Contents
The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this journal, the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which, may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a nom de plume.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
Payment for short paragraphs will be made at 2d. a line. Successful contributors will be expected to send in clippings from the Magazine for assessment of the payment due to them.
The Editor cannot undertake the return of Ms.
All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
Good News from the North
A large increase in goods traffic carried by rail in the Auckland Province is reported compared with the corresponding week last year. This is shown in the weekly goods returns compiled at Auckland. So heavy was the demand for transport of general merchandise, coal and manures from Auckland to Maungaturoto that three special trains had to be run. The extra amount of goods between Huntly and Frankton Junction necessitated two additional trains.
The gross tonnage of goods railed from Auckland for the 7th October week totalled 5,702, compared with 4,184 tons during the corresponding week last year. From Frankton Junction, 8,426 gross tons of general goods were railed to Auckland, against 5,408 gross tons last year. The figure from Frankton includes goods from Wellington and southern districts.
The gross tonnage sent from Huntly to the North amounted to 5,000, an increase of 1,000 tons. A total of 10,300 gross tons was railed South, against 5,600 gross tons last year.
Cleaner Travelling.
For some months past the Railways have been trying out a new form of matting in several of the Main Trunk Express cars. These mats are a New Zealand product of a link design, and any dirt is caught in the interstices of the mat, making it almost impossible for it to be tramped or blown through the carriages.
The matting is soft and silent to walk on, and in those cars where it has been tried it has been favourably commented upon by people walking through the carriages.
The Victorian Railways have used these mats for a number of years, with complete satisfaction, and it will be interesting to hear the further comments of New Zealand railwaymen and railway passengers on the greater cleanliness of travelling which it is considered this matting now makes possible*.
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 20,000 copies each issue since July, 1930.
Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General. 27/9/33.
“The sea, a shining girdle winds Round cliff and cape and bay.”
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
The Akitio estuary and homestead on the East Coast, between Castlepoint and Cape Turnagain, North Island, New Zealand.
The New Zealand
Railways
Magazine
Railways
Magazine
“
For Better Service”Published by the
New Zealand Government Railways Department
Vol. 8. No. 7.
Wellington,
New Zealand
November1, 1933
“Trust thyself,” said Emerson; “every heart responds to that iron string.” The time is now when individual and national confidence are strongly required to bring about a term of better times.
Self-confidence, the germ from which selfhelp grows, takes its rise first from bodily health.
As the healthiest people in the world, with the lowest death-rate (8.02 per thousand last year) and the greatest expectation of life, New Zealanders have every reason to be confident on the count of physical condition.
On their records for productive capacity, mental endowment, moral strength, and spiritual vigour they have no less grounds for reassurance.
Individually and nationally they have an average of achievement, in every field of honourable endeavour, that will bear comparison with the best of other nations.
But there are reserves of power, seldom drawn upon, which conscious thought and decision can bring into action for the good of the individual and the community, and it was a clarion call to the fuller use of these reserves which the great American philosopher whose aphorism is quoted above, sounded in his energising essay upon selfreliance.
More self-confidence amongst individual New Zealanders at the present time will lead to enterprise from which national benefits will accrue, and more national confidence will help in the revival of business as no other single factor could.
It is therefore a most encouraging sign of the times to find that in the Capital City a definite movement to establish firmly the right state of mind has been started, by a union of all the group organisations of Wellington to promote a National-Confidence Carnival there in the current month from the 18th to the 25th November.
The Carnival is planned as a demonstration of national development, as an exhibition of national strength, and as a proof that this Dominion is still in the lusty years of its youth, with rich promise of future greatness if the people will only have faith in themselves during the present real, though unrealised, floodtide of opportunity.
The Carnival is on a scale never before attempted in New Zealand.
It is highly spectacular, richly historical, and eloquently dramatic.
It will have all the fun of the fair, combined with “pomp and feast and revelry, with mask and antique pageantry” by land and sea, all on the grand scale.
It should draw visitors from every part of the Dominion as well as from overseas, and should make a lasting impression in revived confidence, revived business, and a return of that spirit of joyous endeavour from which the best achievements of mankind emanate.
General Manager'S Message
Some Recent Improvements.
The improvement which recent months have shown in the financial returns from the Railways may be attributed in part to the improvement in prices obtained for the Dominion's primary products. There are, of course, other factors at work, but it can be said that, as far as the railways are concerned, the general position is better than it was two years ago when heavy reductions in train services had to be made on account of the greatly restricted volume of traffic. The point has now been reached where there are definite indications of some improvement in business. Hence the Department is called upon to explore fresh avenues of traffic which become available as business improves, and at the same time to proceed with a programme of improvements in rolling-stock and equipment such as may add to the usefulness and popularity of rail transport. The following are some of the changes made in the direction indicated: —
The Limited express between Auckland and Wellington now runs with only de Luxe day cars and de Luxe sleeping cars. The reduction of the de Luxe sleeping berth fee from 25/- to 20/- is in keeping with the times, and the one-class sleeper on the Limited is warranted by the bookings.
One of the important features of the policy adopted by the Government for tiding the country over the difficult economic conditions with which it has been faced, was a reduction of 15 per cent. in the railway rates for the carriage of certain commodities which closely affected the primary industries. This undoubtedly has constituted a very substantial help to the primary producing community and at the time when the reduction was made much appreciation was expressed at the action of the Government. It might not be out of place at this stage to mention the corresponding obligation which rests on those securing the benefit of this policy. The railways are capable of dealing with the transport of the products of the country and with the transport also of the goods which are necessary to meet the needs of people in the districts served by rail. While, undoubtedly, much support has been afforded the railways by the rural community there is still room for more to be done in this direction. The capacity of the public purse to stand such costs as are involved in the reduction of railway charges is not unlimited and as a matter of sound business, as well as moral obligation, those concerned might well consider the great desirability, indeed, necessity, of assisting the Government finances by placing their business with the railways.
Sometimes a price quoted by a competitive means of transport induces the people concerned either to place their goods for transport with such means of transport or to use the quotation for the purpose of hammering down railway rates. Either policy is, on the principles mentioned above, short-sighted and not likely in the long run to produce the best permanent results.
Sunday trains at low fares between well populated centres up to about a hundred miles distant were, in response to the public demand, commenced as an experiment and have proved increasingly popular, so that now those running between Auckland and Hamilton, Wellington and Palmerston North, Christchurch and Timaru, and Dunedin and Oamaru, are a regular feature of the timetable. This month will see an extension of Sunday train services of this kind for shorter runs, viz.: between Auckland and Helensville (38 miles), Auckland and Papakura (19 miles), and Wellington and Upper Hutt (20 miles). As a large proportion of traffic of this kind is due to an interchange of visits between families and friends, which would not otherwise be possible, or on account of the special attractions of the particular locality, it is anticipated that at the low fares which will be charged the new services will meet the transport needs of the people.
General Manager.
By)
Ken Alexander
The men in front—a camera study by W. W. Stewart.
He is not very talkative, the man in front; but he is pleasant and entirely human.
He is not weighed down by the sense of his responsibility, because he is a master of his craft and possesses calm confidence won from experience. His eye is blue and steady, and his complexion is ruddy and a trifle glossy, as if the heat of the tunnels had been mitigated by a touch of engine oil.
He never hurries, but his every action is the essence of quiet promptitude. You, who ride behind, do not see much of him. While you recline in your comfortable seats with your newspapers and books, he is leaning out of his window, watching the track ahead, slowing down on the bends, noting the signals, and keeping a vigilant eye on the crossings. When your train has pulled up and you are bustling to and from the refreshment room or absorbing the details of the countryside, he is quietly going round his engine—touching her here and there, as a horseman tenderly seeks a sore spot on his mount; armed with ubiquitous oil can and wad of cotton waste, he ministers to his engine's joints and pins and bolts and bearings, all of which he knows by their right and proper names (which I do not); a squirt of oil here, a pause, and an extra squint there; everything O.K., and he heaves himself into the cab again.
A shunter, walking by, passes the time of day with him. They discuss potatoes; spuds! Somehow it seems incongruous that an engine-driver should be interested in growing potatoes; potatoes are so immobile and engine-drivers are so moveable; but it reduces him to the level of ordinary mortals while, paradoxically, leaving him on the pedestal on which we placed him in the days of our youth. I even suspect that he has a wife and family and reads the paper o'nights, like lesser people, with his feet on the mantelpiece.
Perhaps the title of this article should have been “The Men in Front,” for there are two.
The second—the fireman—is younger. He, too, is inclined to be quiet and vigilantly ruminative. He, also, understands how to achieve results by an economy of effort, which is necessary in the confined space of an engine cab.
All his actions are neat and effective. He never fumbles, and his muscles function with a kind of fastidious precision; he is never hurried, but, to the uninitiated, he seems to do an amazing number of things simultaneously.
Such are the men who, when you travel on a train, hold your life in their hands, and control the destinies of you and yours. To me it seemed a fact worthy of comment, but to them it is “the day's work,” done with undemonstrative efficiency; they sense no drama in their job—not even when an emergency calls up the heroism which slumbers in the hearts of most men and women. But to me there are the elements of drama in every minute of their toil.
If you are a railwayman, probably you have ridden the footplate. In any case, let me tell you my feelings on riding an engine for the first time—the emotions of a “mug.”
I had imagined a breathless rushing through the air, a deafening roar and rumble, showers of sparks and cinders, and a fireman dripping with sweat and stoking like one of the minions of Hell. Instead, I found order, cleanliness, a fleck or two of soot, a pleasant pulsating rumble, and less sense of speed than the passenger experiences in his carriage.
But I enjoyed other experiences of a higher order, the chief of which, perhaps, was the unobstructed view ahead: miles of twin silver threads converging to a point and disappearing round a far bend, while distant specks rushed forward, unfolded themselves as buds of scenery, burst into full view, and then made way for other moving vistas.
And the scents of the countryside which flung themselves through the open cab windows in waves and ripples of “feeling”—clover, hay, smouldering raupo, the scent of cows. It was as if Nature had pumped jets of her assorted perfumes through our windows.
But let's start from the beginning, which is the tunnels between Thorndon and Ngaio, near Wellington.
A black portal rushes at us, light disappears, and a hot, suffocating blanket
(Railway Publicity photo.)
“A squirt of oil here, a pause, and an extra squint there.”
We observe the driver sitting at his window, right elbow on the sill, left hand lightly touching the control lever. Occasionally his left hand changes from control to Westinghouse; the while, his glance is set ahead.
The fireman watches the water gauge. While we climb it behaves itself, but,
The engine is galloping, “wagging its tail” gently. The fireman fills a bucket and sluices the steel floor—to keep it cool. The driver says something unintelligible, to us; but the fireman uncoils a hose and sprays the coal in the tender. He explains that otherwise the dust would be blown back into the carriages; we commend these men for their thoughtfulness.
There is, to us, a spice of romance about these common activities. The driver raises his hand to a cord above his head
(Railway Publicity photo.)
New Zealand's crack train, the Auckland-Wellington Limited near the end of its 426-mile run.
The picture is repeated, but loses none of its wonder to us, whose sight is unimpaired by familiarity.
We leave the engine with enhanced respect for the men in front; the men who carry responsibility, not lightly, but with the confidence born of usage and training. When we were young it was our ambition to drive a railway engine, and we realise that, in this respect at least, we have never grown up.
Will Lawson
After the new C36 engines showed their prowess in taking trains to Albury and back without changing, there was endless argument in the barracks at Bathurst as to what these monsters could do on the inclines. They were reported to have made light work of the hills on the southern line. But what about the western division, with its mountain grades?
“I say that No. 3618 or any others of the new locos, couldn't pull 300 tons up to Marrangaroo bank, single-handed.”
Tommy “Mascot” was talking. He knew the western division from end to end.
Gentleman Jack took up the challenge.
“I say it could be done every time, with a dry rail and a good steaming engine and a good fireman,” he added dryly with a grin at MacDunn, who fired for Tommy.
Tommy was stubborn; one of the best drivers on the division, and was not blind to difficulties.
“On the day anyone sees me with 300 tons on that grade, the smokes will be on me,” he said.
There was a laugh, and Gentleman Jack said:
“Don't worry. To-morrow you've to take the ten-total to Mount Vic., but we'll be behind you with No. 717. The load will be over 300 tons. Bill here will guarantee steam enough to push you and your new coffee-pot up to the Mount Vic. store.”
He nodded to Bill Fyles, his fireman, and Bill said, “You bet.”
“Worry! Who is worrying?” Tommy snorted. “You fellows think you know more than we do, but you don't. All the same, when you cackle about 300 tons on the Marrangaroo grade, and one engine, you miss the guess.”
A beautiful giant on wheels, No. 3618, rolled out of the steam shed next morning and backed down to the special for Sydney, which Tommy was to take to Mount Victoria. Every car was packed with Bathurst people, bound for the city for the holidays. Away they went over the bridge, up the Raglan Bank. When they passed Brewongle, the leading engine was moving like a dream, and the old “P” class at the tail was puffing and hustling to keep up. On the Marrangaroo
They had orders to stop at a station that was being made on the new line, above a tunnel. Already Tommy had blown for signals. Into the tunnel No. 3618 thundered in a halo of smoke, and in due time the rear engine plunged into the smoky darkness, too. Being a long train, when the special stopped the rear engine was still in the tunnel. This was nothing to an engine crew. All they had to do, when the sob of the exhaust had ceased to make the draught was to turn on the blower from which “live steam” would roar up through the smoke-box into the funnel, and keep the flames sucking through the boiler tubes.
Gentleman Jack turned on the blower. As he did so, a holocaust of flame licked out of the furnace door into the cab. Both men sprang back to avoid the ravening, licking tongues, which went right up to the roof.
“Blower has gone ‘phut,“’ Jack gasped, coughing in the smoke. “Crawl along and fix it. I'll watch her here.”
The nozzle of the blower had worked loose and dropped off, so that the blast of steam, instead of blowing up the funnel and drawing the flames with it, merely spread itself in the smoke-box with little effect on the draught. Thus the flames and smoke, having no inducement to draw them through the scores of boiler tubes, sought the handiest outlet, which was through the cab, where Jack was trying to breathe and cling to his job, while Bill crept along in the darkness to the smoke-box.
“Uncouple her,” Jack shouted to him as he started on his errand. “I'll get her reversed somehow.”
His intention was to run back into the open to adjust the blower. It was difficult work to release the couplings, for Jack could not ease her up. At last it was done and Bill ran back to the cab.
“Right. Let's get out of this.”
But Gentleman Jack could not get the link reverse over easily, and when he did manage to do it, at the expense of scorched hands, the throttle lever was almost red-hot. He got the air-brake off, however.
While he was still struggling with the throttle, a sudden kick backwards from the train, set them rolling slowly downhill. She reached daylight, where they could see to open the smoke-box and remedy the defect. The flames subsided with the backward motion, but not before they had consumed everything inflammable inside the cab.
The kick-back which saved the situation was given by Tommy Mascot in desperation when the train would not start.
“Confound it! What's up with them,” he said; “can't they give us a few pounds?”
“Hasn't heard the whistle maybe,” Mack suggested. “He's in the tunnel. Maybe he's on a dead centre, too.”
So Tommy kicked her back, partly as a signal and partly to get over a possible dead centre. No. 3618 was as full of energy as a can of gelignite. When Tommy gave her steam again she spun her wheels till they looked like buzz saws, and the train moved ever so slightly. Tommy sanded hard, and the wheels gripped, while the whole machine shuddered.
“He's woke up at last,” Mack volunteered; “she's coming easier now.”
Thrash, thrash; the steam, with the pressure, shot up into the skies, straight as an arrow. They were away! Round the turns and cuttings and through tunnels that never gave the enginemen a chance to see the tail of their train, the 300 tons of moving weight slogged uphill at the draw-bar of one engine. And Tommy did not know he was doing it.
With the blower righted and their engine racing like a truant schoolboy urged by remorse, Gentleman Jack and Bill fairly galloped their engine through the tunnel. When they emerged there was no train in sight. They chased it a mile before they caught up and lent their weight to the pull.
As they left Marrangaroo, Tommy looked back and saw them there. He
It was the steam shed boss who did the talking, however. He had got word from Marrangaroo that something had been not quite in order about the engines.
When they rolled into the shed, the boss was there full of questions.
“What's all this I hear?” he said to Gentleman Jack, while Tom leaned out of his cab and listened. “Where were you when the train left the siding?”
Gentleman Jack explained. “And we were burned out of the cab. Look at it; everything gone that would burn. Luckily Tommy kicked her back for a start, and that sent us out into the open where we repaired the blower and then chased the train and caught her.”
