[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 147.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE MAORIS’ FIGHT FOR LIFE.
BY A NEW ZEALANDER.
An absorbing struggle is going on in New Zealand at present—a struggle
of life and death to a gallant and interesting people. The Maoris are
apparently making a last stand for existence. Like all savage peoples,
they have hitherto been ‘melting away’ at the approach of the whites,
until now it is believed they number barely forty thousand throughout
the entire colony; whereas in 1835, before English colonisation had
commenced in earnest, careful observers estimated that nearly two
hundred thousand natives ranged the woods and navigated the rivers and
seas of the colony. Captain Cook, probably less accurately, placed his
estimate at four hundred thousand. Certain it is that from the time we
have first known them, the Maoris, like the Kanakas of the South Sea
Islands and the Red Indians of North America, have gone on steadily
and even rapidly diminishing in numbers. Just now there is reason to
hope that this process of extinction has received a check, and the race
seems gathering together all its energies to make one last struggle for
existence. Will it be successful?
In the first place, let us glance at the causes leading to the
extinction of the aboriginals of New Zealand. These have been very ably
set forth in a paper read before the Wellington Philosophical Society
by Dr Newman, President of the Society. This gentleman is of opinion
that the Maoris were a disappearing race before the English came to
New Zealand. One of the principal causes is the natural sterility of
the people. While the birth-rate among the European inhabitants of
New Zealand is the highest in the world, and while the prolificness
of animal life generally in this fertile land is a matter of constant
wonder to the naturalist, a birth in a Maori family is, as a rule, of
less frequent occurrence than a death; and the absence of children in
the native villages is absolutely startling to those who have just
seen the troops of rosy-cheeked youngsters that swarm in the European
towns. There are various causes for this unfruitfulness of the race;
but the principal source assigned by the writer I have quoted is
intermarrying, the Maoris being nearly always married either in their
own or some nearly adjacent tribe. The rate of mortality, also, is
considerably higher among Maoris than with Europeans, consumption
being responsible for the greatest ravages in their ranks. The Maoris,
who formerly lived in lofty, well-aired, and well-drained hill-forts,
now dwell on the oozy soil of the valleys, where the air is stagnant
and moisture-laden, while their _whares_ or huts are close and
unventilated—forming, in fact, hotbeds of lung disease and rheumatism.
Dr Ginders, the medical officer at the government sanatorium at
Rotorua, which is situated in the middle of a large native district,
gives, in a Report recently presented to parliament, a graphic and at
the same time horrifying account of ‘How the Maoris live.’ Referring to
their sleeping-huts, he says: ‘Being curious to know something of these
hotbeds of disease, I entered one at seven A.M. before the occupants
had turned out. I have no wish to repeat the experience. This was quite
a small family affair, fifteen feet long by ten feet wide. It contained
twenty individuals of both sexes and all ages, who had spent the
night—say ten hours—in it. The cubic air-space per head was about such
as would be afforded by a comfortable full-sized coffin. How they can
exist under such circumstances is one of the mysteries of Maori nature.
Fortunately for them, these sleeping-places are built of pervious
material, through which the outer air must filter, and all the more
rapidly from the fact of the great difference of temperature between
the external and internal air.’
After reading this extract, most people will be inclined to say that it
is not necessary to look any further for the cause of the gradual dying
out of the Maoris. It is some satisfaction to reflect that the imported
diseases and vices are playing only a minor part in decimating the
race. Of the diseases introduced by Europeans, typhoid and measles seem
to have been the most destructive, especially the former. The only
imported vice, according to Dr Newman, that has in the least degree
helped to hasten the disappearance of the race is drunkenness. The
mortality among children, from the neglect or ignorance of parents and
the insanitary conditions in which they live, is appalling, and until
something can be done to check it, any hope of preserving the race
must of course be abandoned. The advent of Europeans has undoubtedly
brought with it many causes likely to operate unfavourably on their
dark-skinned brethren. Some of these have already been mentioned, drink
unquestionably occupying a bad pre-eminence.
