XIII THE PARADISE OF LABOUR
Upon landing from the steamer, and strolling up the pier towards the well-remembered Queen Street, I was puzzled to account for the fact that the pier seemed shorter than it used to be. But I set it down to my being so much younger then, and to having seen so many big things of late years. I could not, however, help feeling that the rows of big warehouses crowding along the front were much closer to the water's edge than any buildings had been in my time, and I seemed to remember also that the water used to come up into the town unhindered until it chose to retire. Now, however, its entry was severely restricted, and I was not at all surprised to learn that, along the whole water-front, over half a mile at least, one hundred yards in width of land had been reclaimed and built upon. It may be asked why, in a new country like this, it should be worth while to spend money in reclaiming land from the sea when there is so much land unoccupied. But when you learn that the price of land in the city of Auckland ranges from £20 per foot frontage up to a figure which closely approximates to that in most parts of London, and that building land in even the remote suburbs of Auckland is fetching to-day £400 per acre, you will not be surprised, however much, like myself, you wonder at the reason for this state of things.
Nevertheless, Auckland as a city is disappointing—distinctly so. It has one fine street, a really splendid wide and straight thoroughfare, but in that street there are only two decent buildings, one of which is, appropriately enough, the Auckland Savings Bank; all the rest, though some of them are pretentious enough, are mean, and unworthy of the first city of New Zealand in point of population (and some say of wealth), being either jerry-built of brick and stuccoed over, or of wood. Now, of all mean shams that my soul abhors, it is the imitation stone-building of which the early Victorian era in London furnished so many hideous examples. Good honest brick-work, or even wood-work that looks what it is, I like, but stucco, hiding, as it always does, the most slovenly and unreliable brick-work, and showing after a few weeks its misery in the shape of numberless cracks, and even crevasses (I saw one public building, before I had been five minutes ashore, which had to be propped up as if there had been an earthquake), is beneath contempt, and should never be encouraged by an independent and outspoken people. I know I shall be reminded of the lack of suitable building stone in this volcanic country, and the cost of getting stone here from other parts of New Zealand where it is abundant; but that is not to the point. There is plenty of brick—the best of brick—and abundance of the most beautiful timber the world grows, wherefore stucco, the sham of shams, should be anathema. Fortunately I shall be out of the country before the Plasterers' Union can be out after me, so I do not care.
Then there seems to be something lacking in so prosperous a city in that there are so many mean streets and only one really good thoroughfare. The city looks unkempt, dishevelled, as if it had not yet made up its mind whether to rise to the height of a metropolis or sink to the depth of a village. It looks fortuitous, and although it certainly does not fall to the level of the average American city of its size, it does not rise to the occasion like Perth, Western Australia, for instance, although comparisons are odious; but I would like to know why! On every hand may be heard tales of the abounding prosperity of the country, and I have ever found that when business men are contented with the way things are going, and say so, the visitor, more especially if he be not one to whom something may be sold in order to get rid of it, may depend upon it that things are even better than they seem. Wages are high, food is plentiful and cheap, and, indeed, all the necessaries of life are cheap in comparison with the standard of wages. Only land seems dear out of all proportion to the prosperity of the country.
This is indeed the paradise of labour. Practically all legislation is shaped with an eye to what the worker with his hands will think of it, and men who at home are classed with the demagogues, and treated as dangerous subverters of law and order, here make the laws, administer them, and rule the roost generally. I have been introduced to several men whom I should at once have recognised anywhere as journeymen carpenters, masons, plasterers, &c., with horny hands and an utter absence of the graces or delicacies of speech, and told that they were J.P.'s., members of the House of Representatives, or leaders of societies wielding enormous power. It is not necessary, nay, it is almost impossible, for strikes to occur, since every question of hours and wages is submitted to Courts of Arbitration having all the powers of legal tribunals. Strangely enough, the capitalists profess to like this state of affairs. I anxiously looked for some sign of insincerity in their remarks to me upon the subject, but could not detect any at all. So I was, and am, compelled to believe that they are at least contented to acquiesce in this condition of matters. Then it must also be remembered that many quite large employers of labour are themselves what we are pleased to call working men, that is, they still work at the bench with hammer and saw, lathe and file, among the men whom they employ, and their distance from employed to employer is not yet great enough for them to have lost touch with their men.
One splendid result of this close equality of capital with labour is that there is no room for the whining rascal who gets so much utterly undeserved sympathy and the lion's share of pauper-making doles at home, the workshy or unemployable. He could not exist here. I do not quite know what they would do with him, but I am perfectly sure that he could not live here for any length of time. It is a land of workers, not loafers; and while for the worker who is unfortunate in any way there is every help and encouragement, for the class for which our sentimentalists who call themselves socialists at home are mainly responsible, there is nothing available but elimination, and that very swiftly. This goodly position of the worker is not confined to the outside workers only, the journeyman mechanic, labourer, &c., but it extends to the class which at home with us is so terribly handicapped in small business and in large wholesale houses, counter-salesmen and clerks. The majority of shops close at six, only a few refreshment-houses, tobacconists, &c., remaining open. No such spectacle is possible here as that which I have often seen at home at certain seasons of the year, when employees must work practically all night as a set-off to the fact that they get a fortnight's holiday in the year without pay. Or of the shops which, under the stress of competition, keep their pale slaves on their feet from eight in the morning until ten at night, and on Saturdays until twelve. Everything that can be done is done in the direction of early closing, even to the hotels (there are no public-houses here) whose bars are closed rigidly at ten o'clock, and on Sundays may not open at all. Nay, so far is this carried that, if you are staying in an hotel, you may not have a visitor to see you after ten, or on Sundays at all, lest you should be tempted to offer him fluid hospitality, and thus evade the law which declares that no man may drink intoxicants during prohibited hours, except in the privacy of his own permanent or temporary home. Local Option is carried out to its fullest extent, and has some queer results where a district closed to the sale of liquor ranges with one that is open. But there is no gainsaying the fact that all that can or may be done by what we at home know by the opprobrious epithet of grandmotherly interference to discourage the consumption of strong drink, is done.
