OUR SHOW-PLACE.
We have a show-place, and one of which we are excessively proud. It is
not a castle, a baronial hall, or ruined abbey, as one would expect a
properly constituted show-place to be--at "home." In this new country,
it is needless to say, we have no antiquities of that sort. Yet this
place, of which we are so proud, and that it delights us to extol to
strangers, has a history that renders its singular picturesqueness
additionally striking.
Mere scenery is never so effective if it has no story to tell. There
must be something, be it fact or fiction, to attach to a place before
its beauties can be fully appreciated. The charm of poetry and romance
is a very real one, and can add much to one's enjoyment of a particular
view. I suppose that something is needed to interest and attract the
intelligence, at the same moment that the sense of sight is captivated,
so that a double result is produced.
Scotland is one fair example of this. Fine as the scenery there may be,
is it to be supposed that alone would attract such hordes of tourists
every summer? Certainly not; it is the history associated with each spot
that throws a glamour over it. Much magnificence of nature is passed by
unheeded in Scotland, because history or tradition has conferred a
higher title to regard upon some less picturesque place beyond. The
fiction and poetry of Scott, and of Burns and others in less degree,
have clothed the mountains and the glens with a splendid lustre, that
causes people to view their natural beauties through a mental magnifying
glass. Nature unadorned seldom gets the admiration bestowed on it that
it does when added to by art.
But why pursue this topic? Every one knows and feels the power that
associations have of rendering picturesque nature more picturesque
still. Therefore, a show-place, to be regarded as such in the true sense
of the word, must possess features of interest of another kind,
underlying the external loveliness of form and outline that merely
please and captivate the eye.
Here, in our Britain of the South Sea, we have abundance and variety of
the most glorious and splendid scenery. So far as wild nature is
concerned, there is nothing in Europe that we cannot match. Our Alps
might make Switzerland envious; one or two of our rivers are more
beautiful than the Rhine; the plains of Canterbury are finer than
midland England; the rolling ranges and lakes of Otago may bear
comparison with Scotland and with Wales; Mount Egmont or Tongariro would
make Vesuvius blush; the hot-spring region of Rotomahana and Rotorua
contains wonders that cannot be matched between Iceland and Baku; and
here in the North our forest country is grander than the Tyrol, and more
voluptuously lovely than the wooded shores of the Mediterranean. At
least, that is what those who have seen all can say.
But, though nature has given us such sublime triumphs of her raw
material, these have no history, no spirit. They tell to us no story of
the past; and poetry has not crowned them with a diadem of romance.
Hence their effect is partly lost, and when we New Zealanders go "home"
for a trip, we find a charm in the time-hallowed landscapes of the Old
World, above and beyond all our greater scenic glories here.
Still, here and there in this new land, we have contrived to invest some
special spot with a kind of infant spirit or baby romance of its own.
Here and there our short history has left a landmark, or Maori
tradition a monument. Already we are beginning to value these things;
already we are conscious of the added interest they give to our scenery.
But to our children's children, and to their descendants, some of these
places will speak with more vivid earnestness. They will appreciate the
stories that as yet are so new, and will take a rare and lively pleasure
in the scenery enriched by the tale of their pioneer ancestors, or by
legends of the native race that then will be extinct.
New Zealand has even now what may be termed its "classic ground," as
will be found in another chapter. But there exists a great deal of Maori
tradition connected with various spots, and some of us do the best we
can to preserve the tales that adorn certain localities. Some of the
legends are mythological. Of such sort is that which gives such vivid
interest to lonely Cape Reinga; the place where the spirits of dead
Maori take their plunge into the sea, on their way from earth to the
next world. Such, too, is the dragon legend, the tale of the Taniwha,
which graces the volcanic country in the interior.
Besides these are the numerous stories of a more historical sort,
incidents of love and war, which hang around the places where they
happened. A country like this, so rich in natural beauties, so filled
with the glories and magnificences of the Creator's hand, is surely--
"Meet nurse for a poetic child."
