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Controller and Auditor-General. 2/12/37.
S. A. Rockliff, photo.)
Converted “B” class locomotive with goods train near Deep Stream, Otago Central line, South Island, New Zealand.
”… And from the loud-resounding rocks below, Dash'd in a cloud of foam, it sends aloft A hoary mist, and forms a ceaseless shower.”
-Thomson.
The Huku Falls, North Island, New Zealand.
When “Romance brought up the nine-fifteen”-45 years ago—steam held undisputed sway as the ruling motive power by land and sea. To-day it is being pressed hard by petrol and electricity on these two elements, and it is not even a starter in the air.
Steam has, in fact, got nowhere in land transport except with the aid of rails, but it still helps Romance to “bring up the nine-fifteen.” Its main job, however, is to do the hard work of the railway world, leaving the lighter part and most of the entertainment to its daintier rivals or associates.
A railwayman's loyalties in these days have to be divided fairly between various sources of power and modes of travel. First there are the claims of the steam locomotive with its “few live coals in a pot,” its wisps of steam, its panting Westing-house, its hissing and puffing, its aura of power, impatience, and romance. Then there are the practically noiseless movement and easy grace of the rail car, the electric locomotive, and the electric multiple unit. He must be tolerant, too, of the road motors, for they feed his trains and carry his passengers where railways do not run, and they frequently fill in conveniently the gaps between his train connections.
To make the best arrangements for using all these resources in the ways and means of transport to the mutual benefit of all is no small problem, and certainly dwarfs the problems of railroading in the days when steam and the rail were both unchallenged.
The new romance of transport consists in its infinite variety and the intense activity in mechanical adaptations and improvements to make travel for the individual safe, quick and comfortable, and the transit of his goods reliable and fast. Already no part of the globe is truly inaccessible. Though they have not yet scaled Mt. Everest it has been flown over, and the poles themselves are no longer remote.
Transport is a maker of markets, a wealth producer, an outlet for industry and human and mechanical energy. Its further development is an aid to education, to the fullness of life and to the possibility of greater happiness.
The young man of the present day is not disturbed by the broader outlook upon transport matters that is his. He is himself the vehicle of new ideas and has developed at liking for mechanism, and an easy understanding of the powers that produce, propel and sustain the vehicles of transport. He is entering and possessing new lands of thought, where transport for all plays an intensely engrossing part, and the places and interests of the whole world are coming increasingly within his reach through the transport developments the younger generation are themselves helping to bring about. And—
In this message I desire to impress upon all members of the staff the obligation of the Department to the travelling public in assuring as far as is practicable the punctuality of all trains.
In addition to the train crew and the stationmaster or officer-in-charge of the station, the porter, the shunter, the signalman, the train examiner, and the clerk-in-charge of the ticket office can all help in keeping the train,“on time,” or to regain lost time, by the value they place on minutes. The chain of operations associated with the movement of a train, say from Auckland to Wellington, resembles a cable wherein the weakness of any link affects the efficiency of the whole chain.
If time lost on the journey by any one train through lack of adequate preparation, or any other avoidable cause, concerned that train alone, the position would be bad enough. But when such delays react unfavourably upon other trains and related services—as they do—the whole time-table may be disturbed over a very wide area and for an appreciable length of time.
The difficulties associated with the operation of important train services over a single track are fully recognised and these difficulties have become intensified in recent years through the greater, density of traffic that is being handled. This makes the saving of minutes all the more necessary, for the opportunities to recover any time that may be lost are reduced as the volume of traffic increases.
Slips, floods and mechanical failures add to the difficulties of train operation but the public appreciate that occasional delays due to these causes are inevitable, and are prepared to make generous allowance for them. But delays caused through lack of preparation or organisation, or neglect in such matters as the prompt booking of passengers, the waybilling of parcels or goods, the labelling and proper placing of luggage prior to a train's departure, are not excusable, because by an adequate appreciation of the value of time and method such delays can be avoided.
Care and judgment in the stowing of vans to facilitate the discharge and loading of parcels, luggage and general road-side goods, at points en route is also necessary.
To all railwaymen I would commend the last four lines of Kipling's “If,” for that eminently practical writer may have had them in mind when he wrote these lines:—“If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty second's worth of distance run … .”
If you can, then you are likely to be a good railwayman and a good servant of the public, as well as a good mate in the railway team trying to do its best to keep faith with the travelling public by running trains to schedule.
General Manager.
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
In come masses of figures every day to the Accountancy Branch at the Wellington Railway Station. It takes more than 13,000 square feet of floor space, a staff of 120 (including 60 women and 44 machines) to cope with that invasion. An onlooker may think of the place as a parade ground on which all manner of figures are assembled. They are inspected, drilled, formed into platoons, companies, regiments, divisions, corps. Those figures soon know why they are in the big building, and are quickly moved into the right positions to tell the true story of railway business to the owners, the general public.
Ponder for a few moments on some of the totals for the year ended 31st March: A gross revenue of more than £8,600,000; 13 million train miles; 7 1/2 million tons of goods; 22 1/2 million passengers by rail and 5 1/2 millions by road; £5 1/2 millions in salaries and wages for a staff of more than 22,000; £3 1/2 millions in purchase of stores.
The carrying of II million sheep started a train of thought. If Shakespeare's Macbeth, who murdered sleep and in the dreadful night heard a voice cry “Sleep no more,” had tried counting sheep to induce slumber, a tally of II millions, at the rate of two a second, the round of the clock, would have taken him 58 days, without stopping a moment for a drink or a bite of a pie.
Anybody who is fond of playing with figures, has plenty of scope for the pastime in the huge totals of the railways.
When the Wellington Branch of the New Zealand Society of Accountants recently arranged to begin its winter series of lecture-meetings at the Railway Station it had several pleasant surprises. The first was an attendance of about 250, the largest in the history of the branch; another was in the quality and quickness of the Refreshment Branch's service in one of the big social halls; the third was in the demonstrations of modern accounting and statistical machines.
After the Chief Accountant (Mr. W. Bishop) had given a clear exposition of the scope of operations in the Branch, he invited his hearers to ask questions when they were watching the machines. Well, they took full advantage of the invitation, and found the operators ready with the right replies. They had expected some thrills from those machines, and their remarks indicated that high expectation had been surpassed by reality.
Altogether in Wellington the Accountancy Branch has 44 machines, comprising key-punchers, sorters, tabulators, calculators, adders, book-keepers, addressographs, a multigraph and one known as a “ditto.” This name is due to its ability to give fifty or sixty good copies of one large sheet of closely-typed tables. The copies, from one striking of the ribbons, are in perfect alignment, in three colours.
No doubt a modern poet somewhere could write some smart lines about the girls who work those machines with such quick cleverness, but perhaps a better tribute could have been paid by one of the old-time bards.
“Old Bill” is, of course, the waybill of ancient lineage, dating back to the stage-coach days. The waybill is the basis of accounting for goods and parcels, becaùse it is a complete record of a consignment—its designation, weight, journey, charge, consignor and consignee. This information is transferred to a tabulated card by a machine which punches holes in the appropriate places. In an hour a skilled operator can make 350 waybills tell their stories to the cards, which are then ready for various kinds of magic in other machines. At the rate of 300 a minute the cards can be sorted for any category desired, and then the tabulators will carry on the good work at the rate of 100 cards a minute. One sees wonderful deals of cards.
A Start from Guards’ Dockets.
Apart from the big machine-room,
Yes, a train-guard has to do much more than punch tickets, blow a whistle and wave a hand. A small boy's ambition to be a guard, to enjoy all-day rides in trains all the year round would vanish with a vision of the figuring on those dockets.
