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Akaroa Harbour, South Island, New Zealand. (From the original water-colour by P. Bousfield)
The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
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Controller and Auditor-General.
2/12/37.
“Where the small birds with their harmonious notes, Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats.”
—Brown.
A Scene in the Akatarawa Valley, near Wellington, North Island, New Zealand.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Railway news from all the world speaks of progress in the industry. How interesting this is to the public depends principally, of course, upon what they, as individuals, are likely to gain from it.
If they are interested in transport as a spectacle of contest between one form of conveyance and another, it may be said with confidence that the “iron horse” has his nose in front once again.
If they want the Railways as something they themselves can use and enjoy, the news of the day is equally pleasing.
From England comes the tale of the two miles-a-minute run on the L.N.E.R. with comfort all the way. America tells of its New Broadway Limited running the 903 miles between New York and Chicago in sixteen hours, including the heavy going through the Alleghenny Mountains. The other day our own little “Red Terror,” the managerial inspection car, which has led the way in railcar development in New Zealand, did the 426 miles from Wellington to Auckland, including the climb over the central mountain plateau, in eight hours fifty-six minutes, while still better performance is promised from the new Standard Diesel type passenger railcars already undergoing eminently satisfactory trial runs in the North Island.
On the railways of the world, steam locomotives and trains are being transformed into land fliers of the new romance. Stream-lining, air-conditioning, more cylinders per engine to increase efficiency, track improvements, and a luxury in the interior finish and furnishings of cars, to vie with the best that hotels or steamships can show, these are among the methods the more enterprising railways are adopting to retain their leadership in the transport field.
And they are finding a ready response from the public to the new conditions of railway travel. While increasing congestion slows up road traffic, new enterprise speeds up and increases the comfort of railway traffic.
Thus it is that many who had developed the habit of making their longer journeys by road in private cars are being won back to the railways, and become enthusiastic regarding the all-round comfort and satisfaction to be obtained from train travel under the new conditions.
Other aids to railway progress in other countries besides ours are found in staff-housing, staff-training and railway health organisations, in technical reorganisation and in appropriate co-ordination of the various means of transport.
New Zealand is keeping well abreast of the times in its railway developments, and the progress made all along the line of the physical front of the railways is an inspiration not only to those engaged in the industry, but also to the public who own and use this means of transport for their business and pleasure.
Last month I paid a brief visit to Australia to attend the biennial conference of the Australian and New Zealand Railway Commissioners, a conference which, by the way, will next time be held in New Zealand, during the Dominion's centennial year.
The greatest impression left on my mind from the present visit was the value to all concerned of consultations of this kind. The way had been prepared by a gathering of selected senior officers from all the Australian States and New Zealand some months previously, at which preliminary technical discussions were held and recommendations made for the Commissioners' Conference to consider.
The wealth of experience in every phase of railway activity revealed as a result of these two conferences was of great value, I am sure, to all who attended, and the respective railway systems stand to benefit considerably from the free exchange of views and the practical consideration given by each of the Commissioners present to the problems of transport in the various States represented. In this connection I wish to pay tribute to the unfailing courtesy and gracious hospitality extended by the various Railway executives and organisations with which I made contact during my visit, and I look forward to the opportunity which New Zealand will have in 1940 to make some return for the many courtesies shown towards the New Zealand representatives.
It has become a well-established practice amongst railway organisations to pool their knowledge for the advancement of railway interests generally, and from many years experience I can say that any inquiry directed by letter from one railway system to another receives the most thorough and painstaking reply. But helpful as this assistance is, it can only have its full value when considered as a forerunner to personal consultation between the authorities concerned.
The importance of verbal discussion between representatives is, of course, recognised largely in national and international affairs, but the value of the principle applied to industrial and transport organisations such as railways, which operate in every civilised country, is clearly revealed in conferences of the kind to which I have referred.
I may say that the 1938 conference was of special importance in view of the very marked changes which have occurred in the transport field in the past two years, and the many new features which have been introduced in an effort to keep pace with a constantly rising demand for still higher standards in the quality of service given by the Railways and their auxiliary transport agencies.
The results of the work of the Conference will, I believe, be beneficial to the people of Australia and New Zealand, and result in the introduction of improvements which the various Commissioners unanimously agreed would be for the good of the industry as a whole.
General Manager.
There are a few elderly and older people throughout the English-speaking world who are free to maintain against all-comers the hypothesis, startling as it may be to the self-satisfied class under forty, that the world reached its highest point of excellence in all that pertains to the creative, or knowing faculties of man during that period that they lovingly refer to as “The Nineties.” Certainly it was during the decades that centre round the beginning of this century that the University of New Zealand conferred its degrees upon those few New Zealand students who lived to occupy commanding places in world-wide fields of learning.
A few months ago in the “Railways Magazine” the passing of the world's greatest physicist was fittingly commemorated by Dr. Marsden when Lord Rutherford passed away. In this article is commemorated the life and death of the world's greatest chemist, Dr. J. W. Mellor. These two leaders in the allied world army of science were both ever eager to acknowledge their debt to the same Alma Mater of Learning—the University of New Zealand. Though they graduated from different colleges—Rutherford from Canterbury and Mellor from Dune-din—they attended lectures during virtually the same years, carried out the most brilliant work of their careers during much the same period at towns far away indeed from their Dominion homes but so close together as Manchester and the “Five Towns” of Staffordshire, and they finally died within a few months of each other in London. The work and status of Rutherford in Physics is known to all New Zealanders, but that of Mellor in the wider field of Chemistry is not less outstanding and definite, and not less worthy of affectionate pride from all New Zealanders. Although the boy Mellor was already ten years old when he arrived in New Zealand, all his schooling was obtained here; and when he left for England in 1899 at the age of thirty all the formative influences of his outstanding life-work were already behind him and his future greatness seemed assured to his teachers and associates.
He has left the world an enduring monument in his magnificent “Comprehensive Treatise on Inorganic and Theoretic Chemistry,” a huge work (in 16 volumes) which, taking as it does, the whole world of Inorganic Chemistry as its province, yet surveys the vast field so thoroughly and with such detail that it would seem there remains no further word to be said. But a more spectacular proof of his greatness came during the Great War. The steel industry was suddenly confronted with a situation that threatened the life of the Nation when Continental supplies of refractory materials and of many necessary steel alloys were cut off. Dr. Mellor offered his services to the authorities and so prompt and successful were the results of his research that the industry was enabled to meet the stupendous demands of the war almost without intermission or delay. I am unable at present to check the source of the quotation, but some well-known English technical magazine declared that while it was, of course, incorrect to claim that any one man such as Foch, Clemenceau or Lloyd George had won the war, the claim could most nearly be advanced for Mellor. It is known privately that he was offered, or at least approached concerning the offer of, a peerage; but his innate modesty and simplicity and the moderate wealth, or poverty, he enjoyed, alike prevented his acceptance of the honour. In conversation he explained the reluctance by saying that since his health prevented his “doing his bit” in the trenches, his scientific labours should be given freely as his contribution to the service of his country.
Huxley said that “Science and Literature are not two things but two sides of one thing.” This fact is well illustrated by Mellor. He was deeply read in English literature, even in the most technical portions of his mathematical and chemical work his use of language was clear, forcible, and, at times eloquent, while in “Uncle Joe's Nonsense” book he reveals himself as a cartoonist of striking ability and a creator of delightful humour and most amusing conceits.