It is not surprising, then, that we find the Maori character actively
alive to such impressions. The oldest men absolutely revel in the
abundance of the tales, both prose and poetry, that they are able to
relate about the scenes around them. But Young Maori is more civilized,
and does not trouble his head so much with these old narratives. It is
well, then, that some should be preserved while that is possible.
Old Colonial is a great hand at yarns. He loves to hear himself talk,
and, in truth, he can tell a tale in first-class dramatic fashion.
O'Gaygun and Dandy Jack are both given to the same thing a good deal.
They run Old Colonial pretty close in all respects save one, and that is
when he gets into a peculiarly Maori vein. There they cannot follow him,
for neither has achieved his command over the intricacies of Maori
rhetoric, nor has that intimate experience of the natives, which enables
Old Colonial to enter so thoroughly into the spirit and character of
their narrations.
As I know that Old Colonial's hands are more accustomed to the axe than
to the pen, and that he will never take the trouble to give his
wonderful collection of anecdotes to a larger audience than his voice
can reach, I have made notes of his narratives, and some day, perhaps,
shall put them in print. In the meantime, I may as well mention, that,
it was from his lips that I heard the tale of our show-place.
One day, some lime was wanted on the farm for some purpose or other, and
it became a question as to how we had better get it. The usual method
employed in the neighbourhood was to utilize oysters for this purpose. A
rude kiln would be constructed in the bank, where it sloped down to the
river-beach. In this would be placed alternate layers of dead wood and
of living oysters, with a proper vent. The burn usually resulted in a
fair supply of good shell-lime, than which there can be no better.
But on this occasion we wanted a tolerably large quantity of lime, so
that there were objections to the plan I have just detailed. For though
oysters abounded on our beach, and covered the rocks that low-tide laid
bare, yet, when a good many tons of them were wanted, all of which must
be gathered with a handshovel and carried on men's backs to the kiln, it
became evident that a considerable amount of labour must be undergone
before our ultimate object could be attained.
Now, one of the first and chiefest considerations of the pioneer-farmer
is always how he may most closely economize time and labour. It is
particularly necessary for him, because of the scarcity of the latter
commodity, and the consequent pressure upon the first. It is usually a
strictly _personal_ question.
On this occasion the subject was debated at one of our nightly
parliaments in the shanty. Then the Saint broke out with one of those
quaintly simple remarks that used to amuse us so much. He said--
"I don't think it can be right to burn oysters, you know. It must hurt
them so awfully, poor things!"
Of course, we all laughed long and loudly. It seemed too ridiculous to
consider the possibilities of an oyster feeling pain.
"Well done, Saint!" was the general exclamation; "that's a good excuse
to get yourself off a job of humping over the rocks."
The Saint flushed up, and proceeded argumentatively, "Look here!
Wouldn't it be better to burn dead shells?"
"F'what did shells is it, me dear?" asked O'Gaygun, in a wheedling tone.
"Well, there's plenty on Marahemo, for instance."
Marahemo, I may mention, is a hill about three miles back from the
river. It is about one thousand feet high, I suppose, and lies behind
our land.
"Did ye ivver hear the loike av that, now?" roared O'Gaygun,
boisterously. "Here's the bhoy for ye! Here's the bhoy that's afraid to
ate an eyester fur fear av hurtin' the baste, an' that's goin' to hump
Marahemo down to the farrum, aal so bould an' gay! Shure now, thim's the
shouldhers that can do that same!"
After a brief, friendly passage of arms between the two, the Saint
continued hotly--
"Well, all I can say is, it seems to me more sensible to burn our lime
on Marahemo and to hump it down here, than to hump oysters along the
beach, and then have to hump the lime again up from there."
"By Jove!" broke in Old Colonial, "the boy's right, I believe. Shut up,
you Milesian mudhead, and listen to me. Right from the old pa on the top
of Marahemo down to the very foot, there's the Maori middens: a regular
reef of nothing but shell, oysters and pipi and scollops and all the
rest. There must be hundreds and hundreds of tons of pure shell. All
we've got to do is to make a kiln near the bottom and shovel the shell
into it; and there's any amount of firewood, dead stuff, round about."