There is no figuring merely for figuring's sake in the Railways Accountancy Branch. “Our endeavour is to produce live figures and not merely historical records,” remarked Mr. Bishop. Indeed, after a tour of the rooms, one feels that the figures have to earn their living. It is mentioned officially that the statistical returns now prepared by the Department are in conformity with the modern developments in operating statistics on British, European, American and Australian systems. In designing the statements special attention has been given to the practical needs of the New Zealand system. The various operations and data relating to the cost of train-working are segregated in such a manner that the information available will provide useful tests of efficiency and accurate records of working results. Executive and administrative officers are supplied with up-to-date figures, summarised for each district and section, dealing with every phase of the work under their control.
A feature of all the railway accounts and cost statements is that the figures are always shown for the four-weekly period and the year to date, with comparisons for the corresponding periods of the previous year. This practice ensures that a comprehensive view of the movements of the various items of revenue and expenditure is obtainable at a glance.
“Look before you leap” is a proverb which is never out of mind in the Accountancy Branch. There is no issue of “guessers’ licenses.” The budget system, which is advocated by leading accountants in England, is in operation at the Railways Head Office. Budgets are prepared by District Officers four-weekly for their anticipated expenditure for the ensuing four weeks. These budgets are submitted to the respective heads of Branches for perusal and revision, if necessary. A Committee consisting of the heads of the operating Branches and the Chief Accountant then meets and the various estimates of increases and decreases are discussed. If the Committee is satisfied that the budget is reasonable, it is passed for submission to the General Manager for approval. The great benefit of the budget is that District Officers and heads of Branches are kept constantly in touch with the many items of expenditure and are in a position to reduce any proposed expenditure which is not considered essential. The actual results are also reviewed by the Budget Committee.
Probably the Railways Department has a more extensive system of cost-accounting than any other enterprise in New Zealand. The consumption and cost of materials, train-running, labour and all else are always under accurate observation and “form-at-a-glance” tabulation.
To ensure an equitable spread of overhead charges to the various jobs in the workshops, each shop is divided into departments, and the overhead charges for each one are separately computed. These charges are loaded on to jobs on a productive man-hour basis. It is actually a daily costing system, as the entries to jobs for wages and material are made daily and up-to-date information of progress of any work is always readily available. The foremen in charge of the various jobs are furnished with daily and weekly statements showing the man-hours debited against each job and account. This enables each foreman to keep closely in touch with his job, and also links up the costing and budget systems. One imagines that the motto of a job is “watch me grow.”
Whenever I see a guard punching a ticket my mind will turn for a moment to the ticket-sorting section of the Accountancy Branch. Tickets from all lines of the North Island come into that room, but they are not fed into machines. They go into the hands of girls who show a skill which any professional. pitch-and-tosser might, envy. Each girl faces rows of boxes, each about six inches by six inches, bearing the names of stations. Flick! A ticket flies into a box as smartly and as surely as if it had been fixed to it with a strand of rubber, stretched out and released by the girl. Well, one feels rather ashamed to confess it, but one was more astonished by this nimble cleverness of fingers than by the magic of machines. I was invited to fossick in a box for a ticket that might have gone astray, but the search failed. It reminded me of a cry which I used to hear as a boy at A. & P. Shows, “every time a coconut.” Well, well, I can declare solemnly and truly that I have never been as clever in any of my tasks as those girls were in theirs.
This sorting makes the final check on tickets for auditing.
When Mr. Bishop was speaking to the visiting accountants he praised the skill of Mr. F. B. Freed, officer in charge of the machines, who—he declared—would not allow a machine to wear out. The modern workshop gives new life to many things, ranging from stop-watches to slot-machines, as well as the accounting machines. Mr. Freed is more than an ingenious repairer; he is a successful inventor. One of his products is the dating press used at railway stations and elsewhere.
At present, when the “hospital” duties allow him time to think about other things, he turns to another innovation, a machine which will give correct change, but will conserve the small coins, as far as practicable. Existing types of money-changers, such as those in the Telegraph Offices, lack that conservative touch.
Work on the plans of the new Railway Station at Christ church has reached an advanced stage,” states the Minister of Railways, Hon. D. G. Sullivan, in a recent announcement through the Press. “When the building is completed,” said Mr. Sullivan, “it will produce an imposing and convenient solution of the problem and should fulfil its purpose for many years to come.
“The site of the building is north of the present site; two-thirds of the building being nearer the Lyttelton side, and the remaining third occupies the site of the existing building. The total frontage is 564 feet, the maximum depth being 104 feet.
” The building will be of steel frame, with reinforced concrete floors and roof, and the external walls will be of brickwork with a bluestone base and plaster dressings. The entrance features will also be faced with blue-stone. Covering the entrances and the pavement in front of the centre mass of the building, there will be a cantilevered verandah 220 feet long and 18 feet wide, the footpath being set back under this verandah to give cover for motor cars arriving or departing from the station.
“The building will be three storeys in the centre, with two storey wings finishing at the ends with a one storey portion. The building is designed in the modern manner with large windows to all the offices where maximum natural light will be obtained. A monumental effect is given to the central feature by setting back the windows and obtaining deep piers between the windows, thus giving the effect of a row of columns. Buttressing up the central feature is a large clock tower, 104 feet high, which should look very effective. The water tanks are placed in this tower.
“There will be two main entrances each having six glazed bronze doors communicating directly by broad lobbies 28 feet wide with the concourse which has an area of over 10,000 sq. ft. Opening from both of these entrance lobbies will be the booking and waiting hall, nearly 5,000 sq. ft. in area, with a ceiling height of 30 feet. Both the entrance lobbies and the booking hall will have their walls faced in marble for a height of about 13 feet, and all metal work will be bronze. Round the booking hall will be grouped the ticket boxes, reservation office, ladies’ waiting room, large enquiry office and shop. The ladies’ waiting room, which has a lobby opening on to the concourse, is over 800 sq. ft. in area. Also opening off the lobby are the ladies’ lavatories and bath rooms. Both the enquiry office and the shop also open on to the concourse. The enquiry office is made large enough to provide for tables where passengers may attend to their correspondence while waiting for their trains. Telephone boxes, local and long distance, are also provided in this room. At various points of the building used by the public several more telephone boxes are provided.
“The south main entrance lobby gives access to the restaurant and the refreshment room and also has a door into the shop. Placed convenient to the restaurant and refreshment room is the free luggage room. The restaurant, which has an area of 2,050 sq. ft., will seat 140 people in comfort and more in an emergency. The refreshment room has a counter 45 feet long, as well as ample space for tables. It covers 1,200 sq. ft. The kitchen will have all the latest equipment, and it will be able to handle comfortably the biggest Christchurch crowds using the station. Together
“The balance of the southern wing is taken up with accommodation for the coaching foreman, porters and guards. An ambulance room is also provided in this end.
“Opening conveniently on to the north main entrance lobby is the checked luggage counter. The luggage and parcels space fills the whole north wing of the building, over 10,000 sq. ft. with counters for handling luggage and parcels totalling 140 ft. There are six loading docks.
“Owing to the nature of the site, in that trains arrive at both ends of the station and the luggage department is at one end, all the luggage from the southern end is to be taken from or to the platforms under the building in a tunnel, so that the trucks will not interfere with the people congregated on the concourse during the arrival and departure of the trains. Lifts will be provided at each end of the tunnel to handle several luggage trucks at one time.
“Storage rooms for old records, the heating chamber, ventilation chamber and luggage staff lavatories are in the basement under the northern end.
“At the southern end is a large bicycle store approached from the outside and connected up to the interior of the building by stairs. Under the centre portion of the building and approached from the concourse are the men's lavatories. All the public lavatories are to be air conditioned.
“The first and second floors accommodate the district railway offices and they are approached by separate entrances adjacent to the main entrances, thus avoiding any confusion to the travelling public. Electric, passenger lifts are provided to each office entrance.
“The building is to be heated by hot water radiators. The public rooms are to be ventilated by mechanical means, the machinery for which will be placed in the basement.