* * *
His father was Job Mellor, a loom-tuner in the Yorkshire woollen mills. He was a model of tireless patience, and never was man more appropriately named. Not well-educated by our modern standards, he was a keen reader and adaptable in all things. In later years he built his own house in Dunedin and also used to make his own
Joseph William Mellor was born in Lindley, a suburb of Huddersfield, in 1869. The reproduced portrait of the family group—the children comprised four girls and two boys as may be seen—shows a handsome and dignified couple, who cannot fail to impress by their appearance of intelligence and sterling worth. The family arrived in Lyttelton in 1879 and spent two years in Kaiapoi, where the father worked in the woollen mills and the children went to school. In 1881 they all went south to Dunedin, the magnet being, of course, the woollen mills in the Kaikorai Valley. Here the father built the house referred to above and the family settled down. Joseph went to the Linden School (by the way, did you know that part of the Kaikorai Valley was then known as Linden and that
still raises familiar echoes in scholars of that school?) There he was looked on as an ordinary industrious schoolboy of no outstanding merit. Leaving school in December, 1882, he started work as a handy boy in the employ of H. S. Fish, the prominent citizen, mayor and Member of Parliament, whose vituperative speeches prompted the famous epigram of the 'nineties, “While in England we get our fish from Billingsgate, in the Antipodes we get our Billingsgate from Fish.”
Joseph then progressed through Simon Bros.'s boot shop to McKinley's boot factory, and finally to the boot factory of Sargood & Sons, where he worked for some years.
The wind of Learning bloweth where it listeth, but the forebears and early life of Mellor bear close resemblance to those of Rutherford, his peer. Young Rutherford was the more brilliant, but Mellor the keener after knowledge. Only a few months ago the only chord of memory evoked by the mention of Mellor's name in the breast of a certain Dunedinite who was Mellor's foreman in Sargood's factory was that of a quiet studious boot-clicker, pondering over mysterious books in lunch hours and every spare minute while the factry drone was still.
For, as Mellor himself confided recently to his old schoolmate, life-long friend and brother-in-law, Mr. Arthur Ellis of Dunedin, he was a youth in his early teens when he first conceived his life-long determination—impossible of fruition as it might then appear—to become the foremost chemist of his generation. This ambitio seems to owe nothing to any external influence, although it is remembered that his father was always very interested in anything pertaining to that science.
It was a long walk in those mornings over the Roslyn hill to Sargood's factory, and a longer walk back in the evening, but every night was spent at the beloved studies. A “laboratory” was built in the garden of the home, not a pretentious building, only a 6 ft. by 6 ft. shed of corrugated iron, fitted with such meagre apparatus and books as his modest savings could compass. While the evening meal was in progress it was his mother's task—nay, the word “task” ill describes the work of love, since the studies of young Joe were already the pride and hope of the parents—to heat a brick in the kitchen oven, and immediately the meal was over the indefatigable student withdrew to the “tin-shed” for the evening, where he experimented and read by the light of the small kerosene lamp of yore and comforted by the hot brick enclosed in flannel.
It is interesting to learn that the “tin-shed” was still in existence a few years ago and that much of Mellor's modest apparatus was still housed there.
A further proof of his industry is revealed by the fact that, as the young scientist was too poor to buy the books he needed, he obtained a loan of many of them from various sources and laboriously copied the contents out in longhand.
There was of course little time for sport or other relaxation for one who lived such laborious days and studious nights but, as the outcome of the joint suggestion and co-operation of Mr. Arthur Ellis, he was introduced to chess in 1885 and became an outstanding player. For some years he acted as chess Editor for the Dunedin “Evening Star,” and was once or twice in the final heat of the New Zealand Chess Championship. I apologise for the word “heat” in such context, but was delighted to learn that in his maturer years in Staffordshire and London the only sport that could delay the completion of his monumental “Comprehensive Treatise on Inorganic and Theoretical Chemistry” was a game of penny poker or the more erudite solo whist.
His studies attracted the attention of the late Mr. G. M. Thomson, Science Master at the Otago Boys' High School, and father of Dr. Allan Thomson, the first New Zealand Rhodes Scholar. Mellor attended classes at the Technical School, of which G.M. was a Director and from there matriculated in 1892. By this time he had shown aptitude for mathematics also, and Mr. Thomson recognised a coming “genius” and arranged a bursary or scholarship to the University. He also assisted the arrangement with Sargood's whereby Mellor was permitted the necessary time off to attend lectures. I well remember the enthusiasm of Mr. Thomson after Mellor's fine work, “Higher Mathematics for Students of Chemistry and Physics” (to which students of mathematics could well have been added), was published in 1902, and his
The Professor of Chemistry at Otago in those days was the veteran Professor Black, a fine scholar of the olden type and a generous enthusiast, who was delighted when he recognised, after a few years, that Mellor had outstripped him in his own field. When the time came for Black to retire, it was suggested by friends in Dunedin that Mellor, then at Owens College, Manchester, should be brought back to succeed Black. But “No, no,” the old man protested, “he would be wasted here.” Certainly the war would have been harder to win if Mellor had returned to Dunedin!
In 1897 Mellor won the Senior Scholarship in Chemistry from Otago University, in 1898 he gained first-class honours in Chemistry, and in 1899 was awarded the 1851 Exhibition Science Scholarship in Chemistry.
It is interesting to remember that Rutherford won his Senior Scholarship in Mathematics at Canterbury in 1892, and was awarded the Exhibition Science Scholarship in Electricity in 1894, while J. A. Erskine, probably the greatest genius of the three, took the Senior Scholarship in Physical Science in 1893, and was awarded the Exhibition Science Scholarship in Electricity in 1896, also from Canterbury College. Verily, there were giants in those days!
His University career finished so brilliantly, Mellor taught at Lincoln Agricultural College for a few months until the benefits of the Exhibition Scholarship could be utilised. Here in his 30th year he married Miss Emma Bakes, a young lady from Lincolnshire who had been brought up in Auckland. His training finished, his happiness assured and brilliant prospects unfolding, Mellor and his wife sailed from Port Chalmers in August, 1899, to take up his Research Scholarship at Owens College, Manchester, under Professor H. B. Dixon.
In 1902, now a Doctor of Science, Mellor was appointed Chemist to the Pottery Manufacturers' Federation and proceeded to Newcastle-under-Lyme, in the “Five Towns” where the pottery industry is centralised and concerning which Arnold Bennett was then writing those classic novels which prove him the greatest figure in literature that has yet emerged from the busy hills and valleys where the “Five Towns” cluster. This research turned out to be Mellor's life work. In 1905 he became Director of the Research Laboratories of the Federation, and until 1937 was closely engaged in chemical researches associated with the ceramic industry. An important extension of his work was originated by a conversation between Dr. Mellor and Lt.-Col. C. W. Thomas which was followed by a conference at the North Staffordshire Hotel on January 4th, 1909, of those interested in refractories. The Institution of Gas Engineers was the first to take advantage of the research facilities of the Pottery Federation, but co-operation gradually increased until on April 4th, 1920, the British Refractories Research Association was formally constituted. This Association was directed by four joint committees representing respectively the Pottery Manufacturers' Association, the Institution of Gas Engineers, and the Blast Furnace and Open Hearth sections of the British Iron and Steel Federation. The allied researches were conducted in the laboratories of the Pottery Federation for some years but on December 5th, 1934, the magnificent new laboratories were opened at Shelton, Stoke-on-Trent. Dr. Mellor was appointed the first Director being, as “The Engineer” observed, the “only man for the position,” and the laboratories were called the “Mellor Laboratories of the British Refractories Research Association,” “in grateful recognition by the Council of his long and distinguished service to the ceramic industry.” A far cry from the “tin-shed” in Kaikorai Valley with its primitive comforts and facilities! There Dr. Mellor continued in harness till 1937, when continued ill-health enforced his retirement, and he migrated to Highlands Heath, Portsmouth Road, London, where he died on May 24th, 1938.
During these years Dr. Mellor was a busy member of the Ceramic Society, for the most time being Secretary or President. He was a Fellow of the Royal Society and on his retirement was granted a C.B.E., a somewhat barren honour for so great a man.
