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A Typical Pastoral Scene In The Hawke's Bay Province, North Island, New Zaland.
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. unless accompanied with a stamped and addressed envelope.
All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
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.
The Department's accounts show that the sales of the Magazine during the year ended 31st March, 1936, were more than treble those of the previous financial year.
Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General.
26/5/36.
On the 28th September, an afternoon tea was rendered at the Auckland railway dining hall to Mr. H. W. Springer, a member of the Automatic Signal Maintenance staff in the Auckland district, by the Cable Makers' Association of London. Mr. Springer was the winner of the gold medal awarded by the Association to the candidate heading the list in the Wiremen's Registration Board's recent examination in theory.
The function, which was attended by over one hundred representatives of the electrical trades, engineering departments of local bodies, the Public Works Department, fire underwriters, and technical branches of the Railways Department, was presided over by Mr. F. S. Taylor, who represented the Cable Makers' Association.
In making the presentation, on behalf of the Association, the Minister of Railways, the Hon. D. G. Sullivan, paid a tribute to the industry and conscientiousness of Mr. Springer, a young man, in coming first in New Zealand in a stiff examination. He was rendering a service to the Department and to the State by reaching such a state of proficiency. It was pleasing to see the manufacturers recognising in such fitting manner skilled craftsmanship. Other speakers were Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways, who commented on the rapidly increasing use of electricity in the New Zealand Railways, and Mr. Nelson Jones, a prominent member in electrical body affairs.
(Rly. Publicity Photo.)
But should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behooves you then to ply your finest art.
—Thomson.
Following reports from all districts in New Zealand of improvements in rail traffic—notably in reference to the larger numbers of passengers carried by train—there has been much recent comment by speakers and the press regarding the public becoming increasingly “railway-minded.”
This consciousness of the railways and of the service they perform for the public, is more than merely a pleasing sign of the times; it is the accumulated effect of years of effort and concentrated attention by the staff of the Service in pleasing the public by catering for their transport wants in such a way as to secure for them in the highest degree that “safety, comfort and economy” which forms the background of the Department's now world-famous slogan.
Railway consciousness begins with the very young if they are put in touch with railway affairs at that stage. A youngster's first railway journey is a tremendous affair, and usually follows some acquaintance with railway sights and sounds—the rush, clang and bustle of a shunting yard, the click and ring of rails, the busy life of a station platform, puffs and spurts of steam and warning blasts from hard-pressed locomotives—huge of size and portentously powerful of aspect. Then there is all the drama of movement to set the mind and imagination dancing—coloured lights, signals, uniforms—and the grace of marshalled trains. These entrance the youthful mind and nurture the romance of transport.
From this source, no doubt, is derived that large body of railway “fans” and “boosters” (advocates and supporters, to put it in purer, though weaker, English) who, although not connected in any way officially with the Railways, love to study timetables, and the history and classes of engines, and every detail of railway equipment. Some of them, with technical aptitude, make models of locomotives and trains that show not only craftsmanship of the highest type, but also a love for the subject which inspires them to a perfection of attention to the tiniest details of their work. Others, with a mathematical bent, take pleasure in preparing train diagrams, and sketching out for themselves the changes involved in the whole system by some alteration which they think might improve the service. Some sing songs about the railways, others write poems about them, others photograph them from every angle and in every phase, and others, again, just ride on the trains whenever they can make the opportunity.
The low-fare excursions, of which increasing numbers are arranged as the years go by, are proving a particularly good means for making the public “railway conscious,” and this interest amongst an increasingly large proportion of the people has a definitely stimulating effect upon members of the service.
As the railways take their passengers to the most pleasant places, and their freight in the most convenient way, nothing but good can come from increased use of the railways—particularly as they are so closely associated at every turn with the trade and commerce and general well-being of the nation. In these circumstances it is to be hoped that the ranks of the railway conscious may increase to the Nth degree!
The many things that the Railways can do for the public are not so fully realised as could be wished, although there are none of the major services that are not advertised in some way or other. It is the little incidental services, that come “all in the day's work” for the average railway-man, with which the public are not so familiar, and it is this class of service which cannot be too widely made known. For instance, a business man told me recently how greatly he appreciated a telephone call which the guard of his train had been able to arrange for him some stations ahead.
This was a small thing from the railway point of view, and the guard was only acting in the spirit expected of members of the service when dealing with its clients, but it evidently meant much to the man and the business concerned, and was gratefully acknowledged accordingly.
I would like the public to regard every railway-man as a friend in all matters, and especially those associated with transport, and to ask freely for advice, information, and assistance in these matters. Railway-men should be ever ready to help in unanticipated ways, using the great resources of the whole national transportation system for the benefit of the Department's customers. What is done on other railways along these lines has been summarised interestingly in “Railway Information,” a publication of the British Railways Press Office, London. It instances “water for the dog on the journey, letters by train, the sending of telegrams from the train, break of journey, connections, luggage in advance, tickets in advance, holiday zone season tickets, invalid travel, rugs and pillows, refreshments, save to travel, reduced rates for motor-cars, cheap tickets for bicycles and dogs, storage of cycles, warehousing railhead distribution, town cartage.”
Most of the above services and many others not mentioned, are given as incidental to the usual run of business on the railways of New Zealand. Household removals with no bother at all to the householder; paddocking and watering livestock on long journeys; watchful care over children; a comprehensive range of all travelling requirements at Railway bookstalls and refreshment rooms; advice and guidance in travel or the despatch of goods to any part of New Zealand; checking luggage to any station, and to and from overseas vessels at the main ports; portable railway booking offices alongside arriving liners at Auckland and Wellington for booking passengers and checking or stowing luggage; business agents at call to explain and assist in transport arrangements; special compartments for hire on trains; customs clearance service at principal ports for country clients; the issue of a Locality Guide giving the names and distance from the nearest railway stations of all places where people live in New Zealand—all these, and many other aids to transport are given as part of the general service provided by the railways of this country.
I would ask the staff to place a full appreciation on the value of these services to the public and to help in making them known as widely as possible so that customers (actual and potential) may make the most effective use of the facilities provided for them by the National Transportation System.
General Manager.
A. Vaughan).
The Road to the Alps, South Island, New Zealand.
Arini Tu Pura was not beautiful. Her face was too oval, too pointed for prettiness, and her hair was short and very, very straight. Her sister, Kahurare, had none of these defects, but was possessed of good looks to such a degree that more than half the young men of the place could be numbered among her admirers.
Accustomed to being overlooked when her sister was about, it was small wonder that Arini had added to her natural reserve of manner a decided love of solitude. Sometimes, when the fact of her loneliness thrust itself too sharply upon her she would creep away into the cool forest-places, and the stillness and the beauty would capture the soul of her, and presently she would make a little song. And the trees would be in her song, and the grey, elfin shadows and the moist brown smell of the leaf-mould, so that unhappiness would have no part in the singing at all.
There was one tree she loved better than all the others. Tall and slimstemmed it stood where the forest bordered the shores of a lake and its strong leafy boughs spread far out over the water. Arini, lithe and agile as any boy, often climbed high up among the branches. And the blue of the sky was the tranquil blue of the lake, and the distant hill-ridges would shimmer with haze, and wind and sun would whip the lake-ripples to dazzling silver. Then the words would come swiftly into Arini's head, like birds winging home through the dusk, and she would sing them to a tune of her own devising. Old Nua, the tohunga, he who had taught her many chants and songs of the tribe, prophesied in this wise: “You do well to hold the tree so dear, O bird-voiced one; for love hides lightly in its leaves and when the shadows fall across your path, then will the tree show you the way of escape.”
