CHAPTER XI: WAR AND ITS FRUITS. 1860-70.
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CHAPTER XI
WAR AND ITS FRUITS.
1860-70.
WE were in England for more than two years. On our return, at the close of 1858, we found that a great change had come over the minds of the native people. Just before we sailed in March, 1856, a deputation of thoughtful, intelligent men had come from Waikato to ask the Judge whether the Government would not take some measures to check the lawless importation of spirits (rum) into the district by traders. They spoke with shame and horror of the effects this sale was having on the whole population--men, women, and even children. They seemed to think that the only effort made for their benefit on the part of the Government was to pass laws about the sale of land. This and the increased desire to sell land to the Government on the part of some of the natives through the country led the Waikato people to desire to have a king to reign over them. One man of great influence had wisely objected to the name, saying that, to the best of his knowledge, the main work of kings was to fight. But the mind of the majority prevailed. Their only
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literature being the Old and New Testament it was natural that they should wish to do as the Israelites had done in their distress. Soon after our arrival, our old friend William Marsh came to see us. He had spoken strongly against the setting up of a king, saying that the name was an ill-chosen one and might lead to trouble. But he was very quaint and clever in his talk with us.
"Why," said he, "should the Pakeha (i. e., Englishman) be so angry? Why don't they talk the matter over reasonably? My friends! listen to me. We'll suppose that I have been to England, and that some one there has given me an officer's uniform. Well, when I come back to this land, I'm very proud of my new dress and my sword, and I walk about the town in them. Up comes a Pakeha to me, looking very angry and contemptuous, and says 'What are you wearing that dress for? You are not an officer. Take it off directly. You've no right to it.' Friends, I should go home with my heart very sore and much ashamed. But suppose another Englishman meets me. He smiles and shakes hands, and invites me to breakfast. There he gives me plenty to eat, and is very chatty and pleasant. Just as I am going away he lays his hand on me and says, 'Are you an officer?' 'No.' 'Well, isn't it a pity, then, to wear that uniform? If I were you I would not do it' Then, friends," said he, "I should answer, 'Your words are
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just.' And I should go back and throw the dress aside, and feel no anger nor shame." 1
In i860, to our great sorrow, the war began at Taranaki. It was spoken of at first as a local disturbance soon to be quelled, but it was destined like a bush fire to run on, now burning fiercely, now sullenly smouldering over the face of the country for nearly ten years. However, at that time things were all quiet and prosperous in our neighbourhood. The Mission-schools up the Waikato were in full work. At St. Stephen's the Bishop had built a row of cottages for the use of native teachers who were preparing for Holy Orders. These were generally married men with young families. We were in charge of the institution for two or three months during the absence of the Principal through illness. It was a very happy time, though day by day we were occupied with the homely details of Mission work. The men took charge of the stores week and week about. I used to pity the poor fellows on Monday mornings when they gave
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out soap for the washing. Each Maori matron at the top of her voice declared by turns that hers was the smallest piece and quite inadequate to the wants of her small family. It needed some generalship to get the back yard kept in order. Every one was inclined to throw out potato-parings and soap-suds, and no one felt it a duty to clear up. Soup-making, too, was a daily harass. Most of the women knew as little as our poor about cooking, and were inclined to be as wasteful. When all the morning work was done, and dinner over, and the women came in for afternoon school, they appeared armed with a baby each, and there was much crowing and kicking and screaming to enliven the lessons. Often there were anxious times of nursing. It was pleasant to gather together in the large hall for evening prayers, and to know that, while war was raging in the South between the two races, this faithful band was being trained to go forth to help and teach their people.
One of our most hopeful native teachers died soon after our return home. His name was David Te Mania; we had known him for sixteen years. He looked quite a youth when he first visited us, but was then a married man with several children, and was teacher in his own village and neighbourhood. His wife was a clever notable woman. He won our hearts at once. His bright face was so full of sweetness and intelligence. He had been one of
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the first to be baptised when teachers were sent into the Waikato district, and he certainly tried to lead the rest of his life according to that beginning. He was soon appointed to be a native teacher, and worked for many years most faithfully and conscientiously. He read prayers daily, morning and evening, in the chapel; kept school, visited the sick, and often travelled from place to place teaching his people. There were several such working under each English missionary. They got little pay and had to work hard to keep up a respectable appearance. Some, of course, sank back by degrees into the slovenly ways of the rest of the villagers, some pushed their way in the world and neglected their work. Some, being imperfectly taught, grew very conceited. But our dear friend, for we counted him such, was singularly humble and childlike in spirit, and faithful in the discharge of his duties. When gold was found at Melbourne, and the rush of English thither began, the price of flour suddenly rose, and the Waikato Maoris grew wheat in large quantities. They were wild with excitement, money flowed in and was spent as fast in the purchase of ploughs, horses, carts, &c. Nothing was cared for but money. But during that time of excitement David kept on his quiet course. He was not a man of many words, but he went about his work as a simple matter of business, to be done whatever else was left undone.
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He and his wife had a great deal of care from time to time. They lost several very engaging children. One, a little god-daughter of ours, who died of fever, and, though little more than a baby, said to her mother, as she was dying, "I am going to my Saviour." She was buried in the churchyard near our house. I was away from home at the time. The poor mother came to me on my return, and said, "It is all right, my child is safe at home, and I am not going to sorrow, only (and then she burst out crying), I shall do so when I go back to the village and see her little clothes." A touch of feeling quite Shakespearean.