All this history would seem to stamp Mellor as only a dry, dusty chemist with relatively narrow interests, or at most as a purely academic creature. Nothing is further from the truth. He was instead a man of extraordinarily wide in
The Absent-Minded Beggar
Cartoon by Dr. Mellor (after Bateman). Mellor lights his pipe in a fashionable restaurant.
Although I still find that I have painted Mellor only as a dull dog, the very reverse is the truth. His early work on mathematics shows that the true bent of his genius was mathematical even more than chemical, and like all mathematicians he was a great lover of poetry and a master of whimsey and nonsense. It was curiously enough as Secretary of the Ceramic Society that he let himself go to the fullest extent, and although the seasons of his most carefree jollity were apparently those occasions when that Society held its conventions in foreign places, nevertheless even the ordinary routine printed proceedings of that extremely dull body are enlivened by sketches and jeux d'esprit from its irrepressible secretary. He was obviously the spoilt child among the grave and reverend seigniors, whose chief concern rested in the obscure chemistry of fusible and refractory clays, and in 1934 the Ceramic Society—yes, as a Society!—published an extraordinary volume of light and airy nothings entitled “Uncle Joe's Nonsense,” a volume of fun in prose, verse, and picture chosen by Mellor himself from his store of published nonsense and from letters to his nephews and nieces in Dunedin or to other friends. Such a tribute is probably unique, although I think something of the kind happened after the early death in the 'nineties of Holly, a similar spoilt child of a metallurgical society in the United States. The other comparisons evoked by the book are those of Mellor with two Professors of Mathematics, the Reverend Dodgshun (Lewis Carrol)
It is doubtless a jolt to readers when they are reminded that chemists agree that Mellor is in the very forefront of the ranks of the inorganic chemists, that there is, nor has been, no such outstanding figure among the organic chemists, that in his sixteen noble volumes Dr. Mellor virtually exhausted all that could be authoritatively said up-to-date on the theory and practice of Inorganic Chemistry—and that his researches on refractory materials and special steels comprised original work of great importance to Great Britain and the world.
(Arnold Bennett tells us the “Five Towns” are “Hanbridge, which has the shape of a horse and its rider, Bursley of half a donkey, Knype of a pair of trousers, Longshaw of an octopus and little Turnhill of a beetle.”—Ed.)
From Messrs. Booth, Macdonald and Co., Ltd., Christchurch, to the Stationmaster, Christchurch.
We wish to express our appreciation again for the attention given to our parcels which, in some cases, have to be dealt with by your officers only a short time before departure of trains.
Never one complaint have we had regarding late arrivals. As an illustration, we consigned a parcel to Palmerston South at 8.30 a.m. this morning. This we understand caught the Express at 8.35 a.m.—pretty good work. Such excellent service enables us to keep faith with our customers. We get plenty of knocks ourselves, but we certainly must give credit where it is due.
We should also like to mention the Railway Through Booking Office whose efficient work is included in this acknowledgment.
Three months ago I was sitting in a second-class smoker, and the young man sharing my seat was reading “Riders to the Sea.” He was a sun-tanned, strong-jawed, open-air type, and I found that he was going to take a part in this subtle and great play of J. M. Synge, the production being run by a Drama League group in a hamlet twenty miles from the nearest railway station.
Some quirk of memory caused my mind to slip back to thirty years ago, when three or four of us were discussing the chances of the return to New Zealand of a Grand Opera Company, and a very similar young man said—cheerily, “Well, you know, the best opera I ever seen was the Flying Jordans, at Gisborne.”
Those two sets of remarks, divided by the period of only about one generation, represented an astonishing change. I thought it might be interesting to see what happened in the old days about our evening entertainments, and just why such a contrast in outlook had come about.
In an area of our community life as wide as the recreational methods of our people, the only safe way is to dredge from the depths of one's own personal recollections. I recommend this exercise of memory to all readers for it is an astonishing experience.
I had the good fortune to be born near a country town, and to have lived a goodly portion of my life, up to thirty years of age, in small places.
The first two shows at actual theatres that I personally can recall were “Ali Baba” and “Djin-Djin.” I can remember the two songs in “Djin-Djin”—“Sammy, My Old Friend Sam,” and “I've Chucked up the Push for Me Donah,” as if they were yesterday.
We did not know in New Zealand that Bert Royle's genius in the writing of the words and lyrics of this first combination of spectacle and comic opera, had saved the great J. C. Williamson firm in the period of the Bank crashes in Melbourne. But it was a rich and colourful presentation. I had been at the Christ-church Show all day, had a pair of new shoes, and assembled a burning and blistered heel. I slipped the shoe off during the performance of “Djin-Djin” and poked it under the seat. In the tumultuous excitement of the general exit, I left it there, reaching the vestibule in a dot and carry run. I went back to get the shoe, the lights were out, “the glory had departed,” and I was overwhelmed with a feeling of sadness and disillusionment.
In the country town where I lived, those were the days of touring companies with musical glasses, the Lynch Family of Bell-ringers, the touring lecturer with the lantern slides, and visits from the Carl Hertz type of illusionist. There were also stock companies playing “The Worst Woman in London,” “The Secret Crime,” “The Forger's Wife,” “The Count's Revenge,” and “Loving Hearts.” There were comedy companies also. I can remember away back in 1894, Frank M. Clark's Alhambra Company with Harry Shine and Charles Fanning in “Muldoon's Picnic.”
But, as can be expected, New Zealand had its stern and strong dramatic shows from the very beginnings of the settlement. We reproduce here the first theatrical poster put out in Auckland, in 1844. The Fitzroy Theatre was the place and the drama was called “The Two Gregories.”
“Mr. Buckingham begs leave to announce to the public of Auckland that the First Theatrical Performance in this town will Take Place on Tuesday Evening Next.”
Other highlights were these: “To ensure the comfort of the Ladies, an Elegant and Commodious Dress Circle” was to be installed, and the admission prices were on sound lines: “Double ticket, 10/6; Dress Circle, Single, 7/6; Pit, 5/-”; but it must be recalled that
Leslie Hinge collection.)
Old-time show posters in Christchurch in the early 'seventies.
Those itinerant players of those early days were of the stuff of heroes, especially the women players. The leading lady had to be a village girl Monday night; countess, Tuesday; barmaid, Wednesday; and a down-trodden wife next day. Transport was troublesome, but somehow I seem to remember much excellent, sincere and capable miming among them. The whole of this cannot go down to the credit of the trailing pink clouds of past memories, either.
There is something else I would like to place on record here. New Zealanders of those far-off days would take an endless amount of trouble to see a famous show, or a well-known artist. Special trains were run, and in my part of the South I can remember the hundreds who bicycled twenty or thirty miles to see Grand Opera in Christ-church.
So that it becomes clear that the New Zealander of to-day round about fifty years of age, who was at all theatrically inclined has a brilliant diadem of memories of the world's greatest artists. In spite of all the difficulties of transport and the other forms of comparative hardship, the world's great ones came here. I can remember when Nellie Stewart, after a career of light and whimsical musical comedy parts and other light and airy roles, startled us over thirty years ago with an astonishing performance of “Camille.” It was recalled by Harcus Plimmer, I think, that in New Zealand we had already seen the great tragedy played by four world figures: Janet Achurch, Mrs. Brown Potter, Nance O'Neill, and Janet Waldorf.
It would be idle to attempt in the space of this article to enumerate the great ones of the earth who called in to play to New Zealand audiences. In my personal highlights I would certainly place Robert Brough and his beloved wife, and their high-class cast of polished London artists, “Beauty and the Barge” and “Pygmalion and Galatea” are jewels in every playgoer's memory.
It is more than thirty years ago that Anderson's Dramatic Company played the exciting “Ladder of Life,” George Marlowe was running what the Sydney “Bulletin” called “Marlowdrama,” and that titanic master of spectacle, Bland Holt, shook grown men and women to their emotional foundations with “White Heather” with its verisimilitude of a diver's fight under the sea; and “Sporting Life,” with its real race with real horses on the stage.
