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Ship Figureheads as Statuary in New Zealand Gardens, Part 2: The Wolverine

by Ian Duggan

A number of newspaper reports were published in the early 20^th Century on the figureheads of ships featuring as items of statuary in New Zealand gardens. In a previous blog we covered the Hydrabad, whose figurehead ended up in a Foxton garden for many years, before it came to an unfortunate end, chopped up for firewood. In this blog we examine the HMS Wolverine, whose figurehead adorned the garden of a residence in Stanley Bay, Devonport, Auckland.

By 1929, the figurehead of the Wolverine was already said to have been “a prominent feature in a garden at Stanley Bay for many decades”^[i]. The figurehead was described as “gigantic”; “his knotted wig and closely buttoned coat represents a hunter of the seas; a wolverine is carved on either side of the base of the figure; a faithful modelling of the animal that scours the icy wastes by the frozen northern oceans”.^[ii] Elsewhere, however, it is described as the “figure of a Red Indian”.^[iii] And, perhaps it was most interestingly stated as such: “Impressive in its rude vigour is the figure-head of the Wolverine, a gigantic male figure representing a hunter of the seas”. ^[iv]

The garden of interest belonged to a Mr. Arthur Willetts^[v], a resident of Waterview Road. Willetts had worked in the then well-known ship-yards of George Niccol Limited, where he built boats for 52 years, up until the time the yards were closed in 1932, the last 20 of which he had spent as foreman. He had joined the firm when he was only 13 years of age, having followed in the footsteps of his father, Mr. James Willetts, who had worked in the Niccol yards before him. Through his career, the younger Willetts had worked on the builds of 80 large boats, including the ferries Condor, Pupuke and Toroa, as well as all the vehicular ferry steamers active in the harbour in 1932. The oldest vessel he helped build still active at the time the boat-yards closed was the scow ‘Tally Ho’, which brought sand to Auckland from the islands in the gulf. Of interest to the current story, of this boat he said he had “built about 38 years ago out of the timbers of the old man-o’-war Wolverine. That warship, which used to be stationed in New Zealand waters in the old days, was one of the old ‘wooden walls’ of England. When her days were ended I helped to break her up in Stanley Bay. We used her timbers, which were wonderfully sound, to build scows and schooners, and her sails were cut down to suit smaller vessels”.^[vi]

HMS Wolverine, Sydney, July 1881. Public Domain.

The HMS Wolverine was launched in the UK in 1863, and was said to be “composite in build”, being constructed of iron frames with teak and oak planking, and “composite in motive power, having both sails and steam”.^[vii] A Wikipedia page on the vessel provides a more lengthy synopsis of her life and activities, but briefly: she served in North American and West Indian waters in the 1860s and early 1870s, and from 1875 served as the flagship of the navy in Australian waters. In 1882, she was presented to the Colony of New South Wales as a training ship for the New South Wales Naval Brigade and New South Wales Naval Artillery Volunteers, before being decommissioned in 1892. She later, briefly, became a merchant vessel.

The days of the Wolverine came to an unceremonious end on a voyage from Sydney. Her new owners loaded her with shale and she was dispatched for Liverpool, England, but when some time out she began to leak badly the crew demanded that the master put back to port for repairs. She arrived at Auckland, being the nearest port, in April 1895. The Government authorities then condemned the ship following a survey, and she was sold to Mr. G. T. Niccol^[viii] – or, as one report phrased it, “she came into the hands of ship-breakers”.^[ix] Niccol and company began to dismantle the Wolverine where she lay, moored off Northcote, and she was later docked at Calliope Dock, where her valuable copper sheathing was stripped, and her copper fastenings taken out. After being undocked the Wolverine lay in Stanley Bay for some time, and eventually the remains of the hull were burnt.^[x] In 1900, the last remnants were said to have been blown up with dynamite, after which very little remained.^[xi]

Wreck of the HMS Wolverine at Stanley Bay, Auckland, New Zealand photographed in ?1902, Public Domain.

It was during the breaking up of the vessel that the figurehead came into the possession of Arthur Willetts, and placed in his garden – likely in the late 1890s – and there it remained for many years^[xii]. Little was noted in the press of its time in the garden, except that the figurehead was taken down from its pedestal in 1921 and repaired, and it was hinted at this time that it would, in all probability, find a last resting place in the museum.^[xiii]It wasn’t until mid-1929, however, that this move was made, being first transported to the Auckland War Memorial Museum, though not without some protest: Commander Nelson Clover hoped that the figurehead would instead be erected along with others at the nautical museum at the Devonport naval yards.^[xiv] Indeed, by late 1930 he got his wish, when it joined the existing collection of figureheads there.

A ship’s carpenter at the naval dockyards with part of the figurehead of H.M.S. Wolverine, which is being restored for mounting purposes. New Zealand Herald, 31 July 1930, P8

It is unclear what happened to the Wolverine figurehead thereafter. However, it was noted in 1952 that: “The remains of what were once handsome figureheads from sailing ships are now rotting in a corner of the Devonport Naval Base. The Navy considers restoration impracticable. The figureheads were collected over a period of years, and were originally mounted along the driveways at the base… They have been repaired and repainted periodically, but most of them are now unrecognisable. There were at one time 16 figureheads; to-day only one is standing, and seven others are stored near the workshops behind the base playing field. Outside collectors have shown some interest in the models, but the Naval Board in Wellington considers that their maritime history makes H.M.N.Z.S. Philomel the proper place for them. It is proposed to coat the figureheads with a preservative, and to store them till they can be displayed under shelter”.^[xv]

The latest addition to Commander Nelson Clover’s nautical museum at Devonport, Auckland. Evening Post, 15 September 1930, P7.

Read Part I here: The Hydrabad

Read Part III here: The America, the Helen Denny, and others

References:

[i] News in Brief. Otago Daily Times, 15 July 1929, P14

[ii] Sun (Auckland), 22 March 1930, P17

[iii] Auckland Star, 12 September 1930, P8

[iv] Maritime Museum. Waihi Daily Telegraph, 2 July 1938, P3

[v] Sun (Auckland), 21 October 1927, P16

[vi] Ship Yards Close. New Zealand Herald, 14 November 1932, P10

[vii] Sun (Auckland), 22 March 1930, P17

[viii] Auckland Star, 25 October 1930, P15 (Supplement)

[ix] Sun (Auckland), 22 March 1930, P17

[x] Auckland Star, 25 October 1930, P15 (Supplement)

[xi] Auckland News Notes. Otago Daily Times, 13 September 1900, P5

[xii] New Zealand Herald, 17 June 1929, P11

[xiii] Auckland Star, 8 August 1921, P4

[xiv] New Zealand Herald, 17 June 1929, P11

[xv] Press, 17 September 1952, Page 8

What’s In a Name? Yarrow and the great Achilles

Annette Giesecke, Te Herenga Waka | Victoria University of Wellington

I tried to grow yarrow in my Pennsylvania woodland garden to no avail, but on my New Zealand plot, surrounded by orchards and pasturelands, it grows rampant, undeterred by drought or clay soil. A member of the Asteraceae family and native to temperate regions of the Northern Hemisphere, this handsome perennial plant reaches a height of up to 1 metre (3.5 feet); has fernlike, finely dissected leaves; and its flat or slightly convex flower heads, blooming from spring well into autumn, consist of clusters of small flowers. In the wild, its flowers range in colour from white to pink, but there are red, orange, hot pink, lavender, and yellow cultivated varieties available in garden centres.

*Achillea millefolium*, the flower of Achilles. Photo by Jitaeri. Image, Wikimedia Commons.