There is also no doubt among medical men that a partial adoption
of European habits and customs, accompanied by a retention of
various features in their barbarous mode of living, is the cause
of much sickness and even mortality. Dr Newman points out one very
characteristic fact: formerly, when the natives entered their _whares_
with their wet mats on, they flung them aside; now, when they get wet
in their European clothing, they keep it on, thus laying the foundation
of many diseases. On the other hand, civilisation has introduced
undoubted benefits. For example, the Maoris formerly subsisted on
fern-root and such hard fare, and found that difficult to get at
times. Now, they have an abundance of wholesome food, and can live in
comfort on the revenue derived from their lands, if they do not spend
their money in debauchery. As the result of the labours of the West
Coast Royal Commission, for instance, every native in the confiscated
territory in the North Island who has any right to be there, now has
an interest in some reserve or other which will provide him with a
settled homestead and the means of maintenance, and in many cases
a considerable pecuniary income besides. Naturally, in not a few
instances these material advantages are demoralising to the Maoris,
who, when able to live in independence and luxury, will not work.
Many of them, however, especially on the east coast and in the
north, are devoting themselves industriously to such occupations as
sheep-farming, maize-planting, tobacco-growing, &c. I read, in the
Reports of the native officers, that one tribe started farming with a
flock of four thousand sheep, and divided the year’s profits, which
actually amounted to seven hundred pounds. Another party of natives
did better still at whale-fishing, securing spoil from the deep to the
extent of two thousand six hundred pounds.
Among all the elevating influences brought to bear upon the Maoris,
the means of education appears to be the most promising; and if they
succeed in avoiding the fate of extinction, to which so many savage
tribes seem doomed when brought in contact with a higher civilisation,
education will be the chief agent in bringing about the happy result.
With the advance of education, it may reasonably be hoped that the
Maoris—who are naturally a very receptive people—may be brought to see
the evils of consanguineous marriages, to adopt more rational sanitary
measures both as regards their children and themselves. At present,
they have very erroneous and mischievous ideas of disease. When an
epidemic of typhoid fever broke out among some of them recently, they
were utterly regardless of the danger of infection, and ridiculed the
idea of taking any precautionary measures to prevent the spread of the
disease, saying it was not fever, but simply a Maori complaint brought
on by _makutu_ or witchcraft. When a native is attacked by illness, he
frequently succumbs through sheer fright. It may easily be imagined how
these facts increase the mortality of the race, and what improvement
may be effected in these respects by the advancement of education.
It is satisfactory to note that the government are alive to the
importance of the subject. According to a recent official Return, it
appears that there were sixty-nine native schools in full working
order, and over two thousand Maori children receiving the elements of
a good English education. The great advantage of these schools, it
has been very well pointed out, is not so much that the young people
learn to speak the English language, but that they learn to appreciate
our customs, to value time, and to gain a desire for improvement,
both mental and social, which, doubtless, they will transmit to their
descendants, who will then become fitted to hold a fair position in
the future. The natives generally appear to be alive to these facts,
and not only send their children to the schools, but give sites for
school-buildings, and show their interest in the movement in other
ways. They elect their School Committees in the same way that the
Europeans do, and on the whole do the work very well.
The Blue Ribbon movement appears to have taken a singularly firm hold
among the race. The so-called ‘king’ himself donned the badge with
great ceremony at the solicitation of Sir George Grey, before leaving
for England in 1884; and in every village are to be seen numbers of
the young Maori ‘braves’ wearing the ‘bit of blue’ as among the most
cherished of their decorations.
The outlook, then, as regards the conflict in which the race is at
present engaged, is so far satisfactory. The question will, however,
naturally be asked, whether the beneficial effects of the educative
process are permanent, or whether, after the Maoris leave school, they
relapse into their old habits and customs. The savage nature, we know,
is very apt to reassert itself. Miss Bird tells us how the Ainos of
Japan educated at Tokiô relapsed into barbarism on returning to their
own people, retaining nothing but a knowledge of the Japanese language.