"Well, but look at the long hump from there down to the farm."
"I know; but won't it be simpler to do that than to collect oysters on
the beach? We should have to hump treble the weight of the lime we
should get after burning them. And then we should have to hump the lime
at least half a mile up from the beach. There is a track through the
bush up to Marahemo, and we could easily open it a bit. Half a day's
work for the lot of us would make it passable for a bullock-sled; or we
might pack the lime down on some of Dandy Jack's horses. Then the stuff
we should get there would be easier burnt and make better lime. And we
could make enough to supply the neighbourhood. A few boat-loads sold at
a fair price would pay us for our work, and we should have the lime we
want for our own use as pure profit. If we didn't find a market on the
rivers, I'm certain it would pay to charter a schooner, load her up, and
send her round to the Manukau. Auckland has to get all her lime from
Whangarei or Mahurangi as it is."
So the thing was settled, and we went to work on Marahemo as
lime-burners.
One day when we were "nooning," Old Colonial and I chanced to be
together on the top of Marahemo. We were looking at the splendid
prospect, glorious under the mid-day sun. All around us was bush--a
dense jungle of shrubs and trees. The conical hill on which we stood was
thickly clothed, and all round, over the steep, rough ranges, the
abrupt ravines and gullies, with their brawling streams, was spread the
one variegated mantle of gorgeous foliage.
Since then I have seen certain of the far-famed forests of the tropics,
but I must candidly say that the scenery they offer is, on the whole,
far less striking and beautiful than that of the bush of Northern New
Zealand. The colouring is not so good; in the mass, it is not so
lustrous, nor so varied. The rich flowers are hidden away, so that the
fewer and less gaudy blossoms of our bush are more conspicuous, because
severally more plentiful. But a woodland scene in England, the old home
across the seas, even surpasses all in the glory of its autumn dress.
From where we stood on Marahemo we could see for considerable distances,
where the ranges did not intervene. Here and there, through some vista
of wooded gullies, we could catch a glimpse of shining river reaches,
and, in one or two directions, could make out the house of some
neighbour, easily distinguishable in the pure atmosphere, though
possibly ten or twelve miles distant.
Looking towards the west, we could see our own farm. The distance was
just enough to mellow the view softly. The shanty looked neat and tidy;
the grass in the paddocks bright and fresh; the fences appeared regular
and orderly; the asperities and irregularities of the ground were not
seen, even the stumps were almost hidden; and the cattle and sheep that
dotted the clearings might have been browsing on English meadows, so
fair and smooth was the picture. As we looked on our home thus, the
growth of our labour, we realized our independence of the outer world.
And I dare say that, for a moment, "our hearts were lifted up within
us," to use the Scriptural phraseology.
I believe I was guilty, under the inspiration of the scene, of uttering
some sentimental nonsense or other, in which occurred reference to
"primeval forests," or something of the sort. Old Colonial took me up
shortly--
"'Tain't primeval," he said. "There's the heavy bush, the real primeval
stuff," pointing to a well-marked line that commenced about half a mile
further back.
"No," he continued; "all this round us is only about fifty years old."
"Only fifty years!" I exclaimed wonderingly, for the woods looked to me
as old as the New Forest, at least; judging by the size and luxuriance
of the trees."
"Oh, here and there, there are older trees; but half a century ago all
this land was under Maori cultivation."
Then he showed me the old ramparts that had defended the crest of the
hill. A double bank of earth, now all overgrown with trees and shrubs,
not unlike the outlines of ancient British and Roman encampments. On
every point around us similar traces could be found, showing that the
district had been thickly inhabited. As the Maoris had no grazing stock
in those days, and no grass in these parts, their lands were solely
spade-cultivations. Some thousands of acres between the Pahi and the
Wairau had once grown their taro and kumera and hue, together with
potatoes and other things introduced by Captain Cook.
