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Alexandra, Central Otago, South Island, New Zealand
The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The alm of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this Journal the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a non de plume.
Contributions are accepted for publication only upon the express condition that the contributor will indemnify the Publishers of the Magazine against all claims made by reason of anything in the contribution constituting an infringement of copyright or being defamatory.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
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The Editor cannot undertake the return of MS. unless accompanied with a stamped and addressed envelope.
All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “new zealand railways magazine” has not been lass than 24,000 copies each issue since april, 1938
Controller and Auditor-Genaral
10/11/38.
-campbell.
Mt. Egmont (8,260ft.) North Island, New Zealand
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The people of Wellington and visitors to the Capital City are daily becoming more interested and impressed by the New Zealand Centennial Exhibition buildings and grounds as these take shape in the hands of architects, builders and landscape artists.
With the opening day still about six months away, it can be confidently anticipated that the tractive power of the Exhibition, as the hub of the Dominion's Centennial Celebrations, will greatly excel that of anything of the kind staged in this country previously and will compare favourably with the best to be seen or experienced in other lands.
Not only will there be notable representation of the various provincial districts, but the Dominion as a whole will be placed picturesquely and dramatically before the eyes of visitors; whilst other countries, with Great Britain in the lead, will contribute their part to the display of economic and cultural developments which have marked the past hundred years of progress.
But beyond the mere display element associated with the pageantry appropriate for occasions of the kind. “celebrations” call for something more. They require a joyous outpouring from the wells of happiness that reside somewhere in every soul and that can be drawn on by any appropriate occasion.
New Zealanders, although blessed with a climate and other natural endowments that help towards the fulness of life, are not as a rule demonstrative; they take their pleasures and their privileges more as a matter of course than most peoples. They won't be bustled, can't be scared, and are not easily stirred. But there is a ferment working among them now that promises the proper celebrating spirit as the hundred-year mark is approached, and as the facts regarding the vast achievements in national development and progress recorded by this country are spread and become more consciously acknowledged.
Our pioneers, our legislators, our leaders in every line of life—law, transport, primary production, manufacture, sport, education—throughout this hundred years, deserve our gratitude.
The idea of jubilee celebrations is deep rooted in the history of mankind, and the greater the occasion for gratitude the greater should the celebration be. On this ground alone New Zealanders may be expected to celebrate in a spirit worthy of the forebears whose work and enterprise, energy and courage, it is their exceeding good fortune to inherit.
An important feature of more than general interest to the public and railwaymen alike will be the commencement on Sunday, the 16th April, of the new rail car service between New Plymouth and Wellington by means of the Standard rail car “Aotea.”
So far as the two rail car services already in operation in New Zealand are concerned, it may be said that both have proved popular in an increasing degree from the time of their inception. The first of these services connects Palmerston North and the Wairarapa with Wellington via the Manawatu Gorge and the Rimutaka Incline (with its exceptional average grade of 3 miles of 1 foot in every 14 feet), and the second provides a newspaper and passenger service between Hokitika, Greymouth and Christchurch, through the 5 ¼ mile Otira Tunnel. However, the rail cars provided on these special services were constructed to suit the routes and purposes for which they were specially designed. This makes them somewhat less attractive from the purely passenger aspect, than the Standard type of rail car the Department has been able to evolve for use on such runs as that between Wellington and New Plymouth.
For this reason I anticipate even more satisfactory results from the new service, which will, as previously announced, be followed by others as the units become available.
I desire to take this opportunity of thanking the Taranaki Chamber of Commerce and other representative bodies for their very real assistance to the Department in arranging a public meeting and assembling from all the centres most vitally concerned, and for giving me an opportunity to discuss with them the proposed time-tables.
In this connection I particularly appreciate the fact that, after the whole case had been fairly stated by the representative men present, a unanimous decision was made in favour of the time-table which is to be inaugurated.
It was an instance of co-operation that stands to the credit of all the participants and that should ensure the desired support of this new transport facility throughout the Taranaki province.
I may say that wherever rail cars have been introduced on our system so far, there has been a marked increase in passenger traffic, and I think that Taranaki, because of the many advantages of the new service, may be expected to respond to the stimulus of faster, cleaner, more comfortable, and more frequent rail transport to an even greater extent.
General Manager.
It seems a strange transition from ingots and stanchions to filmy fabrics; from angular metal mechanisms to cobwebby frillies of delicate colours; but the way of it is this: in my last article I dealt with the engineering industry of New Zealand. I was startled to find the range and complexity of the things of iron and steel that are made in New Zealand, competently, efficiently, of world parity for value, and in some cases on a scale of Old World magnitude.
Clothing was next on my list, and I received a still greater surprise when I learned the extent of this New Zealand industry. It has as many branches as a well-grown rimu and spreads throughout the length and breadth of New Zealand. The clothing industry, in round figures, has three hundred and fifty establishments, employing twelve thousand people, whose earnings are nearly a millon and half in wages each year. These approximate figures are imposing, and obviously this interesting territory of New Zealand industry had to be divided into provinces. As in my last story, I have chosen four typical plants, situated at Auckland, Palmerston North, and Wellington, and I select for survey in this article the fascinating business of manufacturing women's underwear.
It is clear at once that the problems of the underwear manufactures differ in essentials from those of the engineer. The latter has to make an article that works and wears, and its appearance is subsidiary to the main objective.
In the making of “frillies,” appearance is the first consideration, for fit and design are both part of this factor; but wearing qualities are, of course, also important. However, the first appeal is aesthetic, and the buyers are ruled by fashion, fancy, and taste. Gone are the days when red flannelette was the utilitarian fabric in general use, and when anything homely and comfortable would do in the way of a garment that was out of sight. To-day, modern underclothes are necessities, and, in such a country as New Zealand, form part of the budget of the vast majority of our feminine population. For a mere male, I have been in a strange country, a land of delicate colours, delightful fabrics, brocades and trimmings, laces and graces, dainty designs, a fairyland of silk, gauze, and shimmering tints.
To my surprise I found that the most modern of these pretty things did not come from Paris or Vienna; they were made here in New Zealand, and in some cases, the very stuff from which they were fashioned was woven by intricate machines tended by New Zealanders.
In the last week or two I have seen thousands of expensive-looking garments, representing I know not how many qualms of fear for husbands and fathers. But one piece of sheer truth struck me as worth enunciating at once.
Handling, with genuine pride, a diaphanous affair of pale blue and soft pink, a factory manager said to me: “If this pyjama suit were tabbed ‘Paris’ and priced at four times our rate, it would be rushed.”
In more than one New Zealand establishment I saw the green cover of “Lingerie Elegante,” the sacred book of the underwear designer, published in Vienna. I said to a captain of one of these raiment ships: “Can you make this sort of thing?” and he was almost exasperated. “Of course,” he said sharply. “Every single one—and we can improve on some of them.”
It was a simmering day when we called in at the Silknit factory in Auckland. This is the home of “Maybelle.” My education in the New Zealand underwear industry had a good beginning in the large, modern, airy, manywindowed machine room of this fine place. I saw the replica here of the engineer's template. It is a brown-paper pattern which is placed on the top of a thick mass of fabrics and a cutting machine sheers through the lot, fifty at a time.
(1) A spacious workroom at the Abelco factory, Wellington. (2) Assembly and machine-room at Lustre's, Wellington. (3) The Flatlock sewing machine, Silknit factory, Auckland. (4) Modern workroom, Silknit, Auckland. (5) Dry heat-press at Silknit, Auckland. (6) Sorting room at Symington's, Wellington.
