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Varied Charm of Lake Waikaremoana, North 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 nom 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.
Payment for short paragraphs will be made at 2d. a line. Successful contributors will be expected to send in clippings from the Magazine for assessment of the payment due to them.
The Editor cannot undertake the return of Ms. unless accompanied with a stamped and addressed envelope.
All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 24,000 copies each issue since April, 1938.
Controller and Auditor-General.
10/11/38.
“A Snow of Blossoms.”
The Clematis—a nature study in the New Zealand bush, by Thelma R. Kent.
It is a useful habit to make comparisons between times and places, if the purpose is to measure progress, study the effect of policies, and obtain guidance for right action in the future. Such comparisons are odious only to the odious.
The world in the “gay’ nineties”—a time remembered by most of those in control of world affairs today—was not the place of “alarums and excursions” that it is now. Life was more peaceful, the future was more assured, conditions were more stable.
“Britain rules the waves” was then our sure defence against the ills of war at home. To-day new measures are needed for the same purpose. The plans are made and the Prime Minister's call has gone forth.
“New Zealand will be there” is a cry from an earlier day: but it still stands for the spirit of New Zealanders, who can be counted on—practically to a man—to do their bit, in defence against the worst, for their own country that does its best for them.
A cool appraisal of what we have, contrasted with what we had forty years ago, should give inspiration not only for an assured national defence but also for progress in all the desirable arts and objects of living.
After a long period of almost stationary condition, New Zealand's population is now increasing at a reasonably satisfactory rate, both by natural increase and by immigration to meet a real need for additional workers in many trades and professions. This is a definite and very favourable contrast with anything experienced since the early days of New Zealand settlement. It is a sign of the change resulting from the new encouragement of local manufactures, a change more profound and likely—in the long run—to be more favourable to New Zealand development than the change produced by the introduction of refrigeration in the 'eighties of last century.
Contrasts will provide an arresting feature in most of the historical displays at New Zealand's Centennial Exhibition and some picturing of the future may well be attempted from graphic illustrations of the present and the past.
Railway progress provides as marked contrasts as any among the major developments in New Zealand's industrial life. So rapid, indeed, has been the advance in recent years that there is real difficulty in keeping the public abreast of the times in matters of railway progress.
There was the recent case of the countryman who was so “car-ridden” that he had not been on a train for ten years. When he boarded the Express, the comfort and cleanliness of the air-conditioned carriages and their smooth and soundless running impressed him so much that, like the Pear's soap subject of Phil May's sketch “since then he has used no other.”
This contrast provides a piquant commentary on the excellent, though possibly apocryphal story about Sir Robert Horn, President of the Canadian Pacific Railways. He sleeps, it is said, so much better in a Pullman berth “soothed by the continuous rattle of train wheels” that he has had a special bed constructed “that rattles and vibrates like a Pullman.”
We have found many reasons for preferring train travel to all others; but this is a new one which, for contrast alone, is distinctly refreshing. Among the multitude it holds out still another novel hope for the future in the railway world of wheels.
Although interest in railway affairs usually centres in the major features of railway improvements directly affecting the public, such as those that add comfort, speed and frequency to the means of transport, and for which recent years have been notable, the average railwayman is more concerned with the details of his daily work. It is, however, upon the care and attention he gives to these details that the real benefit to the public of the improved services provided depends.
I believe that even within the limits of the work allocated to individual members of the staff, each man can make his own job interesting, ordinary or distasteful according to the attention he pays to matters of detail coming within the range of his duties.
As every administrator knows, only the broad lines of any job can be laid down in black and white; but within those lines there is scope for initiative, enthusiasm, common sense, and individuality; and it is the duty and responsibility of controlling officers to note and encourage the development and exercise of those qualities.
Such qualities, however, may be discounted if accuracy and attention to detail are not observed. The latter are essential for satisfactory teamwork, and, at a time when many changes are occurring in the general transport situation, they are particularly important in keeping the reputation of the Department for dependable service in good standing with the public.
Given the advantage of the qualities mentioned, the possibility of new ideas, of a broader outlook, and of other aids towards assured service will emerge; and, by all working together, the Railways can advance with confidence to new duties and opportunities as changing circumstances permit.
With the Centennial year upon us, I think the time is appropriate for once more drawing attention to the need for close attention in all branches of the service to accuracy and courtesy in handling the Department's business.
General Manager.
(Rly. Publicity photos)
It is the custom of scientists who explore the misty past to divide the periods of man's development into ages—the Stone Age, the Bronze Age, the Iron Age, and so on. It might be competent for an antiquarian, a thousand years hence, to call our age the Tin Age.
If a visitor from Mars, for instance, dropped in, he would discover articles of tin everywhere from kitchens to best rooms in the houses, scattered everywhere throughout the shops, industrial edifices, and even in the halls of learning.
It is a commonplace for travellers in Australia to remark on the ubiquity of the kerosene or petrol tin. It is put to a picturesque variety of uses which range from the half tin milk bucket, with the improvised handles, to the vegetable carry-all, or for roofing material. The benzine tin was a gift from the gods for the resourceful outback pioneer who soon “made it do.”
I think readers will be as astonished as I was, to find that here in New Zealand, we make tins, containers of every kind and sort, from the exquisitely coloured face-powder box to the milk can, from the four gallon petrol tin to the gay toy watering can. The industry is of the first magnitude, employing more than a four-figure total. It is, in its present New Zealand form, a modern enterprise conducted on up-to-date lines.
A positive world revolution was brought about by the method of packing goods in tin containers. Tin is remarkable for its extraordinary power of resisting corrosion. It was known to the early Romans, and was one of the reasons for their interest in Britain. It was a constituent part of all the early bronzes, and altogether is one of the most useful metals known to mankind. Then, when it was found practicable to coat thin sheets of iron with tin, the “Age of Tin” began.
To-day, therefore, nearly every one of the myriads of things we have learned to need for our well-being, are packed in tins, or as the Americans call them, cans.
An idea is current in some quarters that articles packed in tins, especially food articles, in some way suffer a fall in use values. However, the tin-packing method is so universal that proper investigation upon this point became necessary, and all countries have participated in the movement. As the sets of conclusions evince—conclusions that were reached some years ago in England by a committee of eminent medical men, acting for the New Health Society—the results have been remarkable. They found as scientific fact that: canned apples were equal in vitamin C to the
The present day scene of the use of this new transport medium is as fascinating as a fairy tale. Face powder from France, caviare from Russia, salmon from Alaska, tobacco from Turkey or Virginia, tamales from Mexico, toheroas from New Zealand, paint from Belgium, sardines from Norway, and mustard from England, cross the wide oceans in tins, to reach customers thousands of miles away.
