THE STATESMAN AND THE MAN

Otago Witness, Issue 3713, 12 May 1925, Page 26

THE STATESMAN AND THE MAN

A TRIBUTE. By M. R. Those who met Mr Massey for the first time when he came into Parliament m 1894 little dreamt that one day he would be Prime Minister of New Zealand. And yet there was an indefinable something about the man that arrested attention even then. One instinctively took to him. He had personality, and a transparent honesty that appealed to a man in touch with out not of the congregation ot politicians. He took his place on a back bench in an Opposition, weak in numbers, but strong in debating power, facing whom was the masterful and able R. J. Seddon, with Pember Reeves, Ward, and John M‘Kenzie as staunch and determined followers. On the cross benches were prey, then an old man, usually wrapped in an overcoat and a muffler, still talking in a tremulous voice about the unborn millions, and Stout, still an orator, who had returned to Parliament after a sojourn in the wilderness following his Dunedin defeat by James Allen. To the casual observer in those days Mr Massey was just the ordinary type of colonial farmer—a graduate from the local boards and societies. He was a man of strong physique and. industrious habits. A whipship was going a-begging, and he was lersuaded to take it. It was the first stepping-stone to future greatness. With industry were combined tact and shrewd common sense. He was no orator uuoting the classics, but the days of oratorical effort in Parliament were already drawing to their close, and Massey’s simple directness and lucidity of speech were occasionally used with effect in the debates.

The time came when he faced Seddon as leader of his Majesty’s Opposition. Throughout his long years in that position the writer got to know Mr Massey as not many men knew him. His industry and his determination, often under most depressing circumstances, were phenomenal. With little money in the party’s fighting fund, and unable at first to afford a secretary or a typist, he fought on as a mere matter of duty, uncomplaining and hopeful, answering all his correspondence with his own hand. With no one to “devil” for him he mastered the contents of every Bill that came before the House, and he was never absent from his seat on the front Opposition bench. He came to his lodgings only to eat and sleep, and often he had scant time for either. It is not the object of the writer to deal with the various -•tages of his political history, but rather with the personality of the man himself. The unswerving: determination with which he fought his way to victory against great odds has not yet been forgotten, nor will his modesty, his tolerance, his generosity, soon fade from the memory-’ of his friends, nor even bis political enemies. At the very outset of his career as leader of the Opposition, Mr Seddon gave him a handsome testimonial, and he. in his turn, paid eloqueijt tribute when that statesman was no longer with us.

Nearly every man and woman in the dominion knows that Mr Massey was a courageous man. But at the same time he was a very loveable man. None more readily forgave his enemies. Indeed, he not only forgave, but in after years granted favours which, indeed, they had small right to expect. For his friends 'ip did as a rule little by way of favours, and he scorned nepotism ns he would the Devil. In his family life he was a model to all. There have been times when one has seen him like a lion at bay fighting against some enemy onslaught. On other occasions one noted his tactful efforts in calming the waters.of a troubled political sea, or in assuaging the brewing storm. There were times, too, when,' in tbs interests of the State, and perhaps even m the interests of the party, he had to bear with fools and suffer knaves, but with him the party existed not for his own glorification, but for the good of the people as a whole. For one who had not a university education he had a wide range of knowledge, gained through contact with men who mattered and the reading of books that were worth while. In recent years his Teading perforce was nearly all done on Saturday evenings and Sundays. Under his world-wisdom, his reserve, and his shrewdness, there was a vein of sentiment, and his wonderful memory held unexpected stores of poetry. Speaking of the war one day during his illness he quoted “In Flanders Field’* from beginning to end. Shakespeare delighted him, and the Bible he knew as few in Parliament knew it. He delighted in the verse of the Imperial poets, and Kipling was his favourite. a “IF* first reached New Zealand at a time when he was not overwhelmed, for one could never use that word with regard to Mr Massey, but beset with political troubles. Its wouderful message ne committed to memory, and made it his gospel, many times quoting lines from it to strengthen an assertion or clinch an argument. He was a man who was not spoilea by power, and, to the last, simplicity and unselfishness were outstanding features in his character.