The boss turned to Tommy.
“So you started the train singlehanded?”
Tommy's face was a study.
“First I've heard of it,” he said.
“I expect you've torn the tires off her doing it,” the boss growled. Just then the “super,” came along, and was told about it. He laughed.
“I knew it could be done,” he said, in gratified tones; “but I never guessed Tommy would be the man to do it.”
Tommy interrupted them.
“D'ye mean to tell me that I started a 300-ton train on that grade singlehanded?”
Out of the tail of his eye he saw the two firemen, unseen by the heads, making significant gestures.
“It's true enough,” the steam shed boss told him; “though how you did it I don't know. It seems a kind of miracle to me. You might have kept her going, but to start her! ….”
He shook his head in perplexity.
When they had gone, Tommy walked all round No. 3618 twice, as though it were the first time he had seen her.
At last he spoke.
“Tommy's face was a study.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “I believe this isn't my engine at all. They've sprung a new one on me.”
“But the number!” Gentleman Jack exclaimed. “She's the 3618 all right.”
“Easy to change that,” Tommy declared; “I've got my doubts about the whole business.”
“Including the smokes, I suppose,” Bill Fyles asked.
“I say this isn't my engine at all,” Tommy shouted; “it's a mean trick put across me. I had my doubts all the time coming up the hill that everything wasn't all right.”
The others stared at him in amazed admiration. Gentleman Jack put it into words.
“I don't know why the Lord made you an enginedriver,” he said; “you ought to have been a lawyer.”
Perpetrated and Illustrated by)
Ken Alexander
The White Hope is Happiness. Happiness is greater than gold, but as hard to hold as a fist-full of whitebait. But there is a catch in everything, as the mouse muttered when the trap went snap. On the contrary, Care is a clinger when once it grips the gaskets. The way to confound Care is to refuse to care; to give it a jolt of joy-germs, a lugfull of laughing gas, a wad of “whoopee” in the topee, and the hooray rather than the X-ray.
Let every moment be the maddest, merriest moment, and let's make History with hysterics.
But there are pessimists who persist that History postulates the proposition that Happiness is not its blood-brother, and that Progress has progressed in bumps rather than jumps. But what do we care:—
Wedon't go so much on history,
Happiness has never had head-lines in History because Horror has news-value in the Book of Dismal Dates and Dirty Deeds. Let's ramble in retrospeculation.
History seems to have started with trouble in the garden suburbs, and until Adam and Eve were evicted for listening to snake stories relayed from 2 What-O by I Sez You there was nothing much to record except perhaps signs of bol-weevil in the banana crop and extreme depression in the clothing trade. In fact, before Adam and Eve shouldered the white man's burden, they never worried about such subjects as history or arithmetic, and it is doubtful if they realised how many apples make one—until they took the count. Thus they started History with the sweat of their browse, and it has been a sweated industry ever since.
It looks as if History and Levity are not related, for the pages of the Past are rich in rapine, conflagration, aberration and decapitation. It is remarkable how few of the kings of the past are called Happy Harry, Jovial John, Marmaduke the Merry, Laughing Larry, Chirpy Charles, and the Carnival King. Instead we find such soubriquets as Two-dagger
“History is a sweated industry.”
Certainly there were one or two merry monarchs, but their history never packed a punch; a poisoning or two perhaps, or an uncle suffocated without enthusiasm.
And if Napoleon were happy, why did he continually look like a plate of pale pie with its hat on? Even when he won battles he felt, with the discontent of the true artist, that his still-life work might have been strewn about a bit better. And after his retreat from Moscow he had the trouble of convincing the public that he had just popped off to tell Josephine that everything was O.K. and that he was going Nap on himself.
Alfred the Great, too, was so unhappy that he went about his kingdom burning buns so that he could get himself into the history books as Alfred the Bun-burner, and claim association with the chemistry classes by having the Bunsen burner named after him.
And Bonny Prince Charlie only made history when he was being pursued from crag to crag, dressed like the Laird's Lament or the Fair Maid of Haggis. When, finally, he gave up “legging” for laughing, his history lacked Pepys, and the fruitiest fact is that he picked an orange girl who was no lemon.
Robert the Bruce apparently was another martyr to misery. He spied a spider and trained it to run up and down its own whiskers, so that one day everyone might say to the faint-hearted, “remember Bruce and the spider, and give it a fly.”
Coming closer to contemporary troubles, Mussolini must often be as worried as the Duce; Hitler probably lies awake o'nights wondering how he's going to finish what he has started; Roosevelt's merry moments must be encumbered by the problem of how to make U.S.A. equal L.S.D., and even the Imperial Icycle of the Eskimos (whoever he is) must wonder when the imperial igloo will be melted over his head.
But who wants to make History? History is a dead language, the patter of the Past. We prefer a hysterical present to a historical past. Unlike the birds who have “got the bird,” we prefer to stick to our egotism and refuse to sacrifice “am” for ambition. Ambition is the root of bol-weevil, and man is the only animal whose wisdom has put his knowledge in balk. You never see a sparrow losing its pin-feathers because it can't lay an ostrich egg. The platypus is one of the few examples of physiological piece-work, and look what a nasty job it's made of itself.
“The dog who makes to-day his day, has his day every day.”
Now.
or bust.
Do it now—
And Bust With Laughter.
In confusion, let us offer some distracts from the ‘atch-'ives of Phil. Osopher, the oracle, to those who would like to be happy though human.
Burying His Troubles
If you were twice as happy as you are you would be half as happy as you might be if you were as happy as you should be.
If you don't laugh to-day the laugh may be on you to-morrow.
The dog who can keep his tail up when his nose is down, knows more than his nose knows.
Every dog has his day, but the dog who makes to-day his day has his day every day.
Look after the here and the after will look after itself.
Never look a lift horse in the mouth.
Happiness is under your hat—not under the clock.
If you can't get what you want, want what you can get.
Trouble is only luck in a swoon.
Never rue to-morrow what wasn't done to-day.
If you are worse than you feel you may feel only half as bad as you are, but if you feel worse than you are you deserve to feel as bad as you are.
A quart head in a pint hat is no fault of the hat.
Laughter is a lifter.
Never try to be what you think others think you ought to be.
Even if you're “in the cart” be thankful you're not in the shafts.
Cows can't laugh, but you're a “poor cow” if you won't.
Every crowd has a sniveller whining—but he's not us.
No. 8
Sir John Logan Campbell.
(Written for the “N.Z. Railways Magazine,” by
James Cowan
“I sign this Deed of Gift on the 61st anniversary of the year I left the Maori village of Waiomu, on the shores of the Hauraki Gulf, and entered the primeval forest to carve with my axe the canoe in which I afterwards made my way to the island of Motu-korea, my first home in the Waitemata.”
With these simple yet eloquent words the venerable Dr. John Logan Campbell, Auckland's earliest settler, concluded the document which endowed his city with the noblest park and pleasure ground in New Zealand, the Maunga-kiekie estate, known as Cornwall Park, in honour of the Royal visit to the Dominion in 1901. He was knighted in the following year and died in 1912, at the age of ninety-four, and was buried on the summit of the hill park, the crowning beauty of the Greater Auckland plains.
Sir John Logan Campbell.
Auckland” has been fortunate over all the other cities of the Dominion in the benevolent and generous character of its pioneer citizens, and the wonderful old man who came to be called “The Father of Auckland” was in some respects the finest of them all, and certainly the most munificent. He was not a politician, except for short periods in the early years of the province; his activities lay in the building up of the city and the development of its institutions and its prosperity. He saw the Waitemata before ever a house or even a tent stood on the site of Auckland. No other colonist was so closely associated with the foundation and the fostering of great business enterprises and the practical making of the country which he saw in its primitive condition and whose growth he watched over a period of nearly threequarters of a century.
“The Doctor,” as he was often called even after he became Sir John, was a true pioneer in the sense that he saw and felt much of the rough end of life and enjoyed it all, and in the midst of his prosperity and his manifold activities preserved the spirit of simplicity and the love of the out-of-doors, the bush and the old free days of Maoridom. He was to his last days a man of methodical habits and simple tastes. He cultivated the arts, he was a friend of many a great man in the literary world, he stood before princes, but he never lost his touch with the common things of life.
Physically the grand old man was an example to the younger generation, the leg-tired and the luxury-loving. Even when he was well on his eightieth year, and I think even later, he walked daily from his home at Kilbryde, in Parnell, to his office in the city, climbing that “stey brae” Constitution Hill on the way, a sufficiently stift test of soundness of wind and limb. He had a dark little office in Shortland Street, as close as might be to the spot where he pitched his tent amongst the manuka and ferns in 1840, and sank his water-barrel in the spring from which he filled his tea-billy though they didn't call it a billy in those days. There one used to see him, on occasion, in the Nineties, sitting there like some sagacious old sage, with his long white locks and beard, gathering in the threads of his many businesses, but ever ready to talk of the far romantic past, when time didn't matter on the shores of the Hauraki.
Sir John Logan Campbell came of a family whose ancestral home was Kilbryde Castle, in Perthshire, a fortified home dating back four centuries. His forefathers, as was natural in that Highland stronghold, were mostly soldiers, a long line of them until it came to his father, who was an army surgeon and who had retired from the service to practice in Edinburgh. There John Logan was born in 1817. He studied for his father's profession, obtained his M.D., and became a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. He obtained a commission in the East India Company's Service, but abandoned that intention and instead decided to try his fortune in the far-south colonies. He sailed from Greenock in 1839 as surgeon of the ship “Palmyra,” bound for Sydney.
A very few months in New South Wales were enough for him. He did not like the convict associations of the Australian settlement, and New Zealand beckoned. He took passage in a vessel called the “Lady Lilford,” of 596 tons, which reached Wellington Harbour from Sydney in March, 1840, and after a few days there —it was not called Wellington then but “Britannia,” the rough little settlement on Petone beach—sailed for the Hauraki Gulf. In April he landed at Herekino Bay, in Waiau or Coromandel Harbour, and that was the beginning of his long career as a settler and citizen of the country that he came to love even more intensely than he did his native land. There on the shore of Waiau he took up his quarters with a trader who was the big man of the Hauraki in that primitive age, when the Waitemata Harbour was all but unknown and when Waiheke Island and Waiau were the chief resorts of the ships which every now and again came to load kauri spars for Australia, India or England.
Many years ago, on a summer boating cruise about the islands at the entrance to Coromandel, I searched out the site of the long-vanished pakeha-Maori village of Herekino. It is on Beeson's Island, that long, hilly island which forms the western warden of Waiau Harbour and all but meets a long arm of the mainland. The island, now a sheep run, has many a grove of great pohutukawa, and some of these glorious old trees shade the deserted beach of Herekino. The old-time kainga is gone: gone too is the shipbuilding yard at the island-tip where cutters and schooners were built long before a shipwright set up business on the shores of the Waitemata. But a beautiful spring of clear cool water bubbles up close to the white beach as it did in the days when Big Webster was the King of Waiau. The narrow channel between the point and the mainland is called the Little Passage; a few strokes of the dinghy oars takes one across it. Campbell's description in his book “Poenamo” of Coromandel and Beeson's Island and Herekino when he arrived there in 1840, mentions this tiny strait of water, “a narrow passage between the island and the mainland, so narrow that I was often afterwards navigated across it on the back of a Maori wahine when none of the male sex was at hand.”
Here in the pretty bay of Herekino lived and reigned the King of Waiau, William Webster, a tall Yankee, an ex-whaleship-carpenter, called Big Webster by the pakehas and Wepiha by the Maoris. His royal power consisted of the goods in his trading-store or “whare-hoko”; his mana was high all around the Hauraki. Webster's name became celebrated in after years in connection with a huge claim (made through the United States Government) against the New Zealand Government for compensation for disallowed land purchase made before 1840, a claim that failed.
In his book “Poenamo”—a mutilated but musical version of the Maori word for greenstone—Campbell gives a series of pictures full of charm of his pioneer life on the shore of the Hauraki and his first year in infant Auckland. His narrative tells of the Herekino pakeha-Maori establishment, of a boat cruise to Waiheke Island and the then lonely and unspoiled Waitemata, of his first walk across the Tamaki isthmus to the Manukau, of camping life among the Maoris, and of the truly primitive and happy days in the midst of the Maoris at Waiomu. His pen lingered with delight and regret on the glories of the forest, the noble kauri, the fragrant fern tree dells of the bush that then came down to the very water's edge. He describes leisurely canoe voyaging about the shores of Tamaki, and tells how he came to know the true inwardness and import of that sometimes delectable and often exasperating word “taihoa.”
There is a wistful note, a sigh for untouched beauty passed away, in Campbell's chapter in “Poenamo” describing his first day on the harbour where New Zealand's largest city spreads over its hills and plains.
“How lovely and peaceful were Waitemata's sloping shores as we explored them on that now long, long ago morning! As we rowed over her calm waters the sound of our oars was all that broke the stillness. No, there was something more—the voices of four cannie Scotsmen and one shrewd Yankee (the sum and substance of the first invading civilisation) loud in the praise of the glorious landscape which lay before them. On that morning the open country stretched far away in vast fields of fern, and nature reigned supreme…. We rowed up the beautiful harbour close in shore. No sign of human life that morning; the shrill cry of the curlew on the beach, and the full rich carol of the tui, or parson-bird, from the brushwood skirting the shore fell faintly on the ear.”
Campbell and his friends fell in love with the delectable Remuera, then as now the most beautiful harbour-facing part of the Tamaki isthmus. He tried in vain to buy those slants, for which the Maori has also that pleasing name Ohinerau, “The Place of Many Girls.”
“Beautiful was Remuera's shore,” wrote the Doctor, “sloping gently to Waitemata's sunlit waters in the days of which I write. The palm fern-tree was there with its crown of graceful bending fronds and black feathery-looking young shoots; and the karaka, with its brilliantly-polished green leaves and golden-yellow fruit, contrasting with the darker crimped and varnished leaf of the puriri, with its bright cherrylike berry. Evergreen shrubs grew on all sides, of every shade from palest to deepest green; lovely flowering creepers mounted high overhead, leaping from tree to tree and hanging in rich festoons; of beautiful ferns there was a profusion underfoot. The tui, with his grand rich note made the wood musical; the great fat stupid pigeon cooed down upon you almost within reach, nor took the trouble to fly away.”
Had it not been for a certain fateful pot of stewed pigeon, which made a meal for the pakeha land-seekers at Orakei on the cruise of 1840, young Dr. Campbell might have become the owner of the site of Auckland city. The story is told in “Poenamo.” It must have been a noble stew, for half a bottle of wine was poured into it to complete the feast. (Campbell's partner believed in carrying some home comforts into the wilds.) But there was a young chief there named Te Hira, son of the old patriarch, Te Kawau. When the pakehas had finished their meal some of the stew remained, and Te Hira took possession of the pot intending to enjoy what his visitors had left. One of them, wishing to give the food to one of his Maori crew, asked the chief why he was taking the pot away, but in his blundering way, not knowing much of the language, he used the word “tahae,” which means to steal. This gave great offence to the young man; he retired in anger and sulks. Next day the party embarked in Webster's boat, taking Te Hira with them, and rowed up the harbour past the shores on which the city now stands. They looked at all the snug bays and the pretty headlands and asked “Won't you sell this?” and “Won't you sell that?” and the reply was always a refusal “Kahore, kahore!” Te Hira was one of the principal land-owners and nothing could be done without him. So there was nothing for it but to retire, and back the land hunters sailed to Orakei and thence home to Waiau. A few months later the Ngati-Whatua, headed by Te Kawau and Te Hira, sold the site of Auckland to the Government, and so began the town. By that time Campbell and his partner had purchased from the chiefs of the Ngati-Tamatera
Te Hira te Kawau. This old chief, Campbell's antilandselling acquaintance of 1840, died at Orakei in 1888.
The description of their first camp on Motukorea, and of the pride with which they explored their estate, is one of the most charming parts of Campbell's eloquent yet unaffected story.
A word about Te Hira, of mess-of-pottage fame. I remember well that aristocratic-looking rangatira of Orakei in his old age, a white-moustached richly-tattooed chief, uncle of the leading spirit of the village, Paul Tuhaere. Te Hira saw the land that he would not sell to Campbell become a great city.
For himself, he troubled little about land or Maori politics. His chief delight and occupation was fishing. He was forever out in his boat, anchored at some favourite fishing ground, line out, pipe in mouth, dozing away the easy days, waiting for the snapper or the kingfish to hook themselves on.