Another writer recounts how an Indian girl, one of the most orderly
of the pupils at a lady’s school, has been known, on feeling herself
aggrieved, to withdraw to her room, let down her back hair, paint her
face, and howl. Something of the sort, it must be confessed, is not
altogether unknown in New Zealand. I once went to see a Maori _haka_
or dance, interesting in its way, but not more edifying than native
dances usually are. To my amazement, I saw among the performers a young
lady whom I had known as a well-educated Maori girl, living in good
circumstances, possessing excellent taste in dress, and who had been
in the habit of taking her place with advantage in European ballrooms.
On this occasion her costume, although not more _décolletée_ than
European evening dress frequently is, would have created considerable
sensation in an English gathering, consisting as it did simply of a
loose calico gown. A very handsome, well-informed half-caste, one of
the most lady-like persons I ever met, once confessed to me that she
could never look on at a Maori _tangi_ or wake without feeling an
irresistible inclination to rush in and tear her hair and howl like
the rest. In fact, she admitted that she had to leave such scenes,
or her emotions might have become too strong for her self-control.
Again, I shall not soon forget the surprise created, a few years ago,
when one of the most promising young Maoris in Wellington, who had
been brought up with Europeans from childhood, who was being educated
for a barrister, and who promised to be one of the ornaments of the
profession, suddenly disappeared, and was next heard of as having
flung off his European clothes and joined the fanatical followers of
a half-demented Maori prophet known as Te Whiti. No inducements could
prevail on him to return to civilisation, and he became one of the most
devoted and credulous of the prophet’s adherents.
These, however, are exceptions, and not the rule. We have Maori
members both of the Upper and Lower House who are a pattern to some
other legislators in many respects, and can take their place in any
European society. We have Maori clergymen both Anglican and Wesleyan
who appear to make pastors of the most exemplary kind. There is as yet
no Maori lawyer in practice, but some native lads are being trained in
solicitors’ offices, and there is every prospect of their naturally
keen wits enabling them to take a good position in the profession. So
far as I am aware, they are not ambitious of becoming doctors; and some
malicious people may be cruel enough to suggest that as regards the
longevity of the race this is rather an advantage than otherwise.
Some of them are being trained to trades; and it is suggested by the
organising inspector that every boy, after he has gone through the
village school course, should, if his parents wish it, be apprenticed
to some trade by the government, so as to insure his obtaining a proper
industrial training. With the Maoris grounded in a proper knowledge of
social and sanitary laws, with their moral and intellectual instincts
properly guided and cultivated, there seems yet to be a hope that
the prophecy so often made, that the race must speedily die out, may
be falsified. This is the opinion of a medical man to whom I have
already referred. In his Report to the native Minister, Dr Ginders,
after mentioning the prevalent diseases among the Maoris, says: ‘In
my opinion, the production, and severity, and the spread of these
diseases are determined by two main factors: first, the influence of
the _wharepuni_ (sleeping-hut), and secondly, the consumption of putrid
food. Compared with these two gigantic evils, alcohol is nowhere. Were
there no _wharepunis_, I believe the Maori would be a successful rival
of his European neighbour in sobriety and industry; but with his blood
vitiated by the foul air of these hotbeds of disease, he has neither
strength nor inclination to work, and it would be odd, indeed, if he
had no craving for stimulants. I am inclined to credit the _wharepuni_
with more than half the infant mortality. Not only is the child injured
directly by this devitalising influence, but indirectly through the
mother, whose milk is diminished in quantity and impoverished in
quality by the same cause. I believe the growing intelligence of the
rising generation of Maoris has already checked the rapid decadence of
the race. I believe, too, that these evils will gradually die out, and
we shall find the native population increasing _pari passu_.’
New Zealand at the present time, it will be seen, has a grand
opportunity for assisting in the achievement of a civilising feat
which, if successful, will go very far to confute those pessimists who
declare that our modern civilisation is a delusion and a snare, utterly
destructive to the weaker races with whom it is brought in contact.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER VIII.
The first act in the drama was about to be played—the puppets all
arranged, all acting for themselves, never heeding the hand of fate
in it. Hector le Gautier triumphant, but troubled occasionally by the
loss of his device, yet trusting to his own good fortune and matchless
audacity to pull him through.