In many other ways what we call the liberty of the subject is interfered with, the distinct proviso being laid down that the law may punish any person for doing anything which is harmful to his neighbour. Which, of course, strikes at the root of monopolies, and of all those evils which usually accompany the building up of enormous fortunes out of the woes of the wage-earner. And yet, of course I suppose, there are evils attendant upon all this dry-nursing—evils which I have heard liberally descanted upon by citizens, but will not enlarge upon myself because, in the first place, I am not likely to come here to live, and next because I am too grateful for the removal of many of the horrible diseases of the body politic which are rampant at home, and can there, alas, only be cured now by drastic remedies involving much suffering to innocent people. Of course you have heard all about the old-age pension system out here, which is now about to be extended to Australia. I am not sufficient of an actuary to know what it will eventually cost, but I do know that at present it is hailed with intense satisfaction by all classes, who pride themselves upon having solved a problem that has baffled all the civilised nations. More than that, a public-spirited citizen of Auckland has erected and endowed a really beautiful building in one of the most romantically picturesque suburbs of Auckland, which is called the "Costley" home for aged people, and is on the lines of what we at home should call an almshouse or set of almshouses. Here with their pensions the old folks can, and do, live most comfortably, having entire liberty to do what they please, just as if they had retired upon a competency of their own earning. And, indeed, they are led to regard the old-age pension in that very light. In such a practical community as this it is, perhaps, superfluous to add that every care is taken to exclude from the benefits of the pension scheme all those whose habits of drunkenness and laziness have made them unworthy of its provisions. It really does not put a premium upon wasteful debauchery.
When I was last in Auckland, thirty-five years ago, I used to be much amused and interested in watching the Maories, both men and women, strolling about the streets with a lordly air of indifference to everything under the sun but their own ease and comfort. The idea of work of any kind seemed entirely foreign to their nature, and although they were gratefully taking to the white man's style of dress, it was very slowly, and the mixture of native and European costume produced some grotesque effects. It was very funny to see a Maori belle dressed from top to toe in what she had been led to consider was the height of European fashion, plump suddenly down on the nearest convenient spot and hastily remove the tight boots which had been making her hobble like a Chinese lady. Tying them together with a piece of string, she would sling them over her shoulder, then producing and lighting a short, black pipe, she would resume her leisurely way sublimely indifferent to what anybody thought of her carefree proceedings. And the older natives were often dressed in a complete native garb, save that they wore trousers. It helped one to realise how near to the native times of supremacy we were to see these calm-eyed Maories strolling along the streets gazing at the strange sights but never manifesting any surprise or even interest.
And now, so long after, I find almost as many natives about as I did then. You meet them everywhere, not now in native garb it is true, but wearing, with a curious alteration of set and cut, the ordinary European raiment. The women, too, hang skirts and jackets upon their stalwart bodies, but I did not see any more tight-fitting boots, most of the ladies wearing generous men's sizes and shapes for ease, while they also chose to wear, as being more comfortable and useful, men's wideawake hats secured with hatpins. The short pipe is still in constant evidence, also the tattooing on the chin which marks the married woman, while a child is often seen slung on her back in true native fashion all the world over. One thing excited my attention, in view of the statement made that this splendid race is slowly dying out—it is the magnificent build of many of the men. It is well known, of course, how fine a human animal the Maori half-breed makes, but I have seen many full-blooded Maories here whose physique was that of the Farnese Hercules, a splendour of trunk and limbs that even the slouching way in which their clothes are flung on them could not hide. But nothing will ever make the native take to the idea of steady, settled work—fixed hours for anything; it is unnatural to expect it, and, as far as I can see, the ruling powers of New Zealand do not expect it. They educate the Maori, give him a goodly share in the Government, treat him with kindly respect, and do nothing to hinder him from retaining his ancient language, but they do not commit the blunder of supposing that he will become a European.
I have been for a drive to-day around the suburbs known as Mount Eden and One Tree Hill, from whence a peculiarly beautiful and comprehensive view of Auckland and its lovely environs can be obtained. But in spite of the beauty of the country and the luxuriance of the verdure, the air of prosperity manifest by the neat and sometimes handsome dwellings dotted about everywhere, and the wealth of flowers—the arum lily especially growing in masses by the waysides as if it were a noxious weed—one grim feature of the landscape would exclude every other consideration. Auckland is literally hemmed in on the landward side by a ring of craters of extinct volcanoes; nay, it would almost seem as if the whole region had once been one vast volcano, like Mauna Loa in the Sandwich Islands, having many vent-holes. Evidently the present quiet condition of things has lasted for many hundreds of years, and I fervently hope that no uneasy demon will arise to mar that ancient peace.
