Postcard politics

This postcard from the 1930s is for all those British subjects who will vote in the General election today – or not, as the case may be.

Vintage Bamforth comic postcard.

I suspect this might be a rare Bamforth card because it doesn’t involve sex, large middle-aged women and their henpecked husbands, or Scotsmen, their kilts, and speculation about what lies beneath. Those were simpler times!

On the Road Again

Commercial travellers, the company rep., travelling salesmen (and women) – do they still exist, or have they been made redundant by on-line ordering? If they’re still in business they probably announce their next visit by text or email but in 1906 their customers would have received something like this in the mail

calling card

The Cyclopedia of New Zealand (Otago and Southland edition, 1905) tells us that The firm of Messrs. Briscoe and Co., Limited, is an offshoot of the old house of William Briscoe and Son, which was founded in Wolverhampton [England] about the year 1768.

The large business conducted from Dunedin …. [opened in 1862] is confined chiefly to the South Island, where seven travellers are steadily engaged in visiting the customers; but the North Island is left to the Wellington and Auckland houses of the firm.

This particular “traveller”, W. G. Macindoe, was based in Auckland and, even at this early date, seems to have had a company car to drive around his commercial territory. Lets hope it was more practical than the steam driven fantasy on the postcard! It seems that Mr. Macindoe used both card and car for something other than company business. This was posted to a young lady in Paparoa and the single sentence at the bottom says Will you come for a drive to Whangarei and is signed Your boy. The journey from Paparoa to Whangarei would have been more than just an afternoon jaunt on the roads of 1906.

Moving forward to 1909, The New Zealand Herald of April 10 noted –
Mr W. G. Macindoe, traveller for Briscoe and Co., was the recipient of a handsome cabinet of cutlery from the staff on Thursday evening on the occasion of his marriage. The manager (Mr. A. G. Graham) made the presentation.

The cutlery was also a leaving present because, on 26th, the Auckland Star announced – Mr W. G. Macindoe, of Messrs. Briscoe and Co. (Ltd.), having been transferred to the firm’s Sydney warehouse, leaves by the Maheno this evening. He will be accompanied by Mrs. Macindoe.
I haven’t been able to find any details about Mrs. Macindoe so far. I wonder if she lived in Paparoa?

(Although the company began as a wholesaler, Brisoes is now a high-profile retail chain with their advertising slogan “You’ll never buy better”).

Travelling by stagecoach

In the late sixties of last century [19th], when the “Diggings” were in full swing, there was an excellent service of coaches owned by Cobb & Co. Coaches left Dunedin daily by the main north and south roads; the distance covered each day was well over seventy miles, so that an early start was the rule.

stage west coast

Breakfast at 5 a.m. “with our hats on” was the beginning of the first journey alone for three little sisters who set off to spend a happy summer holiday with an elder sister in her home on the banks of the Molyneux River [Clutha].

Our own road down the Glen joined the South Road a mile or so out of Dunedin, and we had, therefore, no share in the bustle and importance of the daily start from the office in town. We had not long to wait before the coach appeared on the crest of the hill and rattled down towards us. Good-byes were said and last instructions given as the big coach pulled up with a swing and stood heaving and swaying on its great leather springs, while the harness creaked and clattered as the six big greys shook it, stamping with impatience at the delay.

We were soon in the places reserved for us at the back of the coach, where we would be well protected from the weather by big leather curtains – on this fine morning rolled up so that we might enjoy the pleasant country through which we drove.

Besides the seats of honour on the box and above it, there were four (or more) seats set across the interior – just hard wooden seats with very little padding and a wide leather strap for a back. The coaches were generally overflowing with diggers, usually very cheerful, confident that they were on their way to make their fortunes, or, still more cheerful, with fortunes in their pockets, on their way to town to spend them……

The number of horses in use by Cobb & Co. must have been enormous, and the quality was outstanding. Beautiful greys were always reserved for the entrance into town, and the procession of the Gold Escort was indeed a sight never to be forgotten. Armed out-riders led and followed the special coach bringing in the gold; and there was frequently a prisoner or two, in which case the armed guard on the box, and riding alongside, would be considerably increased.