I am looking forward to the day when New Zealand tinned asparagus or peaches will be a prized delicacy in Florida and will reach there in tins of our own making.
Packing has become one of the world's greatest industries, and its most used medium is the container made of tin plate.
The development of tin-making and tin-printing has been on a spectacular scale. For reasons of space, I can only deal with the two leading major units of this great industry. In them, however, is a fine panorama of New Zealand enterprise, soundly based, and as is always the case with anything rightly founded, it furnishes an example of sound, logical and steady growth.
Something over seventy years ago, in 1866 to be exact, a strolling visitor might have seen outside a shop in Durham Street, Auckland, a modest sign, reading, “Alex Harvey, Tinsmith.”
Inside were four employees, who were busy making cans for farmers, for there was an idea abroad that dairying might grow into something worthwhile.
From this unpretentious beginning grew the giant organisations of Alex. Harvey & Sons Ltd., and New Zealand Canisters Ltd., employing well over 600 New Zealanders, and producing every type of tin container, as well as a wide range of other articles, including commercial refrigerating plants, strainers, and for good measure—all the varieties of porcelain enamelling.
I say at once, with a sense of responsibility and after due enquiry, that this New Zealand institution has a plant and equipment equal to anything in the world. In one respect, I have it on the word of a prominent Australian, who as usual is not deficient in patriotism, that “Harvey's tin-printing has no equal anywhere in the world.”
It is, moreover, true that the Harvey 25-gallon seamless milk can is the only one of its kind in the world.
There are four main Harvey establishments, three in Auckland, and one in Wellington.
The tin-making and tin-printing factories are apart, and they represent widely different and distinctive processes. In these modern times, the printing precedes the actual formation of the canister or container, and so I went to the printing unit first.
I should point out here that the word “tin” or “can” includes a variety of objects in to-day's commercial practice.
It may mean an oval, ornamental tin box, a plain cylinder, an elaborate edifice with as many angles as the Taj Mahal, or a plain rectangle to carry “the makings.” All of these involve intricate processes in tinging and more or less elaborate lettering or picture-making.
We started off in the designing room where artists are at work, translating business ideas into beauty of form, just as in any colour process printing establishment. This is a well-lit room and here the sketch is first of all drawn on a stone.
Each colour is drawn separately, all, however, fitting into the “Key,” so that when the printing is being carried out, all the colours will fit exactly into the finished picture. A separate printing plate is made for each colour, and the actual printing itself is done on the offset principle. The tin sheet itself never touches the plate, and the impress is taken from a rubber blanket carrying the design and colour.
I found that the most fascinating spectacle in all these great rooms were the automatic tunnel ovens. Only one colour can be printed at a time, and each sheet, carrying the one-tinted design, travels the whole length of this hooded drying journey, with graded temperatures all the way.
A most ingenious rotating conveyer bears the plates along and gathers them up. It looks rather like the spanking machine in the old Annual from Coles’ Book Arcade.
It is attended by young ladies who have leisure for a page or two of a favourite book in between their times of activity.
The glowing colours are all set now, and the next process is that of varnishing. This is again followed by pilgrimages of the plates through the long series of baking and drying ovens. I should explain that one sheet very often carries two or three dozen designs in colour. Of course the most meticulous care has to be taken over measurements. If a colour is a sixty-fourth of an inch out, the result will be deplorable.
Similarly, the outside measurements of the design must be absolutely exact or the horror will befall that the tin will not fit.
I am accustomed to colour process work, and I found it astonishing that here in New Zealand, colour printing was being done on tin, with the same precision and brilliance as on the front page of “The Railways Magazine.”
All sorts of notable illustrations figure on Harvey tins. If I were pressed for a selection, I would choose “Ajax,” which is a colour print of a horse equal to anything on any billiard room wall of a best club.
Then there was a Marquise picture, looking as if it were a hand-painted miniature done by one of the superfine artists of the court of Louis XIV. But possibly, brightest and best was a gaily coloured sand bucket with nursery rhyme figures which would send any holiday-making youngster into ecstasy.
My next trip was the lengthy journey through the various floors of the tin-making works. Here the solid part of the task is performed. I went from stage to stage, from die-making in a department filled with precision engineers, to the last quaint die-press which stamps out or presses out the screw top and the screw cap of an oil tin.
Die-making is an art in itself. Here, precision engineering reaches its highest manifestation, and even the “stop and go” gauges are not precise enough. We stroll into a shop and purchase a tin of tobacco, or honey, or a queerly-shaped container of comfits. All these have been stamped out of tin by dies fashioned and perfected by New Zealand precision engineers.
In Harvey's great Auckland works, the presses stand in serried rows, operating dies that are almost countless in their bewildering variety of shape and purpose. A piece of flat tin turns in, guided in some mysterious mechanical fashion.
The operative pulls a lever, and a magic change has taken place. The oblong of tin has taken on features; it has rolled edges, or it has lost its corners, or it has neatly punched locking holes.
The processes become intelligible as one passes down the lines of smiling faces. I would like to say here, that never once, in the course of my casual journeys through this vast establishment, did I see a worried face nor anybody who seemed to be under pressure. Where there is equipment of this degree of modernity, the racking toil and the fatigue are transferred to the shoulders of faithful but inanimate mechanical devices.
However, I was determined, if possible, to understand how a flat piece of this tin-plate became transformed into a honey, or tobacco tin. It was as engrossing as a good picture show.
The sheets of tinplate are first dealt with by two uncanny mechanisms called the First and Second Operation Slitter. These divide the sheet into the exact sizes required, and having done their work, the notching machine nicks the four corners and the rolling machine turns it into an incomplete cylinder. Next comes the lock-seaming, a most ingenious operation which acts almost like the locknit stitch in a fabric, and seals the cylinder absolutely.
Then the top and the bottom of the tin are turned over, or to use the factory term, they are “flanged.” Then another actor enters—the “double-seamer,” which, in two operations,
You must remember that all these processes apply with the necessary variations to tin plates which are covered with brightly coloured designs.
Harvey's show window is an exhibition of all the colours of the spectrum. Articles which come from Europe, Asia or America, are actually packed in Harvey's tins; and I am certain that most purchasers think the lovely containers are also art objects fashioned in far-off lands.
It is amazing to find exotic tale powders, a wide variety of tobaccos and all sorts of odd foreign articles, enclosed in Auckland-made canisters. The designs have been drawn, the colour printing done, and the fancy shapes of the tins themselves all made by New Zealanders in a New Zealand factory.
There are other facts in the history of Alex Harvey & Sons which are worth the telling. Here the first seamless milk-can in any British Dominion was made in 1912.