XIV A UNIVERSAL SHOCK
The pious aspiration with which I closed my last chapter has not been quite fulfilled. The earth mother is quiet, thank Heaven, but the minds of the people have been stirred as by some mighty disaster. On Monday, June 11th, the news was suddenly flashed across from Sydney to the whole of New Zealand that the Oswestry Grange had returned to Sydney, whence she had sailed on the preceding day, with R. J. Seddon dead. It is almost impossible to convey to you at home what a sensation this news made. We all love the King, but it is with an impersonal affection; we shout and cheer for the various political leaders of our party according to our tastes; but here it was as if the country had been smitten with an irretrievable disaster. The visitor forgot the smallness of the number of people affected as he realised the extraordinary consternation this sudden death produced among all classes, even those who had been most violently opposed to him politically. I was staying at the time in an hotel kept by an amiable Hebrew, and in consequence largely frequented by gentlemen of that faith (who, by the way, are particularly numerous and influential in Auckland), and it was to me amazing to see the grief of all, the genuine sorrow manifested, and hear the sentiments of deep affectionate regret that were uttered by the landlord and his friends.
The secret of this amazing popularity seemed to be that first and foremost the deceased Premier, while he magnified his office and never failed to magnify New Zealand also, was essentially accessible to all, hail-fellow-well-met with Tom, Dick, and Harry. He never, so it was said, put on "side," unless he were dealing with magnates who endeavoured to put it on with him, when he would be aggressively, almost ferociously, self-assertive. It has been repeatedly stated that he was offered a peerage at home, but refused. This man, so essentially of the people, who, like so many other men in power in this new and thriving country, had toiled at many humble occupations in order to earn a living, and who, when he had obtained the summit of power out here, lived in simplest style without a trace of ostentation, was wise enough and courageous enough to refuse such an honour as most men will toil and intrigue and spend fabulous sums in trying to obtain, because, so people here say, and I am fain to believe, he knew that as a peer he would have been a nonentity, but as plain Dick Seddon he was really the uncrowned King of New Zealand. Naturally his essentially Socialistic policy was fiercely assailed by those whose privileges and profits it curtailed, and nothing less than ruin was predicted for the country so subjected to political experiments of the most drastic order. But although it is for the present beside the mark to say that, so far from the country being ruined, it was never more prosperous than it is now, it is curious, almost pathetic, to note how all the voices of controversy are hushed, how all parties, all newspapers, unite in doing honour to the man whose proudest title was Digger Dick. There has been, as far as I have been able to hear, not one dissentient voice raised against the chorus of eulogy, and there certainly has been none of that indecent exultation so often painfully manifested at home on the death or downfall of one of our great men by the party opposed to him.
During the later years of his life Richard John Seddon was exceptionally fortunate, over and above the position he earned by Titanic toil. But in nothing was he more fortunate than in the manner and time of his passing away. It must be remembered that he had just closed such a triumphal progress through the chief cities of the Commonwealth of Australia as a monarch, even the proudest, might have envied. He came to Australia as his own ambassador to endeavour to effect a closer union between the Commonwealth and New Zealand in matters of legislation, and especially in the direction of a reciprocal tariff. How far his self-imposed mission was a success it is as yet too early to say, but it is certain that he dominated the Australian politicians like a giant towering above pigmies. One would have thought that New Zealand was the great State and Australia the small to read the speeches made and the editorial comments thereupon. In fact Seddon seemed to hypnotise the politicians as he did the ordinary banqueters of whom I spoke in a previous chapter, so that even such a platitudinous and vulgar plagiarism from the arrogant Yankee as his frequently uttered allusion to New Zealand as "God's own country" was always rapturously applauded and received as the coinage of his own brain, a happy idea such as no other mind would be capable of receiving. This description of New Zealand was especially pleasing to Seddon's warmest supporters, the Maories, who are all nominally Christian now, and who all firmly believe that he was the inventor of the epithet.
And then, when this triumphal progress culminated in Sydney and he had embarked for "God's own country," as his last telegram stated, he sat down to rest with his family around him, and suddenly laying his head upon his wife's shoulder, murmured "Oh, mother!" and died; instantly, peacefully, painlessly. Of course it was a terrible shock to his devoted partner and his no less devoted children, but as far as he was concerned it was a passing such as few great men are privileged to obtain. Even Nelson, whose end was similar in that he passed at the summit of his glory, had to endure long hours of agony, whereas Seddon's end was such as most of us, however humble, must crave for, but few obtain.
Business seems paralysed, and the newspapers can apparently print nothing else but pages about the deceased Premier; but of course, although the intense mourning and general distrait air will continue until the funeral at Wellington in about ten days, the people will discover, as they have so often discovered before, that no man is irreplaceable, and that the sincerest tribute to a great man's memory is to carry on his work after his departure.
