married men and women.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have tried to proceed cautiously and to act only when I had every human
      probability of a personal conviction and sincere desire to embrace
      Christian teaching and to lead a Christian life. I think the adult
      candidates were all competently instructed in the great truths.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I feel satisfied of their earnestness, and I think it looks like a
      stable, permanent work. Yet I need not tell you how my old text is ever in
      my mind, "Thine heart shall fear, and be enlarged." Now more than ever are
      your prayers needed for dear old George Sarawia and his infant Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never had such an experience before. It is something quite new to me.
      Classes regularly, morning and evening, and all day parties coming to talk
      and ask questions, some bringing a wife or child, some a brother, some a
      friend. We were 150 sleeping on the Mission premises, houses being put up
      all round by people coming from a distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Scarce a moment's rest, but the work so interesting and absorbing, that I
      could scarcely feel weariness. The weather for six out of the seven weeks
      was very rainy and bad generally; but I am and was well, very well&mdash;not
      very strong, yet walking to Gatava and back, five or six miles, on
      slippery and wet paths, and schooling and talking all day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The actual services were somewhat striking. The behaviour of the people
      reverent and quiet during the infants' and children's baptisms; and
      remarkably so during the baptisms of adults.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can understand the drift of my teaching: trying to keep to the great
      main truths, so as not to perplex their minds with a multiplicity of new
      thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that I shall have to stay a few days at Mota on my return (D.V.)
      from Solomon and Santa Cruz Islands, as there are still many Catechumens.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am half disposed to ordain George Priest on my return (D.V.) Yet on the
      whole I think it may be better to wait till another year. But I am
      balancing considerations. Should any delay occur from my incapacity to go
      to Mota, which I don't at all anticipate, it would be a serious thing to
      leave such a work in the hands of a Deacon, e.g. ten communicants are
      permanent dwellers now in Mota; and I really believe that George, though
      not learned, is in all essentials quite a fit person to be ordained
      Priest. This growth of the work, owing, no doubt, much to him, is a proof
      of God's blessing on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I pray God that this may be a little gleam of light to cheer you, dear
      friends, on your far more toilsome and darksome path. It is a little
      indeed in one sense; yet to me, who know the insufficiency of the human
      agency, it is a proof indeed that the Gospel is dunamis Theou eis
      soterian.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can hardly realize it all yet. It is good to be called away from it for
      a month or two. I often wished that Codrington, Palmer, and the rest could
      be with me: it seemed selfish to be witnessing by myself all this great
      happiness&mdash;that almost visible victory over powers of darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is little excitement, no impulsive vehement outpouring of feeling.
      People come and say, "I do see the evil of the old life; I do believe in
      what you teach us. I feel in my heart new desires, new wishes, new hopes.
      The old life has become hateful to me; the new life is full of joy. But it
      is so mawa (weighty), I am afraid. What if after making these promises I
      go back?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What do you doubt&mdash;God's power and love, or your own weakness?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I don't doubt His power and love; but I am afraid."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Afraid of what?" '"Of falling away."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Doesn't He promise His help to those who need it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Yes, I know that." '"Do you pray?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I don't know how to pray properly, but I and my wife say&mdash;God, make
      our hearts light. Take away the darkness. We believe that you love us
      because you sent JESUS to become a Man and die for us, but we can't
      understand it all. Make us fit to be baptized."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"If you really long to lead a new life, and pray to God to strengthen
      you, come in faith, without doubting."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Evening by evening my school with the baptized men and women is the
      saying by heart (at first sentence by sentence after me, now they know
      them well) the General Confession, which they are taught to use in the
      singular number, as a private prayer, the Lord's Prayer, the Creed, the
      ten Commandments (a short version). They are learning the Te Deum. They
      use a short prayer for grace to keep their baptismal vows.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that they know fairly well the simpler meaning of these various
      compendiums of Prayer, Faith and Duty. But why enter into details? You
      know all about it. And, indeed, you have all had your large share, so to
      say, in bringing about this happy change.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And then I turn from all this little secluded work to the thoughts of
      England and France, the Church at home, &amp;c....
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have now read the "Guardian's" account of the civil war in France.
      There is nothing like it to be read of, except in the Old Testament
      perhaps. It is like the taking of Jerusalem.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is an awful thing! most awful! I never read anything like it. Will
      they ever learn to be humble? I don't suppose that even now they admit
      their sins to have brought this chastening on them. It is hard to say this
      without indulging a Pharisaic spirit, but I don't mean to palliate our
      national sins by exaggerating theirs. Yet I hardly think any mob but a
      French or Irish mob could have done what these men did.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what will be the result? Will it check the tendency to Republicanism?
      Will Governments unite to put down the many-headed monster? Will they take
      a lesson from the fate of Paris and France? Of course Republicanism is not
      the same thing as Communism. But where are we to look for the good effects
      of Republicanism?
    </p>
    <p>
      'August 22nd.&mdash;The seventh anniversary of dear Fisher's death. May
      God grant us this year a blessing at Santa Cruz!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your affectionate
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      The last letter to the beloved sister Fanny opened with the date of her
      never-forgotten birthday, the 27th of August, though it was carried on
      during the following weeks; and in the meantime Mr. Atkin, Stephen, Joseph
      and the rest were called for from Wango, in Bauro, where they had had a
      fairly peaceable stay, in spite of a visit from a labour traffic vessel,
      called the 'Emma Bell,' with twenty-nine natives under hatches, and, alas!
      on her way for more. After picking the Bauro party up, the Bishop wrote to
      the elder Mr. Atkin:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wango Bay (at anchor): August 25, 1871.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Mr. Atkin,&mdash;You may imagine my joy at finding Joe looking
      really well when we reached this part of the world on the 23rd. I thought
      him looking unwell when he spent an hour or two with me at Mota, about ten
      weeks since, and I begged him to be careful, to use quinine freely, &amp;c.
