The Priest evokes a Spirit.--The Consequences.--A Maori
Tragedy.--The "Tohunga" again.
These priests or _tohunga_ would, and do to this hour, undertake to
call up the spirit of any dead person, if paid for the same. I have
seen many of these exhibitions, but one instance will suffice as an
example.
A young chief, who had been very popular and greatly respected in his
tribe, had been killed in battle; and, at the request of several of his
nearest friends, the _tohunga_ had promised on a certain night to call
up his spirit to speak to them, and answer certain questions they
wished to put. The priest was to come to the village of the relations,
and the interview was to take place in a large house common to all the
population. This young man had been a great friend of mine; and so, the
day before the event, I was sent to by his relations, and told that an
opportunity offered of conversing with my friend once more. I was not
much inclined to bear a part in such outrageous mummery, but curiosity
caused me to go. It is necessary to remark that this young chief was a
man in advance of his times and people in many respects. He was the
first of his tribe who could read and write; and, amongst other unusual
things for a native to do, he kept a register of deaths and births, and
a journal of any remarkable events which happened in the tribe. Now
this book was lost: no one could find it; although his friends had
searched unceasingly for it, as it contained many matters of interest,
and they wished to preserve it for his sake. I also wished to get it,
and had often inquired if it had been found, but had always been
answered in the negative.
The appointed time came, and at night we all met the priest in the
large house I have mentioned. Fires were lit, which gave an uncertain
flickering light, and the priest retired to the darkest corner. All was
expectation, and the silence was only broken by the sobbing of the
sister, and other female relations of the dead man: they seemed to be,
and indeed were, in an agony of excitement, agitation, and grief. This
state of things continued for a long time, and I began to feel in a way
surprising to myself, as if there was something real in the matter. The
heartbreaking sobs of the women, and the grave and solemn silence of
the men, convinced me, that to them at least, this was a serious
matter: I saw the brother of the dead man now and then silently wiping
the tears from his eyes. I wished I had not come, for I felt that any
unintentional symptom of incredulity on my part would shock and hurt
the feelings of my friends extremely; and yet, whilst feeling thus, I
felt myself more and more near to believing in the deception about to
be practised: the real grief, and also the general undoubting faith, in
all around me, had this effect.
We were all seated on the rush-strewn floor; about thirty persons. The
door was shut; the fire had burnt down, leaving nothing but glowing
charcoal, and the room was oppressively hot. The light was little
better than darkness; and the part of the room in which the _tohunga_
sat was now in perfect darkness. Suddenly, without the slightest
warning, a voice came out of the darkness. "Salutation!--salutation to
you all!--salutation!--salutation to you, my tribe!--family, I salute
you!--friends, I salute you!--friend, my pakeha friend, I salute you."
The high-handed daring imposture was successful: our feelings were
taken by storm. A cry expressive of affection and despair, such as was
not good to hear, came from the sister of the dead chief, a fine,
stately and really handsome woman of about five-and-twenty. She was
rushing, with both arms extended, into the dark, in the direction from
whence the voice came; but was instantly seized round the waist and
restrained by her brother by main force, till, moaning and fainting,
she lay still on the ground. At the same instant another female voice
was heard from a young girl, who was held by the wrists by two young
men, her brothers. "Is it you?--is it you?--_truly_ is it you?--_aue!
aue!_ they hold me, they restrain me: wonder not that I have not
followed you; they restrain me, they watch me; but I go to you. The sun
shall not rise, the sun shall not rise, _aue! aue!_" Here she fell
insensible on the rush floor, and with the sister was carried out. The
remaining women were all weeping and exclaiming, but were silenced by
the men, who were themselves nearly as much excited, though not so
clamorous. I, however, did notice two old men, who sat close to me,
were not in the slightest degree moved in any way, though they did not
seem at all incredulous, but quite the contrary.
The spirit spoke again. "Speak to me, the tribe!--speak to me, the
family!--speak to me, the pakeha!" The "pakeha," however, was not at
the moment inclined for conversation. The deep distress of the two
women, the evident belief of all around him of the presence of the
spirit, the "darkness visible," and the novelty of the scene, gave rise
to a state of feeling not favourable to the conversational powers.
