CHAPTER III. MANGUNGU.
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CHAPTER III.
MANGUNGU.
THIS site was chosen by the Rev. Messrs. Hobbs and and Stack, in 1827, for its central position. It is a small promontory, running out to a point in the river, and flanked by steep hills, covered with dense forest. Several acres had been cleared of the wood. The soil is a strong clay, and the surface very uneven. A plain, but substantial, shell of a wooden oblong building stood in the centre. This was the Mission Church. The materials had been sawn, and put together, by native workmen, under European supervision. It held about five hundred people, seated on the floor, after their fashion. The only seats provided were for the Mission families, and these were near the pulpit. On a high pole in the front, hung the bell. To the devout, there was music in the tone of that "church-going bell" which called the dusky natives to the house of prayer. Behind the church were some small rooms--one of which was the printing-office, and the others stores for food. On the same level, and not far from it, was the school-house, a neat structure. Descending from the church, and close to the water's edge, there was a capacious dwelling-house of one storey, with no claim to architectural style. It was enclosed by a high paling. This had been the residence of Mr. White, but was now vacated for Mr.
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Turner and his family. A little higher up, and to the left of it, was a raupo (or rush) building, of several rooms. Attached to this was an orchard of apple and other trees. It had a commanding view of the river. This house was allotted to the writer. About a hundred yards to the right there was another, and larger, raupo house, in which Mr. and Mrs. Woon, and their family, lived. Close by this was the burial-ground: it was protected by a rude fence, and overshadowed by drooping willows. There were many graves, and a few of them had headstones. Many of the occupants had been drowned in the river. Tufts of rushes grew over this place of sepulture. Some low huts served as dormitories for the natives, who lived on the station as domestic servants, workmen, etc.
By the river-side there was a boat-house. A row of stout piles stretched out to low-water mark. These seemed designed for a wharf, which, however, was never completed. In the erection of the buildings no plan or order had been observed. Neither meadow nor garden met the eye. Flocks of goats wandered over the place. The stiff clay was in heaps here, and pits there. The pathways, from one house to another, were innocent of asphalte or gravel. The name of the station was appropriate--Mangungu, which means broken to pieces.
Turning a rocky point, is Otararau. Here was a collection of poor huts, used by the natives when they came, week by week, in their canoes, to the Sabbath worship. In the middle of the river, and in front of Mangungu, is a small island called Motiti, clothed with the koromiko (Veronica). This little island had a picturesque appearance in a dark night, when the natives, with flaring and flitting torches, were spearing fish. Standing by the
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door of the church, the eye looked up and down the river, taking in its range several of the branches, as well as the traders' houses at various bends. The bold lookout stretches far away over dark forests, and terminates in the purple haze of distant ranges of mountains, on which the conical peak of Maungataniwha rises in queenlike majesty. A large ship, sometimes two or three, might be seen riding at anchor, taking in spars or other timber, and produce. The kauri pine grows extensively in the forests, and as straight as an arrow, to a height of nearly two hundred feet. It is easily known from all other trees, by its tufted tops. Altogether, the view embraced a scene of wild magnificence--a display of Nature's grandeur.
Never can I forget the evening when we first landed at Mangungu, amid the all-but-deafening shouts, in what then sounded, in our ears, as a very jargon. Our feet seemed to touch on hallowed ground. There was much joy on the station that night. The arrival of a ship was, at any time, an event, but the advent of missionaries was a "red-letter day" in the calendar of the people. The ample stores of a New Zealand larder were laid under tribute, for our repast. The supper-table invited the discussion of sundry fowls, baked and boiled, of well-flavoured hams, fresh pork, and goat mutton, supplemented with fine potatoes, kumeras, and pumpkins, together with the steaming tea, enriched with goat's-milk, home-made bread, baked in Dutch ovens, with salt butter, and a variety of jam-tarts and puddings, among which the peach and the Cape gooseberry figured largely. Truly, we had come to a land of plenty, if not to all the refinements of the culinary art. Soyer had not visited New Zealand. Fancy had often drawn an ideal picture
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of our future home: now we had come to it; and, however illusive the dream we had cherished, there was enough to inspire us with an ardent zeal. Therefore, as we knelt together, that night, around the domestic altar, we "thanked God, and took courage."