The curious in such matters, the idle folks who dream and speculate,
had food for reflection in their _Times_ next morning, for on the front
sheet on the second column appeared an announcement. It was vague; but
one man understood it. It ran:
MOIDORE.—How reckless of you to throw away a life on the hazard of a
die. They are all safe but yours. Where is that? In two months you
will have to deliver, and then beware of the wrath of the Crimson
Nine. It is not too late yet. Under the clock at C. × at nine—any
night. Use the sign, and good will come of it.—EASTERN EAGLE.
The _Times_ containing this announcement lay upon Isodore’s
breakfast-table in Ventnor Street, Fitzroy Square. As it rested upon
the table, the words were readable, and Isodore smiled when they
caught her eye as she entered. She took up an album from a side-table
and turned over the leaves till she came to the portrait of a pretty
dark girl of about seventeen. At this she looked long and intently,
and then turned to scrutinise her features in the glass. There was
nothing coquettish about this—no suspicion of womanly vanity, but
rather the air of one who strives to find some likeness. Apparently the
examination pleased her, for she smiled again—not a pleasant smile,
this time, but one of certainty, almost cruelty; and a vengeful look
made the eyes hard for a moment.
She turned to the photograph again, and then once more back to the
mirror, as if to be absolutely certain of her convictions, that there
might be no mistake.
While absorbed thus, Valerie le Gautier entered the room and looked at
Isodore in astonishment. ‘You have a grand excuse,’ she said archly,
‘though I did not know that vanity was one of your failings, Isodore.’
Isodore blushed never so faintly, not so much by being taken in the
little act, as by the appearance of the thing. ‘It is not on any
account of mine,’ she said; ‘rather, on yours.—Valerie, look here
carefully and tell me if you know that face.’ She indicated the
portrait in the album; and her friend looked at it earnestly.
After a few moments she looked up, shaking her head doubtfully. ‘No,’
she replied. ‘It is a strange face entirely to me.’
‘Then I have altered since that was taken five years ago.’
‘Is it possible that innocent, childish-looking face could have once
been you?’ Valerie asked in unfeigned astonishment.
‘Indeed, it is. There is nothing like sorrow and hardship to alter the
expression of features, especially of women. Yes, Valerie, that is what
I was when I met him. You would not have known me?’
‘No, indeed. They might be two different faces.’
‘So much the better for me—so much the worse for him,’ Isodore observed
without the slightest tinge of passion in her tones.—‘Read that
paragraph in the _Times_, and see if you can make anything of it.’
‘It is Greek to me,’ Valerie replied, when she had perused the
advertisement with a puzzled air.—‘Has it any allusion to my—to Hector?’
‘To your husband? Yes. He will understand it in a moment, and only
be too eager to regain his insignia. There will be a happy union of
two loving hearts some night in Charing Cross Station. Little will
the spectators know of the passions running riot there.’ She laughed
bitterly as she said these words, and threw the paper upon the table
again. She was in a strange mood this morning.
‘Then I suppose that C. × means Charing Cross?’ Valerie asked, ‘and
you expect Hector to come there?—I do not quite comprehend your plan,
Isodore. It will be dangerous to have another in the secret, and I
suppose some one will have to meet him.’
‘Some one will,’ was the calm reply. ‘And who, do you think, is
the proper one to do that? Who better than his old friend and once
passionate admirer, Isodore?’
‘_You_ meet him?’ Valerie cried. ‘How daring! Suppose he should
recognise you, how then? All your schemes would be thrown to the winds,
and we should be defeated. It is madness!’
‘You forget I have his badge of membership; besides, I have a duty to
perform beyond my own feelings in the matter—my duty to the League. But
he will not recognise me after the lapse of years, and I must get to
the bottom of his traitorous designs.’
‘You are reckoning upon certainties, Isodore. Suppose you are
wrong—suppose he is, after all, no traitor, and that your ideas are
only fancies. How then?’
‘He is a traitor—instinct tells me that. Wait and see what Lucrece has
to say, when she comes. She is sure to have gleaned some information by
this time.’