I recommend a visit to this marvellous institution for any New Zealander who still believes in the myth that “New Zealand cannot compete with the marvellous mass production plants of the older lands.”
In the handsome King's Drive factory, there is the last word in modernity of equipment, and features which are not only abreast but ahead of the rest of the world in this particular activity. Here is produced the modern New
Associated with this line of work, there developed also the making of vats, strainers, and stainless steel utensils for a wide variety of uses. Moreover, commercial refrigerating plants are being produced, and the intricate processes of porcelain enamelling are carried on. The oven is worth seeing where, at a temperature of 1,500 degrees Fahrenheit, the porcelain is fused into the metal. As I write, the Wellington factory is being enlarged. This great New Zealand firm is going to make the tubes for tooth-paste. This is a new departure altogether for New Zealand industry, and is another step taken by this typical pioneer family in New Zealand industry.
My next visit with my friend of the camera was to the factory of J. Gadsden & Co. Ltd. at Petone. This firm has also large establishments at Christchurch and Auckland.
The Petone unit is one of those modern buildings where the walls seem to be mainly made of glass. There is a general atmosphere of airiness and light. Here again was the universal smile. Here again, also, the place was in the throes of expansion and consequent reconstruction.
One comforting and distinctive feature of Gadsden's factory was the preponderance of male labour. Another distinguishing feature was the mountain of petrol tins.
They were here to the roof in thousands in all their shining silver glory, and I saw them being made. Here were biscuit tins with their characteristic round openings, and I had explained to me facts about the varying sizes of the apertures in oil tins. Fastrunning liquids were accommodated with small holes and slow running with large. An interesting sight was a species of miniature forge where there was carried on a ceaseless tempering of tiny hatches, used for the outpouring of four-gallon petrol tins, and their continual soldering processes.
We took a picture of the Adriance machine which puts the tops and bottoms into petrol tins in such a fashion that leaks are impossible. This mechanical marvel is unique in New Zealand.
Amazing figures are lightly mentioned by the foreman; tins at the rate of 23,000 per day and so on. We also inspected an elongated affair of complex design which makes a tin in one series of operations, and turns out such tins, as those used for tongues, at the rate of seventy-eight per minute.
I need not repeat the general processes which I covered fully before in the works of Alex. Harvey & Sons. Gadsdens Ltd. are growing, and here again I was pleased to see that all the dies for their array of presses are made in New Zealand by a local firm of precision tool-makers.
It is to be remembered that the expansion of these factories is inevitable. Many new goods are being packed in New Zealand, and the majority of this approaching horde of food, medical, toilet and other articles will use the tried and proven medium of the tin container.
Our New Zealand manufacturing plants can match, in every particular, any container made hitherto, overseas. In many cases they can surpass the rest of the world in certain points of construction and appearance. This branch of New Zealand industry, under its present leadership, is one of the vital factors in the onward march of our country's industrial forces.
Under the above heading “The New Zealander,” of 8th May, 1939, makes the following comment:
“When a country has a great and, admittedly, a most efficient public service, criticism ought never to be given except in kindly and helpful advice or suggestion.
The New Zealand Railways are a national service, of which every citizen may very well be proud. It is characterised in every department and in every branch of service by efficiency, carefulness and courtesy…. The General Manager, Mr. G. H. Mackley, has infused into the Railways a spirit of service and politeness which pleases New Zealand people…. Quite recently an official, whose position should be a guarantee of carefulness, especially when he takes to public utterance, was
(D. Apperley, photo.)
Mt. Mannering from the Classen Glacier, South Island.
However, the manly and clear authoritative statement referred to above made everything right, and entrenched ‘The Railways’ deeper in the confidence and affections of the New Zealand public than they were before.
New Zealand should feel both pleased and proud that there stands one as General Manager at the wheel whose knowledge, care and efficiency are such that the country is served so well, and the services rendered are on a standard which are equal to any in the British Empire.”
The procedure of keeping the home fires burning seems simple to most people, for all they have to do is to dial the coal merchant's telephone number, or communicate with him in some other way, and within a short time the coal-shed is refilled.
Few people pause to think of the means by which their fuel has reached them, and fewer still realise that the means of getting coal to the nearest railway varies in different parts of the country.
A visit to the coal-producing areas of New Zealand soon convinces one about the important service performed by the railways, for, to transport coal, which is bulky and heavy, over any great distance by any other means than by rail makes the cost to great as to be uneconomic in almost all cases.
The writer was recently requested to get some photographs, of a West Coal coal mine situated at a place called Cascade Creek. Having used Cascade Coal for some time and having found it an excellent product, the prospect seemed quite alluring. Leaving the nearest town, Westport, in the morning, our way led along the coast for a few miles and then turned to climb the steep slope up to the township of Denniston. This little place is situated at the top of a mountain two thousand feet up and when seen from the flat for the first time presents an unforgettable picture. The morning sunlight is caught and reflected by the windows of houses which appear to be set, in a most precarious fashion, right on the top of an almost precipitous slope. One is reminded strongly of the Biblical quotation about “the city on top of a hill which cannot be hid.” The ascent is made up a road which zigzags up the steep slope and gives one a fine view of the coast southwards towards Westport, the famous Cape Foulwind—and further still on a clear day.
After Denniston is reached the way leads on to Burnett's Face, another coal-mining area with a rigorous climate. Proceeding further, the road becomes rougher, and a lower gear is engaged to traverse the bumpy surface which climbs and descends till it finally gives place to a narrow bush track. Leaving the car behind, this track is followed down a very steep gradient (difficult to negotiate in wet weather) until, at the bottom of the hill, we come upon a group of huts—the homes of the miners.
I wondered how it was possible to get the coal out of such an inaccessible and remote place, and upon enquiry, found that it was carried by water fluming for seven miles in the opposite direction through the bush. We continued the descent from the huts to the mine itself. Water was flumed from a nearby stream and under high pressure carried the coal from the mine on its downward journey through the bush
In order to obtain photographs of the exit of the fluming from the mine mouth it was necessary to straddle the sides of this “gutter”—one foot on each side—and proceed up it for several chains. With no previous experience in tight-rope walking, this new form of frog-puddling up a fluming with a foothold of about one inch wide, on each side, and heavy camera equipment balanced on one's back was something of an experience.
After shooting a monochrome and colour photograph the return journey was accomplished without accident.
