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Governor, and, crossing his wrists, imitating a man handcuffed, loudly vociferated, with fiery flashing eyes, “Shall I be thus, thus? Say to me, Governor, speak. Like this, eh? like this? Come, come, speak, Governor. Like this, eh?” He then seized hold of the Governor’s hand with both his and shook it most heartily, roaring out with additional grimace and gesture (in broken English), “How d’ye do, eh, Governor? How d’ye do, eh, Mister Governor?” This he did over, and over, and over again, the Governor evidently taking it in good part, the whole assembly of whites and browns, chief and slave, Governor, missionaries, officers of the man-o’-war, and, indeed, “all hands,” being convulsed with laughter.
This incident ended this day’s meeting.
His Excellency then gave public notice that on Friday, the 7th instant, at 10 a.m., the meeting would be reassembled.
Three cheers were then given for the Governor, in which all lustily joined. Soon after the several parties separated, apparently, I thought, pleased.
A truly laughable event (serio-comic, I might call it) happened as the Governor and his suite, with the captain and officers of the man-o’-war, were embarking. The anecdote is too good to be wholly lost. I was one of those who escorted the Governor to his boat, some distance off on the sandy beach below. His Excellency was talking with me, by the way, about the printing of the treaty and other kindred matters. To get to the boat we had to go down a short, easy, though rude pathway in the side of the hill (Waitangi House being situate on high ground). We had arrived near the boat, which the sailors were launching—it being low water—when a Native chief, an elderly man from the interior, who had only just arrived (a few others had also kept dropping in during the morning)—almost another Te Kemara—rushed down the decline, burst before us, laid his hands on the gunwale of the captain’s launch to stop her (the sailors, half-amazed, looking at their chief), and, turning himself round,
