A Cobbler in the King Country

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 27, 23 April 1927, Page 22 (Supplement)

A Cobbler in the King Country

TOWNSHIP’S CONFESSIONAL (Written for THE SUN.) To have an undeserved reputation for profound wisdom is a tragedy. There is only one class of man in New Zealand that bears this calamitous burden with equanimity—he is the back-block cobbler. Psychologists may claim to be able to explain how a cobbler, ipso facto, is an oracle. Perhaps they can prove to the satisfaction of all and sundry that the true index to the character of a man is not the manner in which he carries his thumb, but the way in which he wears his boots. And, therefore, the disciple of St. Crispin, from his intimate knowledge of the varying effects of human character on plastic hide, fits the man to the broken shoe and reads into his innermost soul. I do not claim to be possessed of wisdom beyond that which the years and rough edges of life impart. Nevertheless, I am the oracle of a rural settlement, of which the centre of activity is the “back-block” township of Te Karangamutu. My sphere embraces a parish church, two nonconformist chapels and curate, deacons and farm hands alike all turn my humble shack of a workshop into a confessional. All manner of men unbosom them* selves to the sound of my hammer—the plausible hypocrite who wears out three toe-caps to one honest heel, the slattern whose boots are brought to me when they are past mending, and the sturdy farm hand whose even tread betokens a well-balanced and guileless soul. Many are the stories I listen to—tales of woe unspeakable, of joy, of malice and vile hypocrisy; the tellers see nothing but simple and sympathetic attention in the posture of my grey head bent over the last. It is not strange then that the cobbler’s knowledge of the things that go to make up human nature is comprehensive and that from his acquaintance with the great human machine, as a whole, he is able, now and again,»to set right a little wheel that has missed function. The two pastors and the curate I regard as my confreres, for am I not also concerned in the uplift of humanity? Indeed, they call me their bishop. “Without you,” said the curate to me one day, “no man or woman could walk the straight path!” and does not the sign in my window, neatly printed in faded blue ink, bear the legend, “Souls saved here.” But the reverend gentlemen are not all regular customers of mine. Of late years they have acquired no little proficiency as amateur menders of the boots of the family. Times are hard on the parsons; they cannot go on strike for a living wage and a stop-

work meeting on Sunday morning is unthinkable. I am not grumbling at the loss of custom. The storekeeper, carpenter and the farmers have all developed an unwonted fastidiousness in the matter of footwear and I am kept more than busy. My best customer among the fraternity of the pulpit is the curate. I like him for his joyous outlook on life, his exuberance of spirits, as yet undepressed by problems of higher criticisms and baptism and predestination. A parson should be the personification of human happiness. He is the bearer of good j tidings, the harbinger of peace and * goodwill and he should either believe j in his own gospel or change his voca- ! tion. A doctor who looks like an i undertaker is a failure. A commercial I traveller who is dubious of the quality | of his goods earns no commission, and j a clergyman who appears sorry for J himself will empty a church quicker I than the sound of a crack in the roof. 1 There is not a great deal of work for the parsons here. Being a “dry” district, the settlers in our township seldom rise to any great height in crime. This is not surprising, for they are not a very enterprising lot in any sphere of activity. I know full well that two or three of my neighbours have a strong instinct for crime on a big scale, but hitherto circumstances and environment have kept ! them on the straight and narrow path, j There are quite a number of residents in the township whom I would not trust, though I have no definite grounds for suspicion. I know them all and the fact that they are zealous church members makes no difference. I have described to you a few of my friends in the village. There are others. Some are likeable folk, some are unpleasing and some belong to that inane class tjrat neither please nor repel. J. MORGAN DAVIES.