Returning to the huts of the miners one is impressed with their isolation. Being set at the bottom of a very steep gully the tiny settlement looses the sun early and the climate in winter must be quite severe. To convey supplies to the miners, an endless wire ropeway has been made from a convenient place a little way up the valley to the top where the road ends. This is so steep
It is possible, when the water has been turned off in the fluming, to walk down by this means through the seven miles of bush to the bins on the Buller Gorge. From here the railway, which will soon be completed to join up with the West Coast and Midland lines, carries the coal to Westport where it is shipped.
The average Westport schoolboy, as he strolls along the wharves on the waterfront, can tell where the coal trucks have come from. He can recognise the Cascade Creek coal because for the journey down the water fluming, the pieces must be small to start with, and on the way down they have all the corners chipped and worn off. The trucks that have come from Denniston have all passed down the steep incline and extra coal that was heaped up will have fallen off on that descent. If the coal is in larger lumps and is heaped higher on the trucks our schoolboy concludes that the bins were situated right by the railway siding and that the coal came from one of the mines to the north.
On the return trip from the Cascade mine we stop at Denniston to see trucks in operation on the famous incline, which is one mile in length and divided into two main sections. It is worked on the usual principal of the hill cable tram in which the full car travelling down the slope pulls the empty one up.
As we approach the top of the incline, a telephone bell tinkles and immediately
At the middle brake the trucks are halted on a small level and then recommence the journey down a less steep incline to meet the railway line in the Waimangaroa Valley.
The interior of the brakehouse is most interesting. The braking mechanism is operated by water piped down from a reservoir away up the hill. The huge
(Continued on page 49.)
(Forestry Department photos.).
Problems that are causing very grave concern in New Zealand, and in other parts of the world, are those of denudation and erosion. By denudation is meant the unnecessary destruction of the earth's garment of vegetation upon which depends the conservation and regulation of the rainfall. When the vegetation goes, the process of erosion begins—and ends in slips, landslides and floods, with all their associated perils, and ultimately, in a serious loss alike in the productive area and fertility of the land.
Being one of the survivors of the pioneer days in Central Otago, my impressions of the country (or of that portion of it wherein I spent the greater portion of my early life) before overstocking, indiscriminate “burning off” and rabbits, had reduced it to its present condition of aridity, may not be without interest to the present generation.
I know from personal knowledge how enormously the stock-carrying capacity of the country has been reduced as a result of the causes already mentioned, and how the surface features of the land have been altered compared with the conditions existing in the ‘seventies.
Before entering upon my main theme, I shall quote two instances of changes from the old conditions, changes that to the present generation, would seem almost incredible. More than forty years ago I was informed by a man who had been a cadet on Galloway Station, near Alexandra, that, at one time, that station carried one sheep to the acre all the year round.
The second instance relates to the mountains rising on the northern side of the Rees Valley, Wakatipu, in the vicinity of Glenorchy. I once spent a holiday at Glenorchy with the late Mr. P. Boult, a nephew of Mr. Rees, the first settler in the Wakatipu district. Mr. Boult assisted Mr. Rees to drive his stock from Canterbury to Wakatipu, over trackless and unexplored country. Mr. Boult told me that when they first settled near Glenorchy, they wintered the sheep on the mountains, the tops of which were covered with snow grass more than ten feet high.
They drove the sheep into this country at the beginning of winter. When the snow fell, its effect was to bend the grass down in the form of a roof, under
I spent several years of my childhood on the Serpentine diggings on the slopes and higher parts of the Rough Ridge, overlooking the Serpentine Valley, and the Maniototo Plain. At an early age I learnt to ride, and was provided with a quiet old horse on which I rode all over the accessible parts of the country, and sometimes accompanied shepherds and drovers on fairly long trips, so that I became well acquainted with a
On the higher country, say from 2,000 feet up, the flora was diversified by various sub-alpine plants, among which was what the diggers called the cotton plant. This had a bunch of blade-shaped leaves, dark green above, silver white below, and threw up large white daisy-like flowers like the ox-eye daisy.
Cattle and horses were very fond of it, and when the ground was under snow, they would paw the snow away in order to find the plant.
But the most important plant in Central Otago at that time was the snow grass, which grew plentifully on the higher country, especially in damp places. This was nature's shield against denudation and floods. It grew in favourable situations to a great height, and I have seen horses hidden by it. Stock, too, were very partial to its seeds. It provided excellent cover for the ground surface, prevented too rapid thawing of the snow, and checked disastrous flooding. If this country is to be brought back to its original condition, the snow grass should be the first plant to be re-established in its ancient seats.
One striking change in the appearance of the country during my life-time is the disappearance of the lagoons that formerly dotted the now arid and naked plains. I can remember, as a young boy, looking from the high country over the Maniototo Plain and seeing an expanse of silvery, flat land, dotted with areas of shining water, some of considerable extent. The lagoons were shallow, and generally dried up towards the end of summer. The presence of so much water during most of the year, however, meant that water fowl and Paradise ducks (which were seen in thousands and flew about literally in clouds) flourished in ideal conditions.
All this life has disappeared with the disappearance of the vegetation and the water.
Overstocking and the rabbit pest, together with excessive and injudicious “burning off” of the tussock grass have been the chief factors in the denudation of the country. In the latter connection I have seen the shepherds go out in the spring with a plentiful supply of matches, and start fires in the tussocks all over the place. I have seen, too, the northern sides of the Rock and Pillar Ranges blazing for miles. Of course if rain followed soon after the “burning off,” all was well, and the grass came away luxuriantly; but a long dry spell after a burn resulted in a permanent deterioration of the pasture.
These few recollections may enable the reader to construct a more or less adequate picture of Central Otago, as I knew it sixty years ago. The change in the appearance of the country has been the result largely of human agency, and it is doubtful whether human agency is capable of restoring, completely, what is has destroyed.
I do not write as an expert, but I feel that some measure of success in restoring these denuded lands could be achieved by control of vegetation on modern scientific lines aimed at reproduction of the effects, if not the actual species, of the natural primeval cover.
The New Zealand Centennial Council's adoption of Thomas Bracken's “New Zealand Hymn” as the Dominion's National Anthem has increased public interest in the poem, which dates back to the early ‘seventies. The musical setting was written more than seventy-four years ago.
Until comparatively recently, however, the song was rarely heard, but with the advent of radio and community singing it has gradually caught the imagination of many New Zealanders.
Thomas Bracken, who is best known for his poem, “Not Understood,” was a romantic figure in the life of the Dominion. Born in Clunes, Ireland, where at an early age he was left an orphan, he was given a home by one of his uncles, a chemist, and during his youth served in his uncle's shop.