Vintage postcard of two stagecoaches on the Christchurch to Greymouth road.

All that, however, was a thing of long past when, after my marriage, I travelled by coach, this time to my new home on the Maniototo Plain. The railway that was eventually to stretch from one end of the [South] Island to the other could now be used to shorten distances, and our coach journey began at Palmerston, following up the Shag river, to Naseby – one day’s journey. In the earlier days the coach had to break the journey for the night at a so-called accommodation house that bore the very descriptive name of Pig-root.

Some of my happiest recollections are of these old coach journeys to our up-country home, my children enjoying the adventure, tucked away inside the coach with their nurse. Of course, there were inevitable discomforts, but one could forget the bumping into and over frozen ruts on a winter’s morning when looking out on the frost-laden snowgrass, the sun covering the great white domes with jewels, and icicles veiling the blue depths of fairy halls below them.

The driver, appreciating my husband’s eye for a horse, always kept the box-seat for us, and his fund of yarns was inexhaustible, so that on many a drowsy summer afternoon their voices seemed to me to grow fainter and fainter as the coach wound up the sunny side of the Range. But, at the top, the fresh breeze in one’s face was like the meeting with an old friend, and, with a crack of the long whip and the rattle of loose swingle-trees, away we would go, down the long cutting and across the river-bed, till, in the cool dusk, sweet with the scent of the flax blossom and dewy tussock, we pulled up at the wayside hotel where we changed horses for the last stage that day.
J. M. Buchanan, a contributor to ‘Tales of Pioneer Women’, Whitcombe & Tombs Limited, 1940.

The stagecoaches illustrated here, with the popular five horse configuration, are similar to the one Mrs. Buchanan would have taken on her trip to Naseby. These coaches travelled some New Zealand “roads” until the early 1920s.

A Busy Day at Boulters Lock

Edwardian scene at Boulters Lock on the river Thames, England.

From a vintage postcard mailed in 1907

This chaotic scene at Boulters Lock on the river Thames near Maidenhead, England, may have been photographed on Ascot Sunday, when this popular part of the river was at its busiest in the late 19th/early 20th century. You can see moving pictures, filmed in 1926, at this British Pathe site.

The first lock was built here in 1772.

Fleet Street

In the days when London had only one daily with a million readers it was calculated that at a certain time in its history the forests cut down for it would equal 17 Devons; today with its rivals it must have cut down forests as big as 17 Englands to spread its good and evil news. We must hope it is worth it.

Fleet street

c.1930

Fleet Street has transformed the face of the nation and set millions of people reading and thinking. It has made a new world of learners and seekers after truth, but it has built up the curse of gambling in the world and fed it hour by hour. It has filled Fleet Street with tipsters and astrologers, fortune tellers and fortune hunters, and has made a kind of journalism which will pay a swindler coming out of goal £10,000 to tell his story to the public he has swindled.

It has made the Fleet Street Army the most remarkable company ever got together. Bishops and statesmen, writers and dreamers, pugilists and footballmen, half-wits and no-wits, film stars and actresses, freaks and clowns: the stupidest man ever born is worth as much in Fleet Street as the wisest. Any morning we wake the newest tomfool is in the smart stunt paper, ready for a million breakfast tables. Mice and men, it is all the same today.
‘London’, Arthur Mee. Hodder and Stoughton Ltd, 1937.

The caption on the postcard is less cynical – “Fleet Street is famous the world over as the journalistic centre of London. In or near it are the offices of nearly all the great newspapers and periodicals, where hosts of busy toilers are at work both day and night.” A scribbled note underneath says “Bridge is a Railway and before this is Ludgate Circus. Traffic typical.”