But Motu-korea and the pigs with which the Maoris stocked it for the pakehas did not hold
What memories must have come to him when in his last years he drove over the slopes of the great park that will memorise for all time his generous patriotism and gazed upon the thickly populated isthmus, practically one continuous city from the Waitemata to the Manukau, that within his own recollection was quite unpeopled except for a few Maori hapus on the shores! He saw Auckland built up from nothing to a city of a hundred thousand people, and no man helped more materially in this building than he. His services were not merely parochial or provincial. That he had the prophetic soul of the true statesman was more abundantly manifest in his writings and his public utterances.
The patriarch's gifts to his home city amount in cash value, it has been estimated, to at least
(Govt. Publicity photo.)
Maunga-kiekie, Cornwall Park, Auckland. Sir John Logan Campbell is buried on the summit.
ByArthur L. Stead
Interior of a modern passenger carriage on the London, Midland and Scottish Railway.
The World'S Largest Electrified Suburban Railway.
Railway electrification has now definitely emerged from the experimental stage. In all corners of the world there is gradually being effected the conversion of steam-operated tracks to electricity; and while steam movement will probably for many years continue on numerous main-lines, electric traction for suburban and inter-urban operation, is undoubtedly the haulage method of the future.
Certain types of railway naturally lend themselves better to electrification than others, and so it is on lines handling a relatively dense passenger traffic that electric traction is making greatest progress. Excluding electrifications such as those of Switzerland, where the numerous mountain grades and tunnel sections prevailing, and the shortage of native coal supplies, have been the deciding factors in favour of electrical conversion, probably the world's outstanding example of electrification's utility is found on the Southern Railway of England.
The Southern actually operates the world's largest electrified suburban railway system. This embraces 293 miles of line, equivalent to 800 track miles. The electrified lines cover almost all the railway routes lying immediately to the south and south-west of Britain's metropolis, and include some of the most favoured residential territory within reasonable daily reach of the city. The cost of the Southern electrification is put at £11,800,000. Some £6,250,000 of this amount has been charged to capital: the balance consists of money which would, in any event, have had to be spent on improvement works and the like. To-day, 20,651,000 electric train miles have replaced the former 8,152,820 steam train miles, and under electrification the public are gaining tremendously, both by increased speed and increased train service.
On the authority of Sir Herbert Walker, the General Manager of the Southern Railway, it is stated that the working costs of electric and steam operation approximate 1s. 3d. and 2s. 6d. per mile respectively, so that taking into account the increased train miles under electricity there is an increase in working costs under electricity of £206,140 per annum. Annual revenues under steam and electric operation work out at £3,475,933 and £4,792,602 respectively. Deducting from the increase of £1,316,669 under electricity, the figure of £206,140, there is shewn a net gain of £1,110,529. Corelating this increase in net revenue with the £6,250,000 charged to capital, the return represents no less than 17 3/4 per cent.
Among European main-line electrifications, a most interesting achievement is that of the Austrian State Railways. At present about 524 miles of the Austrian State Railways are operated electrically, or roughly sixteen per cent. of the total railway mileage of the country. In the
The Vienna-Salzburg electrification will be 195 miles in extent. This line forms a part of the through route from Vienna to the Swiss frontier. The Vienna-Graz line is 130 miles in length, while from Vienna to the Hungarian boundary is a distance of approximately fifty miles.
A typical British container.
Standardised electric locomotives of the 2–8–2 type are to be employed for fast passenger haulage, with 0–4–4–0 locomotives for goods train haulage. On the completion of these Austrian electrifications, it will be possible, as a consequence of conversion works undertaken in the neighbouring lands of Switzerland and Hungary, to travel by electric train right across Central Europe.
Happily trade is now improving in Britain, and freight traffic is moving in greater volume than for some time past. Whether or not this state of affairs will continue, remains to be seen. In any event, the four group railways appear confident in the ultimate restoration of trade, judging by their activities in goods wagon building.
Most Home railway wagons are constructed in the railway shops, and the 1933 wagon-building programme of the London, Midland and Scottish system may be taken as typical of the Home railways' efforts as a whole. During the present year the L.M. and S. Company hope to build 3,107 new wagons and 950 new containers. The conversion also is planned of 1,000 existing wagons and 50 existing containers to types more suitable to modern conditions.
Great Western Theatre at Swindon.
The new L.M. and S. goods wagons comprise nine different types, including 12-ton wagons fitted with the continuous brake for express services; 12-ton cattle trucks; 12-ton covered vans; 20-ton covered vans for grain in bulk; 20-ton tube wagons; gunpowder vans; chassis for containers; and brake vans. The L.M. and S. have now about 3,700 containers in service, and the marked advantages attached to this form of transport are daily becoming more and more appreciated by shippers.
In addition to building most of its goods wagons, the L.M. and S. Railway constructs in its own shops the majority of the passenger stock operated over the system. With a view to adding to passenger convenience and comfort many new and novel features are now included
Under this system, fresh air is forced into the side corridor of the car by means of air scoops fitted to the body side, and arranged in series to operate according to the direction of travel, the air being cleaned by passing over oil filters. Roof extractors draw the stale air from the sleeping compartments, and the difference of pressure in the compartments and the corridor causes fresh air to flow through louvre vents in the bottom of the compartment sliding doors, these vents being under the control of the individual passenger. There is a heavy night movement of travellers between English and Scottish points, and the sleeping-cars of both the L.M. and S. and the L. and N.E. Railways, are built on especially comfortable lines.
The well-being of their employees, both on and off duty is the constant care of the Home railways, and social and recreational interests are fostered by the provision
New Signal Box, Southern Railway Electric Lines, Brighton.
An especially interesting development has recently been recorded at Swindon, the locomotive-building centre on the Great Western Railway. In addition to the usual staff amenities, the Great Western has just provided for its Swindon employees an attractive theatre known as “The Playhouse.” Equipped with a roomy stage, a vast stock of scenery and “props,” and a comfortable auditorium, the new theatre is an outstanding attraction for Swindon railway workers. Dramatic companies have been formed among the staff, while outside artists of repute also regularly appear at this unique railway social centre.
(Written for the “N.Z. Railways Magazine” byJ. C. )
The first reconnaissance survey of the Central railway route through the King Country, in 1883–84, was carried through under difficult and sometimes perilous conditions, because of the hostility of some of the Maori tribes in the upper part of the Wanganui River basin. The story of the adventures of Mr. John Rochfort, Government surveyor, is concluded here.
PartII.
Peehi Hitaua. This chief, who lived at Ngatokorua, Waimarino, at first opposed and later assisted John Rochfort in his survey work.
In the first part of this narrative we left John Rochfort paddling down the Wanganui River with his party of Maoris, Major Kepa's men, after an unsuccessful attempt to continue his bush explorations on the headwaters of the Manganui-a-te-ao, where the hostile Patu-tokotoko tribe had turned him back at the muzzles of their guns. Again he went to Wellington to consult headquarters as to the best method of dealing with the Kingite tribes and carrying on the reconnaissance survey. He reported to the Native Minister, Mr. John Bryce, and this time he asked for the support of “a few troopers” as an escort through the Hauhau country.
Bryce, cautious veteran of the wars, thought it unwise to force a right-of-way with Armed Constabulary. He directed Rochfort to go round to the northern end of his opponents' district, in the Ruapehu-Waimarino Country, and endeavour to secure the friendship of the high chief Peehi Turoa. (Peehi Hitaua was meant; this chief, already mentioned in this narrative, was Topia Turoa's brother; he lived at Ngatokorua, on the Waimarino Plain.)
The surveyor once more returned to Wanganui to see Kepa. On going up the river to Ranana he learned that the obstructionists had dispersed and had gone to their spring potato-planting at their various homes. So the much relieved Rochfort made his way to the high country again, retrieved his theodolite from the village where it had been seized, and went on with his engineering reconnaissance past the base of Ruapehu to the Waimarino Plains, without any further interruption.
At the remote little village of Ngatokorua, sheltered from the icy winds off Ruapehu by a belt of tall forest, he found Peehi, who, “although a rank Hauhau,” as he described him, agreed, after a little talk, to help him; the chief was not really averse to the railway scheme. Rochfort now deemed it advisable to seek the support of the other principal chiefs of the interior, so he visited Topia Turoa (Peehi's brother, an ally of the Government in the campaign against Te Kooti in 1869–70), Matuahu, and Te Heuheu Tukino, at Roto-a-Ira, and the Lake Taupo villages Tokaanu and Waihi. Topia contented himself with sending a telegram to the Native Minister informing him that he would allow the surveyor to go on, but Te Heuheu and his kinsman Matuahu sent two men with Mr. Rochfort.
Back at Ngatokorua, on the tussock plains, the pioneer of the survey found ominous complications. Two Maoris came in from the Tuhua country, between the Upper Wanganui and Lake Taupo, saying that there were two powerful aukatis (interdicts, prohibitions) to stop further progress, and besides there were a dozen mounted Hauhaus patrolling the tracks and waiting for him. They averred that they were sure to be hanged for the murder of Moffatt and one or two more pakehas would not alter the case.
This referred to the pakeha-Maori William Moffatt, whom the Taumarunui Maoris had
This news of trouble ahead in the forests so alarmed the two delegates from the Taupo chiefs that they were afraid to go on to Taumarunui with Rochfort, and they turned back when within a few miles of that village. The surveyor still had some Maoris with him; two of these men had been among those who offered armed opposition to him at the Manganui-a-te-ao. One of them went on in front on the bush track which Rochfort was following, and at every slight noise he started back, fearing the Hauhau scouts.
Rochfort interpolated here in his report of his adventures a brief description of the country through which he travelled before reaching the junction of the Wanganui and Ongarue Rivers. “The Wanganui River [valley] above Taumarunui,” he wrote, “is open for seven or eight miles, with five Maori settlements; and Whata-raparapa [to correct his mis-spelling of the name] the furthest open land up the river, where I first came out of the bush from Waimarino, is the scene of a celebrated fight between the Patutokotoko (who gave me so much trouble in the Manganui-a-te-ao) and the Ngati-Maniapoto. The old pa of the Patu-tokotoko is on a flattopped isolated hill, with open land all round, except towards Piopiotea, in which direction forest stretches to Waimarino. Dotted over the flat below the pa for a mile or more are short posts stuck in the ground; some are rotted and fallen; these mark the spots where the fallen in battle lay or were buried. Turanga-tahi and Tuhiora were the chiefs of the Patu-tokotoko, and their descendants speak with pride of having beaten back their border enemies.”
The Government pathfinder and his men had a sullen, ominous reception when they marched into the village square at Taumarunui, weary and wet. Not a word of welcome was uttered. They pitched their tents in the kainga where the large town now stands, and waited until the Hauhaus would design to speak to them. After several hours the chief Ngatai (this was the leader of the Moffatt execution party) and some others came out and ceremoniously greeted the visitors. Ngatai said he would protect the surveyor and his companions while they were in Taumarunui, but they could not go on any further, as the Rohepotae was closed to them by the Kingite aukati. For two days Rochfort waited in his camp. Meantime he had written to the nearest chiefs who were enforcing the aukati.
Then ten or twelve men came down the Ongarue Valley, and after a long talk refused Rochfort further passage. They would not even let him send a messenger through their country. They said that Wahanui had closed the King Country to pakehas for a long time, and that for the last six months some of them had been waiting and watching the tracks.
So now there was no choice for it but to turn back along the track and abandon the attempt to carry the reconnaissance up the valley of the Ongarue and on to Te Kuiti. The explorer and his men packed their swags and shook the mud of Taumarunui off their feet. They marched back to the Waimarino uplands and from there on to Tokaanu. The surveyor, blocked on one route, decided to try another. From Tokaanu and Waihi he took to the rugged bush country on the west side of Lake Taupo, and thence travelled through the western part of the King Country to the Puniu River and the frontier township of Kihikihi, a long, rough journey of about a hundred miles.
At Kihikihi, Rochfort met and talked with Wahanui and Rewi Maniapoto, in the house which the Government had built for Rewi two years before in token of the making of peace. It was close to the site of Rewi's olden home, in the days before the Waikato War and the confiscation of the land.
The chiefs informed him that Mr. Bryce was coming in a week's time, and that all would be settled satisfactorily then. Rochfort accordingly waited for the Native Minister, and in the meantime Wahanui sent messages for all the chiefs who had stopped him in the Rohepotae to come out for a korero. Presently they were all assembled there, including Ngatai, the principal in the shooting of the man Moffatt. The meeting was amicable and altogether satisfactory, and under the protective mana of the head chiefs Rochfort returned to his survey task. The last words of Rewi to him were:
“Tell Mr. Bryce to hasten on the railway; I am an old man now, and I should like to ride in the train before I die.”
During the succeeding ten months Mr. Rochfort (who presently was associated with Mr. Hursthouse) was engaged steadily in his explorations, and on September 11, 1884, he reported to the Engineer-in-Chief that he had completed the actual survey of the Central route for the proposed railway, and he forwarded complete sets of plans and a descriptive report on the line. He estimated the cost of construction at £6093 per mile, without the cost of the land or fencing, but including a road alongside for the whole length of the line for the purpose of railway construction. The total length of the traverse from Marton to Te Awamutu was 223 ¼
The late Alexander Bell, the pakeha-Maori pioneer of Taumarunui, joined Rochfort's party as a chainman, and assisted the surveyor in much of the arduous bush work. One of Rochfort's old employees who is still living is Mr. E. C. Williams, of Auckland, who was a surveyor's assistant for the greater part of his life. As a lad he was one of the party (numbering twelve) taken prisoner at the Manganui-a-te-ao and sent down the Wanganui River, and he accompanied Rochfort when the exploration work was resumed.
It is rather curious to recall the fact that simultaneously with the exploration of the Central route via Taumarunui an attempt was made to find a rail route through the heart of the Island to the East Coast. A reconnaissance survey was made along a proposed alternative line of railway from Hastings, near Napier, to Te Awamutu, a distance of 170 miles. This survey was carried out by Mr. G. P. Williams, who reported on it to the Engineer-in-Chief for Public Works, in May 1884. The reconnaissance line crossed the ranges at an altitude of 2600 feet, at a point 64 miles from Hastings, crossed the Waikato River near the Huka Falls, thence went by way of the Waipapa, the Whakamaru Range, the Mangakino River, and the Waotu district, thence through the King Country to the Puniu River and Te Awamutu.
A great part of the route was through very rugged and difficult country; and “with regard to the capabilities of the route for supporting a line passing through it,” the surveyor reported, “I am afraid I cannot speak favourably.” He estimated the approximate cost of construction at £1,200,000. Mr. Williams was not without his Maori obstruction troubles; he was several times ordered back, but he managed to get through without any active resistance.
He recorded his thanks to the chiefs Hitiri te Paerata, of the Ngati-Raukawa tribe, and to Rewi Maniapoto, and also to Major Scannell, in command of the Armed Constabulary at Taupo. One of the incidents of the exploration of the King Country portion of the route was an ascent of the tapu mountain Titiraupenga, in West Taupo, the highest peak of the Hurakia Range, 3450 feet. This mountain and several other peaks climbed in order to fix positions by compass bearings had never previously been ascended by white men.
Williams' report was convincing proof of the unsuitability of the King Country-Hawke's Bay route, and no more was heard of it.
During 1884 also, the Western route, as the line of the present Main Trunk-Stratford link
A memorial totara tree near the junction of the Wanganui and Ongarue Rivers, Taumarunui. It bears an inscription stating that it was planted by the chief Puia, the father of Manu-aute, as a token of the promise of safe conduct to Mr. Rochfort and his party of surveyors blazing the track of the Main Trunk Railway. The tree is very nearly fifty years old.
Among the witnesses who gave evidence before the Committee was Sir George Grey, who was then M.H.R. for Auckland East. He gave it as his opinion that the Stratford line would be the most serviceable. “When I chose the line by way of Taranaki, during my administration,” he said, “I did so with the view of uniting the two great populations of Auckland and the whole of the New Plymouth district.” The last time he was in the district traversed by the route, he said, was about 1865. He first of all traversed it carefully about 1847 or 1848, looking for a road from Auckland to New Plymouth.
The Chief Wahanui, the Kingite “power behind the throne,” who was in Wellington on Rohepotae business, was asked to give evidence before the Committee. He gave it as his opinion that the Stratford route passed through better land than the proposed Central line. He was questioned as to whether he would give his
kiaka was the term for the gourd calabash used by the Ngati-Maniapoto] “have not been attended to; and before replying to your question I would like to have my own matters put right. It will not do for me to give way all at once without some concessions on the other side. If the Government will only assist me in the object for which I have come to Wellington I will do all in my power to assist the Government in carrying out this matter, and I will be very strong to give effect to the wishes of the Government with regard to this railway making.”