As he was of an adventurous nature, he decided to try his luck in Australia, where the gold fever was then at its height. Little is known of his life in Australia, except that after spending some time on the goldfields he did some sheep-shearing. A natural gift for writing found expression during this period and several of his poems were printed in Australian journals. The lure of gold, however, again proved irresistible and when reports of the fortunes being made in Otago reached Australia he sailed for New Zealand. His subsequent career showed him to be a man of many parts. Miner, hotelkeeper, journalist, poet, member of Parliament—these and many other occupations gave him that broad outlook on life which is reflected in many of his poems. The late Sir Robert Stout paid this tribute to the poet:—
“This may be said: Mr. Bracken need not be ashamed of his efforts. When the history of our literature is written, his poems will not be forgotten, and in the future will not the labours of the writer be ranked as high as the work of the statesman or the warrior?”
Those whose memory of Dunedin goes back to the ‘nineties will remember the well-known figure of Thomas Bracken, and many Wellingtonians will also recall the romantic figure who lived in Tinakori Road during the Parliamentary sessions.
Bracken, for some years, edited “The Saturday Advertiser,” a Dunedin journal which ceased publication in 1893. It was this journal which was responsible for giving New Zealand its National Anthem, for although the poem had been published some years previously as “A New Zealand Hymn,” it was not until 1875 that “The Saturday Advertiser” inaugurated a competition for a musical setting of the words, and offered a substantial prize to attract the best musical talent in the colony. Three of the leading musicians in Australia were appointed adjudicators; each was required to act independently in making his award.
There was at this time teaching school in Lawrence, Otago, a young man named John Joseph Woods, who, like Bracken, had come to the young colony from Australia. Woods read in “The Advertiser” the particulars of the competition and decided to submit an entry. Although it was late at night when he learned of the competition he sat down at his piano and did not rise till the score of “God Defend New Zealand” was completed.
(Thelmo R. Kent, photo.)
View of the Hooker and Tasman Valleys, from Sealy Lake, Mt. Cook.
The three Australian musical adjudicators, acting independently, had no hesitation in selecting Mr. Woods as the winner of the competition. With their opinion Thomas Bracken expressed his full concurrence, and thus New Zealand got its National Anthem. Bracken subsequently assigned to Woods all his rights in “God Defend New Zealand” and these rights were later acquired by Messrs. Chas. Begg & Company Ltd. It is interesting to note that the original manuscript is filed in London and lies alongside that of the German National Anthem.
Woods outlived Bracken by thirty-six years. He died in 1934 at Lawrence, where he was for many years the Town Clerk.
“God Defend New Zealand” has also a Maori musical setting, by Mr. R. A. (“Bob”) Horne, a well-known Christchurch musician who was for many years manager of the Bristol Piano Company, and a generous benefactor of most of the Christchurch musical societies. This Maori setting was a popular feature at the Boy Scouts’ Jamboree in England in 1929.
“God Defend New Zealand” (under the title of “New Zealand Hymn”) was included in the collection of Bracken's poems in the book “Musings in Maoriland,” published in 1890. It was dedicated to Alfred Lord Tennyson “with the sincere admiration of the author.” The preface by Sir George Grey was preceded by an historical sketch, “The Rise and Progress of New Zealand,” by Sir Robert Stout.
How many motorists who travel the road between Ohaeawai and Kaikohe, Bay of Islands, take notice of a little church standing on a slight eminence and surrounded by a stone wall; a lone building without access, save through the paddocks amongst which it stands. On 1st July every year there is surely some stirring amid the grass; bugle calls, however faint; an echo from the hills of Maori warrior cries; a smell of powder in the air. For around the spot marked by the little church many gallant men advanced to certain death in an assault on the native defenders of their land, impregnably entrenched behind three circles of stockades. As late as 1914 a number of cannon balls and a broken cannon could be seen lying there to remind one of
On the hill to the right of the church Colonel Despard assembled his forces; units of the Navy and Army, and volunteers from Auckland. On rising ground to the left camped friendly Maoris. That was in the year 1845 and our artillery was such that at two hundred yards the cannon balls were no more effective against the puriri stockade than would have been so many tennis balls. As was natural the defenders were incensed by their renegade brothers and made a sortie against them, capturing a British ensign which they hoisted above their stockade, upside down above an emblem of their own.
What can we say for the colonel who ordered the advance? With the traditions of the Peninsular and Waterloo, of Marlborough and Wellington, to be mocked by a horde of cannibals and savages in the last discovered land
The British advance was down, and then up, a gentle slope, as any one who cares to stop at the hamlet of Ngawha may see for himself, taking the church for the centre of the camp. He may see, too, the hollow of the trenches outside the wall. The defenders were in
(Photo., courtesy James Newson, Brakpan, Transvaal).
Anzac Station on the Main Line, Electric Railway, about 24 miles east of Johannesburg, South Africa.
Forty British dead marked that assault, brief as it was. Lieutenant Phillpotts from H.M.S. Hazard, stripped himself of his uniform before going into action, and courting death deliberately, he fell—whether as a protest or for another motive we do not know.
The descendants of the Maori braves erected the pretty church we now see. They also removed the remains of the British fallen from a nearby field and erected above them a memorial cross.
As an inexpensive contribution to our Centennial celebrations and for the purpose of cultivating our historical sense, a descriptive tablet by the roadside, stating some particulars of the action known as the Battle of Ohaeawai would draw the attention of many a chance traveller. To some, perhaps, indifference; to some it might be, in this queer age, a slight irritation of the existence, even, of the past; and to others a deep pondering on the bravery, the nobility and the ultimate significance of human life.
The lead which the Railway Department has given in an endeavour to overcome the nuisance caused by the indiscriminate throwing of litter from railway carriages is one that might well be followed generally (says the “Evening Post,” Wellington). Although New Zealanders are probably no worse than the people of many other countries, the fact remains that they are far too careless in disposing of litter, and the result is that streets, parks, and other public places have an appearance of untidiness. Some local bodies may be held partly culpable in not providing sufficient rubbish receptacles and in not keeping streets and other public places clear of litter, but the real solution of the difficulty lies with the public. If people would stop to think before disposing of rubbish there would be no nuisance. It is really all a matter of education. The Railway Department has made a start and if the example is followed by local bodies and other authorities a general improvement should be the result. The average person is not naturally untidy, and if the standards that apply in the average home were applied outside the home the litter nuisance would be greatly minimised. A distinguished visitor to New Zealand once described New Zealand as “a slovenly democracy.” He was referring to political methods, but a similar allegation might lie on other grounds. The best way to avoid such charges in the future is to remove the cause.