The sewing machines are a diverse family; they do 4,500 stitches a minute and perform a variety of miracles. One machine cuts off raw edges and stitches at the same time, making the seam part of the garment itself. The Flatlock machine has extra qualities, and I got a thrill from watching a graceful lily, in embroidery, with leaves, flower and yellow pistil, blossom under a needle in a matter of seconds.
It could not have been painted any more swiftly as the clever girl wrought this witchcraft with her machine. I found out what a picot edge is, and, above all, what is meant by “locknit,” that knitting process which has done away for all time with the “laddering” of cloths. Each individual stitch under this method is looked to the next so that to get a hole, the cloth has to be wrenched apart or bored with some instrument. From the cutting-room, the garments run down a chute to the machine-room, and they make a further descent when assembled and completed, for they dive again to the floor where electric presses put the final touch.
I was keenly interested in the device which threaded the elastic into the hem of garments and noticed that at every wearing point, there was a reinforcement.
As in other establishments, the designers are from overseas and up-to-date innovations are constantly being introduced. I felt, though, in the Silknit factory that there was special attention to faithful making, to New Zealand special needs, and to the genuine cult of beauty.
The lunch-room, with radio and good appointments, was worth seeing, and there are well-equipped cloak rooms, a Red Cross room, and every help to comfort for the large staff.
This spacious, efficient, modern plant is a credit to New Zealand, but its show-room was a revelation. It would be idle for me to attempt to detail the bewildering array of lovely things that hung in rows everywhere What was convincing was the pride and satisfaction of the works manager as he displayed these multi-coloured jewels. “Nothing better in the world,” he said … “only dearer, that's all.”
I stepped off at Palmerston North on
This notable addition to the possessions of the North Island's largest inland town belongs to R. & W. H. Symington (N.Z.) Ltd., who also have a large factory in Wellington. They also have, by the way, one of the largest works in England (at Market Harborough), two in Victoria, and one in the Irish Free State (at Dundalk).
Northing can possibly be better for New Zealand than the establishment of industrial undertakings in our pleasant provincial centres. All the disadvantages of the crowded city are missing, and in our country, all the amenities of a metropolitan life are present. There is an air about “Libertyland” which is distinctive and in some way is redolent of the countryside. It is a one-storey building, windows on all sides. It is as light inside as out and has no resemblance to the average conception of a factory.
As Symingtons have their great English establishment, they naturally send their specially trained English girls out to New Zealand for the tuition of our feminine workers.
Experts, including designers, are also men of Old World training, so that “Liberty” underwear can come in for no criticisms based on the idea that New Zealand-made articles in some way suffer from inferior craftsmanship, or lack of modernity in fashion.
Here again, I took at random, an illustrious garment from “Lingerie Elegante, 1939,” an elaborate and delicate affair. The manager took me to the show-room and there it was. As I checked the French description, I give
The next visit was paid to the Lustre works in Wellington.
The familiar names here are Dullbloom, Florette and Velvaray. There are other fancy materials, the importance of which is that they are woven in the company's mills in Australia and New Zealand.
These weaving machines are intensely interesting. The thread comes out wrapped round huge cones. Each one of these carries 65 miles of silk thread, each single thread consisting of still finer filaments, seventy-two in each.
The cones revolve at the top, precisely like a cotton reel on a sewing machine. Underneath, an enormous reel winds slowly and steadily, automatically keeping an even tension as the fabric comes from the actual knitting apparatus.
These mechanical marvels actually make the locknit material, and they have the same uncanny precision of working and the apparent intelligence which we associate with the linotype.
But the star of this factory is the Crochette machine. These are robots in metal.
They will knit a garment in any pattern and they handle a problem like “purl and plain” with uncanny ease and precision. They make all types of vests, panties, beach wear and other distinctively designed underwear. The pattern drums are the sources of this magic. They consist of the replicas in metal of a thousand fingers holding a thousand knitting needles, and they are arranged so that the stitch is changed, a fullness can be inserted, ornamental stitchery added, and the shape followed exactly. Watching these automata at work is full of surprises. The speed gathers, then slows down, gathers again, all at irregular intervals, until one feels that an intelligence must be running the show from somewhere inside the tracery of rods, wheels, revolving drums, and shining “gadgets.”
These machines can make use of any material, all wool, silk and wool, all silk, and so on.
On the manager's table was a cone of New Zealand wool, but this room gave me a new light on the way these problems are tackled in New Zealand. This technician of world-wide experience showed me an attractive vest. He had worn it, and his wife had worn it, for the purpose of effectually testing its washing and other qualities. He explained that experiments in new garments were laden with traps, and constant research, everlasting patience, and persistent ingenuity were needed with each new article.
Still, as he explained, that was the way of progress and the New Zealand Lustre factory was in the van.
Here again was the feeling of outdoors in the well-lit rooms, and the staff lunch-room is a fine specimen of “The Room with a View.” The whole harbour lies before it and, as this was one of Wellington's blue days, it was beautiful indeed.
We took our pictures, said goodbye to the modern electric press, and looked again at the brocaded silks, the lovely things of gossamer, and the sturdier fabrics, and row upon row of exquisite things in tender colours which will one day help in assembling trousseaux and filling the well-known ‘bottom drawer.”
Then we called at the big Abelco factory. This is almost a national institution, and a cause for just pride in all New Zealanders. It is the brain child of a returned soldier with a practical mind, and a breezy personality.
I felt like taking my hat off to Gollin & Co. and Joseph Abel, as I took my leave of this great modern combination of factory and warehouse. Underwear is only one avenue of the spreading activities of this vast concern which uses, literally, millions of yards of British thread in a year, 13 miles of material, and the figures are growing every month.
The plant is a triumph of factory planning. The lighting is uncannily like clear outside daylight, for windows seem to form the walls. The lunchroom, with kitchenette, racks for shoes and slippers, coat hangers, is spacious and comfortable. An electric urn and cooking appliances provide the conveniences for morning tea and luncheon, and the place is always bright with flowers. There is a room set aside for the men, and a further well-appointed rest-room with first-aid outfit.
I was pleased to see kauri tops on the long sewing benches which, by the way, have ample room between the operators. There are adjustable stools and specially designed chairs for each worker, and a good notion is the box for personal belongings.
Tables which have the appearance of a race-track are the sight of the cutting-room. They run the whole length of the factory. Up and down these, scamper cutting machines which perform the most extraordinary feats.
The “Lay” consists as a rule of six inches of material, but the thickness can run to eight inches. Where the materials are of fine quality, very large figures emerge from the measurements of cloth cut at one operation.
For instance, 5,600 garments can be cut from one “Lay,” and the total length of material handled in one cutting can reach nine miles.
The “Du Barry” underwear is well-known, and here again, I spent a delightful hour looking at artistic ranges of tint, material, and design. I made the acquaintance of “Lullaby” cloth, a soft and attractive stuff which takes rainbow colourings.
I was also introduced to cotton “interlock” which is bought by the pound. Again in the capacity of a mere male, I liked the comfortable feel of this material and learned of its absorbent and dyeing qualities.
There is no question that the old vexation of the “laddering” material is over for ever. I shall become wearisome if I mention again the uncanny breed of modern sewing machines which smock, embroider, do perfect scams, sew on buttons and make button holes, all at the rates of thousands each day.