One day Arini fled to the bush in great trouble. Her sister, for all prettiness, was exceedingly bad-tempered, and because Arini had not performed some task exactly to her liking, she turned and abused her, even taunting her over her lack of suitors. Wearied with sobbing, poor Arini sought the refuge of the tree. The sunlight wove delicate traceries round her, the sky shone blue through the gossamer network of leaves, and a wind went shimmering by. Some of the hurt and shame departed from her and in their place a melody began to take shape. Haunting and wistful it was in accordance with her mood, but the sweetness of it was beyond all telling.
Now it happened that the chieftain Tareha was passing through the forest just at this time and feeling thirsty, he sent his servant to the lake for water while he himself sat down to rest. Soon the slave came back, saying, “There is something strange happening at the edge of the lake. I can hear the sound of singing, yet though I have searched all about I can see no one. I am afraid.”
“Nonsense,” said his master, and repeated his demand for water.
Reluctantly the man went, but in a few minutes he had returned, saying, “I can hear the sound of singing more plainly than before, yet I can see no one.”
Thereupon Tareha became angry and commanded him to go at once for the water, but the man came back shaking with fear and crying that the place was possessed of an atua, a spirit. So terrified did he look that Tareha took the calabash and went himself to see what it was that had given the fellow such a fright. Presently he heard singing just as his slave had said, and following in the direction of the sound he found himself standing at the edge of the lake. Carefully he peered in all the bushes, but no trace of anyone could he discover; and then somewhere overhead the singing started again—the merest whisper of a song, soft, caressing, lilting to a rippling crescendo of sound. Now he could make out the words—exquisite words matching the beauty of the song—words that caught at his heart and lingered in its secret places.
Swiftly he swung himself up into the branches of the huge tree, and there, high above him, sat a girl looking out over the water and absorbed in her song.
And suddenly he knew! And the love-song of Tareha, the chieftain, mingled with the clear, high notes of Arini, the flute-like one.
Ecstasy gave to her colouring warm, ivory tintings, deepening the poignant curve of her mouth and making her smile such a vivid, spontaneous thing that her face was more lovely than a flower. Tareha was enchanted, and the spiritual quality of his love that worshipped her for her voice alone quickened to a greater, more wonderful emotion—the love of a man for a maid.
As for Kahurare, the newcomer made no response to her beauty, no avowal of homage whatever, and her annoyance was in no way lessened when she learned that her father had promised Arini to him as his wife. Tareha never once wavered in his choice, for he saw Kahurare as she really was, jealous of others and spoilt, in spite of her good looks; and so he troubled about her not at all, and he and Arini went forth to their happiness.
Alas! that happiness was short-lived. A raid was made on the tribe of Tareha by an enemy band, and they immediately planned to avenge the attack. The women-folk anxiously waited the return of the warriors to the kainga, the village, and when at last they came they walked slowly and in grief, for Tareha, their chief, had paid the price of victory with his life.
All feeling seemed to die out of Arini. Gradually one thought shaped itself in her mind—the tree—the tree whence came her happiness—the tree would show her the way of escape. Away into the bush she went, on and on, caring naught for hunger or fatigue, never stopping until she was secure among the topmost branches of the tree-of-dreams. The face of Tareha seemed to laugh up at her from the shadowy ripples of the lake; and the prophecy of the ancient priest was fulfilled and the way of escape made plain. Music trembled on her lips, beautiful and unutterably sad, a song of farewell, and at the end joyousness stole in till all the sadness had gone, and standing poised an instant on the bare branch-tip, she slid smoothly down into the cool grey water. The quiet depths closed over her, and the soul of Arini took flight to join Tareha in the dim Reinga, the Place of Departed Spirits.
And the wind sprang up and the sound of singing swept through every leaf and branch, so that people passing by called it the Singing Tree. Henceforth it was treated as tapu, as sacred, and even now in these times of encroaching settlement and dwindling forests the tree still stands by the lake-edge, untouched by axe, unharmed by fire. The Maoris say that misfortune will befall the disturber of its branches, for sometimes in the wind can you not hear the sound of singing, haunting and sweet beyond all telling? Then you know that Arini, the bird-voiced, and Tareha, her lover, have crept back for a space to the place of their happiness—the Singing Tree.
One is always inclined to regard a railway station as a place of utility only, and to associate it with a certain amount of unavoidable grime, combined with a bleak and tidy efficiency which is depressing; in short to find it a coaly, smoky, noisy place admirably suited for its purpose.
Beauty and a railway station—what a contradiction in terms! But not in fact, for the beauty-worshipper, the garden-lover, is not to be baulked by utilitarian ugliness into abandoning his quest for sweetness and light.
Such unpromising materials as a plain wooden box of a waiting room and ticket office, a raised slab of concrete, a net-work of rails, a coal dump or two, and a corrugated iron shed all challenge him to conjure beauty out of ugliness. That he succeeds is evidenced by the many wayside stations in New Zealand, where smiling gardens charm the eye, making one forget the featureless platforms of country railway stations. In some are pretty pergolas over-run with roses or wistaria,
In Australia I noticed that there seems to be keen competition in station gardens. Even in the metropolitan station there is an attempt made to brighten up the drabness and grime of the great yards, by the growing of palms in the open spaces among the rails, and along the North Shore line there are many stations which are veritable bowers of roses and other climbing plants, while in one the only decoration used was flat white pebbles and coloured bricks. In England and Scotland, too, many stations are made very trim and smart with flower-beds and grassy plots. The most beautiful and unique of these is without doubt Wemyys Bay on the Clyde, the jumping-off place for the famous Kyles of Bute. Wemyys Station is neither more nor less than a conservatory. It is completely enclosed in glass, and is in reality a railway pier where the trains run to the water's edge. All the woodwork is painted white, while the overhead supports shine like silver, so bright and spick and span is the ornamental metal work. The entire length of the enclosed space is lined on either side by banks of flowering plants, some in pots, some in deep troughs painted green and white, and many of the plants being of the climbing variety, they take every advantage of their unique glass-house by twining up the supports, flinging green trails along the metal work in the roof and drooping their lovely festoons of leaves and flowers over the heads of the passengers. When the sun comes dazzling through this miniature Crystal Palace, lighting up with prismatic glory, delicate blossoms and leafy trails of greenery, bringing out the rich perfumes of flowers and setting the birds carolling lustily, a train seems an incongruous object in the midst of all this beauty.
Christopher Columbus had nothing on the average couple pushing off into the uncharted seas of Matrimony.
What with “raising the wind,” getting on the rocks, battling with crosscurrents and the tides of adversity it is amazing that so few matrimonial mariners succumb to the hazards of the high seize. They suffer minor damage, of course, such as slightly strained relations, leaks in the exchequer, a little trouble with the steering gear or misunderstandings in the galley, but the matrimonial “Lloyds” report comparatively few total losses.
Merrily they sail away without compass or chart in happy defiance of the advice of old shellbacks who sit in the inglenook and tell hair-raising tales of the terrors of the matrimonial main.
On Sunday afternoons you sight them, some with a full crew—in prams and on foot, some obviously undermanned, but nearly all bowling along merrily with upper and lower spars dressed and the best bunting fluttering from the maintop.