Known also in common parlance as ‘arrowroot’, ‘death flower’, ‘eerie’, ‘hundred-leaved grass’, ‘old man’s mustard’, ‘sanguinary’, ‘seven-year’s love’, ‘snake’s grass’, and ‘soldier’ – yarrow is interesting on so many levels. When established, it is hardy even in adverse conditions, and it is of significant value to wildlife. Its nectar-rich flowers attract butterflies, bees, and other insects, while its leaves, toxic to some animals (including dogs, as I have witnessed), are grazed by others and gathered by nesting birds. The whole plant has a distinctive, sharp odour, that can be described as a mixture of chamomile and pine, or chrysanthemum-like. To the taste, its roots are bitter. Yarrow has been used by humans for millennia as a medicinal plant, useful in treating a wide range of ailments ranging from headaches and indigestion to infections. It effectively staunches bleeding and repels mosquitoes as well. Yarrow also has applications as a fabric dye, yielding a range of yellow tints. And then there is its mysterious botanical name, Achillea millefolium, which translates as ‘Achilles’ thousand-leaved plant’. ‘Thousand-leaved’ is, of course, a reference to yarrow’s dissected leaves, but why is this the plant of Achilles, that ancient Greek hero famed for his exploits in the Trojan War?

In addition to being an extraordinarily effective warrior, Achilles had a range of other skills and talents, all in keeping with his unusual parentage and upbringing. He was the son of the sea goddess Thetis and Peleus, a mortal man. A prophecy had revealed that Thetis was destined to bear a son who would overpower his father, an event that would threaten the established divine hierarchy. For this reason, Zeus, king of the Olympian gods, offered Thetis in marriage to Peleus, a king of the northern Greek district of Phthia, for whom this was a reward. By some accounts, Thetis did not accept this arrangement willingly, causing Peleus to wrestle with her as she changed her shape to fire, water, and then a wild beast to elude his grasp (Apollodorus, Bibliotheca. 13.3). Peleus prevailed, and all the gods were invited to the couple’s wedding… all but one. Only Eris, goddess of strife was excluded. Her presence on this festive occasion, it was thought, would only bring misfortune. Misfortune befell the festive gathering nonetheless, as an angry Eris appeared bearing what would prove to be a fateful wedding gift: a golden apple labeled ‘for the fairest’. Loveliest of the goddesses were Hera (queen of the gods), Athena (goddess of wisdom and defensive war), and Aphrodite (goddess of love and desire), and all three, equally beautiful, laid claim to this golden prize. As no god dared to make this choice, it was agreed to leave the decision to Paris Alexander, the prince of Troy, whose reputation as a lover was well known. Not leaving the outcome of this contest to chance, each goddess offered Paris a bribe. Hera promised that she would make him king of all men, while Athena offered him success in war. Aphrodite, however, knew him best and offered him Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world. It was she who was awarded the golden apple.

In the course of time, Paris traveled to Greece and, while being hospitably entertained in Sparta, made off with Helen, that kingdom’s queen. This was an affront that King Menelaos, Helen’s husband, could not bear, and with his brother Agamemnon, king of Mycenae in the lead, assembled the bravest and strongest men of Greece. A fleet of one thousand ships then sailed to Troy, their purpose being to retrieve Helen, a goal not easily achieved as Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey reveal.

Between Paris’ fateful judgment and his theft of Menelaos’ queen, some fifteen years had passed. Soon after the wedding of Peleus to Thetis, Achilles was born to them, and although half-divine by birth, he was destined to die an early death, as a prophecy foretold. His distraught mother attempted to make her infant immortal, holding him by the ankles and dipping him in the magical waters of the dreaded river Styx. This left him invulnerable, except on his ankles where his mother had held him fast.

While a young child, Achilles, like several other Greek heroes, was sent to live with and be educated by Chiron, a very special centaur. Others were Jason, who went to fetch the famed Golden Fleece; Hercules, renowned for his 12 Labours; and Asklepios, the god Apollo’s son who would become a god of healing. From Chiron, Achilles learned how to hunt, how to play the lyre, and, of particular relevance to yarrow, how to use herbs in healing.

The centaur Chiron teaching Achilles how to play the lyre. Roman fresco from Herculaneum, National Archaeological Museum of Naples, 1st century CE. Image, Wikimedia Commons.

When grown, Achilles would join the Greek forces who fought for the return of Helen, in the course of battle displaying extraordinary cruelty—especially towards Hektor, Troy’s brave and kind defender, a wholly decent, honourable man—but also extraordinary compassion towards his wounded comrades. In Homer’s Iliad, one particular wounded warrior, Eurypylos by name, was not attended to by Achilles himself but by Achilles’ closest friend, whom he, in turn, had instructed in the art of healing. Eurypylos had pleaded for Patroklos’ help, saying:

“Please, I beg of you, lead me to my dark ship, and cut this arrow from my thigh. Warm water will wash away the blackened blood, and then sprinkle good, soothing medicines (ēpia pharmaka esthla) upon it, just as people say Achilles taught you”. (Iliad XI. 828-31)

What, exactly, this good, soothing medicine consisted of is not stated here, but the following lines offer a significant clue:

“Patroklos lay him down, and cut the piercing arrow from his thigh, washing away the dark blood with warm water. And he placed a bitter root upon the wound, first rubbing it with his hands, a root that kills pain (rhizdan pikrēn) and that put an end to all his suffering. The wound was dry, the bleeding stopped”. (Iliad XI.844-48)

Homer did not name this bitter root, but yarrow’s root is bitter, and the plant has analgesic (painkilling) and hemostatic (blood-stopping) properties as well.

The Iliad is conventionally dated to about 750 BCE, and it would be more than 700 years later that Roman encyclopedist Pliny the Elder, author of a multi-volume Natural History (first century CE), provided the next clue: “Achilles, too, the pupil of Chiron, discovered a plant which heals wounds, and which, as being his discovery, is known as the ‘achilleos’ [plant of Achilles].” Yet Pliny proceeded then to identify this plant with one very different from yarrow, writing:

“By some persons this plant is called ‘panaces heracleon’, by others, ‘sideritis’, and by the people of our country, ‘millefolium’: the stalk of it, they say, is a cubit in length, branchy, and covered from the bottom with leaves somewhat smaller than those of fennel. Other authorities, however, while admitting that this last plant is good for wounds, affirm that the genuine achilleos has a bluish stem a foot in length, destitute of branches, and elegantly clothed all over with isolated leaves of a round form. Others again, maintain that it has a squared stem, that the heads of it are small and like those of horehound, and that the leaves are similar to those of the quercus—they say too, that this last has the property of uniting the sinews when cut asunder. Another statement is that the sideritis is a plant that grows on garden walls, and that it emits, when bruised, a fetid smell; that there is also another plant, very similar to it, but with a whiter and more unctuous leaf, a more delicate stem, and mostly found growing in vineyards”. (Natural History 25.19, adapted from John Bowersock trans. 1855. London: Taylor and Francis)

Pliny offered several plants as candidates for Achilles’ plant. One is sideritis (‘mountain tea’), a group of plants in the mint family that don’t remotely resemble yarrow physically but that do have medicinal properties. Another is ‘panaces heracleon’ (‘Hercules’ cure-all’, Opopanax chironium), a yellow-flowering herb that grows 1-3 metres in height but that likewise has medicinal applications. Did Pliny confuse these two with the plant that, much later, with the advent of standardized scientific botanic nomenclature, would be called Achillea millefolium? Or, were all three simply known as ‘Achilles’ plants’ in antiquity? All we can say is that it was Achilles’ reputation as a healer of battle wounds that inspired the choice of yarrow’s scientific name by Carl Linnaeus in the 18th century.