“I am pleased to be able to announce that the design also provides for a children's nursery on the roof, in the centre of the building, similar to that at Wellington Station, where the facilities provided have proved so immensely popular with mothers.”
The plans are prepared by Messrs. Gray Young, Morton and Young, registered architects of Wellington, and the erection of the building is to be supervised by Mr. W. H. Tren-grove, architect of Christchurch.
Clouds over the Tasman Glacier, South Island, New Zealand.
“As part of the rearrangement of Christchurch Station yard,” said Mr. Sullivan, “the present ‘B’ goods shed at Christchurch will be demolished to make room for sidings, and in its stead a new goods shed will be erected at the corner of Mowbray Street and Waltham Road.
“The plans and specifications,” said the Minister, “are nearing completion, and in a few weeks’ time tenders will be called for the construction of the new goods shed by contract.
“The structure will be built of steel and concrete, and will be 402 feet long and 130 feet wide, with cantilever verandahs 12 feet wide for the full length on each side. Electric overhead cranes, four of two tons’ capacity and two of three tons, will be provided for the expeditious handling of goods.
“Up-to-date offices and comfortable accommodation for the staff will be other features.
“This modern goods shed will enable goods to be handled with, the greatest economy and despatch, and will, I am sure,” concluded the Minister, “prove of very great benefit to the farming and business community of Canterbury.”
The great Edmund Burke of whom a cynic raid that “his words were always golden but his logic often brummagem,” uttered a great truth by accident in one of his tremendous onslaughts on the French Revolution. He said this: “The Age of Chivalry is gone. That of sophists, economists, and calculators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever.” It was profoundly untrue that the glory of Europe was over, but it was exactly correct to say that the age of economists and calculators had arrived.
The distinction between modern civilisation and the great cultures of the misty past, is that we have learned to use figures. A railway engine might possibly have emerged in Athens or Babylon, but a railway time-table could neither have been planned nor understood by the most scientific mind in Greece or Assyria. In other words, we have lately learned to calculate. This advance is recent, and the use of calculation is daily taking fresh form. The ordinary person has no trouble in finding the answer to questions which baffled the best mathematical minds of ancient times, and the time will come when Einstein will be easily understood by boys and girls of the middle standards. New Zealand has just produced a brilliant example of the fusion of mathematical and literary statement in a survey of social research, and this article will try to trace a little of the history of the science on which, in Julian Huxley's words, “depends the progress of any democratic society.”
The modern science of mathematics has arisen from the needs of everyday life, and has grown up day by day with the everyday life of the world. Intelligent social planning will have to use mathematics more and more, and the study of mathematics will have to be pursued with more and more ardour. In the words of one of the greatest of all English writers, the aid of mathematics is needed “by every intelligent youth from fifty to ninety who is trying to get the hang of things in the universe.”
First of all let me try to explain the definition of mathematics, cleverly devised and reduced to simple terms by the great Professor Hogben. He says that mathematics is the language of size as distinct from the language which describes the sorts of things. The rules of mathematics form its grammar.
The first men had a form of talking; they had to convey their ideas to each other by sounds, and the ideas mostly dealt with the description of things, or emotions.
“The language in which people describe the different sorts of things there are in the world is vastly more primitive and more conservative than the size languages which have been multiplied to cope with the increasing precision of man's control over nature.” Moreover, it is abundantly clear that the language of mathematics has other notable qualities; it is international; it is rationally planned; it has no place for sentiment or national prejudices; it has no social distinctions, and no inheritance of emotion.
It is not an overstatement, then, to predict that it is in the study of mathematics, and the diffusion of the knowledge of pure mathematics, that will lie the solution of the world's countless troubles.
Reproduced from “Mathematics for the Million,” by L. Hogben.) Ancient Number Scripts.
We have a reasonably accurate knowledge of the methods of counting used by several of the older cultures, and the story of how and why men first learned to count, is as fascinating as a good thriller.
Some one said in reply to a scoffing critic who claimed that science did not give a true picture of the world, that “Science is not a picture of anything. It is an ordnance map to direct our efforts in changing the world.”
Obviously, the ordnance map is of no possible use without understanding the figures on it.
The tale of man's first effort to count is an exciting one, but stranger still is the romance which surrounds his first efforts to record the results of his counting.
You will see in our illustration samples of four of the ancient scripts, used in civilisations that had reached lofty-heights of culture. They are easy to understand. After them came the Roman system and the Etruscan variation. This idea involved the use of different letters as symbols. “V” stood for five. “L” for fifty, and so on. This, as you will see, was derived from the number of fingers on one hand. Six is represented by “VI” which is five followed by one. With the use of “X” for ten, “C” for one hundred, “D” for five hundred, and so on, a script for numbers, or rather a writing method for figures had arrived, and was a fairly useful medium.
It is certain that counting commenced when men started to collect flocks and herds. Its next development was caused by the need to estimate days and seasons, and then, of course, came all the necessities arising out of the trading with goods.
Now there is a fatal defect in all these ancient methods of putting calculations on record. None of them allow of such a statement as 1/1000 or 9.998. Imagine the simplest time-table to Palmerston North expressed in any of the scripts shown in our picture!
The ancient Greeks, with all their superb culture and extraordinary powers of thought, had the whole of their scientific investigations limited by this fact; they had no workable method of division; they had the abacus, the bead frame for doing additions and simple multiplication, but it also refused to go beyond a limit of numbers. Division has insuperable difficulties. All the mental processes of man are limited, naturally, by his social background, and more, by the mechanical aids to calculation which are available to him. One authority says that this difficulty was “the Nemesis of Greek culture.”
It led to the most ludicrous misapprehensions. Having no apparatus or any device to express such a number as 1,000,000,000, Greek thinking stopped at numbers which seem ridiculous to us today. Anaxagoras was thought guilty of blasphemy when he asserted that the sun was probably as large as the mainland of Greece.
The sides of the counting frame, or abacus, actually formed a prison for the shining minds of that great land of thinkers.
Relief was to come from a strange quarter. The Hindus starting far behind the Greeks in cultural standards, had evolved a series of symbols for numbers which could be used without mechanical aids. The most amazing and effectual discovery of all was the symbol “o.” With a method of representing all the numbers up to nine, and a separate symbol for “o,” or zero, all modern arithmetic became possible.
Laplace, the great astronomer, says of this revolution that “it was a profound and important idea which appears to us so simple that we ignore its true merit …. we shall appreciate the true grandeur of this achievement when we remember it escaped the genius of Archimedes and Apollonius, two of the greatest men produced by antiquity.
When the Mohammedan civilisation swept through Africa and established itself in Spain, this script went with it, took charge of Europe, and modern civilisation, modern science and all the works of man's mind, became possible.
Perhaps the most important effect of all this was to clear away the mystical nonsense about numbers. Pythagoras and a number of successors right on into the Middle Ages erected an imposing priesthood of numbers. Numbers were invested with all sorts of magical significance and even were given sex and profound qualities of good and evil.
Even Plato regarded the study of mathematics as the privilege of the learned few. Now it is the common mental stock of mankind. In other words mathematics has been put to work. Even the Alexandrians realised this; they listened and thrilled under the highbrow erudition of the high priests of Mathematics but they used geometry to build their temples and warehouses. To-day we are on the same road, with an infinitely wider vision.
Cobbett, the great reformer, answering a query as to whether the labour of learning grammar was worth while, pointed out that without the knowledge of the grammar of a language, no effort towards the gain of human freedom could ever be placed on record. Without the grammar of mathematics, further progress towards human liberty and happiness is impossible.
Without further labouring of the subject, it is to be said that the analogy between the grammar of a language and the grammar of mathematics is almost exact.
Modern developments in such branches as algebra, trigonometry, the calculus and other branches of higher mathematics, have given the science, adverbs, verbs, adjectives and propositions for the expression of every finest shade of meaning.