Perhaps I have devoted overmuch space to Mr. Seddon in a work like this, but really the event has caused so great a sensation out here that it seemed impossible to pass it over in a few casual words.
My stay in Auckland is drawing rapidly to a close, to my regret, although, as I am repeatedly assured, the country is not to be compared, as far as appearance goes, to what it is like in the summer. Which seems so strange to me, for, as I am never weary of repeating, the climate now seems to be almost ideal to a Briton: the air has just enough freshness in it to dispel languor, while the sun's heat at noon is tempered enough to make the genial warmth enjoyable and the wearing of even the lightest of overcoats an absurdity. This ideal climate condition makes me wonder why it is that so many of the flowering plants and shrubs do not bloom all the year round. The conditions are never even sub-tropical, being more like Cornwall than anything else, yet there is no approach to the wealth of bloom that may be seen in our far western counties all the year round. And many of the trees, having shed their leaves, look absolutely dead, as if nothing could ever induce them to burgeon again. Even the verdure on the hills does not look fresh and green as it does in our southern counties during our much-maligned winter. But appearances are proverbially deceitful, and nowhere more so than here, for they tell me that the sheep find excellent pasturage all the year round, and are never in need of any special care, while the cool air induces the luxuriant growth of wool.
But I must bid farewell to Auckland. The Tarawera waits for me, and we are presently spinning southward down the Gulf towards Gisborne, my next halting-place. This is a coast to test seamanship. From Auckland round to Wellington there is no real shelter, and when the mighty Southern swell rolls up the steamers must either put out to sea and breast it, not daring to attempt a landing at any of the ports, or pass on with their disgruntled passengers to the shelter of one of the safe harbours aforesaid. As happened to the ship which passed us on her way North—for although the weather was not what a seaman would call bad—she had, owing to the enormous Pacific (?) swell breaking in on the coast, to give up all idea of landing her passengers, to say nothing of her cargo, at Gisborne, and take them on to Auckland. When we passed East Cape the weather was sublime, the sea like oil, and the sky above cloudless, serene; but that terrible swell tossed us about like a cork in a mill-race. However, we came into Gisborne, Poverty Bay, on Sunday, and anchored quite close to what has been ironically termed the harbour, rolling and tumbling about there in strangely bewildering fashion. Presently I saw some small steam vessels making their way apparently through the land, but behaving as we were doing, that is, rolling and tumbling about with wonderful agility. They soon emerged from behind what I could then discern was the horn of a breakwater, and immediately became easier in their movements. When, however, the tender, a fine, stout-built steamer of about 200 tons, got alongside it was possible to see how great was the motion on this calm day and to imagine what an impossibility it would be to carry on any work if the wind was blowing into this unprotected bay instead of, as it was now, blowing out. The master of the tender being an old shipmate of mine invited me on the bridge to see the entrance to the harbour, for which I was very grateful, for it was a revelation to me.
This little community of less than 9,000 souls, being in possession of a magnificent sheep country and having built up for themselves the largest frozen meat export trade in New Zealand, felt themselves most severely and painfully handicapped by their want of a harbour. Not, be it understood, for vessels of any size—that they could hardly hope to effect—but one from which they might carry out their produce to ships at anchor in the bay. So they consulted Sir John Coode on the construction of a breakwater, behind which the small steamers might come down from the little river Waimata in safety and emerge into the bay. He gave his opinion, indicating the best position for, and the mode of construction of, the breakwater, which apparently did not coincide with their wishes. In the result they disregarded his advice and built the present breakwater, which, for a time, served fairly well, but alas! the channel behind it began to silt up from the scour of the river, which, as rivers are wont to do in all mountainous countries, occasionally ran in spate, overflowing its banks and bringing down enormous quantities of detritus. In the hope of obviating this the local authorities built a groyne running parallel with the breakwater and making a sort of canal running out into the harbour. But unhappily they extended this groyne until it was equal in length to the breakwater. Then when the prevalent swell rolled in, it struck the end of the groyne, rebounding up the channel, and making such mighty turmoil that it was impossible to get in or out except at very great risk. On my journey up, as I said, the weather was exceptionally fine, but this tiny steamer required two men at the wheel, which was spun hard up and hard down continuously as the great swell rolling in after her swung her from side to side.
I need not labour this point, but may say briefly that it is one of those blunders easily made but most difficult to repair; and now this small, energetic community, having burdened itself with a debt of a quarter of a million in order to facilitate the shipment of its produce, finds itself in a rather worse position than before. It is, as may be imagined, a very sore point indeed with the townsfolk, who do not know who to blame, and who do not see what good blaming would do after all. Yet in spite of all this it is, by all accounts, the most prosperous in proportion to its size of any town in New Zealand. The ranges of hills hereabouts form, so I am told, ideal pasturage for sheep when they have been treated in the following fashion. The natural surface growth is burned off and grass seed is sown among the ashes. This presently, under the beneficent skies of this beautiful country, clothes those heretofore barren ranges with living green of such succulent nutritiousness that it will "carry" two sheep to the acre—sheep who fatten and breed with scarcely any attention, in such fashion as we in England have had ample demonstration of, and who find within easy reach a ready market. I confess that it was difficult at first to realise the value of those lofty ranges of hills where cultivation is quite out of the question, but in the light of this expert information and of what I saw of the flocks of sheep streaming down to the freezing works to be presently dealt with in exhaustive fashion, I began to understand how and why it was that New Zealand ranked so very high among the countries of the world as regards her export trade, £9 per head as against £2 8s. from the United States by the admission of one of their own experts.