Achilles tending Patroclus wounded by an arrow, identified by inscriptions on the upper part of the vase. Interior of an Athenian drinking cup, ca. 500 BCE attributed to Sosias as painter. From Vulci. Image, Wikimedia Commons.

*All translations of ancient texts are by the author unless stated.

Modern Sources:

Christopher Brickell and Judith D. Zuk (eds.). 1996. The American Horticultural Society, A to Z Encyclopedia of Garden Plants. New York: DK publishing.

David J. Mabberley. 2014. Mabberley’s Plant-book: A Portable Dictionary of Plants, their Classification and Uses 4th Edition. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.

Annette Giesecke. 2020. Classical Mythology A to Z: An Encyclopedia of Gods & Goddesses, Heroes & Heroines, Nymphs, Spirits, Monsters, and Places. New York: Black Dog and Leventhal.

Herb Federation of New Zealand: https://herbs.org.nz/herbs/yarrow-international-herb-of-the-year-2024/

Upcoming talk in Hamilton: “Finding Mrs Mitchinson: The Life of a Forgotten Colonial Plantswoman”

by Annette Bainbridge, Garden History Research Foundation

20 March 2025, 7.00-8.30 p.m. The Link Room at Hamilton Gardens (entry $5 waged; $2 unwaged – please bring cash!)

Mary Mitchinson (1860-1937) ran the Caledonian Nursery in New Plymouth for over ten years after the death of her husband in 1895. An entrepreneur, medal-winning horticulturist and importer of rare and exotic plants, Mary Mitchinson dominated Taranaki’s garden scene from the mid-1890s into the early twentieth-century. This talk will follow her career, the challenges she faced as a businesswoman in a male-dominated market, her role in expanding the reach of Taranaki nurseries throughout New Zealand and the way in which she helped to shape Taranaki’s 19^th-century image as “The Garden of New Zealand”.

Ship Figureheads as Statuary in New Zealand Gardens, Part 1: The Hydrabad

by Ian Duggan

A number of newspaper reports can be found of the figureheads of ships adorning not their expected vessels, but New Zealand gardens as items of statuary through the early 20^th Century. This blog covers one such example, the figurehead of the Hydrabad (commonly incorrectly spelt as “the Hyderabad”, after the city in India), a ship that was wrecked on Waitārere beach on the Horowhenua coast in 1878.

On her sea trials off Glasgow 1865. Original oil painting on canvas. 1800 x 1100mm. Provided by Kete Horowhenua.

What is a figurehead? The Royal Museums Greenwich provide a great overview, at this link, which I provide a brief summary of here. Figureheads are decorative carved wooden sculptures, most frequently female, that decorated the prows of sailing ships. These were said to embody the “spirit of the vessel”, and were considered by the crew of the ships to be lucky charms. A range of subjects were depicted on the figureheads, with many representing a member of the ship-owner’s family or of the owner himself, while others depicted historical figures or an influential individual from contemporary society. Evidence of the use of figureheads dates back to around 3000 BC in Egypt, but while they were a common feature on ships during the sailing age, their use had largely died out by the end of the 19^th Century.^[i]

Indeed, Wellington’s Evening Star noted in 1911 that, at that stage: “The likeliest place to find a ship’s figurehead nowadays is… in a suburban tea garden. Certainly there are few ships afloat [now] which carry them”.^[ii]

The figurehead of the Hydrabad is one that has gained the most attention in New Zealand newspapers. The Hydrabad was a three-masted iron ship built in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1865, which primarily operated as a cargo vessel between England, Australia and India. However, she was wrecked on the Horowhenua Coast in June 1878, while on her way between Lyttleton and South Australia. At the time she was carrying a cargo of broad-gauge Canterbury railway locomotives and components declared surplus in New Zealand, due to the national standardisation of railway infrastructure^[iii]; Canterbury had been building its railway using a 5′ 3″ gauge, whereas the New Zealand government’s public works stipulated that the gauge must not exceed 3′ 6″^[iv]. The locomotives were thus destined for use in South Australia.^[v]

Figurehead in the garden of A. Jonson. [from Church, I. (1978). The Wreck of the Hydrabad. Dunmore Press Ltd, Palmerston North].

The wreck of the Hydrabad was sold to a Mr Liddell, who bought the figurehead and the vessel’s cannon, taking them to Foxton. On arrival in the town, “both figurehead and cannon were deposited in Mr. Liddell’s yard… in Clyde Street. For many years they lay there until they were acquired by… Mr. A. Jonson and removed to Avenue Road”.^[vi]

Skip forward a number of years, and in 1896 the Manawatu Herald reported that Mr Andrew Jonson “long had erected in his garden on the Avenue Road the old figurehead of the Hydrabad”.^[vii] And the figurehead appeared to remain in his garden for a long period thereafter. For example, in 1907, it was stated that:

“In the centre of a garden plot in front of a cottage at Foxton is a brightly painted piece of well executed statuary. It is the figure enlarged to far more than life size of an Indian Rajah, dressed in full regalia, with scimitar, and hand uplifted in a threatening attitude. The legs are cut away, but the carving from the knees upwards, and the fierce expression on the black-bearded face of the Eastern potentate, are admirably executed”.

It continued, “The owner, Mr Jonson, narrates in connection with it a story of adventure. Nearly, half a century ago it formed the figure-head of a splendid steam yacht of 1800 tons, built… for the Rajah of Hyderabad. The figurehead, carved from Baltic pine, represented the owner, and for a number of years he took charge of the vessel, the Hyderabad [sic], travelling over the Indian Ocean. Eventually the vessel fell into the hands of Captain [Charles James] Holmwood, by whom it was sailfully navigated until, while laden with railway rolling stock, its career was ended during a storm, when it was stranded about four miles from the mouth of Manawatu river. In this way the fine carving fell into the hands of a Foxton resident, who prizes it highly”.^[viii]

Jonson’s story may be somewhat embellished, however. The vessel was actually constructed for the Bombay Iron Shipping Company (in present day Mumbai).

Mr Jonson passed away in 1917, at the age of 75. The Manawatu Standard noted that he was a well-known builder and undertaker in Foxton. His residence in Avenue Road, we are told, “is well known in Foxton, and was of special interest to visitors from the fact that in the front garden was the figurehead consisting of an Indian chief, of the ship Hyderabad [sic]”. Nevertheless, it was also noted that “Some time ago the figurehead was presented by Mr Jonson to the Foxton Borough Council, to be placed in one of the local reserves”.^[ix]

So, had the Council taken possession of it? In 1929, we hear a different story: “After remaining for many years at Foxton, the figurehead of the Hyderabad [sic], which lies on Hokio Beach, is to be sent to Auckland to the naval base there at the request of the Commander of HMS Philomel, who is making a collection of old figureheads. The figurehead of the “Hyderabad” [sic] has been in the garden of Mrs Andrew Jonson, in the Avenue at Foxton, since it came into possession of her late husband at the time the vessel was dismantled”. Nevertheless, “Mrs Jonson has given her consent to hand over the figurehead to the naval authorities for safe keeping”.