An admirable, diplomatic reply. The shrewd big chief of the Rohepotae made it clear that he was striking a bargain with the Government. Presumably the contents of his business “calabash” were attended to to his satisfaction, for a few months later (April 1885) he and his fellow chiefs, Taonui and Rewi, joined in turning the first sods of the line on the bank of the Punui River, with Mr. Stout, the then Premier of the Colony; and so began the transformation of the King Country. The Committee reported that it recommended the Central Route as the best for the railway.
The rest is familiar history, the slow but steady construction of the 210 miles link between the two rail-heads and the completion of through railway connection between Wellington and Auckland in 1908.
Railway Pioneer Passes
Death of Mr. C. Crutch.
The death occurred at Wanganui recently of Mr. C. Crutch, one of the few remaining pioneers of railway construction of the last century.
(Photo. M. A. Brennan)
Nature of the country traversed by the North Island Main Trunk Railway. View taken from a point overlooking the Makohine Viaduct.
The late Mr. C. Crutch was eighty-five years of age at the time of his death, and for the past twenty-five years had resided at Gonville, Wanganui. He arrived in New Zealand in 1874, by the ship “Ballochmyle,” which anchored at Lyttelton. Having previous experience in railway work in England, he secured employment with the contractors then engaged upon railway construction work in Canterbury. Just how much the immigrants of those early days must have been impressed by the prospects in this country can be judged by the fact that the late Mr. C. Crutch never forgot, and often repeated the wording of the posters which were to be seen in many parts of the Homeland before his departure for New Zealand. “Eight hours work—eight hours play—eight hours sleep and eight shillings a day.”
In 1877 he joined the staff of the New Zealand Railways as a ganger at Cave, and four years later, he was appointed Inspector of Permanent Way at Lumsden. At Invercargill he spent sixteen years, and was in charge of the network of lines and branches of Southland, as they were opened up. In 1899 he was transferred to the North Island, and took over the position of Inspector of Permanent Way at Aramoho. During his sojourn at Aramoho he was in charge of the development of the North Island Main Trunk Line, from a short branch to an important section, tapping the very heart of the Island. The late Mr. C. Crutch was transferred to Hawera in 1905, and before retiring on superannuation two years later, he was again connected with another arterial railway (which today is an established fact), namely, the Stratford-Okahukura line. His last important work was associated with the deviation of the Main Line, from the centre of the town of New Plymouth to its present position along the coast.
* * *
* * *
* * *
New Zealand telephone charges, says the Secretary of the P. and T. Department, are the lowest in the world.
threepencein the slot.
* * *
In our May issue, Shibli Bagarag, who dwells “Among the Books,” made some cheerful comments on New Zealand's West Coast eighty-one year-old Scots poet, Hughie Smith. Here is Hughie's answer—in braid Scots.
“I thocht ye were juist fifty-three.”
ByC. A. L. Treadwell , O.B.E.
Whilst we may not wholly agree with Plutarch in his saying, “Man is neither by birth nor disposition a savage, nor of unsocial habits, but only becomes so by indulging in vices contrary to his nature,” yet it must be conceded that the indulgence of vicious habits removes from many the veneer (it is so often only a veneer) of respectability that culture provides. In the case of the uncultivated native, however, the savage passions of destruction and self-protection are always near the surface.
In 1880, one of the few but very popular English periodicals was the “Graphic.” Its illustrations were better than most of its rivals. In those days there was no infra-red photographic process—indeed, no photographic process at all available for the reproduction of scenes on the cheap or inferior type of paper used in newspapers and periodicals.
New Zealand, in those days, was little known in England. Great interest, however, was shewn in the sketches of our incomparable bush and mountain scenery, of Maori pahs, and of fierce looking Maori chiefs with their faces scored in strange designs, appearing in the “Graphic.”
The artist who sent these sketches to the “Graphic” signed the work “M. Dobie.” To few was it known that the contributor was a lady.
Mary Dobie was a charming young lady who, with her mother, went adventuring out to the Antipodes, where her father's sister had married Major Goring, then occupying a military post at Opunake. He was the Inspector of the Armed Constabulary for the district, and was quartered in the military redoubt. Times had grown peaceful, for Te Whiti, the chief of the tribe of Maoris, was friendly with the pakeha invader.
Mary Dobie had been on the staff of the “Graphic” for some years, and her reputation as an artist of high quality was already well established. Daily she would go wandering along the lonely roads from Opunake, usually confining her companions to two dogs, belonging to Major Goring. She would stop at a stream to sketch a scene of sparkling water rippling over rocks and under the fronds of the native ferns; she would stop in a glade through which could be caught a glimpse of a mountain top, and she would sketch some old and friendly Maori chief. Miss Dobie was always so full of high spirits and youthful enthusiasm and charm that she had friends both pakeha and Maori in plenty.
It was a beautiful day when Mary Dobie, on Thursday, the 25th November, 1880, set off for a walk to Te Namu, proposing to sketch if she saw some scene that “caught her eye.” She bought a pencil from the store and started down the main road soon after lunch. Not having returned for dinner, inquiries were made about the village to see if she had called to see any of her friends. Then, as nothing was known of her movements since she set out for Te Namu, anxiety took the place of mere curiosity. By 8 o'clock the whole village was alarmed, and a small party was quickly collected. Down the road the party went, and ere long the dead body of the young woman was found party concealed under a native flax bush. Her throat was cut from ear to ear.
Within an hour a white man, named Stannard, was arrested and charged with the murder. He was the person last known to have seen Miss Dobie on the high road, and his clothes were deeply stained with blood. Horror swept through the whole settlement, and astonishment that Stannard, who had always been well regarded, had been arrested for the ghastly crime. Many refused to believe that Stannard, who strenuously denied the charge, was capable of committing it.
The rest of the story can best be told as it was enacted at the Supreme Court, at Wellington, when a Maori, named Tuhiata, stood his trial on the charge of having murdered Mary Dobie. Only one comment should, however, precede the narrative, and that is to explain why Stannard was not sent for his trial.
The preliminary proceedings, which were in the nature of an inquest, were held before a jury and a coroner, Mr. J. M. Gibbes. During the two days of hearing, on the 27th and 29th November, 1880, it became clear that Stannard had had nothing whatever to do with the crime and that the blood on his shirt and his trousers were from the nose of his horse, which had fallen headlong and broken the skin about its nose. It was this blood with which Stannard's clothing was stained. When the Coroner was about to sum up to the jury, they interrupted him and said they were satisfied that there was no evidence at all against Stannard, and it was their wish that he should be released at once. Addressing him, Mr. Gibbes said: “I congratulate you. You leave this room entirely free, without any stain on your character.”
“Turi looked in, and on seeing his friend with his rifle by his side, fled.”
Tuhiata (or Tuhi as he was familiarly called) was committed for trial on the charge of murder after the jury at the inquest had returned their verdict. No doubt, partly on account of the intense feeling and interest in the trial at Opunake, and partly for convenience, an order was made changing the venue of the trial to Wellington.
The trial began on the 13th December, 1880, before the Chief Justice. Mr. Izard appeared for the Crown, while the accused was represented by Mr. Forwood.
The jury was selected before the prisoner was brought into Court, and the following are the names of the jurors empannelled:—Messrs. Duncan McDougall, Henry Rudland, David Williamson, James Sloan, Robert Garland, George Perkins, William Thompson, John Infield, Edison Smith, John Smith, Andrew Compton, and James Webber.
Mr. Forwood tried to secure an adjournment, as he wanted to call Colonel Roberts to establish, if necessary, that a certain statement, alleged to be a confession, had not been freely given by the prisoner. The Chief Justice, however, ordered the trial to proceed, and promised Mr. Forwood that if the evidence were later required by him he would, if necessary, adjourn the trial to enable the calling of Colonel Roberts.
Thereupon Mr. Izard opened the case to the jury. He told them that the case was very clear, and he warned them to come to their conclusion only on the evidence and not to allow themselves to be affected by prejudice or horror at the brutal crime.
The story was then told to the jury by the witnesses. First, Major Forster Yelverton Goring told how he had helped to form the search party, and how the body of the poor woman was found, fifteen paces off the main road from Opunake, near the village of Te Namu. He saw her throat was cut, but her clothes were not torn. He said she was a very active, strong woman, and was in the habit of chatting to natives.
Martin Coffey, the local storekeeper, said that at 2 p.m. on the 25th November, Miss Dobie called and bought a pencil, which he sharpened for her. Between 11 a.m. and 4 or 5 p.m. on the same day Tuhi called in several times. Although he had not noticed what trousers Tuhi was wearing on his earlier visits that day, the witness remembered that on his last visit he was wearing only one pair, in which was a large hole. About 8 p.m. Tuhi called again and paid 3d. for a box of matches. He said he had no money, and from his appearance he had been drinking a great deal.
The next witness, William Henry Eyes, who lived at Punehu, five miles south of Opunake,
Then, after some less important witnesses had given their evidence, Walter Stannard, who had first been arrested in connection with the murder, swore that he did not know Mary Dobie. He said that he had seen the young woman on the main road between 2 p.m. and 3 p.m. He did not stop or speak to her. He was riding very fast at the time.
William Wilson, a member of the Armed Constabulary, then swore that he had found the body of the murdered woman. The upper part of the body was concealed by a flax bush. On the following day the witness found a pair of trousers hidden in a bush about six feet from where he had found the body of Miss Dobie. Dr. Langer Carey, who had examined the body at the redoubt, whence it had been borne, deposed to the fact that the neck had been cut in four places on the right side. There were, he said, many other cuts. Her body had not been violated, of that there was no possible doubt.
This brought to an end the first day's hearing, and as the Judge was about to adjourn the Court, the jury intimated that, if by sitting later, they could finish the case the next day they would like to do so. At this the Chief Justice assured the jury there was no possibility of finishing by the morrow.
Next morning the first witness was Harry Middleton, mine host of the Telegraph Hotel. His evidence was designed to reveal the fact that Tuhi was pressed for money. He said that Tuhi told him on the day of the crime that he was going to Te Namu to sell his horse, and that with the proceeds of the sale he would pay him the debt he owed. He added that somewhere between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. he bought a flask of brandy. At that time, the witness swore, Tuhi was quite sober. Tuhi had worried him to sell him a pair of moleskin trousers, but he had refused to extend Tuhi's credit.
What happened to the flask of brandy was told by the next witness. Aubrey Harvey. He told how Tuhi had borrowed a bridle in the morning, and somewhere about 5 p.m., as he was fumbling with the flask, it slipped from his hands on to the stairs and was broken.
Hare Pihama, a Maori chief from Oeo, south of Opunake, deposed that he was driving along the main road with a number of other Maoris on the 25th November. He passed Te Namu about 4 p.m. He saw Tuhi when he reached Opunake. Tuhi asked him to buy him a pair of trousers. For, as Tuihi said, “you see mine are all broken,” as he showed the trousers to Pihama. Tuhi at that time was quite sober. Then the rest of the Maori party gave their evidence bearing out Pihama's statement.
At this stage Constable Connor was recalled to produce the bridle he had found sixty or seventy yards from the site of the murder. Mr. Forwood then cross-examined him with regard to a statement he was supposed to have made to induce Tuhi to admit the crime. He was asked if he did not say to Tuhi, “If you confess that you killed this woman all they will say will be ‘Don't do it any more,' and they will put a stop to it?” Constable Connor denied having said so.
Rona Martin said she went to the whare of Tamati Kaweora on the night of the 25th November. Later, Tuhi came in and ate a meal with them. He was very restless and always looking towards the door. Tuhi's trousers were all torn.
The next witness brought in some new evidence. He was of the Armed Constabulary. He examined the trousers of Tuhi and found blood stains. On the trousers, too, he found a human hair which was not Tuhi's, and was just the same as deceased's. The arrest of Tuhi by the police was then told briefly by Constable Knowles. A small boy of eleven years of age told how he had found a blood-stained knife on which was scored the initials “T.H.” The knife had been admitted by Tuhi to be his.
The third day opened disastrously for Tuhi Mr. C. W. Hursthouse, a surveyor and a Maori linguist, spoke of a conversation he had had with Tuhi. Mr. Forwood vainly tried to stop this statement from being admitted, but it went. Mr. Hursthouse said he warned Tuhi that anything he said might be used, but Tuhi merely said: “I did it.” Mr. Hursthouse said, “Was it you?” and Tuhi said “I only.”
Then came the deadly evidence of George Taylor. He must have been a Maori, for he said he spoke Maori better than English. He told how he spoke to Tuhi two days after the inquest. Tuhi said:
“I know that I shall come to some death. I know it in consequence of my bad dream. In my dream I saw a man falling a tree upon my whare. The house fell down with the exception of two posts, one at either end, and the ridge pole. I knew that it was a dream concerning death, either for me or for my younger brothers. I know now that the dream concerns myself, that is all my dream. I had no intention of killing the woman when I left, going that way. When we met I said ‘Where did you come from?’ She did not understand. I asked again. The woman was frightened and gave me money, 6/4. She said: ‘I will tell the soldiers about you.’ I was then afraid for having taken the money. The woman ran away. I dismounted and tied up my horse and caught her. I threw her on the ground and choked her. Then I let
Then the case for the Crown closed. Mr. Forwood intimated that it was not his intention to call evidence. Whereat, Mr. Izard briefly addressed the jury, telling them that the case was clear, and reminding them of their duty to bring in a verdict according to the evidence.
Mr. Forwood spoke for half an hour. He told the jury of the effect of a verdict adverse to his client, and asked them to infer from the evidence that the crime was an impulsive act of homicidal mania, produced by his drunken condition. He asked the jury to reduce the crime to manslaughter.
The Chief Justice summed up strongly against the prisoner. He said it was impossible to show motive. There had been no violation, no struggle, no robbery. He told them that the presence or absence of motive ought not to affect their verdict, if they were clear that the prisoner had killed the deceased woman. He reminded the jury that the plea that drink had been responsible for a sudden manical act sought support from the evidence only of Coffey. All the others swore that Tuhi was sober. In any event, the fact that he had acted under the stimulus of intoxicants did not exonerate the prisoner. The prisoner's statement showed that there had been no provocation. He asked the jury to weigh the evidence with care. It was really very simple.
Advertising New Zealand's rail-served tourist attractions. Mr. H. C. Campbell's stall in the recent Show at Dunedin. This stall, which was most effectively arranged, included amongst its many interesting exhibits, a fine working locomotive model built by Mr. G. G. Buick, of the railway staff, Christchurch.
The jury retired at 2.13 and returned at 2,38 with a verdict of Guilty Of Murder.
The Chief Justice at once sentenced him to death. Tuhi's execution was fixed for and was carried out on the 29th December, 1880. On the 23rd December he wrote the following letter to the Governor:-
“Go, this letter of mine to the Governor. Friend, Greeting. I have heard that I am to be put to death on Wednesday, and I am willing to die on that day, but I have a word to say to you. Let my bad companions, your children, beer, rum and other spirits die with me. Let these persons, beer, rum, and other spirits die with me; they led us to commit wrong, and now let us die together, die death on the day that I am to die; it will not be right that they survive that day, but I and my bad companions should die together, lest they should remain to lead people to death; but as I am to die, let spirits die also; do not leave any of its kind in the world; let it be destroyed from the face of this earth, lest it should remain to cause trouble to man; man would then be answerable for his own trouble. If it was destroyed it would be well; man would then seek his own troubles; then it would be well there would be no cause for trouble. That is all. From Tuhiata.”
Even in those days, apparently, drink was used as it has on other occasions since been used, as the excuse, quite falsely, for crime.
(ByC. H. .)
Fortune
There is, perhaps, no district in New Zealand so little known and yet more deserving of the attention of tourists than that occupied by the Otago Alps in northwestern Otago. The entire stretch of country from the western shores of Lake Wakatipu to the West Coast is virtually unexplored. There are ranges of interesting peaks, unclimbed and unnamed; there are valleys that have never been entered by man; and scenes that are capable of stirring the poet into rhapsodies.
In this article I propose to describe some of the wonders of the Dart and Whitburn Valleys, a region which is a veritable climber's paradise. In these valleys there are numerous peaks ranging up to 8,500 feet and which provide some of the best climbing in New Zealand. This opinion is confirmed by a party of four young men, members of the Otago section of the New Zealand Alpine Club, who have made two comprehensive trips into the Dart and Whitburn Valleys.