The final glory of the language of numbers is still to be stressed; it is completely international. (a-b) (a+b)=(a2 - b2) is intelligible to Russian or Chilian, the French or the Italian schoolboy.
The language of mathematics represents an emancipating force, freeing intellects and setting free influences which pass over national barriers.
From the study of its eternal truths, from the appreciation of its beneficence of discovery, its inescapable exactness of conclusion, will come the ultimate realisation of happiness for all mankind.
Reproduced from “Littledene.”)
Graph showing animals per 100 acres, according to size of farm.
This being so, I am proud to be able to instance a recent New Zealand book which is a notable example of the use of modern statistical research methods. “Littledene” is the study of a small New Zealand community. It combines a personal and human knowledge of the people with an exact set of figure calculations relating to production, social activities, and the general economic pattern of the whole entity. This is the combined method described with so much zest in Bell's great book, “The Search for Truth.”
The author, Mr. H. C. D. Somerset, is a schoolmaster with an equipment of profound scholarship and the ability to write in a way which is denied to most authors of such books as “Littledene.” He lived in the district, worked there and entered fully into the life. His observations are made from inside the sitting room, not peeping in the window of the kitchen, armed with a notebook. Listen to this account of the Jubilee Procession: “It was decided to hold a procession in which every organisation could take part. Most people found that they were eligible to take part on half a dozen counts. There was much preparation by all concerned. When the day arrived the procession was half a mile long; everybody was in it. First came the brass band, playing a march; behind the band the various lodges in full regalia. Then a float, representing Britannia and her colonies. There followed the displays of the Farmers’ Union, the various sports clubs, the Women's Christian Union and so on, and so on. The Salvation Army brought up the rear with its blood and fire banner. But few loyal Littledenians saw the procession; everyone participated so fully that the writer of this survey and a few latecomers were the only ones privileged to see it pass by.”
Those of us who know our New Zealand, will recognise and appreciate that picture at once.
But the marvel of the book is this: on page 8 there is a graph showing “Animals per average 100 acres, according to Size of Farm.” This is at once understood by any reader, but it would have been completely beyond the grasp of the great Democritus; it could not have been shown, either, under any system of Greek writing.
On page 81, there is a table showing the percentages of occupations adopted by the ex-pupils of the school. This is perfectly clear to anyone who has passed the fifth standard. Plato, however, would not have been successful, nor had the Greeks of his time any method of picturing such a calculation.
As one reads this fascinating survey, “Littledene,” it becomes increasingly clear that mathematics is the base of it. The truth shines clear through its pages because the language of figures which help in its expression, lets in the light.
The farmer at Littledene is measuring his field for ploughing and sowing, perusing his stock company accounts, and reading his daily paper, with a background of mathematical knowledge denied to the most profound thinker of the days of Imperial Rome. His wife uses feats of memory and skill to do her feats of cooking but her recipes are based on exact mathematical calculation, and the watch or clock that she uses for timing would represent an amazing and unintelligible piece of mechanical wizardry to Archimedes.
By the way, I must digress to quote from the book on the subject of cooking.
“It is impossible to take one sunset, some skill, and abundant leisure to make a picture. The farm wife takes a pint of cream, six eggs, and the spur of the moment while the meat and potatoes are cooking, and lo! a cream sponge-cake six inches high, with two inches of whipped cream in its depths. The cookery section of the Littledene Agricultural and Pastoral Show is like a confectioner's heaven. And experts agree that the cookery book produced by the Women's Division of the New Zealand Farmers’ Union would do credit to a Paris chef.
It is as well to remind ourselves that in the leisurely days of the ancient civilisations, there was not a device for counting time which measured smaller units than the time needed to cook some object. Hours were known, but not seconds.
It is the harnessing of mathematics to human needs, its removal from the sphere of lofty and mystic realms of thought, that makes human progress possible.
“The sellers of cars, radios, electric light and telephones can revolutionise the work and play of a community in a way that the philosopher with his reasoning can never hope to rival.”
But all those instruments of human enlightenment and recreation were only possible of creation through the evolution of mathematics.
But there is something more important than the mere bringing of these instruments of human culture within the reach of mankind in general.
It is at once obvious that the statement that 7 plus 5 is a truth which is different in essence from countless other assertions which claim to be final truths. It is in this pure quality of mathematical truth that its helpfulness finally resides. An English scientist has pointed out that no word is so loosely used as the word “law,” particularly in such phrases as “laws of Nature,” “laws of economics,” and so on. One use of “law” is to describe “observed regularities in nature.” In other words things which have happened millions of times at regular intervals may be predicted to go on happening. When the word is lifted and applied to developments of human society and human motives, it is a definite misuse. It wrecks in the opinion of many the value of much of the writing by economists. Professor Hogben says that, if the word “law” in this connection, must be retained we had better call them “Bye-laws,” implying our right to repeal them.
This confusion is impossible in the realm of pure mathematics. The fact that the language of mathematics is a planned and rationalised language, means that each term has its permanent and distinct significance. It is safe to predict therefore that to the mathematicians can be entrusted the task of where we are heading and of finding us the direction chart to show where we ought to go.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Shipments of fruit ex Auckland on arrival by special train at Wellington, New Zealand.
But there is a step to be taken. In the words of Bertrand Russell, “we must remove mathematics from the remote regions of apparent uselessness.” In other words we have each and all of us to learn the Arithmetic of Social Progress. We have to realise that learning about science or the art of living means mainly learning more about mathematics. Put shortly, mathematics has to be democratised. Out of that diffusion will spring the men of genius who will collate and put in order the thought of the community. Robert Burns would not have produced his magic poetry unless he lived in a community of poets, of people who worshipped and practised the art of verse making. The work of Isaac Newton, Lord Rutherford, Madame Curie and Einstein was possible because they dwelt in a world emancipated from the intellectual prisons of the earlier centuries. It is not absurd to suppose that as the centuries go by, the mathematicians and scientists of the future will bear the same relation to Lord Rutherford and Einstein as those two giants of achievement bear to Pythagoras or Archimedes.
As Cobbett said, Prynne would not have been able to impeach Archbishop Laud if his command of grammar had not been sufficient to make himself understood. When the common men of the world have universally a command of the grammar of mathematics, there will arise from them greater men still, more profound thinkers, who will conduct the impeachment of the evils that infest our world.
It is a vision of comfort and of glory.
In
the days when Judge Tomahawk made and administered the common law in New Zealand there was a small square-rigger by the name of the Bee trading out of Sydney to these cannibal islands. She was a brig of 135 tons. That is just a little larger than the scow Echo, last of the coastwise craft to use sail in and out of Wellington Harbour; she still rejoices the hearts of ship-lovers by working the port under canvas. The Bee voyaged to and from across the Tasman Sea for more than twenty years, an unusually long life for a ship in those restless times, when Maori cutting-off enterprise and the peril of all but uncharted and quite unlighted coasts made shipowning a precarious business. Under one owner and another, and a succession of hard-case skippers, this busy trafficker roved about New Zealand and its off-shore islands wherever there was a cargo of flax to be picked up from the Maoris in exchange for muskets and gunpower, or a load of oil and bone from the shore-whalers, or a lot of skins from the seal-hunting gangs. In her spare time she went whaling, like many other South Sea traders of that day. An old-time whaler at Kaikoura, big Tom Jackson, who had been in the whale-chasing business for sixty years, told me that his father, Captain James Jackson, landed from the Bee, which he commanded at that time, at Te Awaiti, just inside Tory Channel, in the early Eighteen-twenties and founded a shore station there. They are still whaling there; the station has been in continuous existence, New Zealand's oldest industry, for about 115 years.