The outstanding feature of all this mechanical activity is its ease of working. Electrical power does the hard work. I shall have to return to Abelco in a later article, but it is comforting to find this sturdy industrial tree growing so quickly and maintaining its distinctive New Zealand character.
There are, of course, dozens of other establishments in New Zealand devoted to the task of making smart and dainty things for New Zealand women and children. The four plants covered in
I found that the underwear industry was led by men who were primarily artists. Over and over again, these experts handled their delectable exhibits with a genuine fondness, an aesthetic enthusiasm. I believed them when they said that these creations were at least as choice as anything from overseas. They lamented the attitude of mind which imagined that a garment had to journey here from overseas to acquire fashionable qualities. Our New Zealand factories have access to every latest modern design, every quirk of fashion, every new notion, every innovation in material, embroidery, and decorative methods.
Our establishments compete in price now, but as one works manager said bluntly: “Buy more New Zealand underwear, and we'll soon get the prices down.”
To my exceeding comfort I learned that our girls coming from good homes, and working under happy conditions, are developing a superb craftsmanship. Enthusiasm on the part of our feminine purchasers will produce a corresponding response from the folks who work in this pleasant industry. It is to be remembered that we can only get from New Zealand the results of our own work, and we can only make industries successful if we support them heartily.
The New Zealand underwear industry gives value for our money, work for our folks, and artistic satisfaction to the most critical. In other words our “frillies” are in good shape.
Sleepy Mercury Bay, centre of a rich dairying district and favoured haunt of the summer camper and the big-game fisherman, presents an interesting aspect to-day compared with that of the early years of the present century. Gone are the remains of the first sawmill which, 110 years ago, fitted lofty kauri masts and spars into the sailing vessels — merchantmen and frigates of the line—which called there for refit. Blackened, dead stumps on the denuded hills tell of the once furious activity of that mill, but of itself there remains but one trace. The whistle which summoned the workers to their daily task now functions in the modern dairy factory which has superseded it.
Gone, too, is the racecourse upon which many an exciting equine contest was staged in the lusty, vigorous days of the bushfellers which preceded the present languorous calm of the district.
The marks of the earlier Maori settlement are, however, abundant in the region, and the trenches of their pas, around whose palisades many a sanguinary battle has been fought, are still visible on the grassy slopes of several hills. Going back even further one finds an iron spike driven into the rocky summit of a headland marking the spot from which the famous navigator, Captain James Cook, landed for the second time in this country to make observations of a transit of Mercury, 170 years ago.
Mercury Bay, indeed, is steeped in historical associations. It featured in our island's story long before Captain Cook's voyages of discovery, for place names in the district reveal that it was populated by the Maoris as early as the fourteenth century, when a band
(Photo., R. McIntosh.) A glimpse of the township of Whitianga from the site of the first sawmill and shipyard across the river.
The district has its historic link with another famous navigator in the name of the township itself, for Whitianga-a-Kupe means the “Crossing place of Kupe.” Just to the south of the township is a spot near the river where was fought a memorable inter-tribal battle.
Across the river from the township, Whitianga Rock (which rises almost perpendicularly from the water near the mouth of the river) is famous in Maori legend as a pa of Hei. Being impossible to scale on three sides on account of its precipitous walls this pa held a commanding position and on many occasions fierce intertribal warfare centred around its palisades.
It was its last stand, however, which made the rock famous in Maori mythology, for it was, in New Zealand's history, the scene of the first aerial
The whites first set foot on these shores when Cook was making his first voyage of exploration up the eastern coast of the North Island.
Cook and his men landed on a magnificent sweep of ocean beach which to-day is known as Cook's beach, and while the Endeavour was careened for cleaning, parties of men cut wood and replenished the water supply. From the crest of a headland nearby the telescopes were set up for the observation of the transit of Mercury, already referred to. The fact that these observations were successfully completed is apparent from the names Mercury Bay, Great Mercury, and Red Mercury Islands.
Cook also found time to explore the fast-running Whitianga River, which he named Mangrove River. In his journal one can read that “the river branched into several channels forming a number of very low, flat islands, all covered with a sort of mangrove tree.” In this brief survey, conducted in the ship's boats, the navigator noted the presence on the beaches and adhering to the mangroves of a sort of resin which he believed to have been exuded from the mangrove trees. Actually it was kauri gum which he had discovered.
The fact that the river and bay were rich in fish is also recorded in the journal, for the natives established friendly contact with Cook's crew, and bartered fish for pieces of coloured cloth.
The bay next featured in historical records very early in the story of the colonisation of the Dominion, for even before colonisation had begun many early traders and warships secured kauri spars from the richly wooded hills which encircled the bay, and to which easy access could be had up the Whitianga River and its tributaries,
By the early ‘fifties an extensive European settlement had grown up on the eastern side of the river, and in 1862 a large sawmill was opened. This operated for twenty years. Eventually, the mill, which had been erected at the foot of the famous pa of Hei, Whitianga Rock, was unable to cope with the huge tally of logs being sent down the river, and, in 1881, it was found necessary to remove it to the other side of the river, where more land was available for its expansion.
Unlike most of the other townships on the Hauraki Peninsula, Mercury Bay's prosperity rested upon its magnificent kauri forests and not upon the gold which was so richly found further to the west, but, although the trees lasted longer than the gold deposits, the hills were denuded so rapidly that the end of the industry came in sight.
For many years the mill worked night and day, 140 men working two 10-hour shifts, and over a period of 60 years, more than 500 million feet of kauri were exported. In the course of the industry a giant of the forest, 24 feet in diameter, was felled and passed under the saws and planing machines.
The shipyards also played an important part in the life of the young township, producing over a dozen vessels,
Buffalo, an 18-gun vessel calling at the shipyard for a load of spars encountered a severe gale and was driven ashore on the beach which bears its name. Within living memory the ribs of its stout hull were exposed from the sand at very low tides, but in recent years even this relic of the wreck was covered by the sand. It remained for another severe gale in February, 1936, to unearth the last of the oncesturdy vessel, a portion of the frame some six feet long and sheathed in heavy copper, which bore the broad arrows associated with the Buffalo's principal trade, the carrying of “emigrants” to Australia.
When the last of the magnificent forests had been felled, in 1922 the sawmill closed down, and the fires of sawdust and scraps which had smouldered on the beach for 50 years died into embers and vanished. Many of the workers left for other parts, but others found that wealth was still to be secured in the hills from the many deposits of kauri gum, and they soon burned out the remnants of the bush left by the bushmen. The name Gumtown, or Coroglen, records this passing phase.
To-day the hills, barren and eroded, surrounding the bay, are a rather melancholy sight to the nature lover. Here and there may be seen a clump of dead and blackened stumps—all that remains of the magnificent bush.
With the passing of the mill, the township naturally received a severe setback, but, unlike the other towns of the peninsula, which had no other source of revenue than gold, Whitianga was able to turn to other fields. Those of the old houses which are still standing became the abode of fishermen and storekeepers and of the old folk who have lived their lives in the district and remember the past glory of the township.
To-day the prosperity of the district depends upon the more enduring wealth to be won from the rich alluvial flats nestling at the foot of the hills, and dairy cows, supplemented by sheep on the more hilly back country, provide the residents with a permanent and more stable means of living.
