[Illustration: A WELLINGTON MAN TURNING A STREET CORNER] The first thing that strikes an Englishman about the landscape of New Zealand is the absence of atmosphere. The jagged hills stand out sharp against the clear sky like a photograph seen through a stereoscope. There are no half-lights, no melting mist or wreathing haze, no vague distances. Another thing which strikes the stranger is the volcanic appearance of the hills and the soil. New Zealand is a tropical island cooled and made temperate by the neighbourhood of the South Pole. Wellington nestles among steep hills covered with light-green grass and shorn of all trees. Its roofs are nearly all red. If you climb up a hill you see the view on either side of it, and the sea, very deep and blue. Not so very many years ago New Zealand was covered with bush; and the vegetation must have been riotously splendid, for what remains is very fine. My first walk in the country along the beach, where a very blue sea breaks over sharp brown rocks, and high cliffs stand out sharp and sheer, reminded me of South Devon. My first long drive in the country reminded me of Russia, that is to say, of eastern Siberia and Transbaikalia. The little wooden one-storied houses, with red iron roofs and verandahs, might have been taken from Siberia. The sharp outline of the hills, the colour of the scrub, the clearness of the sky, all this is very much like what you see from the windows of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Another thing the stranger will notice immediately is the limpidity of the streams and the water. Everybody tells me that this is the wrong time of year to be in New Zealand. One should be here in the summer: that is to say, in November and December. One should be able to camp out in the bush, by the great lakes, where the black swans sweep and wheel in the transparent afterglow. I shan’t see all that, alas! because it is practically winter now. I shall miss probably all the important sights. In Wellington you see a great many private automobiles; very few public cabs and taxis. Most people use the tram-cars, which is much the most convenient way of getting about, let alone the cheapness. The first thing that strikes you in Wellington is the well-to-do-ness of everybody. There are no beggars; the workmen are all well off. The people seem quite extraordinarily happy. _Near Palmerston: August 20_ I have spent four days in the country near Palmerston. As you travel in the train the country is more like eastern Siberia than ever. In the distance you see a sharp range of blue hills, in the foreground a flat plain on which little squat one-storied wooden houses with red iron roofs are dotted about. The small provincial cities, too, are--as in Australia--very like the provincial towns in Russia. The streets are broad and the houses have verandahs.