      He is certainly looking now far better than he was then, and he says that
      he feels quite well and strong. There is the more reason to be thankful
      for this, because the weather has been very rough, and rain has been
      falling continually. I had the same weather in the Banks Islands; scarcely
      a day for weeks without heavy rain. Here the sandy soil soon becomes dry
      again, it does not retain the moisture, and so far it has the advantage
      over the very tenacious clayey soil of Mota.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nearly all the time of the people here has been spent&mdash;wasted,
      perhaps, we should say&mdash;in making preparations for a great feast: so
      that Joe found it very hard to gain the attention of the people, when he
      tried to point out to them better things to think of than pigs, native
      money, tobacco and pipes. Such advance as has been made is rather in the
      direction of gaining the confidence and good-will of the people all about,
      and in becoming very popular among all the young folks. Nearly all the
      young people would come away with him, if the elders would allow them to
      do so. I have no doubt that much more has been really effected than is
      apparent to us now. Words have been said that have not been lost, and seed
      sown that will spring up some day. Just as at Mota, now, after some twelve
      or thirteen years, we first see the result in the movement now going on
      there, so it will be, by God's goodness, some day here. There at Mota the
      good example of George Sarawia, the collective result of the teaching of
      many years, and the steady conduct, with one exception, of the returned
      scholars, have now been blessed by God to the conversion of many of the
      people. We no longer hesitate to baptize infants and young children, for
      the parents engage to send them to school when they grow up, and are
      themselves receiving instruction in a really earnest spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Many, too, of those who have for some time abandoned the old ways, but
      yet did not distinctly accept the new teaching, have now felt the "power
      of the Gospel;" and though many candidates are still under probation, and
      I sought to act with caution, and to do all that lay in my power to make
      them perceive the exceeding solemnity of being baptized, the weighty
      promises, the great responsibility, yet I thought it right to baptize not
      less than forty-one grown men and women, besides seventeen lads of
      George's school, about whom there could be no hesitation. It has, indeed,
      been a very remarkable season there. I spent seven weeks broken by a New
      Hebrides trip of three weeks' duration into two periods of three and four
      weeks. Bice was with me for the first three weeks; and with a good many of
      our scholars turned into teachers here, we three (Bice, George, and I)
      kept up very vigorous school: a continual talking, questioning, &amp;c.,
      about religion, were always going on day and night. Many young children
      and infants were baptized, about 240 in all + 41 + 17.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will, I am sure, pray more than ever for George and all these
      converts to Christianity, that they may be strengthened and guarded
      against all evil, and live lives worthy of their profession. We hope to
      spend two or three days there on our return (D.V.); and if so, Joe will
      write you his impressions. Meanwhile, I tell him what I fully believe,
      that no one hearty effort of his to benefit these poor people is thrown
      away. Already they allow us to take boys, and perhaps this very day we may
      go off with two young girls also. And all this will result in some great
      change for the better some day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will want to hear a word about myself. I am much better, partly I
      confess owing to the warmth of the climate, which certainly agrees with
      me. I may feel less well as we draw by-and-by to the south once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't take strong exercise, and that is a privation. It did me good,
      and I feel the want of it; but I am much better than I was a year or ten
      months ago, and I do my work very fairly, and get about better than I
      expected. Remember me kindly to Mrs. Atkin and Mary, and believe me to be
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your very sincere Friend,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      Mr. Brooke and Edward Wogale had had a far more trying sojourn at Florida.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wogale suffered much from his eyes; and the labour ships were frequently
      on the coast&mdash;all the three varieties: the fairly conducted one with
      a Government agent on board; the "Snatch-snatch," which only inveigled,
      but did not kill without necessity; and the "Kill-kill," which absolutely
      came head-hunting. It was a dreary eleven weeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On July 11, a "Sydney vessel," as the natives called it, was on the west
      of the island, and nine natives were reported to Mr Brooke as having been
      killed, and with so much evidence that he had no doubt on the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On the 13th Takua came to him to say the "Kill-kill" vessel had anchored
      four miles off. What was he to do?
    </p>
    <p>
      '"How was it you and Bisope came first, and then these slaughterers? Do
      you send them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Brooke advised them to remain on shore; but if the strangers landed
      and wanted to kill or burn them, to fight for their lives. "Your words are
      the words of a chief," said Takua.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This ship, however, sailed away; but on August 13 another came, much like
      the "Southern Cross," and canoes went out to her, in one of them Dudley
      Lankona. These returned safely, but without selling their fruit; and
      Dudley related that the men said, "Bishop and Brooke were bad, but they
      themselves were good, and had pipes and tobacco for those who would go
      with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      'These, however, went away without doing them harm, only warning them that
      another vessel which was becalmed near at hand was a "killer," and the
      people were so uneasy about her that Mr. Brooke went on board, and was
      taken by the captain for a maker of cocoa-nut oil. He was a Scotchman,
      from Tanna, where he had settled, and was in search of labourers; a
      good-natured friendly kind of person on the whole, though regarding
      natives as creatures for capture.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"If I get a chance to carry a lot of them off," he said, "I'll do it; but
      killing is not my creed."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Brooke hinted that the natives might attack him, and he pointed to
      six muskets. "That's only a few of them. Let them come. We'll give it them
      pretty strong."
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was rather taken aback when he found that he was talking to a
      clergyman. "Well, wherever you go nowadays there's missionaries. Who would
      have thought you'd got so far down?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'And he looked with regret at Mr. Brooke's party of natives in their
      canoes, and observed, "Ah! my fine fellows, if your friend was not here
      I'd have the whole lot of you: what a haul!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'He said the other ship was from Queensland, and had a Government agent on
      board, of whom he spoke with evident awe.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Mr. Brooke's return, Takua and Dikea were furbishing up old guns which
      some incautious person on board the "Curacoa" had given them, and they
      were disappointed to find that there could be no attack on the vessel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She, however, was scarcely gone before, at the other end of the island,
      Vara, four out of five men were killed by a boat's crew. The survivor,
      Sorova, told Mr. Brooke that he and one companion had gone out in one
      canoe, and three more in another, to a vessel that lay near the shore. He
      saw four blacks in her, as he thought Ysabel men. A white man came down
      from the boat, and sat in the bow of Sorova's canoe, but presently stood
      up and capsized both canoes, catching at Sorova's belt, which broke, and
      the poor fellow was thus enabled to get away, and shelter himself under
      the stern of the canoe, till he could strike out for land; but he saw a
      boat come round from the other side of the ship, with four men&mdash;whether
      whites or light-coloured islanders was not clear&mdash;but they proceeded
      to beat his companions with oars, then to fall on them with tomahawks, and
      finally cut off their heads, which were taken on board, and their bodies
      thrown to the sharks.