Aye, aye, me hearties! ‘Tis a pretty sight. What makes ‘em do it, asks you? ‘Tis the beckoning finger of glorious uncertainty, of adventure, of discovery, that urges ‘em to brave the terrors of the deep. For, when you go in you go in deep, me lad. First, you're deep in love, then you're deep in domesticity; then, maybe, you're deep in debt until you get your bearings. Later on you're likely deep in parenthood—and getting deeper. There's no half-tide in matrimonial deep-sea sailing. When you're in you're in up to the neck. But who cares? The first mate may mutter, the “old man” may kick the binnacle through the scuppers, the crew may mutiny and get a lick of a rope's end. But, bless yer spanker, when the sky-pilot gives sailing and sounding you're too busy getting her under way to notice where you're going; and when you get into a rip you're too busy getting out of it to notice you're in it until you're out of it. It gets a hold of ye, fair weather or foul.
And there you have it from one who knows. Wives without a stitch to wear, bad-tempered husbands, recalcitrant kids—it's all part of the time-worn tradition of the matrimonial pitch-and-toss. First you go up and then you come down.
A kick in the slats rolls you half-seas-under, and another kick in the other slats rolls you back. The husband who took his wife for better or for worse recognises that there's enough of both to balance her and keep her on a fairly even keel. The wife with a bad-tempered husband takes him over the sticks with cunning hand. For horses and husbands are alike in that they both go into captivity for “wheel or whoa.” We offer no apology for shifting the analogy from ships to horses for the followers of both are often on the rocks.
A wise wife gives her “old horse” reasonable rope. She recognises that when questing woman packs her lariat and rides into the backblocks of Bachelordom to rope herself a marital mustang she snatches him raw from the range—wild and woolly and hairyheeled.
For husband-breaking is even harder than horse-breaking. You can give a horse his head until he comes to his senses; but the woman of wisdom knows that when you give a husband his head he loses it. You can take a horse to the water but you can't make him drink; you can take a husband to the altar and then the difficulty is to stop him drinking. The spouse of nous adjusts the blinkers with such cunning care that he believes what he sees is all there is to be seen. This is a danggerous stage for, if love is blind, marriage can produce second-sight.
The party of the first (and only) part knows that the woman's hand is the hand that locks the stable and that kindly but despotic deception should be practised to keep horses and husbands comfortably captive. Thus, when turning the key, she leaves the top flap of the door open so that the old horse can see out while he stays in.
The rugged road of wedlock can produce either bliss or blisters according to the type of hand that guides the cart. The wife who realises that
There is something to be said for some bad-tempered husbands, but their wives have said it all. We hold no brief for the husband who habitually looks as black as the back of Willie's ears; we simply search for causes and cures.
Some wives—otherwise quite nice—assert that the way to a man's heart is via his stomach; that the path to his affection is through his digestion. Certainly we all know of homes wrecked by a simple cookery-class pie, of domesticity desolated by culinary indiscretions. We know full well the dreadful potentialities of the unleavened doughnut and the horrid halucinations produced by a carelessly constructed sausage stew. We realise that the heart bowed down by weight of dough cannot beat the merry measure. Consequently the wily wife recognises that, after marriage, Cupid's darts are knives and forks.
But variety is the spice of marriage. For, to a woman of spirit, marriage is monotonous. She depends on her helpmeet for the simple domestic excitements and delightments which put the “ho” in home. The husband who oozes into her orbit each evening with the prosaic punctuality and cloying exactitude of a tide of treacle gives no scope for stimulating uncertainty. A man so consistently calm and somnolently serene is prone to make marriage feel like premature burial in blanc-mange. Such mousey men who never wake the welkin with their divine discontent or stir the stagnant juices of the body domestic into acrimonious activity are liable to find a letter on the mantelpiece, saying:
“Your cruelty is killing me. If only you had shuffled your feet or kicked the pom occasionally I could have borne it. Even if you had said that you dislike mother it might have started something to break the monotony. But day after day, year after year, you remained so good-tempered that I could have tipped hot mulligatawney over you; never an unkind word, never a growl about the holes in your socks! Why can't you be like Mr. Snag who bites the dog and snaps the handles off cups? There is never a dull moment in their house. How I envy Mrs. Snag! Farewell, until you can say ‘damn’ when you catch your thumb in the wringer.”
Truly, marriage is a great life if you don't weaken.
The subject of this sketch, the late Captain Matthew T. Clayton, of Auckland, was a truly great man in his profession, a Master of sea-craft in the era when canvas was in its glory, and a master also of the artist's pencil and brush. He was a product of the age when “the sailor of the sail” was at the zenith of his calling. He sailed in the old East Indiamen and raced in China tea-clippers; he commanded one of the most famous of the Blackwall line ships which traded between the colonies and London in the days of the great gold rushes. He will be remembered by many in the maritime world as the perfect type of a British sailor and skilled navigator; but it is as an artist of the sea and ships that he will be known by most people, and the maritime paintings to which he devoted himself during his later years are his enduring memorial. Good marine artists are rare; and in a maritime country like New Zealand, whose life depends on sea communications, the Clayton pictures are of special value and interest. Those which illustrate this article are selected from many of historical importance and technical accuracy, representing vanished ships, painted by a man who knew the ocean and who had seen much of adventure in vanished phases of sea-life.
Captain Matthew Clayton was a man of the Sussex coast. He was born in 1831, and in his thirteenth year he went to sea as an apprentice in one of the old wooden ships that “iron men” sailed in the seven seas. A sturdy, cheerful lad, he carried that sturdy happy impress through a long life. In his eighties, painting away in his little farm-home at Manurewa, in South Auckland, he was the most cheery of veterans who had used the sea. He saw every kind of sea-trade; he had trafficked in every ocean; he first saw New Zealand waters in 1846; he traded for sandalwood in the Western Pacific; he loaded his guns for defence against pirates in China and Malay seas. After he left the sea, he was Surveyor for Lloyds in Auckland for many a year, and it was then that I came to know him and to appreciate his splendid worth as a man, and a wise mentor in all manner of maritime lore.
Clayton's earliest adventurous years were those which he spent as apprentice in two old-time barques, the London and the Statesman. In the former vessel he was in Wellington harbour away back in 1846; he described a stormy midnight when he helped to send down the fore and main-topgallant-masts and yards, “black as pitch and blowing hard,” he said, “we were lying off Pipitea Point, and we were nearly driven on shore that night.” A little later he was in the barque Statesman out of Sydney, trading in the New Hebrides and New Caledonia for sandalwood; a risky trade, for all those black islands were cannibal then. Then a life all-around the world, but always under the old Red Ensign.
In 1856 Matthew Clayton, now a chief mate, entered the service of one of the finest sailing passenger lines that kept the seas, the Money Wigram fleet. Those were the days when builder vied with builder in producing sailing-ships of great beauty and speed, and fitted up for cabin passengers in a style that was comparatively luxurious. He signed on as chief officer of the ship Kent, a “Blackwall Liner,” after an interview with the famous old shipowner, who was the chief partner in the firm of Wigram and Sons. This firm owned besides the Kent a splendid fleet of passenger ships of the highest class, most of them named after English counties, such as the Norfolk, the Suffolk, the Essex, the Yorkshire; another of the fleet was the True Briton. The Kent was his floating home for seven years, for the latter half of this period he was in command. She was frigate-built; she was described as a semi-clipper. Though not regarded as a flyer, she nevertheless beat some of the tea-clippers under certain conditions of weather, as will be seen later on. She carried the old-style single, or whole, topsails, huge expanses of canvas with four rows of reef-points. In all detail of rig she exactly resembled a frigate. All the rigging when Clayton joined her was of hemp; wire rigging only came in after he had made two or three voyages. Her masts were of the best Norway pine; all her yards were banded with iron every three feet. An Ai specimen of maritime workmanship was the Kent. She was considered one of the finest ships trading out of the port of London in her day.