In April, 1845, the brig was a British transport for a run which must be about the shortest trooping voyage on record. There was an alarm of Maori raids in the Hutt Valley, and Major Richmond, commanding the troops in Wellington, ordered out a detachment of fifty men of the 58th Regiment to garrison the newly-built stockade, called Fort Richmond, at the Lower Hutt. The Bee happened to be lying off Wellington town, ready for sea. She was commandeered for urgent service. The soldiers were sent on board and she made sail for Petone beach, six miles away, and landed the heavily equipped Tommies there, to march the remaining mile to the stockade. It saved the 58th warriors a weary trudge along the rocky beach road from Wellington. The trouble had been begun by the military authorities who evicted the Maoris of the Makahi-nuku village, and destroyed the cultivations and burned down the pa. In natural retaliation the natives raided the settlers and looted their homes.
There was a certain cruise of the Bee that had no official approval. It is a story of her unregenerate days and of an owner who appears to have had all the makings of a first-rate pirate.
In the year 1833 a Hobart Town man named William Cuthbert was owner of the little brig. He is said to have been a time-expired convict, and he was commonly known as “Lincoln Bill.” How he obtained sufficient money to buy the Bee is not in the records, but at any rate he acquired possession of her, and off he sailed to the land of the Maori to trade for flax and pigs, oil and general produce which at that time of day included smoke-dried tattooed heads (trade term, “baked heads”). He seemed to have made a name for himself as a hard customer, the toughest of the tough. Back in Hobart Town again, he sailed so close to the wind in the matter of certain commercial transactions that he was arrested. The charges concerned goods that he was accused of stealing, and debts evaded, and he was lodged in gaol. It looked as if Bill was about due for another spell in the chain-gang.
The brig, which was lying in Adventure Bay, had been seized by the authorities for debts owing by Cuthbert—sails and stores—but presently was cleared at the Customs for Sydney by Captain William Stewart, whom Cuthbert had engaged in New Zealand as navigating master. This was done on order from Cuthbert just before his arrest.
“You get to sea, and wait for me off Maria Island,” said the owner when he went on shore. “I'll get an extra boat Business in town.” That business as it developed, ended in an engagement at the lock-up, but Mr. Cuthbert was a very clever man.
Captain Stewart made sail out of port. He was lying-to off the island rendezvous four days later (September 2, 1833) when a boat under sail was sighted approaching before a fine fair breeze.
“Owner's in her, sir,” said the mate, Mr. Clementson, after a long look through his spyglass. “Four men with him.”
“Extra hands, or passengers maybe,” said the master.
The boat was soon alongside, and when the men were out of her she was hoisted up and stowed inboard.
“Here's a gentleman from Hobart Town who is taking a cruise with us for the good of his health,” said Cuthbert, with a jerk of his thumb at one of his companions.
Captain Stewart was puzzled to see that the gentleman who was bound on a health trip was clothed in the uniform of a Hobart Town policeman. The gentleman, moreover, looked very hot and angry.
“If you're the master of this ship,” the bluecoated stranger said in a high excited voice, “I'll have you know this is an outrage; it's piracy! I'm an officer of the law, and this man is in my custody! I'm responsible for him, and I must demand that you take the ship back into Hobart Town and set me on shore with my prisoner. What's more, he's brought three convicts with him.”
Lincoln Bill laughed loud and long and slapped his leg. “D'ye hear that, Mister Stewart?” he said. “What d'ye think of that for a joke? He says I'm in his custody! Does it look like it, Mister?”
The brig was under all sail now, slipping along to the eastward. Stewart and his mate had a look at the three strange hands who had come on board with the owner and a man of the law. They had got rid of some parts of
Owner Bill laughed again. “These gentlemen,” he said, “are my friend's official staff. They're his ay-de-congs, as you might say. You might find some gentle exercise for them for'ard in the meantime.”
Perhaps had Captain Stewart been a strong character he would have put the brig about and steered for Hobart Town. But it is extremely doubtful whether his orders would have been obeyed. Half the crew were ex-convicts, and there were the three escapees to side with their deliverer from the chain-gang and the lash. So Stewart followed the path of least resistance, and when Lincoln Bill asked him to set his course for Cook Strait, New Zealand, instead of for Sydney, he fell in with his owner's wishes, privately reserving right of action till later on.
This Captain Stewart was a mariner of some celebrity in the New Zealand trade. Stewart Island was named after him. In 1809 he was first mate of the sealing ship Pegasus, which sailed around the island and so first established its insularity, and he mapped the coast for the commander, Captain Chace. In 1826, he was master of the schooner Prince of Denmark, trading for flax and sealskins. He must not be confused with the notorious Captain Stewart, of the brig Elizabeth, old Ruaparaba's transport from Kapiti Island on an expedition of treachery and slaughter and cannibalism to Banks Peninsula in 1831, an affair almost as shocking as the horrors of modern civilised warfare. But there was a link between the Bee and the ship of illrepute, for the mate, Clementson, had been mate of the Elizabeth on that cruise.
The Bee sailed through Cook Strait before the fresh westerly, and put in at Port Underwood, a snug haven for the traders and whalers, on the southern coast. Then she sailed up along the East Coast of the North Island and presently looked in at Tauranga Harbour. By this time Lincoln Bill had quarrelled with the mate Clementson, and he determined to get rid of him. “I think we have seen enough of each other, Mister,” he said. He put a pistol to the mate's head and ordered him on shore. So there we leave Mr. Clementson, dumped on the beach of the Dangerous Land, with barely more than the clothes he wore. From a Ms. narrative left by Hans Tapsell of Maketu, I am able to fill in his few years of life in Maori Land. Tapsell engaged him to trade at Matamata with a stock of goods buying flax to be shipped from Tauranga to Sydney. He and another adventurer were drowned down the coast trying to cross over the bar at Matata in a whaleboat.
“Lay your course for the Society Islands, Mr. Stewart,” was Cuthbert's next request, when the anchor was got up and the brig steered out into the Bay of Plenty. “We'll have a look at the Kanaka girls, and then we'll see if the Bee can't make a little honey along the Spanish Main.”
It was a bacchanalian little Bee from now on. Lincoln Bill made merry with his convict friends. He sent bottles of grog forward, and got out his fiddle and played while the barefooted scoundrels danced on the deck. The round and jolly moon came up, like a great golden melon. The silhouetted black brig, with its capering crew, looked a thorough pirate ship.
“At it you go, you rascals!” Bill shouted as he sat at the break of the poop and sawed away at jiggetty tunes for the slapping soles. “Heel and toe! All we want now's a few black-eyed Susans, but we'll pick ‘em up in Papeete all right.”
Drinking and fiddling, with now and again a fight among the forecastle hands, the Bee buzzed on through the tropics, the south-east Trade making a steady leading wind for her.
The East Pacific island of Rurutu came in sight on the starboard bow early one morning in October. The brig hove-to off the little mountain-isle, and lowered a boat at the entrance to the lagoon. Now Mr. Cuthbert gave two of his erstwhile boon companions a surprise. These runaway convicts he ordered into the boat. “Get your dunnage and off with you,” he said. “I want no lags in this ship.” He landed them on the beach, blithely told them to go to hell, bought some fruit from the islanders, and got under way again. How the marooned pair fared I do not know, but their lot in Rurutu would conceivably not be hard. A stray white man in Rurutu would at any rate not be cooked and eaten; it was an isle of pleasant hospitable Polynesians.
A few days later the Bee anchored in Papeete Harbour, Tahiti. There, after a lively week, the owner got rid of the stolen constable and the remaining convict member of the “staff.” He kept them on board until he had sufficiently refreshed himself and his crew, then just before the anchor was lifted he sent them on board the American whaling ship Erie, which was lying in the lagoon. It was a mutually convenient arrangement between him and the Erie's captain. The whaleship wanted men to replace some runaways before she resumed the cruise. Half an hour later the brig was slipping through the reef entrance.