    </p>
    <p>
      These men evidently belonged to that lowest and most horrible class of
      men-stealers, who propitiate the chiefs by assisting them in head-hunting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course the island was full of rage, and on the 26th again another brig
      was in sight. Spite of warning, desire to trade induced five men to put
      off in a canoe. Two boats came down, and placed themselves on either side.
      Mr. Brooke could not watch, but a fierce shout arose from the crowd on
      shore, they rushed to the great canoe house, and a war fleet was launched,
      Dikea standing up in the foremost, with a long ebony spear in his hand.
      Fortunately they were too late: the boats were hauled up, and the brig
      went off at full sail. Whether the five were killed or carried captive is
      not clear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole place was full of wailing. Revenge was all the cry. 'Let not
      their pigs be killed,' said Takua; 'we will give them to Bisope, he shall
      avenge us.' His brother Dikea broke out: 'My humour is bad because Bisope
      does not take us about in his vessel to kill-kill these people!'
    </p>
    <p>
      When, two days later, the 'Southern Cross' was unmistakeably in sight,
      Takua said, 'Let Bisope only bring a man-of-war, and get me vengeance on
      my adversaries, and I shall be exalted like&mdash;like&mdash;like our
      Father above!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The residence of Mr. Brooke in the island, and the testimony of their own
      countrymen to the way of life in Norfolk Island, had taught the Floridians
      to separate the Bishop from their foes; but it could scarcely be thus in
      places where confidence in him had not been established.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop meanwhile wrote on:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'The New Zealand Bishops have sent me a kind letter, a round robin, urging
      me to go to England; but they are ignorant of two things:&mdash; 1st, that
      I am already much better; 2nd, that I should not derive the benefit
      generally to my spirits, &amp;c. from a visit to England as they would,
      and take it for granted that I should do so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They use only one other argument, viz., that I must rest after some
      years' work. That is not so. I don't feel the pressure of work for a very
      simple reason, viz., that I don't attempt to work as I used to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But just now, it is quite clear that I must not go, unless there were a
      very obvious necessity for it. For, 1st, Mota needs all the help we can
      give; 2nd, several Melanesians are coming on rapidly to the state when
      they ought to be ordained; 3rd, we are about to start (D.V.) new stations
      at Ambrym, Leper's Island, and Savo; 4th, the school is so large that we
      want "all hands" to work it; 5th, I must go to Fiji, and watch both Fiji
      and Queensland; 6th, after the 1872 voyage, we shall need, as I think, to
      sell this vessel, and have another new one built in Auckland. The funds
      will need careful nursing for this. But I will really not be foolish. If I
      have a return of the bad symptoms, I will go to Dr. Goldsboro', and if he
      advises it strongly, will go to England.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The deportation of natives is going on to a very great extent here, as in
      the New Hebrides and Banks Islands. Means of all kinds are employed:
      sinking canoes and capturing the natives, enticing men on board, and
      getting them below, and then securing hatches and imprisoning them.
      Natives are retaliating. Lately, two or three vessels have been taken and
      all hands killed, besides boats' crews shot at continually. A man called
      on me at Mota the other day, who said that five out of seven in the boat
      were struck by arrows a few days before. The arrows were not poisoned, but
      one man was very ill. It makes even our work rather hazardous, except
      where we are thoroughly well known. I hear that a vessel has gone to Santa
      Cruz, and I must be very cautious there, for there has been some
      disturbance almost to a certainty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whatever regulations the Government of Queensland or the Consul of Fiji
      may make, they can't restrain the traders from employing unlawful means to
      get hold of the natives. And I know that many of these men are utterly
      unscrupulous. But I can't get proofs that are sufficient to obtain a
      verdict in a court of law.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some islands are almost depopulated; and I dread the return of these
      "labourers," when they are brought back. They bring guns and other things,
      which enable them to carry out with impunity all kinds of rascality. They
      learn nothing that can influence them for good. They are like squatters in
      the bush, coming into the town to have their fling. These poor fellows
      come back to run riot, steal men's wives, shoot, fight, and use their
      newly acquired possessions to carry out more vigorously all heathen
      practices.
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 3rd.&mdash;At anchor: Savo Island: Sunday. The experiment of
      anchoring at Sara (Florida) and this place answers well. The decks were
      crowded and crammed; but the people behaved very well, barring the picking
      up of everything they could lay hands upon, as is natural to many persons
      whose education has been neglected.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yesterday I took Wadrokala (of Nengone) to the village here, where he is
      to live with some of our old scholars from these parts, and try to begin a
      good work among the people. He has four baptized friends, a married couple
      being two, and three other very good lads, to start with. It was a long
      and very hot walk. A year ago I could not have got through it. I was
      tired, but not over-tired.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now we have had Holy Communion; and this afternoon we take our party
      on shore: Wadrokala's wife Carry, and Jemima, their daughter of eight or
      nine. There is no fighting or quarrelling here now. I know all the people,
      so I leave them with good hope.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On the 7th, Joseph Atkin began a letter as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our Bishop is much improved in health and strength. His stay at Mota has
      put new life into him again; the whole island is becoming Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Bishop is now very strong and clear about establishing permanent
      schools on the islands; I fear in almost too great a hurry. The great
      requisite for a school is a native teacher; and generally, if not always,
      a teacher ought, as George was at Mota, to be well supported by a little
      band of native converts, who, if their teaching, in the common use of the
      word, is not much, can, by their consistent lives, preach a continual
      sermon, that all who see may understand. What is the use of preaching an
      eloquent sermon on truth to a people who do not know what it means, or
      purity of which they have never dreamt? Their ears take in the words, they
      sound very pleasant, and they go away again to their sin; and the preacher
      is surprised that they can do so. I do not forget the power of the Spirit
      to change men's hearts, but do not expect the Holy Spirit to work with you
      as He never worked with anyone else, but rather as He always has worked
      with others.... If in looking into the history of Missions, you find no
      heathen people has been even nominally and professionally Christianised
      within, say, ten or fifteen years, why not be content to set to work to
      try that the conversion of those to whom you are sent may be as thorough
      and real as possible in that time, and not to fret at being unable to
      hurry the work some years?'....