After so many years in the garden, however, the figurehead by this stage was looking a little worse for wear: “Long exposure to weather has robbed the figurehead of its pristine beauty, but when restored to its original adornment, it will make one of the most interesting exhibits in the collection”.^[x]

Did the figurehead finally make it out of the garden, to the safety of the naval base in Auckland? Again, it appears that it still didn’t go anywhere. And this was unfortunate, for in 1933 the Manawatu Standard gave a sad update on the Hydrabad’s figurehead:

“Many of the older residents of the district will learn with regret the disappearance from Foxton of that interesting relic of one of the most remarkable wrecks on this coast, the figurehead of the Hyderabad [sic], which for the past half-century has always been a source of interest to visitors to the town. For the past thirty years the figurehead, a representation of an Indian rajah with turbaned head and drawn scimitar, occupied a prominent position in the garden of Mrs A. Jonson, of Avenue Road. Standing between twelve and fifteen feet high, it presented a striking sight in its gaily painted robes, but with the passage of time and the ravages of the elements this finely executed carving has gone the way of most woodwork, and, badly rotted throughout, it was last week felled and cut up for firewood”.^[xi]

A Mr H. Coley, of Foxton, was subsequently interviewed, and stated that: “A year or so ago the naval authorities at Devonport, Auckland, made inquiries about the figurehead of the Hyderabad as it was desired to include it amongst the collection at the Auckland naval base. Mrs Jonson then gave her sanction to its removal, but, unfortunately, nothing further was done….”.^[xii]

Shipwrecked ship “The Hydrabad” at Waitarere beach, looking from south to north on the seaward side. credit: Horowhenua Historical Society Inc.

Final confirmation of the circumstances of its destruction was reported in 1935: “Light has been shed upon the fate of the figurehead of the ship Hyderabad [sic], the remains of which lie on Waitarere Beach, where she was wrecked many years ago. Captain Baggett, of the motor-vessel Foxton, said in an interview in Wellington that, after the death of the householder who owned the figurehead, his home was occupied by a family the members of which were unaware of the history and value of the strange relic that stood in the garden. Accordingly they chopped it up for firewood. An attempt was made by a prominent Foxton man to save the figurehead, but he arrived too late to prevent its destruction”.

At least ten other ship figureheads have been reported in New Zealand newspapers as having decorated gardens, and some of these will be covered in future blogs.

Read Part II here: The Wolverine

Read Part III here: The America, the Helen Denny, and others

REFERENCES

^[i] Ship figureheads and decoration, Royal Museums Greenwich. https://www.rmg.co.uk/collections/ship-figureheads-decoration

^[ii] Shipping. Evening Star, 29 September 1911, P8

^[iii] Hydrabad (1865-1878) Wreck Site, Waitarere Beach, Levin. Heritage NZ. https://www.heritage.org.nz/list-details/9559/Listing

^[iv] Church, I. (1978). The Wreck of the Hydrabad. Dunmore Press Ltd, Palmerston North.

^[v] Hydrabad (1865-1878) Wreck Site, Waitarere Beach, LEVIN. Heritage NZ. https://www.heritage.org.nz/list-details/9559/Listing

^[vi] Figurehead of the Hydrabad Demolished. Otaki Mail, 24 April 1933, Page 4

^[vii] Manawatu Herald, 26 September 1896, Page 2

^[viii] Poverty Bay Herald, 24 October 1907, P4

^[ix] Manawatu Standard, 18 October 1917, P4

^[x] Daily Chronicle, 11 July 1929, Page 4

^[xi]Loss of the Hyderabad. Manawatu Standard, 27 March 1933, P7

^[xii] Loss of the Hyderabad. Manawatu Standard, 27 March 1933, P7

A Battleship in the Garden? Unusual Auckland Garden Features from the 1930s

by Ian Duggan

While garden features such as arches and goldfish ponds have been popular and widespread in New Zealand private gardens, some have been more unique. For a short period between the First and Second World War, for example, the newspapers reported on a couple of Auckland residences whose gardens featured ships!

The first, reported in the New Zealand Herald in January 1937, rightly recognised the nautical feature as an “Unusual decoration for the garden”. Little detail was provided about the feature piece, however, except that it was a ship model in the garden of a Mr. W. Freeman, Allendale Road, Mount Albert. The hull consisted largely of border plants, while an ornamental shell provides the bridge”.^[i] Beyond that, examination of the photograph shows the ship also featured masts and what appears to be drainpipes for its twin funnels.

An Unusual Feature in the Garden. New Zealand Herald, 21 January 1937, Page 6

Hot on the heels of Freeman’s ship came a remarkably similar vessel in another garden only a little over five kilometers away. In April 1937, the Auckland Star noted that “There is no limit to garden attractions”.

“Some industrious people cut their hedges and shrubs in various ways to represent figures or objects, but something entirely different in the decorative line has been achieved in the garden in front of the home of Mr. David Kasper, at Titirangi Road, New Lynn. There the taste has been nautical, and a land battleship has been created”.

Here, we are treated to some detail on the ships’ construction:

“In the first place the shape of a battleship, on a miniature scale, was marked out on the front lawn, and then the soil was built up to a height of about two feet. A grey rock-plant was grown on the sides of the “hull”, and the necessary nautical and warlike trimmings were added. Two steel rods have been used for the masts, and a light wire, suspended between them, makes an impressive aerial. The funnel is a drain pipe, painted yellow, with a buff top, and set at a rakish angle “amidships.” There are iron davits “amidships” on the side of the “hull.” The boats are hanging baskets of greenery”. ^[ii]

An image was provided in the next day’s paper, adding that the “grey rock plant gives the hull a distinctive naval touch” ^[iii]

Hard Aground. Auckland Star, 29 April 1937, P9

As with any garden, however, the ship didn’t look after itself:

“Just like the nautical battleships which do go to sea, the New Lynn “warship” requires many an overhaul. Weeds will persist in growing on the “quarterdeck,” and as docks and plantain, or even green paspalum would be strangely out of place in such a setting, the “crew” have a fairly busy time”.^[iv]

Kasper’s ship remained in situ for at least a number of months afterwards. In August 1938, almost a year and a half after the previous report, another image of the vessel appeared in the Auckland Star where it was reported:

“Quaintly decorated with border plants, this model battleship, in a garden fronting on Titirangi Road, New Lynn, always attracts the attention of passers-by”.^[v]

The photograph indicates that the design of the ship had evolved since the previous year, with the addition of life rings to the sides, railings, and what appears to be a steering wheel on the bridge.

Model Battleship. New Zealand Herald, 26 August 1938, Page 6

These snippets throw up a number of questions. How long did these garden ships persist? I can’t find any mentions in the newspapers of them after August 1938. Did the idea of a battleship in the garden lose some appeal with the impending war? From these reports, was anyone else inspired to construct sea-going vessels in their front yards, or were they unique to these two gentlemen? Indeed, were Kasper and Freeman friends? They only lived around five kilometers apart, and their designs appear to possess some common features. Interestingly, I can’t actually find any records of David Kasper outside of this article, even though we are provided with his full name. Not even a record of birth, marriage or death. So, who were these mystery people, and what inspired them? The answer to that question is, unfortunately, likely lost to the mists of time.

Postscript: Slightly post-dating both of these ships is the ‘Floral Ship’ on The Strand in Tauranga, constructed in 1938. I wonder if Kasper and Freeman’s ships provided inspiration for that one, which can be read about on the Historic Tauranga website, here, and from the Tauranga Historical Society, here?