By the way, I saw every Bland Holt show per medium of a special train, crowded almost to the smoke-stack of the joyous engine.
Another integral portion of this background is Pollard's Lilliputian Opera Company. What a constellation that was, with benevolent old Tom Pollard as presiding genius, and the golden names of May and Maud Beatty, Marion Mitchell, the Carkeek girls, and a score of others. The night that Tom Pollard announced in Christchurch that
(Leslie Hinge Collection)
the old theatre royal in christchurch, showing als the palace hotel, the homo of may and maud beatty
Then from the Williamson's companies came all those gay musical comedies, especially the “Girls” (“Girls of Gotten-burg,” “The Shop Girl,” “The Circus Girl,” “The Dairymaids,” and so on, ad infinitum). I remember, as a very slight youngster, visiting Wellington in my school holidays, and seeing “The Geisha,” with Miss Perry in the lead and W. S. Percy as the incredibly funny Lung Hi. I can see, as if it were yesterday, Percy's innocent look of bland astonishment when the stolen alarum clock hidden in his flowing Chinese gown, gave the show away by striking.
Those, too, were the days of Fuller's Vaudeville with Will Watkins of “What Oh, She Bumps” fame, and Will Stevens, the “Sad-eyed Shriek.” Later we were to see dainty Irene Franklin, and the incredible “Ferry the Frog,” and a hundred other wonders. Healthy, happy and hearty days they were. The freedom of the pit was a real thing. Its occupants had the right of caustic comment on both players and the dress circle audience. “Going Over the Top” was a mild exercise of courage compared with the risk taken by a clerk if he appeared with a sweetheart in the circle when the rest of his fellow boarders were in the pit.
However, to sum up, the surprising and unique feature of this ramble at random down Memory Lane is the richness of the artistic treasures brought to us then. It is astonishing, when voyages were weeks long, that we should have
It is rather a jolt to remember that it is forty years since Alfred Hill took the country by storm with “Hinemoa.”
Here is an item that is arresting: Just at the time of the rage for “Hinemoa” there appears this note in an Auckland paper, “The cinematograph is being produced in various stages of perfection and imperfection. To those who have not seen the invention it may be described as similar to the camera obscura, but giving set scenes.”
I wonder what the writer of that terse paragraph would say if he saw the sixty or more cinema palaces that today adorn Auckland.
Before I finish with this roving account of the past I must point out again the outstanding distinctiveness of New Zealand in this arena of human activity. A citizen of such towns, for instance, as Timaru or Palmerston North, and many other much smaller places, in the view of many a visiting artist until the amazing box office figures came in—saw a continuous procession of world figures. In country town theatres, I have personally seen H. B. Irving, Nance O'Neill, Sybil Thorndike, Robert Brough, Dion Boucicault and many more of the world's great names; I have seen Pavlova and Genee dance; heard Paderewski, Mark Hambourg, Heifitz, Madame Carreno, Heerman and a dozen other virtuosi play; Trebelli, Chaliapin, Nordica, and a score of other great singers, heard Sousa's Band and the Besses of the Barn, and much of the best of comic opera done by large and expensive companies.
But enough of history.
In those past days, it was unusual to hear of any New Zealander becoming distinguished as an actor or actress. Tom Pollard's juveniles were crowned heads in miniature, but the first legend I remember about a stage success surrounded a young man from Dunedin. He was a handsome young blacksmith named Harry Jewett, who foresook the striking hammer for the footlights in the 'eighties. He eventually made his way to America, became a great star, and was rated in U.S.A. as the best “Spider” in that unbeatable melodrama, “The Silver King.” There are a few other “Harrys”—Harry Plimmer, of course, Harry Roberts, and Harry Diver. Then from Christchurch, a good-looking schoolmaster, Winter Hall, went away to become a firmly established character film actor in Hollywood.
But the growth of any general habit of taking part in plays, of actual mumming, was slow at first. Of course, every town had its amateur company, mostly confined to doing musical comedy, but now and again essaying “Box and Cox,” or the like.
New Zealand had already developed a selective taste which was rapidly diverging from the Australian. The success here of “Peter Pan” with the adorable Lizette Parkes, in 1909, was in sharp contrast to its failure in the Australian cities, and there were many other instances comforting to our native pride.
Here and there were little groups of people studying dramatic art seriously. Thirty years ago, for instance, there was a Shakespeare Society in Auckland which was courageously producing Bernard Shaw's plays. I went to see them in 1911 when they visited Wellington with a splendid performance. In Christ-church, too, at this time, there were strong and growing circles, vigorously alive.
The Great War intervened, making a cultural desert for more than five years. In the next decade, the great change took place. The Little Theatre or Repertory movement had blossomed into vivid life in England, and in the way which has always been so inevitable with us, this essentially English development soon found its counterpart here.
The first Repertory Society was formed in Auckland, Wellington and Christchurch following, and soon the whole country was studded with societies having similar aims.
It is worth while getting our dates in perspective. It was in 1926 that the Wellington Society was formed. Auckland had then been in existence for three years and Christchurch was to follow much later. However, there were workers in the field in many parts of New Zealand. Of the many distinguished names who adorn the movement we can select Professor James Shelley, who had started a Little Theatre at Canterbury College and lectured in various parts of New Zealand under the auspices of the W.E.A. There was in every city a wealth of experience in actual playing and a reservoir of sound actors and actresses. It only needed such active producing personalities as Leo Du Chateau, the late H. J. Bentley, and others in those days to bring the chaos into working order. To-day we have the supremely fine performances of Arnold Goodwin in such striking experiments as Capek's “Insect Play” and “Lefty” to show us where we have arrived.
But the most spectacular development took place when the British Drama League made its appearance. As has been so often the case with cultural
S. P Andrew, photo.)
Professor James Shelley, the dynamic personality to whom Christchurch owes its Repertory Theatre movement.
(Continued on page 49.)
J. C., Photo. at Ruatoki, 1921.)
Te Tupara, Chief of Ruatoki. (Died, 1926).
The peculiar satisfaction that a field-research worker derives from digging up the true stories of old adventure, the real thing from participants in the events narrated, is comparable to the feeling of a successful treasure hunter who finds that he has struck the right spot and the gold's there—the authentic chest with skull and cross-bones. My years of search and enquiry into the frontier history of New Zealand have brought me much treasure of that kind. Its transmutation into a means of livelihood, or part of the means, was another thing. The process of discovery usually cost more than the great game yielded. But the search was the thing, the pleasure of exploration in bush and hill fort, the talks with the grey old people who were the last survivors of the warrior glory of their people. The meagre and unsatifying and usually inaccurate published accounts of Maori war episodes often prompted long trips into remote places to learn the exact facts while yet there was time. More often there was no written record at all. Two things were necessary, indispensable. For one, the ability to speak Maori, and a solid groundwork of historical tribal and military knowledge. Next, a diplomatic approach in the Maori manner, for many rather awkward questions were necessary if one were to get to the bottom of some at first inexplicable happenings. It was always desirable, if possible, to hear the narratives of the past on the actual places where history was made, and from men who had helped to make that bit of history.
A procession of dark old faces passes, men who had followed Te Kooti or fought against him, men still older, deeply tattooed patriarchs whose memories went back to the cannibal age. Two of Hongi's aged warriors even; a number of Hone Heke's. They are all gone, long ago; those meetings in some dimly-lighted thatched whare, or out on the fern-covered mounds and crumbling parapets that were once fields of battle and siege, can never come again. Pakeha friends, too, old officers of the colonial forces, old Forest Rangers; tall, lean veterans of the scouting trails, neighbours on the old King Country frontier, old bushmen and camp-mates. Frontiersmen who had lived years on the edge of adventure. They, too, have gone, but what they knew has not been lost.