The crew of this good vessel matched the ship. There was no niggardly skimping of expenditure on crews in those palmy days of sail. The fo'c's'l was filled with prime British seamen, “every finger a fish-hook,” as the old saying is; when topsails had to be reefed there were enough men to reef all three sails at once. On one voyage Captain Clayton had a crew numbering fifty-eight, including eight or nine midshipmen. Besides the boatswain, there were two boatswain's mates, each, like their chief, carrying whistles or pipes
From a painting by Captain Clayton.)
An ocean race. The “Kent” passing the “Owen Glendower” in the Southern Ocean, 1861.
Kent never went to sea without signing on a fiddler as one of her crew. His regular duties were to furnish the music for the crew when they were engaged on work at the halliards or braces, or any other of the thousand tasks which was lightened by sea-melody. There were no “chanteys” on board the Kent; the usual merchant sailors' choruses were forbidden—Royal Navy style—and the fiddler, perched on the booms or the forecastle-head, supplied music to take the chantey's place.
The boatswain was an important man. He was always styled “Mister” on these ships. The Kent's bos'n in Captain Clayton's time was Mr. Walker, a tall broad, dark-complexioned man of some forty years, a powerful fellow and a thorough sailor. The boatswain's pipe was a familiar sound on board ship in those days. A great deal of work was done to the silver piping of the bo's'n or his mates—Navy fashion again—instead of to wild songs from sea-roughened throats. Captain Brine—appropriate name that for a sailor—was the commander of the Kent when Mr. Clayton joined her. Captain Brine! It has as salty a flavour as any sea-novelist or sea-song-writer could wish for. As fitting a name as old Captain Stormalong of the sailor chanties, or as that grand old sea-name, Tom Bowling.
Mr. Clayton succeeded Capt. Brine as commander, and was in charge of the Kent until the end of 1863.
The Kent, though loftily sparred, carried nothing above royals; but she had a full set of studding sails—stu'n's'ls Merchant Jack calls them—to spread on each side of her like huge wings; lower and topmast and topgallant studding-sails, and many a brisk tussle the rigging-out and in of the stu'n's'l booms and the setting of these auxiliary sails gave the sailormen of the Fifties and Sixties. By the Seventies stu'n's'ls were going out of date, and now they have vanished altogether.
As to arms, the Kent did not require the rather formidable armament of carronades and small arms carried by ships in the China trade, for fear of pirates. She had a couple of saluting guns on deck, and had a dozen or so of muskets and cutlasses in the cabin.
The Kent would have been a rich prize for an enterprising pirate had any of those gentry been cruising the Southern Ocean. She was regularly engaged in the highly profitable trade between London and Melbourne in the great gold rush days of Victoria, and on every trip she carried gold to England. On one voyage Captain Clayton had nearly half-a-million in gold bars on board. It was stowed beneath his cabin, in the run, in a specially constructed gold room. This sea-safe was locked and the deck-hatch caulked
From a painting by Captain Clayton.)
The ship “Kent” clearing the icebergs in 56 degrees south latitude.
The American cruisers had their eyes on that treasure-lading of the Kent on one historic occasion, just after the Civil War began. It was in 1861, when the Trent affair nearly brought Britain to war with the United States. The U.S. Government had a warship cruising at the mouth of the English Channel to intercept the Kent or any other gold-ship from Australia in the event of war being declared. This Captain Clayton learned from his owner when he reached London.
On a voyage to London from Melbourne in 1862, Clayton had 270 passengers; the crew numbered 50. The ship carried about £400,000 worth of gold. She was too deeply laden for safety, and shortly before a hurricane struck the ship off Cape Horn the Captain decided to jettison some of the cargo. The falling glass gave him warning. “I knew,” Clayton told me, in narrating the events of that voyage, “that if the gale struck us we would be gone unless I lightened the ship.” He jettisoned about £4,000 worth of cargo, and then in the height of the hurricane sperm-oil was continuously poured on the sea. The captain's act of judgment in sacrificing cargo undoubtedly saved the ship and her precious freighting of lives and treasure.
One of Captain Clayton's paintings depicts an ocean race in which the Kent overtook and passed the Owen Glendower, a ship which brought troops to New Zealand in the war days. This is a story of an even more exciting race.
Early one calm morning in 1862, when the Kent was one degree north of the Equator, London-bound from Melbourne, young Captain Clayton found himself in company with four China tea-clippers. Those were the days when enormous interest centred in the annual races homeward from China with the first of the season's teas, and only the fastest sailers were employed in the trade. They carried immense spreads of sail, and cracked on tremendously under studding-sails and all sorts of extra wind-savers, from “Jamie Greens” to ringtails and water-sails. The four tea-carriers lay there almost motionless, heading all ways, a mile to a mile-and-a-half from the Kent, and piled to the trucks with sail. Captain Clayton spoke them. Two of them, the barque Robin Hood and ship Falcon, were bound to London; the other two, the Ellen Rogers and Queensborough, were for Liverpool. There was a big bonus on the cargo of whichever got into port first.
The commander of the Robin Hood requested Captain Clayton to keep in company with him, as his vessel had something the matter with her rudder-head. The Kent's captain promised to do so if he could. About an hour later the light N.E. trades sprang up, and all five vessels trimmed their sails for a race. The Robin Hood and the Kent kept company with each other for about two days; the others left them behind. Then the wind increased in strength and the Robin Hood ran away from the more heavily-built Blackwall liner.
The Kent saw no more of the clippers all that race up to English soundings. It was an exciting time on board, nevertheless, for Captain Clayton was determined to keep his ship up as close to the clippers as possible, though he had very little hope of beating any of them. He got very little sleep for the rest of the passage; he was constantly on the watch, taking the utmost advantage of all the winds that blew and keeping his ship crowded with canvas.
“At last,” Clayton told me, in his brisk, animated way, “we got up to the mouth of the English Channel. Not seeing anything of the tea-clippers I made for the Eddystone Light and hove-to to report. I had printed forms on board, in which there was a space to enter any ships I spoke. I had one of these forms already filled up with particulars of the four ships. As I hove-to I signalled for a pilot, and the pilot who usually took my ship into Plymouth came alongside. I gave him my report and a present of rum and tobacco, and made him promise to take my report on shore immediately. Off he went, and I at once made sail again and went up the Channel with a fair wind, studding-sails set.
“By next morning I was off the Dungeness light. It was a cloudy morning. All of a sudden the clouds cleared a bit, and looking astern I saw two big square-riggers coming up after me, crowded with sail. I was the first to see them.
“ ‘Here come the two tea-clippers!’ I said to my chief officer, who was standing near me on the poop. ‘Signal for a steamer!’