Hot revenge is apt to burn itself out quickly, from its very
fierceness; but such hate as this never dies. There was a cool
deliberation in Isodore’s words which struck her hearer with great
force; and much as she herself had suffered, she could not realise a
passion such as this. It is probable that had she met her recalcitrant
husband, a few words would have obtained for him forgiveness; but she
was under the spell now, and her weaker will was swallowed up in a
strong one.
‘Do you expect Lucrece this morning?’ Valerie asked.
‘I am expecting her every moment,’ Isodore replied. ‘She promised me to
come to-day and let me have her report.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, when Lucrece entered. She was
quietly, almost plainly dressed, and wore an air of extreme meekness.
‘You look the character,’ Isodore said approvingly. ‘You might have
been a menial all your lifetime.—I am all impatience. Begin!’
‘In the first place,’ Lucrece began without further preamble, ‘I like
my situation; and as to my new mistress, to know her is to love her.
You have no idea how gentle and thoughtful she is. Now, to begin
with her. The dear Hector has a rival, and a powerful one; his name
is Frederick Maxwell, and he is an artist. From what I can see, they
are engaged.—Isodore, this Maxwell has joined the League, and will be
introduced by Salvarini.’
‘Frederick Maxwell! Carlo’s old friend! Poor fool! Le Gautier has tools
enough.’
‘He is a fine handsome Englishman; honour and honesty stamped in
every line of his face; just the sort of man to be made useful.—But
to continue. Le Gautier is _l’ami de la famille_. He has a wonderful
influence over Sir Geoffrey, and has succeeded in fascinating Enid—and
she hates him notwithstanding. Isodore, Le Gautier is at his old
spiritualistic tricks again.’
‘Ah!—Tell me something of Sir Geoffrey.’
‘I am coming to that. Last night, my mistress was out very late, not
getting home till past one. It has been my habit to wait for her in
the back dining-room, and last night I was sitting there in the dark,
dozing. I was awakened by the entrance of Sir Geoffrey. I could see
his face was ghastly pale, and he kept muttering to himself, and some
words at intervals I caught. “I wonder if it was jugglery,” I heard him
say—“if it was some trick of Le Gautier’s?—No; it could not be; and
yet, if I am to have any peace, I must fulfil the compact—I must join
this Brotherhood. And Enid, what will she say, when she knows? What
will Maxwell think of me?—But perhaps Le Gautier is already married.” I
could not catch any more. What do you think of it?’
Isodore was following the speaker so intently, and so engrossed in her
thoughts, that she did not reply for a moment. ‘You can help us here,
Valerie. Tell us what you think.’
‘Lucrece is perfectly right,’ Valerie replied. ‘I have hitherto told
you that my husband used to dabble in such things; nay, more, as a
conjurer he was probably without a rival. He made a great reputation at
Rome before the thing exploded; and indeed, to a weak mind, some of the
séances were awe-inspiring.’
‘It seems to me,’ Isodore put in reflectively, ‘that Le Gautier has
worked upon Sir Geoffrey’s superstitious fears till he has him bound
fast enough. And you say he is to join the Brotherhood. Really, I begin
to feel an admiration for the man I am pledged to destroy. It is clear
that he has promised his daughter to Le Gautier. Is she weak?’
‘On the contrary, though she is gentle and tractable, there is much
determination of purpose underlying her gentleness.’
‘You have done wonders in this short time, my sister. But do not relax
your vigilance now; let nothing escape you that may be of use to us.’
‘I must return,’ Lucrece explained, looking at her watch, ‘or I shall
be missed. I will not fail to bring you such information as falls in my
way from time to time.’
After she was gone, the women sat quietly for a time, each pondering
over what they had heard. The information was not much; but it sufficed
to show them in what way the influence over the weak baronet had been
obtained, and every detail of Le Gautier’s movement might be of use. A
wild plan formed itself in Isodore’s busy brain, as she sat thinking
there. ‘Why should it not be?’ she thought.
‘Do you think it would be possible for any one to love me?’ she asked.
Valerie looked into the beautiful face and smiled. ‘How otherwise?’
‘Then it shall be so. Valerie, I am going to make Hector le Gautier
love me as he never loved woman before!’