References

^[i] Unusual Decoration for the Garden: A Ship Outlined in Flowers. New Zealand Herald, 21 January 1937, Page 6

^[ii] Hard Aground: Land Battleship in Suburban Garden. Auckland Star, 28 April 1937, Page 10

^[iii] Auckland Star, 29 April 1937, Page 9

^[iv] Hard Aground: Land Battleship in Suburban Garden. Auckland Star, 28 April 1937, Page 10

^[v] New Zealand Herald, 26 August 1938, Page 6

Upcoming Talk in Hamilton (NZ): Peter Shaw, Japan; An Autobiography

Join acclaimed author and curator Peter Shaw, who will discuss his new book Japan; An Autobiography—a pocket-sized illustrated account of the country’s culture; its gardens, art, architecture, food, religion, history and people.

Biography

Peter Shaw has been at various times a teacher, journalist, music critic, radio broadcaster, art curator and writer. Born at Taumarunui, he later lived in Tauranga, Thames and Auckland, where in 1981 he became METRO’s first Lively Arts writer. Peter taught design history at UNITEC, Auckland and then spent over twenty years as curator of the Fletcher Trust Art Collection.

His History of New Zealand Architecture was first published in 1991 and went into three editions. He has designed exhibitions and written many art and ceramics catalogues as well as books on Waitangi and the architecture of Napier and Hastings.

An accidental tourist to Japan in 1989, his curiosity about the country was awakened and in succeeding years he has made repeated visits, the result of which is this book—the subject of today’s talk. Peter Shaw now lives in Pirongia where he intermittently works on a memoir.

The Link Room, Hamilton Gardens, 12 December 2024, 7.30-9.00 p.m.

$10 entry, includes Christmas supper. A Christmas raffle will also be held.

The art of mimicking I: European Gardens in Bogotá (Colombia)

Diego Molina, British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow, Royal Holloway, University of London. Diego.Molina@rhul.ac.uk

During the early 19^th century, Latin American nations obtained their independence from then colonial powers, Spain and Portugal. This political independence, however, did not translate into cultural emancipation. As a general rule, those involved in the insurrections that led to the declarations of independence across the continent were ‘enlightened’ men, usually descendants of Iberians. Thus, mentally and spiritually closer to Europe than to their American territories, these new elites looked again to the north in a search for new models capable of replacing the world of the decadent empires. In this context, they found in England and France –– or more precisely, London and Paris –– the new template that guided the economics, the culture, the politics and, of course, the ways of building their cities and, at the same time, accommodating nature inside them.

For the Post-independence Latin American urban elites, the aim was clear. If they wanted to look modern, it was essential to endow their cities with green spaces that resembled London´s Hyde Park or Paris´ Bois de Vincennes (Figure 1). Some port cities such as Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Mexico City or Santiago de Chile, underwent a drastic transformation by the hand of French landscape designers such as Charles Thays or Édouard André.^[1] In such cities, the incorporation of green spaces into the city was possible due to improvements in their economic situation as a consequence of their integration into the 19^th century transatlantic international trade as a raw-material providers. Yet, while landscape and urban historians have extensively explored the creation of green spaces in Latin American temperate cities, we still largely ignore the process that accompanied the creation of modern gardens and parks in biodiverse cities located in the tropical environments.

Figure 1. Vue du Bois de Vincennes, ca. 1853–70. Source: Public Domain under Creative commons License

To contribute to the understanding of how modern urban green spaces were established in tropical environments in the Andes, I have recently published a book entitled: Planting a City in the Tropical Andes Plants and People in Bogotá, 1880 to 1920 (Figure 2). As the first volume of the Routledge Research on Gardens in History, this book examines the creation of a modern flora in Bogotá. The main argument of the book is that the modernisation of this city –– today’s capital of Colombia, located at 2,600 meters above sea level in the tropical Andes –– implied the creation of a sui-generis botanical urban inventory which, in turn, changed the understanding and use of plants in the city.

Figure 2. Cover of my book, *Planting a City in the Tropical Andes Plants and People in Bogotá, 1880 to 1920*

Until its modernisation in the late 19^th century, Bogotá was an urban enclave permeated by its surrounding rurality. The interactions and uses of plants reflect this fact. For instance, until then, most of the relations with plants had taken place mostly in forest and moorlands surrounding the city. Indigenous people, or their descendants, endowed with inherited ethnobotanical knowledge, acceded these spaces and, from there, extracted a large range of raw materials, such as fibres and firewood indispensable for the daily life functioning of the city (Figure 3). Likewise, indigenous and mestizo people planted edible, aromatic and medicinal plants in their domestic backyards, known as solares, with which they treated minor illnesses in a city with a precarious medical service. In terms of ornamental plants, only a small minority, usually descended from the European conquerors, enjoyed gardens. During the majority of the city´s history, most gardens were of tiny dimension and all of them were planted in domestic spaces. These small gardens were usually established inside convents or planted by women of the elite in the patios of houses inhabited by the most affluent members of the society (Figure 4). For most of the population of the city, living in ill-aired small and overcrowded spaces, the mere idea of a garden was unconceivable.

Figure 3. Left) Anonymous, Straw seller-woman in the nineteenth-century Bogotá, ca 1890. Right) Anonymous, Men with chicken baskets, ca 1890, photograph, 13,8 x 9,6 cm. Courtesy of the Association Ernest Bourgarel.

Figure 4. People in a patio with plants. Courtesy of the Biblioteca Pública Piloto de Medellín.

The nineteenth-century modernisation of the city implied a radical transformation of this traditional ways of arranging and interacting with plants. One of its main characteristics was the adoption of new social and cultural customs that included the creation of hitherto unseen public green spaces. This transformation of urban nature was initiated in 1880 when the local government commissioned the self-taught gardener Casiano Salcedo to create a garden in the Plaza de Bolívar. Since its foundation in the sixteenth century by Spaniards, this square had been the symbolic heart of the city, where all kinds of religious and political activities had taken place (Figure 5). Thus, creating a garden there spoke about the symbolic importance that gardens acquired in late-nineteenth-century Bogotá.

Figure 5. Edward Mark, Plaza de Bolívar, 1846, watercolour. Source: Public Domain under Creative Commons License.

By 1882, Casiano Salcedo had transformed this square into the Parque de Bolivar. However, in spite of its pompous denomination as a ‘park’, as a matter of fact, the small green spaces were nothing more than small gardens (Figure 6). A small city of 100,000 inhabitants, poorly connected with the international markets and constantly affected by successive civil wars, simply did not have the economic possibilities to create large green spaces. Consequently, the modern dream of having a park similar to those seen by the elites during their trips to Europe did not fully materialise in Bogotá. This lack of equivalence with the European model of green space was partially countered with the use of European plants in the creation of these spaces. Despite being recognised today as one of the most biodiverse regions on earth with hundreds of species with enormous ornamental potential, back then, the local flora was not considered as a potential raw material in the modernisation of nature in Bogotá. Hence, in the creation of green spaces in the city, Casiano Salcedo mostly used plants imported from Paris through the Vilmorin nurseries, first, and from the Company of Alive plants based in Rochester in New York, later on.

Figure 6. Julio Racines, Garden in the Plaza de Bolívar in Bogotá, ca. 1890, photograph,13 X 18 cm. Courtesy of the Biblioteca Pública Piloto de Medellín.

