XVII THE CAPITAL OF WONDERLAND
At daylight I came on deck to witness the steamer's arrival at Wellington. I have often heard many hard things about the capital of New Zealand. How, for instance, it was so subject to tremors of the unstable earth that no buildings could be erected save of the flimsiest character, how every day was evil, in that gales of wind were the rule and fine weather the rarest exceptions, while rain was almost a permanent feature of the atmospheric conditions. All of which statements were, of course, exaggerated, but still I felt must have a certain basis of truth; and I wondered why. This morning I know, and although I gladly admit the exaggeration, I feel fully persuaded that Wellington, despite its truly splendid harbour, is hardly used in the matter of climate. It lies at the foot of a closely investing range of high hills, the other sides of which are exposed to the full fury of the brave westerly winds which sweep around the world, only just deflected slightly by two outlying points of the South Island, Cape Farewell and D'Urville Island. Consequently the immense amount of moisture brought across the mighty Southern Ocean finds a congenial arrestment by the hills on whose eastern slopes Wellington lies, and the fierce squalls which sweep through the streets are only what will always be experienced on the lee side of high lands. Then, too, Wellington lies in the direct line of the backbone of New Zealand, the mountain chain which, with hardly a break, extends through its whole length from north to south, or, more correctly, from NNE. to SSW.; which, in view of the fact that this is essentially a volcanic country, will, I think, sufficiently account for Wellington's liability to seismic disturbance. At the same time it must be remembered that of late years these terrifying vibrations of the earth's crust have been so few and feeble here as to encourage the erection of substantial buildings, all of which, however, have been put up with the greatest possible attention to such details of structure as may be expected to minimise as much as possible any earthquake effects.
Fortunately my first view of Wellington was a favourable one. The weather was fine but overcast, still, although the sun was hidden, the air was clear, and I was able to take in the details of the grand land-locked harbour, the really splendid system of wharfage, and the imposing appearance of the buildings, which came right down to the wharves themselves. But I was, I remember, also impressed by the fact that Wellington looked cramped for room, and I was not at all surprised to hear, as I had been at Auckland, that an enormous amount of this crowded foreshore was reclaimed land, won back from the sea by an enormous expenditure of capital and labour, and returning a very high percentage upon the outlay. As in recent places which I have visited, but in a more restricted sense, Wellington appears from the bay like a town on sufferance, incapable of being extended in any direction save seaward, which extension has, of course, severe limits. But I learn without surprise that the surrounding hills are gradually being taken up for suburban residences, for the electric car takes little account of hills, and Wellington has a very fine system indeed, exactly like our own at home.
The business aspect of Wellington, especially as regards its shipping, is so striking as to make it difficult indeed to realise that its population is less than 60,000, or a quarter less than that of Auckland. The wharves here have an enormous area, and such monster ships as those of the White Star Line and New Zealand Shipping Company, that is to say vessels up to 12,000 tons register, lie at these wharves and load quite comfortably, while the position is so easy of access and so sheltered that vessels may come and go at any time of the day or night. This is the great distributing centre for the whole of New Zealand, most advantageously placed, geographically speaking, and with its people most keenly alert to extend their trade in every conceivable direction. Here may first be realised what a gigantic concern the Union Steamship Company of New Zealand has grown into from its very small and tentative beginnings about thirty-five years ago. It has now a fleet of fifty-five vessels, speedy, efficient, and well kept up; from vessels of nearly 6,000 tons gross register and 6,000 horse-power, which carry the "all red" mails to Vancouver, and the scarcely less splendid steamers of the Intercolonial service, in one of which I shall presently be sailing—the Manuka, of 4,505 tons and 4,500 horse-power twin screw—down to the few small vessels which act as feeders from the tiny outlying coast hamlets. This fleet, which is almost essentially a coastal one, has a total tonnage of 112,540 tons, which is not surpassed by any similar service in the world with the sole exception of the British India. And there the comparison is manifestly unfair, since quite a large proportion of the B.I. fleet are ocean liners in the fullest sense of the term. It is nothing short of marvellous how so small a country as regards population should have developed so splendid a fleet out of its coastal trade and communications with Australia.
I took a walk round the well-groomed, busy thoroughfares of Wellington as soon as I could get ashore, just for a casual glance in the few hours that I am to remain to-day. My next ship for a short and interesting trip to Picton and Nelson is the Pateena, of 1,212 tons and 2,000 horse-power, which is to sail at one o'clock; so that I must leave any detailed remarks about Wellington for my return here, when I hope to spend a few days. I note, in passing, that the city seems to be as yet completely dazed by the shock of Mr. Seddon's death, but that, I think, is because yesterday the public funeral was carried out, and the remains of New Zealand's idol were laid away to their long rest.