Of late years he had little time for the preparation of his speeches and, usually, he spoke on the spur of the moment. Sincere and touching were his references to those who had passed away. One by one the friends of his early political days were passing to their last rest, and be sorely felt the loss of such men as Rolleston, Russell, Herries, Fraser, and Buchanan*- When the time came to ?>eak of the death of past members of axliament his utterances came straight from the heart—sentences that needed no polishing. On such occasions all political differences and enmities were forgotten, and he was generous alike to friend and foe, as witness his striking tribute in Parliament to Seddon, his old political enemy. During all the years of the war and its aftermath he carried a load that taxed his strength, a load that few men could have borne, and during his last years of office he was hampered and saddened by the selfishness and the unreliability of some few of his own supporters. The worry and vexation may have accentuated his illness, ana if at times we thought him irritable in the closing days of his last session, we now know the reason, and that he Would have been more than human to have been otherwise. But even these little irritabilities were over in an instant and then forgotten. They were but the fleeting shadows of a summer cloud. In his long and honourable political career there are many incidents that will become historical. Those who had the privilege of being in touch with him in England and in France when the nation was pouring out its life’s blood on foreign fields, and also in those almost equally fateful years that followed the armistice, know with what- courage he fought for right and justice. Then he made many staunch friends in high places. Men who were foremost in the councils of the nations held him in high esteem. Dining with him in the Hotel Majestic at a time when many of the best brains of the Empire were gathered in Paris one could not help noting how popular and respected he was. Milner, arriving late on a hurried visit from London, arid coming in to dinner in his tweeds, would go straight to his table for a handshake and a few friendly words. A great jurist, who did not forget him in his last illness, would seek his company and his advice. An Indian Prince, in his khaki uniform and wearing the ribands of his orders, would detach himself from a picturesque entourage to give him a friendly greeting. Henry Wilson, the great general and strategist, the friend of Foch, w-s also Massey’s friend. Many other notables and the brilliant secretariat paid tribute to his probity, his courage, and his vision. The foreign delegations recognised in him a strong supporter of the British Empire and its Allies. More recently those who watched him in the Guildhall when Baldwin was receiving the freedom of the greatest city in the world—of which he himself was already a freeman —were struck with his outstanding figure in that notable assemblage. B.eside him were brilliant uniforms, and gorgeous robes—yet the stalwart figure in the plain black coat dominated them all. His ruddy face and massive head and shoulders were in keen contrast to the lean aquiline darkness of the Rajah who stood beside him, brilliant in gold embroideries and jewels. In his long and honourable career in New Zealand there are incidents that stand forth as striking illustrations of his untiring energy, his courage, and resource. One such was his prompt action when the Prince of Wales’s itinerary became suddenly interrupted at Rotorua by the strike of the railway engine-drivers and firemen. The Prince’s staff and the British newspaper correspondents marvelled when he set out on that long and risky night journey over the dangerous roads that led him through the wild country between Rotorua and Napier, and thence on to Wellington, with the object of settling the strike. Again his unflinching courage and resource were exemplified during the big strike of 1913. From one who. was a guest in the Ministerial'residence in Wellington in those stormy times the writer has often heard the story of incidents that the public knew nothing of. Through it all—even when his life wag repeatedly threatened—he remained wonderfully calm and collected. After breakfast he would thrust his loaded revolver into his pocket and set out on his daily walk from Tinakori road to his office in Parliament buildings. One night some hundreds of the mob formfed up with torches, and, singing “We’ll hang Bill Massey on a Sour Apple Tree,” proceeded to march upon the residence with the avowed intention of burning it down. Word was got through to the Prime Minister. Mr Massey was simply amused. “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “Let them come on. There are already a hundred mounted men guarding Tinakori road, so never fear. They won’t go far,” And so it was. The valiant incendiaries got wind of the mounted barricade and halted at a cross street, where, after a few hot-air speeches, the demonstration fizzled out.

