“Royal Scenes from the Empire City : The Prince of Wales in
Wellington, 7-9 May 1920”,
Turnbull Library Record, 41, 2009.
(I cannot refrain from pointing out a small proofing error in this article. As you will see it is made up
of a series of distinct scenes, rather cinematic I like to think, with each separated by a small line bar.
Unfortunately one of the bars was left out, between the first and second paragraphs on page 24. It
is a very small thing, but it did annoy me at the time.)
13
Royal Scenes from the Empire City:
The Prince of Wales in Wellington,
5–8 May 1920
DAVID COLQUHOUN
In the early autumn of 1920, the Prince of Wales spent three days in Wellington
– the self-styled ‘Empire City’ of the South Pacific.1 He was midway through a
28-day visit to New Zealand, itself a prelude and rehearsal for a longer tour of
Australia. The previous year he had been sent off on his first royal tour, to Canada.
The following year he went to India. By 1925, nearly every dominion and colony
of the Empire had experienced the royal visit.
The Prince’s imperial progress through Wellington makes for an entertaining
story about how much we wanted to be liked by this famous visitor, the spectacle
we put on for him, and what he really thought of us. The story is also revealing
about New Zealand in the immediate aftermath of the First World War, and about
how New Zealanders saw the monarchy, the Empire, and themselves.
In the settler dominions these tours were affairs of great pomp and ceremony.
The Prince arrived at every port in his personal, especially assigned battle cruiser,
the Renown, one of the newest of its kind and bigger than anything onlookers
had seen before. Royal trains carried him and his entourage of advisors, courtiers
and servants to inland cities and towns. He inspected troops, gave out medals,
listened to speeches, received illuminated addresses and replied to them,
watched children’s demonstrations, and attended concerts, balls, dinners and
civic receptions. Everywhere crowds lined the streets hoping for a glimpse or a
royal wave. Local newspapers gave loyal and detailed coverage, while approved
journalists accompanying the tour fed triumphant stories of the Prince’s progress
back to their British readers.
Left: The cover of the New Zealand Free Lance the week after the Prince’s arrival. Inside was a multi-page
pictorial feature about the Prince, and the first instalment of Hector Bolitho’s series, ‘The Greatest Young Man
in the World.’ New Zealand Free Lance, 28 April 1920 (ATL New Zealand and Pacific Published Collections)
14
David Colquhoun
On the face of it the tours were to thank the dominions for the wartime
loyalty that had left so many dead or maimed at Gallipoli and the Western Front.
Beneath that, though, was a deeper political purpose. The British Empire now
extended further than ever before, but to Empire believers the world seemed a
more uncertain place. Russia had fallen to the Bolsheviks. Elsewhere, new socialist
labour movements were extolling ties of class, not empire. From Ireland to India
and beyond, nationalist movements were challenging the imperial right to rule.
Even the loyal dominions were beginning to assert their independence in foreign
policy. The Empire was eventually unravelled by world depression, another world
war and new economic rivalries, but, with hindsight, the strains were evident
much earlier. To loyalists in 1920, however, there seemed nothing that could not
be fixed by more and better imperial propaganda. And a world tour by a popular
Prince was a very good way to spread it.
Edward, the Prince of Wales, is best known for becoming King in 1936 and
abdicating 11 months later to marry his twice-divorced American girlfriend, Mrs
Simpson. It remains the most written-about episode of twentieth-century royal
history. In 1920, however, that was all unimagined. He was 26, more interested
in a playboy lifestyle than civic duty, and prone to depressive moods and intense
self-pity. But to the royal sympathisers amongst his father’s subjects he was seen
as the ultimate in good looks, fashion, charm and unsnobbish informality. That
was partly a myth put about by a sycophantic press keen to turn him into one
of the first modern celebrities, but there was some truth in it. The public duties
he carried out in the 1920s were far more demanding than anything any other
modern royal had done, and he carried them out with considerable success.2
However, he seldom enjoyed these royal tasks and he particularly disliked
the Empire tours. We know this because he wrote long, unhappy letters back to
his lover of that time, Freda Dudley Ward, telling her all about his princely daily
grind.3 As an expression of how he really felt they do have to be read critically,
for they were usually written late at night when he was at his most maudlin,
and were always going to tell her how unbearable life was without her, but they
are a very rich source. Royal tours always leave behind a trove of documentary
evidence for the historian. Seldom, though, has there been such a detailed and
frank account of what the central character really thought.
Talk of a tour had begun as the First World War neared its end. In early 1918
George V gave a speech at a conference of Dominion prime ministers, referring
to the ‘happy memories’ of his own imperial tour of 1901 and how he looked
forward to ‘when the Prince of Wales may be able to visit the distant parts of my
‘Christ only knows how far gone towards insanity we’ll all be at the end of it’: part of the first page of the
Prince’s first letter from New Zealand to his lover, Freda Dudley Ward. It was written at 1 a.m. after a tiring
day. At the top are his final endearments, added just before the letter was posted two days later – ‘Bless
you bless you Fredie darling precious belovèd à moi & please don’t forget that your your vewy vewy own
devoted adoring little boy & slave your David loves you as no man has ever really loved before!!’
(ATL ref. MS-Papers-8780-1-2)
Dominions beyond the seas. I know that the desire to do so lies near his heart.’4
It didn’t, but the Prince had little say in the matter.