The circus marks the end of Fleet Street. It is crossed by Farringdon Street, covering the

Vintage postcard by L.L. of Ludgate Circus, London, c.1905.

c.1905

old River Fleet, which now discharges into the Thames from a pipe under Blackfriars Bridge. Arthur Mee writes “It seems never to have occurred to anyone that Ludgate Circus might be beautiful. Ever since the River Fleet was covered in on its approach to the Thames this supreme opportunity of a noble approach to St. Paul’s appears to have been thrown away.
Across the bottom of Ludgate Hill runs a railway which could easily be spared, serving two stations a few hundred yards apart.”

The bridge had been built in the 1860s by the London, Chatham & Dover Railway and was regarded as an eyesore by many from the start. It was finally “spared” (i.e. removed) in 1990. The last newspaper in Fleet Street moved out in 2016.

National profiling

In this last of three posts about the Panama Canal, Frederic J. Haskin makes some observations on human nature.

A vintage postcard of Panama Canal.

It’s an odd thing – this transplanting a man from the temperate to the torrid zone. It affects men of different nations in different ways. It is disastrous in inverse ratio to the adaptability of the man transplanted. A German or a Dutchman goes to the Tropics and almost without a struggle yields to the demands of the new climate all his orderly daily habits. Your Dutchman in Java will, except on state occasions, wear the native dress (or undress); eat the native food; live in the native house; and, like as not, take a native woman to wife. One thing only – he will retain his schnapps. The German is only a little less adaptable, clings only a little longer to the routine of the Fatherland, but he, too, keeps his beer.

panama_hotel

Your Englishman, on the contrary, defies the tropical sun and scorns to make any changes in his daily habit that he had not fixed upon as necessary and proper before he left his right little, tight little, island. He does, it is true, wear a pith helmet. That is due partly, perhaps, to his fear of the sun, but it is much more due to the fact that he associates it with lands where faces are not white; therefore he wears it in Egypt in the winter when it is shivery cold with the same religious devotion that he wears it in India when the mercury is running out of the top of the thermometer. Your Englishman, it is true, wears white duck clothes in the Tropics, but not the fiercest heat that old Sol ever produced could induce him for one moment to exchange his flannel underwear for cotton or to leave off his woolen hose. It is a pretty theory and not without much support, that it is this British defiance of tropical customs that has given him the mastery over Tropic peoples. And wherever goes the Briton there goes Scotch-and-soda.

panama_colon

The Americans steer a middle course. They dress for the heat and make themselves comfortable as possible. They consume even greater quantities of ice than they do at home, and the average American eats every day in summer enough ice to kill a score of Englishmen. At least, that’s what the Englishmen would think.

But the American in the Tropics tenaciously clings to many of his home habits, despite the changed conditions of his place of sojourn. He must have his bath, even though he talks less about it than the Englishman. He must have his three square meals a day, and breakfast must be a real breakfast. He demands screens to protect him from pestiferous insects, no less for comfort’s sake than health’s. And then he demands two other things – a soda fountain and a baseball team.

It is true that he often will indulge in a British peg of Scotch-and-soda, or in a German stein of beer, but the native drink that he takes with him to the Tropics, and one that he alone consumes, and the one that he, in season and out of season, demands, is the sweet, innocent, and non-alcoholic product of the soda fountain. How incomprehensible is this to the sons of other nations no American may ever understand.
‘The Panama Canal’, Frederick J. Haskin, Doubleday, Page & Company. 1914.

panama_hospital

A day at the seaside

Tuck's Oilette postcard of Littlehampton, England.

Littlehampton, the Harbour. Here is the pier and its little lighthouse, and the houses of Littlehampton showing hazily in the distance. Steamers come up alongside the pier to take a cargo or to drop one. – Card caption

Littlehampton is in the county of Sussex on England’s south coast. This is one of a set of six Tuck’s Oilette postcards first catalogued in 1908 and shows the East Pier. The picturesque wooden lighthouse was replaced in 1948 by a futuristic concrete cyclops.