LIFE ON THE BULLER GOLDFIELDS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 41, 10 October 1891, Page 456

LIFE ON THE BULLER GOLDFIELDS.

HHERE is always an air of romance which hangs about the magic word gold, and the manners and customs of those who seek for it are a never-failing source of amusement and interest. We propose to give a series of sketches illustrating the life on the Buller Goldfields. This field has been open for thirty years, and though the day of big * piles ’ has passed away, a considerable amount of gold is still produced from the West Coast. The Buller River winds its way for about eighty miles through narrow gorges clad with dense bush, and being essentially a mineral country, the soil, except on the alluvial Hats at the junctions of its tributary streams, is unsuited for cultivation. On these Hats the few small farmers made a fair living by supplying the diggers with the necessaries of life. A good idea of the Buller valley can be had by taking two threads and looping them out at intervals. On our illustration page will be seen a sketch of ‘ All Nations’ Point.' This will be a good starting point, as it may be said to be the centre of the Central Buller. The road from this point to the Lyell has been blasted out of the side of the hill, and looks down on the Buller from an average height of eighty feet. From ‘AllNations’ Point’—an appropriate name considering the mixed population of a goldfield — a magnificent view is obtained of the alluvial flat formed by the junction of the Matakitaki and the Matiri with the main stream. In the dis-

tance will be seen vue uuvie kuwnsmp or iviurcmeon. This flat is occupied by four or five farmers, who rear cattle and sheep, and produce the succulent ‘spud,’ which may be said to be the staff of life in these parts. At the back of these farms stretches a considerable area of alluvial country in the hands of. absentees, and considering the small quantity of land available tor cultivation on the Buller, it is a crying shame that the Government does not take steps to make the land-grabber do something towards making the land productive. The Matakitaki, shortened into * Matucky,’ can also boast of a few snug little farms scattered here and there on its banks. Some fifteen miles up this pretty little valley live the ‘ Lost Tribe,’ of whom more anon, and also a consider-

able army of Chinamen, who are good customers to the ‘ cockatoos’ in the matter of pigs and poultry. But, alas ! the advent of Chinamen is the death-warrant of a goldfield, not from the fact of them being bad citizens, but because a •Chinaman will work ground that has been abandoned by a white man. Patient John will rock the cradle from morning till night for a pennyweight. The white man considers that 10s a day is little enough. It is one of the peculiarities of the digger that he will rather work for a month and make £5O, even if he makes nothing the rest of the year, than work for £2 a week all the year round. This is owing to the tradition of the past, when a man could make 5 or 6 ounces in a short time, have a ‘spree,’ and go back and make the same without any

trouble. But such days are past, and though the old identities consider it infra dig to work for wages, the rising generation will be glad to get employment on the steamdredges which are about to commence operations on the river.

The scenery on "the Buller is highly romantic, and to a dweller of the plains the sombre bush-clad hills which over-

hang the river, and the rich green of the tree-fern and the ‘ tutti ’ which skirt the roads, form a refreshing picture to one accustomed to the dead level and scanty foliage of a flat country. And when the distant peaks catch the glint of the setting sun, and the nearer hills change from plum colour to

russet with a blue mist creeping up their bases and the wholeis relieved bya rich foreground of dew-fed undergrowth, gushing travellers have expressed a wish to live and die in to what to them is a paradise. But there are drawbacks. A dweller in the Central Buller hears not the pufF of the

steam-engine. No theatrical troupe relieves the monotony of his existence. The bustle and life of a town are but recollections to the old and * fond imaginings ’ to the young. There are young men and women who have never seen a town, and to whom an ocean-going steamer would be a revelation. i-T he x Bul l er valle V’ however, is healthy—the healthiest district perhaps id New Zealand, bat it is moist, and in the winter when it is fine you do not see the sun. The rest of the tune it rains. This is somewhat exaggerated, but the fact is that the Buller valley being hemmed in by hills, is almost free from winds, and the fog which settles down about four o clock rarely disperses before one or two o’clock the next day. The only thing that distinguished the condition of life in these parts from those of an English country district of the last century is the telegraph. Within the last year or two a few pianos have been introduced, but before this the fiddle or the accordion was the instrument in use on festive occa-