The creation of green spaces in Bogotá was informed by the same ideas that had initially promoted their construction in Europe. Since the end of the eighteenth century, when the Dutch physiologist Jan Ingenhousz^[2] had discovered the photosynthetic process, plants had turned into organic filters capable of fighting the miasmas and other noxious elements which promoted disease and moral degeneration. Then, by planting gardens and trees in cities the local authorities not only promoted a healthy body of the citizenry but also for an elevated morality. With this in mind, the local authorities in Bogotá saw in parks therapeutic spaces that promote health, while contributing to the moral education of the population. In that vein, the public gardens inspired by European models and built with plants from Paris needed to be places in which people abided by social behaviours considered as civilised. This idea, however, clashed with the local reality. For example, many ‘ornamental’ trees were seen as a source of firewood and therefore chopped for this purpose by people not used to seeing trees as a source of ‘good air’. To combat these practices, the local authorities of the city hired guards (locally known as celadores) who were responsible for correcting the manners of all the visitors of the gardens, just as the gardeners corrected deviated branches of a tree. In sum, the first public gardens in Bogotá enriched the city with a large number of previously unseen plants, while promoting a disciplined way of interacting with plants.

Figure 7. Left *E. globulus*-made promenade in the Parque Centenario in Bogotá,1883, photograph. Courtesy of the Association Ernest Bourgarel.Right: Amarrabollo (*Meriania nobilis*) Source: Author’s image.

The art of mimicking European-like gardens in Bogotá informed the first green spaces of this Andean city. However, by the beginning of the twentieth century, this practice was unsustainable, simply because many plants brought from abroad did not survive, and their importation was expensive. This ecological reality forced city administrators to look at native species and species of flushing flowers such as the Amarrabollo, which became common in the city and replace intruded trees such as Eucalyptus globulus that had dominated the city landscape until then (Figure 7). This understanding of the local ecological condition had a social counterpart. Despite several attempts to regulate the entrance of the poorest people to parks promoted by some members of the elite, the parks maintained their public nature. It was simply too risky to deprive the labouring classes of these green spaces. In the eyes of the local elites, in doing so, the working classes would rush to local taverns known as Chicherias. In short, the initial European-like green spaces of Bogotá turned into a point of encounter between people and plants from different origins (Figure 8).

Figure 8. People in the Parque de Bolívar, ca. Source: Postcard printed by Editores Duffo. Public Domain under Creative Commons License.

Next post… The art of mimicking II: Tropical Gardens in London

Footnotes

^[1] Sonia Berjman and Anatole Tchikine, “Landscape Architecture in Latin America: Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” Studies in the History of Gardens & Designed Landscapes 39, no. 3 (July 3, 2019): 175–77, doi:10.1080/14601176.2018.1561817.

^[2] Jan Ingenhousz, Experiments upon Vegetables, Discovering Their Great Power of Purifying the Common Air in the Sun-Shine, and of Injuring It in the Shade and at Night. (London: printed for PElmsly; and HPayne, 1779).

New Zealand’s Garden Great and the Women who Made Him

**Clare Gleeson, author of The Fairer Side of Buxton: Alfred Buxton’s Gardens and the Women Who Loved Them (The Cuba Press)**

As a historian, my interest in New Zealand’s gardening history developed alongside my interest in gardening. Having read of well-known garden designers elsewhere, such as England’s William Robinson and Australia’s Edna Walling, I was pleased to find that New Zealand did have a ‘great’ in her garden history, Alfred Buxton. It is now over 120 years since Alfred Buxton, New Zealand’s most prominent garden designer during the first half of the twentieth century and the father of landscape design in New Zealand, created the earliest of his magnificent gardens and my research showed that it was the so-called ‘fairer sex’ that was responsible for many of Buxton’s 350 plus commissions and played a large part in ensuring Buxton’s legacy.

Alfred Buxton, 1903. Credit: ‘Cyclopedia of New Zealand’

Alfred Buxton was firstly, and most famously a designer of rural gardens and although it was the farmer signing the contract and cheques, it was probably the farmer’s wife who was the driving force behind the garden’s commission. As well as this group there was a cohort of women, both farmers and businesswomen, who commissioned a garden from Buxton in their own right. Whether farmers or businesswomen, all of the women in this group were independent and successful; Buxton’s gardens were not cheap.

Leslie Hills, Canterbury, designed for Duncan Rutherford. R P Moore photograph, c1924. Credit: Author’s collection.

Although the relationship between Buxton and women can be viewed as simply that of a garden designer creating a beautiful garden for a customer, the connection between them is more nuanced than this.

Social interaction between a garden owner and others in their family or community often led to additional commissions for Buxton’s business. The cluster of Buxton gardens in localities or within families demonstrates the importance of word-of-mouth advertising, and women were essential to these interchanges. They also contributed to Buxton’s success in other ways. His elaborate plans often required months of work by a team of employees on a remote garden site, and the largely thankless task of accommodating and feeding these men invariably fell on the shoulders of the woman of the house.

Buxton’s plan for Beaumaris, home of the Taylor family, Wairarapa. Credit: Taylor family

Buxton provided women with something they were eager to have. When single businesswoman and lime kiln operator Sophia McDonald commissioned a Buxton garden she was advertising her success in a man’s world. Eliza White’s garden at Sumner, her weekend home, was a clear indication that her business was thriving. Women pastoralists elected to spend money on their garden as well as their farms, and headmistresses developed attractive school grounds for ‘their girls’ to enjoy.

A beautiful garden was an extension of the home and helped fulfil women’s desire to create a treasured living environment for their families. The garden was somewhere a woman could relax with her family, and for children to play, and was the perfect place to entertain. It was also physical evidence of the family’s financial and social success. To have a Buxton garden was to have ‘arrived’.

Aerial photograph of Lesmahagow, the McSkimming garden at Benhar, Otago, 2022. Credit: Fern & Thistle, Benhar

For farmers’ and their gardens enabled them to interact with a wider community. Tennis clubs used the grass and asphalt courts, the local hunt met in the garden before following the hounds, and community groups and horticultural societies were frequent visitors. In remote rural areas the garden was pivotal to bringing people, in particular women, together.

There is no doubt Buxton’s beautiful gardens brought joy to the families who lived in them. The many exotic trees changed through the seasons as they turned from green to gold and then back to green. Rustic bridges spanning waterlily-filled ponds, plantings of bamboo and delicate Japanese lanterns evoked an exotic world far from the farm gate. Summer houses were perfect for escaping the drudgery of daily farm life, and ferneries and grottos provided a cool refuge on a hot summer’s day.

The cascade at the Tanner garden, Lansdale, Longburn, 2023. Credit: Chris Coad

Buxton’s gardens often acted as the catalyst for a new and fascinating hobby. As plantings matured and changed, the garden was somewhere the owner could add their personal touch while working within Buxton’s overall concept. The flower beds allowed the gardener to use her imagination and skill as she filled them with the blooms of her choice.

Roses were a favourite of both Buxton and the women he worked for, and the rose garden was always a special part of a Buxton design. Planting plans show that although the location of roses was always indicated, the choice of which varieties to plant was not. This enabled the owner to choose her favourites and make it her rose garden. Once established the roses and other flowers could be picked for the house, included in a bridal bouquet or entered into local horticultural competitions.

The avenue of lime trees at Greytown Soldiers’ Memorial Park, 2024. Chris Coad.

Women were proud of their gardens and loved to share them with family, neighbours, the wider community and even with royalty – in 1958 Gladys Hudson of Greenhill hosted the Queen Mother for a weekend. In the 1940s, renowned New Zealand artist Rita Angus found that painting her parents’ garden at Waikanae helped her recover from a breakdown. Barbara Matthews wrote about the same garden for New Zealand Gardener some years later.

Photographs of women in Buxton gardens depict families in their Sunday best, sisters pausing to smile for the camera, daughters on their wedding day and mothers nursing babies. The subjects are captured under trees, beside flower beds, sitting on benches and posed on a Buxton bridge. Shots of eager young tennis players, beautifully outfitted members of the hunt and exquisitely dressed locals attending garden fêtes, fundraisers and parties in Buxton gardens all feature women.