“We were then about five miles off the Ness. Up went the flags for a steamer, and one soon appeared, making for us. The tea-ships were now four or five miles behind us, I had every possible stitch of sail set, with three stu'n' sails on each side, the wind right aft. The decks were crowded with excited passengers, and there were any number of bets on. The crew cheered when they saw the steamer coming.
From a painting by Captain Clayton.)
Abel Tasman's “Heemskirk,” off the Three Kings, New Zealand, 1642.
“As soon as the steamer was alongside, I told the chief officer to run the stu'n' sails in. The crew had them in in about five minutes. It was the sort of work to thrill a sailor. Directly we got the stu'n' sails in, the steamer took hold of us. Looking astern, I saw the two clippers taking in their wings, too, and signalling.
“ ‘Hoist a signal for another steamer,’ I said to the chief officer. In a few minutes another steamer was alongside us. Up-Channel we went with a steamer on each bow.
“ ‘Take in all sail,’ was my next order. The crew were aloft in a jiffy, and in came all our canvas. After we got through the Downs we unbent every sail, sent the stu'n' sail-booms and royal-yards down, and made the ship snug for dock. The end of it was that we steamed up into the East India Docks just half-an-hour ahead of the Robin Hood; the Falcon was the other clipper, close behind the Robin Hood
From a painting by Captain Clayton.)
H.M.S. “Calliope” in the hurricane, Apia, 1889.
“The Kent's feat was the talk of the city. My report, sent ashore by the pilot, was the first news of the four tea-clippers that reached the London Exchange, where there was great interest in the race, and there was much surprise at the fact of us beating the fast ships. My owner introduced me to Duncan Dunbar, the great shipowner. Mr. Dunbar looked me up and down; I daresay he thought ‘What a boy to go and beat the China clippers’!”
“Packet cigarettes?” said the tobacconist to a customer, “bit of a back number! Why worry with them when you can roll your own and save money?” “But can you save money?” queried the customer. “Sure thing,” replied the smoke merchant. “Why I can tell you how to make ten beautiful full-size cigarettes for 4d.!—and one of ‘em's worth a trunkful of ready-mades, which are often dry as a chip and flavourless through being kept too long in stock, whereas roll your own and you're always sure of a sweet, moist, and fragrant smoke. I roll all mine.” “What brand d'ye use?” asked the customer. “Riverhead Gold, the finest toasted cigarette tobacco manufactured, bar none. And you can smoke all you want of toasted, mind you. Next to no nicotine in it. Toasting does that. Other toasted brands? Yes, there are four—Desert Gold (another splendid cigarette blend), Cavendish, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bulls-head), and Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog). These are the only genuine toasted tobaccos.” (Here a tin of Riverhead changes hands.)*
In telling such reminiscences the jolly old seaman lived the best years of his life again. He told of thrilling and perilous days, ice-beset, in the Southern Ocean. One of his oil-paintings reproduced in this article shows his old ship, hard-driven running clear of the icebergs in 56 south latitude and 153 west longitude, far down in the Southern Ocean between New Zealand and Cape Horn. His painting of H.M.S. Calliope steaming out of Apia harbour in the great hurricane of 1889, is the only adequate
The brave old sailor left scores of paintings, historical and dramatic, which always found buyers. It is a pity, the thought came after going through Wellington's new Art Gallery lately, that there is such a complete lack of marine paintings there. I should like to see a Clayton or two. We could do without many of the others.
It will be 50 years this month (November), since the Manawatu Railway was opened to Palmerston North. I hope you will announce that in your valuable journal for November. When the train arrived at Otaki, about 100 Maoris stood in front of the engine and said the train would go no further, as they had not been paid in full for their land, by the Company.
The late Bishop O. Hadfield, who was a guest on the train, spoke to the natives in Maori, and told them they would get paid.
There was only one house in Crofton then, and five people in Khandallah.—Major Andrew, who gave the name to the place (taken from Khandallah in India), Bob Hannah, Hobbs (dairyman), Harnett (dairyman), and a man employed on the road.
In 1884, there were only ten residents in Paekakariki, viz., Lynch (2), Mackay's (3), Tilley (hotel), Cameron, Ostler, the policeman, and Old Mag and her husband (an old whaler).
All to be found from Manakau to Long-burn were mosquitoes, sand flies and bush.
—T.G.
Main entrance. Lausanne Station, Swiss Federal Railways.
New and more powerful steam locomotives continue to be introduced on the Home Railways. In this connection, the London & North Eastern system comes into the limelight. The King's Cross authorities have recently approved the building in the Doncaster works of a new series of 2-8-2 three-cylinder streamlined passenger engines; a number of 2-6-2 three-cylinder mixed traffic locomotives; a further batch of 4-6-2 three-cylinder passenger engines following the “Silver Link” design; and a series of 2-6-2 three-cylinder, passenger side-tank engines for suburban haulage.
The first of the new 2-8-2 streamliners has already been completed. It is named “Lord President,” and incorporates most of the features of the “Cock o' the North” locomotive, described in these Letters some time ago. It has, however, been given an entirely new streamlined front, not unlike the “Silver Link” class. The principal dimensions are:—Grate area, 50 sq. ft.; boiler barrel, 19 ft. long, 6 ft. 5 in. diameter; total heating surface, 3,490 sq. ft.; working pressure, 220 lb.; cylinders, 21 in. diameter by 26 in. stroke; tractive effort, 43,462 lb.; weight in working order, 107 tons. The eight-wheeled tender carries 5,000 gallons of water and 8 tons of coal. The “Lord President” and its successors will haul fast Anglo-Scottish expresses.
The mixed traffic locomotives, of the 2-6-2 three-cylinder type, should prove exceptionally useful. One of these engines has now been completed, and it has been named “Green Arrow.” Striking a new note in Home locomotive design by employing the unusual 2-6-2 wheel arrangement, the “Green Arrow” has three cylinders, 18 1/2 in. diameter by 26 in. stroke; grate area, 41.25 sq. ft.; total heating surface, 3.110 sq. ft.; working pressure, 220 lb. per sq. in.; tractive effort, 33,730 lb.; and weight in working order, 93 tons. This fine engine is intended for express passenger and fast freight traffic. It has been designed by Mr. H. N. Gresley, the L. & N.E. chief mechanical engineer—or, as we are now happy to know him, Sir Nigel Gresley.
Railway travel has for long been recognised the world over as by far the safest form of movement. Like the New Zealand lines, the Home railways are especially proud of their fine safety record—a record which the recently published official report upon accidents occurring last year shows to be splendidly maintained.
The total route mileage of the Home railways at the close of 1935 was 20,295, the greater portion consisting of two or more tracks. During the twelve months ended December 31st, 1935, only 13 persons were killed in train accidents, and 408 injured. The liability among passengers to fatal injury was one killed to every 130,000,000 carried. In what are officially described as “movement accidents”—as, for example, careless boarding and alighting from trains—84 passengers were killed.
The total casualties at level crossings were 51 killed and the same number injured. The official report rightly pays tribute to the successful efforts of the railways towards immunity from mishap. In 1935, passenger journeys totalled no fewer than 1,697,000,000; and passenger and freight train-miles, 435,000,000.
Sleeping-cars pay an increasingly important part in rail travel, as the public become educated to the advantage of night travel for business and similar journeys. Home railway sleeping-cars are of exceptionally comfortable design, and they are run in most of the principal long-distance night services.