Marahemo Pa was the capital of the district. Its position, occupying the
crest of a sugar-loaf hill, defended by earthworks and stockades, must
have made it seem impregnable to people unacquainted with artillery. The
space enclosed was considerable; and the immense quantities of shells
thrown down the sides of the hill attested the numbers of its
population--for all the shell-fish would have to be brought up here on
the backs of women and slaves from the beach, which is over three miles
distant; and shell-fish was by no means the principal item of the Maori
commissariat.
"That must have been the way they went," said Old Colonial, looking in a
direction where a strip of the Arapaoa was visible through a gap made
in the ranges by a narrow gully.
"Who went?" I asked, for I did not follow his thought.
"Hoosh!" cried he. "Do you mean to say you've never heard the story of
the battle and capture of Marahemo, the tale of Te Puke Tapu?"
No, I had not heard it. At least, I remembered only some confused
account of a conflict having taken place at the latter spot, which,
being our show-place, I had often seen and knew well.
"Well," said Old Colonial, "there's no time now; but we've got to get
some schnapper for supper to-night, so you and I will go and fish down
the Arapaoa yonder; then I'll tell you."
In the evening we were sitting in the boat, anchored in the river nearly
opposite our much venerated show-place. We were fishing with line and
bait, diligently securing a supper and breakfast for ourselves and the
rest of the company who make our shanty their home. Every now and then
either of us would pull up a great pink slab-sided schnapper, a
glistening silvery mullet, or a white-bellied whapuka; we were in a good
pitch, and the fish were biting freely. Our minds were relieved from the
anxiety of a possible shortness of provisions. The scenery around us is
truly magnificent, if only it were possible to describe it. I must,
however, try to convey an idea of its outlines.
We are lying in the Arapaoa Firth, at the point where it loses its
distinctive name and divides into three heads. These three lesser
firths, together with the main creek that flows into each above the
point where the tide reaches, are respectively the Pahi, the Paparoa,
and the Matakohe.
Our boat seems to be floating in a lake, rather than in a river, for
here the Arapaoa is between three and four miles across. Looking down to
the right we see it stretching away, between bold, high banks of
irregular outline, flowing down to the harbour and the sea thirty miles
off. To our left is our own river, the Pahi, narrower than the other. It
is, perhaps, a mile across at the mouth. Its shores present a
diminishing perspective of woods; and, as mangroves line the beach on
either side, the leafage and the water seem to melt into one another.
Five or six miles up, the ranges rise higher and run together, so that
the beautiful Pahi appears to lose itself in the forest.
The opposite shore of the Pahi ends in a high bluff that, from our point
of view, appears like an island in the expanse of gleaming water. Round
the base of the bluff are gathered the white houses of Te Pahi township;
and the masts of several small sailing-craft are seen off the beach.
Behind and above is a bold sweep of dark woods, forming a background to
the baby town.
The township bluff hides from us all view of the Paparoa, which lies
just behind it. But we have a full prospect of the wide reach of the
Matakohe, which has quite a lake-like look. Just within it, on the
further shore, are some low mud-banks, partially covered with stunted
mangrove. Here great flocks of grey snipe continually assemble, together
with kingfishers, shags, wild duck, teal, and other waterfowl. The high
bank conceals all behind it; but in one or two places we catch a glimpse
of some settler's house, cresting the bold bluff, or half hiding in its
orchards.
And now we face to the east, with the setting sun behind us sending its
rays full upon the central interest of the view, and thus we gaze our
fill upon Te Puke Tapu. A small but deep bay forms a bend in the shore
of the river, guarded by steep heights on either hand. On the left a
long promontory runs out into the Pahi, as though to meet the township
bluff upon its further shore. On the right a towering scaur shows the
abrupt termination of the range behind it. The tide in the Arapaoa flows
swiftly by, but within the bay the water lies smooth as glass.