The gardeners taking a break in the Tatham garden, Homewood, Wairarapa, c1917.

Women who grew up in a Buxton garden often have special memories. Details of glorious plantings of daffodils, trees to climb and orchards to snack in are still vivid decades later. Robin McConachy whose children grew up in her old family garden, watched it grow and develop. The garden Annie Brown remembers was already mature when she and her sisters knew it and they were able to enjoy it at its best.

In times of sadness Buxton gardens offered solace and hope to the women who lived in them; indeed, some gardens were created as a means of alleviating overwhelming grief. The Buxton-designed plantings around war memorials softened the starkness of the concrete monuments and gave women a place to sit or wander while remembering their loved one.

Parorangi, Kimbolton, designed for Manawatu sheep breeder, Ernest Short. R P Moore photograph, c1924. Credit: Buxton family collection.

Alfred Buxton’s success owed much to the women who commissioned his designs, and he repaid them by creating wonderful spaces for them and their families, with many still there today. By enjoying and cherishing their gardens, and sharing the memories they created, these women have ensured that Buxton’s legacy endures.

Wardian Cases, Plant Humanities and the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew

James Beattie, Te Herenga Waka—Victoria University of Wellington

I recently spent a day at Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, where I was hosted by post-doctoral researcher, Dr Diego Molina. Diego works on South American-European plant exchanges, and has just published a book on this topic, with our very own Routledge series, Planting a City in the Tropical Andes: Plants and People in Bogotá, 1880 to 1920.

For someone studying plant exchanges, there is probably nowhere better than Kew. Kew is well-known to historians for its role as a global “sorting house” for plants from around the world. In the nineteenth century, Kew was indisputably at the centre of a global network of botanists and collectors. It received everything from samples of woods, dried specimens, descriptions and, of course, living species. Kew’s role was to investigate species new to European science, improve them, and then send them to the colonies.^[1]

The improvement of nature formed a key part of Kew’s aim, which was then known as economic botany. To this end, Kew’s Economic Botany Collection originated as The Museum of Economic Botany, which formed “a ‘library’ of useful plants for manufacturers and a popular attraction for visitors to the Gardens.”^[2]

Diego took me to visit the Economic Botany Collection, which today contains “90,000 plant raw materials and artefacts representing all aspects of craft and daily life worldwide”.^[3] The breadth of its collection includes everything from dyestuffs and wooden spears to samples of handicrafts and clothing made from plant fibre—all of which are arranged taxonomically, by wood type not by object or use! It still collects over 800 specimens per year.

Displayed prominently at the Economic Botany Collection was a wonderful example of the Wardian Case. Both the Wardian case—effectively a mini-glasshouse whose use took off after the repeal of the Glass Tax in 1845—and the steamship facilitated the successful transportation of live plants, making possible the importance of places like Kew. Until the widespread use of Wardian cases, losses of plants moving between continents were remarkably high.^[4]

Original Wardian Case, Economic Botany Collection, Royal Botanic Garden, Kew.

East India Company surgeon and plant collector John Livingstone (1770–1838?), writing in 1819, gloomily listed all that could (and very often did) go wrong in transporting live plants from China: from lack of adequate preparation to saltwater poisoning, neglect, and the sinking of vessels. He estimated “that one thousand plants have been lost, for one, which survived the voyage to England.” Given the high failure rate, he reckoned that “every plant [from China] now in England must have been introduced at the enormous expense of upwards of ₤300.”^[5]

An excellent illustration of how these cases which shaped our modern world travelled was in evidence on the upper deck of the SS Great Britain, now moored in dry dock as a museum ship in Bristol. The Great Britain was the first ship to be built of iron and equipped with a screw propellor in an ocean-going vessel. It cut the voyage from Britain to the US down to 14 days.

Photograph of reproduction Wardian Cases on upper deck of *SS Great Britain*.

Arrangement of reproduction Wardian Cases on upper deck of *SS Great Britain*.

The end of my day’s research involved meeting with other humanities and science researchers at Kew. This included historical geographer Professor Felix Driver, University College London. Felix was a Principal Investigator of Mobile Museum, a major research project on the mobility of biocultural collections, in collaboration with the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. With Caroline Cornish, Humanities Research Coordinator at Kew, he is now leading a project on plant humanities.^[6]

These projects bring together humanities and science scholars to work together to examine historical plant collections. What can these collections reveal about past environmental injustices and present environmental issues? How can these plant collections aid in reconstructing past environments and climates, and the drivers of those changes?

We could well take a leaf out of these inspiring projects in the UK to return museums and botanical gardens to the central place they once had in research in Aotearoa New Zealand. Another important role is by showcasing the centrality of humanities scholarship on the natural world and humans. Thanks to these new research projects, institutions like Kew are once again at the forefront of interdisciplinary research, by asking questions about our future and the future of our planet.

Thanks.

I would like to thank Diego Molina, Felix Driver, Caroline Cornish and the staff of Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, for hosting me. All photographs are mine.

Notes

^[1] For an excellent introduction, see: Richard Harry Drayton, Nature’s Government: Science, Imperial Britain, and the ‘Improvement’ of the World (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000).

^[2] https://www.kew.org/science/collections-and-resources/collections/economic-botany-collection

^[3] https://ecbot.science.kew.org/

^[4] For more information, see Luke Keogh, The Wardian Case: How a Simple Box Moved Plants and Changed the World (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2020). On New Zealand and the Wardian case, see James Beattie, ‘Thomas McDonnell’s Opium: Circulating, Plants, Patronage, and Power in Britain, China and New Zealand, 1830s-1850s’, in Sarah Burke Cahalan and Yota Basaki, eds., The Botany of Empire in the Long Eighteenth Century (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks/Harvard University Press, 2017), 163-188.

^[5] J. Livingstone, ‘Observations on the Difficulties which have existed in the Transportation of Plants from China to England, and suggestions for obviating them’, Transactions of the Horticultural Society of London, Vol. III, (1819), p. 427.

^[6] For more information, see also: The Plant Humanities Lab, Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection.

New Zealand’s Garden(s) of the Hesperides (Part I)

by Annette Giesecke

*Maud at Cornwall Park, Hastings, 31 March 1922, Hastings, by Leslie Adkin. Gift of G. L. Adkin family estate, 1964. Courtesy of Te Papa (A.005756).*

In the year 1936, author and theatre director Oliver Neal Gillespie (1883–1957) penned an impassioned eulogy of the town of Hastings and its environs. Titled “Highlights of Hastings — The Hawke’s Bay Garden of the Hesperides,” Gillespie’s piece appeared in The New Zealand Railways Magazine (Volume 11, Issue 6, September 1) and opened with a highly evocative description of the region’s landscape:

It is an old saying that the wealth of a land is in its soil. If it is truth, then Hastings is built upon treasure trove. As a matter of fact, the inevitable and rapid growth of the town has its tragic side. Each extra increment of its population spreads over and hides a rich lode. Such is the inordinate, the abounding and extraordinary fertility of the land of the district, that it amounts to sheer extravagance to cover it with paved roads, footpaths, homes and buildings, however handsome they may be. For aeons, the wandering rivers have been bringing in this huge, spreading series of flats, the countless riches of their gatherings. In many places, there are six feet of this black opulence from which any growing thing will spring with vivid life and swift strength. In a land of sunshine and warm and friendly rains, this area rightly claims many leadership rights. Its actual hours of sunshine place it along with Nelson and Napier among the world leaders in the blue sky’s greatest gift. Its rainfall, still, is ample for all purposes, but its rainy days might have been arranged on a limit fixed by tennis or cricket enthusiasts. It is an open air man’s paradise.^[i]

There is a clear emphasis on the fertility of Hastings’ soil —“inordinate, abounding, and extraordinary” as he calls it — as well as on the region’s abundant sunshine and ample supply of water, all of which sustain a proliferation of plant growth. These noteworthy attributes, shared by Nelson and Napier, suffice to qualify Hastings as nothing short of “paradise.” Interestingly, Gillespie makes no further mention of the Hesperides’ garden but does later equate Hastings with Arcadia, a fabled, idyllic region in Greece, and with the Garden of Eden, especially Hastings’ Cornwall Park with its “sparkling sheets of ornamental waters”, “winding streams lined with roughcast edging interspersed with seats and novel bridges”, “long avenue of tall palms”, and “vivid green velvet of the lawns.”^[ii] In what sense, then, was Hastings a twentieth-century Garden of the Hesperides, and what relation did that famous garden bear to Eden and Arcadia?