    </p>
    <p>
      This letter too was destined never to be finished, though it was continued
      later, as will be seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop's next letter is dated&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 16th.&mdash;Off the Santa Cruz group, some twenty miles
      distant. To-morrow, being Sunday, we stay quietly some way off the
      islands; and on Monday (D.V.) we go to Nukapu, and perhaps to Piteni too,
      wind permitting. You can enter into my thoughts, how I pray God that if it
      be His will, and if it be the appointed time, He may enable us in His own
      way to begin some little work among these very wild but vigorous energetic
      islanders. I am fully alive to the probability that some outrage has been
      committed here by one or more vessels. The master of the vessel that Atkin
      saw did not deny his intention of taking away from these or from any other
      islands any men or boys he could induce to come on board. I am quite aware
      that we may be exposed to considerable risk on this account. I trust that
      all may be well; that if it be His will that any trouble should come upon
      us, dear Joseph Atkin, his father and mother's only son, may be spared.
      But I don't think there is very much cause for fear; first, because at
      these small reef islands they know me pretty well, though they don't
      understand as yet our object in coming to them, and they may very easily
      connect us white people with the other white people who have been
      ill-using them; second, last year I was on shore at Nukapu and Piteni for
      some time, and I can talk somewhat with the people; third, I think that if
      any violence has been used to the natives of the north face of the large
      island, Santa Cruz, I shall hear of it from these inhabitants of the small
      islets to the north, Nukapu, and Piteni, and so be forewarned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If any violence has been used, it will make it impossible for us to go
      thither now. It would simply be provoking retaliation. One must say, as
      Newman of the New Dogma, that the progress of truth and religion is
      delayed, no one can say how long. It is very sad. But the Evil One
      everywhere and always stirs up opposition and hindrance to every attempt
      to do good. And we are not so sorely tried in this way as many others.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Contrary winds&mdash;or rather a calm, with such light wind as there was,
      contrary&mdash;kept the vessel from approaching the island for four days
      more, while the volcano made every night brilliant, and the untiring pen
      ran on with affectionate responses to all that the last home packet had
      contained, and then proceeded to public interests:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then the great matters you write about&mdash;the great social and
      religious crisis in England now. Moreover, who can estimate the effect of
      this German and French war upon the social state of Europe? Possibly a
      temporary violent suppression in North Germany of Republican principles, a
      reaction, an attempt to use the neutrality of England as a focus for
      political agitation. And then the extravagant luxury side by side with
      degrading poverty! It is a sad picture; and you who have to contemplate it
      have many trials and troubles that are in one sense far away from me.
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 19th.&mdash;Here we are becalmed; for three days we have
      scarcely made ten miles in the direction we want to go. It is not prudent
      to go near the large island, unless we have a good breeze, and can get
      away from the fleets of canoes if we see reason for so doing. We may have
      one hundred and fifty canoes around us, and perhaps sixty or eighty strong
      men on deck, as we had last year; and this year we have good reason for
      fearing that labour vessels have been here. Many of the people here would
      distinguish between us and them; but it is quite uncertain, for we can't
      talk to the people of the large island, and can't therefore explain our
      object in so doing. 'Yesterday, being becalmed, a large canoe, passing
      (for there was occasionally a light air from the north) from Nupani to
      Santa Cruz, came near us. It could not get away, and the "Southern Cross"
      could not get near it. So we went to it in the boat. I can talk to these
      Nupani people, and we had a pleasant visit. They knew my name directly,
      and were quite at ease the moment they were satisfied it was the Bishop.
      They will advertise us, I dare say, and say a good word for us, and we
      gave them presents, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be thankful if this visit ends favourably, and oh! how thankful
      if we obtain any lads. It seems so sad to leave this fine people year
      after year in ignorance and darkness, but He knows and cares for them more
      than we do. 'The sun is nearly vertical; thermometer 91°, and 88° at
      night; I am lazy, but not otherwise affected by it, and spend my day
      having some, about an hour's, school, and in writing and reading.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that the Education question has been more satisfactorily settled
      than I dared to hope a year ago. A religious, as opposed to an irreligious
      education has been advisedly chosen by the country, and denominationalism
      (what a word!) as against secularism. Well, that's not much from a
      Christian country; but it isn't the choice of an anti-Christian, or even
      of a country indifferent to Christianity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Abraham and Pena have sent me Shairp's little book on "Religion and
      Culture." It is capital; and if you knew the man you would not wonder at
      his writing such sensible, thoughtful books. He is one of the most
      "loveable" beings I ever knew. His good wholesome teaching is about the
      best antidote I have seen to much of the poison circulating about in
      magazines and alluring ignorant, unsound people with the specious name of
      philosophy. And he is always fair, and credits his opponents with all that
      can possibly be imagined to extenuate the injury they are doing by their
      false and faithless teaching.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the letter suddenly ceases. No doubt this last sentence had given the
      last impulse towards addressing the old Balliol friend above named, now
      Principal of St. Andrew's, in the following:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Southern Cross" Mission Schooner,
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the Santa Cruz Group, S.W. Pacific: September 19.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Principal,&mdash;You won't remember my name, and it is not likely
      that you can know anything about me, but I must write you a line and thank
      you for writing your two books (for I have but two) on "Studies on Poetry
      and Philosophy," and "Religion and Culture."