Between these two points may be a distance of about a mile straight
across. The curving line of the shore, sweeping round from one to the
other, forms a complete crescent. No rocks or mangroves, no mud-banks or
oyster-beds spoil the effect of a narrow belt of white and glittering
shingle, which lines the beach of the little bay. And right at the edge
of this border-line begins the mingled green of fern and forest.
The land slopes upward gradually from the beach, rising by regular steps
into a grand semicircle of heights. The general shape is that of an
amphitheatre. And here so rich is the soil, so sheltered the situation,
that all the wild vegetation of the country seems growing with magnified
luxuriance.
The colouring is brighter and more brilliant than it often is in the
bush; and there is a more extensive mingling of different trees and
shrubs, a more picturesque grouping of forms and tints. There are
emerald feathery fern-trees, copper-tinted "lancewoods," with their
hair-like tufts, the tropic strangeness of nikau palms, crested
cabbage-trees, red birch and white ti-tree, stately kauri, splendid
totara, bulky rimu, dark glossy koraka, spreading rata, and half the
arboreal catalogue of the country besides.
And, in their several seasons, the blossoms which all the evergreen
trees and shrubs put forth bloom more brightly here than elsewhere;
and, while creepers of strange and beautiful forms twine and suspend and
stretch from tree to tree, the woodland greenery is set with a rich
variety of scarlet cups and crimson tassels, of golden bells or
flesh-pink clusters, or the darker depths are lit up by showering masses
of star-like clematis.
Terrace above terrace, receding from the water's edge, the encircling
lines of bush rise upwards and away, until at last the leafy mantle
flows over the summit of the topmost range. Far back, and central, in
the wide sweep of the amphitheatre is a sudden dip in the outline. It is
the opening of a little gully, through which a hidden stream comes down
below the trees and babbles out across the shingle; and that opening
just reveals Mount Marahemo behind. His wooded crest has caught the
tinted radiance of the sunset, and stands out in glorious relief against
the purpling background of sky, framed in the glowing beauty of the
nearer Puke Tapu.
Such is our show-place, the "Sacred Soil," where sleep the departed
warriors of the Ngatewhatua. The bell-bird and the tui sing a requiem
over them by day, while the morepork and the kiwi wail for them at
night. And the wonderful loveliness of this spot, where they fought and
died, might well inspire a Tennyson to pen another "Locksley Hall."
"Jee--roosalem!" sighed Dandy Jack. "Only put _that_ on canvas, and hang
it in Burlington House, and what an advertisement it would be for us!"
Old Colonial goes on to tell the tale of Te Puke Tapu, in the intervals
of hauling up schnapper. He says--
"The boys call it 'The Burying Ground,' because of the bones and skulls
that are lying about or stuck up in the trees. That's rather misleading,
though, for it was never a wahi tapu, or native cemetery. This bay was
evidently the landing-place or port for Marahemo, and the subordinate
kaingas on the ranges yonder. You can see it was naturally that. As such
there would be constant traffic through it, even if there were no whares
in the place itself. Now a wahi tapu was so sacred that no one but a
tohunga dared to approach its boundaries, even under pain of death and
damnation; so that such a place was always in some very out-of-the-way
locality, certainly never near a spot so much frequented as this would
be.
"It's tapu enough now, though, and has been ever since the battle,
which, I opine, must have been fought somewhere about 1825. The chiefs
won't sell an inch of this piece to any one; and not a Maori dares go
near it. Lots of people have tried to buy it, and have even offered as
much as five pounds an acre for its magnificent soil; but the Maoris
are not to be tempted, and, what's more, say they'll have utu from any
Pakeha that goes into it.
"Once, some years ago, I was out pig-hunting, and killed a big one just
on the top of that scaur. The carcase rolled down into the water, and
the tide carried it away down river. It was washed up at Tama-te-Whiti's
place, six miles below this. Now Tama, although he's an ordained parson,
still retains most of the old superstitions, as all the older Maoris do.
