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.