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This story, gathered from old campaigners on each side, is an example of the historical episodes which were not chronicled by eyewitnesses or detailed in official despatches. But its chief value lies in the fact that the scenes of action can still be traced exactly. Rauporoa pa, on the green banks of the Whakatane River, three miles in from the harbour and the little town under the cliffs, is one of the very few places in our country where the battlefield and the fortification lines have been saved from ruin.
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The well-preserved earthworks of the Rauporoa pa, the Ngati-Pukeko village and fort besieged by Te Kooti's force in March, 1869, stand on an alluvial plain thickly dotted with cabbage-trees (ti or whanake) of great size. The redoubt is surrounded by Maori and pakeha cultivations; the native villages of the Poroporo and Rewatu are a short distance away, and the Whakatane flows past its rear beneath masses of weeping willows. Within rifle shot
J.O., photo. at Ruatoki, 1921.)
Te Whiu, the old Urewera Scout.
pa is a rectangular work consisting of an earth parapet and a surrounding trench; the height of the scarp above the bottom of the ditch is still seven to eight feet, and inside the work is four or five feet high; the ditch is four feet wide and about the same depth. The dimensions of the pa are about 120 yards in length (parallel with the course of the Whakatane River, immediately under its rear wall) and 55 yards in width. There are two large salients, which form flanking bastions against enfilading fire, one with 15 yards front on the western flank to the south of the main gateway; the other is an angle near the river. Another flanking work, a bastion eight yards on its longest alignment, is constructed at the opposite (or south) end of the eastern face, and there is a smaller salient near one of the gateways facing the river.
The palisade which once surrounded the enclosure has long disappeared. Timber stumps and butts visible in the high earth wall and on the edges of the ditch are the remains of a heavy growth of manuka timber, cleared away by the Maori owners of the pa reserve. The parapets, however, remained in an almost perfect condition when I searched out the place, and made the sketch here reproduced of an enormous old ti tree, sturdy veteran of many branches, growing in the main gateway, facing west. Te More Takuira, the head man of Raupo-roa told me, as we sat on the edge of the trench, it was originally one of the stakes of the fence, a young tree cut down, sharpened at the butt and driven into the ground. It took root and flourished to become the solitary remnant of the tall stockade in which it was planted seventy years ago.
The ground on the west face of the work is thickly covered with the depressions indicating kumara and potato pits, the food stores of the garrison. On the south, the narrow side, about thirty yards from the gateway, there is a shallow uneven trench, running across the face of the pa and nearing it as it approaches the river. This was where the Hauhaus dug themselves in after the failure of their first effort against the fort. In the rear wall there are two openings, gateways which gave access to the river. Within the walls the parapet is three to five feet above the general level of the ground of the ditch, so well preserved by its olden growth of manuka and fern, and now securely protected from cattle by a barbed-wire fence, is above four feet in width and of equal depth.
This was the tribal stronghold and gathering place of the Ngati-Pukeko, a tribe friendly to the Government, against which Te Kooti launched a column of three to four hundred warriors, East Coast men of various tribes—many of them escapees from exile in Chatham Island—reinforced by Urewera and Taupo parties. While one portion of the raiding force, a kokiri under Wirihana Koikoi, was detailed to storm the Poronu redoubt and the tribe's small flour-mill, the main body advanced against the south face of the pa. They came forward in a solid body of bare-legged men, treading the ground with a heavy resounding tramp, their rifles, carbines and double-barrel guns held at the ready. Their threatening march gave the obvious lie to a white flag, borne by one of their front rank men. Some of the people in the pa, however, were so credulous, or so anxious to avoid fighting—the pacifists of Ngati-Pukeko—that they tried to open the gates and admit the enemy, who, once within, would begin slaughtering the garrison. One of these who reposed faith in Te Kooti's flag was an old lay-reader of the church, Ihaia te Ahu. He cried out, “It is peace, peace—there's the white flag!” Another man deceived by the long streamer of white was Hori, one of the chiefs of the pa. He was actually pushing open the solid sliding door, fastened by wooden pegs, which formed the gate on the south side, and the advance files of the enemy were almost within the defences, their guns at the present, when another chief, Tamihana Te Tahawera, saved the situation. He ran to close the door, and was struggling with foolish old Hori, when a young Urewera man, Meihaka Toko-pounamu, fired at him at a range of a few paces. The bullet missed Tahawera and struck the unfortunate Hori, who fell dead just inside the gateway.
The door was made fast, and the baffled Hauhaus retired under fire to dig themselves in. Meihaka's shot was quickly returned by Hirini Manuao, in the pa trench. His bullet broke the staff from which the white flag was floating.
Now the angry Hauhaus found themselves under heavy fire from the whole south face of the pa and the flanking bastion on the west side. The terrain was level and devoid of cover; the plain was covered to the river bank with the Ngati-Pukeko cultivations of corn, potatoes, kumara and taro.
The Hauhaus scooped out a rifle trench behind a whare outside the pa, and secured a little head cover. They then extended the trench eastward towards the river bank, and working nearer the pa as they drove it toward the Whakatane.
J. C., sketch in 1921.)
The old ti tree at Rauporoa pa, Whakatane.
The attack now steadied down into a regular siege, but the Hauhaus curiously did not push their attack on any but the south face of the pa. Sheltered in their trench and shallow rifle pits, they maintained a heavy fire on the Ngati-Pukeko defenders, which those warriors as hotly returned. There were a number of women in the pa, but it was not strongly garrisoned, since most of the men were away on the coast sandhills, with Hori Kawakura, a capable leader, when the attack was delivered. When the alarm was raised in Whakatane by refugees from Rauporoa, Hori hurried up to the besieged pa, and entered it under fire, with his party of about twenty men. As ammunition was running short, he came out again at great risk, with a few men, and took back a supply of powder and bullets. This fine deed was performed under heavy fire.
Te Kooti's force possessed superiority not only in numbers but in arms. The Hauhaus had many good rifles and carbines, besides their shot-guns. The defenders of the pa had nothing but muzzle-loading single and double barrel guns, some of them old-fashioned flintlocks. They endeavoured to burn out those of the attackers who were posted behind the whare on the south by tying burning rags to stones and throwing them on to the thatched roof, but the Hauhaus extinguished the fire. Several dead of the attacking party lay between the stockade and this house.
The second Ngati-pukeko man killed was Heremaia Tautari. He was shot while standing on the parapet of the south-east angle, calling out across the river to his children, who were at that moment defending the redoubt at the Poronu flour-mill against the final rush, bidding them retreat to the pa.
Hori Kawakura's little band of fighting men, now formed the backbone of the defence; but stoutly as they and their fellow-tribesmen fought, their plight appeared hopeless. Their ammunition was failing. For two days and two nights the garrison had steadfastly resisted the overwhelming force of well-armed rebels. It was now the early morning of the third day, and although urgent messages had been sent for help there was no appearance of the reinforcements to avert defeat and massacre.
At this moment Lieutenant Gilbert Mair was coming up at his best speed with a column of 130 Ngati-Rangitihi from Matata. Was he too late? He had ridden through the night from Tauranga, desperately anxious for his Whakatane friends and the gallant Frenchman and his little Maori family at the mill. After crossing the Orini stream, Mair met the first of the whati, the fugitives from Raupo-roa. The pa had fallen, but whether there had been a terrible massacre or not was as yet uncertain.
The first Ngati-Pukeko refugee, Mair met was an old fellow running hard, in great distress. He cried out to Mair: “Kau tahuri te motu nei!” Kau tahuri te motu nei!” (“The island has been overturned!”) Mair's men opened their ranks to let the fugitives through. At a deep raupo swamp south of Te Poroporo settlement, the first of Te Kooti's men came in sight, pursuing the fleeing Ngati-Pukeko. There were about seventy Hauhaus, all mounted, many of them armed with Calisher and Terry carbines.