In charge of political arrangements on both the Canadian and Australasian
tours was Edward Grigg, the Prince’s Military Secretary. Grigg was a former Colonial
Editor for the Times, later Governor of Kenya, and highly regarded as a thinker
and writer about the modern Empire.5 It was he who set the political themes of
the tours, wrote the Prince’s speeches, and spin-doctored the press. Those themes
were set out in a lengthy memorandum written just before the Canadian visit.
While the Prince’s main role, Grigg wrote, was ‘to create an atmosphere … largely
by natural tact and charm,’ it was very important that his speeches should also
be ‘directed to showing his appreciation of the political institutions of the Empire
and of the vital place which the Crown takes as the nodus of the whole web.’ He
went into great detail about how that would be done.6
16
David Colquhoun
Putting new imperial theory into practice was not always easy. On the
Canadian tour Grigg had to work through the Prince’s Chief of Staff, Admiral
Lionel Halsey, Commander of the Renown, and a favourite of the Prince. It was an
unsatisfactory arrangement. Halsey, reported the Colonial Office Undersecretary
after the Canadian tour, ‘either ignores or is unable to understand the political
factors involved at every turn.’7 Before they all set off for New Zealand, Grigg
threatened to resign if he was not given complete authority over tour arrangements.
The Prince resisted and the mini-crisis was only resolved by a meeting at Downing
Street, where the Prince was forced to back down.8 He did not forgive Grigg, and
his dislike intensified as the tour proceeded.
Negotiations with the New Zealand Government were also sometimes
difficult. These had to be done through the medium of the Governor-General,
Lord Liverpool, who was, even by vice-regal standards, a pompous individual.
Royal Scenes from the Empire City
17
Particularly upsetting to Liverpool were the precedence rules insisted on by the
King which meant he would not accompany the Prince on most of the tour. He
was about to finish his term and wanted to share in the royal glory.10 There were
other tensions too. Prime Minister Massey, for example, was unhappy about the
number of overseas journalists who were coming, Grigg had to insist that ‘their
attendance is very important in view of the imperial significance of the tour.’11
Favourable and frequent coverage in London-based newspapers was a key part
of his strategy.
But he could do little to limit the extremely full programme presented to the
Royal Party in Fiji just a week before they arrived in Auckland. Early on, Grigg
had urged against ‘overloading,’ as ‘the experience gained during the Canadian
visit indicates that these tours must impose a tremendous strain on His Royal
Highness.’12 But for Massey, royal stops in as many Reform Party heartlands as
possible was a political opportunity too good to compromise. Soon the itinerary
included 50 towns between Auckland and Invercargill, as well as a large Maori
meeting and performance at Rotorua, and a very full programme for the several
days spent in each of the main cities. ‘I cannot understand,’ reported Grigg, ‘how
Lord Liverpool came to ignore HRH’s instructions so completely … I have never
seen such proposals in all my life.’13
After his first day in Auckland the Prince exclaimed to Freda:
The mere thought of the programme they insist on my carrying out is staggering as
we really are in for a bloody awful month angel & Christ only knows how far gone
towards insanity we’ll all be at the end of it when we go to Australia!! 14
By the end of the Australasian tour he was indeed showing symptoms of severe
nervous breakdown.15
The regal and vice-regal parties at Government House on the Prince’s last day in Wellington. He was
as unhappy as he looks (second row, centre, with hands on sword hilt). To the Prince’s left are three key
characters of the tour. Three along is the Governor-General, Lord Liverpool, whom the Prince loathed.
Next to the Prince is his Military Secretary, Edward Grigg, who he didn’t like much either. Between Grigg
and Liverpool is Admiral Lionel Halsey, the Prince’s loyal Chief of Staff and Commander of the Renown.
At the other end of the second-to-back row, next to the white post, is Louis Mountbatten, who had been
brought along on the tour to help keep the Prince cheerful. Photographer unknown (ATL ref. PAColl-0079-1)
In Wellington, anticipation mounted as the Prince approached via the West Indies,
Panama Canal, San Diego and the Pacific, and landed at Auckland. From then
on there was daily coverage in the local papers of everything the Prince did – his
Auckland welcome, the Maori gathering at Rotorua, the railway strike that briefly
threatened to halt the inland tour, and his subsequent progress through the small
towns of the North Island.
For weeks beforehand the papers also gave detailed updates on Wellington’s
own preparations – as committees set about organising civic receptions,
demonstrations, pageants, balls and other entertainments. The progress of the
city’s street decorations became particularly fraught as the Prince’s arrival drew
near. It was an ambitious plan – along every route were masts decorated with
18
David Colquhoun
plaster shields, greenery and bunting. Unfortunately, just a few days before the
Prince arrived, a southerly hit. The shields, the Dominion reported sadly, ‘broke
in two at the nail holes, to become pitiable wrecks in a few minutes.’16 Then, the
two-day delay caused by the railway strike began to take its toll on the foliage.
The Evening Post tried to make the best of it: ‘The greenery will not be so green,
but its autumn tints may remind the Prince of his homeland.’17
The southerly faded the day the Prince was due, and it stayed fine and calm
for his whole stay. He was to arrive in the late evening, after a very full day of
ceremonies and speeches along the train line between Napier and Wellington. As
a lead-up, the Renown sailed into Wellington Harbour in the afternoon. School
children lined Oriental Bay, hurrahing and waving Union Jack flags as soon as
the big ship slowly made its way around Point Halswell towards King’s Wharf.
By dusk, crowds were gathering in the city. Some had been doing last-minute
shopping (shops were to close for the two days of the visit) or inspecting the
newly unfurled decorations. Others looked for the best vantage points to see the
procession. Seven brass bands took up their positions along the route. There were
to be no lulls in the patriotic martial music as the royal procession made its way
up Lambton Quay, then Willis, Manners, Cuba and Vivian Streets to Kent Terrace
and on to Government House.
