‘Advance Palmerston’
There are no street lights yet and the sun’s rays guide horses home. But the sun is rising over Palmerston North and a ball must be held to mark the city’s early progress.
August 6-10, 1877: The 800 residents of Palmerston North were agog with excitement.
Their isolated, bushy settlement had been officially declared a borough – in fact, the largest borough in the colony, at 4595 acres (1860 hectares) – and celebrations were under way.
The Manawatu¯ Times newspaper, established two years earlier, was keeping residents informed of the special events, starting with the installation of the first mayor, storekeeper George Matthew Snelson, on Monday, August 6.
The night of Monday was cold and rainy, but a ‘‘very fair attendance’’ enjoyed two comedy performances by youthful actors of the newly formed Manawatu¯ Amateur Dramatic Club in the Foresters Hall, built by members of the local Ancient Order of Foresters, in Coleman Place. Unfortunately, the large theatre drop curtain ordered from Wellington hadn’t arrived in time, and a makeshift one had to be improvised for the occasion. It proved unmanageable, and ‘‘the gentlemen actors were compelled to aid it in its descent’’.
On Wednesday, the new borough councillors were elected.
Manawatu¯ Times editor CJ Pownall noted that ‘‘Palmerston donned its holiday attire and became excessively lively and gay’’ in the afternoon sunlight, as polling became the focus of attention.
Fourteen candidates were in the field for municipal honours, and ‘‘vehicle after vehicle [carriages, carts and drays] deposited its burthen of voters at the courthouse.’’
About 8.30pm, Robert North Keeling, the new town clerk, announced the councillors: Messrs Walton, Gilbert, Jensen, Owen, Marsh, Deards – and three whose names would grace future streets: Linton, Summerhays and Manson.
The announcement was greeted with prolonged applause, and the successful candidates came forward one after another and ‘‘in appropriate speeches, returned thanks for the position of honour in which they were placed’’.
The week’s biggest attraction, however, would be the Inaugural Ball, held in the Foresters’ Hall that Thursday. During the whole day, the comings and goings of ‘‘visitors, decorators and purveyors formed a constant stream of ingress and egress’’ that fed the mounting anticipation.
‘‘By eventide the ordinarily dignified, sombre-looking edifice had been metamorphosed. It was dressed out in its gayest and best... in perfect harmony with the jollity shortly to be ushered in.’’
The interior walls were festooned and garlanded with indigenous evergreens, and ‘‘on the wall over the dais was printed in flowers the motto: ‘‘Advance Palmerston’’. Skirting the promenade was the usual and utile [advantageous] device – a plenitude of well-cushioned seats.’’
It would be a merry – and long – evening. About 150 people streamed into the hall, and between 9 and 10pm, mayor Snelson opened the ball, partnering Mrs Macarthur of Feilding.
Arthur Halcombe, resident agent of the Emigrant and Colonists’ Aid Corporation,
followed with the mayoress, Louisa Snelson, as his partner.
Author and historian T Lindsay Buick later wrote about this night in his book Old Manawatu¯ , or the
Wild Days of the West: ‘‘Mr Halcombe presided at the supper, and the speeches were racy and reminiscent of what even then were called the old days, the chairman relating, as an instance of the progress made, how in one of his journeys to Palmerston he had met a woman who seriously assured him she had not seen one of her own sex for two years.’’
Supper was supplied by William Deards, of the Princess Hotel in Terrace End. It was ‘‘in quality all that could be desired, and was served about 2.30am’’. Loyal toasts were drunk to Queen Victoria and the Marquis of Normanby.
The Times told its readers: ‘‘There was a sound of revelry by night, which was kept up with unflagging zeal’’ as the dancers glided and twirled in a set programme of familiar measures.
In his book, Buick mentioned that ‘‘ladies brought their offspring with them to assemblies and dances... In the absence of nursemaids, the presence of the babies could not be avoided. It was not an uncommon thing to see the mazy dance proceeding with undiminished vigour, while a row of chubby babies lay on a bench beside the wall.’’ It’s not recorded if this was the case at the Inauguration Ball.
Finally, about 6 on Friday morning, the guests began to leave.
Maybe some had managed to catnap here and there on the cushioned seats, or perhaps the occasion and the fun had kept everyone’s energy burning.
But there was one simple reason why it wasn’t advisable to travel home any earlier.
It was winter – nights were dark, the tree line came right up to the edge of the settlement, and the fledgling town didn’t yet have adequate street lighting, except for a few oil lamps scattered around The Square. In spring and summer, a full moon would provide light for evenings out.
But on Friday, August 10, 1877, it made sense to guide the horses home by the rays of the rising sun.