XV MUTTON, THE MASTER
Gisborne is, historically speaking, almost the most interesting place in the whole of New Zealand. Close to the site of the present town is where Captain Cook made his first landing in the country, and named it, on the spur of the moment, Poverty Bay—a name which it still holds, because the natives take a delight in the irony of the appellation in contrast to that of the Bay of Plenty, which, though only the next bay northward, has done nothing so far to justify its grand title. This little place was also the scene of the Poverty Bay massacre, wherein between thirty and forty whites were slaughtered by the Maories under the redoubtable Te Kooti, as a direct result of the inevitable, invariable blundering of the home authorities. It is not a little remarkable, however, that it should have taken so long for this place to attain its present dimensions, even when the limitations of the harbour (?) have to be taken into consideration. But since that is a feature of every part of Australasia that I have revisited, I need not do more than allude to it in passing.
Like Auckland, Gisborne suffers from a want of good building stone, which prevents the erection of any really imposing buildings, since all builders are in a conspiracy to hide the brick-work, of which the best buildings are constructed, under stucco, a most futile and pernicious proceeding, directly conducive to bad work. The older buildings are of wood, which is honest at any rate, if flimsy in appearance. It is not so in reality, as New Zealand boasts some of the finest building timber in the world—so good, in fact, that it pays to import soft wood from America and Scandinavia, and export the native woods for other purposes. It is a beautifully laid-out little town, with wide, level streets, and as yet no imposing buildings in them—a town where everybody seems contented and prosperous, although there is an utter absence of swagger, such as usually accompanies the possession of considerable means in other countries. It would appear that here, at any rate, the Socialistic schemes of the New Zealand Government have resulted in a general levelling of the people in point of comfort, a certain limitation of growth, and a great air of contentment, for I have heard no one as yet speak of hard times.
Viewed from the sea, Gisborne gives one the idea of consisting of only a small collection of houses clustered about the lower slopes of the encircling hills, and the stranger instinctively wonders where the town can be, the distance of those hills from the sea being so very deceptive. But once ashore it is seen that there is really an immense area of almost absolutely level land extending from the sea-shore to the ranges—beautiful land of the highest quality, and containing space enough for the erection of a mighty city if only the conditions warranted its growth. The contrast between the level of Gisborne and the inequalities of Auckland is very marked, but of course, while the position of the former is excellent from the point of view of transport, it does not make for picturesqueness. It much resembles the position of Adelaide, and, for the same reason, the deposit of alluvium at the foot of the hills by the age-long work of the rivers coming down to the sea and spreading out their detritus.
I was taken to see the principal freezing establishment, belonging to Messrs. Nelson & Co., and went with a great deal of curiosity, after my reading of Upton Sinclair's awful book, "The Jungle," and my own experiences of Chicago. Of course, in point of size, there is no comparison, the whole output of New Zealand being but a trifle compared with the holocaust daily offered up in Chicago. But that was of no consequence; it was the system I wanted to see. First of all, our arrival (I was taken by a Government Stock Inspector) was unexpected by the people in charge, so that nothing could have been cleaned up or put out of sight for my sake. Work, indeed, was very slack, only a few bullocks being slaughtered and the sheep being discharged from the great refrigerators into specially built and equipped lighters for conveyance off to the Niwaru, one of Messrs. Tyser & Co.'s huge cargo steamers, which was lying in the bay. It gives rather a curious sensation to stand at the other end of the long chain of supply forged by man's inventive genius, which connects the sheep which I see on the hills yonder with the suburban butcher's shop in England with its sheeted carcases being chopped up for distribution at practically the same prices, and in practically the same condition, as they are sold to the consumer here.
Apart from the grim side of the business, the immense and continuous blood-shedding and the suggestive crimson rivulet flowing steadily into the river beside the works, there was an air of great calm and peace over everything. There is nothing squalid or sordid or dirty about the place, from the rows of pretty workmen's dwellings to the immense cooling chambers crowded with freshly skinned and disembowelled carcases, depending from rails overhead and chilling off before commencing their journey towards the freezing chambers (Linde's Ammonia process), where the temperature rapidly converts those fresh, soft, pink and white bodies into no bad resemblance of a block of stone. As to the meat itself, like most householders, and without being anything of a butcher, I pride myself on knowing a bit of good meat when I see it, and better-looking meat than that mutton and beef I have never seen, even at Christmas-time at home, while its cleanliness was a striking contrast to the appearance of the carcases in many a West End butcher's that I wot of. The inspection is of the most rigid and searching kind, for the meat must be above suspicion. And should the examination of the lungs reveal the slightest taint of tuberculosis, the entire carcase is first drenched with kerosine and then cremated, every portion thereof except the hide, which of course has no part of it consumable by man. But the percentage of carcases which it is necessary to destroy is ridiculously low. The conditions under which the cattle live and are brought to the abattoirs are so good and healthful that the inception and dissemination of disease is very rare.