Getting tired, I returned to the wharf and boarded my new ship to enjoy the spectacle of a couple of large steamers getting away in truly British fashion, that is without fuss or bawling, but as if the movements of the ship were directly controlled and regulated from the brain of the master. It was a beautiful sight, and it was hardly over before our ship also glided away from the wharf, and in a quarter of an hour was outside the harbour heading directly across Cook's Straits for the wonderful series of fjords which must be navigated in order to reach Picton. Then I became aware of one of the main difficulties of our modern navigation. Here is a man charged with the care of (on an average) 200 lives, to say nothing of property, who from week end to week end never gets more than three hours' continuous rest. By day the intricate navigation of these wonderful sounds and bays is severe; at night, in fogs, in gales, and pelting rain the strain is terrible. And it is incessant. Talk about business strain! Wherein does it compare with this? To the thinking man the spectacle of this overwrought son of the sea in such a position of authority, watching lynx-like each headland as it looms like some glooming cloud upon his view, making mental combinations of the direction and force of the tides according to the time of day (or night, for people ashore do not understand that the maritime day counts twenty-four hours) taking into the hotchpot the age of the moon, and withal to combine these facts with the temporary contingencies of wind and weather, is fraught with deepest wonder that any man should be equal to it at all. Yet these men are, and by the universal rule that those who do the most get the least are always in what are subordinate positions. Although it must be admitted that compared with our coasting skippers at home such men are well paid. Yet no pay can compensate any man for such a wreckage of manhood as must result from the incessant strain of such a life. It is more than flesh and blood can stand.
I did not see the worst part of it going out, because at Picton I went fishing in the dark, and got so tired that I slept through the passage of the French Pass, in the anticipation, too, that I would see it on my return. So when I awoke in the morning the Pateena was stopped off what I find every one here imagines to be a phenomenon of unique quality, the Boulder Bank. It is a natural bank of pebbles nicely graduated from fine sand at the water's edge up to the huge pebbles weighing a couple of hundredweight at the summit of the ridge and stretching parallel to the foreshore of the port of Nelson. It begins far beyond the limits of the port, having indeed a total length of eight miles or thereabouts, and has, hitherto, compelled all vessels of any size entering the port to wait for tide in order to get round its extremity and between a curious outlying rock perched upon a bunch of reefs of the most dangerous character. Now, however, the harbour board, greatly daring, have cut through the natural bank at a spot nearly opposite to the town and speak of having a channel deep enough to bring in ships like the Athenic and the Corinthic of 12,000 tons. Nous verrons. I hope their enterprise will bear fruit, for here, as elsewhere, the expense of such works falls with tremendous weight upon a population, all told, of some 9,000 souls.
Now comes the joke. This "Boulder Bank," as they call it, is an almost exact replica of the Chesil Beach, which extends from Portland to Weymouth, or vice versâ, according to which way you look at it. In the composition of the Bank itself there is absolutely no difference from that of Portland, but in direction and situation there is a great dissimilarity. Chesil Beach runs directly seaward from Weymouth in a very slight curve, having at its Channel end the English Gibraltar, Portland Bill. As most people know at home, the naval haven of Portland has been constructed by running a massive breakwater from Portland to the western horn of Weymouth Bay, or to leeward of the Beach, with two small openings almost like dock entrances without gates thereto. In Nelson, as I have mentioned, the beach runs parallel with the shores of the port, and the authorities have cut through the beach itself at a point nearer to the wharves already built, in order to bring the big oversea ships in for such modicums of cargo as there are to give them.
Nelson is a typical New Zealand coast town. Its streets are wide, its buildings humble, and the ranges shut it in to its little foothold on a foreshore. Its growth is imperceptible. It seems hardly credible that, remembering the natural advantages of Nelson that after over half a century of enjoyment of these natural privileges it should still remain so small and feeble in point of population. Yet the fact remains, and it is due to the same causes to which I have so often adverted, that I hardly dare to recur to them again, the determination not to have anybody come here who has only his labour to sell. That is beginning to change, but in spite of the progressive legislation in labour questions, for which New Zealand is famous the world over, the Labour member and the labourer already established in a comfortable position looks sourly upon any proposition to introduce a competing element whether of his own blood or alien. And as far as I can see it will ever be thus with Socialistic schemes, so called, because they never seem to realise the individual factor. And until they do every form of legislation adopted is bound to be a failure, as all such schemes must fail which run in opposition to the fixed laws of nature.
One feature of all these New Zealand and Australian towns always strikes a stranger from England at once—the number of huge telegraph posts through the streets, laden with telegraph and telephone wires. No matter how small the town may be, these great mast-like posts bear their complex burden, for the telephone is a necessary of life here as it is in America. Indeed this particular feature reminds a visitor who knows both countries, of the United States, except that out here the people show their British love for order and neatness by having the posts neatly squared or rounded and painted, while the Americans, even in quite large cities, are content to have the rough tree with just the bark off, and sometimes not even that. Nelson, small and sleepy as it seems to be, is no exception to the general rule, but it has puzzled me more than a little to understand what use can possibly be made of all this network of wires. There does not seem business enough done to employ the half of them. Perhaps what business is done requires a much more liberal use of the telephone than is the case with us.