In the region that is the source of the activities mentioned herein, little exploration work had been done prior to the advent of the Dunedin party. The first party to explore the scenic beauties of this mountain country was a party, in 1914, under the leadership of Major B. Head, member of the English Alpine Club. This party climbed some of the peaks and named many others. Unfortunately Major Head's records were lost during the Great War when the Major himself lost his life. For eighteen years thereafter no one entered this region. In 1932, three members of the Otago Section of the New Zealand Alpine Club, G. L. Edwards, R. R. Edwards, and C. E. Smith, then commenced activities, climbing successfully several peaks that had not been climbed by Head's party, as well as climbing some of those that Head had conquered. Again, in March, 1933, this party, strengthened by the addition of J. D. Knowles, Invercargill, made another trip, climbing further peaks. For space reasons in this article the trips have been treated as one.
The party disembarked at Glenorchy at the head of Lake Wakatipu. This delightful backwater offers much to the tourist, who may make excursions to Diamond Lake, at the foot of Mt. Earnslaw, to Paradise, Rees Valley, and to the Lennox Falls. These latter places are all fairly well known, and are becoming more and more popular with tourists. The magnificent beech forests of Paradise have already been written about, but no great eulogy of the Rees Valley seems to have been written, which is strange, for this valley must be one of the finest in New Zealand. Its beauty almost beggars description. From the snows of the rugged surrounding peaks, the lower slopes of which are heavily bushed, the clear, blue Rees River flows swiftly, winding its way through a series of park-like flats. There are huts here and there in this valley, so a sojourn in this lovely wilderness should not only be one of delight, but one of comfort also.
It is ten miles from Glenorchy to Paradise, and here the last link with civilisation is severed. A bus traverses that ten miles, but after that …. well, pack-horses will help along a portion of the journey, but not very far. After the pack-horses are left, at Cattle Flat, packs have to be shouldered. (The party referred to in this article averaged 90lbs. a man).
Following the swift flowing Dart River, the party passed under the massive wall of the West Peak of Mt. Earnslaw (9,250ft.) which has been conquered only twice. To the left Mt. Pluto (8,175ft.) thrusts itself skyward. Heavy bush clothes the mountain sides and the going through the gorges is very difficult at present. One has literally to fight every inch of the way through to more open country. However, the party felt more than repaid for their strenuous efforts by the wealth of natural beauty that surrounded them.
The objective in the Whitburn Valley was the magnificent series of peaks which include Mts. Ian (8,400ft.), Tiber (8,000ft.), Amundsen (8,000ft.), Lydia (8,350ft.), Maoriri (8,490ft.), Edward (8,400ft.), and Troas (7,500ft.). With the exception of Edward, none of these peaks was climbed by Head's party; now only Maoriri retains her virgin state. Arrived in the valley guarded by these peaks, the party is well over towards the West Coast, the Tasman Sea being only 30 miles distant. These peaks are all on the main divide; beyond them are innumerable peaks unnamed and unclimbed. All the back country is absolutely unexplored.
It would perhaps be as well to qualify that “unexplored” statement by adding that many of the valleys beyond the main divide have long been the home of an old, wandering hermit known as Arawata Bill. Arawata Bill roams these valleys, not as a climber, but as a fossicker for gold. Now and then he makes an appearance in civilization, loads up with flour and a few other necessities, then away again
At the head of the Whitburn Valley is the Whitburn Glacier-which falls from Edward and Maoriri. The party attempted to climb the terminal face of this glacier, but found that was impossible owing to the huge icewalls and seracs that confronted them. Eventually they got onto the glacier by climbing out of the valley to a height of 6,000 feet and dropping down.
From the Whitburn, Mt. Edward does not present a particularly striking appearance, but from the Dart side a different aspect is revealed, and a most impressive sight offers itself to the admiring eye. The late Major Head considered it one of the finest scenic peaks in New Zealand. From the summit of all peaks wonderful views are to be obtained, but from the summit of Edward a striking panorama extends as far as the eye can see. One looks right into the head of the Dart Glacier, and upon a range of mighty peaks, culminating in the high pinnacle of Mt. Aspiring (9,975ft.), which has been designated the Matterhorn of New Zealand. Aspiring is a dominant feature of the landscape from any of the peaks. Beyond Aspiring lies the Tasman Sea; and on a clear day from Edward those monarchs of the Southern Alps, Cook and Tasman, are to be plainly discerned. In the alternate direction Lake Wakatipu lies shimmering in the sun.
Mt. Maori (8,400ft) is a chisel-shaped peak and shews up prominently in the foreground in one of the photographs reproduced with this article. This peak made an instantaneous appeal to all members of the party. They decided to enter the Dart Valley and make an attempt on the peak, unclimbed as yet, with as little delay as possible. They returned to the Dart River and fought a way through the Dart Gorge until it opened out into the open flats of the Dart Valley, only once before entered by man —by members of Major Head's party, in 1914. Two miles up the Valley is the terminal moraine of the Dart Glacier, the largest valley glacier in Otago. The night the party camped in this valley was a wonderful one—never to be forgotten. It was mild and calm, and with a moon so bright it almost extinguished the light of the stars, converting the valley and peaks into a veritable fairyland. The party lay out in the open drinking in the strange ethereal beauty that surrounded them. Every hour or so huge avalanches came crashing down from Edward, but the rumbling roar created no jarring note in that new mystic realm into which they had been transported. It was all so much part of that world itself.
To the great disappointment of all, the party was unable to climb Maori. After one of the hardest ascents yet attempted they had to give up when less than 300 feet from the summit. They traversed the lengthy glacier through a maze of crevasses to a col between Maori and an unnamed and unclimbed peak. Knowles' notes say: “We were unable to climb Maori owing to the steep, rocky, snow-covered precipices that confronted us. The east face was composed of ice overlaid with new snow at an angle of 70 degrees. Fearing avalanches owing to the steepness and soft condition of the snow we were forced to give in when only 300 feet from the top. Time did not permit of sufficient reconnoitring to ascertain whether another route was available, but under favourable conditions it should not be impossible to reach the top.”
The party then turned attention to the unnamed peak lying to the north of the col, and this they were successful in climbing. They named this peak Mt. Wahine.
The party returned to Glenorchy via the Rees Valley, and despite the wild and startling beauty they had been amidst so long the spell of the Rees soon had them in its thrall. Most of the peaks of the Forbes Range which jealously guards the Rees Valley had been previously climbed by the various members on other occasions. For that matter members of the Otago section of the Alpine Club have recently made the Rees a happy hunting ground and the climbing months see many members tackling the heights of Head, Ellie, Moira, Clerke, etc.
As elsewhere in New Zealand, the best climbing months are February and March when the weather is settled and when the snow-line has retreated to its customary 5,000 feet level. An infallible weather sign and one that must be heeded when “outback” is the formation of “hogsbacks”—peculiar shaped zeppelin-like clouds that develop out of a clear sky when the weather seems set for weeks. Their appearance always presages a nor'west storm and usually means an end to climbing for several days.
Deer abound in these valleys, and the herds are comparatively tame. Paradise duck thrive and breed in thousands. It was from the prevalence of these birds that Paradise originally derived its name. Keas too, are to be encountered in their hundreds, but whereas elsewhere in New Zealand the kea is cursed and destroyed, in the Dart and Whitburn Valleys it seems a much maligned bird, being here friendly and trusting, possessing an insatiable curiosity. It approaches camp, exhibits a lively interest in everything, and is extremely difficult to frighten away. On one occasion four keas followed the party some considerable distance, even high up into snow. In these valleys the kea is perforce a vegetarian, and lives principally on berries.
There can surely be no equal anywhere in the world with such a combination of bush, river, snow and mountain scenery, as can be found in this little-known district of north-western Otago. The scenery is in a class by itself and if something more were done towards opening up the district by building tracks, and erecting a few huts, it would rapidly become as well known as Rotorua, Waitomo or Mt. Cook.
“Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!”-Pope.
Scenes depicting the magnificent alpine scenery of the Otago Alps, South Island, New Zealand. (1) Messrs. R. R. Edwards, J. D. Knowles and C. E. Smith, of the N.Z. Alpine Club (Otago Section), setting out to explore this practically virgin mountain country. (2) Mt. Maori (8,400ft), (3) Mts. Ian (8,400ft.) and Tiber (8,000ft.). (4) Looking towards Mt. Lydia (8,350ft.). (5) Panorama from Mt. Edward shewing Mt. Maori and Mt. Aspiring (9,975ft.). (6) A region of snow and ice. (7) The Whitburn Glacier. (8) The Dart Glacier. (9) The Dart River, shewing the dense bush in this region. (10) Looking towards Mts. Edward and Maoriri.
(Note the sharply defined snow ridge on left of picture.)
(By
Una C. Craig
The following story was awarded the first prize (five guineas) in the recent short story contest conducted by the Commercial Writers' Institute, Dunedin.
Marcus Solley had not sufficiently emerged from the first mists of infancy to feel the pulse of wonder, almost of fear, that beat through Tarken village when the island tower was being built.
He was not able to mix with the groups that gathered on the sands, day after day, discussing, speculating, prophesying; but with his first ordered reasoning he came to understand that here in this lonely, sea-encircled tower was something inexplicably odd, something that pulled at his heart like the straps holding him to the table-leg as a tiny child, had pulled at his waist when he had striven to reach the lovely, leaping fire.
He wanted to grab at life with both hands, but that grey, unsolved riddle of a place held him back with an emotion which was half loyalty and half fear.
Not till he could read and write under Granny Solley's slow tuition was he told of the manner of its building, and then only because he asked and asked until he wore down her resistance. After that he never really knew peace. Perhaps he was not destined to peace anyway, for he was as strange as that strange building, and had come as mysteriously. “Left like a little windblown feather on my doorstep,” Granny Solley had told the villagers. And that was all anyone knew of him.
The tower stood on an island not more than a stone's throw from the coast. Access to it was effectually barred however, by a channel of seething waters known as Devil's Gap (the name was inevitable. Man's mind has not yet invented a more apt metaphor).
It was a churning, rock-studded hell of water that worked its torment day and night.
The island itself was like a bundle of dry faggots tied and set up for some giant's kindling. It was stripped, sterile and unscalable. No one had been known to set foot upon it, though many had tried after the tower had been set there to torment curiosity, and two had died of the trying.
Yet there it was, that strange erection, set up before men's eyes, a puzzling, tantalising achievement.
The story went, that for many nights the riding lights of a ship had been seen close in to the shore. Then one day an army of men had appeared on the level crown of the island, and had begun smashing, heaving, chipping at the stone. How they had climbed there, no one could say. Goblin men they were said to be, and with a goblin purpose.
Noise and fret of building had continued day after day until the grey tower was finished. Then the men had disappeared as mysteriously as they had come, and Tarken, scourged by curiosity, had been left to work out the puzzle as best it might.
Young Marcus, naturally mystical and brooding, could hear strange sounds coming from that place. He had heard them at night when he was quite little, and had cried piteously until the old woman had gone to him and told him 'twas nothing but the wind shrieking around the coast. Or if it was in daytime that he had heard them, well, 'twas nothing but those sea-gulls at their eternal quarrelling.
But he had never been satisfied with these explanations. There was something more than just wind and bird-cries. There was a voice, and it called to him, coming inland like the sorrow of the sea.
As a strong-willed mother can dominate the life of her child, so that mystery tower dominated Marcus who knew no real mother. His spirit cleaved to it, though he was tortured by a mingling of love and repellance. So like himself it was too —lonely, unexplored, breeding suspicion.
For the heavy-minded village folk had not taken him to their hearts. He was always an outcast—exotic—disturbing. Not even his singular beauty of face and form could draw people to him. His first attempt at proffered friendship was met with ill-concealed aversion, so that he allowed himself to be thrust back and barred in to his own prisonhouse.
Even Granny Solley with her simple, protective love for him, failed to reach behind those bars to his sensitive, closely guarded mind.
When he was old enough, she put him in the fishing fleet under the wing of old Pedrin Mee. At fourteen he had a boat of his own and a reputation for recklessness. His interest in the tower, come now to be an obsession, was known and derided, for the villagers had worn out all speculation long since and had accepted its presence with philosophical indifference.
One day, in his sixteenth year, Marcus came in from the sea to find two men standing on the cliff near his home. They were looking out with calculating eyes towards the island tower. Dark visaged, black-browed men they were who talked quickly in some language Marcus could not understand. One of them, the taller of the two, kept raising and lowering his arm as he talked. The other nodded in a series of automatic jerks, evidently of agreement. A stone, rattling away from under Marcus's foot, drew their attention to him.
“Gooda evening,” the taller man said, advancing and eyeing him quickly from head to toe. “Do you knowa how far a distance it is to thata rock?”
Marcus regarded him sullenly through halfclosed lids. “No,” he answered, curtly.
The other man approached. He too looked at Marcus curiously. They exchanged words together in their foreign tongue, looked at him again, then shook their heads as if dismissing an idea.
“You don't get many strangers to thisa here parts, huh?” the first man asked, taking off his hat and showing his dark, sleek hair and knotted forehead.
“No,” said Marcus again.
“What is the thing told about thata place, huh?”
The man's head jerked seawards, indicating the tower. Marcus was filled with anger. Why were these strangers asking him these things? Why had they come to pry and stare at his possession? It was a violation.
A new emotion came to life within him, a desire for protecting that which was sacred. Men in far off days have been known to go mad at the sight of their women stripped and offered for the public gaze. So it was now with Marcus in this little obscure Irish village and this unprotected, stark and torturing love of his. But he could do nothing.
In his fury he flung away from them and ran into the cottage, slamming the door so that old Granny Solley dozing in her chair, started up crying, “Marcus, lad, is it the wild devils that are after ye?”
Granny Solley, who acted as midwife for the village, was called that night to a housewife who lived on the furthest outskirts of Tarken. She was to be away three days. The following morning Marcus stayed indoors, crouching at the window, watching.
The strangers had come again, and with them a dozen or so villagers with a load of gear on a sledge. They worked all day, and the next, and the day following with Marcus still watching from his window.
On the evening of the third day, out on the edge of the cliff stood a strange, new erection. It was poised there, held at a steep angle by a steel rope attached to a winch. Even to Marcus's unschooled eyes its purpose was evident. He had watched the workers putting it in place, and knew that when the winch was set in motion, the structure would be lowered over Devil's Gap to form a bridge.
“To-morrow morning, then?” he heard a man call as he went back down the cliffs to the village.
“To-morrow; yes,” came the answer, and in their voices, Marcus could hear a note of excitement and triumph.
The sun set redly that evening, throwing back its glow upon the stone tower till it seemed flushed with anger.
Marcus trod the cottage floor with impatient fury. His face was splotched and livid; more like the face of a cruel gnome than of a comely lad. There was a fire in his brain which burned and burned until at last all thought was consumed. Then it grew cold and dead like ashes.
The disc of the moon came up over the seabowl bringing with it a spreading fan of clouds that raced ahead, tossing, joining, separating. Wind crept through the air, stealthily at first then growing bold and bolder. Its shrieking soon filled the night. Its tearing fingers took hold upon the water and plucked it into waves.
Marcus went to the door and listened to the voice of the island calling through the squalls. He stepped out and left the door open behind him. The world was full of moan and a strange sad singing. His brain was heavy with it, like a bird stoned and beaten to the ground.
Stark beside him in the flickering moonlight reared the bridge, poised for its lowering. He turned to it, and his fingers touched the winch. Fumblingly he found the handle, eased the strain and let loose the pawl. Nothing happened. It was a moment of paralysing disappointment.
Desperately then he shook the structure and it began to move. With a high-pitched whirr the rope ran out. Above the noise of the wind he could hear that swift descent, like the falling of a tree, ending in a splintering crash.
Clouds still came and went like shutters over the eye of the moon. In the intervals of brightness Marcus could see the wrecked bridge, its far end clinging in some way to the rim of the island. Its back was broken and hung over the gap in sagging curve. Waves leapt at it in fury.
But it held—a line of communication between the mainland and the island.
Marcus began to be filled with a new elation, as clinging, toiling, agonising, he worked his way across. Sharp arrows of rain thrust their points into his eyes and through his clothes, bringing him a discomfort which he ignored. He came drenched and bleeding to the other side.
But the touch of the island sent the blood racing warmly through his veins. He had attained the goal of a life-long desire.
Behind him the bridge swayed like a hammock, its end caught precariously in a wedge of rock and wailing in its thraldom. Marcus kicked at it with his foot again and again until it went hurtling down into the seething waters below. It had served him well, but it would not be left to serve others.
And now he turned to the tower, so close to him at last and sought entrance. He was like a bird fluttering madly with joy because there was a hand upon the door of his cage, working to set him free. Sound of singing came to him, the same sad voice he had always heard; but the sadness had a tinge of hope in it.