New Zealand folk are following with especial interest the tour of King George and Queen Elizabeth across Canada and through the Eastern States of America. Railwaymen throughout the Dominion join those of the Homeland in their expression of loyalty to the Throne and all it stands for, while to their colleagues on the railways of that other great bulwark of individual freedom—the United States—they again extend their very warmest greetings. The trip across the Land of the Maple Leaf, and southwards to New York and the American capital of Washington, is proving a wonderful experience indeed for the royal pair. Here's sending our sincerest thanks to liberty-loving American railroadmen for their whole-hearted co-operation in this historic friendly pilgrimage.
Summer-time approaches in Britain, and the new season's passenger train time-tables show additional and accelerated services all over the country. Actually, to cater for the growing holiday business, the four group lines are running trains with seating accommodation for 2,500,000 passengers simultaneously. They are operating some 773 restaurant and buffet cars; 21,500 motive power units—steam locomotives, electric motors, and oil railcars; and 130 steamships with an aggregate of 176,145 gross registered tons. Fifty-three large railway hotels are at the disposal of tourists, and greatly reduced fares of all kinds are available to meet every need.
Let us take a peep at the new passenger time-table of one line—the London, Midland & Scottish—as typifying the general enterprise of our railways. The L.M. & S. are now speeding-up all main-line services, and there are no fewer than 66 express-trains on this system timed at start-to-stop speeds of 60 m.p.h. or over, representing a daily aggregate of nearly 7,000 miles. Altogether, 482 trains have been accelerated, representing a daily total saving of 1,276 minutes. A notable feature is the acceleration of the north-bound “Royal Scot” to cover the 299.1 miles from Euston to Carlisle non-stop in 299 minutes, the winter time of 7 hours 20 minutes from London to Glasgow being reduced to 7 hours. In the reverse direction, the Glasgow-London “Royal Scot” runs through without a passenger stop, only a brief halt being made outside Carlisle to change enginemen. In this case the overall journey time of 7 hours shows a saving of 25 minutes over the winter schedule. Sunday service improvements are a feature on all the Home lines. On the L.M. & S. a noteworthy step is the betterment of Sunday rail services north of the Border, the two Glasgow stations, Buchanan Street and St. Enoch, being specially opened for this purpose. This month, too, sees great activity among the steamship fleets of the L.M. & S. Regular sailings are being resumed on Lake Windermere, in the beautiful English Lake District; while steamship trips commence on the Clyde Coast, and on the charming Scottish Lochs—Lomond, Tay and Awe.
To detail a complete list of the big improvement plans of the Home railways would occupy many pages of this magazine. Reconstruction of passenger and goods stations is proceeding all over the country; electrification progresses on the L. & N.E. Company between Manchester and Sheffield, and in the London suburban zone, on the G.W. London suburban tracks, and on various sections of the Southern system. One of the biggest works just completed is the £500,000 improvement scheme of the G.W. Company at Old Oak Common carriage depot, 3 ¼ miles from Paddington. This is now the largest passenger train marshalling yard in Britain. It covers, with its locomotive sheds, more than 100 acres, and handles daily, about 2,000 passenger coaches and 450 locomotives. The staff number approximately 1,700. The reconstruction has been proceeding for five years. Principal among the tasks performed at the depot is the handling of all empty coaches forming the incoming trains making use of Paddington, and their reforming for outward working. Actually, there are some 15 miles of sidings within the depot; 75 carriage roads, all
All the Home railways have wisely developed their “selling” side in recent years. There is now none of that short-sighed “take it or leave it” attitude in handling prospective patrons, courtesy being regarded as an essential to efficient service. On the Southern system great success has attended the running of a “Sales League,” which fosters the team spirit, and encourages one and all to secure new business for the line. Challenge shields and money awards are given annually for the best efforts of stations and individuals respectively, and a noteworthy feature of the campaign has been the interest it has aroused among the non-traffic grades. One naturally expects, say, a booking-clerk or a stationmaster, to seek additional business, but it is indeed encouraging to learn of extreme keenness to obtain traffic on the part of shop workers, signalmen, and other grades not in direct touch with the public. A passenger porter at one Southern suburban station last year succeeded in securing business to the value of over £200. A motor, driver at another station was responsible for securing pleasure party traffic to the value of £210. This is the sort of effort to be commended, and it is playing a big part in the restoration to the railways of their one-time prosperity.
The four group railways of Britain are always sympathetically interested in youthful desires for education and advancement. A feature of passenger operation nowadays (educational excursions of various kinds) are warmly supported by the youth of the country. A few typical examples along these lines may be of interest. Not long ago the L. & N.E. operated a special long-distance excursion, conveying 150 boy scouts from London on a 1,000-mile tour of England and Scotland. The train consisted of sleeping-cars, dining-cars and kitchens, and every scout was provided
Ireland has again come into favour as a popular holiday haunt, and both the G.W. and L.M. & S. Railways are expecting big business this summer in connection with their Anglo-Irish services, the Holyhead-Dublin and Fishguard-Rosslare routes being chiefly concerned. The L.M. & S. steamers from Holyhead—linked up with London by the “Irish Mail”—take the traveller speedily and in comfort to Dublin, where rail connection is available with all corners of the country, the Great Southern, Ireland's largest railway, having its headquarters in the capital city.
(Photo., W. T. Hanna).
A frozen waterfall near Big Bluff, Lewis Pass Road.
The completion of the Lewis Pass Road over the divide into the West Coast, down to the famous Buller Gorge has opened up a new route to the tourist which the Railway Department's road services have pioneered with great success. It is possible to travel from Christchurch to Westport in a day crammed with an extraordinary variety of scenery at every altitude up to nearly three thousand feet.
The holiday traveller by road objects to duplicating his route, and this has been one of the handicaps of the South Island from the tourist aspect. But the trouble is disappearing, for the Department's road services provide two crossings of the mountain range, and thus make possible attractive and varied round trips. The second of the crossings is up into the high altitudes of Arthur Pass, among the snowfields, which are reached quite comfortably, if thrillingly by the motor, thus giving the traveller close-up views of the vivid grandeur of the Otira Gorge which can only be faintly suggested to those who take advantage of that remarkable engineering achievement, the Otira Tunnel.
How much of the scenery does the car driver see? Unless a motoring holiday can be managed with the aid of someone to give relief at the wheel, my own experience is that the driver only gets an occasional side glance at the finest views unless he pulls up and blocks the traffic. In this frame of mind a motoring holiday in the South Island was planned, and the road time-tables consulted to see if it would be possible to cover an attractive route along which one could be comfortably driven with the other fellow in the driver's seat. Fortunately, the road services have now reached such a high point of efficiency that the ideal could be achieved, and a pleasant and varied tour of North Canterbury and the West Coast made possible with full enjoyment of the remarkable variety of scenery. The
(Photo. W. T. Hanna).
Lewis Pass Road near Poplars.