At 6.30 p.m. the illuminations were turned on. Illuminated buildings were
not new – they had been a feature of the 1901 tour, and were a normal civic
extravaganza for imperial cities of this time – but Wellington had not seen lighting
quite as ambitious as this before. Red, white and blue lights lit up Parliament
and the government offices. The Public Trust building was topped with a huge
multi-coloured crown, and the post office featured an imperial star and the words
‘Te Atua Manakitia Te Piriniha.’ Further up Lambton Quay, Kirkcaldie & Stains
featured place names from imperial history, and in Willis Street the building
shared by the Evening Post and the right-wing Protestant Political Association was
lit up by a Union Jack and a huge ‘Loyal Greetings’.
The biggest crowd was at the railway station, waiting expectantly for the royal
train. At 7.30 it arrived. After being greeted by the Prime Minister and Mayor
the Prince stepped out into the square, waved, and got into the leading car, with
Admiral Halsey by his side. The crowd cheered and the Tramways band struck up
with ‘God Bless the Prince of Wales’. Other cars drew up for the rest of the party,
and they all moved off in orderly procession.
It was not orderly for long. Those outside the station were not content with
one short glimpse and turned en masse to follow, bottle-necking into Lambton
Royal Scenes from the Empire City
19
Quay, joining those already there. The crowd was soon so dense the Prince’s car
was slowed to walking pace. As he passed, spectators peeled off to rush along the
side-streets and join up again further along the route, adding to the crush. The
police gave up trying to clear a way and concentrated on keeping people from
jumping on the running board.
They could do nothing about the cars behind, though. In one of them was
Louis Mountbatten, cousin of the Prince and later to be the last Viceroy of India.
He had been brought on the tour as a companion to the Prince, to try and keep
him cheerful. One of his tasks was to keep the tour diary, and in it he wrote
how ‘twenty or thirty people’ crowded onto the following cars, all the way up
to Government House. When one woman fell running between the cars, the
‘chauffeur put his gear in reverse in a desperate attempt to save the woman, and
the car leapt back on to the fifth car, crushing the leg of a boy who was sitting
on the bonnet …. The boy was removed, still cheering.’18 Because the cars were
going very slowly no-one seems to have been badly hurt.
At the front of the procession the Prince was now standing, hatless, waving
and smiling, soon covered in confetti, with Halsey clutching his coat tails to
keep him steady. An almost full moon and the light of the illuminations meant
he seldom disappeared into the darkness, and as he entered Manners Street a
searchlight picked him out until he turned up Cuba Street. By the time he got
to Kent Terrace the crowd had thinned a little. In all, it took an hour to get from
the railway station to Government House.
The Wellington confetti-throwers started a trend, soon followed by other
crowds as the tour moved south. A few days later, on the eve of the Prince’s
arrival on the West Coast, a local newspaper published a letter from Wellington
urging confetti restraint. It was, the writer said, inconvenient for the Prince ‘to sit
through an official luncheon with confetti making its way down the back of his
neck.’ Furthermore, some people ‘threw the boxes as well and sometimes they
hit the Prince in the face.’ But there were other missiles to worry about. Partway
through the Australian leg of the tour Halsey wrote in a letter:
[T]he people, in their excitement, throw all sorts of things into the car, and they do hurt –
bunches of flowers are all right but when it comes to chocolate bars and fruit and parcels of
all sorts it gets very dangerous – even coins are thrown which hurt horribly sometimes.20
He was referring mainly to the Australians, but New Zealanders were not much
more restrained, although perhaps they had more sartorial taste. The dapper Prince
was known for his walking canes, and the West Coast’s Wellington correspondent
noted that ‘quite a number of people have thrown their walking sticks into the
Prince’s car.’ One was even ‘broken upon Admiral Halsey’s head.’ By the time the
20
David Colquhoun
Prince’s car had reached Government House, the correspondent continued, ‘there
were sixteen walking sticks in it.’21
No other town had shown quite such enthusiasm. Despite the rowdiness,
this was just the sort of joyous celebration the Colonial Office and Massey’s
government wanted. The next day the editorials of the Dominion and the Evening
Post gushed with pride. Even the Prince was impressed: ‘we had a most marvellous
welcome here in the capital of the Dominion’, he told Freda, ‘the crowds were so
dense that I had to stand up in the car the whole way!! It really was marvellous
& for once I was gratified & felt quite the cheap little hero!!’22
For the next two days royal mania ruled the city. Everywhere the Prince went,
cheering crowds lined the streets, often spilling onto the road and delaying the
Prince’s arrival at his next event. Every hotel, hostel and boarding house was full
with out-of-town visitors. The Evening Post reported that at night:
Above and right: the children’s demonstration in Parliament grounds, in a two-part image. More than
10,000 children filled the grounds, lined up behind their school banners. In Molesworth Street and beyond,
crowds packed every vantage point. Such large crowds were everywhere the Prince went.
Photographer unknown (ATL ref. PAColl-0362-14)
Royal Scenes from the Empire City
21
[T]he spirit of holiday and carnival was about, and the uniforms of soldiers, cadets,
sailors from the Renown, were mingled with the mufti of the citizen and his folk
in noisy fellowship. Through the pressing throng … drove an almost continuous
procession of motors, many filled with families from the country doing the city and its
illuminations. Blowing of horns and barking of klaxons added to the din.