There was no doorway in the tower, but the narrow unglazed windows were built low to the ground. Through one of these he stepped and found himself in a high round room with walls lined in white marble.
The intermittent moonlight generated a soft ethereal light, showing the room bare of furniture except for a marble coffin set upon four squat legs in the middle of the room. The singing was but a breath of melody now, working through to his heart as incense works through the filigree of an eastern tomb.
He stood, hands clenched, face uplifted, waiting.
Gradually he began to feel lifted up, drawn into some strange, rare mood. He felt really happy for the first time in his life.
Then, without knowing whence she came, he was aware of a woman walking towards him over the white floor. Her head was held stiffly; her hands were folded across her breast as if she had just risen from her laying-out after death. But her lips were parted, and from them came the music that had lured him. As she floated closer she warmed into life. Her eyes opened and her hands fluttered apart. She looked at him, smiling with tenderness in her lovely dark eyes.
With their opening had come a brighter light into the room. Her face was broad at the brows, and tapering to a small delicately moulded chin. So like himself, she was, Marcus thought (for he had often gazed, questioning, into Granny Solley's old cracked mirror) it was like seeing himself transformed into an earthward-walking angel.
She touched his eyes, his lips, his cheeks, and with the cool caress he knew that it was for this he had lived through all the torturing, terrible years of childhood—this, the touch of these fingers which brought to him all tenderness, all understanding, all love.
She stopped her gentle singing and spoke to him. Her voice was like the brushing of a butterfly's wings against the coloured petals of his spirit.
“Son of my heart. Little son of my heart.”
He answered with a cry into which was poured all the stored passion of his life, all his yearning for beauty, all his surrender to proffered tenderness.
And now the clouds had covered the moon again and the light was dim. Only her lovely shining eyes gleamed brightly. Gently she took his hand and led him to the marble coffin. The lid lifted soundlessly under her light pressure. She stepped into the white cavity and drew him down with her. There he lay, cradled in her arms, utterly at peace until gradually, easily, like the folding in of flower petals with the passing of the sun, his spirit merged into eternal nothingness.
* * *
Granny Solley, coming back in the morning to her cottage, saw a group of men standing on the cliff, gazing down into the waters of the Gap. She passed them without greeting and went to the door of her home. Someone had told her a strange thing in the village.
“Marcus!” she called, “Marcus, lad!”
Her old cracked voice came back to her echoing and lonely. She went out and approached the group.
“Have any of ye seen aught of my foster-lad?”
One answered—“We're looking for him, Granny.”
“Not there! Not down there?” she wailed.
“Aye, down there.”
One of the dark strangers turned to her. She could hear the crisp anger in his voice. “See you how the bridge we built has beena wrecked!”
She turned to old Pedrin Mee. “Did it fall in the storm, Pedrin?”
“Maybe, and maybe not,” he said.
She covered her face with her hands and went keening into the house.
That day the men commenced to build another bridge. In three days it was completed. Stories were being flung about from mouth to mouth. Now it was said that treasure was hidden in the tower, the property of bandits or foreign nobles; now that it was a storehouse for Chinese pirates. They were all colourful stories that played on the awakened imagination of the villagers. And the dark strangers went amongst them with bright, gold-greedy eyes.
Only fear of crossing the Devil's Gap on such a slender structure prevented many from crossing to the island when the second bridge was lowered. But old Pedrin and a few stouter-hearted men went over with the strangers. They found entrance as Marcus had done, through the low windows. They found also the stark, high room with its one piece of furniture. This they crowded curiously round, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the stone floor. It was the tall dark stranger who traced with his finger the weather-worn inscription on the lid.
It was written in the language which he knew.
Ildred, the Beloved Of Her King died on giving birth to a son, for which cause he has been cast out and forgotten. God Rest Her Soul And His.
Beneath this was a memorial verse, its finely carved letters barely decipherable.
The two strangers looked at one another with remembrance dawning in their eyes. “Ildred,” one said, and nodded to the other. “That was her name. Ildred, the siren.”
They remembered how their country had been stirred by a scandal over the king's passion for a beautiful singer. They remembered, too, how she had died and nobody had known from what cause and where she had been buried. They had only known that the king was mad with grief. And now, lured by strange stories of a secret treasure-house, told by a drunken sailor on the Aegean coast, they had come, eager for gold, to
Here was no treasure-house, but the tomb of the mistress of a king.
But old, sad stories were dead fruit, and dreams of wealth are hard to relinquish. The men went prodding about the white cold room, tapping, pushing, stamping. Someone found presently a small iron ring embedded in a floor slab. With this the slab was lifted to reveal a flight of roughly hewn steps leading down into darkness. Through this darkness came the sound of water beating like a terrific pulse.
“That's the way the builder's came,” Pedrin grunted in satisfaction. “There's a low scoopedout cave at water level. They've worked up from there.”
Examination of these steps yielded nothing but an answer to the riddle of access. The men trooped back into the room. One of them had a fancy to lift the lid of the stone casket. “Valuables,” he said, “were sometimes buried with the dead.”
The stone lid was heavy, yielding reluctantly. When it was lifted, men of Tarken looked down into the white, death-smoothed face of Marcus Solley. He was lying beside a skeleton which was clothed in rich, mouldering clothes. The two strangers, crowding close, uttered an amazed cry. Now they knew what had puzzled them at first meeting. In the face of the dead boy they saw again the face of a woman, once lovely, once adored—the face of Ildred, beloved of her king.
(Rly. Publicity photo).
The Rowsley super-continuous electric photo copying machine installed in the Railway Publicity Department's Plan Printing and Photography Division at Wellington.
Honeymoons in Rome
(From our London Correspondent).
Italy affords an example of enterprise in the development of passenger salesmanship. As a start, the Italian State Railways introduced excursions at a reduction of 80 per cent, on the ordinary passenger fares. Then followed concessions to foreign visitors, under which, until April, 1934, tickets, valid for thirty days, are issued at 50 per cent, reduction from Italian frontier stations to Rome and back. The latest effort consists of fare-cuts aiming at attracting newlymarried couples to Rome. On production of the marriage certificate within a week of the ceremony, each couple can obtain return tickets to the Holy City at extraordinarily reduced fares. Having visited Rome on their honeymoon, it is anticipated large numbers of people will wish in later years to renew acquaintance with the place, and thus in course of time a valuable new passenger business will be built up.
By.)
Tangiwai
It was bound to come. New Zealand cannot do without horses, however great the craze for motor vehicles. The Waikato especially has been the home of good horses, and the old-time horse markets were a profitable institution. Now the horse fair has come back, and seemingly greater than ever. At Cambridge recently nearly a thousand horses from all parts of the North Island were offered, and very good prices were paid, ranging up to and over £40 for draught animals.
Farmers are discovering that after all the horse cannot be replaced for all purposes by the tractor, and the country-bred man generally, though appreciating the speed and convenience of the motor car, likes to be able to mount a good horse.
Apart from utility considerations, there is the companionship of a horse which can never be replaced by a machine. And much of the back country of New Zealand is of such a character that horse travel will always be necessary.
The horse-breeding industry many years ago was encouraged considerably by the demand from India for cavalry horses and polo ponies. This demand may not be what it was, but Australia has lately been sending cavalry remounts to India, and there is no reason why our New Zealand horse-breeders should not make an effort to secure some of the oldtime business again.
There are very clear indications that unless steps are taken for their better protection both the native grey duck and the pukeko will disappear from the land before the combined attacks of the shotgun man and the imported swan. In such places as Lake Wairarapa, in the north, and Lake Ellesmere in the South Island, where swan are very numerous, both the duck and the swamphen are gradually being displaced by the introduced brid, which consumes large quantities of the foods on which the indigenous wildfowl have been accustomed to subsist. From Chatham Island, too, news comes that on some places where duck were once plentiful, the Australian black swan has crowded them almost or quite out of existence. On the Waikato lakes and many other lagoons the duck is decreasing so markedly that it is evident it must have complete protection if it is to live and thrive. A close season all the year round for duck for several years is desirable; and it is desirable also that protection should be removed from white and black swan throughout the land in order to reduce their numbers and save the food for our native birds. Swan are voracious feeders, and are pugnacious, too, and the shy duck comes off second best in the fight for existence.
It is amazing to find Acclimatisation Societies and other bodies which should know better, such as farmers' associations, every now and again demanding the slaughter of the beautiful and harmless pukeko. The latest charge against the pukeko is that it eats duck eggs. Considering that the wild duck and the pukeko have existed peacefully alongside each other for thousands of years in New Zealand, in myriads until the white man came, this excuse for gunning seems ridiculously far-fetched. The anti-pukeko party must think up some other pretext for removing the red-legged swampstalker. As for the farmers, if they only realised it, the pukeko is one of their benefactors. To see it devouring worms and grubs in newly-ploughed land near the swamps is to understand that it has its economic uses in the land.
During the opossum-hunting season, which closed recently, some fifty thousand skins were taken in the Wellington district alone. Some people are disposed to applaud this sort of thing from a commercial point of view; but that is not the most important consideration. The welfare of our forests and our native birds is of infinitely more concern to New Zealand than the opossum-trapping business. It cannot be too strongly emphasised, the enormous amount of harm this fostering of foreign animals is doing to the indigenous forest life. Every acclimatised creature that feeds on bush leaves and berries deprives the birds of so much food.
Much has been written of the ravages caused by deer in the forest. The opossum is a far greater peril and nuisance, because its ways are more furtive, its bush-spoiling less obvious to the casual eye. Experienced bushmen know all about it; one veteran sawmilling man tells me that he considers the opossum is the greatest enemy the birds have. Not only does it feed on the very things on which the bush birds are accustomed to subsist, but it molests the birds in their nests, especially at breeding time, and eats nestlings and eggs. The ancient balance of nature in the forest is seriously disturbed; and the struggle of native life for existence is all but hopeless.
In my belief the issue has come to this point now, that New Zealanders must decide which they prefer as habitants of the forest, the tui and the bellbird, the pigeon and the kaka and their kin, or the predatory opossum. There is no hope for the birds unless protection is completely removed from the opossums and free trapping permitted everywhere.
The Maori is changing indeed. The young generation of dairy farmers is busy placing itself on an industrial level with the pakeha; it is concerned with new interests, new recreations. Wherefore such gatherings as the recent Aotea canoe memorial celebrations at Patea are useful in reminding the modern Maori of his race's heroic past. One feature of the old life that has almost quite disappeared is the once universal moko or tattoo. Many women still bear the kauwae or chin-tattoo; the old-time expression “blue-lips” still applies. The artistic pattern of the kauwae matches well the brown skin; it is a fitting adornment of which Maori womankind should be proud. But the tattooed warrior face we used to see everywhere in the northern districts has all but vanished. I think there are only two men still living whose faces bear the lines of the tohunga-ta-moko's chisel. One is in the Hokianga country; another in the Urewera mountains. They are very old men, ninety at least; and maybe they are gathered to their fathers by this time.
There was a time, not so very long ago, when an untattooed elderly man was a rare sight. An undecorated brown face looked bare and unfinished. They were wonderful facial art-galleries, many of those grand old fellows of one's long-ago acquaintance. Some faces were almost black with moko, so completely had the artist covered the skin, or rather punctured it, with his scrolled designs. I regret the passing of the ancient art; one of the most distinctive things about our native country people, as they were.
Yes, our Maoris are not what they were! Suggest to a young cow-spanker and tennis-player of Ruatoki that it is time he submitted himself to the tender attentions of the tattooing artist, and list to his pained reply, in the picturesque language of the talkie films.
The Inevitable Softwood Famine.
“New Zealand,” said Mr. R. St. Barbe Baker, a forestry expert of international experience, “should concentrate on afforestation with all the resources it can muster, in order to take advantage of the shortage in forest products, particularly paper, which lies ahead.” In view of the inevitable forthcoming famine in softwoods, and of their shortage in America, U.S.A. would be looking to New Zealand as a source of supply in a few years from now. It is anticipated that realisation of the forests established by N.Z. Perpetual Forests Ltd., will commence in approximately six years, and very satisfactory profits should be obtained*.
(ByA
Frequent Visitor.)
Mr. W. W. Stewart.
The W. W. Stewart Railway Museum, situated in Mr. Stewart's residence, No. 74, Fowlds Avenue, Sandringham, Mt. Albert, S.W.1., Auckland, is the outcome of a life interest in railways—particularly concerning steam locomotives—on the part of Mr. Stewart. The special feature of the collection is that, although not entirely so, it is largely derived from the New Zealand Railways, and it already has a considerable and unique historical value as far as that institution is concerned.
Mr. Stewart is not, and has never been, a railwayman—he is engaged in the photographic trade—but his interest and enthusiasm as far as railways are concerned could not be surpassed by any professional “man of the rails.” As a matter of fact there are few such who could equal his peculiar knowledge of New Zealand railway history, which goes back to the pioneer broad-gauge railway, which was opened from Christchurch to Ferrymead on 1st December, 1863.
It is not too much to say that the enthusiasm and initiative of Mr. Stewart have been the means of saving many interesting relics of the early railway days from going into oblivion. This especially applies to the brass “maker's”' plates and other fittings from the early locomotives—and his collecting activities have always been marked by patience, method and order.
With the aid of an interested friend a catalogue of the collection has recently been compiled, with the result that over 2,500 entries were listed up.
Mr. Stewart enjoys the confidence and interested co-operation of all the higher officials in the railway service, as well as of others, who all realise the interest and value of his collection. His home is frequently visited by officials of the service as well as by the rank and file, visitors being always assured of a hearty welcome.
Especially welcome visitors are superannuated members, and particularly, retired enginedrivers or locomotive firemen, who are invariably surprised and delighted with the interesting display which meets them. Occasionally evenings are specially arranged for small companies of the “old timers,” and the reminiscences brought forth by the various exhibits are always most interesting and frequently very humorous. The writer will not readily forget one evening spent in this fashion, when the humorous element was well to the fore.
Coming to the collection itself, the most striking feature that meets the eye is the collection of brass “makers”' plates from the earliest locomotives—as well as those of later days.
With one exception, every builder is represented, and each plate has its own specially interesting history. There are two beautifully constructed scale models of New Zealand locomotives, besides numerous “paperweight” ones from overseas.
A prominent and highly interesting section of the collection is a large collection of photographs, many of which go back to the earliest days of the service and have a considerable historical value. They include locomotives of the Canterbury broad-gauge and Invercargill standard gauge lines, and, as far as the present gauge is concerned, the collection is large and comprehensive. A special feature of this section is the original builders' photographs of the earliest locomotives.
Apart from his other activities, Mr. Stewart is a competent painter in oils, and he has executed some fine paintings of New Zealand locomotives.
The collection is arranged and set out in a methodical and orderly manner—as far as the limits of space will permit—and has been completely systematically catalogued.
(By
Edith L. Kerr
In all countries, a certain development of poetry precedes that of prose story telling. From the time of Maning onward there have been reminiscences, some of them not so much literature as material from which literature might be made. Perhaps our first genuine novelist was Samuel Butler. He was a young English cadet, who pictured for himself a kind of Utopia in the then unexplored country behind the Southern Alps. “Erewhon” and “Erewhon Revisited,” although a little out of date in some respects, still make very interesting reading. Then our Katherine Mansfield became, before her death, a figure of world renown as a writer of short stories. No one has so mastered the art of holding the reader in suspense till an unexpected twist at the end makes the whole thing complete; just as a blackboard cartoonist inserts a mouth or an eye, and presents a living face before you. Jane Mander was certainly our first New Zealand woman novelist. She produced, years ago, two novels, “Alan Adair” and the “Story of a New Zealand River” that do portray our life very truly; but, receiving little recognition here, she travelled farther afield, and has been writing the more ordinary society novel. “Pins and Pinnacles” is a Continental story, and “Besieging City” deals with New York. Now she has returned to her native country, and we hope to have from her pen before long something that will embody the merit of her earlier work, together with the experience she has gained abroad. Miss Nelle Scanlan also had to go from us to seek her fortune. After an extensive journalistic experience, she wrote two English novels in rapid succession. Then came “Pencarrow,” with a background of pioneer history, and the “Tides of Youth,” carrying the family story down through the generations. Miss Scanlan has the journalistic faculty of seeing a thing in clear perspective and conveying a vivid impression to the reader. Her characters are likely and likeable people, and there is a sense of atmosphere and of movement in the stories. Miss Rosemary Rees is the third woman novelist to visit our shores this year. She has written a number of novels with a slight New Zealand background, although rather the New Zealand of the Christmas Annuals than the New Zealand we know. The most notable achievement of all, however, is that of G. B. Lancaster. Her new novel, “Pageant,” a story of early Tasmania, is almost epic, both in proportions and in character. It has received the unique honour of being chosen as the Book of the Month both in England and America. G. B. Lancaster (Miss Edith Lyttelton) was born in Tasmania, but came to New Zealand at the age of four, so that she is in all essentials a New Zealander. Long ago G. B. Lancaster had several stories in Christmas numbers of the “Press.” The fly-leaf of “Pageant” gives six earlier novels, beginning with “Jim of the Ranges.” She also has been abroad, and her short stories have found acceptance from many of the leading magazines of the world.