The Lewis Pass service is run in conjunction with the Department's daily connection between Christchurch and Hanmer, and the first section of the east to west journeys is through the splendid agricultural country of North Canterbury as far as Culverden. Then the course turns to the west, we are soon among the foothills following up the Waiau and Hope Rivers, and surveying, from a high elevation the miles of sheep stations where size is denoted not by acres so much as by thousands of sheep. We reach the Lewis Stream, the well-graded road rises higher, and at 58 miles from Culverden
There is no doubting the fact that we are on the West Coast once the car commences to descend. The vegetation is tropical in its luxuriance, and trees clothe the steep ranges right up to snow level. Cannibal Gorge—properly named if Maori legend is correct—runs off to the right, its mysterious depths half-hidden in mist. Another discovery when running along the banks of the Maruia River is that there are well-developed hot springs at a temperature of 180 degrees, possessing a curvative reputation which will doubtless make them more popular now that access is sure and comfortable. In due course the Buller Gorge is reached with over thirty miles of its finest scenery to regale the tourist before the 214-mile trip from Christchurch to Westport is completed.
Picking the right day for high country, a run over the Otira Gorge by the Department's service between Hokitika and Arthur Pass provided the most vivid of all the motoring experiences of the West Coast. The route through Kumara is historic, and the evidences of the great days of alluvial gold mining are piled up right and left, as the road for some miles goes over the tailings. Human effort has laboriously lifted these thousands of tons of stones during the search for gold, but the modern method of the Coast is to dredge far deeper than the old gold miner could venture, twenty men on a dredge, electrically-powered, doing in a week more than muscular effort could achieve in years. Gold mining by the modern process has become quite a prosaic business, with the returns fairly
After the service car has passed the railway at Otira, we notice the line running up grade into the long tunnel. The road, however, winds up the left side of the gorge. Mountains seem to converge on this tiny man-made ribbon, and the newcomer only has the assurance of a through ticket that he can get much further. The road often hangs above the rushing river by a cutting taken out of the solid rock, and it is comforting to realise how solid are its foundations when its height above the gorge bottom runs into hundreds of feet. “Windy Point,” “Starvation Point” and “Cape Horn,” some prominent features, are the highly appropriate names on the map. The forest runs up to the snowfields, and in due course, the motor is also up to that elevation. Mountaineering is thus made easy, though not altogether free from thrills, because the road gaily tackles a precipice by way of the famous zig-zag, an extra low gear on the specially designed chassis making this experience quite easy, if a little slow. None of the passengers wished to hurry. We were all quite appreciative of the careful driving, and on occasion glad of the reassuring chattiness of the man at the wheel, who, like his contemporaries on other routes, had his special local jokes.
“Poison Point” explained our driver, briefly, as we rounded a real thriller of a precipice—“one drop is enough.”
Over the same route now runs an electric power line, taking energy from the Coleridge station to the West Coast, mainly to meet the greatly increased load demanded through the encouraging development of alluvial dredging. The erection of this line, with its steel towers of eighty feet, perched on rocky elevations, has been a magnificent job of which little has been heard by the general public, because the construction gangs have had few spectators. Often the mountaineer of the party had to put in some clever rock climbing to reach the proposed site of a tower. Then, dragging up tools by a light line, he has made a working platform to which has been secured a block and tackle. Then the rest was comparatively easy, a caterpillar tractor running on the nearest section of the road pulling the steel sections up to the sky-line, where they could be bolted together. The power line itself, eight wires separated about ten feet by steel crossarms, springs from tower to tower at delirious heights, and the traveller looking up, is impressed with the engineering courage which planned this invasion of so magnificent a gorge. But earlier planners had built a road which enabled the wondering traveller in due course to look down on these towers, so high does the route run before it tops the pass at over three thousand feet, to drop down fairly easily into the railway town of Arthur Pass.
From this point the journey into Christchurch is made by rail, through miles of impressive scenery as a reminder that one does not necessarily have to desert the rail to enjoy a good panorama. Which reminds us that in the near future the most spectacular parts of the Buller Gorge will be viewed from a railway carriage, for the new line is making good progress. Its track through the Gorge is the one bare streak in the verdant vegetation, but West Coast rains and a great “growing” climate will soon dispose of any eyesore, and the railway, like the power line over Otira Gorge, will fit comfortably into the scene, providing a contrast between the puny efforts of man and nature on the ground scale.
West Coast roads, including the hundred miles or so of the lovely fernery which stretches almost from Hokitika to the Fox Glacier, are mostly narrow, though of good surface. Crossing other traffic is an affair of patience and decent driving. Service car drivers have developed a code of their own, short toots of the horn signalling “all clear and thank you” when a passing has been safely made.
There is hardly any need to contribute another testimonial to the quality of New Zealand's service car drivers, but it ought to be mentioned that the Railway Department's staff are not only well up in the details of the local scenery, but share with passengers their excellent knowledge of West Coast botany. Each man has also developed, so it seemed, his own set of driver's jokes.
Touring with the other fellow at the steering wheel was a great success. The scenery on the Coast is not only to left and right, but thousands of feet up to the main range of the snowfields of the Southern Alps, so the Department's coaches are provided with a scenic windscreen immediately above the normal one, enabling all passengers to enjoy beauties above the forest line from all the seats in the vehicle.
(Photo., Neville R. Lewers).
The Punakaiki paneake rocks and blowholes. An interesting sight on the West Coast.
According to the road guide it is sixteen miles from the Franz Josef Glacier to Weheka, the centre for viewing the Fox Glacier, but sixteen in figures fails miserably to convey what has to be covered in that distance. There are two divides, with the inevitable hundreds of bends, all perfect fern grottoes. Even the bare cuttings have a rich red colouring which is apparently due to lichen. And the trip by service car, driven by someone knowing every inch of it, takes fifty minutes. This is the kind of thing which caused one to lean back luxuriously and reflect upon the advantages of letting the other fellow do the driving. The point was further driven home when, in a fireside chat with fellow tourists who had their own car, one of them remarked that he had once taken the tour as I had done, and was now doing the driving for his family. “And the roads,” he added, “seem three times more dangerous.”