Mercury Bay and the township of Whitianga can be reached in a variety of ways. From the railhead at Thames a service car takes one along the picturesque, winding coast road, up high into the hills, from the summit of which (1,450 ft.) on a clear day, a glimpse of Rangitoto, at the mouth of Auckland Harbour, some 50 miles away, can be obtained. Sometimes the car takes the old Coromandel coach road, which is even more winding than the one via Tapu, but which is particularly interesting on account of the glimpses obtained here and there of the mouths of abandoned mine shafts on the rocky hills.
The Bay can also be reached by boat on infrequent occasions, after a slow but interesting trip down the coast, loading and discharging cargo at many a beach that has never boasted of a wharf. The most interesting access of all, however, is to walk from Thames. The journey then takes longer, but it is well worth the expenditure of the extra effort entailed.
The quiet seclusion of the many beautiful beaches appeals most of all to the many holiday campers who make it their rendezvous. After seeing a popular city beach, like Milford or Lyall Bay on a public holiday, with the sands literally black with people, the experience of having a magnificent strand of white sand miles in length entirely to oneself is certainly novel. There are six such beaches flanking the Bay, and one does not have to go far to escape the madding crowd.
As a centre for the activities of the deep sea angler in the good old days when Zane Grey used to come to Mer
In her very readable “Confessions of a Society Woman,” the anonymous writer says she became “engaged” when 17 years of age. At that time women had a horror of tobacco-smoke, so this young lady exacted a pledge from her “intended”—most reluctantly given—that he would abandon smoking for ever before they were married. Six months later the young wife was glad to absolve her husband from his vow. She states his temper, as the result of enforced abstinence from tobacco became “abominable.” Directly he resumed his pipe, he became his old genial self again! Moral: Every lady should encourage her husband to smoke, Robert Louis Stevenson said that, and he knew! Of course discrimination should be exercised in the choice of tobacco. Some brands are not at all likely to promote harmony in the home. “The World's purest” is “toasted New Zealand.” No nicotine in it, or next to none. It's toasted! and how good it is! Five brands: Riverhead Gold, Desert Gold, Navy Cut No. 3, Cavendish, and Cut Plug No. 10.*
As a member of the climbing party associated with the conquest of Mt. Tapuaenuku (9,467 ft.) described by my friend, F. G. Fitzgerald, in an article in the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” for October, 1938, there came back to me a memory of the magnificent view which we obtained from the summit of that noble peak—a view of the entire province of Marlborough. Inspiring as this was, my eyes turned constantly in another direction—to the west. On the jagged skyline some fifty miles away a row of peaks soared into the cobalt sky and I recalled the time when I had accompanied a small party to the seldom visited area which lies to the south of Lakes Roto-iti and Roto-roa in the sunny neighbouring province of Nelson.
Lake Roto-iti! A blue gem of purest lapis-lazuli in a setting of jade. Especailly on this warm, summer day on which I write, when Wellington folk are attracted to the bays and beaches, I can visualise it, as it appeared to me that day from the northern shore.
The white wraiths that were the morning mists were being wafted from the shadowed valleys. Directly opposite on the southern bank began the Travers Valley, our immediate destination. To the west was the range (on which we hoped to climb) which ended near the head of the valley in that inspiring “little Matterhorn,” Mt. Travers, 7,666 ft. To the east the St. Arnaud Range ran parallel, joining the western range some miles up the valley.
I cannot imagine a more perfect starting place than Roto-iti for those energetic ones who would explore the mountain chains among which the principal rivers of Nelson have their sources.
In a report to the Provincial Government at Nelson, in 1861, of his explorations and geological findings, Sir Julius von Haast describes his impressions of the lake thus:—
“It was with the greatest delight
“Its peaceful aspect was, however, soon changed, for a heavy storm came up from the westward; and the thunder, re-echoing a hundred times from the mountain ravines, filled us with admiring awe.
“Towards evening the weather cleared, a magnificent rainbow threw its arch across the lake, and the setting sun gilded with deep hues the snow which streaked the serrated peaks of the surrounding mountain chains.”
A tribute to the valuable work done by Haast in 1859 in this area was paid by the distinguished Dr. Ferdinand von Hochstetter with whom Haast was associated as chief field assistant and topographer. He wrote: “From the Roto-iti Lake, I saw the mighty summits of the southern mountain chains,
The lake can be crossed by launch or, if one prefers, it is a pleasant walk of some five miles around the eastern side. Those who are shouldering heavy ruc-sacs containing many days' provisions, will doubtless prefer the former mode of travel.
As one tramps up the Travers Valley, over grassy flats near its mouth and further south along deer tracks in the beech forests which stretch to the banks of the river, it is impossible not to be impressed by the sheer grandeur and beauty that unravels before the eyes.
Among the interesting features of the mountain torrents that flow into the Travers River from the side valleys, are the waterfalls. Gazing at but one of these that cascade over great rocky bluffs, one can readily believe that if but a few of them were in some of our more popular and accessible tourist areas, they would be advertised as outstanding attractions and pointed to with justifiable pride. Here, however, they remain unknown and unnamed.
A stream from the western range flowing into the river near the head of the valley, if followed, takes one to an immense natural amphitheatre where on the long sweep of the range above tower three majestic peaks over seven thousand feet high. They are the main sentinels rising above this fairyland, hidden from the haunts of men. From north to south they are Mt. Hopeless, Little Twin Peak and Mt. Travers.
From Roto-iti, the main Travers Valley gradually rises and the head of the valley is over 4,000 feet above sea level. It is here a little brook trickles down the gentle slopes and the realisation comes to one that here is the actual source of the mighty Buller River.
“From such small beginnings …”
The view from the valley's head is indeed an extensive one, but nothing to be compared with that from the summit of Mt. Travers, 7,666 ft. From this lofty mountain summit the vista southward baffles adequate description. As far as the eye can see, hundreds of serrated, blue-grey mountain peaks, capped with snow, stretch to and beyond the borders of Canterbury. Rugged, wild country this, of which Dr. James Park said over fifty years ago: “Although occupying a prominent position in the Province of Nelson, this important mountain region is almost unknown.”
To-day his words still apply, and a fervent desire comes to one to tread those far summits and explore the lonely valleys at their bases.
Mr. D. Winright Rodie (the elder son of a former Commercial Manager, New Zealand Railways) in a recent letter, gives some interesting information regarding the very comprehensive preparations being made in Great Britain by leading firms for protection against gas attacks. Mr. Rodie, who trained at Leylands, in Lancashire, and with the Midland Bus Company (L.M.S. Railway), is attending, on behalf of his firm, the Eastwood Park Civilian Anti-Gas School at Falfield, Gloucestershire. At the conclusion of his present training he will be warden in sole charge of the air-raid precautions for his firm at Birmingham. He states that there is a staff of about 4,000 to be trained in the protection of the 28 garages and 1,200 buses against various kinds of gas attacks and air raids, and he expects the work will take about a year to complete. He describes his experiences in learning to detect different gases and their effects: “I have smelt about eight gases, some deadly in the right proportions and some otherwise. We have had to walk through tear gas without gas masks and cry terribly in consequence. We also had to walk through a nose and lung irritant gas which makes one sneeze and cough and produces a burning sensation in the throat and lungs, fortunately all over in a few minutes without, in this case, any ill effects.”