Of course in this, as in so many other modern industries, the value of the by-products makes the business profitable, even though the main product be sold so cheaply. There is absolutely no waste, even the blood, except that portion which unavoidably stains the floors and walls of the abattoirs and is washed from the recently slain bodies of the beasts, being saved and converted into special manure of the strongest kind and of high value. The offal is similarly treated after the tallow is separated from it, and although this must be a disagreeable business, I testify that it is conducted without any offensiveness to either smell or sight. Then there is the great business of the hides, especially of the sheep, which are chemically treated, so that in a few hours the wool may be scraped off, uninjured itself, and leaving the pelt perfectly free from trace of wool as well as improved by the process.
Bearing in mind the conditions of labour in the land of the free and home of the brave, I was curious to see what manner of men these were employed here. And I found that, as elsewhere in New Zealand, there was a great deal of equality between master and man, that labour knew its worth and was able to get that worth recognised in every needed way. No speeding up or working out here—the Unions and Government look after that. I cannot say that there was very much to learn about the simple process of slaughtering and freezing meat for the home market, but there was a very great object-lesson in the conditions under which it was performed and in the position of the works in which it was carried on: in the heart of the country and close to the sources of supply on one hand, while on the other there was the big ship almost alongside the works, so to speak, for which cause handling was reduced to a minimum—a desideratum always greatly to be desired for many reasons.
By great good fortune I had the opportunity offered me of visiting two places of very great interest to all who love the primitive races, and regret to see them dying out. Now the Maori is one of those aboriginals, exceedingly scarce, who seem able to absorb the civilisation of the Anglo-Saxon without dying out. I know that there is a conflict of opinion about this, but on the best authority I am informed that there is a small increase among them, the only danger-signal being the preponderance of male births over females—a feature which the closest students of the Maori are unable to account for. At my lectures in Gisborne I had as part of my audience the students of the Maori Theological College, and by the courtesy of the principal, the Rev. Mr. Challoner, I was invited to the college itself, where one of the students, a stalwart youth of about twenty-one, gave me an extempore address of welcome in his own mellifluous language, the same being translated into fluent English by a fellow-student, clause by clause. It was intensely interesting, for these Maories are born orators, and although I know that our staid English cannot reproduce the flowers of native speech, yet I heard enough to show me what an amazing effort of diction it was.
Then another gentleman, the Rev. Herbert Williams, son of the Bishop of Napier, drove me out to the Maori Church of Te Aro, a building which was commenced by the Maories in the best style of native art, but, getting tired of it, the artists abandoned their self-imposed task; which was unfortunate, as they represented the last and the best of the fast dying-out school of native artificers. But the missionary in charge decided that what had already been done must not be wasted, and a plan was formulated whereby the church should be constructed in European fashion, and the immense carved rimu and totara columns so lavishly adorned by the Maori artists should be incorporated in the building. This has been done, and the result is certainly most striking. Many of these columns, or pilasters as I suppose they should be more properly called, are trees cut in half longitudinally, and measure well over three feet across. They are carved from top to bottom, grotesquely, floridly; but undoubtedly in strict conformity with the canons of native art. They are undoubtedly of immense value as the last emblems of a primitive race, but unfortunately even the artists who designed and executed them have forgotten what the symbols signify. This is undoubtedly the case. They preserve an air of mystery as to the meaning of what they have designed, but the plain and obvious fact is that they do not know. The pattern has been slavishly followed, but the significance thereof has died out. And I suppose it only awaits some new Champollion to formulate a theory of derivation by means of which these grotesques may be linked on to the Maya and Egyptian works. Which warns me that I had better leave them.
It happened—for in these matters we are the sport of the elements—that it was a perfectly propitious night when I was to leave Gisborne for Napier. There was quite a crowd of people down on the wharf ready to board the little steamer which was to take us off to the Victoria, one of the fine coasters of the Huddart, Parker Company, of nearly 3,000 tons register, and quite palatially fitted. To give you an idea of how the Colonial passenger is catered for, not only are you invited to enjoy a chota hazri, or little breakfast of porridge, tea or coffee and biscuits, in your bunk before rising, that is between 6 and 7 a.m., and the usual six meals a day of the ocean steamers besides, but the Company provide rugs and steamer chairs for the comfort of passengers on deck. Also the liquid refreshments dispensed from the bar are, despite the tariff, on a much more modest scale of prices than in the case of the deep-sea ships, sixpence being the standard price for practically all drinks that the ordinary man calls for. There was also everything that the most fastidious passenger could look for on board ship in the way of ladies' rooms, reading and smoking-rooms, &c., and altogether I doubt very much if any vessels in the world can offer more comforts to travellers than do these splendid coasting steamers of Australia.
We got away at nine o'clock, and proceeded at fourteen knots down to the coast to Napier, which was reached at daylight, the navigation being of the simplest character along this steep-to coast. It struck me, though, that the service was an exceedingly arduous one for the officers, who, except at certain stated ports, do not get much rest, while the men, who undoubtedly work hard, have the intense satisfaction of knowing that their earnings are correspondingly good, since the eight hours' day holds good for sea-workers as well as land-workers when the vessel is in port, and overtime is paid for at one shilling per hour.