“Where away now,’ Mr. Cuthbert,” asked the sailing master.
“Oh, I think we'll try the Sandwich Islands,” said the owner. “I still have my trade to sell. There's more chance there than on the American coast.”
So up into the North Pacific buzzed the Bee, steering for Hawaii. Three weeks later she was in Honolulu Harbour; it was more widely known then
Captain Stewart now saw his way to get clear of Lincoln Bill before he became more deeply involved in the owner's doubtful cruisings. He wrote to the British Consul stating the facts. The Consul arrested the brig, but Bill got away in a schooner for the American coast, he slipped off at daybreak just in time to avoid capture and the calaboose.
And here Mr. Cuthbert, the potential pirate, disappears from our ken. There was a report on the New Zealand coast a year or two later—it reached Tauranga and Tapsell's station at Maketu—that he had been hanged in Peru. But it was never confirmed.
The Bee was sent back to Sydney by the Consul under the command of the much relieved Captain Stewart. There she was sold for the benefit of Cuthbert's creditors, so that they got something of their own back after all. Captain Stewart was back in the New Zealand trade again before long—but not in the Bee.
As for the abducted constable, it may be that he reached his beloved Hobart Town safely after all his troubles, richer in experience at any rate, with a taste of blubber-hunting in a hard Yankee ship to remember for the rest of his life. I do not know whether he ever saw the coast of Tasmania again; but if he did it is extremely unlikely that he received promotion for his exploit in getting run off with by Lincoln Bill of the Bee brig. It is even possible his superiors summarily put him into the hard-labour gang. A constable's life was not far removed from a prisoner's in the bad old days of Convict Land.
Have you ever, when “hiking”—“on your lonesome”—found yourself in some spot remote from shops or pubs, with not a soul in sight (or likely to be) and suddenly had a hankering for a smoke—only to discover you have but one match left? With what care you strike that last match and shield the flame with your cupped hands! With what relief you get your pipe aligh—perhaps? By the way, the best tobacco you can have when hiking is “toasted”—the genuine article—because it burns away to the last shred and you can smoke for hours without getting a sore tongue or irritated throat. It is, moreover, of delicious flavour and rare bouquet, and being practically without nicotine (eliminated by toasting) it is safe smoking. No wonder the five (and only genuine) toasted brands, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead) Cavendish, Navy Cut No.3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and desert Gold appeal so irresistibly to the smoker, whether he is hiking or “lazing,” afoot or astride, afloat or ashore, at home or abroad.*
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
The illustrations (1) to (5) depict scenes on the occasion of the trial run, on 1st May, 1938, of the first of the electric multiple-unit which the Railways Department will operate in the Wellington-Johnsonville suburban service in the near furture. (6) Automatic sliding door engine. (7) Automatic Trip Valve and arm in connection with signal automatic train stops. (8) Interior view of motor coach class “Dm.” (9) Under-car mounted control equipment. (10) Under-car mounted apparatus. (11) Driving compartment. (12) Flexible control and air brake connections between cars. (13) view of the control panel.
My Uncle August used to say, “Work, if thou be God's curse, what can His blessing be?” but apart from this there has never been any actual insanity in our family. For this reason, I suppose, I have never been able to have splendid dreams about the unattainable.
At least, not since the age of five, when I wanted to be the circus lady who did the trapeze work.
But looking back on the boy who had the same name as myself, I can hear now quite plainly the voices of older people saying to him: “Don't dream,” and “Wake up, dreamy,” and “God bless my soul, the boy's always dreaming.”
That, thank goodness, seems a very long time ago.
There are people who are always dinning into one's ears that one's childhood days were the best in one's life. They are frightful liars. It is no fun for any boy to have people roaring in his ears all day, “Wake up, dreamy,” and “Don't dream,” or to hear them say in an impersonal way as if you weren't in the room, “God bless my soul, he's always dreaming.”
This, to my mind, is the chief advantage of becoming an adult. Then you can do the roaring. But you lose something too. It's like the whole scheme of existence, planned with a kind of superb low cunning to ensure that what you make up on the swings, you lose on the roundabouts. For when you grow up, you can do the roaring but you can't do the dreaming.
At least, not nearly so well.
When I sat down to this article, I set out to find my dream place. I found I had one. It was Fiji, but I had been there.
It is a bit perturbing to find a dream come true. It leaves a little less to live for. No doubt the happiest one is he who is still single-mindedly chasing his dream until the moment he dies.
For years my dream place eluded me, and though often I ate my heart out in disappointment, I had all the thrill of the chase. It was only a matter of time, I knew, until I got close enough for the kill.
And then, one winter day, I sailed proudly third class, being hard up, from Auckland. The big mail steamer cut swiftly through the waters away from rain and cold into the endless sunshine. There was the blue of sea and sky and a breeze played on our cheeks. Inwardly I had strange romantic stirrings. I was going to the place of sunshine and laughter and flowers.
After five days, we landed at Suva. But it was not, I soon found, my dream place. For Suva is a town rather like an army composed of colonels.
There is little hemp-spun humanity amongst the European people there: it is all superfine cloth. The baths custodian was a retired hotel proprietor; the man who went round with the town rubbish lorry looked like an ex-army officer; the caretaker of the sports-ground spoke with all the refinement of a prince of the blood.
The police were exquisitely bred young men, but if you called a police officer “Constable,” you would probably have been arrested.
For Suva, it soon appeared, is the Home for Lost Dogs with Pedigrees, and the white man is very much the Lord of Creation.
Besides, it was damp. Lord, how it was damp!
So I went in a filthy packet boat called “Andi Thakabau” to the other side of the island. Being the only white passenger on board, I travelled saloon with the aristocracy—a Chinese, a babu Indian, and two half-caste Fijians.
Up on deck there were Indian coolies and traders, Fiji boys and women, half-castes, bearded Sikhs and Punjabis. At night the Indians took off their turbans and combed their long flossy black hair, twisted it into a pigtail with twine, and tied it in a neat knot on the crown of the head.
In the evening they unrolled mats and slept on the deck or sang wailing Indian songs or chanted Fijian tunes to the
The sky was clear and dry with a heat altogether different from the moist cotton-wool of Suva. All afternoon we wound in and out of coral reefs.
On the skyline, where the blue of sea and sky met and lost each other, small coral islands seemed to float between heaven and earth. All the time the garrulous Indians yapped.
We puffed malodorously through heavenly waters, past gleaming yellow backs of coral islands just pushed up from the sea, past coral islands overgrown with palms, and past beaches that were really golden.
Two days later I caught a sugar train, stepped off at a lonely small bay and climbed up to the Sahib's white bungalow—the only European habitation for fourteen miles around—on the hill.
From the verandah you looked straight down the steep hillside on to the light blue water of the bay. Tail coconut palms fringed the shore and fifty yards out was a small coral island.
In a wide semi-circle, the creamy reef was thrown around the mouth of the bay, and all day and all night the waves roared as they smashed themselves on it into foam. For a space inside the reef the water was lilac, but outside it was darkest blue.
In the garden, bright red and pink hibiscus flowers and brackets of golden flowers that they call God's candles, just stirred in the breeze.
They were long, lazy days at the bay, objectless days with no thought of the future. You lorded it there. You sat in a long canvas chair and called for the Indian servants—for Siroot the Strangler, Gug-Raj the Rogue and Ramchiren the Fool. They came at your bidding like the slaves in the Arabian Nights.
“I milk fifteen cows,” the Sahib used to tell me proudly. It was false; he never milked one. The cows were milked by Gug-Raj the Rogue and Ramchiren the Fool.
“I am going to dig up some of my potatoes,” the Sahib used to say, and he would go into the garden and watch Siroot the Strangler use the spade.
He called it work, watching the boys do these things, but I don't think my Uncle August would have thought so.
Evening would come. You sat on the beach to watch the sun go down. It left the western sky the colour of rose, and covered the surface of the bay with gold leaf.