There is still another literary form very fashionable at the moment—the dramatic. The number of people writing plays is only slightly less than the number reading them. There were a very formidable number of entries for the British Drama League's Competition last year, and there will probably be even more this year. The “Seven One-Act Plays,” published by them last year are of a high standard. The brilliant play “Musical Chairs,” by the young Wellington dirttrack rider, Ronald MacKenzie, killed last year, was produced in London, won high praise from such a critic as St. John Irvine, and was chosen for publication by Victor Gollanz at the head of the best plays of 1932.
And still our list is not exhausted. Miss Edith M. Howes and Miss Isabel Maud Peacocke write delightful children's stories, and the latter has published also an excellent novel of London life—“Waif's Progress.” Miss Elsie K. Morton and Miss B. E. Baughan excel in essays and sketches—the latter in poetry and short stories also. In humorous writing and sketching we have Mr. Ken Alexander and Mr. A. S. Paterson. And last, but not least, the general standard of our Press in New Zealand is admittedly as high as that anywhere in the world.
With all this wealth of production, then, how comes it to be said that we have no literature? Partly through sheer ignorance and want of appreciation, and that inverted and vicarious modesty that cannot believe that anything really good can originate here, unless and until, as in the case of our novelists, it has received the hall-mark of recognition abroad. But, in part, and with modifications, it is true that we have no literature thoroughly characteristic of New Zealand, as Australian literature is becoming characteristic of Australia; no group, or groups of writers who share the same methods and the same outlook on life. Only by place-names, or by descriptions of certain trees or foliage, could a critic recognise a New Zealander to be a New Zealander. This again, I think, arises from an excess of one of our virtues. We are more British than Britain herself. We are so satisfied
A Railway Camping Holiday
Considerable novelty has been given to railway travel in Britain recently. Like the New Zealand lines, the Home railways
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Dunedin-Christchurch express passing along the picturesque sea-front at Timaru, South Island, New Zealand.
The carriages are placed near pretty roadside stations on selected routes. Accommodation is given in each carriage for six people, the tenancy rate being £2 per week per carriage. Large numbers of holiday-makers are availing themselves of this cheap accommodation. Fitted with all essential equipment, including cutlery, crockery, kettles, pans, beds, bed-linen, lamps, etc., each carriage provides two bedrooms, one for two persons, and the other for four persons; a living room; and a small kitchen. All that is necessary is for the party to travel by rail to the site of their selection, and arrange their own commissariat. The camping habit is growing steadily in Britain. Here is a plan by which may be enjoyed all the delights of camping, with none of its privations. —(From Our London Correspondent.)
By
Helen
Seen In The Shops.
Top coats this summer are mainly of the swagger variety, about seven-eighths length, with wide shoulders, and cut loosely under the arms. Some hang from round yokes that come down over the shoulder and give the necessary width. Collars are straight, upstanding bands, often fastening with one button at the neck. These coats are mainly in tweeds (checks, diagonals or herring-bone) and in blanket cloth for sports wear.
A suit should form the foundation of the summer wardrobe. Skirts are straight, with fullness supplied by inverted pleats, or slightly flared coats are fitted hip-length or loose. The fabrics for suits are mostly tweeds in interesting weaves (shepherds plaids, herring-bone or diagonal checks) and in neutral tonings, fawn mixtures, browns, black and white. You will be smartest in brown and white or oyster checks. The short coats, with or without belts, have standup, straight collars which fasten with one button under the chin, the revers falling apart to show the blouse. A popular type of costume is a swagger coat with skirt to match. This is certainly most suitable for a slender purse, as both skirt and coat can be worn separately.
Choosing a blouse to wear with your new suit is an absorbing occupation, as a blouse lends character to the whole outfit. The severely tailored shirt-blouse is right for certain types. For others there is an array of dainty trifles in organdie or muslin, plain or patterned in the brightest and most charming colourings, from which to choose. Soft draped collars, bows, pipings, buttons, all are drawn into service to add interest to the blouse.
The ubiquitous jumper still holds its own. I have noticed some charming models in wool-lace with pleated frills or collars of organdie outlining the round neck. Nearly every jumper has small, puffed sleeves in self-material, or in contrast.
On the tennis court, white will, of course, predominate. Spun silk, or any one of the range of krinkly crepes in silk or cotton is smart. Our tennis frocks may be sleeveless or otherwise. The square, cut-away armhole is new, or we may have a tiny, flared cape-sleeve. A touch of scarlet (piping, buttons or belt) adds distinction to a white frock.
Accessories are lovely. The eye is bewildered by the array of bows and frillings foaming round the counters. One notices vests to wear with costumes; organdie capes in white with black or coloured spots, stripes or rings. These capes, which can be worn over a white or coloured frock, are high at the neck and almost waist-length, and have ties which cross-over and tie round the waist.
Gloves are interesting. Gauntlets are now made to match other accessories. Very new are gloves in white or fawn mesh. I saw some fawn mesh gloves with checked gauntlets which matched the hand-bag and belt. If you are one of the people whom white really suits, dress in it this summer, and supply yourself with a white handbag and white sandal shoes. With your
As to hats, take your choice—high crown or low crown, pleated or folded, brim abruptly tilted or severely straight. Only remember—small hats for costumes, large floppy hats for organdie or muslin.
* * *
Children'S Clothes.The sight of dainty frocks in flowery prints, linens, hailstone muslins and zephers, with sunbonnets to match, makes one long for a little girl to dress. Any woman with clever fingers can make the tiny organdie collar and cuff sets, or set the frock on to the yoke with smocking. Little organdie frocks, to be worn over a slik slip, are made with short bodices and puff sleeves or tiny frills at the shoulders. Or you may use lace edgings and dainty ribbon bows. Array Boy Five in a linen suit and he will be quite in the picture.
* * *
Prepare For Sun Tan.Even if we do not possess a sports frock with the new harness back, our beach wear will certainly encourage the kiss of King Sol. Most of the new bathing suits are backless, either with a deep V or cut right away and straps in brassiere effect.
Beach pyjamas will still be worn, especially in a combination of plain and floral material, and even in these the back may consist only of straps.
The newest wear for the holiday-maker is the colourful well-fitting long slacks and tailored shorts in strong cotton material (belted and trimmed with buttons), in red, green, marineblue and orange. With these are worn well-cut sleeveless shirt blouses in red and white, green and white, blue and white, orange and yellow, in floral, chevron stripes or plain white fabrics. Over the blouse may be worn a short or long coat of the same material as the trousers. Wide brimmed hats matching the beach bags make a gay ensemble.
The most summery outfit I've seen so far was a yachting suit comprising blue flannel trousers and reefer coat with brass buttons, and a white flannel vest embroidered with a blue anchor. I wanted to buy or borrow a yacht on the spot.
* * *
Sunbathing.Christmas and the holiday season are drawing nearer, and the average person, both the child and the adult, longs for the freedom of the out-of-doors, with the invigorating tonic of sunshine and sea air. Sunbathing will become the order of the day.
Precautions should be taken in the early days of sunbathing to avoid a badly sunburned and blistered skin. Injudicious exposure to strong sunlight causes unnecessary pain and discomfort, and can be very harmful. Gradual exposure to the morning and afternoon sun should be the rule, avoiding the strong midday sun. Commence the first day with ten minutes, five minutes for the front of the body and five minutes for the back. The second day allow another five minutes, gradually increasing the time each day until the skin is well tanned. Wear a light, widebrimmed hat to protect the eyes and the back of the head and neck. Children's sunbaths should be supervised, and they should be provided with a ground sheet so as to avoid chills.
(1) Apply olive oil or a good skin cream to relieve sunburn. (2) Soak small pieces of soft old rag in carron oil (equal quantity linseed oil and lime water) and apply to skin that shows signs of blistering. Bandage to keep in position.
* * *
Women Who Rule.Imagine, if you can, life in the thirteenth century in England. The green countryside was dotted with castles, each a small principality, owing allegiance only to the King. When the King's business called, or the seigneur went crusading, the mistress of the castle was left in charge, to defend it against hostile neighbours and to rule the affairs of her petty kingdom with its army of retainers—men-at-arms, house carles, yeomen; to settle disputes, to oversee the husbandry, the tilling of the fields and the care of the animals, as well as to attend to the usual duties of a housewife, which in those days included the spinning of yarn and weaving of cloth for the household.
Not less onerous were the duties of the lady abbess of a wealthy nunnery. Often there were squabbles between the church and the neighbouring castle as to ownership of land, payment of dues, or allocation of peasant labour. The abbess not only directed the spiritual and temporal affairs of the sisterhood, but watched over the village clustered at the doors of the nunnery and zealously guarded the worldly rights of Holy Church. Inevitably, little time was left for the calm contemplation of the infinite and for spiritual converse with the Creator. Disputes as to fishing rights, or questions of tillage of church lands, occupied the woman of affairs.
In the matter of politics, women through the centuries have had an undefined but recognised place behind the scenes, not only in the matter
To-day, very few committees are considered complete without women members. A tennis club or dramatic society run entirely by men would be decidedly unusual. In the matter of social service women render invaluable aid. Women have been elected to hospital boards, to the governing bodies of colleges, and even to City Councils. In each case the value of their co-operation has been recognised.
Now New Zealand, after many years of female suffrage, has come abreast of other nations by electing a woman to Parliament. We have seen how successfully English women have tackled political life. There was even a woman member of the late Labour Cabinet—Miss Margaret Bondfield, Minister of Labour. The argument that women cannot help in the government of a country and at the same time pay the requisite attention to home-life and the rearing of a family has been confounded by Lady Astor, who has done both successfully.
Of course, all women are not capable of governing. There are always those who are happier as sisters in the nunnery or wives in the village, and have no desire for the lot of chatelaine or abbess. The same may also be said of men. Even among those who aspire to political honours are some whose roads lie in humbler places.
Anyone who has studied the way of a capable woman in the home, knows that her commonsense, her driving power, her ability to find solutions to problems that arise, her scorn of dilatoriness and time-wasting talk, will prove, translated to the House of Representatives, immensely valuable to the country.
* * *
Clothing In Relation To Health.At the present time there is a prevalence of infectious diseases—measles, mumps, influenza and skin troubles (rashes, pimples, boils, etc.). One of the many factors conducive to ill-health is the
It is essential to allow free access of air to the body so that the skin may function satisfactorily. The skin is an excretory organ, and the chief organ for regulating the temperature of the whole body. When the atmosphere is warm, or when extra heat is produced by muscular exertion, sweat is poured out from the glands and evaporates on the skin, thus abstracting heat and cooling the body.
It will be seen that it is necessary to wear porous, loosely woven undergarments to allow for evaporation of moisture, and free ventilation to the skin.
Another factor in the maintenance of good health and resistance to germ invasion is the frequent changing of underclothing. It is especially necessary in the case of children. The garments become impregnated with sweat and germs, and wearing them day after day, and perhaps during the night as well, infects the skin, causing the rashes and spots, and even boils, which frequently cause so much discomfort to children and also to the older folk. Vests that are worn during the day should on no account be worn at night. One garment at night is all that is necessary. Loosely woven and porous garments are very easily washed and dried, and the little extra trouble is offset by improved health and vitality.
Some Lemon Recipes.
Lemon Marmalade.
Large lemons, 4; sugar, 2 ½lbs.; water, 1 quart.
Slice lemons thinly. Cover with water, and leave for twenty-four hours. Boil till soft, stir in sugar, and boil till a little jellies when tested (twenty to thirty minutes).
New Zealand grapefruit, 3; sweet oranges, 3; lemons, 3; sugar; water.
Slice fruit thinly. To each cup of shredded fruit allow three cups of water, and stand for twenty-four hours. Boil for ten minutes, and stand another twenty-four hours. To one cup of pulp add one cup of sugar. Boil quickly until it jellies when tested on a saucer, about an hour.
One and a half pints of water, whites of 2 eggs, 2 lemons (rind and juice), 3 tablespoons cornflour, 1 teacup sugar.
Boil sugar, water and lemon rind together for three minutes. Add cornflour mixed to a smooth paste with cold water. Stir until boiling, and boil for ten minutes. Cool. Add lemon juice and stiffly beaten whites of eggs. Pour into glass dish. Serve quite cold with custard made with the yolks of eggs.
Four lemons, rind of 1, 1 quart water, 4 tablespoons sugar.
Peel rind very thinly. Place it in a jug with the lemon juice and sugar. Pour water over. Cover at once, and let stand until cold. Strain.
Mix together in the following proportions: —One teaspoonful lemonjuice, one tablespoonful water, one dessertspoonful glycerine. Shake well.
Traffic and Locomotive Staff, Nelson, 1933. —Standing (from left): J. G. Finlayson, R. H. Hadfield, P. E. Westrupp, P. J. Dosworth, R. G. Higgins, W. F. Collin, R. F. Beardmore, P. O. Murray, C. R. Scott, J. H. F. Naylor, J. W. Boyd, H. J. Dent, H. Oakley. Sitting: T. Morrison, S. G. Hoyle, W. L. Hunter (Senior Clerk), R. Marshall (S. M. in Charge), F. S. Potton, A. L. Clark, J. M. Scott.
Serve lemon with fried fish, fritters, pancakes, and most other dishes where fat has been used in the cooking.
Give hot lemon drinks sweetened with honey for a cold.
A squeeze of lemon juice in puff pastry is recommended by some cooks.
Add the juice of half a lemon to the early morning tumbler of hot or cold water, for a clear complexion.
* * *
The Economical Lemon.
Dozens of Uses—And no Waste.
The lemon is one of the few fruits where absolutely no waste occurs. Besides being an excellent flavouring agent, the old rind may be used for rubbing on the hands to soften the skin and remove the stains of housework. For cleaning dirty sink boards and woodwork, too, the rind is an excellent cleansing agent, and there are one-hundred-and-one ways of using the juice as well. For instance, a little juice squeezed into the rinsing water after a hair shampoo will completely remove all traces of soap and will leave the hair bright and fluffy. Then, too, for cooking there are a host of different uses for fresh lemons. Throughout New Zealand there is now a plentiful supply of New Zealand-grown lemons. An interesting lemon recipe pamphlet is now issued, and readers of this column should write for a free copy to the New Zealand Fruit-growers' Federation Limited, P. O. Box 882, Wellington (enclosing a penny stamp to defray postage).
(By “
Shibli Bagarag
One of the finest Dumas collections in the world has been gathered together by Mr. F. W. Reed of Whangarei, and eventually will be presented to Auckland city. Fortunately, Mr. Reed's encyclopaedic knowledge of Dumas, gathered together during a lifetime of study and research, will not be lost to the world. His “Bibliography of Alexandre Dumas” has just been published by J. A. Neuhuys, London, in a handsome quarto volume of 465 pages. It is a notable literary achievement for this country.
* * *
I bow to no one in my knowledge of the secondhand book geography of New Zealand. While I think I could tell you every worth while old book shop in the country, it was only a few weeks ago that I browsed for the first time in what must be the biggest second hand book emporium south of the line. This is Newbold's of Dunedin who recently transferred to new premises there. It is a bigger bookshop than any I have seen in Australia or New Zealand, and boasts of half a million tomes. The ground floor, as big as a dance hall, is imposing, and contains the cream of the collection. You go to the second floor and here shelves of books reaching to the ceiling, tower around you in corridors. There is another floor above similarly lined and then, if you go to the cellar, which is like a small edition of the catacombs, still the packed shelves surround you, and piled around on the floor are miniature mountains of books waiting to be sorted. It would take a month or more to “do” the place and it should be well worth while, for every other day rare finds are being made. Just the other day an autographed edition of Thomas Bracken's “Flowers of the Free Lands” was discovered there.
* * *
I was pleased to read in the Auckland “Observer” recently a splendid tribute to the literary ability of Hector Bolitho. Belittled for many years by his brother journalists in New Zealand, Bolitho's outstanding ability as a story writer and biographer is now universally recognised. I was pleased also to notice that the writer in the “Observer” quoted from an article I wrote for an Australian journal some years ago pointing out the injustice done to Bolitho by his brother scribes in this country.