XVI A HOMELIKE TOWN
Napier, Hawke's Bay, is apparently totally different from any other town that I have seen in Australasia. It has a character entirely its own, which indeed is not an unfamiliar feature of New Zealand towns, many of which still bear the impress of their pious founders. A fine breakwater and a good pier within its shelter awaits the steamer, which lies cosily alongside, although it was obvious from the magnitude of the mooring chains and girth of the rope springs by which the ship was secured, that there were occasionally some lively times here under certain conditions of wind and weather. But the feature which was most impressive was a precipitous cliff, which, only about fifty yards from the shore end of the pier, rose a sheer 300 feet into the air, as if defying all further ingress to the country. A good road wound around the base of this cliff—as good a road, indeed, as any we can boast of at home—and I noticed presently that a low, concrete sea-wall had begun to skirt it. Then the side-walk of asphalt was planted at intervals of about six or seven yards with the beautiful Norfolk Island pine, a species of araucaria, but not nearly so grotesque as the "monkey puzzle" tree. As we walked on the cliff to shoreward sloped downward, and gave pretty views of houses perched here and there amid embowering foliage, until presently we turned a corner, and lo! I was in Tunbridge Wells, at the corner of the Pantiles looking towards the Pump Room. The illusion was almost perfect, in spite of the many wooden houses which alternate with the stucco-fronted ones here, as elsewhere in New Zealand. And then another peculiarity obtruded itself, the naming of the streets, which has been done upon an original plan, the main thoroughfares being called after celebrated Indian generals and administrators, to keep company with Lord Napier, Hastings, Clive, &c., while the streets which run at right angles to them commemorate great poets and authors—Tennyson, Browning, Milton, Shakespeare, Dickens, &c. And splendid streets they are, as far as the roadways and footpaths are concerned, the buildings being all of the usual character in the other towns which I have mentioned. The town wears an air of solid prosperity, but is quite sedate and satisfied in its appearance, as if bustle and growth were neither looked for or, indeed, much desired. Of course it does grow, but very slowly, and I for one think of it as of other Antipodean towns, that if hurried growth means, as it too usually does, a large accession of the submerged tenth, then it is much better that it should hasten as slowly as it is doing.
But to my mind the chief glory of Napier is its frontage on the magnificent bay. From the landing-place an asphalted esplanade, fronted by the low sea-wall before mentioned, runs for over two miles in an almost perfectly straight line. Over the wall the foreshore of shingle slopes gently down to near the sea, where it is carpeted with fine sand, making it an ideal watering-place. There are houses of varying character, but none at all pretentious, on the shore side of this esplanade for nearly its whole length, facing the open Pacific and fully exposed to the winds from the east, which bring in at times an enormous swell from the widest ocean of all, there being nothing in the nature of obstructing land between it and the west coast of South America. But of course the tremendous prevalent westerly gales which assail the west coast of New Zealand so furiously are not felt here, this being the sheltered side of the islands. Still, I could imagine that an amazing spectacle of assailing seas must be sometimes witnessed from the windows of those houses, and that the broad, smooth esplanade must at times be anything but a pleasant place for a promenade.
As I before noticed about Gisborne, Napier is built upon a level plain bounded by the ranges, so that whichever direction the eye travels along the straight, wide roads it meets with either the sea or the hills, an impression always being given of restricted area, of living on a ledge, as it were, beyond which exit could only be gained by climbing high hills or going out to sea. But it must be remembered, first, that the area is far less restricted than it seems, there being land enough for all the expansion there appears likely to be for many years to come, and next, that although New Zealand is undoubtedly a hilly country, it is only in the interior that the hills attain any great magnitude, and that, as I have before noted, those hills are of great value in the pasturage of sheep. As in Gisborne, one may look in vain for any evidence of hustle, of determination to go ahead. A Sabbath calm even at noon of every day seems to pervade all the streets. Nobody is in a hurry, nobody seems to consider that haste in anything is necessary or desirable. And they are doubtless right; but it is curious that men who have lived in this calm atmosphere for thirty or forty years should be anxious to impress the visitor with what they have grown to believe is the fact—that the city is growing very fast. With all my admiration for New Zealand and her institutions, I must say that as far as growth is concerned she appears to me almost at a standstill, especially when compared with provincial towns at home which might be named by the score. I should not have mentioned this but that every one with whom I converse seems to be under the same curious misapprehension, based I suppose upon the fact that they have lived here so long, or have only travelled to similar or even smaller places that they know every brick and plank in the place, and watch the erection of each new edifice, however tiny, with an almost parental solicitude.
The railway runs from here to Wellington, but except for places en route is but little patronised, owing to the fact that in the splendid steamers which call here and are replete with every modern comfort the traveller may leave Napier late in the afternoon and be alongside the wharf at Wellington early in the morning—a method of travel which in a country where the inhabitants are as peripatetic as they are here, is of course immensely favoured. But as yet the harbour is not sufficiently commodious or safe to invite ocean-going liners, and considering the enormous expense which the making of an harbour in an unprotected roadstead (for Napier is nothing more) entails upon a very small population, I doubt very much whether the present generation or even the next will see one completed. It is to me a really marvellous thing how these tiny communities do shoulder burdens of this kind though, and an almost tragical interest attaches to the way in which such a painful mass of expenditure is sometimes wasted entirely.