Samoa forty years ago, just before the German flag went up, was a kind of No-Man's Land. The Samoans owned the land, it is true, but they and the Germans, British and Americans made life mighty lively for one another with rifle and head-chopping knife, and Naval big gun and machine-gun; and the royal and dominant native party one month might be the rebels in ambush in the bush the next. In the early part of 1899, when I had a look in at Apia and thereabouts, on newspaper duty, I tried to disentangle for myself the verities and otherwise of the political situation. The Beach that is now such a well-paved motor-way was a chain of quick-firer and machine-gun posts and trenches and parapets. A six-inch gun from one of the warships was mounted at the entrenched entrance to the great native town of Mulinuu, the headquarters of the loyalist or Malietoa faction. British and American naval forces occupied the town, built stragglewise along the waterfront among its breadfruit trees and its tall coco-palms; and their ships of war together with one German gunboat almost filled the unrestful coral-studded harbour.
For the time being the Royal side was the Malietoa party, and the gallant old warrior Mataafa, who at various times had fought successfully each of the three Powers that had their fingers in the Island pie, was in retreat in the bush, camped comfortably in historic Vailima. Almost abreast of us lay H.M.S. Royalist, a square-rigged screw corvette, her topgallant masts housed, everything about her grim and business-like, just in from a shelling expedition along the Upolu coast. Near her were her consorts, the cruiser Tauranga and the gunboat Porpoise and the little Torch. Not far away the big white flagship Philadelphia, flying the Stars and Stripes, was anchored, and in the other direction, off the Mulinuu beach, lay the German gunboat Falke, by herself, regarded with suspicion by every officer and man in the ships of the other Powers. The Germans supported Ma
However, all that, and its sequel is now history. What I set out to describe is a fortunate opportunity of witnessing and taking part by invitation in a royal fono, with its ceremonious and hospitable accompaniment, a King's Kava-drinking.
When the grateful dark came down one night after a blazing, blistering day, and the refreshing breath of the land breeze from the mountains of Upolu
Kava-drinking and a big talk. As events proved it was one of the last royal fono's ever held in Samoa, for the frequently-changed kingship was soon abolished. The plumes of the coco-palms rustled softly over us in the night air as we walked down the white path of crushed coral that skirted the beach under the dark blue dome in which the constellations blazed like lamps. Away beyond on the black woody ranges, the night mists stole down; and across the lagoon to our left faintly glimmered in the groves a rebel outpost's camp-fire.
A sentry's challenge was answered, we passed the scrutiny of the hard-jawed Yankee bluejacket, armed with his Lee straight-pull rifle and short sword-bayonet, and passed on through the trenches where an Anglo-American force with naval guns commanded that entrance to Mulinuu. Bare-backed warriors, rifle on shoulder, and the long head-knife hanging at belt, strode soft-footed past us and we entered the largest native camp in the South Sea Islands. We went down a long palm-shadowed road. Hundreds of lights twinkled in the low-sided thatched wall-less houses, oval in shape. Laughter and song came from the houses; in some of the dwellings the families were at their evening devotions, for the sound of hymns chanted in the liquid native tongue, so free from harsh consonants, floated to our ears through the fragrant night.
“Talofa, ali'i!” The welcome came from a grey-headed warrior who stood guard at the great thatched house.
An oil-lamp on the floor lit up the house, and the steady rays illumined the woven leaf-roof, and the sinnet fastenings of the council-chamber, and the dark forms and glittering eyes of the silent warriors.
A portion of the space round the floor-circle had been left for the white guests, and we took our seats on the soft mats. Here were the representatives of the Powers in this remote corner of the seas; the keen-featured commander of the American flagship Philadelphia; alert Sturdee of H.M.S. Porpoise, the Tauranga's Captain Stuart, the Consuls, the Chief Justice of Samoa, and other officials, all cool-looking in their white suits.
Then came His Majesty King Tanu Mafili Malietoa, an under-sized young fellow in a white jacket and a print lavalava. He was accompanied by the Vice-king Tamasese, a vigorous athletic young warrior, a great contrast to the boy King.
A clapping of hands and a subdued hum from the islanders announced the
(Photo. on board a British warship at Apia. 1899.)
kava ('ava in Samoan) in a large polished wooden bowl, borne by two men from an adjoining house in which the beverage had been prepared. This was a fono of high chiefs, and it would have been contrary to etiquette in such a case for women to have brought in the kava. The drink was on this occasion prepared by grating the root, and not by chewing it. The 'ava is closely related to our New Zealand kawakawa.
“The 'ava is ready!” announced the King's talking-man or tulafale. He stood up, a tall burly fellow, his only garment a waist-lavalava, falling to the knees, but looped up on one side to show the intricate-patterned leg tattooing of which Samoans are so proud. “The 'ava is ready!” and with a polished half-coconut shell he dipped into the huge wooden bowl, on the pebbled floor. Filling the shell the talking-man solemnly raised the first cup of 'ava towards the sky. This first cup was for the gods, a propitiatory drink-offering to the house deities of the people. With a slow sweeping movement of the arm the tulafale waved the shell-cup heavenwards, watched in the deepest silence by the gathering; then with equal solemnity he lowered the offering and poured it slowly out at the foot of the massive central house-pillars, a libation to the old-time aitu of Polynesia.
The gods appeased, our turn came. Dipping his half-shell again into the big bowl, the house-orator announced in a loud voice, modulating his speech in a quaint sing-song, “'Ava for the King, 'ava for the chiefs.” Then he advanced, in a deeply respectful, half-bowing, half-crawling manner, and with courtly and ceremonious flourishes presented the cup to Malietoa
The new-made King was a “mission-boy” and a teetotaller; he did not drink, but lightly touched the cup, which was equivalent to acceptance. Then the liquor was handed to big, manly Tamasese, who sat next to the King. He drained the coconut-shell at one swallow, after pouring out an offering on the mat in front of him, and deftly returned the empty cup, Samoan style, by spinning it out on to the middle of the floor.
Once more the tattooed cupbearer filled high the bowl, and handed the well-diluted liquor to each in turn, first to the officials and naval officers in order of rank, then to us three press correspondents, and lastly to the chieftains ranged around. The Samoans are most particular on the subject of precedence, and the tulafale must have gone to some trouble to ascertain the relative ranks and degrees of importance of the papalangi visitors before he handed out his drinks. The name or the title of each officer and civilian present was loudly proclaimed by this Ganymede of Mulinuu as his turn came, and with graceful obeisance the flourished cup was presented. We each poured out the small libation for the unseen spirits of the household, and then drank the gingery queer-flavoured liquor at one draught, after saluting the King with a polite “Manuia,” equivalent to “Your very good health,”—our Maori “Kia ora.”
Round the half circle of chieftains of the island clans passed the council-cup in gravest silence, broken only by the high-pitched chant of the master of ceremonies, as he presented the semisacred drink, and the deep-voiced “Manuia” of the recipient.
Now the talking began. This fono, as after-events proved, was one of historic interest. The Chief Justice, the men-o'-war captains, and the consuls spoke, through the interpreter, and laid before the chiefs the proposals of the British and American authorities; the plan of campaign against Mataafa; and the coming of the long-expected Commission which was to settle the affairs of this unhappy land. Up rose the blunt old captain of the Philadelphia, and said: “If Mataafa and his men do not
(Photo., A. H. Newton.)
A gilmpse of Mt. Earnslaw from the Routeburn Valley, South Island.
fono ended.
The King and the dignified head-chiefs bade adieu to their white visitors, with warm-hearted benedictions of “Talofa,” and “Tofa soifua,” and we went out again into the tropic night, just as the nine o'clock gun boomed from the flagship, and the bugle notes of the “Last Post” rang out over the calm lagoon.
