Swainson.  When the Parliament met, he asked three members to join with his old advisers in forming a Cabinet.  They agreed to do so, and one of them, Mr. James Edward Fitzgerald, a Canterbury settler of brilliant abilities, figured as the Colony’s first Premier.  An Irish gentleman, an orator and a wit, he was about as fitted to cope with the peculiar and delicate imbroglio before him as Murat would have been to conceive and direct one of Napoleon’s campaigns.  In a few weeks he and his Parliamentary colleagues came to loggerheads with the old officials in the Cabinet, and threw up the game.  Then came prorogation for a fortnight and another hybrid ministry, known to New Zealand history as the “Clean-Shirt Ministry,” because its leader ingenuously informed Parliament that when asked by the Governor to form an administration, he had gone upstairs to put on a clean shirt before presenting himself at Government House.  The Clean-Shirt Ministry lived for just two days.  It was born and died amid open recrimination and secret wire-pulling, throughout which Mr. Attorney Swainson, who had got himself made Speaker of the Upper House while retaining his post as the Governor’s legal adviser, and Mr. Gibbon Wakefield, who was ostensibly nothing but a private member of the Lower House, pulled the strings behind the scenes.  Wakefield began by putting himself at the head of the agitation for responsible Ministers.  When later, after negotiating with the Governor’s entourage, he tried compromise, the majority of the House turned angrily upon him.  At last a compromise was arrived at.  Colonel Wynyard was to go on with his Patent Officers until a Bill could be passed and assented to in England establishing responsible government; then the old officials were to be pensioned off and shelved.  At one stage in this singular session, the Governor sent a message to the House written on sheets of paper, one of the leaves of which the clerk found to be missing.  Gibbon Wakefield thereupon coolly pulled the missing portion out of his pocket and proposed to hand it in—­a piece of effrontery which the House could not stomach.  On another occasion the door of the House had to be locked to prevent the minority running away to force on a count-out, and one honourable member assaulted another with his fists.  Australia laughed at the scene, which, it may here be said, has never been repeated in the New Zealand Legislature.  The greatest man in the Parliament was the greatest failure of the session.  Gibbon Wakefield left Auckland unpopular and distrusted.  Soon afterwards his health broke down, and the rest of his life was passed in strict retirement in the Colony which he had founded and in which he died.