    </p>
    <p>
      'The "Moral Dynamic" and the latter book are indeed the very books I have
      longed to see; books that one can put with confidence and satisfaction
      into the hands of men, young and old, in these stirring and dangerous
      times.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then it did me good to be recalled to old scenes and to dream of old
      faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was almost a freshman when you came up to keep your M.A. term; and as I
      knew some of the men you knew, you kindly, as I well remember, gave me the
      benefit of it. As John Coleridge's cousin and the acquaintance of John
      Keate, Cumin, Palmer, and dear James Eiddell, I came to know men whom
      otherwise I could not have known, and of these how many there still are
      that I have thought of and cared for ever since!
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must have thought of Riddell, dear James Riddell, when you wrote the
      words in p. 76 of your book on "Religion and Culture": "We have known
      such." Yes, there was indeed about him a beauty of character that is very
      very rare. Sellar is in the north somewhere, I think I have seen Essays by
      him on Lucretius.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that he is Professor at some University. I am ashamed to know so
      little about him. Should you see him, pray remember me most kindly to him.
      As year after year passes on, it is very pleasant to think there are men
      on the other side of the world that I can with a certainty count upon as
      friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I find it difficult to read much of what is worth reading nowadays, and I
      have little taste for magazines, &amp;c., I confess.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I know enough of what is working in men's minds in Europe to be
      heartily thankful for such thoughtful wholesome teaching as yours.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, you are doing a good work, and I pray God it may be abundantly
      blessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remain, my dear Friend,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very sincerely yours,
    </p>
    <h5>
      'J. C. PATTESON.'
    </h5>
    <p>
      This is the last letter apparently finished and signed!
    </p>
    <p>
      To the Bishop of Lichfield the long journal-letter says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tenakulu (the volcano) was fine last night, but not so fine as on that
      night we saw it together. But it was very solemn to look at it, and think
      how puny all man's works are in comparison with this little volcano. What
      is all the bombardment of Paris to those masses of fire and hundreds of
      tons of rock cast out into the sea? "If He do but touch the hills, they
      shall smoke."
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now what will the next few days bring forth? It may be God's will
      that the opening for the Gospel may be given to us now. Sometimes I feel
      as if I were almost too importunate in my longings for some beginning
      here; and I try not to be impatient, and to wait His good time, knowing
      that it will come when it is the fulness of time. Then, again, I am
      tempted to think, "If not soon, if not now, the trading vessels will make
      it almost impossible, as men think, to obtain any opening here." But I am
      on the whole hopeful, though sometimes faint-hearted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To day's First Lesson has a good verse: Haggai, ii. 4;l and there is
      Psalm xci. also.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then follows a good deal about further plans, and need of men; ending with
      the decision that the present 'Southern Cross' ought to be sold, and that
      a new one could be built at Auckland for £2,000, which the Bishop thought
      he could obtain in New Zealand and Australia.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yet now be strong, O Zerubbabel, saith the Lord; and be strong, O Joshua,
      son of Josedech, the high priest; and be strong, all ye people of the
      land, saith the Lord, and work: for I am with you, saith the Lord of
      hosts.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A much smaller additional vessel would be useful; and he merrily says:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't know an amiable millionaire, with a nice quick yacht from 70 to
      120 tons, to be given away, and sent out to Auckland free of expense, I
      suppose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must give up all idea of our Chapel for a time, but we can do without
      it. And a vessel is necessary.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The last of this letter is on Delitzsch and Biblical criticism, but too
      much mixed up with other persons' private affairs for quotation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Reading Hebrew with Mr. Atkin, or studying Isaiah alone, had been the
      special recreation throughout the voyage.
    </p>
    <p>
      His scholar Edward Wogale has given a touch of that last morning of the
      20th:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'And as we were going to that island where he died, but were still in the
      open sea, he schooled us continually upon Luke ii. iii. up to vi., but he
      left off with us with his death. And he preached to us continually at
      Prayers in the morning, every day, and every evening on the Acts of the
      Apostles, and he spoke as far as to the seventh chapter, and then we
      reached that island. And he had spoken admirably and very strongly indeed
      to us, about the death of Stephen, and then he went up ashore on that
      island Nukapu.'
    </p>
    <p>
      That island Nukapu lay with the blue waves breaking over the circling
      reef, the white line of coral sand, the trees coming down to it; and in
      the glowing sun of September 20, the equatorial midsummer eve, four canoes
      were seen hovering about the reef, as the 'Southern Cross' tried to make
      for the islet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brooke says that this lingering had seemed to intensify the Bishop's
      prayer and anxiety for these poor people; and, thinking that the unusual
      movements of the vessel puzzled the people in the canoes, and that they
      might be afraid to approach, he desired that at 11.30 A.M. the boat should
      be lowered, and entered it with Mr. Atkin, Stephen Taroniara, James
      Minipa, and John Nonono. He sat in the stern sheets, and called back to
      Mr. Brooke: 'Tell the captain I may have to go ashore.' Then he waited to
      collect more things as presents to take on shore, and pulled towards the
      canoes; But they did not come to meet the boat, and seemed undecided
      whether to pull away or not. The people recognized the Bishop; and when he
      offered to go on shore they assented, and the boat went on to a part of
      the reef about two miles from the island, and there met two more canoes,
      making six in all. The natives were very anxious that they should haul the
      boat up on the reef, the tide being too low for her to cross it, but, when
      this was not consented to, two men proposed to take the Bishop into their
      boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will be remembered that he had always found the entering one of their
      canoes a sure way of disarming suspicion, and he at once complied. Mr.