* * *
I am often asked—where has the once famous staff of “Aussie” gone? Many artists and writers in N.Z. have pleasant memories of Walter Jago, the editor-in-chief of the notable monthly. Mr. Jago is still in the hurly-burly in Sydney, but engaged mostly in commercial pursuits. A tall chesty man, big brained and big hearted, idealistic and loved by all, he should be grabbed up any day by some discerning publisher for another big editorial job. Miss Megan Sharpe, who was really the lady editor of “Aussie,” and who incidentally is a New Zealander, is now on the publicity staff of David Jones the big drapery people of Sydney. John Barr, who ran so many literary features in the magazine is still free lancing on the other side. G. K. Townshend, the artist, also of this country, is free lancing over the water. From the N.Z. Section of the same paper the most prolific contributor, Bertram Potts, is now a cog in the unemployment relief organisation in Wellington. One of these days I will tell you a rare old secret about Bertram's contributions to “Aussie.” For the rest, two of “Aussie's” best known N.Z. contributors are wedded to this paper. They are Ken Alexander and your humble servant “Shibli.”
* * *
Interest in book collecting is steady in the Dominion. The prices of New Zealand works have been affected to little or no extent by the depression. These old N.Z. books are always worth looking out for in second-hand bookshops. From time to time I will quote in these pages current auction prices realised. Bethune's, of Wellington, now hold regular sales, largely representative of New Zealand books. The attendances are big and the prices maintain a remarkably high level.
Knock Outs.
We were discussing recently, the most crushing reply any one of us had received through the rejects columns of various journals. The examples were mostly humorous. One of the best was from “Putman's Book News,” where it was instanced that a poem, entitled “Why Do I Live?” was recently submitted to an harassed editor whose reply was: “Because you sent it by post instead of coming around with it.”
* * *
Editorial Eavesdropping.
The Souvenir Programme being produced in connection with the National Confidence Carnival is being edited by Will Lawson.
Dr. Guy H. Scholefield, O.B.E., will shortly publish “Captain William Hobson, R.N.,” the life of the first Governor of New Zealand.
A lady journalist who recently settled in Wellington has already built up a most remunerative free lance connection and yet, they say, the day of the free lance writer is gone.
Miss R. E. Terrv. Announcer for 2 Z.M. Gisborne, is known to many papers in Australia and New Zealand under the nom de plume of “Modestine.”
Some outstanding book plates have been designed recently, by Mr. Russell Clark, the young Dunedin artist.
This year's New Zealand Women Writers' and Artists' Society senior short story competition was won by Miss N. E. Donovan. There were thirty-one entries. The entry of Mrs. Isobel Andrews was adjudged second, Mr. Will Lawson being the judge.
* * *
Reviews.
“Desert Saga,” by William Hatfield (Angus and Robertson, Sydney). In story form this most popular Australian writer gives us a
“Art in New Zealand” (Harry H. Tombs, Wellington), the September issue (a splendid number) of this outstanding New Zealand quarterly marks the beginning of Vol. 6 of the publication. In his opening editorial, the editor, Mr. C. A. Marris, makes an eloquent appeal to the art loving public to assist the magazine through its most critical period. Indeed I would go further and suggest that this publication is of such cultural value to the country that it is worthy of a State subsidy.
“Jacko the Broadcasting Kookaburra,” by Brook Nicholls (Angus and Robertson, Sydney). Those New Zealand listeners-in who are able to tune in with Australian stations will immediately prick up their ears at the title of this book, for Jacko's laugh is a familiar note in broadcasts across the Tasman. Jacko is so popular that a story of his life and adventures will be read with interest by thousands. Whether you have or have not listened in to him, this book must entertain and Jacko's merry bursts of laughter will crescendo with the human orchestration of laughter from delighted readers. The book is beautifully produced and the illustrations by Dorothy Wall are a feature. Price 4/6.
“The Glories of Milford Sound” by R. W. de Montalk is the title of an attractive scenic booklet recently produced by Harry H. Tombs of Wellington.
(ByE. .)
Vivian Hall
The American Sphinx—The German Acrobat—The Russian Magician—And the British Red Line.
The manifold story of the world's economic ills was interrupted for a moment when Germany pushed armaments into the foreground by withdrawing from the Disarmament Conference. The armed Powers were proposing to reduce armaments over a period of years (about eight) and Germany was working for a degree of German re-armament—the German arms to come up to meet the other Powers' arms coming down. An English pronouncement, supported by others, that a Disarmament Conference could not be a re-armament conference was followed by Germany's withdrawal. If this move checks disarmament, the armed Powers will continue to endure the economic discomfort of costly armaments, or the economic disaster of another war. An eight years' liquidation of Europe's armed assets (which in the economic sense are liabilities) appeared to be really in sight, when Germany quitted!
On the economic side, the American sphinx still smiles. That is to say, President Roosevelt speaks hopefully. But everyone feels that if this enormous experiment in control succeeds, it will be in the face of all estimates of the “sound” school of economists, and will mark a turning point in economic ideas. The Russian economy and Japanese economy are both on entirely different lines. In Russia, the State fixes the worker's standard. In Japan, the private employer fixes the standard. And both standards are low. But in the United States the Government fixes high standards, and expects private enterprise to find the money and bridge the gap between costs and prices. In Germany, much is heard about State interference with industry in the way of discouraging work by women, etc. But much of that seems to be nebulous. There is no evidence that Hitler's plan is really Rooseveltian, or that the German eagle is to become blue.
Russia's efforts to apply science to agriculture must interest all countries that export primary produce. Among many of these ambitious efforts is “vernalisation”—a pre-treatment of seed. “Vernalised” wheat, it is stated, is seed wheat which has been pre-treated by subjection to certain conditions of moisture and temperature, so that the reproductive process in the wheat is advanced before planting; and “crops grown from ‘vernalised’ seed have matured twenty to twenty-six days earlier than crops sown at the same time with untreated seed”— an important achievement in Russia's short hot summer, requiring quick ripening of wheat. A plant does two things—(a) it grows, and (b) it reproduces. The Russians say that reproduction need not wait entirely on growth. Reproduction can be given a flying start by pretreatment of seed. Thus reproduction (the wheat ear) will be effective at an earlier date in the growth-life of the plant.
Although it is only a few years since Stanley's day, when Africa was Darkest Africa, the exploitation of the continent has proceeded so rapidly that the interested Powers are already face to face with the problem of protecting wild life. Air-travel has helped the present international movement towards a protective pact, for the air-traveller sees the huge African distances crumpling up before his eyes, he sees the animals of Africa and their unique wilderness beneath his feet (or rather his wings), and he realises that terra incognita of the Victorian explorers is now opened to all the world. A conference of Governments concerned in Africa, to be held in London at the end of October, has on its agenda paper such questions as sanctuaries, prohibition of hunting with motor cars and modern killing machines, and the elaboration of policy concerning native hunting.
Twenty years ago red-lined maps, the red lines indicating British shipping services and trade routes were familiar exhibits, combining information with national propaganda. The map-makers of those days knew sea lines and land lines but not air lines. To-day they would be busy drawing airlines from the British Isles across Europe to the Eastern Mediterranean, thence bifurcating to India and South Africa. A red line would run up the Upper Nile (where Gordon died and Kitchener fought), across the Great Lakes (lakes of romance!) and over Congo forests to the Zambesi. And if the mapmakers were very up-to-date they would continue the red line from India to Australia—the latest commitment of the British and Australian Governments, to which New Zealand also gives a subsidy.
By)
Tohunga
Terse and epigramatic proverbial expressions, often based on close observation of nature, are frequently heard in the speeches delivered by Maori speakers in ceremonious oratory. The older generation delighted in the use of these whakatauki, which gave point and emphasis to an address. The following are some examples:
Te koura unuhanga roa a Tama. (The crayfish is not easily pulled out of its hole; it is difficult to dislodge a warrior from his stronghold. This was often said of tribes such as those of the Upper Wanganui, who had retreats where they were practically impregnable.)
Me he peka titoki. (Like a branch of the titoki. This tree is noted for its toughness. Used of a people difficult to conquer, or a thing hard to break.)
Maroa-nui-a-Tia, hei kona ra; haere ake tenei, to ake te papa ki te whare. (Farewell, O Maroa, I depart to my home, where I shall shut the door of my house. This is a saying attributed to the chief Uenuku-kopako, of Rotorua, many generations ago. He visited the place called Maroa, so named by Tia, the explorer; it is on the pumice hills between Atiamuri and Taupo. Uenuku was inhospitably received there and when he was going away he used these words, which have become a whakatauki, uttered in reference to a place where one has been treated badly.)
Kia ki ki te rourou iti a Haere. (Fill up my little basket with food, I go atravelling. Said of or by a man setting out on a long and hazardous expedition.)
Te tokanga nui a Noho. (The large food-basket of the Stay-at-homes. Said in contradistinction to the preceding expression. While the traveller must go on short commons, those who remain at home live in luxury. This is the name of the carved meeting-house of the NgatiManiapoto tribe at Te Kuiti.)
As one who has been schooled in much of the mythology and history and philosophy of the ancient race by now-departed wise men of many Maori tribes, I would like to urge the younger generation not to despise what some of them appear inclined to regard as outworn pagan concepts of the Maori. They can assimilate pakeha learning and at the same time try to retain a pride in the past. An example of what I mean comes to mind at the moment, the observances and ritual at the ceremonious opening of a newly-carved meeting-house. It has lately become the custom to import pakeha religious ritual into such occasions, and to discard in whole or in part the excellent and poetical services of the olden race. I have witnessed numerous ceremonies of “taingakawa-whare” in native districts, before the outside element obtruded, and intensely appreciated the eloquent and beautiful ancient prayers for the propitiation of the spirits of the sacred forest, the Wao-Tapu-nui-a-Tane, from whose trees the carved timbers of the house were worked. I have collected several series of these ceremonial services and admired the poetry and symbolism and the wealth of mythological allusion introduced.
With the present revival of woodcarving and other branches of native artcraft, so admirably stimulated and encouraged by the counsel of His Excellency the Governor-General, there could
Some pakehas who have had the privilege of Maori contacts all their lives and who have seen much of the real Maori in places remote from European influences, are sometimes better qualified to discuss native traditions and customs and ancient lore than the average young native of today, particularly the town-bred Maori, whose environment is chiefly European. The younger generation of Maori should not be above learning from such men, who knew and were helped and instructed by the splendid old learned ones of the race.
A short story of tribal customs told by “Tohunga” and reprinted in a Wellington paper, was quite misapprehended by a young reader, who did not like to be reminded of the fact that his ancestors had been cannibals now and then. The story really illustrated the innate courtesy, chivalry and chieftainlike feeling of the Maori even in war-time, and it was a genuine cross-section of the real old native life. It was related as described nearly forty years ago by a learned chief of the Ngati-Pikiao tribe, and it is moreover embodied in the records of evidence in the Native Land Court.
The eating of a foe after he was dead, a practice revived in the wars of the Sixties, was a mere nothing beside the things the pakeha did and the things he does. As for sensitiveness on the score of the past, what Englishman troubles to squirm over the fact that his forefathers used to hang women and children for stealing a handkerchief or a loaf of bread; or used to burn old women accused of the evil eye, or used to quarter the bodies of their enemies over the town gates? Remember, too, Ambrose Bierce's version of his own national anthem: “My Country ‘Tis of Thee”:
Every race and nation has a barbarous past. The chief point of difference between the Maori and the races of the outer world is that while he has advanced, those races are so ultra-civilised that some of them have relapsed into a kind of highly scientific and therefore more horrible barbarism. Enough of that!
Many a Maori place-name is of great antiquity; its origin goes back to the isles of Polynesia, so far back that often its original significance is lost. For example, it is not much use attempting to give the literal significance of such names as Piako and Maketu. They were given by the chiefs of the canoes Tainui and Arawa on their arrival on these shores from the Eastern Pacific. Hikurangi is another, but in this case the meaning is obvious; it signifies skyline, a prominent height on which the light lingers. There are many Hikurangis in New Zealand. The origin of the name may be traced back to Rarotonga. The highest peak on that island is so called, or in the local pronunciation, Ikuraki.
It is rather curious to find numerous Maori names exactly duplicated in faraway Easter Island. One is Marotiri, which is the name of the Chicken Islands, on the North Auckland coast. The Maori name of the Shag Rock, that black volcanic plug in the Heathcote estuary, on Christchurch's ocean front, is Rapanui, which is also one of the ancient names of Easter Island. Numerous other names of that isle of magic and mystery could be quoted in proof of the wide distribution of the Maori tongue and nomenclature. And in the remote Tuamotu Islands, the Low Archipelago, there are many names which are exactly identical with those places on our coast.
In these days, when so much is heard of the necessity for penal reform, it is interesting to recall the conditions enjoyed by prisoners in the gaols of the earlier days of New Zealand. It is told of Akaroa, in 1850, when prisoners were sent over from Lyttelton to be confined in the stone blockhouses built for defence against the warlike Maori, that they were allowed Saturday afternoon off. Their holiday was usually spent in washing their shirts, or in doing odd jobs for the residents in return for tobacco and other comforts. On one occasion it is recorded that the gaoler, on telling the men that time was up, was met with the rejoinder: “Say, boss, the old woman wants some wood cut. Give us a little longer.” The “boss” replied that he wanted his tea and was not going to stop there. “Give us the key then,” was the reply; “we'll lock the gate when we come in and put the key in the little hole.” “All right,” said the gaoler, and went off to his tea. On his return, the prison was locked, the men were inside, and the key was in the “little hole.” The story is matched only by that of the Dunedin gaoler of long ago, who, on allowing his prisoners an afternoon off, warned them to be back on time or they would be locked out! They were back on time! The moral seems to be the same as that of the boyhood experience of all of us—the forbidden orchard always had the sweetest fruit.—“Rotia.”
* * *
Wrong ideas still cling round Kemp's Pole, the carved totara post standing at Kauarapaoa, Wanganui River. It is again stated that Taitoko, Major Kemp to the British Forces, placed it to mark the allowed limit of European access to the river country. It is really one of four such poles put up to mark the corners of a large block of Maori lands that were to be formed into one extensive Native Trust and held back for native posterity from the fast encroaching hands of the pakeha settlers. The other three are, or were, one at Reureu, Rangitikei River; one at Moawhango and the third on the Waitotara River. The trust scheme fell through, mainly because so much time was needed to get the necessary signatures in those early days of slow travel that certain hapus grew impatient and fell to the temptation of the ready cash offering. Kemp's Pole is well preserved, and is regularly painted and tended by the River Trust.
Several other historically significant poles were erected on the Wanganui. One tall totara, called Rongo-niu, still standing at the Ohura river junction, was put up in 1862, at the start of war with the pakeha. The Maori paint (kokowai) is still fresh on its upper portion. Here the war flags floated daily over hakas and fanatical processions of frenzied toas. Cross arms with hands pointing north, south, east and west, were a standing call to the people from all quarters to come and unite against the enveloping pakeha. Another pole put up at the close of war, and still in place, was called Riri-kore, or no more anger. Another was at Koiro, allegedly cut down by survey hands, another at Retaruke, and still another at Ranana was prepared to mark the great fight between the Hauhaus and “friendlies” at Moutoa Island, but lies there, still sound, but never erected.—“Taipo.”
* * *
Shibli Bagarag mentioned in a recent issue that he must have arrived too late at Whitcombe's sale, since he failed to secure any bargains. Well, one of my purchases was a bargain indeed, a book entitled “The Impressions of a New Zealand Pastoralist on Tour,” by A. W. Rutherford, published in 1911 by Messrs. Whitcombe and Tombs—the breeziest and most informative travel book that it has been my fortune to read. Mr. Rutherford deals lightheartedly with England, France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland and Austria in the pre-war days— and on every page he succeeds in raising a smile! An intriguing chapter, especially in view of subsequent history, concerns the relative merits of the defence forces of England and Germany in 1911: “England's whole military system is rotten to the core… Germany has more millions of efficient soldiers than Great Britain has hundreds of thousands of largely inefficient soldiers… Germany has almost as great a marine force as Great Britain, and within a couple of years she will have a greater… At the present moment Great Britain is at Germany's mercy…” Truly, our Empire is over-modest!—M.S.N.
* * *
Happening to call at a friend's house recently, I found four-years-old in the yard, busily hammering. He was making a bird-cage—or it might have been a wheel-barrow. “Yes,” he replied to the obvious remark, “I'm a real carpenter. But I'm not as good as Dad. He's just made a big Morris chair—without a recipe, too!” —“Topize.”