ISLE OF SHIPWRECKS.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 56, Issue 156, 15 April 1936, Page 5

ISLE OF SHIPWRECKS.

TRISTAN da CUNHA. COLONY FOUNDED'BY SOLDIER. I have gust returned from Tristan da Cunha, an island stranger even than Pitcairn, more remote from the advantages of civilisation, more cut off from the rest of the world—an island where the children have never seen a train or a bus and have little prospect of doing so, wrote Mr Mark Priestly in a London journal last month. Life has changed little from the conditions of over a century ago, when the British Government landed! a detachment of artillery there. The gunners had a lonely time of it, and Tristan to this day is utterly devoid of any contact with the outside world, save an occasional call from a passing ship that may put in with provisions. I was upon the most recent of these callers, the s.s. Auditor. - / _. More than half the population of 180 are children—and the entire community is ruled over by a priest! The colony started when William Glass found life on the island so pleasant that he asked to be left behind, with his Creole wife and two children, after the withdrawal of the garrison. Permission was given, and when the soldiers went away, Glass set up as a sort of Robinson Crusoe. A few years later he was joined by two other men, Samuel Burnell and John Nankevil, who preferred the simple life to the routine of military service.

These three drew up a code of “laws” on a piece of paper. They provided for equality for all, each to contribute an equal share of labour and expenses. Soon, since the island was a favourite place for shipwrecks, a few more settlers arrived. A century ago as many as five bachelors had gathered on the island. And there were no women of marriageable age! They got over that difficulty by begging a passing sea-captain to bring back five wives for them from St. Helena. Somehow, he succeeded in getting five local beauties to return with him, aild the bachelors, though reported “not too well satisfied,” were duly married.

In the intervening years, no new blood has come, to Tristan da Cunha. Fifty years ago too, all the men on the island save three were drowned while fishing. Yet the colony lias , steadily increased. To-day the islanders have five surnames between them. No adverse results seem to have come from their marriage, hut the old problem o'f 100 years ago has been repeated to-day. There are 19 eligible bachelors in the community, but only nine spinsters. After neighbour St. Helena', 1320 miles to the north, the next nearest outposts of civilisation are Capetown. 1500 miles distant, and Buenos Aires, 2500 miles in the other direction. Human life has existed for over a century oil the one habitable part of the island, a patch 12 miles square, 100 feet above the sea, yet Tristan remains a lost world, a stark mass of black, volcanic rock rising for 8000 feet from the sea, the looming peak of its gigantic extinct volcano almost always covered with snow.

The 30 stone cottages of Edinburgh, capital of the colony, cluster round the church and school on the narrow plateau. With dawn, lean and lanky men go out to their battle with Nature, and with darkness they go to bed, for oil is a precious commodity.

Sunday is the one day of respite. Then the islanders flock to church. Dressed in clothes that are family heirlooms, in treasures sent by unknown friends in Britain and South Africa., and carefully preserved, they gather round their pastor, the Rev. Harold Wilde.

He is teacher, magistrate, doctor and dentist, as well as priest. He presides over the parliament of the married men, which governs the island, and helps them to plan out schemes of work,