When I was a boy I knew an old lady who planned, God willing, to visit the Paris Exhibition in 1900. Her temerity appalled me. As it happened the extreme sanction was withheld, and she never saw it. There is always an exhibition looming ahead of one. If it isn't Wembley it is Dunedin. If it isn't Dunedin it is Glasgow the second or Paris the second. We look before and after, and sigh for what is not. Some of us look as far back as the New Zealand and South Sea Exhibition which was held in Dunedin in the year 1889. Out of the dark backward and abyss of time certain vignettes define themselves, perhaps the very earliest since the dawning of consciousness. To turn one's back in panic on the Centennial Exhibition, and scamper like the baby in the picture by Watts called “Whence? Whither?” is a foolish procedure, but that is precisely what I propose to follow in this article. I cannot recall entering the Exhibition of 1889 nor can I recall leaving it. Never mind, Jerome K. Jerome could remember falling into an ash-pit as a child, and he could not remember getting out of it. It is more than probable that I went to the Exhibition in a cab. Out of the murk the interior of a cab defines itself. The occasion of the first cab may have been one's first circus. Be that as it may, there was a day, or an evening, when I was first aware of the cab coverings flapping about me, of the little oil lamp below the window that proffered a view of the cabby's back, of the bilious-looking painted scroll which set forth the cabby's credentials, or the name of the coach builder who had fashioned this strange vehicle with its close-smelling upholstered seats facing each other on either side of the narrow fairway. Two steps let you down into the world of dogs and men and ribaldry. The little lamp cast raffish upward lights upon the lineaments of parents and brethren. There must have been a turnstile. If I were to think very hard I might recall being pushed through it from behind, a smiling image, as Robert Louis Stevenson puts it. My eldest brother and sister were admitted by ticket. These were little tokens in light brown leather that doubled like the covers of a book. Within was a photograph of the holder. I believe that a number of such tickets are preserved at the Early Settlers’ Hall in Dunedin. Out of the shadows which by this time must have superseded those pre-natal clouds of glory which, according to Wordsworth, we trail with us, there emerges the picture or tableau vivant, of an armless siffleur. He sat, dark-clad, very close up to his accompanist at the piano, and whistled “Men of Harlech.” I have sometimes wondered if my first infantile attempts at whistling date from that encounter. When one comes to think of it, how many of us can follow the string back to the precise hour when we succeeded in producing some sort of consecutive cadence by means of pursing the lips and expelling the breath through them. We lisped in numbers and the numbers came. It is more probable that we can recall our first created verbal cadence than our first whistled air. It is a matter of interest to myself alone that the first metrical line I ever perpetrated was
I cannot remember what I first whistled, but I do remember that the siffleur at the 1889 Exhibition whistled “Men of Harlech.” Then there was the Kiosk where one was served with tea by an Indian—whether real or brummagem I cannot say. So faint are
(W. W. Stewart Collection.)
The old and the new. A study of an early “A” and a modern “K” class locomotive in the railway yard at Otahuhu, Auckland.
via minima walked little figures. At least they appeared to have been walking right up to the moment when one came upon them. One little figure had a chimney sweep's bag and brush on his back. Of the others I have no recollection. They may have shared a common fate like the people who found themselves on the Bridge of San Luis Rey at the time of its collapse. I cannot say that was their end. For me they continue for ever on their way as the figures on the Grecian Urn continued in the mind of John Keats to woo and be wooed and otherwise to occupy themselves. Then there were the little girls who were learning to cook at what was probably the 1889 derniere cri, in stoves. They were segregated in some way that I cannot now define. Some barrier stood between them and me, and there was pathos and beauty in their movements as they followed the directions of their mentor. In some way they were in thrall to whatever god it is of whom Mrs. Beeton is the prophet.
I do not want to be Freudian, but something stirred in that stolid rather over-nourished four-year-old at the sight of those little girls caught up in a kind of spider's web of pots and pans and dishes. Then there was the old gentleman in the bath chair who frequented the concert room. The concerts themselves come back in essence only, strains from Tannhäser with which is
Exhibitions leave behind them, not footprints on the sands of time, but portents on the sky-line. The first sight of the Eiffel Tower or the Big Wheel at Earls Court invoke emotions not else to be evoked. There are all sorts of ways of seeing the Eiffel Tower. For my own part I saw it on a morning in spring when I had wandered away from the hotel where the power which should release me from Paris, with its morgue, its super-cemetery and its Pantheon, still lay abed. I traversed doubtful purlieus and turned a corner, and there was the Eiffel Tower looking so absurdly like itself that I was beset by an uneasy feeling that the thing had been made too easy for me.
The Big Wheel one viewed from various points as one travelled in the Metropolitan Underground, a portent in itself, seeing that it comprised portions of what had inspired the genius of Lear and of Cruickshank. The Crystal Palace shone at Sydenham as a memorial to the soaring vision of the Prince Consort. One could write nothing of the great Exhibition in Hyde Park that has not already been written by Lytton Strachey or Hector Bolitho. At Wembley the Stadium stands as a perpetual testimony to the enterprise of a visionary called McAlpine. Strange to say I remember more of the New Zealand and South Seas in 1889 than I remember of Wembley in 1924. Despite all that has been said to the contrary the human eye is the most lovingly acquisitive of all the organs. Wembley came to me through media less direct. There was a certain frosty week-end before the great Exhibition was actually opened, which I spent at the bungalow of a gentleman who was connected with the staff. In the afternoon of the Saturday one heard the band from Nella Hall, where Sir Arthur Sullivan's father was a bandmaster, play martial music, while a detachment of Boy Scouts acted as counters for a game which the late Mr. Lascelles was playing as pageant master. On the Sunday afternoon my host entertained a number of young men—and they all seemed young—who were finishing off contracts. They spoke lightly of having pinched cranes from each other, and compared our host's rock cakes with the concrete they had been using. It gives me little joy to think that I am farther off from the capacity to apprehend an Exhibition than when I was a boy.
I am painfully aware of the commiserating smile I should provoke on the face of any small boy to whom I might communicate my intention of visiting the Centennial Exhibition in 1940. Still, one never knows.
The late Fergus Hume, whose “Mystery of a Hansom Cab” made all London talk once upon a time, was then a heavy smoker, but very fastidious in his choice of tobacco, maintaining that pure tobacco was harmless but that if it contained overmuch nicotine it might do infinite mischief. Doctors will confirm that. But really pure tobacco, that is tobacco containing a trifling percentage of nicotine, is not met with everywhere every day. Even in London it is rare. Here in Maoriland it may be obtained at the nearest tobacconist's shop! The New Zealand grown and manufactured article is probably the purest and least harmful in the world, and smokers may indulge in it to their heart's content without running the smallest risk. This famous tobacco owes its excellence to the fact that it is toasted—the only tobacco that is, by the way. This process draws the poison out of it besides accounting for its wonderful flavour and matchless bouquet. Five brands only: Cut Plug No. 10, Cavendish, Riverhead Gold, Desert Gold and Navy Cut No. 3.*
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(Legend Tarawera, Rotorua).
Rainbow refers to Rainbow Mountain.
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