Rambling Remarks

Northland Age, Volume IX, Issue 39, 20 February 1940, Page 1

Rambling Remarks

[ By the Old Scribe ] Some Impressions of Waitangi Y first impression was one of the beauty of the situation. The Bay of Islands is not only one of the largest but one of the most beautiful harbours of the world, and the view from the Residency is a magnificent one. The wide reach of still waters, sparkling irf the early morning sunlight, was a delight to the eye; the numerous islands, the surrounding hills with their rather sombre bush brightened in the clear morning air—all formed a scene on which one could niwer tire to gaze; one of the things of beauty that is a joy for ever. Of course, it is not always like that. I have seen the Bay on grey days; these still waters swept by i - ain squalls, the hills shrouded in thick mist. But there is beauty even in that. To walk against the wind, the rain beating on one’s face, to watch the spray being swept off the troubled waters and feel the tang of salt on one’s lips is to be lifted out of one’s self and one’s petty troubles for the moment. I gained a deepened respect for Mr. Busby for his choice of a home. Like most Scotsmen, he believed that the best was good enough for him, and took pains to secure it. The Residency itself, which, only a few years ago, until the thoughtful generosity of Lord Bledisloe presented our most historic spot to the nation, looked rather unkempt and neglected, has been restored to the condition when it was the only portion of the British Empire in New Zealand, and bids fair to outlast another centennial. It has a look of simple dignity, the pillared porch hints that it is more than a home without detracting from the homeliness of the house by any official stiffness. Brightened with the surrounding flower beds, it blends with the landscape into a satisfying whole. One of our budding poets, who hunt for strange subjects and torture the English language in trying to express what they are pleased to call their ideas, would find abundant scope for what poetic talent he might possess in embalming in verse the romance of this house. Some day it will be done. Of the spectacle itself, the dramatic re-enactment of the signing of the Treaty, it was worth coming a long way to see, only unfortunately the great majority of those who hoped to be spectators (many of whom had come a very long way) saw little or nothing of it. It was well organised, had evidently been well rehearsed, and went off without a hitch. The star parts, of course, fell to the Maoris, and for the time being the spirits of the chiefs who gathered in the great tent on the Residency lawn a century ago to discuss whether they j should or should not become subjects of Queen Victoria seemed incarnated j in their descendants, who played their j parts to perfection. The forceful j sentences delivered with a wealth of j eloquent gestures, the restless walk- | ing up and down between the sentences, varying from a stately promenade to a kind of dog trot, the emphasis on the statements made by fierce taps of the butts of the great taiahas on the resounding floor of the low stage, gave one a vivid idea of ! what old Maori oratory was like. It was certainly forthright enough, and followed the golden rule of all speechmaking—to express one’s thought in the simplest and most direct words, and when one has done it, to stop. Oratory is still a passion with the Maori, but in dropping the dramatic action of his ancestors he has sacrificed much in effect. It talked to the eye as well as to the ear, with which the speaking-statue pakeha oratory j compares rather unfavourably. Ac- j tion may not be the soul of effective J speaking but —when natural —it is a j very great help in influencing an j audience. The gay dresses made a colourful | spectacle and, blended with the bright green of the lawn, made a pretty pic- j ture. One could not help contrasting the rather slight figure of Captain Hobson in his huge cocked hat, his formal naval uniform brightened by J the heavy gold epaulettes on his j shoulders, and his latest successor in I his spotless white tropical military j uniform, having only a trace of gold ornamentation, with a valuable feather Maori mat dangling from his should- ' ers, | smilingly acknowledging the . cheers for the King’s deputy; but one could not help thinking rather conscious of the mat, perhaps with the uneasy feeling of the Englishman j who is wearing something not quite j orthodox. The Maoris in their trimmed flax and feathered cloaks and flax kilts, j with white feathers stuck in their I woven head-bands, made a brave show,

while here and there a scattered few in crimson-red blankets (with which gifts it is said the Catholic bishop won many Maori hearts) lent to it splashes of vivid colour. The man-o’-war sailors were also striking in their white trousers, blue jackets and red kerchief head gear, with equally gaudy handkerchiefs hanging down from their waists. The pakeha men were in sober colours with high beaver hats, but the womenfolk displayed all the colours to be seen in a bed of tulips and individually and collectively looked charming in their oldfashioned costumes. One lady guarded her complexion with a tiny, strikingly coloured parasol which drew the eye, the likely reason why her great-grand-mother used it as a young woman. Feminine nature does not change with the years, though the expression of it does. These pioneer women in ’.heir Sunday best would have been shocked if they had accidently shown a coupie of inches of white-stockinged ankle. Yet near me was a strapping lass from one of the pleasure boats anchored below, who displayed practically all she had of lengthy limbs, tanned a golden-brown colour by the sun. Modesty nowadays is largely a matter of fashion, whatever is right to the feminine mind. It seems an unkind thing to say of the representatives of a body of worthy men, to whom more than anyone the success of Capt. Hobson’s mission was due, that their sad black clothing was a blot on the landscape, yet one could not help feeling it. Why did these men dress in such a funeral fashion to proclaim the good news of the Gospel and would have felt it to be almost an indecency to dress other wise? I recalled a curious passage in the journal of the Rev. Richard Davis, who thankfully records that a converted Maori chief came to the communion “dressed in a decent black broad-cloth suit.”! But then dress and religious services have always been closely associated. One must make an exception, though, in the case of the Catholic bishop, whose purple gown looked both bright and effective in indicating the importance of his office. It is Chesterton, I think, who said that when a man desired to appear dignified he had to dress like a woman. One is tempted to add that when a woman wants to appear undignified and ridiculous, her easiest plan is to dress like a man. One of the most pleasant impressions was the sight of the carved Maori house, the most magnificent piece of Maori architecture ever devised, so far as I know. There is a large and very fine specimen of a Maori meeting house in the Auckland Memorial Museum, the finest specimen of ancient Maori architecture surviving, yet this Waitangi house impressed me as even better. The fact that materials are used in it unknown to the old Maori builders, glass and even electric light, detracts nothing I think from its wholly Maori character. One cannot help contrasting it with the Treaty Hall on the other side of the bridge, from which everything Maori has been rigidly excluded. The Treaty Hall seems copied from some suburban church parish hall, plain and drab and lifeless; the carved house is alive with colour and character, it is Maori and nothing else. The carved slabs that line the sides are splendid specimens of native carving, copied from ancient work, and I was told pregnant with meaning to those who could read the symbolism embodied in them. They were a fitting frame for the really artistic panels of reed work between with their simple but very pleasing patterns. After a critical survey one could only conclude that Maori art was a very real thing, and now that Epstein art is becoming a cult even the —to our cultivated taste for the pretty and the photographically literal grotesque human figures may be solemnly blessed by the initiated as pregnant both with beauty and symbolism. Anything is possible in Modern art, which seems to find beauty only in ugliness. Yet even to my own conventional taste there is a kind of beauty even in these grotesque perversions of the human form. One of the early missionaries has put on record that he was at first greatly repelled by the deeply carved countenances of his flock, which gave their faces the appearance of wooden masks, but in time he came not only to tolerate them but to look on the uncarved faces of the common folk as naked and mean. One can get used to anything—except the toothache. I carried away many more impressions, but I fancy I have rambled enough about them. But anyway I am glad to have been present at this historic occasion, especially as none of us will ever have the chance of celebrating another centenary. And any excuse is good enough for again visiting the Bay of Islands. I doubt if the people who see it every day appreciate its beauty as much as we towns folk do.