Broomielaw, April 1867.
I have nothing to tell you this mail, except of a rather ridiculous
expedition which we made last week, and which involved our spending
the whole night on the top of the highest hill on our run. You will
probably wonder what put such an idea into our heads, so I must
preface my account by a little explanation. Whenever I meet any
people who came here in the very early days of the colony--only
sixteen years ago, after all!--I delight in persuading them to tell
me about their adventures and hardships during those primitive
times, and these narratives have the greatest fascination for me, as
they always end happily. No one ever seems to have died of his
miseries, or even to have suffered seriously in any way from them,
so I find the greatest delight in listening to the stories of the
Pilgrims. I envy them dreadfully for having gone through so much
with such spirit and cheerfulness, and ever since I came here I have
regretted that the rapid advance of civilization in New Zealand
precludes the possibility of being really uncomfortable; this makes
me feel like an impostor, for I am convinced that my English friends
think of me with the deepest pity, as of one cut off from the
refinements and comforts of life, whereas I really am surrounded by
every necessary, and many of its luxuries, and there is no reason
but that of expense why one should not have all of these.

One class of narratives is peculiarly attractive to me. I like to
hear of benighted or belated travellers when they have had to "camp
out," as it is technically called; and have lived in constant hope
of meeting with an adventure which would give me a similar
experience. But I am gradually becoming convinced that this is