      Atkin afterwards said he thought he caught the word 'Tabu,' as if in
      warning, and saw a basket with yams and other fruits presented; and those
      acquainted with the customs of the Polynesians&mdash;the race to which
      these islanders belonged&mdash;say that this is sometimes done that an
      intended victim may unconsciously touch something tabu, and thus may
      become a lawful subject for a blow, and someone may have tried to warn
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a delay of about twenty minutes; and then two canoes went with
      the one containing the Bishop, the two chiefs, Moto and Taula, who had
      before been so friendly to him, being in them. The tide was so low that it
      was necessary to wade over the reef, and drag the canoes across to the
      deeper lagoon within. The boat's crew could not follow; but they could see
      the Bishop land on the beach, and there lost sight of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boat had been about half-an-hour drifting about in company with the
      canoes, and there had been some attempt at talk, when suddenly, at about
      ten yards off, without any warning, a man stood up in one of them, and
      calling out, 'Have you anything like this?' shot off one of the yard-long
      arrows, and his companions in the other two canoes began shooting as
      quickly as possible, calling out, as they aimed, 'This for New Zealand
      man! This for Bauro man! This for Mota man!' The boat was pulled back
      rapidly, and was soon out of range, but not before three out of the four
      had been struck; James only escaped by throwing himself back on the seat,
      while an arrow had nailed John's cap to his head, Mr. Atkin had one in his
      left shoulder, and poor Stephen lay in the bottom of the boat, 'trussed,'
      as Mr. Brooke described it, with six arrows in the chest and shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about two hours since they had left the ship when they reached it
      again: and Mr. Atkin said, 'We are all hurt? as they were helped on board;
      but no sooner had the arrow-head, formed of human bone, and acutely sharp,
      been extracted, than he insisted on going back to find his Bishop. He
      alone knew the way by which the reef could be crossed in the now rising
      tide, so that his presence was necessary. Meantime Mr. Brooke extracted as
      best he might the arrows from poor Stephen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We two Bisope,' said the poor fellow, meaning that he shared the same
      fate as the Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Joseph Wate, a lad of fifteen, Mr. Atkin's Malanta godson and pupil,
      wrote afterwards, 'Joe said to me and Sapi, "We are going to look for the
      Bishop, are you two afraid?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No, why should I be afraid?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Very well, you two go and get food for yourselves, and bring a beaker
      full of water for us all, for we shall have to lie on our oars a long time
      to-day."'
    </p>
    <p>
      The others who pulled the boat were Charles Sapinamba, a sailor, and Mr.
      Bongarde, the mate, who carried a pistol, for the first time in the
      records of the 'Southern Cross.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They had long to wait till the tide was high enough to carry them across
      the reef, and they could see people on shore, at whom they gazed anxiously
      with a glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      About half-past four it became possible to cross the reef, and then two
      canoes rowed towards them: one cast off the other and went back; the
      other, with a heap in the middle, drifted towards them, and they rowed
      towards it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But' (says Wate), 'when we came near we two were afraid, and I said to
      Joe, "If there is a man inside to attack us, when he rises up, we shall
      see him."'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the mate took up his pistol, but the sailor said, 'Those are the
      Bishop's shoes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As they came up with it, and lifted the bundle wrapped in matting into the
      boat, a shout or yell arose from the shore. Wate says four canoes put off
      in pursuit; but the others think their only object was to secure the now
      empty canoe as it drifted away. The boat came alongside, and two words
      passed, 'The body!' Then it was lifted up, and laid across the skylight,
      rolled in the native mat, which was secured at the head and feet. The
      placid smile was still on the face; there was a palm leaf fastened over
      the breast, and when the mat was opened there were five wounds, no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The strange mysterious beauty, as it may be called, of these circumstances
      almost makes one feel as if this were the legend of a martyr of the
      Primitive Church; but the fact is literally true, and can be interpreted,
      though probably no account will ever be obtained from the actors in the
      scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wounds were, one evidently given with a club, which had shattered the
      right side of the skull at the back, and probably was the first, and had
      destroyed life instantly, and almost painlessly; another stroke of some
      sharp weapon had cloven the top of the head; the body was also pierced in
      one place; and there were two arrow wounds in the legs, but apparently not
      shot at the living man, but stuck in after his fall, and after he had been
      stripped, for the clothing was gone, all but the boots and socks. In the
      front of the cocoa-nut palm, there were five knots made in the long
      leaflets. All this is an almost certain indication that his death was the
      vengeance for five of the natives. 'Blood for blood' is a sacred law,
      almost of nature, wherever Christianity has not prevailed, and a whole
      tribe is held responsible for the crime of one. Five men in Fiji are known
      to have been stolen from Nukapu; and probably their families believed them
      to have been killed, and believed themselves to be performing a sacred
      duty when they dipped their weapons in the blood of the Bisope, whom they
      did not know well enough to understand that he was their protector. Nay,
      it is likely that there had been some such discussion as had saved him
      before at Mai from suffering for Petere's death; and, indeed, one party
      seem to have wished to keep him from landing, and to have thus solemnly
      and reverently treated his body.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even when the tidings came in the brief uncircumstantial telegram, there
      were none of those who loved and revered him who did not feel that such
      was the death he always looked for, and that he had willingly given his
      life. There was peace in the thought even while hearts trembled with dread
      of hearing of accompanying horrors; and when the full story arrived,
      showing how far more painless his death had been than had he lived on to
      suffer from his broken health, and how wonderfully the unconscious heathen
      had marked him with emblems so sacred in our eyes, there was thankfulness
      and joy even to the bereaved at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sweet calm smile preached peace to the mourners who had lost his
      guiding spirit, but they could not look on it long. The next morning, St.