The party mood was sometimes at odds with the more sombre commemoration
of war that was the official focus of the visit. Grigg had early-on emphasised that
the main purpose was for the Prince to meet and thank as many New Zealanders,
and particularly as many returned servicemen (and nurses), as possible – there
was to be no sightseeing or laying of foundation stones on this visit.24 What that
meant was that at every stop, however brief, there was usually a military review
of some kind, and the Army Department went to great lengths to establish the
rules and programme for these. The government provided free train travel to
ensure that every ex-soldier could attend.
22
Royal Scenes from the Empire City
David Colquhoun
These reviews, and the civic receptions that were another key ceremony of
the tour, meant that the Prince had shaken well over 20,000 hands by the time
he left New Zealand.25 In Canada, such handshaking marathons had left him
so bruised he had to give up using his right hand and use his left instead. In
New Zealand, the military authorities sought to prevent further injury by asking
that soldiers not ‘display their physical strength unduly in order to express their
loyalty.’26 But by then it was too late. After the strain of shaking more than 3,000
hands at the Auckland civic reception, the Prince had already reverted to his
earlier defence against hearty masculinity, and used the limp left-handshake for
the rest of his New Zealand tour.27
The commitment to acknowledging the returned soldiers meant meeting
most of the 1,500 seriously wounded or ill still recovering in military hospitals
around the country – in Wellington, the Prince’s party visited the hospital at
Trentham. There was also a formal meeting with the politically powerful Returned
Servicemen’s Association executive at Parliament, which presented the Prince
with a life membership. As the Prince commented later, while touring the West
Coast, ‘the most important item of this trip are the returned men & all would be
over if I got wrong with them!!’
The Wellington military review was at Newtown Park, and it followed the
same pattern of the reviews in every city and town. More than 35,000 people
watched as the lines of military waited for the Prince. He was late because of the
crowds in the streets, but as soon as he got there the royal salute was played and
the veterans, soldiers and nurses filed past for the handshake. Then he presented
medals and other decorations, before making his walk of inspection along the
assembled ranks. By then, however, formality was being undermined. Tiers of
seating built for the dignitaries began to collapse – ‘sideways one after the other
like a row of dominoes’, was how Mountbatten described it.28 Luckily, only pride
was hurt. Meanwhile, the spectators were crowding onto the parade ground to be
nearer the Prince. Some threw confetti – ‘an objectionable practice for a military
review,’ lamented the officer in charge.29
School children’s parades were the other central ceremony of the tour.
Everywhere he went, the Prince was greeted by well-drilled but very excited
children waving flags, saluting and singing patriotic songs. The government had
arranged for free train travel for schools throughout the country, gave out 100,000
small Union Jack flags, and promised a school holiday in honour of the Prince.
A high standard was set by the first big demonstration, in the Auckland Domain,
where the children formed up to spell out ‘Welcome’ as the Prince arrived, then
entertained him with mass physical exercises, before reforming into a giant Union
Jack – the ‘living flag’.
23
Wellington school girls enthusiastically salute their future king.
Photographer unknown (ATL ref. 1/2-057604-F)
The Wellington children’s demonstration was in the more cramped Parliament
grounds, with no such opportunities for choreography. Instead, large banners
were painted for each school and ‘banner rehearsals’ were held in the preceding
week. On the day, the 10,000 children taking part assembled in six columns at
different points in the streets around Thorndon, and were then marched into
position. The Renown band played beforehand, and a massed choir on Parliament
steps sang as the Prince arrived. As he walked past the children, they stood to
attention and saluted with great enthusiasm.
The Prince was halfway through New Zealand by now, and not enjoying
himself. It was while in Wellington he wrote: ‘It is a rotten way of seeing a fine
country … Returned soldiers & shrieking people & school children are all that I
shall remember of my visit.’ The evening balls and other functions were even less
appealing. ‘Half the men,’ he complained to Freda, ‘are overflowing with Scotch
at most of the places I’ve been to celebrating my visit,’ and the women ‘get on my
nerves & none of them can dance for nuts or hardly any.’30 At least he did not find
Wellington quite as far removed from London style as he did Nelson, a few days
later. After returning from the ball there he wrote in his late-night lines to Freda:
24
David Colquhoun
[I have] just returned from the most pricelessly funny party that one could imagine.