“Punch's” famous “advice to those about to marry” was “Don't.” R. L. Stevenson's advice to ladies contemplating matrimony, was “never marry a non-smoker.” Charles Reade, the novelist, who flourished before cocktails, night-clubs, votes for women, and the intellectual superiority of the “softer sex” were invented counselled ladies to encourage their husbands and finances to smoke all they wanted to. Daring advice at a time when women hadn't learned to smoke and hated—or said they hated—tobacco. Ah, well, the world grows wiser every day! And it is becoming generally recognised that, given the right baccy, smoking, so far from proving harmful, is often positively beneficial. Unfortunately, however the right baccy is not so common as it should be—save in New Zealand. There are five brands: Navy Cut No. 3, Cavendish, Riverhead Gold, Desert Gold, and Cut Plug No. 10. Not one of them contains any nicotine worth mentioning; all are famous for their splendid quality. They are toasted!—and quite harmless. They don't affect heart or throat, and are as pure as they are delicious.*
Kitchen car on the L. M. & S. “Royal Scot.”
Railway arrangements in connection with next month's visit of King George and Queen Elizabeth to Canada and the United States are now approaching completion. A tour such as this throws considerable responsibility on all concerned in the transportation programme. King George, however, through his love of the railway as a means of movement, and his quick appreciation of every little courtesy, has earned the respect and esteem of railwaymen everywhere, and it is certain transportation folk across the Atlantic will regard it as a great privilege to help to make this unique visit enjoyable in the extreme.
Travel in Canada and the United States is, of course, an affair of immense distances. In the main, however, the arrangements for the handling of the Royal Train will follow on much the same lines as those usual in Britain. Here, the train consists of anything up to ten coaches, two being special saloons for the personal use of Their Majesties. These are comfortably appointed vehicles, with exceptional smooth-riding qualities. Refreshments are provided in a dining-car, marshalled immediately behind the Royal saloons, with the kitchen end trailing. On being requested to make arrangements for a Royal journey, the railways decide upon the marshalling of the train, and a careful time-table is prepared. Diagrams are circulated showing the number and type of the vehicles forming the train, their relative positions, and exact lengths. One vital piece of information included is the precise distance from the front of the train to the doorway of the King's saloon. This is essential in order that each stop may be made at the exact spot where His Majesty is to alight. After final approval by the railway management, the programme is submitted to Buckingham Palace, and it is interesting to note that very rarely indeed is any alteration of moment made by the Palace authorities to the carefully prepared plans of the railways. Before the Royal train, it is usual to run a pilot locomotive, while immense care is taken to ensure that every portion of the track is in perfect order and properly patrolled. In his American tour, King George breaks entirely new ground, for this is the first time a reigning British monarch has been welcomed to the United States. One and all will sincerely wish Their Majesties God-speed on their friendly visit.
The Home railways have made the most elaborate arrangements for the forthcoming holiday season, and new facilities of many kinds are being placed at the disposal of the vacationist. One development of recent years is the “cruise train”—a sort of travelling hotel, enabling holiday-makers to visit a number of scenic resorts with a minimum of trouble and expense. One of the outstanding “cruise trains” which is shortly being put into service, is the “Northern Belle,” of the London and North Eastern Railway, making “all-in” tours of the Scottish Highlands. The first two seven-day “Northern Belle” cruises leave King's Cross station, London, on 9th June and 23rd June respectively, the train comprising fourteen coaches, including sleepers, diners, lounge, hairdressing saloon and offices. The cost of the week's cruise is only £20, everything included. The first portion of the tour embraces eastern points like Montrose, Aberdeen, Balmoral, Lossiemouth, Inverness and the Pass of Killiecrankie; and the second portion is devoted to Glasgow and west coast beauty-spots, with motor tours through the colourful Trossachs, and steamer trips on Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond. Like the camping coaches movement, previously referred to in these Letters, the
During the past twelve months, the four Home railways have placed in traffic 327 new locomotives, nearly 2,000 new passenger carriages, 22,000 goods wagons, and over 600 rail-road containers. On the London, Midland and Scottish line, 110 new locomotives have been provided, 732 new passenger vehicles, and 9,715 new goods wagons, this being, of course, our largest group railway. The L. & N.E. Railway figures were: 84 new engines, 730 carriages, 8,500 goods wagons, and 300 containers. Incidentally, the new L. & N.E. rolling stock included complete new “Flying Scotsman” trains, and a new “Hook of Holland” train for service between Liverpool Street and Harwich. New trains, also, were introduced on the recently electrified lines between Newcastle and South Shields, as well as in the North Tyneside electric services. New rolling-stock introduced by the Great Western included 122 locomotives, 274 passenger vehicles, and 2,770 goods wagons, the latter including refrigerator trucks for Cornish brocoli and Irish rabbit traffic. By the Southern there have been placed in traffic 11 new steam locomotives, 234 electric carriages, and 898 goods wagons.
Increased passenger train speeds are largely being secured through the employment of lighter train units, and in this connection the railcar is performing most useful service. France heads the list of European railcar users, and her eight hundred odd railcars, to-day, are giving dependable and nation-wide service alike over main and branch-lines. Very wisely, the French Railways have developed a standard railcar. This can attain a speed of 75 m.p.h., and provides accommodation for sixty seated passengers and sixty standing passengers. Diesel-operated cars of this type are growing in numbers, and they may be expected
According to recent reports, tremendous strides have been made in railway construction in Turkey. Normally, little is heard of the Turkish Railways, but these now run to some 4,100 miles, mostly of 4 ft. 8 ½ in. gauge, serving all corners of the country. Locomotives total 860, passenger carriages 1,210, and goods wagons 14,500. The most powerful steam engines are 2-8-2 express passenger locomotives, attaining speeds of up to 62 m.p.h.; and 2-10-0 goods engines, capable of speeds up to 43 m.p.h.
So, what! If you don't believe it try it on the bailiff next time he calls. Try laughing off your income tax. It'll do you good and it won't do your income tax any harm. Even if you do belong to a club, try laughing at home. When the family have got over the shock you'll discover that you mean more than an extra potato in the pot and a clean shirt over the end of the bed.
Life's a joke, anyway, and you might as well be in on it. After all, taking it fool and buy, there is more to laugh at
My-Oh My! Ain't Life a Lark
“… And raises Man above the beast.”
He has not only got a bee in his bonnet but a whole hive in his head; so he spends his life busily buzzing under the impression that buzziness is business.
But he is not to blame; he is the victim of mess education. From the time he could toddle he has been taught that “life is real, life is earnings.” Consequently, unless he becomes a professional laughologist, he finds that business is the centre of gravity and laughter a bye-product, a bye-bye product—especially laughter in the wrong places. And the joke is that the best laughter always comes in the wrong places. At a board meeting, for instance, where the air palpitates with portent and the chairman's chins quiver quidulously over a debilitated divvy, whilst the secretaries sit like plaster casts from Easter Island, there is always the temptation to smear the end of the nose with ink and turn a back-hand slam over the agenda, or to second an untabled commotion.
To one upon whom there has been laid the curse of proportional representation of fundamental facts the sight of exorbitant earnestness is always a temptation to blow up the show with a charge of giggleite.
