PEN AND INK SKETCH OF PICTON.

Marlborough Press, Volume VI, Issue 56, 15 July 1865, Page 3

PEN AND INK SKETCH OF PICTON.

“ God made the country And man made the town.’* Po sunpc the sweet singer of Olney on the banks of the sluggish Ouse, surrounded by a country neither remarkable for its picturesque beauty or genial climate; but which 3owi er’s genius has for°ever hallowed, and what real lover of nature, whether he wanders amidst the sylvan scenery of merry England or gazes with rapture on the sublime though rugged grandeur of the mountain and the flood, does not reverently re-echo the sentiment, although the “ eollosus of English literature, and “the pensive Elia” prefer-Fleet-street or the Strand to all the scenery in the world. The towns especially the great capitals no doubt have great interest for tho reflective mind, and they who have spent most time amidst their ceaseless turmoil are perhaps best fitted 'from the mere force of contrast to enjoy the peaceful comfort of a quiet country life. Sue!) thoughts as these often (lit through my mind as I linger at some favorite spot to enjoy the picturesque beauties of our own land-locked bay which forcibly reminds one of * lovely Win lermere or bold Locldomond.’ Snatch an early view, looking towards the sound as jocund morn with rosy steps begins to tint with streaky light the opening scene, a gentle breeze ripples tiie silvery surf ice of the water, fleecy clouds of floating vapour gradually ascends and cuts the hills in twain, till peak after peak seems hung like pendants of starlight front another sphere to lighten up the day. Slowly the light begins to dawn, starlight and daylight eo-mingling night’s sable curtain rolls aside, and the sun in bis strength fills the earth with glory, and the heart with gladness. Now mark how beautifully the lights shift ing shadow changes the out line of nature’s silent sentinels, the everl isting hills, while view follows view rivalling each other in splendour as the dancing sunbeams flit from point to point till the landscape is bathed in those exquisite tints of blended colour which fibs the mind with wonder at that creative power who weighs the hills in a balance find holds the waters in the hollow of his ban Is. Happy, thrice happy, the man who can look tipon the wottdrous scene then “ Lift to Heaven and unpresumptious eye and smiling sav, my father made them all.” Bui sbon the scene begins to change, life is on the move; the solemn stillness of the morning is broken by the sound of the hatchet, while the “smoke that so gratefully curls” from the fisherman’s hut, an 1 the town sections dissolves the spell; and while we miss the ploughboy’s whistle and the milk maid’s song, which ushers in the morning of the dear old. land, we turn with gladness to the labours 'of the day, thankful that providence has placed our new homes where the waters, tlie earth, and the sky surround us with their blessings. As the day advances boats begin to dot the bay, the jabber of the Maori mingles its strange and rapid gutleral with the choice vernacular of the boatmen to and front the Grove.. Our s'ores though few in number with little outward show, but active industry within, despatch their town and country orders, till the Royal Mall rattles down the street and calls every one to the door •Wtilfcoifle Blenheim neighberufs •frho ere on

their way to meet friends, or start with the first steamer. But hark 1 what means those shrill and joyous shouts of the romping urchins as they scamper to the jetty. Steamer, steamer—the Phoebe —no the Wellington ; hut its the Airedale Boom goes the Armstrong as she rounds life point, which rattles like thunder through the echoing hills, and all is hustle and excitement —out starts ho nil ace to catch ti av el let s with carpet hags. Lord John on wharfage dues intent and Custom House officers to watch lhe cargo ; the Baker jumps on board at a flying leap to secure the first order for fresh bread. Sergeant Emerson quietly takes stock of passengers without passports, or is ready bravely to risk liis life as lie his already done eight times to rescue from a watery grave the daring baker or other wreckless hoarders of the ship who cannot wait until she is moored. The bustling Editor of the Press rushes every one and everywhere for news, followed by the Printer’s Devil with the unsold copies of their own last edition which contains a leading article that is to finish the Governor and upset the W eld Ministry.. But who conies next ? Tne chestnut colt, by jingo, with a beard that a Scandinavian sage would envy-Lloyds representative, our leading merchant legislative Tom Sayers and.princeof goodfellows. What the Captain and he does is a mystery, but thev shake hands so co r dialiy that devilled kidneys oysters and a slave is a fair logical inference of 41 coming events which east theii shadows before ; ” while thesmithaml thecarpcnter, the tinker and the tailor, and tne whole population who can shirk work, with their handsin theii pockets, and their mouths wide open, welcome the new' arrivals to the finest port in the Southern Hemisphere. The Captain shouts, the. mate swears, the crew’ jerk out their aye aye, Sir, till all is made fast under the vigilant eye of Dundonnell’s middy. Then come the ; assengers across the gangway who shake hands with long lost friends or stare vacantly around at Cook’s descendants. Bales, boxes, and baggage tumble on to the wharf, horses are slung ashore and bullocks are dropt over the side. The Ship fills, the Gridiron smokes, oysters are riz, and if a new rush is in the wind peaeonts and pigtail, bluchers and billeys, change hands to stalwart diggers in red shirts and Mosaic beards who land for a hurst in passing. For an hour or two and sometimes longer, all is hustle, and teetotalism nowhere, but anoit the whistle shrieks, reckonings are paid a i assengers jump aboard stowaways sneak into corners and (lodge the purser, the Captain mounts las rostrum, the funnel vomits its smoke, the escape pipe its steam in gusts, click goes the valves, and splash goes the paddles. Stop her —ease her —all right Sir, dies away in the distance, and while the last wave of the hand or the handkerchief is seen, the spasmodic cheer of a reeling mate, or the frantic shout of a too late is heard, away lloa*s the gallant ship like a thing of life round the jutting point that hides her from our view. The change is as rapid as the shifting scenes of a pantoinine, with dissolving views, or the rush of a railway train from a country station which has set till in motion like a whirl; 001, hut soon vanishes into a tunnel dark as Erebus. And Picton once more drops into peaceful repose, to await at intervals of days, sometimes weeks, a repetition of the welcome, and by no means unprofitable invasion. —Communicated.