Pro Patria

Ladies' Mirror, Volume 4, Issue 10, 1 April 1926, Page 8

Pro Patria

TJo Ive appreciate Our pjpferitage ?

In this inspiring article the writer of these “Fortunate Isles”; and are emphasises the deplorable fact that so shy in making them known overblew Zealanders often fail to ap- seas, that it is left to tourists and predate the many and varied charinsz'isitors to discover our wonderland.

How frequently it is we overhear a perfervid eulogy on the scenic wonders of a faraway land. It is noticeable also the deep interest of the listeners, the avidity with which they drink in the word-picturing: sometimes good, often poor and inaccurate. A special privilege seems to have been accorded the sight-seer; that of learning more of the country visited, in a few days, than the natives have acquired in years. Far fields, too, are ever the greenest ! Many are there, very many indeed, who appear to consider a thing for which they have not paid, is of little or no value ; hence, are blind to the beauties surrounding them. They are apt to ignore the unsurpassable pictures, etched and painted, under their very eyes, by the greatest of artists — Nature. Only the other day, a new arrival to New Zealand, enraptured at the magnificent panorama before him, remarked upon it. Had he spoken of the canons of Colorado, the Yoscmite Valley, Hawaii, how different would have been his reception! The reply he got was thoughtless, if. perhaps, typical “Yes, I suppose it is beautiful. but I sec it daily!” Not a case of familiarity and contempt; rather, one of the disinclination of self-advertisement. T FT me attempt (I say attempt advisedly) to describe the scene: it is beyond pen-power to do adc-

quate justice to the scenic beauty. Long blue distances, replete in every tone of that colour; a background of purple mountains, the tallest peaks barbed in the white fires of snow. Seductively undulating pasture-lands of emerald, dotted with drowsing, browsing cattle and sheep. The road, ,a gray ribband, meandered round the hill-side, past yawning chasms, overlooked verdant gorges that breathed mauve mists over a crooning crystal stream. Far away, a solitary cloud, waylorn, strayed across a sun-flecked ridge, strewing prismatic rainbows in its path. The roadside was studded with flame-coloured nasturtiums ; dusted with the virginal gold of buttercups; sprayed by the fairy silver of clover; the banks of the cutting lighted

in the scented chrome of broome. the ruddy gold of gorse; starred with clematis and white convolvulus. A hidden huia trilled its mellow lute; a skylark, floating in the sunkissed blue dome of space, flooded the earth with divine minstrelsy. —“I see it daily * I 'HERE is a trait common to the -*■ Anglo-Saxon that makes him shy of advertisement. Yet it is the same trait — one to be encouraged rather than otherwise —that has given the insatiable thirst for adventure and travel. It may have become a vanity; yet, a pardonable one. It produced the compelling, dominating urge that sent our forefathers venturing across the Seven Seas; gave birth to that virility that

met with, and overcame, every danger and obstacle in their way. It has laid the firm foundations of the greatest empire the world has yet known. The bones of our bloodkinsmen mount guard upon every shore : Egypt, Rome, Greece —these were but as ephemeral empires, sinking into insignificancy before that of ours. To every land its beauty and its charm ! New Zealand has received her full share. Why not proudly acknowledge ourselves before the face of the whole world, and not wait for discovery by visitors and tourists? Why wait for them to come to us haphazard? Why not compel their advent. America films and boosts her “Valley of a Thousand Smokes.” Are they anything more wonderful than our own gifts from Nature? TI7HEN the exigencies of Em- * * pi re, and living, draw us away from Home, it is then that we remember, and knowledge awakens within us. Sub-consciously the brain has registered, has filed away for future reference, as it were, what we were in ignorance of at the moment. It is through the rose-tinted lenses of memory’s glass we, at last, see our Homeland truthfully; as we really saw it, though unaware at the time that we so saw it. Sir Walter Scott wrote, inspircdly, for he was not travelled :

Breathes there a man zvith soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said: This is my ozvn, my native land. . . Every exile from Home remembers and treasures his Homeland above all things. The tie of childhood and birth are indissoluble; he is prepared to shed his blood, to lay down his life in defence of his country, be he Britisher, Aussie, or New Zealander. “What greater love hath any man !” Home: the miracleworker, the imperial: greater than are kingdoms and principalities. Never to be dethroned! In India, the ruling Britisher, whatever his rank, considers himself an exile. He feels he has a duty to perform, to put through ; but he longs for “Home.” When he gets furlough, he puts it as “going Home.” He alludes to the British mail, private or otherwise, as “Letters from Home.” Everything centres and radiates around “Home” ; the word is enshrined in his heart of hearts. ' I 'HE ancient and crumbling palace of the Sikandar Bagh (lit: Garden of Alexander the Great, B.C. 326), hoary and gray with the weight of dead centuries : pregnant with visions of legionaries, pomp and conquest. Where the plaint of Alexander, “that there were no worlds left to conquer,” I’ngers still among the dilapidated arches and

facades. All this is forgotten at sight of the Memorial Well at Cawnporc; that belongs to us, is of us! The magnificent Taj Mahal at Agra, one of the world’s seven wonders, with its stately and graceful minarettes, its tessalatcd corridors, its burial vault, enshrouded in a lace work of snowy marble, wrought through the agony and anguish of tears, is dwarfed in the dark and gloomy Tower of London. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon ; the perfumed sandal-wood groves of Ispahour ; the rose valleys of Arabia; the spice-breathing Celebes; the unconquered majesty of Everest and Kinchinjunga ! Do any of these count to the exile with “Home” in view? No! That little garden that mother tended is nearer, dearer, sweeter to his heart for — it is Home ! This New Zealand of ours is only a small portion, a tiny corner of the Empire; the entire population less than that of Sydney alone. Yet should the Dominion take great pride in herself and her achievements. Her capital cities may not compare with Sydney or Melbourne ; but her country towns leave those of Australia completely in the shade. Her climate, her scenery, her hospitality beyond question. Let us, therefore, look with a keener, a more appreciative eye on our own country, and its beauty and advantages. “Rajput”