All children are born with a chuckleurge, but as soon as they can walk and talk they learn the dominance of “Don't.” They are denied all the simple pleasures of life such as dipping the cat in the coffee pot, chewing soot, and lighting fires under the sofa. All the joy is don'ted out of life. It's don't do this and don't do that. Don't express legitimate joy when father skids on the soap; don't give way to natural merriment when the gas man gets tangled in the clothes line; don't wake the welkin when the parson drops baby-brother Basil into the font at the christening; in fact, don't be human at all.
This Don'tism can only result in the gradual decline of the functions of the funny-bone culminating in ass's elbow or ossification of the occiput.
Thus the criminal earnestness of the egotistic promulgators of pomposity—the European nabobs of neocrasy who are striving to-day to make the world fit for horrors.
But one day world-wide education will end this menace of earnestness. Children in their prattling primers will be taught the cleansing quality of frivolity. There will be chortling classes, laughing lessons, marks for merriment and prizes for persiflage. Flippancy in secondary schools will be a primary industry. Jocularity will embody—in fact, annihilate—world affears. The universities will have Chairs of Joviality occupied by suitable professors such as Laurel and Hardy, Wheeler and Wolsley, Potash and Perlmutter, Comin' and Cohen, Clapham and Dwyer and the Brothers Boloney. The degree LL.B. will mean “laugh like billyhoo”; and M.A. and B.A. will bear the cheerful significance of “most affable” and “backchat artist” disrespectively. In time the peoples of the earth will become so proficient in persiflage that they will learn to laugh even at themselves and—lo!—their eyes will be opened and they will see themselves as they would have been had they not made themselves what they are.
As one runs to the window at the first sound of a fire alarm, so do my literary legs become active whenever I see an article by “Cyrano” in our daily papers. “Cyrano” always writes interestingly on interesting subjects and in the matter of literary style is many degrees higher than the average newspaper writer. I commenced to cut out and preserve these “Cyrano” articles and regretted I had not done so earlier, and I also regretted for readers in general, that these admirable essays (yes, most of them were really entitled to be called essays) were to be dead and buried in newspaper files. Time came when I discovered who “Cyrano” was—a friendly fellow whom I found wrote poetry (excellent verse too) had had a novel published, a play or two, and was author of an almost famous appreciation of England, called “Home.” Yes, I met Alan Mulgan and appreciated the man as much as his work.
However, these “Cyrano” essays are not destined to be dead and buried. The best of them have now been published by Dent's under the title of “First With the Sun.” Thirty-four essays are included in the book, ranging from the first on the passing of the old Ionic (by no means, however, the best in the book—more of a newspaper article) to one entitled “Smells.” Regarding the latter all will agree with Mulgan that the smell of a burning bit of dead tea-tree will “make your heart strings crack” no matter how far you may wander from New Zealand. Although vastly different in style from an earlier New Zealand collection from Dent's (the difference between a long beer and a cocktail) these “Cyrano” essays will appeal to everybody. I particularly liked the splendid tribute to G.K.C. and the retrospect on the one time popular cult of “Dooleyisms.” There is fact, fun and fancy in the book. About forty line drawings by Olivia Spencer-Bowen illustrate the text.
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Discussing great Australian novels in the February issue I overlooked the greatest of them all, Henry Handel Richardson's trilogy, “The Fortunes of Richard Mahoney.” At the same time I notice that in a lengthy article on the same subject in “The British Annual of Literature,” Edith Fry fails to mention “All That Swagger,” “Landtakers,” “Pageant” and “Tiburon.”
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The art of Russell Clark, whose work I have been lauding for the past decade (some claimed I was over enthusiastic), is given pride of place in the latest number of “Art in New Zealand.”
Russell Clark has taken his place as one of the leading and most interesting artists of the Dominion. In colour plates and black and white reproduc
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Several fine reference books have been written on the Dominion's bird life. Buller's massive work is the standard book of reference, and was followed by Hutton & Drummond's book, and in 1930 by W. R. B. Oliver's work. Guthrie-Smith has also contributed valuable information to our bird library. Now we have a popular and beautifully produced account of the bird life of New Zealand in Mona Gordon's “The Children of Tane” (Dent, London). The whole story has been co-ordinated in an unusual way. It is well illustrated, has an index, a glossary, maps, etc. This brief notice is from a “proof copy” of the book.
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I read recently, for the first time, of the poetry and life of Maurice C. Fields, a young Negro who, in August last, was drowned at Long Island. In Maurice Fields, America has lost one of her most promising poets. He was only twenty years of age when he was drowned, and the few verses of his published gave promise of rare genius. He was a brilliant scholar and linguist, and wrote his poems under extreme nervous strain. The foreboding note of death was present in most of his verse. In the poem, “Song At Seventeen,” there is something unforgettably sad in the poet's seeming eagerness, his “impatience to know the truth of God's design”:
I found this in a book of newspaper cuttings under the heading of “With Apologies to Omar”:—
“Chateaubriand,” by André Maurois (Jonathan Cape) is a brilliant biography of the great French Romantic. Maurois has written a number of great biographies but, as might be expected, none with greater zest and understanding than this portrait of his most picturesque countryman. We are taken right into the heart of Chateaubriand to have revealed to us all his greatness and all his pettiness. And in the background move all the stirring events of the Revolution and the giant figures of the age, the popes, the cardinals, the Kings, the statesmen, the revolutionaries—and Bonaparte. Against the roar of guns and the rattle of sabre and the shouts of the mob the pen of Chateaubriand was always at work. Added to the pen and the sword was another terriffic influence, that of the wonderful women of the period. Hearts beat high in those colourful years and many a female heart fell to the charms of Chateaubriand. Truly he was an extraordinary lover, and his final love for Juliette Recamier is one of the most interesting pages in the world's great love stories. Although adored by many women, although stirring the pulse of the Empire with his pen and his personality Chateaubriand appears as a haunted, unhappy man; he yearns for inward peace and it comes only with the grave.
Here indeed are all the ingredients of a great biography. Subject and writer could not have been better mated. We see a great man's soul, we watch the mighty panorama of the period and we learn many lessons.
“The British Annual of Literature” (The British Authors' Press) makes its first appearance in a nicely producedvolume. The publication left me wondering as to why such an imposing title should be representative of just a few writers and some of them not exactly in the front rank of the literary world. We find some of the writers responsible for more than one article or poem and this, in a list of about a dozen contributors. Nevertheless this is an interesting and well-written annual and includes a fine tribute to our Dunedin poet and novelist, C. R. Allen, articles on the Australian novel, on contemporary literature, the literary achievement of Dr. Douglas Hyde and the People's National Theatre. Two great English novelists, Rudyard Kipling and E. M. Forster (and how many in New Zealand are aware of the true greatness of the latter?) are discussed in an article, “English Interpreters of India.” New Zealand writers will be interested in the literary competitions announced in the Annual.
“Early Days in Dunedin,” by Robert Gilkison (Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd.) is something different from the measured historical record the title suggests. The book is more in the nature of a series of highlights from the history of the southern city. For this reason the book will have a wider appeal, particularly to the younger generation. Among some of the purple patches is an account of the Jarvey Murder, a chapter on the Robert Butler episode, the story of Amy Bock, also details of big fires, wrecks, and libel actions, etc., of the period. Much general historical data is also included. The book is written in a quaint, old world style.
“The Sino-Japanese Conflict,” by Tom Walsh (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) claims to be an accurate and unbiassed picture of the relations of China and Japan with the powers, and of those phases of their histories that have led to the present conflict. States Sir Arthur Rickard in the introduction: “From the evidence presented
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The story of Robin Hyde's adventures in the Far East will be published shortly in book form by Hurst & Blackett.
