heard. If they spoke to each other, it was in the lowest whisper,
and they would no more have thought of lighting their pipes anywhere
near the house than they would of flying.

This innate tact and true gentlemanly feeling which struck me so
much in the labouring man as he appears in New Zealand, made the
lapse of good manners, to which I am coming, all the more
remarkable. Of course they never touched their hats to me: they
would make me a bow or take their hats _off_, but they never touched
them. I have often seen a hand raised involuntarily to the soft
felt hat, which every one wears there, but the mechanical action
would be arrested by the recollection of the first article of the
old colonial creed, "Jack is as good as his master." I never minded
this in the least, and got so completely out of the habit of
expecting any salutations, that it seemed quite odd to me to receive
them again on my return. No, what I objected to was, that when I
used to go into my kitchen, about ten minutes or so after the
service had been concluded, with the list of club books in my hand,
not a single man rose from his seat. They seemed to make it a point
to sit down somewhere; on a table or window seat if all the chairs
were occupied, but at all events not to be found standing. They
would bend their heads and blush, and glance shyly at each other for
encouragement as I came in, but no one got up, or took his hat off.
This went on for a few weeks, until I felt sure that this curious
behaviour did not spring from forgetfulness, or inattention. When I
mentioned my grievance in the drawing-room to the gentlemen, I only
got laughed at for my pains, and I was asked what else I expected?
To this question used to be added sundry anecdotes of earlier
colonial life, intended to reconcile me to the manners of these
later days. I remember particularly a legend of a man cook, who was