national life, or are their laws to be respected by
us, and is our rulership over them to be limited
to equal government aud not extended to
coercion? In a word, are they conquered slaves to
be repressed, or native free men to be treated
with? These questions, founded as they are on
the inalienable laws of truth and justice, and
the natural rights of humanity, do not seem
very difficult of answer to men at a distance
unexcited by passion; but to the settlers, stirred
by fear and blinded by anger—fired, too, by
the Englishman's tremendous pride of name
and antipathy to other races—they naturally
wear a very different aspect, and are by no
means so easy to be set to rights. Fortunately
for that brave family of our savage brethren,
not all the colonists take the exclusively
English side; a kindly handful join with the
Maori, and demand for them the justice and
national recognition which in olden times one
Caractacus demanded for us, and one Boadicea
died to maintain. Thus we may reasonably
hope that matters will get amicably adjusted,
and that our old friend Tamihana will be no
longer compelled to assume a hostile attitude
towards Queen or Governor, but will be brought
back into the bonds of peace and good fellowship,
and left to his proselytising and his schools,
unmolested and unchecked. Sir George Grey,
who is going out to smoothe down difficulties,
knows all about the Maori. He can speak their
language, has learnt their songs, their usages,
and their legends; and both we ourselves, safe
from the scene of danger, as well as those
immediately on the spot, may rejoice if he proves
that he can play the part of the modern, but a
more merciful Agricola, and restore peace where
peace ought never to have been disturbed.

Everything points to a great future for
New Zealand. The country which has bred the
most capable race of aborigines known to
modern times, will be sure to act no
stepmother's part by the children of her adoption,
from what source soever they may be drawn.
A climate healthy and temperate—a soil fertile
and producing all the growths of the old European
countries, save the half tropical growths
of Sicily and Southern Italy—scenery bold,
luxuriant, beautiful—nothing is wanting to the
material influences by which strong souls are
fed and nourished. So "English," too, in its
general outside features, with such thoroughly
English capabilities and characteristics, not cold
enough to stint, nor hot enough to enervate, it
seems to be specially marked out as the Great
Britain of the Southern hemisphere, the
supplemental Albion destined to carry the thread of
English history clear round the globe. But the
thread will start with an awkward knot that
will take a vast deal of unnecessary unravelling,
if the just right of the aborigines be disallowed,
and if such a race as the Maori be not civilised
and made one with the invading settlers.

New Zealand has great capabilities. The
inversion of the seasons in Antipodean countries
is strange to us. What can we say to a
Christmas in Midsummer, with roses for mistletoe,
and strawberries for the red beads of
the shining holly? And think of lovely
June, and more gorgeous and matronly July,
being the eldest born of hoary-headed winter,
with naked boughs and starved fields, and all
the teeming wealth of nature chained up in
frost and snow, instead of the dark blue skies,
and the wreaths of trailing roses, and all the
lavish luxury of fruit and flowers, which belong,
as by natural right, to these bonny seasons of
our summer! "We are now in the depth of
winter, and must be content with occasional
rains alternately with bright days, succeeded
by sharp frosts at night," says the Southern
Provinces Almanac, under the heading of July,
adding also a recommendation to "risk a small
sowing of cress, mustard, radish, and spinach,
the first sowing of sweet peas for early blooming,
and even now you may risk the first sowing
of mignionette." The beginning of August
marks the first awakening of spring, and the
whole month is like the English February;
while February itself is hot and dry, and March
begins to show the golden sheaves of autumn
shining through the dark green leaves of summer.
This masquerade of the months would be
the most foreign bit of all New Zealand life to
us, and even a native chief stalking by the
drawing-room window in his hidalgo-looking blanket,
or gliding past the little creek at the foot of the
garden, steering his strangely-carved canoe with
his still more strangely-carved paddle, would not
seem much more unusual than Christmas in
Midsummer, and the dog-days in a fall of snow.
Among her other attractions, New Zealand, too,
has spaces of Tom Tiddler's ground, where gold
can be picked up by the diligent possessed
of sharp eyes and firm muscles; very likely,
future explorers will find precious stones among
the rocks and where old volcanoes have fused
and melted earths and common clays into their
priceless crystals. Some countries seem
destined from the beginning for great works and
stirring histories, and New Zealand is one of
those countries consecrated by nature to the
ministry of the world's future.

LIFE'S BALANCES.

THE Autumn day is dying. So am I.
Draw nearer, dear, and let me rest my head,
My weary weary head, where it may lie
Upon your breast; perchance I may be dead
Ere it rests thus again. So, let me speak
My full heart out. It is so full to-night,
That though I am so worn, so faint and weak,
That words come slowly, and the evening light
Of life is wavering, still I cannot rest
Till I have spoken.

                            Philip dear, you know
The story of my life: it was confess'd
When first you spoke of love. How long ago,
How distant seems the day! But, oh! how sweet!
Though Heaven is shining near, I scarce can feel
As if its joys divine were more complete
Than those that blessèd moment did reveal!

Yet then came fear and trembling; for I knew
That I had that to tell which might perchance
Change into instant darkness all the blue