sions, and even now the accordion has a firm hold on the affections of the people, and to its enchanting strains the lads and lasses of the Central Buller trip it up and down at the periodical balls which take place at Murchison and other centres. Following the road from All Nations, the next place of interest is Fern Fiat, which boasts of two ‘ pubs,’ a school, and post office. On ordinary days the only visible life is seen in the school precincts, but on holiday occasions such as Christmas time and St. Patrick’s Day, or when a few diggers are on the spree, a good deal of fun takes place. This system of periodical ‘ spreeing ’ is a part of the diggers’ creed, and so deep a root has it taken, that one is almost inclined to look upon it as a necessity. Imagine a ‘ hatter * living for three or four months with no company but morporks and woodhens ! What wonder is it that he craves for a thorough rousing, for something that will sweep away the cobwebs.

To return to the scenery, however, the contour of the mountain is often very singular. As seen from the Marina, a feeder of the Buller, it has the appearance of a man’s face. Such hills are usually of limestone formation, and a few interesting limestone caves have been found. These hills abound with wild goats, which afford good sport to those who are not afraid of a little climbing. There is a strong probability that the Central Buller will some day become a fashionable holiday resort, and it certainly has natural advantages such as only a hilly country possesses. There is grand scenery for the artist, mountains such as Murchison and the Owen for the mountaineer, limestone caves and minerals for the geologist, while the botanist can find many a rare specimen in the bush and on the mountain tops. February and March are usually the finest months in the year, and when the Buller dries its eyes and puts on holiday attire there is no more beautiful spot in New Zealand. On a still summer’s evening, when the last rays of the setting sun are striking the distant peaks, a traveller as he leavesone of the pleasant little flats seem to be entering an interminable gorge, and the scarped rocks, the frowning din's, the sombre hue of the bush appeal

-strongly to the imagination, and the river,boiling and splashing tar below, add intensity to the death-like stillness which At such a time one’s thoughts involuntarily turn to bogies, brigands, and bushrangers. To a nervous person a ghost is at all times a possibility, and in the romantic gorges of the Buller more than a probability. Indeed, the inhabitants of these parts are inclined to be superstitious, so that should a fortune-teller, whether by palmistry or the -cards, read this, he may think it worth his while to pay the Buller a visit.

Apropos of ghosts, a settler on the Matakitaki told the writer a curious incident. When he first went to live up the river be had occasion to sleep in a hut in which a man had been killed. The neighbours strongly urged him to find some other sleeping place, as the ghost of the departed had been seen several times ; but being strong-minded, he took no notice. Curiously enough, he was interested at the time in Spiritualism, so his mind was open to any sort of ghost that might turn up. However, after covering the fire digger-fashion, he turned into * bunk ’ in a room divided off from the kitchen, leaving the door open. Of course, he soon fell fast asleep, but in the middle of the night be woke up, and looking out of the door, he saw a real live * penny-plain-tuppence-coloured ’ ghost. It was -on the genuine white sheet principle, and the moon was helping it. Of couise he knew it was not a ghost, but what could it be? It had the appearance of a draped figure floating in air, now rising, now falling, and ever and anon stretching out a ghostly arm. Now, had our friend been a woman or a fool, he would have probably fled in terror and got a reputation and a cold, but being a sensible man, he got up to investigate, and he found that the fire was smoking, and a current of air was blowing the smoke by uneven puffs into the room. The moon finding its way through a chink in the roof, went mates with the smoke and the current of air in playing it low down on an interloper, but they were slightly had, and the ghost, as usual, turned out to be all air, smoke, and moonshine.