There wasn’t a single woman who had the least idea how to dance & the ‘squeejee
band’ & the floor & everything tho. we stuck it out like heroes till the supper & tried to
lug those wads of ham faced women around although we were all feeling very weary
& thoroughly peeved.31
In Wellington, the Prince stayed at Government House. Built in 1910, it was
grand, modern and commodious by New Zealand standards – an improvement,
as far as the Prince was concerned, on what had gone before. At the Imperial
Hotel in Wanganui, for example, two nights earlier, he had complained that
‘its really a miserable hole: no electric light & the hotel boilers elected to burst
before dinner so no baths & a vewy nasty dinner!!’32
But Government House had one great disadvantage – Governor-General
Liverpool himself. From their first meeting in Auckland the Prince disliked
him and his wife Countess Annette. The Liverpools, he told Freda, ‘are the
absolute limit … he is too hopelessly pompous and impossible for words while
she is so shy that she hardly ever utters & I’ve given up even trying to make
conversation.’33
The two did find one thing in common: they both played squash. The Prince
was a compulsive exerciser and always enjoyed a game on the Renown’s squash
court, where he usually managed to beat his staff. During a break in the hectic
Auckland programme he took Liverpool on board for a game, and was surprised
to find the older man was quite a skilful player. However, he boasted, ‘I had
him pretty cold as he is so grossly fat.’ He had been pleased to hear that the
Governor had his own court at Government House and wrote that ‘I hope to
give him hell next week!!’34
Unfortunately, the squash court at Government House was a different size,
and Liverpool knew how to work the angles. He won, despite his fatness. Then,
before the Prince left for the South Island, they played again and the Prince
glumly reported, ‘I’m ashamed to say that absolutely revolting little man “liver”
knocked me again, tho not badly.’35
The defeats did not help his darkening mood. That same day Liverpool
and the Prince posed for an official photograph with their respective staff. Few
other photographs have shown the Prince so sullen and resentful. It was about
then that he told Freda:
I’m writing home to old H.M. by this mail & telling him all about Their Ex’s & how
unpopular they are out here & how they’ve done their best to botch this tour; they
really are too intolerable for words & besides being - - - - (4 letters!!) he’s a liar &
a cheat at any games, cards golf & everything.36
Royal Scenes from the Empire City
25
After Wellington there were several more nights of small-town discomfort –
from Reefton he wrote that he was ‘more or less “roughing” it now as these
little country hotels are far from comfy & vewy cold & there generally is’nt
any hot water & so no baths which does’nt exactly cheer us up!!’ But the
upper classes of Christchurch finally made him feel more at home. There he
finally found some compatible dinner companions, rode in a hunt (for hares,
not foxes), and enjoyed a day at the races. And for accommodation his party
had exclusive use of the Christchurch Club. It had its own squash court – and
Liverpool wasn’t there.
The political centrepiece of the whole tour was a formal luncheon at Parliament.
More than 150 of the country’s political, judicial and military leaders – all men –
attended. Notably absent were any Labour Party MPs. This was to be a meeting of
like minds: the Prince’s imperial party and the Conservative political establishment
of New Zealand.
Old Government House, where the Beehive is now, had been smartened up
for the occasion, with new red carpet in the old ballroom, copious foliage, and
royal portraits on display. The highlight, though, was the Bellamy’s lunch, proudly
announced as being entirely from New Zealand produce. For starters there were
oysters, toheroa soup and fillet of sole, followed by sirloin, roast wild duck, Queen
Mary pudding, macédoine of fruits, mushrooms on toast, then more desserts and
coffee. The food was local, but the wine wasn’t, and the hovering wine waiters
offered champagne (part of the 100-dozen bottles Liverpool had ordered for the
tour), sauternes, sherry and port.37
It was a fine repast, although it is unlikely that the Prince enjoyed it. He was
always rather anorexic in his eating habits, and now he was worried about his
speech. He hadn’t had to write it, of course – that was Grigg’s job – but Grigg had
only given him the draft the night before they got to Wellington, and there had
not been much time to write it out and learn it. ‘I’ve got the wind up worse than
usual sweetie,’ he wrote to Freda, ‘as I’ve got so little time to prepare it tho. that’s
Grigg’s fault curse him!!’38
After the meal Liverpool toasted the King, the national anthem was sung,
the Prince nervously lit a cigarette, and Prime Minister Massey rose to speak. Few
colonial politicians were as deeply committed to the Empire, and this speech was
a fine statement of imperial sentiments. The war, he said, had been ‘the most
dreadful scourge,’ but ‘even war is not an unmixed evil,’, because now:
[T]he Empire is more solidly united to-day than ever in the past – (Applause) – united
26
David Colquhoun
under one King, one throne, one flag – (Applause) – united with one ideal, one Empire,
and for a common destiny, working for the safety and security of the citizens of the
Empire and at the same time for the welfare of humanity.
The Empire’s example and influence was the answer to ‘unrest in every quarter of
the world.’ ‘I for one,’ Massey enthused, ‘believe that the good old British common
sense will prevail in the end, and that we will be able to adjust our country and our
empire to varying circumstances as they come along.’ There was much more – all
stirring stuff for this audience, who thanked him with loud applause and cheers.39
Then it was the Prince’s turn. He hardly looked up from his notes, and his
nervousness was obvious, but those there were thrilled just to hear him. ‘His
words and ideas were that of a man,’ the Evening Post loyally reported, ‘and his
voice was that of a trained speaker – clear, well-produced and well-modulated.
He was heard distinctly in every part of the hall.’40 Afterwards the Prince wrote,
‘people seemed quite pleased & say it was a success tho. I need hardly tell you I
was handing out Grigg’s dope as usual.’41
The speech followed the same pattern of those he had given in Canada, and
was to give in Australia.42 He praised everything he had seen – ‘your towns, your
harbours, your roads, and railways, your millions of acres of agricultural and
pastoral land … I am amazed at what you and only one generation before you
have achieved.’ He thanked the returned soldiers and veterans, praised the women
who helped with war work, offered condolences for ‘all the big blanks made in so
many homes by the death of so many of New Zealand’s gallant sons,’ and said how
impressed he was by the ‘splendid training and discipline’ of the school children,
who ‘will know how to serve their country in peacetime … and at the same time
be ready to maintain the Empire and its great traditions of the past.’
These were hard and difficult times, he concluded. They needed the ‘steadiness
and firmness’ that came from being British, and there was no country ‘more
stolidly and unrepentantly British than … New Zealand.’ Nothing, he concluded
to loud and continued applause, ‘can ever really go wrong with our British Empire
if we keep our British temper and British ideals.’43
Lines of soldiers, cheering school children, loyal speeches, balls and receptions,
illuminations and parades – these were all standard fare for the Prince as he travelled
through the Empire. There were two items on the itinerary, though, where New
Zealanders showed off what they thought was different about themselves. The
most significant of these was the Maori reception and performance at Rotorua. It
was by far the most widely reported, filmed and photographed event of the tour.