Two Fijian boys, fishing on a catamaran, bent motionless over their lines. Away on the left, the gray breakers rolled on with the roar of a timeless train.
The dark closed in, and the moon rose at the full. The leaves of the coconut palms glistened in the moonlight as if they were wet with rain.
For three months it was like that.
Until, once again I seemed to hear those very familiar voices saying, “Don't Dream,” and “Wake up, dreamy,” and “God bless my soul, the boy's always dreaming.”
So I came back again.
Although it was published some months ago, I have not seen many New Zealand reviews of Margaret Macpherson's travel book “Antipodean Journal,” a signed copy of which recently reached me from Corsica where Mrs. Macpherson was at the time of its despatch. It is just the manner of book one would expect from this versatile and much travelled woman—full of talk of interesting places and personalities, particularly in the world of art and letters. It is also one of the finest advertisements for the Dominion, not that the writer indulges in fulsome flattery, for here and there are some very pertinent and critical observations. There are several comments with which I disagree. For instance, her contrast between Auckland (“flaunting her jewels on a genteely curved finger”) and Wellington (“not caring a fig for such gewgaws”). But then, Margaret has spent much of her time up Auckland way and “Shibli” is a Wellingtonian to the core. Also I cannot see eye to eye with Margaret when she writes: “Let us put our architectural beauty into schools and colleges, not churches.” The book as a whole gave me great pleasure, as it will to many others. It has been nicely produced by Hutchinson's, London, and is beautifully illustrated. Part 1 deals with New Zealand, Part 2 with Australia, and Part 3 with other parts of the world.—“Shibli Bagarag.”
He'd been having what medical men call “a general overhaul” When the Doctor was through—an hour's work—he said: “Nothing much wrong, but I think you're smoking too much. What's your tobacco?” The patient told him “Ah,” said the Doctor, “I know the brand! used to smoke it myself. Poisonous with nicotine. Tobacco like that's sure to get you sooner or later, so I gave it up, and took to ‘toasted’ and if you're wise you'll follow suit. ‘Toasted's’ not only the purest tobacco but by far the best. I don't know how the toasting is done, but it's wonderfully effective, for the five brands, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold are comparatively free from nicotine, they all have a really fine flavour and a peculiarly grateful aroma. Throat irritation is common enough with smokers, so is burnt tongue. You don't get either with ‘toasted'.” The patient, much impressed, said he'd certainly take the Doctor's advice. “You won't regret it if you do,” smiled the Doctor. He never did!*
The enthusiasm aroused by the commemoration of the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the establishment of the first British settlement in Australia was given added interest here in London by reason of the christening, by the London, Midland & Scottish Railway, of one of its powerful “Jubilee” class express passenger locomotives, “New South Wales.” The naming ceremony at Euston Station, on 26th January, was performed by the Agent-General for New South Wales. A happy note, in more senses than one, was struck by the presence of a detachment and band of the Royal Navy. The Admiralty's welcome contribution to the proceedings was in recognition of the fact that Captain Arthur Phillips, R.N., was in command of the brig “Supply,” from which was effected the first landing of settlers. Transport — and especially rail transport—has played a more important part than any other factor in the striking progress made by Australia in the past one hundred and fifty years. Despite break-of-gauge, and other difficulties, railways have virtually changed the face of the continent, and one and all engaged in Australian rail transport may well take pride in their contribution to this development.
Locomotive and train naming adds greatly to the romance and interest attached to the “Iron Way.” Our pioneer locomotive builders set the ball rolling by selecting names like “The Rocket” and “Sans Pareil” for their products, while one of the earliest named passenger trains was the “Southern Belle,” London-Brighton express of the London, Brighton and South Coast line, now embraced in the Southern Group. The “Flying Scotsman,” the “Cornish Riviera Limited,” and the “Atlantic Coast Express” are other Home railway-named trains whose fame is world-wide. Across the Atlantic, America long ago realised the desirability for train-naming. What better-chosen train names could one have than, say, “The Golden State Limited,” “The Scout,” or “The Twentieth Century Limited”? On the continent of Europe, we have the famous “Blue Train,” linking Paris with the Mediterranean resorts; the “Eidelweiss Express,” serving Swiss mountain centres; the “Orient Express,” of film and novel fame; and a score of other named services. Africa gives us the “Union Limited” in the south, and the “Star of Egypt” in the north. All this business of locomotive and train christening represents excellent publicity, and train naming, in particular, is now the recognised thing in Europe. Visit any of the big London termini at any hour, and there, alongside the platform you are sure to find at least one named train. King's Cross probably has more named trains running in and out than any other metropolitan station, for all the long-distance expresses of the L. & N.E. line to-day carry distinctive titles.
A feature of passenger travel at Home is the cleanliness of most of the stock employed in main-line service. This year the group lines are paying greater attention than ever to the interior cleanliness of passenger trains. An innovation is the appointment by the L. & N.E. Company of special travelling train attendants and cleaners, whose duties are to accompany the principal expresses and excursion trains, and to maintain the compartments, corridors and lavatories in a scrupulously clean and tidy condition. The cleaners accompany the train throughout the journey in most instances. They are provided with full equipment, including brushes, towels, soap, and a canvas bag for the collection of refuse. The idea seems an excellent one, for while most main-line passenger trains are scrupulously clean at the commencement of the journey, there is often a tendency—especially in the night services—for the interior of the cars to become dirty and untidy towards the end of a long run. This, inevitably, gives an unfavourable impression to the traveller joining the train at some intermediate point.
Early this year an interesting new electrification was opened by the L. M. & S. Railway, electric traction on the Wirral Section lines coming into operation on 14th March. The routes covered are those between Birkenhead Park, West Kirby and New Brighton, the total route mileage electrified amounting to a little over 10 miles. An important feature of the scheme was the introduction of through electric train services between both West Kirby and New Brighton and Liverpool (Central) Low Level, in conjunction with the Mersey Railway Company. With the introduction of electric train services in this busy area, the time-table has been entirely re-modelled, providing more frequent train services at regular intervals. Nineteen 3-car train sets of the most modern construction have been introduced by the L. M. & S., each seating 141 third-class and 40 first-class passengers. During peak hours, however, six-car trains are employed. Features of the new trains include the use of light high-tensile metals, and the provision of air-operated sliding doors to save time at stations. The electrification, which has been carried out under the Government Loan Guarantee Schemes, is on the third-rail system at 650 volts.
Although the L. M. & S. Railway possesses one locomotive that is still performing light work 72 years after it was built, this record of longevity is easily eclipsed by two railway engines that have never moved a foot from their positions for over a century apiece. Totalling between them 218 years’ continuous service, these two veteran stationary engines are employed at Middleton Top (Derby) and Swannington (Leicestershire) respectively. Both are still used for hauling wagons up and down steep inclines unsuitable for locomotives. The engine at Middleton Top is 113 years old, and is a twin-cylinder, low pressure, condensing-type beam engine, built for the Cromford & High Peak Railway in 1825 by the Butterley Iron Works. A treasured relic is the Swannington engine, for it was installed in 1833 to the instructions of George Stephenson, engineer of the Leicester & Swannington Railway, which was opened 1832–33, and was the first railway in the Midlands. Originally used for hauling up wagons of coal from various collieries reached by the Swannington Incline, the engine is now employed only for lowering wagons of coal required by a colliery pumping-plant at the bottom. The Swannington engine was made by the Horsley Coal and Iron Company, and is of the long-stroke (3 ft. 6 in.), single-cylinder, simple expansion type, the steam pressure being 80 lbs. per sq. in. It is capable of hauling six empty wagons up the incline (half–a-mile long and rising at 1 in 17) at a speed of 9 m.p.h.