Mair extended his men, tired after their heavy forced march, and kept Te Kooti's horsemen in check, while the Ngati-Pukeko, the Raupo-roa fighters, turned and assisted the relief force. There was good cover along the edge of the flax and raupo swamp and among the manuka. Mair steadily advanced, skirmishing up the valley until the pa was reached. There it was discovered that there had been no heavy losses except on the side of the Hauhaus. The pa had been captured, but not until nearly all the defenders had made their escape down through the swamps and thickets north of the fort. Only four had been killed in the attack. But the mill-redoubt had been captured; Jean, the Frenchman, lay dead in the gateway.
No memorial marks the place where the brave miller defended his charge to the last. But the parapets of Rauporoa (“The Tall Swamp Reed”) still stand firm—or did when last I rode that way. The tribe proposed, as Te More told me, to restore some of the stockades and the gates, out of the abundance of drift totara timber lying about the Whakatane banks. Such an attempt to renew the defences of the old-time fighting-pa deserves pakeha encouragement.
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It was not so easy to construct the connected account of Rauporoa's siege as the reader possibly would imagine. For the Hauhau side of the story, old warriors who followed Te Kooti were looked up at Ruatoki, Waimana, and Ohiwa, and in Ruatahuna Valley, Urewera country. In particular there were Te Tupara, of Ruatoki, a big soldierly stalwart, who fought for Te Kooti for three years; Netana Whakaari, tall and thin, a keen blade of a veteran, with a face so deeply and blackly tattooed that his glittering eyes looked out as through a dark carved mask. There was Te Whiu, too, the man who two years later ran down and captured Kereopa the Eye-eater, at daylight one morning near Ruatahuna. That was in 1871, when Netana and Te Whiu had both turned to the Government side, by way of variety. Many others had a shot at both sides. The pakeha officers found that an ex-Hauhau bushman made the best Government scout. He knew all the tricks.
Some of the most famous trains in the world are among those operating in the Anglo-Scottish services of the London, Midland & Scottish, and London & North Eastern Railways. Traffic between English and Scottish centres this year is exceptionally heavy, and the wonderful Empire Exhibition in Glasgow—where New Zealand has a magnificent show—is bringing rich business to the railways. Many important accelerations have been introduced in the Anglo-Scottish time-tables. The “Royal Scot” express of the L. M. & S., which leaves Euston Station, London, for Glasgow and Edinburgh at 10 a.m. each week day, has been accelerated by 45 minutes, covering the 299 miles from London to Carlisle non-stop at an average speed of 60 m.p.h. In the reverse direction a cut of 25 minutes has been effected in the Glasgow-Euston timings. On the L. & N. E. R., the “Flying Scotsman,” daily trains have been re-timed to complete the journey in each direction between King's Cross and Edinburgh in seven hours, with one intermediate stop at Newcastle. For the first time in its long history, the “Flying Scotsman” this year runs on Sundays as well as on week-days. Fastest of all Anglo-Scottish trains is the “Coronation” streamliner, which occupies only six hours on the King's Cross-Edinburgh journey.
Particular interest attaches to these Anglo-Scottish accelerations because this year we are celebrating the golden jubilee of the famous “Railway Race to Edinburgh,” one of the most thrilling events in transporation's story. This “railway race” had its beginnings in 1887, when third-class passengers were first allowed to travel by the “Flying Scotsman” between King's Cross and Edinburgh. The West Coast (London & North Western and Caledonion) Railways had for some years carried third-class travellers on their principal day train between Euston and Edinburgh, but the journey occupied 10 hours, as compared with the East Coast (King's Cross-Edinburgh) run of 9 hours. On June 1st, 1888, the Euston-Edinburgh timing was cut to 9 hours. The East Coast companies (Great Northern, North Eastern and North British) promptly responded by accelerating the “Flying Scotsman” to 8 ½ hours as from July 1st. Towards the end of that month the West Coast authorities announced that they also would run in 8 ½ hours, but very cleverly the East Coast people made arrangements to do the King's Cross-Edinburgh trip in 8 hours, commencing on the very day their competitors were proposing to perform the run from Euston in 8 ½ hours. Taken by surprise, the West Coast Railways announced a further reduction to 8 hours to commence on August 6th. Now the really thrilling part of the business commenced. On August 13th, the “Flying Scotsman” was re-scheduled to reach Edinburgh in 7 hours 45 minutes, but the West
Remarkable strides have been made in improving the amenities of railway
Fifty-three years ago, seven railway-men, members of the staff of the former London & South Western Railway, founded a home in London to shelter ten fatherless girls. From this modest beginning there grew the Southern Railway Servants' Orphanage, one of the outstanding social efforts on the Home railways. In 1909 the orphanage was removed to delightful surroundings at Woking, in Surrey, while in 1935 accommodation for another 80 children was provided, so that to-day an ideal home is available for 250 fatherless railway children. The orphanage is run largely by the voluntary contributions of the railway staff themselves, and actually out of nearly 70,000 employees no fewer than 60,000 willingly contribute sums ranging from one penny per week through the paybills. Upwards of 1,200 children have passed through the home, and there are at present in residence 101 boys and 84 girls. Admission to the orphanage is promptly arranged. There is no irksome ballot or voting, and no case has ever been refused admission—a very fine thing to be able to say. Railwaymen as a whole are big-hearted fellows, and here we have a striking
A probable result of the fusion of the German and Austrian railways will be the early electrification of many routes at present steam-operated. At the moment Germany is busy on the electrification of the Nuremburg-Halle main-line and branches, a conversion involving some 220 route miles. In Austria, the Salzburg-Linz section of the main-line between Salzburg and Vienna is being electrified, and a big work likely to be put in hand is the conversion to electricity of the Semmering main-line southwards from Vienna. In neighbouring Switzerland, electrification of the few main-lines still steam-operated is proceeding apace, while further south, in Italy, the 260-mile stretch of track from Salerno to Reggio di Calabria has recently been electrified, giving electric service through from Bologna, a distance of 660 miles. In France, there has recently been witnessed the completion of the important Paris-Le Mans route, and work is proceeding rapidly on the Tours-Bordeaux electrification. Denmark's contribution to the electrification programme takes the form of the electrification of the Copenhagen suburban routes, now proceeding steadily. Holland plans to add another 200 miles to her electric railways this year, while Poland contemplates large extensions to the Warsaw suburban electrification. Altogether, electrification is much to the fore in Europe at the moment.
When, in 1880, Donald Sutherland, of Milford Sound, discovered the now well-known Falls which bear his name, he had with him as companion a man named McKay, after whom the McKay Falls, near Lake Ada, are named.
These two men, therefore, were the blazers of the first trail up the valley of the Arthur River to the foot of the great Falls. This track, through primeval bush and along the banks of the river, eventually became portion of what is now universally acknowledged to be “The World's Wonder Walk.”
Later, Sutherland had other companions at Milford, one of the earliest being the late Samuel H. Moreton, artist and explorer, and one of the first men to view the Falls after Sutherland and McKay.
Moreton spent several years at Milford Sound, and it is only reasonable to suppose that, during his wanderings, he also assisted in improving the original blazed trail up the valley of the Arthur. Incidentally the artist-explorer had, at one time, a kind of working partnership with Donald Sutherland in the twelve-roomed chalet which constituted the first hostel at Milford.
Moreton subsequently left the locality and Sutherland married a lady from Dunedin. Mrs. Sutherland eventually took up residence at the hostel and for many years presided over its destinies while attending to the wants of thousands of tourists and excursionists to the now famous resort. As is well known to all New Zealanders, Donald Sutherland and his faithful help-mate are buried together in a grave not far from where the modern Government hostel now stands.
It was not until approximately ten years after the discovery of the Falls and the blazing of the first track that the Government decided to construct a more serviceable one. The new track was needed for the expanding tourist traffic, not only up the valley of the Arthur, but over the recently discovered McKinnon Pass, and along the Clinton Valley from the head of glorious Lake Te Anau.