Royal Scenes from the Empire City
27
The other event that sought to show the Prince something uniquely New
Zealand was a very Wellington one – a pageant of colonial history on the Petone
foreshore. It was never going to get as much media attention as the massed haka at
Arawa Park, but it might have got more had it not ended in chaos and confusion.44
To earlier New Zealand settlers, history was about the places they came from,
but that was changing by 1920. In the old New Zealand Company towns, historical
societies were being formed, all keen to commemorate the first European arrivals.
Libraries and museums were starting to show interest in history collecting, and
historians like Robert McNab, Lindsay Buick and James Cowan had begun to write
books about New Zealand’s own colonial past.
In Wellington an Early Settlers’ and Historical Association had been formed
in 1912 and it now had a new, keen, post-war committee. The Petone pageant
was their idea – a re-enactment of the important moments, as they saw them,
of New Zealand history, on the foreshore where the first Wellington colonists
had landed just over 80 years earlier. The Prince would watch as Maori, the first
arrivals, came ashore (on two canoes borrowed from the Dominion Museum),
followed by Captain Cook and his officers with the British flag. Next would come
a group of black-clad missionaries. Finally, all the other members of the Historical
Association would arrive dressed in costumes of 1839, led by Colonel Wakefield.
Overlooking all would be a live tableau featuring a local schoolgirl dressed as
Britannia. Finally, Maori were to give a performance – one of the very few times
the Government approved any Maori participation outside the Rotorua reception.
The idea was enthusiastically taken up by both the Government and the Petone
Council, and plans soon grew more ambitious. Schools from the Hutt Valley were
encouraged to bring their pupils to the pageant rather than the demonstration at
Parliament, as transport would be easier. Water and athletic sports were organised.
Seaside streets were closed so that the Petone Council could build a temporary pier
and a three-sided stadium with seating for 7,000 people facing the beach. There
was a model Maori pa in the middle, and a dais beside it for the Prince. Bands
were hired and a choir of 3,000 school children began practising patriotic songs.
Petone beach faces south, and an autumn southerly would have forced nearly
all of it to be cancelled, but it was not the weather that caused the problems. The
sports began and stalls opened at 11 a.m., but few people were there then. Most
were across the harbour hoping for a glimpse of the Prince at Parliament, or at
the Athletic Park rugby game, or travelling in-between. As the time of the Prince’s
arrival approached, however, the beach began to get crowded, but the stadium
remained only half-full, as most reasoned they could see what was happening
from the beach, without a ticket. Those in the stadium, however, were growing
anxious because they could not see over the heads of the children’s choir and
the large group of specially invited guests who gathered around the Prince’s dais.
28
David Colquhoun
The confusion grew as the Prince arrived by boat from the city and was rowed
ashore. The beach crowd pushed their way into the stadium to get a closer look.
Poor Britannia’s long train was ripped off by the trampling feet and she had to
abandon her careful pose. By now the pageant was underway. The canoes landed
safely, but there was some delay before Captain Cook appeared. According to
Mountbatten, that was because the Cook impersonator had become ‘so overjoyed
at the prospect of landing for a second time’ that he ‘celebrated … at a local pub
rather too well,’ and had to be replaced.45 When Cook and his party did arrive,
the beach was so crowded they had to disembark on the pier. Most people could
not see anything, and this slow-moving history lesson was simply too boring for
many. The police tried to clear a space for the participants, but it was no use. The
crowd just wanted to see the Prince, and the rest of the pageant was abandoned.
A grainy, silent newsreel shows the scene. It has no internal title and must
puzzle anyone who does not know what is happening. The Prince stands on his
dais waving uncertainly as a boisterous and oddly-dressed crowd press around
him – prosperous-looking citizens, excited school children, bare-chested Maori
clutching taiaha (spears), and a very odd mixture of historical fancy dress.46
What little public dissent there was came from within the Labour movement. In
the national elections the previous year almost a quarter of the electorate had
voted for the socialism of the new Labour Party, a horrifying development to
conservative newspaper editors and the Reform Party. For many Labour leaders
the tour seemed a gross waste of money and propaganda for militarism.
In Wellington, the new Wellington Central MP and city councillor Peter
Fraser, future Labour Prime Minister, refused to sign his council’s illuminated
address. He was, predictably, attacked for that in the Free Lance and Evening Post,
and he responded with typical verve:
I am always ready to extend whatever hospitality I can command to anyone, be he
prince or ploughman, and that I trust the Prince of Wales has a regular good time
during his visit, and is not overpestered by sycophants and title hunters, and by retailers
of exaggerated and extravagant adulation, which can only be described as stupid, and
which must prove nauseous to a young man who seems to be of modest disposition.47
The Maoriland Worker, meanwhile, mocked those who ‘grovel with one accord
at the chariot wheels of a decadent royalty, a royalty with its teeth drawn, led
around like a dancing bear at a fair’, and suggested that ‘the motto of our “Digger
Prince” should be “I serve no useful purpose”.’48 Further south, the Christchurch
The new socialist Labour Party had made big gains in the 1919 election, to the dismay of the Reform Party
and their allies. Labour criticism of the cost and militarism of the tour was attacked as disloyalty by the
right-wing press. (New Zealand Free Lance, 12 May 1920, ATL New Zealand and Pacific Published Collections)
30
Royal Scenes from the Empire City
David Colquhoun
Labour Representation Committee issued a manifesto calling for ‘all class-conscious
workers and all lovers of social justice’ not to take part in any official welcomes.49
But, with the tour underway, the mood of the country was against them
and the right-wing press used the opportunity to attack once again the Labour
leadership as disloyal malcontents. The Free Lance cover cartoon is one example.