By the London, Midland & Scottish Company there has been put into service the first of a series of thirteen new composite sleeping-cars which are being built in the Derby works. These vehicles are 69 ft. long and 9 ft. 2 1/4 in. wide, and are fitted with six-wheeled bogies. Each car accommodates six first-class and fourteen third-class passengers.
In addition, there is a first-class lavatory and an attendant's compartment at one end of the vehicle, and two third-class lavatories at the other. The six single first-class berths are arranged in three pairs, a communicating door being provided be-between each pair. Each third-class compartment has four berths—two lower and two upper. The interior decorations of the cars are particularly pleasing. In the first-class berths the decoration is in modern style, flush finish with chromium plated fittings, and Rexine walls and ceiling. The colour scheme is divided into three groups, blue, beige and green, the colour fading out from floor to ceiling. Each berth has a rug and a bedspread to match; a wash-basin; a full-length dressing-mirror; folding shelves and racks; and three 15-watt pearl electric lamps in chromium-plated reflectors.
With the Coronation of His Majesty King Edward still some months ahead, the Home railways are already preparing their excursion plans for this historic occasion. Special trains will be run by all the group lines to London for viewing the ceremony and its accompanying pageantry. So far as can be foreseen, practically every locomotive and every passenger carriage will be pressed into service to convey loyal travellers to London. Among the 130 special trains which the London, Midland & Scottish Railway have already arranged to run from the provinces to the metropolis for the Coronation, is one from Inverness and back, a distance of 1,136 miles. Over twenty special trains will also be run from other parts of Scotland, including points as far off as Aberdeen, Dundee, Perth and Ayr. Thirty-five excursions will come from the Midlands; 22 from Lancashire and Yorkshire; two from Wales; and one from Northern Ireland. The London & North Eastern also plan large-scale excursion bookings for the Coronation from Scotland and the North of England; while Wales, western and southern England are already arranging excursions over the metals of the Great Western and Southern systems.
Electrification of the Southern Railway London-Portsmouth tracks is making rapid progress, and it seems likely that this important work will be completed well ahead of scheduled time—July, 1937. The Southern Railway have reaped a rich harvest as a result of their progressive electrification policy. Between London and Brighton and other south coast resorts, electrification has been the means of retaining to rail an immense volume of passenger traffic which, under steam working, was fast being lost to the roads.
Very striking is the progress of electrification throughout Europe. In a recent paper read by Mr. E. R. Kaan, chief electrical engineer of the Austrian Federal Railways, before the Institution of Electrical Engineers, London, we learnt much of electrification's growth. Switzerland, it was pointed out, has made more progress with electric traction than any other European land. Some 75 per cent. of the Swiss Federal Railways system is now electrified, corresponding to about 92.5 per cent.
Sweden actually possesses about 2,000 miles of electrified trunk routes. By June next, the Swedish State Railways will operate electrically 2,600 miles of track. France, Holland, Belgium, Hungary, Poland and Spain are other European countries where electrification is making progress.
Spain has been through a trying time of late, and the railways of this corner of the continent have been operated under great difficulties. Completely reorganised some ten years ago, the Spanish railway system is unique in being almost all composed of 5 ft. 6 in. tracks, as compared with the European standard-gauge of 4 ft. 8 1/2 in. Under the law of July 12, 1924, the management of the various Spanish railways was left to the individual companies—about one hundred in all—but geographical grouping was introduced to cut out overlapping and uneconomic competition. Railway enterprise in Spain has always relied largely upon foreign capital. The two leading lines—the Northern; and the Madrid, Zaragoza and Alicante—both have supervising committees sitting in Paris. The Great Southern Railway of Spain is a British concession. Never very profitable undertakings, the Spanish railways must necessarily suffer considerably as a consequence of internal unrest.
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I Mpskill Lloyd was closeted in his steel-lined study examining, under a colossal magnifying glass, one of Woolworth's fourpenny pocket-knives.
It was just the type of study a famous criminal investigator would have. The steel walls were four feet thick and were lined on the inside, with row upon row of sawn-off shot guns, jemmies, Daisy air guns, bottles of lysol, magnifying-glasses and false noses.
In a huge glass case in the centre of the room was a collection of false clues—one of the finest of its kind in the world.
Impskill was concentrating all his attention on the pocket-knife, which, ever and anon, he plunged into a German sausage in front of him. Each newly-created wound in the sausage he would examine intently and then make copious notes in his Knife-wound Record Book, a huge tome, about twice the size of a family album.
Even while he was studying the pocket-knife, Impskill was silently cursing over the horrible mistake he had made over the bloodstained horse-shoe, the events surrounding which were described in the last chapter. It will be remembered that Impskill was positive that Lauder had been killed by a blow from a horse-shoe. Even so, he was not solely to blame, because his theory had been confirmed by Hilson Wogg of the Great Scott Correspondence School of Criminology. It was P. C. Fanning who discovered that the blood on the horse-shoe really came from a small packet of fishing bait he had purchased for twopence from “Kidney” Jenkinson, the Matamata butcher.
In place of the horse-shoe clue, now so ignominiously rejected, Impskill was satisfied that the pocket-knife had been the instrument of death, accounting at the same time for the alleged blow on the back of the neck.
It was so obvious. The murderer had plunged the knife with terrific force into Pat Lauder's left shoulder, the pain of the blow causing the head of the victim to jerk backwards severing the spinal cord and incidentally causing the terrible bruise on the back of the neck. Having discovered the cause, Impskill merely had to find the wielder of the knife.
A knock sounded on the door of Impskill's den and he immediately cut a slice from the sausage and commenced eating it, evidently to allay suspicion.
“Come in,” he shouted.
“Ah, it's only you,” murmured Imp-skill in a relieved tone of voice. Then he looked keenly at the visitor, Gillespie, his chauffeur.
“Good heavens, man! Why are you smoking one of those?”
“You mean a tailor-made?” inquired “Gil.”
“Yes,” replied Impskill; “you look as out of place as a ‘K’ locomotive in a drawing room.”
“Well, you see, Chief, I've damaged my rolling thumb,” replied “Gil.” “A barmaid bit it.”
“How on earth did that happen?”
“I was chucking her under the chin and her mouth happened to be open.”
“Now, here we are discussing frivolities,” said Impskill sternly, “and Pat Lauder's murdered body is still hanging over us.”
“Gil” looked up to the ceiling in alarm.
“It's all right, ‘Gil,’” added Impskill, “I was merely speaking metaphorically.”
“Anyhow,” said “Gil,” “that's what I've come to see you about. There's a bloke outside wot wants the corpse?”
“Wants the what?” cried Impskill.
“The corpse,” replied “Gil.” “He's C. Stuart Bury, the Matamata undertaker. Says Lauder has been dead long enough and it's about time he screwed the hatches down.”
“True, true,” replied Impskill thoughtfully, “You can hand him over the body—but first take a plaster cast of the wound on the left shoulder.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied “Gil” absent-mindedly. You see, “Gil” had once been a sailor, this accounting for his undying thirst.
“Strange,” muttered “Gil” as he left Impskill's den, “why does he want me to plant a cask by the corpse? Must be a blooming wake, he has in mind for poor Pat.”
So originated a happy event for the people of Matamata. Oblivious of the fact that “Gil” had mistaken the words “plaster cast” for “plant a cask,” Impskill had to leave his investigations to hurry to Dunedin by ‘plane to judge the Annual Festival of the British Llama League, an organisation with the laudable object of placing the
As he took a flying leap into the ‘plane, Impskill shouted final directions to “Gil.”
