New Zealand

by William Pember Reeves

ON THE BEACH AT NGUNGURU

And here a New Zealander, endeavouring to make a general sketch that may place realities clearly before the English eye, is confronted with the difficulty, almost impossibility, of helping the European to conceive a thinly peopled territory. Suppose, for a moment, what the British Islands would be like if they were populated on the New Zealand scale—that is to say, if they held about a million souls, of whom fifty thousand were brown and the rest white. The brown would be English-speaking and half civilised, and the whites just workaday Britons of the middle and labouring classes, better fed, a little taller and rather more tanned by sun and wind. That at first sight does not seem to imply any revolutionary change. But imagine yourself standing on the deck of a steamer running up the English Channel past the coast as it would look if nineteen-twentieths of the British population, and all traces of them and the historic past of their country, had been swept away. The cliff edges of Cornwall and hills of Devon would be covered with thick forest, and perhaps a few people might cluster round single piers in sheltered inlets like Falmouth and Plymouth. The Chalk Downs of Wiltshire and Hampshire would be held by a score or two of sheep-farmers, tenants of the Crown, running their flocks over enormous areas of scanty grass. Fertile strips like the vale of Blackmore would be occupied by independent farmers with from three hundred to two thousand acres of grass and crops round their homesteads. Southampton would be the largest town in the British Islands, a flourishing and busy seaport, containing with its suburbs not less than 90,000 people. Its inhabitants would proudly point to the railway system, of which they were the terminus, and by which they were connected with Liverpool, the second city of the United Kingdom, holding with Birkenhead about 70,000 souls. Journeying from Southampton to Liverpool on a single line of rails, the traveller would note a comfortable race of small farmers established in the valley of the Thames, and would hear of similar conditions about the Wye and the Severn. But he would be struck by the almost empty look of the wide pastoral stretches in Berkshire and Oxfordshire, and would find axemen struggling with Nature in the forest of Arden, where dense thickets would still cover the whole of Warwickshire and spread over into the neighbouring counties. Arrived at Liverpool after a twelve hours’ journey, he might wish to visit Dublin or Glasgow, the only two other considerable towns in the British Islands; the one about as large as York now is, the other the size of Northampton. He would be informed by the Government tourist agent in Liverpool that his easiest way to Glasgow would be by sea to a landing-place in the Solway Firth, where he would find the southern terminus of the Scotch railways. He would discover that England and Scotland were not yet linked by rail, though that great step in progress was confidently looked for within a few months.

AT THE FOOT OF LAKE TE-ANAU

By all this I do not mean to suggest that there are no spots in New Zealand where the modern side of rural English life is already closely reproduced. On an earlier page I have said that there are. Our country life differs widely as you pass from district to district, and is marked by as much variety as is almost everything else in the islands. On the east coast of the South Island, between Southland and the Kaikouras, mixed farming is scientifically carried on with no small expenditure of skill and capital. The same can be said of certain districts on the west coast of the Wellington Province, and in the province of Hawkes Bay, within a moderate distance of the town of Napier. Elsewhere, with certain exceptions, farming is of a rougher and more primitive-looking sort than anything seen in the mother country, though it does not follow that a comparatively rough, unkempt appearance denotes lack of skill or agricultural knowledge. It may mean, and usually does mean, that the land is in the earlier stages of settlement, and that the holders have not yet had time to think much of appearances. Then outside the class of small or middle-sized farms come the large holdings of the islands, which are like nothing at all in the United Kingdom. They are of two kinds, freehold and Crown lands held under pastoral licences. Generally speaking, the freeholds are much the more valuable, have much more arable land, and will, in days to come, carry many more people. The pastoral Crown tenants have, by the pressure of land laws and the demands of settlement, been more and more restricted to the wilder and more barren areas of the islands. They still hold more than ten million acres; but this country chiefly lies in the mountainous interior, covering steep faces where the plough will never go, and narrow terraces and cold, stony valleys where the snow lies deep in winter.

On these sheep stations life changes more slowly than elsewhere. If you wish to form an idea of what pastoral life “up-country” was forty years ago, you can still do so by spending a month or two at one of these mountain homesteads. There you may possibly have the owner and the owner’s family for society, but are rather more likely to be yourself furnishing a solitary manager with not unwelcome company. Round about the homestead you will still see the traditional features of colonial station life, the long wool-shed with high-pitched roof of shingles or corrugated iron, and the sheep-yards which, to the eye of the new chum, seem such an unmeaning labyrinth. Not far off will stand the men’s huts, a little larger than of yore, and more likely nowadays to be frame cottages than to be slab whares with the sleeping-bunks and low, wide chimneys of days gone by. In out-of-the-way spots the station store may still occasionally be found, with its atmosphere made odorous by hob-nailed boots, moleskin trousers, brown sugar, flannel shirts, tea, tar, and black tobacco. For the Truck Act does not apply to sheep stations, and there are still places far enough away from a township to make the station store a convenience to the men.

THE WAIKATO AT NGARUAWAHIA

At such places the homestead is still probably nothing more than a modest cottage, roomy, but built of wood, and owing any attractiveness it has to its broad verandah, perhaps festooned with creepers, and to the garden and orchard which are now seldom absent. In the last generation the harder and coarser specimens of the pioneers often affected to hold gardens and garden-stuffs cheap, and to despise planting and adornment of any kind, summing them up as “fancy work.” This was not always mere stinginess or brute indifference to everything that did not directly pay, though it sometimes was. There can be no doubt that absentee owners or mortgagee companies were often mean enough in these things. But the spirit that grudged every hour of labour bestowed on anything except the raising of wool, mutton, or corn, was often the outcome of nothing worse than absorption in a ceaseless and unsparing battle with Nature and the fluctuations of markets. The first generation of settlers had to wrestle hard to keep their foothold; and, naturally, the men who usually survived through bad times were those who concentrated themselves most intensely on the struggle for success and existence. But time mellows everything. The struggle for life has still to be sustained in New Zealand. It is easier than of yore, however; and the continued prosperity of the last twelve or thirteen years has enabled settlers to bestow thought and money on the lighter and pleasanter side. Homesteads are brighter places than they were: they may not be artistic, but even the most remote are nearly always comfortable. More than comfort the working settler does not ask for.

Then in estimating how far New Zealand country life may be enjoyable and satisfying we must remember that it is mainly a life out of doors. On farms and stations of all sorts and sizes the men spend many hours daily in the open, sometimes near the homestead, sometimes miles away from it. To them, therefore, climate is of more importance than room-space, and sunshine than furniture. If we except a handful of mountaineers, the country worker in New Zealand is either never snowbound at all, or, at the worst, is hampered by a snowstorm once a year. Many showery days there are, and now and again the bursts of wind and rain are wild enough to force ploughmen to quit work, or shepherds to seek cover; but apart from a few tempests there is nothing to keep country-folk indoors. It is never either too hot or too cold for out-door work, while for at least one day in three in an average year it is a positive pleasure to breathe the air and live under the pleasant skies.