Freight business continues brisk on the Home lines. Improvements in goods train services and terminal working are constantly being introduced, and an overnight service between points 400 to 600 miles apart is now general. These accelerated goods train services are high in public favour, and they maintain a wonderful punctuality record. The old idea of a goods train, lumbering along at fifteen to twenty miles an hour, and constantly being shunted to permit the passage of other trains, is now almost a memory. The problem of the large versus the small freight train always arouses considerable discussion, but in Britain relatively light goods trains, booked at express speed, are largely increasing in number.
Not only are goods train services being accelerated on every side in Britain, but particular attention is being paid to the elimination of careless handling of small consignments.
Photo. E. D. Burt.) The Tangolo Falls, a well-known beauty spot near Napier.
America is the land of the digest, despite the alleged prevalence of dyspepsia in that exhilarating country. One such digest came the way of the present writer, and it caused him to think. This particular tabloid was named “Globe.” One imagines it was written for the instruction of those who partake of tours in the luxury liners.
“Globe” consists of a string of cameos, each cameo a rhapsody in this rosary that would encircle the earth like Puck's girdle. Someone had gone ashore from a luxury liner at Auckland, and had “done” his New Zealand in the space of a few days. In reading the impressions of this writer one was reminded of a story by Ian Hay. It told of a young Scottish student who went to Edinburgh, and thought, until he came upon the mystical word “Exit,” that the entire city of Edinburgh was comprised in the Railway Station. His appraisal of New Zealand was entitled “Glow-worm Glories,” and induced a doubt in one's mind if this teller of a traveller's tale ever found the way out of the pleasurable labyrinth prescribed for him by the beneficent powers under whose governship the tour was made… It is a truism that your visitor knows more of the advertised attractions of a country than the natives of the place. Like all truisms it is vulnerable.
One is, of course, edified to learn what were Mr. Bernard Shaw's impressions of the Waitomo Caves and what were those of Mr. A. P. Herbert. Such men stamp their own individuality on any impressions they may register.
Mr. Malcolm Macdonald and Dr. Hugh Dalton have both told the New Zealander something about this country from the point of view of a Labour statesman on holiday. Some day Mr. Wells, who, one is told, always greets Miss Nelle Scanlan with “Hallo, New Zealand mutton,” when he meets the New Zealand novelist at a foregathering of the P. E. N. club, will, perhaps, visit New Zealand, and then we shall see what he shall see. As one who has never seen the Waitomo Caves the present writer would record his satisfaction on reading the account proffered by Mr. Alan Mulgan in a recent number of the “Railways Magazine.” This is, we are aware, the work of a man who was not likely to make the mistake which the Scottish student made. Mr. Mulgan knows his way out of Waitomo. He knows his way to places of delight that do not come within the scope of the personally conducted tour. What do they know of New Zealand who only Waitomo know? It is the wont of the New Zealander to bewail the lack of indigenous New Zealand literature. At the same time he is often distrustful of books just because they are produced locally…. The old bogey of commercialism rears its head. We are snobbish in matters of the intellect if in nothing else, and some of us still think a little less of Millais for having painted “Bubbles” for Messrs. Pears, or of Mrs. Humphry Ward for having written “Canadian Born” for the Canadian Pacific Railway. There are, of course, guidebooks and guide-books.
L. B. Wilson, photo.) Interesting and rare. A Nikan Palm with eight heads growing at Paraparaumu, North Island, New Zealand.
Someone, no doubt, has covered the ground between Godstow and Tring in Buckinghamshire, which Robert Louis Stevenson covered when he took that autumnal walk, and lay the night at Wendover—or was it Great Mis-senden? But that same painstaking, topographer who followed in Stevenson's wake could not have given us “An Autumn Effect.“… A country cannot be written about too much by men and women who are poets and essayists by temperament. The gentleman who wrote “Glow-worm Glories” gave no evidence in that lucubration, at all events, of being either.
It seems that New Zealanders, or some of them, are becoming
We associate the word “Literature” with a season of quietude, with a space wherein it is vouchsafed to one to turn over in the mind the very being of an author's style. The style is the man, wrote Georges Buffon, the naturalist, and whether he was right or whether he was wrong it is unquestionable that such names as Nathaniel Hawthorn, Richard Jefferies and Walter Pater do induce in the mind something akin to a fragrance. I have no doubt that there are many writing in New Zealand to-day who are capable of imparting the authentic pleasure which Hawthorn, Jefferies and Pater each in their several ways impart. Only we are deterred from enjoyment of them by that hard-boiled convention which, paradoxically enough, leads to a cleavage between those who over-praise and those who over-detract.
It may be asked “What has all this to do with the glow-worms?” Mr. Mulgan quotes Shelley in the course of his article on the “Waitomo Caves..” There is a pregnant phrase in the poem from which he quotes, to wit the “Ode to the Skylark”:
Chorus hymeneal Or thiumphal chaunt
Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
The hidden want of which we may be aware in a guide-book will elude definition, for no two readers agree precisely as to literary values. It may suffice for one that a scene is described as “colourful” or “mystic.” These two hard-worked epithets may arouse the purist to faint protest, or to something not quite so faint… It may suffice for some that the Waitomo phenomena be summed up succinctly in the simple monosyllable.
“Gee!” which has much to commend it… Perhaps if the gentleman who wrote for “Globe” had appended “Gee!” to his alliterative title, and left it at that one would have saluted him as the one man who has ever dealt with the subject adequately. None-the-less, one is very glad to have Mr. Mulgan as one's representative at the perpetual festival of the glowworm.
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The names of people in this story are wholly imaginary, though the incidents referring to some of the employees as being refugees from the Law are true. In the early days the remoteness of some of the mills made it quite possible for “wanteds” to hide in seclusion for many months.
John Kay was the owner of a large tract of country in the North Island of New Zealand. It could be counted one of the best areas of bush in the province, abounding with rimu, totara, matai, kahikatea, and in some places, valuable kauri. The land was fairly flat so hauling was at minimum expense.
John Kay worked his bush with a system. Before any milling timber was touched, the area calculated to supply sufficient milling for six to nine months was under-scrubbed, the small trees also being cut down.
At suitable times a chain-wide ring around the under-scrubbed portion of the bush was fired so that when the proper season for burning came, the fire would not affect the standing bush.
In a few years’ time there was sufficient grass to combine farming with his milling activities, Kay believing by these methods to prevent the spread of noxious weeds—always so evident where trees had been felled—and thus enhance the value of the land, whereas before it had timber value only.
The mill was situated as near as possible—consistent with safety—to the homestead and workers’ dwellings and, with an eye to the future, the latter were built so that when the time came they could be converted into farm buildings.
Including the bush and hauling hands, employment was found for about sixty persons, and generally, they were a happy lot. In addition, there was the mill manager, an accountant, and a clerk, who lived at the homestead with Kay and his daughter, Cushla. The latter was a bright, vivacious brunette twenty years of age. She knew as much about timber as anyone at the mill and was also an adept at the typewriter. Consequently when business was very brisk, she assisted in the office, thus relieving William Jasper, the clerk.
William Jasper, who it was thought had seen better days, was about forty years of age, and somewhat portly as to body. He had a pleasant, open face, and invariably had a jolly smile. He was absolutely conscientious and thorough in his work and his behaviour generally was all that could be desired; nor was he lacking in courage, as events will show. But what Cushla liked most in him was his love for the beauty which Nature had supplied with a lavish hand in the surroundings of their bush home.
The accountant, John Wynder, who had been with them for about three months, was a tall, broad-shouldered man and handsome — although he sometimes wore a sinister and hard expression which betokened ill to any who opposed him. Cushla often wondered as did her father what had made a man of Wynder's undoubted ability and address seek employment away in the backblocks. He was cultured, and his knowledge of a great variety of subjects added to the many pleasant after-dinner discussions.
“A clever man that, but I can't understand what brought him here,” remarked Kay to his daughter one