“Keep a cordon of police around all the knife factories of Matamata until I return,” he cried, “and don't forget the plaster cast.”
“Plant a cask,” muttered “Gil” waving his handkerchief in goodbye, “the mean hound! One cask. Why I've already ordered five. It's going to be a real wake.”
So, while Impskill flew southwards, “Gil” was busy on the ‘phone inviting every thirsty soul in Matamata to Pat Lauder's wake. He positively refused to hand over the corpse to C. Stuart Bury until the morning after the big beano.
It was a great and memorable night for Matamata. The Mayor, Zeb Barrett, entered into the spirit of the business and placed the Matamata Town Hall at the disposal of the mourners. Pat Lauder was laid out in state on the stage, and, flanking the body, were six hogsheads of the local beer.
P.C. Fanning was the first to be carried out of the hall. The trouble was that every time he cried “Hail!” (a time honoured salutation of his) they thought he was calling for more ale.
Zeb Barrett spoke feelingly of the deceased. Being an old newspaper man he poetically described Lauder as “going to press for the last time.”
“Be gob, from appearances,” observed Dan Doolan, the Matamata publican, “poor Pat was well and truly pied before they got him in the forme.”
“Ere, ere!” cried “Gil” as he drove the tap into another barrel, “he looked like a stop press item gone wrong.”
About 1 a.m. when the wake was waxing at its warmest the members of Pat Lauder's Crooners' Correspondence Course, who had arrived from all parts of New Zealand to farewell their departed Principal, rendered (in ultra-crooner fashion) “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.”
In a beer-charged voice “Gil” inquired: “What's wrong with your mouth?”
Of course we know what “Gil” really meant but, unfortunately, the crooners thought that he was reflecting on their singing. With a chorus of falsetto yells they charged at “Gil” from the stage. Fortunately “Horsey” Stuart intervened. He announced that as the wake was being broadcast through 45 Zq (the recently established Multi-Commercial Zq Station) it would be undignified to put the subject on the air. But for this timely intervention, the murdered body of “Gil” undoubtedly would have joined that of Pat Lauder on the stage, in which case more beer would have had to be ordered, and the wake extended another twenty-four hours.
To pacify the indignant crooners “Gil” promised, there and then, he would write them a song. In addition to being able to drive a car and roll his own cigarette, “Gill” was a born poet and a musician.
Five minutes later the crooners, as happy as a Labour Minister spending a million on pensions, were intoning the following delightful ditty:—
Take me back to Matamata
Where the crooners gently croon
Where there's beauty, beer and bounty,
Happiness from noon to noon.
Take me back to Matamata
Sad I am away from thee,
Matamata makes you fatter
For its beer is ecstasy.
Matamata—what's the matter
With Pat Lauder, cold and dead?
Than in heaven he would rather
Still be Matamata's head.
Give us treacle, give us nutmegs
Marble cake or cocktails queer
They would all taste just like wormwood
Were not Matamata here.
Just as the last memorable line was lingering in the crooners throats there arrived at the wake, by ‘plane from Akaroa, Count De Y'ken Alexander (see Lindsay Buick's “The French at Akaroa”).
Count De Y'ken immediately demanded wine, at which the mourners, led by Dr. Brannigan, commenced chanting most sadly, “What's wrong with beer?”
“Gil” broached another cask.
About 4 a.m. (no beer being left) Dr. Brannigan, Marris, Dan Doolan, P.C. Fanning and “Gill” commenced to look for further clues.
“Hey!” shouted. “Gil,” “What's this ‘ere butter about the edge of the knife wound?”
“The more butter they waste the better,” murmured the local grocer, Sol. Fuzsil, who was now well in his cups.
“But a wound like this looks rather rank,” cried “Gil.”
“Yes—as I thought,” muttered the grocer, “rank butter. ‘Ow ‘bout some more beer?”
Yes, a terrific discovery had been made. “Gil” had found butter marks on the edge of the wound in the body of Pat Lauder. He immediately ‘phoned for Leslie Binge, the local photographer.
Ere the sickly light of morning had etched, in mournful detail, the recumbent bodies of the participants of the wake, the sober, all resourceful Binge had taken a flashlight of the body and the developed photograph was ready, dripping huge drops of hypo, for the Great Sleuth Impskill.
One of the hypo drops fell on the face of “Gil” who awoke and immediately rushed to the local telegraph office to send the following urgent wire to Impskill:—
“Wake a great success stop butter found on Lauder stop important clue stop hasten back to Matamata.”
On receipt of the wire Impskill caught a passing ‘plane and was soon on his return journey. The trouble was that five of the festival llamas in-
(Continued on page 37).
November is New Zealand's National Month. With the oddest persistence, November appears throughout our history as the month of important happenings. The first recorded event of striking importance was the proclamation of British sovereignty by Captain Cook, on the 15th November, 1769. The most outstanding fact, however, is that New Zealand, as an entity, was born in this month. On 16th November, 1840, New Zealand was created a separate colony and the names of Northern, Middle, and Stewart Island, were changed to New Ulster, New Munster, and New Leinster. Until that date we were part and parcel of New South Wales. On the 28th November, 1840, the settlement round the shores of Port Nicholson, loosely called Britannia, was given the name of Wellington. On the 5th November of the next year, the “Arrow,” the first ship, entered the port of Nelson. It was in November, 1845, that Captain George Grey arrived as Lieutenant-Governor of the Colony and the real building of our nationhood entered upon a new order. The first general election in the Dominion was held in November, 1855, women first in the British Empire recorded their electoral votes in November, 1893, the first weekly half holiday, the establishment of free compulsory and secular education, the provision of Old Age pensions are all allotted to this month. The two new provinces of Marlborough and Hawke's Bay were established on 1st November, 1858 and 1859 respectively. We should not forget either that the first New Zealand Derby was run in November, 1860, and the first New Zealand Cup five years later. The list could be extended indefinitely, but it is an inescapable fact that November is not only our natal month but it is invested with a special significance. And, best of all, it is the gateway to our summer.
You have seen in railway sleepers and in household sitting rooms, in hotel lounges and steamer saloons, folks with earnest faces and closely-knit brows, working out crossword puzzles. I have been accosted by a total stranger in a railway smoker who wanted to know if I could give him the name of a Jewish prophet in eight letters ending with “h.”
Any of these enigmas are child's play compared with arriving at the right method of celebrating New Zealand's hundredth birthday.
The difficulty is unique because the history of the colonisation of New Zealand is unique. The panorama of our settlement story differs from all others since the dawn of civilisation, so this centennial might best be named the “New Hundredth.”
Although the crowded year of 1840 does genuinely mark the actual creation of the new and splendid addition we made to the British Empire, celebrations must take into their view the complex mass of happenings both before and after that date, the whole pageantry of our growth. The centennial must be planned to present as a whole the vision of the great events of the past, and a picture of the present achievement.
The settlement of New Zealand had no central point on which it would be right or fair to focus attention. We have no one single locality where our Pilgrim Fathers landed.