The appeal of the New Zealand Centre of the P.E.N. for subscriptions to the Jessie Mackay Memorial Fund is meeting with an excellent response. Donations should be sent to the Secretary, Box 965, Wellington.
A rare item for collectors is the Annual Brochure of the N.Z. Ex Libris Society. No. 5 has just been published in a limited edition of 100 copies. This time it contains only foreign plates. Taking my cue from this I will, for a while, leave aside New Zealand plate reproductions for this page, and publish a few foreign bookplates.
James M. Bryan, the New Zealand Rhodes Scholar who has been studying social and political movements in the Far East has written another book entitled “North China Front.” It is to be published shortly.
The late Lord Jellicoe is the subject of a recently published biography by Captain E. Altham.
J. H. E. Schroder's “Remembering Things,” has been warmly praised by the London “Times.” The notice refers to “the humour and quiet charm” of the essays.
The West Coast of the South Island is famed for the natural beauty of its scenery. Few people realise, however, that there are in reality two types of “coast”—South Westland and its much frequented glaciers, having a much wetter climate than the more northern area of Buller. It is obvious, too, that the attractions of the glaciers—the Franz Josef and the Fox, have made that part of the country much better known, so that many people think that they have seen the Coast when they have in reality seen only part of it.
The Coast road from Greymouth to Westport is one of the most beautiful motor drives that could be undertaken. Here the bush grows profusely and tree ferns are common all along the route. In fact, one sees here a cross-section of most of the types of bush that are to be encountered throughout the whole of New Zealand.
The road is traversed for only a short distance when the traveller comes upon clusters of nikau palms growing practically on the verge of the beach. Intensely brilliant multi-coloured sunsets are frequent here and to see these palm trees silhouetted against a late afternoon sky needs no imagination to transport the onlooker into a tropical setting.
The road winds up hill, through dense bush, into a clearing with the blue-green sea visible beyond, variation all the time—a road without monotony and full of unexpected surprises. It has been remarked that the New Zealand bush is not very colourful, but unless one's colour perception is faulty this criticism could not be levelled at this piece of country. The colour of the trees varies to almost every imaginable shade of green and the whole effect is splashed here and there with a brilliant red of the native mistletoe, or earlier in the year it may be the white of the clematis.
We, in New Zealand, are becoming more colour conscious with the popularity of the travelogue on the screen, produced in technicolour, and we notice particularly the colours of the rocks and other features of the country's formation. Now that we are developing the eyes to see we realise with delighted surprise that wonderfully delicate colours lurk in many of the New Zealand rocks. Along this road especially, some of the mountain vistas, with their many-coloured outcrops, varying from yellows to dark browns, and even purples, would afford an excellent location for a colour film production. Recently a colour photo which I took in this district revealed to me the colours which I had simply overlooked in examining the scene as a whole. In the foreground was the bright yellow-brown of the clay bank beside the road, the purple-brown of the near bush, giving place to darker green in a shaded patch, and extending in the distance from a brighter green right through to a hazy blue. Beyond this rose distant mountain peaks touched with snow on the tips and behind them a crystal clear blue sky with flecks of white cloud. The modern colour photo has an amazing ability for picking up distance and at times traverses sixty miles in the one shot.
Every now and then we come upon outcrops of coal right at the side of the road and the approach to one coal mine that is passed en route has been made of coal instead of shingle. It is a fact that, in several places on the coast, where good road metal is scarce, coal has been used to build up the road! It seems surprising to those of us who have to pay the coalman at the back door when he delivers our weekly bag of coal, but it is more economical to use coal from an outcrop nearby than to cart shingle over a distance.
About half-way between Greymouth and Westport a notice directs the traveller to the Punakaiki blowholes
continued on page 40.)
Alice Gomez dug her brown toes into the warm sand, and dreamily watched a small speck bobbing up and down on the crests of greeny, grey waves, fully a mile from the shore. The rich green of Bravo Island, creeping right up to the rock boulders that lined the shore, rose in luxuriant, colourful glory, behind her. She was alone on the island for the day, that is, alone save for the presence of her dog, but he could hardly be termed poor company, for he was an exceptionally intelligent creature and Alice adored him.
She glanced down at her well-worn frock, cut from plain uninteresting material—from the roll that had been used to make all the dresses and suits for her numerous brothers and sisters. Hopefully she prayed that her father might bring a prettier roll this time. Again she glanced across the water—the bobbing speck was getting slowly nearer, and she knew now without a doubt, that it was her father returning in his dingy. There would be fresh stores from Oban, the new material—she decided to wait on the beach and help him carry them up to the house.
It was typical of the girl's gentle, loving nature, to want to help. Indeed all the Gomez children had been taught to work from the time they could walk. One would not imagine there was so much to do on an island where game could be shot from the back door, and where fish was ridiculously abundant, but in all, the Gomez children numbered twenty-one, and as they were mostly self-supporting, rearing their own pigs and fowls, and growing their own vegetables and fruit, they were kept going from early till late.
Had Samual Gomez been less a hard worker himself, he may have expected less from his children. Possibly it was his own early training that made him a hard, if just, father. Alice knew all about his younger days—she knew and understood. Had he not belonged to the Portuguese Navy, where discipline was hard and cruel? Where men were stretched across the yardarm and flogged unmercifully for very small offences! Possibly that accounted for his treating his family as if he were the skipper and they the working crew. To escape a flogging on his ship, he had eventually deserted and sailed for New Zealand, where he met and married one of the beautiful half-caste Maori maidens. Her mother was a daughter of a Kaiapoi chief, who, when the siege of Kaiapoi took place, had managed to smuggle his womenfolk out from Canterbury, to the safety of Ruapuke Island. Samual Gomez had rowed his bride across the three mile stretch of water to the island which he named Bravo, and which he and a fellow deserter claimed for themselves and their future families.
Alice was idly running handsful of tiny smooth stones through her fingers, when the dog's sudden, sharp barking aroused her from her reverie. She looked up quickly, and instinctively her eyes swept the water in front. She saw the small boat—and then she understood!
Her father, now only two hundred yards from the shore, had suddenly pitched forward in the boat, and his hands had fallen lifelessly from the oars. She knew, just as surely as if she had been able to see his face, that he had taken a stroke. He had taken one before. She knew, too, that it would only be a short time before the strong current would carry the tiny craft far out towards the open sea.
Even while terror gripped her heart, she decided on instant action. Without hesitating to consider her own danger, she plunged into the surf, not even taking time to remove some of her clothes. At an early age she had been taught to swim and handle a boat, and that knowledge was going to be the means of saving her father's life. Despite the heavy weight of her
(Rly. Publicity photo.) The Wellington-Johnsonville electric multiple units at Wellington station.
She was gaining at last—the boat was getting nearer, but her breath was coming in quick, painful gasps. It felt like an eternity before her fingers clawed thankfully for a hold on the side of the boat. She worked her way round to the end, and even in her fatigued state remembered to exercise the utmost care in pulling herself on board. If she upset the boat, that would be the end for them both.
Only for a minute did she allow her eyes to dwell on the still, drawn face of her father, as he lay sprawled across the seat where he had fallen. She was terrified that he might be dead—but resolutely gripping the oars she tried to make herself believe that he would soon come round. Her arms were aching with the long swim, but in her anxiety to get the boat to land she did not feel the tired pains. The boat had drifted farther than she had imagined, and the pull to the shore se