      Matthew's Day, the body of John Coleridge Patteson was committed to the
      waters of the Pacific, his 'son after the faith,' Joseph Atkin, reading
      the Burial Service.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Atkin afterwards wrote to his mother. He had written to his father the
      day before; but the substance of his letter has been given in the
      narrative:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 21, 1871.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Mother,&mdash;We have had a terrible loss, such a blow that we
      cannot at all realise it. Our Bishop is dead; killed by the natives at
      Nukapu yesterday. We got the body, and buried it this morning. He was
      alone on shore, and none of us saw it done. We were attacked in the boat
      too, and Stephen so badly wounded that I am afraid there is small hope of
      his recovery. John and I have arrow wounds, but not severe. Our poor boys
      seem quite awe-stricken. Captain Jacobs is very much cut up. Brooke,
      although not at all well, has quite devoted himself to the wounded, and so
      has less time to think about it all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would only be selfish to wish him back. He has gone to his rest,
      dying, as he lived, in his Master's service.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seems a shocking way to die; but I can say from experience that it is
      far more to hear of than to suffer. In whatever way so peaceful a life as
      his is ended, his end is peace. There was no sign of fear or pain on his
      face&mdash;just the look that he used to have when asleep, patient and a
      little wearied. "What a stroke his death will be to hundreds!" What his
      Mission will do without him, God only knows Who has taken him away. His
      ways are not as our ways. Seeing people taken away, when, as we think,
      they are almost necessary to do God's work on earth, makes one think that
      we often think and talk too much about Christian work. What God requires
      is Christian men. He does not need the work, only gives it to form or
      perfect the character of the men whom He sends to do it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stephen is in great pain at times to-night; one of the arrows seems to
      have entered his lungs, and it is broken in, too deep to be got out. John
      is wounded in the right shoulder, I in the left. We are both maimed for
      the time; but, if it were not for the fear of poison, the wounds would not
      be worth noticing. I do not expect any bad consequences, but they are
      possible. What would make me cling to life more than anything else is the
      thought of you at home; but if it be God's will that I am to die, I know
      He will enable you to bear it, and bring good for you out of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Saturday, 23rd.&mdash;We are all doing well. Stephen keeps up his
      strength, sleeps well, and has no long attacks of pain. We have had good
      breezes yesterday and to-day&mdash;very welcome it is, but the motion
      makes writing too much labour. Brooke and Edward Wogale are both unwell&mdash;ague,
      I believe, with both of them; and Brooke's nerves are upset. He has slept
      most of to-day, and will probably be the better for it.'....
    </p>
    <p>
      His private journal adds:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'September 21st.&mdash;Buried the Bishop in the morning. The wounded all
      doing well, but Stephen in pain occasionally. Calm day, passed over a reef
      in the morning, about eighteen miles north of Nukapu, nine fathoms on it.
      Thermometer ninety-one degrees yesterday and to-day. Began writing home at
      night. Began reading Miss Yonge's "Chaplet of Pearls."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Friday, 22nd.&mdash;A light breeze came up in the evening, which
      freshened through the night, and carried us past Tenakulu. Stephen doing
      very well, had a good night, and has very little pain to-day. A breeze
      through the day, much cooler. I am dressing my shoulder with brine. Read
      some sermons of Vaughan's, preached at Doncaster during Passion Week.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Saturday, 23rd.&mdash;Breeze through the day. A few showers of rain.
      Brooke and Wogale down with ague; gave Wogale ipecacuanha and quinine
      afterwards. Read Mota prayers in evening. All wounds going on well.
      Finished "Chaplet of Pearls," and wrote a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sunday, 24th.&mdash;This morning the wind went round to N.E. and N. and
      then died away. We were 55 miles W. of the Torres Islands at noon. Brooke
      took English and Mota morning Prayers. I celebrated Holy Communion
      afterwards. John came into cabin; I went out to Stephen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Brooke and Wogale both better, but B&mdash;&mdash; quite weak.'
    </p>
    <p>
      During that Celebration, while administering the Sacred Elements, Mr.
      Atkin's tongue stumbled and hesitated over some of the words.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the Mota men looked at one another, and knew what would follow.
    </p>
    <p>
      He knew it himself too, and called to Joseph Wate, his own special pupil,
      saying (as the lad wrote to Mr. Atkin the elder), 'Stephen and I again are
      going to follow the Bishop, and they of your country&mdash;! Who is to
      speak to them?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he said again, 'It is all right. Don't grieve about it, because they
      did not do this thing of themselves, but God allowed them to do it. It is
      very good, because God would have it so, because He only looks after us,
      and He understands about us, and now He wills to take away us two, and it
      is well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was much more for that strong young frame to undergo before the
      vigorous life could depart. The loss was to be borne. The head of the
      Mission, who had gone through long sickness, and lain at the gates of the
      grave so long, died almost painlessly: his followers had deeply to drink
      of the cup of agony. The night between the 26th and 27th was terrible, the
      whole nervous system being jerked and strained to pieces, and he wandered
      too much to send any message home; 'I lost my wits since they shot me,' he
      said. Towards morning he almost leapt from his berth on the floor, crying
      'Good-bye.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brooke asked if he would have a little Sal volatile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A little brandy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you want anything?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want nothing but to die.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Those were his last words. He lay convulsed on a mattress on the floor for
      about an hour longer, and was released on the morning of the 29th.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stephen, with an arrow wound in the lungs, and several more of these
      wounds in the chest, could hardly have lived, even without the terrible
      tetanus. He had spent his time in reading his Mota Gospel and Prayer-book,
      praying and speaking earnestly to the other men on board, before the full
      agony came on. He was a tall, large, powerfully framed man; and the
      struggles were violent before he too sank into rest on the morning of the
      28th, all the time most assiduously nursed by Joseph Wate. On St.
      Michael's Day, these two teachers of poor Bauro received at the same time
      their funeral at sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      John Coleridge Patteson was forty-four years and a half old.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph Atkin, twenty-nine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stephen Taroniara probably twenty-five&mdash;as he was about eighteen when
      he joined the Mission in 1864. His little girl will be brought up at
      Norfolk Island; his wife Tara, to whom he had been married only just
      before his voyage, became consumptive, and died January, 1873, only twenty
      minutes after her Baptism. As one of the scholars said, "Had the songs of
      the angels for joy of her being made a child of God finished before they
      were again singing to welcome her an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven?"
    </p>
    <p>
      John Nonono showed no symptoms of tetanus, but was landed at Mota to
      recover under more favourable circumstances than the crowded cabin could
      afford.