But I must bid farewell to pleasant, sunny Napier. It was Midwinter Day when I was there—the 21st of June—and the summits of the loftier ranges were lightly powdered with snow, but the air was mild and balmy, the sky cloudless, and the shade temperature at 9 a.m. 52°—a delightful day, which I was earnestly assured was not at all exceptional, but rather the rule, in this sweet and equable land. I am extremely glad to have made Napier's acquaintance, but I feel that, in spite of its being in the most progressive land on earth, it is, like other places which I have visited lately, a spot where men take life easily, where nothing is strenuous except football and horse-racing—two sports which out here seem to constitute the chief business of life for the majority of the male population, speculation coming next, commerce next, and production last of all. If this judgment sound too severe, I have only to say that I have no prejudices at all, I merely record my impressions with an entirely unbiassed mind.
We left Napier in the afternoon of this lovely day, skirting the coast at thirteen knots, to be reduced later on so as not to arrive in Wellington before daylight. We steam closely along the land, which everywhere presents the same rugged, irregular appearance of wooded ranges of hills, some of which indeed are high enough to be dignified by the name of mountains, these latter being now capped with snow. But I am not again likely to make the mistake of supposing that these rugged lands have no value, since I have learned their possibilities in sheep and timber, for both of which products New Zealand justly stands in the very front rank as regards quality. Nevertheless, I cannot help noticing that on this long stretch of coast between Napier and Wellington, there are only two tiny hamlets, there are scarcely any roads, nothing that could by any stretch of courtesy be called a harbour, and only a few little streams pouring their tribute into the Pacific Ocean. It is here, if anywhere, that the visitor realises the sparsity of the population, and by contrast the amount of energy that must be concentrated somewhere in order to have made New Zealand the much-discussed country that she is. It is worthy of note that with great wisdom the Government of New Zealand have established a tourist department under the charge of a Cabinet Minister, the Postmaster-General, Sir Joseph Ward.[3] Under him, as general manager or agent, is Mr. Donne, who is given control of a very large sum for advertising purposes, in order to bring to the notice of the pleasure-seekers of the world generally the wonderful possibilities for sport and pleasure that New Zealand presents. Owing to wise precautions taken in stocking the country with game and fish, which have been, and are, most carefully protected, New Zealand is a thorough sportsman's paradise, red deer and fallow deer abounding, and trout of extraordinary size swarming in the lakes and rivers. There must be something amazingly congenial in the climate of this little wonderland to British game, whether fish, fur, or fowl. For the trout especially, which having been brought here from home or from Canada, in the form of ova, are now often caught up to a weight of 20 lbs., while other game is equally hearty and plentiful. The Government issues licences to shoot and fish at a very cheap rate, and the restrictions are only against indiscriminate slaughter or wanton destruction of any kind.
Then the natural beauties of the country—its fjords like those of Norway, its Alps like those of Switzerland, its geysers and hot springs like those of Yellowstone Park—are extremely fascinating, while an additional charm is lent by the fact that all these wonders are easy of access, are at no great distance from each other, and that the charges are everywhere extremely moderate and the accommodation is exceptionally good. As indeed it must be, for the hand of the Government is extended over all in paternal care, and ill would it fare with any hotelier's prospects who should by rapacity or neglect of his guests do anything to hinder their efforts to make New Zealand a popular pleasure-ground. Then perhaps the greatest charm of all is the delightful climate. Even in midwinter, except in the extreme south, it can hardly be called cold, while in summer the climate is as nearly perfection as it can possibly be. The Union Steamship Company have also established a good service of steamers to the delightful South Sea Islands, with all their manifold charm, and Tonga, Fiji, or Samoa can be reached in a few days from Auckland through shining, slumberous seas and velvet nights, until, upon those Lethean shores, the peace of perfect rest descends to the wearied man or woman almost crushed out of existence by the mill-wheels of civilisation. Owing to the wise and fostering care of the Government of New Zealand of its oversea communications, it has, in spite of its Antipodean distance from the Old World; of its being, as it were, the very last outpost of civilisation on the confines of the globe, a splendid choice of routes thither, and by one of these routes, the dearest but certainly the most interesting, Auckland may be reached in well under a month from London. That is the route viâ New York, San Francisco, and Honolulu. For those who prefer to take the Australian Continent on their way and touch the East also en route, there are the Orient-Royal Mail, P. & O., and other lines according to choice, but at practically the same rates, while to others who have plenty of time and no objection to a long sea journey, there is offered an economical route in magnificent ocean steamers of the largest size either direct by New Zealand Shipping Company or Shaw Savill and Albion Line, or viâ Australia by half a dozen lines running thither round the Cape. In the former case the journey is made in about six weeks—a sumptuous rest cure for those who are good sailors; in the latter of course another week must be added in order to reach New Zealand from either Melbourne or Sydney.
But I have said enough to indicate my belief that as a relief from the so-called pleasure-grounds of Europe with their terrible expensiveness and nerve-racking pleasures, it is a change of the most perfectly delightful and health-giving kind to pay our Antipodean brethren a visit, remembering that in these days of luxurious ocean travel the distance is, as Mr. Micawber said with less truth, merely imaginary.