The Hesperides in Mythology

*Garden of the Hesperides, Attic Red-Figure Lekythos, about 420–400 B.C.*
*Attributed to Circle of Meidias Painter [Greek (Attic), active 420 – 390 B.C.]. Image courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Malibu, inv. 91.AE.9, open access.*

In classical mythology, the Hesperides were nymphs entrusted with tending the trees that yielded the golden apples so famous in classical mythology. The Hesperides were between four and seven in number, and their names are variously given as Aegle, Erytheia, Hestia, Arethusa, Hespere, Hesperusa, and Hespereia. Accounts of their birth and the location of their garden, the Garden of the Hesperides, are also various. The poet Hesiod (lived circa 725 BCE), an early source, names the elemental deities Nyx (“Night”) and Erebus (“Darkness”) as their parents, but later accounts state that their parents were either the sea god Phorcys and his sister Ceto; or Zeus, king of the Olympian gods, and Themis, the personification of justice; or the second-generation Titan god Atlas, who supported the heavens on his shoulders, and Hesperis, daughter of Hesper, the evening star. The location of the Hesperides’ garden, equally difficult to pin down, was said to be either in North Africa, specifically what was called Libya in antiquity, near the Atlas mountains (modern Morocco); or in the westernmost Mediterranean on the shores of the river Oceanus; or, alternatively, in the lands of the Hyperboreans, in the far east or to the far north, all of these locations being at the “ends of the earth” as it was then conceived.

As for the golden apples, the trees that produced them were presents made by the Earth goddess Gaia to Hera, queen of the gods, on the occasion of her marriage to Zeus. The apples were sources of immortality, and thus highly prized. One of these apples ostensibly caused the Trojan War: the goddesses Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena all desired a certain golden apple inscribed with the words “for the fairest.” The Trojan prince Paris was selected to decide who the fairest among them was—an impossible choice to make objectively. He chose Aphrodite, who had also offered him a most enticing bribe: Helen, the loveliest woman in the world. Hera, meanwhile, had offered empire without end, and Athena offered success in war. Aphrodite, however, knew the philandering young prince Paris best. He was notorious for his enthusiasm for women. It was accordingly Aphrodite who was awarded the apple. Paris now faced a challenge in claiming his prize, as Helen was married to Menelaüs, the Spartan king. When Paris absconded with her to Troy, a thousand Greek ships, carrying Greece’s elite warriors, sailed in hostile pursuit. The Greeks besieged Troy for a period of ten years until that city, at long last, fell, consumed by flames when the Greeks, hidden in the belly of the Trojan Horse, emerged from their hiding place with torches and swords in hand.

The Judgment of Paris, depicting Paris (seated) with the god Hermes to his left as well as the goddesses Athena (wearing a helmet and carrying a shield), Hera (wearing a diadem and holding a scepter), and Aphrodite (alluringly disrobed). Fresco from Pompeii, House of the Judgement of Paris (45-79 CE). Image courtesy Wikimedia commons.

The golden apples that Aphrodite supplied to young Hippomenes in order to help him win the hand of Atalanta were also said to be from the Hesperides’ trees. Atalanta wished to remain a huntress, unmarried and a virgin like the goddess Artemis, but numerous men pursued her. Conceding to her father’s entreaties that she consider marriage, she agreed to marry whoever could outrun her. Many unsuccessfully attempted to win her hand and paid the penalty for loss with their lives. Still, one, undaunted, prevailed. This youth, Hippomenes, a great-grandson of the god Poseidon, called upon the goddess Aphrodite for aid, and she responded, bringing him three golden apples from her sanctuary on the isle of Cyprus. The race commenced, and Meleager threw one apple after another out to the side of the race course. Atalanta could not resist the apples, retrieving each of them in turn. Atalanta’s dash after the last apple allowed the youth to win the race and so win her as bride. Atalanta developed affection for her new mate, but the couple’s joy did not last, for in his excitement over his victory, Hippomenes had forgotten to thank Aphrodite. The angry goddess drove him wild with passion, and consequently, they defiled a temple of the goddess Cybele with their lovemaking. For this Cybele punished them by transforming them into lions that she then fastened to the yoke of her carriage.

Atalanta and Hippomemes. In the foreground Atalanta kneeling to pick up an apple and Hippomemes running with an apple in either hand; in the landscape background Atalanta running, from a series of four mythological scenes. Engraving byVirgil Solis, German, ca. 1535–62. Image courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art, open access.

Finally, there was the saga of Hercules and the golden apples. As the eleventh of his famous Twelve Labours, Hercules was told by the evil king Eurystheus to bring him apples from the Hesperides’ garden. Not knowing the garden’s location, Hercules first consulted the nymphs of the river Eridanus, who in turn directed him to the sea god Nereus. Hercules seized Nereus, who possessed prophetic powers, while he was asleep and held him fast while the latter repeatedly changed shape; Nereus would only prophesy under compulsion. Directed by Nereus, Hercules commenced his journey and, on the way, came upon the Titan god Prometheus, whom he released from the torment of having his liver eaten away eternally by vultures. From Prometheus Hercules received further advice regarding the accomplishment of his labour: he should ask Atlas, the Hesperides’ neighbor, to fetch the apples in his stead. This Hercules did, asking Atlas to bring the apples in exchange for relieving him, temporarily, of the heavens’ burden. Not surprisingly, Atlas was not keen to resume the onerous task of supporting the heavens on his shoulders, but Hercules tricked him by asking for a temporary reprieve in order to place a pillow on his shoulders as a cushion. According to a variant of this story, which did not involve Atlas, Hercules slew the sleepless, hundred-eyed dragon Ladon that guarded the apple trees and retrieved the apples himself. In any event, Hercules brought the apples to Eurystheus who ultimately returned the sacred apples to him. Hercules, in turn, gave the apples to Athena to return to the Hesperides.^[iii]

*Hercules stealing the golden apples from the Garden of the Hesperides. Detail of The Twelve Labours Roman mosaic from Llíria (Valencia, Spain), 201-250 CE. Photo by Louis Garcia, Wikimedia Commons.*

To Be Continued (in Parts II and III): The Hesperides’ Garden and its Afterlife: Exotic, Fertile Place; Were the Golden Apples Not Apples at All?

Notes

[i] The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 11, Issue 6 (September 1, 1936), page 9.

[ii] Page 10.

^[iii] For more detail detail about the Greek gods, goddesses, heroes, and heroines, see Annette Giesecke, Classical Mythology A to Z (2020: Hachette, Black Dog and Leventhal, Running Press).