    </p>
    <p>
      Calms and baffling winds made the return to this island trying and
      difficult, and Mota was not reached till the 4th of October. George
      Sarawia was still perfectly satisfactory; and his community, on the whole,
      going on hopefully. Want of provisions, which Mota could not supply, made
      the stay very brief; and after obtaining the necessary supplies at Aurora,
      the 'Southern Cross' brought her sad tidings to Norfolk Island on the
      17th. That day Mrs. Palmer wrote:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Monday afternoon, 15th, Mr. Codrington went for a ride to the other
      side of the island, and there espied the schooner, eight miles off. He
      rode home quickly, and soon the shouting and racing of the boys told us
      that the vessel had come. They were all at arrowroot-making. Never, I
      think, had the whole party, English and natives, seemed in higher spirits.
      Mr. Bice walked to the settlement, to see if she was far in enough to land
      that night; we asked him to call and tell us on his way home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Next morning Mr. Bice rode down to see if it really was the schooner, and
      was back to breakfast, all thinking we should soon see them come up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Codrington and Mr. Bice got their horses ready to ride down, and I
      got the rooms ready, when, in an hour, a Norfolk Island boy rode up to say
      the flag was half-mast high.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We told the boys and girls something was wrong, to stop their joyous
      shouting and laughing; and then I waited till Mr. Jackson returned, and
      all he could say was, "Only Brooke has come!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      What more shall I tell? Comments on such a life and such a death are
      superfluous; and to repeat the testimonies of friends, outpourings of
      grief, and utterances in sermons is but to weaken the impression of the
      reality!
    </p>
    <p>
      There is pain too in telling the further fate of Nukapu. H.M.S. 'Rosario,'
      Commander Markham, then cruising in the Southern Pacific, touched at
      Norfolk Island, and Captain Markham undertook at once to go to the island
      and make enquiries.
    </p>
    <p>
      A protest was drawn up and signed by all the members of the Mission
      against any attempt to punish the natives for the murder; and Captain
      Markham, a kind, humane, and conscientious man, as no one can doubt,
      promised that nothing of the kind should be attempted.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the natives could not but expect retaliation for what they had done.
      There was no interpreter. They knew nothing of flags of truce; and when
      they saw a boat approaching, full of white men, armed, what could they
      apprehend but vengeance for 'Bisope'? So they discharged a volley of
      arrows, and a sergeant of marines was killed. This was an attack on the
      British flag, and it was severely chastised with British firearms. It is
      very much to be doubted whether Nukapu will ever understand that her
      natives were shot, not for killing the Bishop, but for firing on the
      British flag. For the present the way is closed, and we can only echo
      Fisher Young's sigh, 'Poor Santa Cruz people!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Bishop Patteson's will bequeathed his whole inheritance to the Melanesian
      Mission, and appointed that the senior Priest should take charge of it
      until another Bishop should be chosen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Rev. Robert Codrington, therefore, took the management, though
      refusing the Episcopate; and considering the peculiar qualifications
      needful for a Melanesian Bishop, which can only be tested by actual
      experiment on physical as well as moral and spiritual abilities, it has,
      up to the present moment (May 1873), been thought better to leave the See
      vacant, obtaining episcopal aid from the Bishop of Auckland.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this implies no slackness nor falling off in the Mission. By God's
      good providence, Coleridge Patteson had so matured his system that it
      could work without him. Mr. Codrington and the other clergy make their
      periodic voyages in the 'Southern Cross.' Kohimarama flourishes under
      George Sarawia, who was ordained Priest at Auckland on St. Barnabas Day,
      1873. Bishop Cowie has paid a visit to Norfolk Island, and ordained as
      Deacons, Edward Wogale, Robert Pantatun, Henry Tagalana, to work in Mota,
      Santa Maria, and Ara. Joseph Wate remains the chief teacher of the lads
      from Bauro; but there is much to be done before the work in that island
      can be carried on. The people there seem peculiarly devoid of earnestness;
      and it is remarkable that though they were among the first visited, and
      their scholars the very earliest favourites, Stephen has been the only one
      whose Christianity seems to have been substantial. But the sight of his
      patient endurance had the same effect on those who were with him in the
      ship as Walter Hotaswol's exhortations had had on himself, and several of
      them began in earnest to prepare for Baptism.
    </p>
    <p>
      The English staff of the Mission has been recruited by the Rev. John R.
      Selwyn, and the Rev. John Still, as well as by Mr. Kenny from New Zealand.
      And there is good hope that 'He who hath begun a good work will perform it
      unto the day of the Lord.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the crimes connected with the murder, the Queen herself directed the
      attention of Parliament to it in her Speech at the commencement of the
      Session of 1872. The Admiralty do what in them lies to keep watch over the
      labour vessels by means of Queen's ships; and in Queensland, regulations
      are made; in Fiji, the British Consul endeavours to examine the newly
      arrived, whether they have been taken away by force. But it may be feared
      that it will not be possible entirely to prevent atrocities over so wide a
      range; though if, as Bishop Patteson suggested, all vessels unregistered,
      and not committed to trustworthy masters, were liable to be seized and
      confiscated, much of the shameless deceit and horrible skull-hunting would
      be prevented.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps the fittest conclusion to the Bishop's history will be the words
      written by Henry Tagalana, translated literally by Mr. Codrington:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'As he taught, he confirmed his word with his good life among us, as we
      all know; and also that he perfectly well helped anyone who might be
      unhappy about anything, and spoke comfort to him about it; and about his
      character and conduct, they are consistent with the law of God. He gave
      the evidence of it in his practice, for he did nothing carelessly, lest he
      should make anyone stumble and turn from the good way; and again he did
      nothing to gain anything for himself alone, but he sought what he might
      keep others with, and then he worked with it: and the reason was his
      pitifulness and his love. And again, he did not despise anyone, nor reject
      anyone with scorn; whether it were a white or a black person he thought
      them all as one, and he loved them all alike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He loved them all alike!' That was the secret of John Coleridge
      Patteson's history and his labours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Need more be said of him? Surely the simple islander's summary of his
      character is the honour he would prefer.
    </p>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>







<pre>





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