THE PRIDE OF NEW PLYMOUTH.

Taranaki Daily News, 5 March 1921, Page 10

THE PRIDE OF NEW PLYMOUTH.

REFLECTIONS OF A HAPPY EXILE.

(By

S.M.)

Seven years ago, almost to a day, the writer, from the deck of a great liner bound for New Zealand, gazed for the first time on the famous, and historic town of Plymouth. Tilbury Docks, Gravesend, was the starting point of the voyage, and for an afternoon and night, and till the evening of next day, the vessel had churned her way through the English Channel, that maintained its unsavoury reputation for choppy seas and unpleasant experiences that were very disconcerting to land-lubbers like me. The emigrant, leaving the Homeland- with heavy heart and dim eyes, could wish that the farewell were of a more kindly. nature; but the Channel takes him, sickens him, buffet’s him, and kicks him into the roaring maelstrom of the Bay of Biscay. Yet how many outward bound exiles will in their misery feel as I did, that it were better to be so stressed by the seas and winds of the Old Land than to live softly aid fare sumptuously in any other clime under the sun? It is a feeling New Zealanders should understand and appreciate, for their fervid love for their country is nowhere excelled or exceeded in the world. And if an alien might say so, New Zealand is worthy of all the homage her sons can give. If was a cold, grey, stormy evening in March. The winds were piping wildly beyond the harbor. The town itself rose from the water-side, and as far as could be seen wa& just the sort of quaint, old, tradition-haunted place the imagination had often conjured up. Even in one’s misery one could not help dreaming of the great old sailors whose spirits haunted the famous port. Somewhere on the heights there Drake was playing bis game of bowls -when news came that the great Armada was sighted. But he who had singed the King of Spain’s beard so often was an eminently practical soul. He was not to be hustled or rattled from his game. So he finished it first—-then went out and finished the Armada. To speak of the heroes who have been associated with Plymouth, though, would be tantamount to writing some of the most glorious pages of our nival history, so with this passing reference to “the greatest Roman of them all” offe perforce must pass on THE TRAVAIL OF EXILE. The travail of exile is an experience which, falling to the lot of any sensitive soul, can never be forgotten—can never be remembered without feelings of dread and awe. And it is called travail advisedly, for in so many cases (as in mine) it precedes the birth of a new life in a new world, which may be infinitely better and brighter and happier than the old life, relinquished with, so much of heart-break and sorrow. As I stood alone that mournful evening and gazed on Plymouth I felt that my real life was virtually ended, and no other life and no other land could possibly equal the life and the land I was leaving behind. Going abroad on medical advice, with health broken, and all the bright and promising dreams of a happy and successful career shattered in the dust, I could instead have followed the advice of Job’s wife and “cursed God and died.” I had heard much about New Zealand and its virtues, but I either did not believe or was listless to care whether these tales were true or not. I was told I should regain my health in the new country, but doubted it, and did not seem to care whether I did or not. It is painful even now to recall the very wretched | thoughts of that time, to visualise the man broken in his prime, who stood there and moodily pondered them, hopeless, heartless, and “past carin’.” That was some years ago. Now!—Seven years of glorious New Zealand has wrought a metamorphosis that is a miracle in our materialistic age. The broken man has been rehabilitated and reinvigorated. Now, with splendid health, cool brain, and stead}’ nerves, he gazes on the nervous wreck that New Zealand took so kindly and nursed so gently back to the glory of perfect health. And properly to value and appreciate the splendor of good health one has to lose it first and then regain it, as the writer did. The infinite pity is that in most cases it is never regained. /The health breaks—then, “faeilis descensus Averni.” RESURRECTION. And now, seven years later,- I stand and gaze upon a second Plymouth—-New Zealand’s New 'Plymouth —and it brings back vividly my glimpse of the famous old Channel port. Here is the town, with the heights behind, Mount Egmont rearing its snow-clad summit further back. There, too, is the harbor—a mere hint of what the years are. to make of it — the great western port of the North Island. The people, too, that pass along the streets are typically English in feature, and manner, and speech. True enough, they have that confident, reliant. independent spirit so characteristic of the British Dominions beyond the seas, and so very uncharacteristic of the workers of England in the year of grace ]914. We are told that the Great War has wrought a great change in social relations and industrial conditions. in England. God grant it. The change, if it has taken place, was long overdue. And I who, while loving New Zealand as sincerely as any New Zealander alive today,’do not abate a jot of my filial love for my Mother Country, declare that I shall be happy if in twenty—aye, in fifty —years the English workers reach the standard of comfort and prosperity that is the lot of any man who chooses to work in this country.

But there is the rub. Many English workers come out to New Zealand quite willing to work, but only in the particular line in which they have been engaged at Home. There the rule was that whatever line a man took he jnust hold inexorably to it. Once a ploughman, always a ploughman; once a tailor, always a tailor; once an office man, always an office man. New Zealand has little use for such men. or for such a formula. That I have been happy in New Zealand is not due to any great perspecuity or adaptability on my part; I say that to anticipate any charge of egotism. It is due simply to the fact that the doctor ordered that the pen and pencil must be laid aside for a considerable time, that 1 should take as long a sea voyage as possible, and having reached my destination, go into the country places and vegetate. The advice was followed, and now I know how wise it was. But in following it T have engaged in a score of different kinds of work, and enjoyed most of them. Now. restored and refitted, with eyes upon the profession I had 1 to relinquish, I realise that if once again T take up pen or pencil as the staff of life T shall leave these dear days of vegetation and rustication with sincere re-,