More serious was the situation one stormy night when the mounted men were marcliirg into Wellington from the country. The strikers were waiting for them at a dangerous part of the route ready with stones to stampede the horses; but, fortunately, in the pitch darkness the horsemen, in strange country, mistook the way. Mrs Massey and a friend waited for the return of the Prime Minister from his office. He had been anxious, knowing what was afoot, to get news of the arrival of the contingent, and did not reach home until between two and throe in the morning. “Thank God,” he said, “that in the darkness they missed their way on the hills, and came in by an unexpected route. They are all safe in barracks now, and the strikers are out in the rain still waitini for them.** The last decade of his life was passed In stirring times, such as none had seen before, but he bravely shouldered his way through all the difficulties of the fateful yttrs, his stout heart beating in tune to

the victorious march of a united Empire which, with him, had become a passion. He lud troops of friends, and they were in eyery walk of life—from tlie messenger who served him so faithfully in Wellington to the King in Buckingham Palace. He had an extraordinary memory for faces, and always a cheery greeting for the humblest as for the highest. Sometimes it took the form of a merry wink, perhaps to the Press Gallery from the floor of the House, or to someone in the street who thought the Prime Minister might pass him by unnoticed. His staff, who had, perforce, often to Avork long horns, and at times under great pressure, had a real affection for the man, and served with him with conspicuous loyalty. They spoke of him as “The Chief.” When, on the day of his operation, a heavy blow fell upon them they were changed men and women, hoping against hope for some ray of sunshine. And they must have been saddened too, yet proudly pleased, with the new work that came to their hands as, day by day, they had to read and answer the tributes that poured in from friends and acquaintances and strangers in their own land, and from all parts of the Empire. Lewis, his own personal servant, was broken-heartea when after the operation he feared that the end could not be far away. He was constantly with him during his illness. “You come 'with me to the hospital, Lewis,” he said, “you will do me as

much good as the doctors.” And Lewis went with him, knowing all the time that a great man and a staunch friend was slowly passing away. The fortitude with which Mr Massey bore his la.st illness, and his strength of mind and body impressed everyone m close touch with him. Someone wished to help him up the steps at the hospital door as he entered on the eve of his operation, but he scorned the proffered aid. The day after the operation he insisted on getting out of bed, and did so, to the astonishment of everyone who knew what he had gone through. It was only when there were grave doubts whether his life would be spared for a few more years that one began to realiso what a hold his kindliness and his nobleness of character had gained upon the people. In Wellington—as apparently throughout New Zealand—the sad news ut the turn his illness had suddenly taken caused sorrow deep and lasting. There is a pathetic human interest in many of the letters of sympathy that came pouring in during those days from all classes and from all sections of the community. It was but few of these he was able lo see or read, but he was given to know something of their numbers and the admiration and the love for the strong and honest man that breathed in their lines. The highest and the humblest, each in their own way, indicated their concern, and their affection, and their hope that Death would stay his hand. But all the time those who were close to him knew that this could not be. In the days when he had to be a prisoner in his own home we never knew how really ill he was. He himself didn’t know. He never knew. One who sometimes used to sit at his bedside to cheer him up with bright conversation and amusing anecdote found him still an interested listener, and ever hopeful of being again soon able to take up the heavy burden he had laid aside. But this was not to be. And now— He sees behind him green and wide The pathway of his pilgrim years; He sees the shore, and dreadlefts hears The whisper of the creeping tide. For out of all his days, not one Has passed and left its unlaid ghost To seek a light for ever lost, Or wail a deed for ever done. So for reward of life-long truth He lives again, as good men can, Redoubling his allotted span With memories of a stainless youth.