A happy ‘loyal citizen’ tells a scruffy anti-tour Labour activist that: ‘You’ll never
put out a blaze like this. Hooray for the Prince!’50 The excitement on the streets
of Wellington suggests he was right.
The 1920 royal visit has long faded from popular memory. That is to be expected.
More surprising is the way it has eluded the attention of New Zealand historians. It
was a very significant political event, and the ceremonies and rhetoric surrounding
it reveal a great deal about New Zealand at the beginning of the interwar years.
There are glimmerings of a new national consciousness, seen by some such
as Keith Sinclair51, in, for example, the new interest in settler history, the proud
references to New Zealand’s war effort, and the self-confidence of returned soldiers
everywhere the Prince went. ‘[T]hey are delightfully national and democratic,’
the Prince told Freda in one of his good moods, ‘& they always call me “Digger”
which is the highest compliment they can give me!!’52
More dominant, though, was the celebration of Britain, monarchy and
the Empire. It was everywhere – in the patriotic songs, seas of waving Union
Jacks, loyal addresses, pro-imperial speeches and editorials, and in the fervour
that swamped Petone’s historical pageant. That loyalty certainly impressed the
Prince. His ‘Digger’ comment was prefaced with another: ‘the people here are so
intensely English more than the Canadians in some ways & certainly more than
the Australians! They are amazingly respectful to the “P. of W.”’53 There is much
here to support the ‘recolonisation’ arguments of James Belich.54
The imperial excitement was, of course, actively encouraged by those
organising the tour. This was a carefully arranged propaganda exercise, very well
resourced by the British and New Zealand governments. As far as Prime Minister
Lloyd George and the Colonial Office were concerned, there was always less at
stake with the New Zealand visit than with the Canadian and Australian tours.
But the success of the New Zealand tour was still important. It would consolidate
popular support for the Empire, strengthen Massey politically, and help marginalise
those very different ideologues in the new Labour Party. Afterwards, Grigg was
very pleased with his efforts: ‘The receptions in Wellington, Christchurch and
Dunedin,’ he happily reported, ‘were even more overwhelming than in any part
of Canada. … The visit has proved more successful than the most sanguine could
31
have expected.’55
There were other tours in the Empire’s final decades that were similarly
successful. Large crowds had welcomed the Prince’s father in 1901. Two of his
brothers visited in 1927 and 1934. Unfortunately, Prime Minister Peter Fraser,
much less radical now, did not get his chance to welcome royalty when George
VI was too ill to visit in 1948. Five years later came the grandest tour of all, the
first visit of Queen Elizabeth II – but by then the Empire was fading away, and
royal tours since have been shadows of what they used to be.
Even the excitement of 1953–54, however, did not quite match that of the
royal visit of 1920. The sheer exuberance of the New Zealand crowds surpassed
anything before or since. It was a time for forgetting as well as commemorating.
Sombre acknowledgements of sacrifice dominated the official programme, but
after the gloom of the war years and the anxieties of the influenza epidemic, this
was also an unprecedented civic celebration. There were crowds, music, lights,
public performances, and the opportunity to actually see the world-famous soldier
prince. Most had only seen him in black-and-white photographs, or perhaps on
a flickering, silent newsreel. Now, the very lucky had a chance to hear his voice,
possibly even dance with him – or at least get to shake that limp left hand.
ENDNOTES
1
Wellingtonians began using the term ‘Empire City’ after the city secured the Panama mail and passenger
service in 1866. It proved popular, to locals at least, and was still being used in the 1920s. See Redmer Yska,
Wellington: Biography of a City (Auckland: Reed, 2006), pp. 35, 51, 210.
2
For a brief survey of biographical writing about the Prince see David Cannadine, History in Our Time
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), pp. 48–58. For a discussion of his royal abilities see Philip Ziegler,
‘Edward VIII: The Modern Monarch.’ Court Historian 8, no. 1 (2003): 73–83. For a recent, sympathetic view
see A. N. Wilson, After the Victorians, 1901–1953 (London: Hutchinson, 2005), pp. 334–48.
3
Rupert Godfrey (ed.), Letters from a Prince (London: Little, Brown, 1998). Godfrey’s book includes extensive
extracts from the Prince’s New Zealand letters. However, much was left out and there are some inaccuracies.
The original letters were recently acquired by the Alexander Turnbull Library (ATL). All quotations in this article
from the letters are from the originals, not from Godfrey. Freda Dudley Ward letters from the Prince of Wales,
1920. MS-Papers-8780, ATL.
4
26 July 1918. Quoted in G. H. Scholefield, Visit of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales to the Dominion
of New Zealand, April–May 1920 (Wellington: Government Printer, 1926), p. iii.
5
For a biographical note on Grigg see K. Rose, ‘Grigg, Edward William Macleay, First Baron Altrincham’.
Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, online edition www.oxforddnb.com. For an example of his ‘new Empire’
thinking see Edward Grigg, The Greatest Experiment in History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1924).
6 Edward Grigg to Lord Milner, 1 August 1918, 1919 correspondence folder, Edward Grigg papers (microfilm),
Bodleian Library.
7
Leo Amery to Lord Milner, 20 January 1920, F 39/2/3, Lloyd George papers, Parliamentary Archives.