He was in a terrible stew when this pig, killed on tapu ground, and
consequently tapu itself, stranded on his beach. His wife and he came
out with long poles and pushed it into the water. Then they got into
their boat, and managed to get the pig out into the channel and set it
floating off again. Afterwards they carefully burnt the poles that had
touched the dreadful thing. Finally, Tama came up to me and demanded
utu, which I had to pay him. If we had not been such good friends, and
if Tama had not been more sensible than the other Maoris, I believe the
district would have been too hot to hold me.
"Tama told me the whole history of the place; and gave me a graphic
account of the battle, in which he took part. He is one of the 'last of
the cannibals,' one of the few survivors of the old fighting days,
before the missionaries caused the abolition of cannibalism.
"You know who Hongi was, I suppose? The great chief of the Ngapuhi, who
was so friendly with Marsden and the first missionaries, who went to
Sydney and then to England, was presented to King George and made much
of. When he got back to Sydney, this astute savage 'realized' on all the
fine things that had been given him, and turned the proceeds into
muskets, powder, and ball. Then he loaded up a trading-schooner,
chartering her with a promise of a return cargo of pigs, timber, and
flax, and joyfully sailed back to New Zealand.
"All his life, Hongi was very friendly to the missionaries, as well as
to traders from Sydney. But the former never converted him. He remained
a ferocious manslayer and cannibal to the last. Yet it was owing to this
chief that missionaries gained a first footing in the country.
"Hongi's great idea was to make himself king of all New Zealand. In
pursuance of this plan he armed his fighting men with fire-arms, and
when they were drilled in the use of them, he started on a grand maraud
all through the island. His notion of kingly power seems to have been to
kill and eat, or enslave, every other tribe but his own. He certainly
slew his thousands; and utterly depopulated the country wherever he
went.
"The Ngatewhatua, whose country lay all round these waters, were the
ancient foemen of the Ngapuhi; consequently, they were among the first
to experience Hongi's new mode of civilizing. A great battle was fought
up on the Wairoa, where two or three thousand of our fellows were
discomfited by Hongi's army. The fugitives came down the rivers and
rallied again. Every man of the Ngatewhatua who was able to bear arms,
took up his mere and patu and spear, and went forth to fight for his
fatherland. They fought the invading Ngapuhi all the way down from the
Wairoa, as they marched through the forests between this and Mangapai.
"But badly-armed bravery had little chance against the superior
equipment of Hongi's bands. Do all they might, the Ngatewhatua could not
stay the progress of their foes. When, at last, the invaders drove them
as near as the Maungaturoto bush, our tribe gave way in despair, and
came back to this place. They had still one hope, one refuge, the
hitherto unconquered Marahemo Pa.
"Into that pa, then, where we stood this morning, crowded the whole
population of the district--men, women, and children. Here they would
make their last despairing stand. The attack would come from the
north-east, consequently this bay would be in rear; and in it the canoes
were drawn up for flight, if that were necessary.
"Then Hongi and his ruthless army swept out of the woods, and rushed
upon Marahemo. They surrounded the hill, and, advancing to the
fortifications, poured in a hot fire. Frightful were the losses among
the besieged; and little could they do in return, spears and stones
being their only missiles. Still, they held out for three days, their
crowded ranks gradually thinning and thinning.
"At last, at daybreak on the third day, Hongi delivered a grand assault.
The Ngapuhi came up in three columns on the eastern slope of the hill,
where the principal gate of the pa was. The two outer flanks
concentrated all their fire on the point, while the centre, headed by
Hongi himself, wearing a helmet and breastplate that King George had
given him, constituted the storming party.
"The struggle at the gate must have been terrific. At close quarters
fire-arms were no longer of service, and the Ngatewhatua would be equal
to their assailants. Both sides fought with all the fierce courage of
their race. Tama says that the bodies of the slain lay in piles, and
that their blood flowed in streams down the hill.