The first portion of the new track, namely that from Sandfly Point to the foot of Lake Ada, was constructed by prison labour. For several reasons, however, this did not prove to be an unqualified success, and the prison camp was dismantled.
Then, about the year 1892, it was decided to continue the construction work by employing experienced labourers, and men acquainted with the use of explosives, for it was realised that a good deal of rock blasting would be necessary.
The first party of workmen was composed chiefly of miners from the Kumara gold field, and they were in charge of a well-known and highly respected overseer by the name of Edwin Price.
For those of us who had never previously visited Fiordland, the experience was somewhat eerie as we stood on the deck of the s.s. Hinemoa, and watched out for the entrance to Milford Sound.
The sun was just setting as we entered the narrow opening with the mountains rising sheer out of the water on either side. Steadily and almost silently we glided through, then on past Stirling Falls, past the great “Lion,” past Mitre Peak, past Harrison's cove—then with Sinbad Gully on our right and magnificent Bowen Falls on our left, the old steamer was eventually brought to her anchorage, and made fast for the night.
A few small lights twinkled from a building on the shore. The lights were from the windows of the home of Donald Sutherland, the famous explorer and guide, and we held our breath and blinked our eyes. Could it possibly be that we were at Milford Sound—the place of our dreams?
The task of conveying our goods and chattels, together with camp gear, working tools, provisions and explosives from the ship to Sandfly Point, our first camping place, occupied about two days. The good ship Hinemoa then sailed away, and we had an opportunity of surveying our new surroundings. And what a wealth of majesty and glory lay around us: mountains, rivers, lakes and sea, in rich profusion, and in their grandest and most sublime settings.
We, however, were a working party, not a party of tourists or even mild excursionists, and while we could admire our surroundings at will, our supply of food for the next six months must be safely stored, and a permanent camp set up as quickly as possible.
This latter was erected a couple of miles up the river from the head of Lake Ada. Here an advance party in charge of “the boss” had cleared and levelled a site, on which was erected a large cook house with a huge fireplace and chimney at one end and a long table down the centre. A fine storehouse was also built for the reception of our provisions.
The packing of the stores and camp gear was a strenuous and back-breaking business, especially along that first two miles of track. Each man was expected to carry loads of at least fifty pounds and to make at least five trips a day. Most of us, however, were young and
That was a wonderful summer—the days bright and clear, and the nights and mornings delightfully cool.
Occasionally a party of tourists came over the pass, and down the valley, and twice an intercolonial vessel with a large party of excursionists aboard called in at the Sound, but visitors of this kind were, at that time, few and far between.
Our only regular visitor was the guide and postman, big Donald Ross, and his visits were always eagerly looked forward to, for it was he who brought us news of the outside world. Sometimes Donald would stay the night at our camp, and then all hands would gather in the cook-house to hear the news from, perhaps, a week old newspaper, or listen to some tale the guide had to tell of his experiences since his last visit.
Early in the month of June, the Hinemoa, with the late Captain Fair-child in command again called at Milford Sound, but this time it was to take us back to our homes. Apparently it was not considered a payable proposition to keep a large party of men in that remote region during the winter months.
At the same time it was with deep regret we eventually bade “good bye” to Donald Sutherland and his good wife, for they had befriended us on many occasions during our sojourn at Milford Sound. We knew also that they would in all probability be the sole denizens of the place until the return of the party the following year.
Thus passed the spring, summer and autumn of 1892 and 1893. During that time the construction of “The Track” proceeded apace and without serious accident or important incident, but still a good portion of the formation remained uncompleted.
In the month of October, 1894, a much larger party of workmen was sent to Milford Sound with the object of pushing on with the formation work more rapidly.
On this occasion the overseer was a man named Butler, and the writer, probably because he was the youngest member of the party and possessed a very slight knowledge of survey work was attached to the overseer's “staff.”
In order to permit the workmen to get on to the job as speedily as possible, the work of transporting the camp supplies was entrusted to the guide, Donald Sutherland, and an old prospector named Jack Smith, who intended to do some prospecting round the Sound.
The new camp was situated less than five miles from the famous Falls, and on the following Christmas Day, which, by the way, was the only holiday save Sunday we kept, all the time we were engaged on the work, all hands set out to spend the day in that locality. There with the thunder of the falling waters in our ears and the spray playing on our faces we ate our Christmas lunch.
Early in the New Year, however, a sad occurrence marred the happiness of every man in the camp. One of the most popular of the workmen sickened and eventually died after he had been removed by means of a rough stretcher from his tent in the valley to the hostel at the head of the Sound. It was a laborious journey, but the greater portion of the track was now in fairly good order, and a larger boat had been placed upon Lake Ada.
A week later, on his return from a trip to the Sound, Donald Ross reported that another man was on the sick list, and the Sutherlands were hoping a steamer might call in so that the sick man could be sent away.
Two days later—on a Sunday afternoon—I well remember, Sutherland himself arrived at the camp and informed us that the man had died early that morning, and, as Mrs. Sutherland was alone in the house, he would be glad if a few of the men would hasten to her assistance.
Following the receipt of the sad news, a brief discussion took place as to what was best to be done in the circumstances. The guide and postman had gone back to Te Anau two days previously, but there was just a possibility that he may have been detained
It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon when we set out. Each carried a blanket, a knapsack containing a small amount of food and a packet of candles, for it would be dark when we got to the Pass. Two clear glass bottles with their bottoms cut off served as home-made lanterns, and thus equipped we expected to make good time from the camp to the lake.
Neither of us had been over this portion of “The Track” previously, and were consequently at a disadvantage when we reached the summit of the pass. It was now quite dark, and there was nothing to guide us.
After one of us had almost met with disaster in searching for the downward track, we decided to try a new plan. During our wanderings in the dark, we had now and then come upon snow poles—some standing erect, while others lay at an angle or flat on the ground, probably the result of a late snow-fall.
When next we came upon one of these poles, one of us stayed beside it, while the other went ahead until he discovered another guide post alongside which he would remain, until another had been located, and so on until eventually the posts led us down to the bush line and safety.
Four o'clock next morning found us again on our way. In the dim light, keas cawed at us and here and there a few rabbits scuttled out of our way, but these were the only signs of life in the whole valley that morning.
About noon, or a little later, we knew by the easier going and the gentler flow of the river that we must be reaching the end of our journey. A few more minutes, and on coming out of the bush into a small clearing another hut came into view, and—Yes—smoke was coming out of the chimney.
We shouted. A friendly voice replied. It was not the voice of Donald Ross, but that of a man engaged on some work at the head of the lake. He could, however, tell us where Donald was, and if we hurried we might just catch him. He was down at the landing getting his boat ready for the trip down the lake.
We raced for the landing, shouting as we ran. Donald Ross heard us.
A few minutes served to explain the necessity for our hasty errand, and it took but a few more minutes to get the little vessel in trim for the long row down the lake. Then with a brief “So long lads,” the guide was off bearing the boss's letter, while my mate and I returned to the hut for a rest and sleep.
We took our time on the return journey.
Looking back over the way we had come, the Clinton Valley resembled a mighty canon with towering walls on either side, while as far as the eye could see, lofty mountain peaks and ranges rose tier on tier as though jostling each other for room.
In front and below us stretched the more kindly but heavily bush-clad valley of the Arthur, with here and there a glittering snow-fed glacier intervening between sharp-pointed peaks and razor-backed ridges.