Besides, I felt reluctant to give too much apparent credence to an
imposture, which at the very same time, by some strange impulse, I felt
half ready to give way to.
At last the brother spoke, and asked, "How is it with you?--is it well
with you in _that_ country?" The answer came--(the voice all through,
it is to be remembered, was not the voice of the _tohunga_, but a
strange melancholy sound, like the sound of the wind blowing into a
hollow vessel,)--"It is well with me: my place is a good place." The
brother spoke again--"Have you seen ----, and ----, and ----?" (I
forget the names mentioned.) "Yes, they are all with me." A woman's
voice now from another part of the room anxiously cried out--"Have you
seen my sister?" "Yes, I have seen her." "Tell her my love is great
towards her and never will cease." "Yes, I will tell." Here the woman
burst into tears, and the pakeha felt a strange swelling of the chest,
which he could in no way account for.
The spirit spoke again. "Give my large tame pig to the priest," (the
pakeha was disenchanted at once,) "and my double-gun." Here the brother
interrupted--"Your gun is a _manatunga_; I shall keep it." He is also
disenchanted, thought I, but I was mistaken; he believed, but wished to
keep the gun his brother had carried so long.
An idea now struck me that I could expose the imposture without showing
palpable disbelief. "We cannot find your book," said I, "where have you
concealed it?" The answer instantly came, "I concealed it between the
_tahuhu_ of my house and the thatch, straight over you as you go in at
the door." Here the brother rushed out; all was silence till his
return. In five minutes he came back _with the book in his hand_! I was
beaten, but made another effort.--"What have you written in that book?"
said I. "A great many things." "Tell me some of them." "Which of them?"
"Any of them." "You are seeking for some information, what do you want
to know? I will tell you." Then suddenly--"Farewell, O tribe! farewell,
my family, I go!" Here a general and impressive cry of "farewell" arose
from every one in the house. "Farewell," again cried the spirit, _from
deep beneath the ground_! "Farewell," again from _high in air_!
"Farewell," again came moaning through the distant darkness of the
night. "Farewell!" I was for a moment stunned. The deception was
perfect. There was a dead silence--at last. "A ventriloquist," said
I--"or--or--_perhaps_ the devil."
I was fagged and confused. It was past mid-night; the company broke up,
and I went to a house where a bed had been prepared for me. I wished to
be quiet and alone; but it was fated there should be little quiet that
night. I was just falling asleep, after having thought for some time on
the extraordinary scenes I had witnessed, when I heard the report of a
musket at some little distance, followed by the shouting of men and the
screams of women. Out I rushed. I had a presentiment of some horrible
catastrophe. Men were running by, hastily armed. I could get no
information, so went with the stream. There was a bright flame
beginning to spring up at a short distance, and every one appeared
going in that direction: I was soon there.
A house had been set on fire to make a light. Before another house,
close at hand, a dense circle of human beings was formed. I pushed my
way through, and then saw, by the bright light of the flaming house, a
scene which is still fresh before me: there, in the verandah of the
house, was an old grey-bearded man; he knelt upon one knee, and on the
other he supported the dead body of the young girl who had said she
would follow the spirit to spirit land. The delicate-looking body from
the waist upwards was bare and bloody; the old man's right arm was
under the neck, the lower part of his long grey beard was dabbled with
blood, his left hand was twisting his matted hair; he did not weep, he
_howled_, and the sound was that of a heathen despair, knowing no hope.
The young girl had secretly procured a loaded musket, tied to the
trigger a loop for her foot, placed the muzzle to her tender breast,
and blown herself to shatters. And the old man was her father, and a
_tohunga_. A calm low voice now spoke close beside me, "She has
followed her _rangatira_," it said. I looked round, and saw the famous
_tohunga_ of the night.
Now, young ladies, I have promised not to frighten you with
raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories; a sort of thing I detest, but which
has been too much the fashion with folks who write of matters Maori. I
have vowed not to draw a drop of blood except in a characteristic
manner. But this story is tragedy, or I don't know what tragedy is; and
the more tragic because, in every particular, literally true: and so,
if you cannot find some pity for the poor Maori girl who "followed her
lord to spirit land," I shall make it my business not to fall in love
with any of you any more for I won't say how long.