"Tuwhare was the name of the ariki or supreme chief of the Ngatewhatua;
he was also a tohunga, or priest. A lion-like old man he seems to have
been, from Tama's description. Seeing that all was lost, when the
conquering Ngapuhi had forced their way into the pa, and were
mercilessly slaughtering men, women, and children, he did the only thing
left to be done. He took from its perch the palladium of the tribe, an
heitiki ponamu, or greenstone image, and, summoning around him the
remnant of his men, together with some of the women, they fled from the
western side of the pa, hotly pursued by the victors.
"The fugitives came down through that little gully, here to the bay,
intending to take to their boats, and escape down the river. Tama was
among them, and he afterwards concealed himself in a tree, and, thus
hidden, was a witness of the final scene; for a band of Hongi's men had
come along the beach, and had captured the canoes beforehand, so that
retreat was cut off.
"But a short time was there to consider what should now be done. The
pursuing Ngapuhi were close at their heels. The sacred tiki was placed
in the branches of a tree for safety. And as the yelling and elated
victors came bounding down the gully, brave old Tuwhare and his
remaining warriors, with mere in hand and war-cry ringing through the
woods, hurled themselves against the foe. Overpowered by numbers, and
by superiority of weapons, the grim fight was soon over, and the last of
the Ngatewhatua were slain. But, beside their bodies, many a Ngapuhi
corpse showed that the vanquished had died as warriors should.
"The Ngapuhi who had slain Tuwhare, cut off the dead chiefs head, and
placing it in the nearest tree, rushed back towards Marahemo to summon
Hongi. Now Hongi was brave as man could be, but, like all Maoris then,
he was intensely superstitious, and held all the Maori gods and devils
in the very highest respect.
"Hongi and his principal warriors were led across the field of battle by
the lucky slayer of the Ngatewhatua chief, in order that they might
insult and taunt Tuwhare's head, as was their custom. When they were all
assembled round the tree, with the bodies of the dead lying about where
they had fallen--'There! that's the place, to the left yonder, where the
koraka trees are thickest!'--the branches were drawn aside to expose the
grim trophy of the conquered chief. There it was, sure enough, just
where the victor had put it, fresh and gory, with its white locks and
richly tattooed features. But, oh, horror of horrors! right above the
head, with all its hideous fluttering adornments of feathers and
tassels, was the horrible, grotesque, and grinning idol!
"Chance had led the slayer of Tuwhare to put his head into the self-same
tree where the dead ariki had, a short time previously, disposed the
tiki. There it now appeared, stuck in a fork, just where he had put it
for safety. None of the Ngapuhi knew how it had got there, and to their
superstitious minds it seemed to have come by supernatural means. And
this thing was tapu in the most deadly degree.
"The mighty and terrible Hongi trembled and shrieked when he saw the
unlooked-for wonder. He and his men turned and ran out of the
amphitheatre of the bay as fast as they could, shouting, 'Te tapu! te
tapu! The gods have taken to themselves the bodies of the slain!'
"So they left this part of the battle-field, not daring to carry off the
bodies as usual for a cannibal orgy. A long time afterwards, Tama, and
certain priests of the almost exterminated Ngatewhatua tribe, ventured
to return here. With much solemn karakia and propitiatory sacrifice,
they tremblingly crept into the precincts of the bay. They placed the
remains of their kindred in the forks of the trees, and hid the sacred
tiki for ever from mortal eyes. Then they departed, and the aegis of a
holy place invests for posterity Te Puke Tapu.
"It is a charnel-house if you like, under those trees there, but a very
beautiful one as is evident. We ought to keep alive the memories that
make the place romantic. It would be a pity if utilitarian axe and fire
were to spoil the beauty of Te Puke Tapu. There is plenty of other good
land to be had. No need for us to covet this, fertile as it is; no need
to make a commonplace farm out of that picturesque old battle-ground.
May it long remain just as it is now--a lovely natural monument to
ancient Maori valour, a quiet undisturbed resting-place for the warrior
dead, the patriot chivalry of the Ngatewhatua!"
Such is our show-place and its tale.