“I reckon you're what we call ‘brand tired’,” said the tobacconist to an old customer who had complained that he was losing his relish for his pipe and that for two pins he'd “chuck smoking for keeps.” “Brand tired?” queried the customer, “Do other smokers get to feel like that?” “Oh yes, often happens when you've been smoking same old brand for years as I know you have. Why not give something else a go?” “Don't think it would make much difference,” mused the customer, “what d'you recommend anyhow?” “Well, seeing you're an old smoker, I reckon you can't beat Cut Plug No. 10 (Bulls-head) full strength. Sweet as a nut and full of comfort. There's two other fine pipe blends—Cavendish and Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog). Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold are for the cigarette smoker. The five blends are being asked for all the time. No nicotine to mention in any of them. They're toasted d'you see?” The “brand tired” smoker now enjoys his pipe more than ever. No smoker ever tires of toasted!*
Yet while all this rugged grandeur lay around and above us, at our feet, basking and blushing in the noon-day sun lay such a wealth of native flora as we had never dreamed of.
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The work of shifting camp, and the necessary speed and bustle attached thereto served to divert the minds of the men from the loss they had sustained. Soon the bush resounded with song and laughter once more, while all the time the track formation was approaching nearer and nearer to its ultimate completion.
This glorious pathway has long been opened, and many thousands of trampers have passed over it since those long ago days, which the writer has attempted to recall.
Thanks to a central location, a mild climate, and its claim to possess “the safest bathing-beach in New Zealand,” Timaru holds especial favour with holiday-makers. In between their tennis and their bathing, most visitors find time to stroll to the summit of the Benvenue Cliffs. These once rugged cliff heights, now thoroughly tamed by trim lawns and elegant shrubberies, command a superb view of the spires and the towers of Timaru, and look down upon the long, lazy rollers that trail a fringe of lacey foam on the white sands of Caroline Bay.
But there is another view from the top of these cliffs which is missed by most people. Just peer over the edge and look down on to the rocks below. See how the rocks are stained a rusty red: see how the waves are lapping a tangled mass of old iron which looks like the ribs of a ship—they are the ribs of a ship. That chaos of seaworn iron tells more eloquently than any book why a harbour was built at Timaru; why the safe beach of Caroline Bay came into being; why these cliffs received the name “Benvenue.” For fifty long years and more, those iron beams have withstood sea-erosion, rock-pressure and sand-encroachment—stolidly resisting the forces of obliteration as though determined to abide there as the stark memento of a far-off, fateful day in May. I pointed out this debris to a distinguished Cambridge historian once, at the same time telling him the story. He replied, “I have been all over New Zealand, and I have been charmed with the scenery, but this is the first time that I have had anything like an historic thrill in your land.”
May 13th, 1882. It is a beautiful sunny Saturday with a light haze drifting over the horizon, while above the distant hills a sapphire-blue arch etches itself in the western sky—a day of nor' west sunshine that only Canterbury knows. Riding at anchor in the open roadstead are three stately ships. Golden grain from the newly broken-in farms is being loaded into their holds from lighters towed out from the shore. On the morrow these vessels will be leaving Timaru. Not even the famous China Clippers hold better speed records than these wheat-wool greyhounds that soon will billow their sails to favouring trade winds and race to Mother England. As the day draws to its close, the ships finish loading.
At the sunset of that day a slight swell began to make itself felt, and as the evening drew on the sea became perceptibly rougher. Towards midnight the sea increased rapidly in force, but still there was little wind. The tide was now at its maximum, and those who knew the weather signs prophesied that at ebb tide the sea would increase in violence—a prophecy only too true, for with the dawn a heavy swell was running and the roaring of the surf could be heard for miles inland. All through the night Captain Mills, the Harbourmaster, kept constant watch on the ships riding in the roadstead. Daylight revealed these ships riding heavily, so he deemed it prudent to fire the signal gun, summoning the rocket brigade.
Straight away the brigade assembled. In the fiery splendour of the rising sun,
Rly. Publicity photo.)
Christchurch—Invercargill Express passing: through Caroline Bay, Timaru, South Island, New Zealand.
Benvenue had two anchors out and the City of Perth three; but even with these extra holdings, the ships could not continuously withstand the terrific poundings those seas were thundering aboard the vessels—something would have to go. Eight-thirty in the morning—snap—a cable on the Benvenue parted. The sundering of this cable sent the ship listing dangerously to starboard. The tilting of the ship continued at an alarming rate, and it looked terrifyingly evident that the vessel might capsize.
But look! a signal of distress comes from the ship.
Just at that moment, when things were looking blackest, gusts of nor' west wind began to blow from the land. Responding immediately to the wind, the Benvenue swung round and glided out of danger. The Harbourmaster then ran up signals from shore to instruct the ship to trim its cargo of coal and to prepare to put to sea. Answer came from the ship that the rudder was out of order, and repairs would have to be effected before it could depart.
Taking advantage of the breeze from the nor' west, the City of Perth loosened topsails and made ready to put to sea. Seeing what the City of Perth was about to do, the Benvenue decided to follow its example, and ran up the signal “sailing.” To the signal from shore, “Is there anything wrong?”, the City of Perth replied “All right,” and
It was now eleven o'clock in the morning and many of the spectators who had been there for some hours were making for home. Suddenly the Benvenue, to the astonishment of all concerned, ran up the signal, “Drifting.”
The Rocket Brigade asked, “Do you want an anchor?”
Quick came the Benvenue's reply, “Yes.”
The Harbourmaster, fearing that no boat could live in those angry waters, was against the launching of the lifeboat. What with bells, warnings and signals that had been going on all the morning, the whole town was by this time in a ferment, and the waterfront was crowded with Timaru's almost entire population.
The light nor' west wind that had sprung up earlier in the morning continued to blow until mid-day, then suddenly it dropped and the air became still and sultry. In spite of the drop in the wind, the ships seemed comparatively safe. At one o'clock, the Benvenue started to drift. At the same time a boat was lowered from the ship, the crew clambered into the boat and made for the City of Perth. Those on shore, not knowing what was happening on the ships, were mystified by these proceedings, and, as a measure of precaution, the rocket brigade hastened to the cliffs at Dashing Rocks, in order to make ready to rescue the crew of the Benvenue with the aid of lifelines.
Very steadily and very quietly the ill-fated ship drifted to the rocks—had it been guided into dock by an expert steersman it could not have sailed a straighter course. Nearer and nearer she drifted to the cliffs—one hundred—seventy—fifty yards from the shore—then she grounded, turned broadside on to the sea and was soon hurtled on to the rocks and left there, high and dry, with all spars standing. And all this time, from the clifftops above, throngs of people looked down in helpless consternation at this noble ship glistening in the brilliant sunshine as she drifted, inch by inch, to her doom.
What had been happening on board the ship all this time? The captain of the Benvenue stated that towards one o'clock on Sunday morning, the sea became very heavy and the vessel, which was lying stern to it, began rolling and lurching heavily. Numbers of blind rollers came aboard, breaking-in the stern windows and sweeping the poop. All hands were called. Soon afterwards a heavy sea struck her, and it was thought the ship had struck the ground, but an examination revealed that her rudder had been broken and the remainder of her stern ports staved-in. Continuing their fearsome attack, the seas then swept a boat off the skids. A second anchor was let go, and the ship then fell into a trough of the sea; the cargo of coal in the hold, although held by shifting boards, was thrown over to starboard, resulting in a dangerous list.
Daylight was anxiously awaited, the boats meantime being made ready for lowering. At 9 a.m. the starboard cable parted from the ship. A third anchor was got up and a steel wire hawser bent on. At the same time efforts were made to trim the coals, but no sooner had the crew shovelled one way, than the rolling of the vessel lurched the coals back again. By 12.30 p.m., the third anchor was ready, but the pitching of the vessel made the task of getting it over the side difficult and dangerous. By one o'clock in the afternoon, the second anchor parted, and it was soon seen that the vessel was drifting and gradually heeling over. The crew were ordered to the boats, the ship was abandoned, and the crew made for the City of Perth.
Hardly had the Benvenue struck the rocks than the City of Perth started drifting, at the same time flying her ensign down and the signal for “medical assistance.” Four boats then left the