8
Lloyd George to Lord Stamfordham, 22 January 1920, F 29/4/2, Parliamentary Archives; A. J. P. Taylor (ed.),
Lloyd George: A Diary by Frances Stevenson (London: Hutchinson, 1971), pp. 198–99.
32
9
Royal Scenes from the Empire City
David Colquhoun
For a summary of Liverpool’s term in office see Gavin McLean, The Governors: New Zealand’s Governors and
Governors-General (Dunedin: OUP, 2006), pp. 172–82. McLean comments that Liverpool ‘probably did his best
by his own lights, but it must be confessed they burned rather dimly.’
44 This section is drawn mainly from reports of preparations and the pageant in the Dominion, Evening Post,
and Scholefield’s official history. Also useful were correspondence file, August–September 1920, Arch 3204/2-18A,
Minute book, 13 April 1920, Hutt Archives; Evening Post, 8 January 1972.
10 Correspondence between Secretary of State and Liverpool, January–March 1920, G 48 23 P/12, Archives NZ (ANZ).
45 The Diaries of Lord Louis Mountbatten, p. 48.
11 Ibid.
46 ‘Prince of Wales Visit, 1920’, F4097, New Zealand Film Archive.
12 Secretary of State to Liverpool, 12 January 1920, G 48 23 P/21, ANZ.
47 Dominion, 10 May 1920.
13 Grigg to Lord Stamfordham, 25 May 1920, EVIIIPW/PS/VISOV/1920/AUS, Royal Archives.
Material from the Royal Archives is reproduced with the permission of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
48 Maoriland Worker, 26 May 1920.
14 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 25–26 April 1920, MS-Papers-8780-1-2, ATL. All quotes retain the Prince’s
idiosyncratic spelling and grammar, without use of the standard [sic], which would overburden the text.
He consistently misplaced his apostrophes, as in ‘was’nt’, for example.
15 Philip Ziegler, King Edward VIII (London: Fontana, 1991), pp. 128–32.
16 Dominion, 4 May 1920, p. 8. The key sources for the Wellington details here come from the daily coverage in
the Dominion and the Evening Post for April and May 1920, as well as from the weekly New Zealand Free Lance,
and Scholefield’s official history of the tour.
17 Evening Post, 5 May 1920, p. 5.
18 Philip Ziegler (ed.), The Diaries of Lord Louis Mountbatten, 1920–1922: Tours with the Prince of Wales,
(London: Collins, 1987), p. 47.
19 Grey River Argus, 11 May 1920, p. 3.
20 Lionel Halsey to Sir Frederick and Lady Halsey, 14 June 1920, Micro-MS-0099, ATL
(originals in the Hertfordshire Record Office).
21 Grey River Argus, 11 May 1920, p. 3.
22 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 3–9 May 1920, MS-Papers-8780-1-4, ATL.
23 Evening Post, 7 May 1920, p. 7.
24 Secretary of State to Liverpool, 28 January 1920, G 48, 23 P/21, ANZ, and related correspondence.
25 The figure 20,000 is the author’s conservative estimate, extracted from the descriptions of official functions
in Scholefield, op cit.
26 Memo to District Headquarters, 10 May 1920, AD 1, 1104, 42/126, ANZ.
27 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 3–9 May 1920, op cit.
28 The Diaries of Lord Louis Mountbatten, p. 47.
29 Memo to District Headquarters, 10 May 1920, AD 1, 42.126, ANZ.
30 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 3–9 May 1920, op cit.
31 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 3-9 May 1920, op cit., MS-Papers-8780-2-1, ATL.
32 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 27 April–2 May, MS-Papers-8780-1-3, ATL.
33 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 3–9 May 1920, op cit.
34 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 25–26 April 1920, op cit.
35 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 3–9 May 1920, op cit.
36 Ibid. He did indeed tell his father of Liverpool’s failings: ‘H. E. is a pompous interfering ass who has been dogging
not only my own footsteps but also never leaves the Admiral or Grigg alone. He rubs every body up the wrong
way not only Mr Massey but all his ministers & is most unpopular throughout the Dominion.’ Prince of Wales to
George V, 9 May 1920, EDW/PRIV/MAIN/A/2280, Royal Archives.
37 Liverpool to Pall Mall, 27 January 1920, G 48, 23 P/23, ANZ; Menu, Earl of Liverpool scrapbook.
NZ & Pacific Collection, ATL
38 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 3–9 May 1920, op cit.
39 This and subsequent quotes from the speeches by Massey are from Scholefield, op cit, pp. 105–7.
40 Evening Post, 7 May 1920, p. 7.
41 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward letter, 3–9 May 1920, op cit.
42 The Prince’s major speeches from his Empire tours are included in Speeches by H.R.H the Prince of Wales,
1912–1926 (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1928).
43 Visit of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales to the Dominion of New Zealand, pp. 108–10.
33
49 Grey River Argus, 4 May 1920, p. 3.
50 New Zealand Free Lance, 12 May 1920.
51 For example, see Keith Sinclair, A Destiny Apart: New Zealand’s Search for National Identity
(Wellington: Allen & Unwin, 1986), especially chapters 6, 7 and 11.
52 Letter to Freda Dudley Ward, 25–26 April 1920, op cit.
53 Ibid.
54 James Belich, Paradise Reforge: A History of the New Zealanders from the 1880s to the Year 2000
(Auckland: Allen Lane/Penguin, 2001), see especially chapters 2 and 3.
55 Grigg to Lord Stamfordham, 25 May 1920, EVIIIPW/PS/VISOV/1920/AUS, Royal Archives.