The romance of the coming of our pioneers is enriched by the fact that these argosies of British men and women had so many destinations, so many ports of call. It was not enough that this purely British cavalcade should light upon the portion of all the earth's surface most like their own Homeland. The various differing elements of the procession went, with miraculous precision, to the very parts of the new country that owned distinctive features reminding them of the very valleys, hills and skies of the actual localities from whence they came. The Cornwall and Dorset men went to Taranaki, a land of headlands and rolling downs; the Scots went to Dunedin, whose climate bears exactly the same relation to our North as that of Edinburgh does to the South of England; the purely Anglican expedition went to the level sweetness of Canterbury, where conditions were most suitable for the creation of a new Sussex, complete with a new Brighton.
In the North, the many-coloured story was far different. Wellington and Nelson were the fruits of the splendidly conceived theories of Wakefield. It is the fashion to treat that great genius as if his ideas had largely failed. The truth is that they were
From a painting by Captain M. T. Clayton.)
The landing of Captain Hobson at Waitangi, Bay of Islands, in January, 1840.
The history of Auckland runs far deeper down the years. Keri Keri, now a populous fruit growing district, with streets of handsome houses reminiscent of Remuera or Heretaunga, is the cradle of our history. Here in 1819 the first wooden and stone buildings were built; they still stand without a blemish. In May, 1820, the first plough was put into the land of New Zealand. Six years before that Samuel Marsden had established the first Christian Mission at the Bay of Islands and a resident British Magistrate had been appointed by the Governor of New South Wales.
Away back in 1825, the islands of Waiheke and Pakihi had been purchased by an English company and the “Rosanna” arrived packed with hopeful immigrants. Hokianga was also to provide these new folk with the means of making their fortunes in the new land. However, hordes of tatooed Maori warriors provided such a reception by way of war dances and other signs of active dislike, that the frightened passengers decided to exercise their right of return. The company lost £20,000 and New Zealand obtained no new population.
Long before 1840, the semi-tropical climate and the rich lands of the Northern peninsula had attracted adventurers of all sorts and conditions. The roystering rover, Captain Tapsell, married his pretty Maria Ringa in 1823, and, by the same token, lost her on the wedding day. She bolted for the bush. Romances on a spacious scale and numbered by the thousand will one day be retrieved from those roaring days.
However, concentration upon 1840 is inevitable, and I place as the quartette of vitally important events of that year, these:
On 30th January, the hoisting of the Union Jack at the Bay of Islands by Governor Hobson; the first formal act of British Government in New Zealand.
On 5th and 6th February, the first reading and acceptance of the Treaty of Waitangi.
On 11th August the hoisting of the British Flag at Akaroa by Captain Stanley and the exercise of British authority for the first time in the South Island by the holding of a court.
On 16th November, the issue of Letters Patent in England, constituting New Zealand a separate colony.
Rly. Publicity photo.)
Historic Keri Keri, Bay of Islands, showing the oldest buildings in New Zealand.
There are many more happenings of signal importance. The 7th February is the date when Malcolm McKinnon was the first settler on the Canterbury Plains; the founding of Wellington was on the 22nd January, and on the 21st September purchase was made of the ferny district round the Waitemata Harbour that was to be Auckland, the capital of the new colony.
It will seem at once how widespread must be the centennial celebrations, even of those events confined to the one year of 1840. But ceremonies confined to that year would give no proper picture. It is necessary that the celebrations should portray the essential and unique features of both our history and our present “scene.” In other words, we should show the world, not only how our forebears worked and lived, but also what we have accomplished here and now.
This will entail local celebrations in every centre of the whole Dominion. We have an array of picturesque and
S. P. Andrew photo.)
Hon. W. E. Parry, Minister of Internal Affairs, whose Department will be intimately concerned with the arrangements for celebrating New Zealand's Centenary in 1940.
Special glory will be shed upon our season of rejoicing by the participation of our Maori brethren, with whom we live in amity and equality, in a sense that has been far too rare in most countries of the world.
That old Polynesian, Captain Cook Kupe, must not be forgotten, and the seven great canoes that came here neary six hundred years ago are at least as important as the first four ships.
The Whare Runanga at historic Waitangi will be finished by the date of the celebrations, and the gathering to commemorate the Treaty will become one of the word's famous spectacles.
The special genius of the Maori race for organised celebration will be exercised to its full, and it is certain that some of the finest functions of the year will be those for which they are responsible.
The Exhibition at Wellington is a proper idea. The Capital City will naturally be the centre of much of the activity of the whole community, and an exhibition is a convenient method of putting before the world our achievements in all fields of human endeavour. It will be an attraction for tourists and visitors and a display window for the whole Dominion. Here will be the opportunity for some of our great business organisations that have spread all over the world. But possibly the most admired distinction of New Zealand development is its remarkable decentralisation. Here, in contradistinction to so many parts of the world, our country towns and hamlets have maintained their growth. No mighty city monopolises an undue share of our population. Life is as pleasant and the amenities and conveniences of civilisation and modern comfort have the same standard in Timaru as in Auckland.
Our centennial celebrations, therefore, to be a faithful portrayal of our country, will be spread over the whole area of the Dominion. Every element in our history and in the country that we have created for ourselves should be represented. The Ulstermen who followed that flamboyant genius Vosyey Smith to Kati Kati must not be overlooked any more than the gallant seafarers who came to Waipu from faraway Nova Scotia.
The people of New Zealand have gone wisely and well in the task of making the centennial worthy of this “Britain of the South.”
First of all, a National Memorial will be built. Secondly, thorough and authoritative historical surveys are to be made.
Rly. Publicity photo.)
Akaroa (South Island), where Captain Stanley hoisted the British flag on 11th August, 1840.
This is possibly the most vital work that is proposed, and, let it be remembered, it is, even now, under way.
For all local celebrations, Government subsidies are to be granted. It is from the splendour, variety, richness, and complexity of the local celebrations that the year 1940 will worthily commemorate New Zealand as a country from which that absurd title “young” has forever passed away.
The Wellington Exhibition is being liberally helped, and arrangements are in being for entertaining guests from abroad and for larger expenditure in the Tourist and Publicity Departments.
However, the main cause that emerges from all these activities is this: New Zealand is a country of unique qualities; its racial purity is the highest in the world; its life story is almost without blemish; its foundations were planned, selected, and maintained with scrupulous care; it is a universe of natural wonders; its rich lands, mild climate, and sea-girt terrain, make it a possible earthly paradise; it houses the finest native race in the world; the culture, vision and daring of its early people, have made it famous for social ideals and courageous experiment in the furthering of the ends of social justice and the growth of human brotherhood and fellowship.
The Centennial Celebrations can only succeed in being a suitable commemoration of all these, if the whole community of our fellow citizens work together faithfully to the one end.
(Continued from page 31).
sisted on travelling with him and the overloaded ‘plane crashed at Kaiwarra. The llamas escaped uninjured, but Impskill suffered a bad fracture of his false beard, which he had donned with professional ardour on receipt of the wire from “Gil.”
For this reason “Gil” was left lamenting (should we say lla-menting) alone in Matamata, and he was also left mourning by the graveside, as the body of Pat Lauder was lowered to its last resting place.
“Gil” had a terrible thirst on him that morning, and, unable to wait until he reached the nearest hotel, visited a suburban dairy where he demanded a glass of milk.
“A glass of milk” inquired the dairymaid, with unrestrained laughter.
“Oh, my pretty maid,” cried “Gil.” “You know something!” Even as he said this, he noticed on the counter a dangerous looking bread-knife. He produced Binge's photo of the wound, put two and two together, added