THE PRIDE OF NEW PLYMOUTH. An apology is almost necessary for so lengthy an exordium to the subject matter indicated by the title to these moralisings. They are, indeed (to borrow boldly the caption under which a well-known British publicist writes) “musings without methods,” but the frankness and candour may excuse the garrulity. I started out to write of the pride of New Plymouth, of what struck me, a brief sojourner and an impartial observer, as being the chief glory of the beautiful town, a glory rich with promise of a future that will burgeon into greater grandeur many £ream of to-day. The town is the capital of famous Taranaki, that rich and fertile province flowing with milk and minting incalculable wealth from its butter-fat. But not there lies New Plymouth’s chiefest pride. It is not in her progress, or prosperity, nor in her growing importance, nor in her beauty of landscape and seascape. But come with me, and I shall show you where the chief pride is to be found..

We walk along* Devon Street until Eliot Street is reached. There we turn up and walk to the top of the hill. And before us stands the Boys’ High School, a great establishment whose fame and credit have already been borne to the ends of the earth by the boys who there, under wise and careful supervision, laid the foundations of their future success, and, what was far more important, developed those sterling traits of character which make the average public school boy play..“clean cricket” throughout life. In the South Island there is the Waitaki High School; in the North Island there is the New Plymouth' Boys’ High School. They are indeed the Eton and Harrow of New Zealand, and it may be left to wiser heads than mine to decide which is Eton and which is Harrow.

Too much icannot be said in praise of the careful and scientific system that prevails in the institutions. It makes an outsider, keenly interested in human nature and in the youth of his generation, wish that all the youth of the country could get the benefit of such a system. And it makes a Scot, educated under the terror of the town, feel something like pity for the lead old days he and his schoolfellows had to endure. The town and the care are not the most important properties in such institutions as the High School. The masters, while preserving strict discipline, make friends of their prefects, and—mirabile dictu — find |hat kindliness and example are far more potent influences than the old dominies in their reign of terror ever imagined. In every way the boys are taught to play the game, to be manly and straight and clean, and to remember throughout their lives that they must not smirch the honor of the old school on the hill, that while they live it will follow their careers with the loving eyes of a proud and loving mother. I had rather be the headmaster of such a school than the principal of any University, for under his care the character of the boy is built up. By the time a boy reaches the University his character has been definitely formed and settled. It is a moot point whether the public appreciate fuly of reward adequately, the inestimable services of a capable and conscientious man set in a position of such supreme importance. It is a trite saying that the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. How many battles of the future —not necessarily military encounters in the bloody carnage of war—are being fought and won in the hill. abo\ie New Plymouth to-day- no one can tell. But as you gaze upon the stalwart, happy boys passing through the streets you may wonder what parts they are to play in the future of New Zealand and the Empire. You can be quite sure that whatever part falls to them the duty will be well discharged, for “to play the game” is essentially the real purpose of the school training. But you may also wonder which among them will bring honor to the old school and the old town when they have attained fame and experience as statesmen, or authors, or soldiers, or great captains of industry. Cabinet Ministers and men of genius are in the making in that building on the hill, but we, alas! are blind and are entertaining angels unawares. “Comradeship, courage and wisdom” runs the motto of the school —if my remembrance of Latin be still trustworthy. It is a splendid motto, and it is not too much to say that its spirit is being inculcated into the boys, and I am quite sure the boys will never forget. IN COXCDUSTON.

So there, would I say, lies the chief pride of beautiful New Plymouth. Does she realise it, and honor it as she ought? That is a question for Taranaki. Her real friends will hope that she will not turn to the more gross and material things. In doing that she would be neglecting the better part, which will not be taken away from her. And this much might be said: It is in the nature of a personal explanation. A cynical, suspicious and prurient world may think that there is something underlying this honest tribute of praise—that it is not as spontaneous as it seems—that some object is to be gained in writing this, or some purpose served in “boosting” the High School. But one or two simple facts should nullify such criticism. 1 do not know a teacher, or boy, or official in the. High School. I have been in New Plymouth but a week or two, and probably before this is read I shall be far away and may not revisit the beautiful town for a very long time. But the tribute is given because the little I know and the much I have heard, of the school impels me to ask the people it serves so splendidly if they really value at its worth an institution which, next to the. home, is the most powerful influence in the early life of hundreds of New Zealand’s brainiest boys of today—the poets and princes of to-mor-row.

Amongst the passengers who arrived in Wellington by the Moana was Mrs. Gladstone Ward, daughter-in-law , of Sir Joseph and Lady AVard. Airs. Warl was, before her marriage, Mdlle Sophie Harb, of Greek parentage, and lived all her life in Jerusalem. Indeed, she knows no country except Palestine, as she and her husband joined the Naldera at Port Said, and connected with the Moana at Sydney. To Airs. Ward, her sister, and father belong the honor of being the very first people to greet the victorious British Army upon its entry into Jerusalem. Her house on the outskirts, was between the Germans and Turks on the one hand, and the British on the other. For days' shells were dropping all round them, and they had to live in their cellar. Then one day the firing ceased, and they ventured out. Right overhead were two British aeroplanes, and very soon the advance guard came riding along the Bethlehem Road. Mrs. Ward and her sister knew practically no English, but they knew that flowers represented welcome, so they met the soldiers with flowers. Air. and Airs. Ward have a farm near Christ- ( church, and intend to make their home tkerw. .