Another child, a girl of ten, died a year or two after. She hurt her spine, and had a long wasting illness. She had her father's bright look and upright figure, and we all were fond of the child. Her mother was acting matron at St. Stephen's; the little maid had been one of the scholars there. She was a most patient sufferer, and to the last she would greet us with a pleasant smile. A few years more and they were called to lose their only boy. They were living then at St. John's College, that David might get further instruction, and Rebekah was foster-mother to the baby of an English officer and his wife in the neighbourhood. She was very proud of her fair and dark-skinned babies, but her husband's delicacy shewed itself in most of the children, and a rapid inflammation carried their boy off in a few days.
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When the Judge was very ill, and we were about to sail for England in 1856, David and his wife came to bid us a loving farewell. He was in good health, working for the support of his family, and yet finding, or rather making, time to do his work as teacher. He was very particular, for his children's sake, to live a little way out of the village; for in those days it was very hard to keep up good habits in the Pah. It was community life there without any rules. The cooking was done in one large native oven. The people sat round on the ground to eat their meals, with pigs, dogs, and babies clamouring for a share.
Our dear friend was one of the first to welcome us on our return to New Zealand; but it was a sorrowful meeting. His days were evidently numbered. He had been in the Colonial Hospital for some weeks, suffering from glandular swellings in the neck, and from cough and oppression of breath. He gave us a sweet bright look of welcome as he tottered into the room. He would come to see us, though quite unfit for the exertion. He was too much exhausted to return that night to the hospital; and, as it was very full, and the weather hot and trying to him in the crowded wards, Archdeacon Kissling kindly gave him a large airy room at St. Stephen's. His wife and children could be with him there, and it was so close to our house that we could have the comfort of seeing him daily. He rallied wonderfully
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for the first month or two, and we began to hope he might be spared for a while. The oppression at his chest ceased, his appetite improved, he could walk about on sunny days, and even joined the men in their school work. He was soon tired of writing, but his active mind and desire to learn more made him disregard fatigue. We were away part of the summer, and only saw him occasionally. He was always bright and happy, welcoming me with a sunny smile when I came into town, and making loving inquiries after my husband's health. His wife, though very anxious about David, was obliged to be away part of the time to get in their potato-crops. In the old heathen days, a man of his rank would have had several slaves to work for him, besides three or four wives, who all, except the head wife, would have had to cultivate the ground.
As the cold autumn winds set in, our friend began to droop. The last time he came out was about six weeks before his death. He came to join us in Holy Communion at St. Stephen's Chapel, the Bishop being celebrant. He could hardly struggle up the little hill on his way back, and had a violent fit of coughing ere he reached home; but he greatly enjoyed having been there. He had a sharp attack of pleurisy soon after, and, though he rallied for a time, he spoke constantly of his coming death. A little boy was born to him, the first since Willy's death. He was
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exceedingly proud of his baby, and would sit with it in his arms, calling it his treasure and the gladdener of his heart. His wife told us how he prayed through the long watches of the night--prayed for her, for his children, for his people. He called for his child, and talked a long time to him, telling him he would never know his father; but not to grieve, for he had a heavenly Father who would love him and care for him. He was wasted with low fever, and was unable to get rest in any posture, though his wife was most helpful and attentive to him, arranging his bed or easy-chair in all parts of the room by turns. We saw him almost daily, and can truly say we never heard one impatient or murmuring expression. He always looked smilingly at us, and if too weak to talk he liked us to read psalms to him. The 23rd, 103rd, and 121st comforted him, as they have comforted many a Christian lying sick and weary. One afternoon, when he could only speak with great difficulty, he asked my husband to read to him out of "Pilgrim's Progress" the story of Christian's fight with Apollyon, and his overcoming him in the valley of the Shadow of Death. The book has been translated into Maori, and delights our imaginative native people. We wondered whether there was or had been any struggle in his mind, any conflict of which we knew nothing, which made him select this. Looking at his peaceful, quiet face, the words used always
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to come to one's mind: "Mark the just man and consider the upright; for the end of that man is peace." He never talked much about his feelings or hopes; his words were few and simple. "He was willing to bear this sickness, because God had sent it." He had no anxiety about his children; God would take care of them. His was the spirit of a little child "clinging to his Father's breast in perfect rest."
But he was very anxious about his people, and sent for the native teacher who was taking his place in the village, and they had a long talk. The clergyman of the district, who had known David for twenty years, told us he knew of none like-minded to fill his place. Poor Rebekah used to make her wail aside to me, "Mother, who will care for the sick as my husband has cared? By night and day he went to them, taking them food and praying by them." And then she dwelt on his unselfishness; how he rebuked her when she bought anything expensive for him. He would give largely towards Christian works. He gave £2 towards a church in a neighbouring village, just before his illness, and afterwards begged his wife to give £2 more. This was equal to £50 from many of us.
One day when he was a little stronger, he asked my husband to explain the meaning of the verses in the eighth of Romans. He could not under-
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stand about the "creature being made subject to vanity."
An old chief and kinsman, Ta-ma-ti Nga-po-ro, often came in to visit him, and stood godfather for the baby boy. To my pleasure and surprise they both (the father and mother), asked me to be godmother, though I had stood for the little boy that died. But they had no superstitious fears, saying, It was God's will that that child should die.
And so the weary days passed on. As a rule the visits of kinsfolk and acquaintance harassed him. The continual gossip about crops and prices, and sale of lands, was quite out of harmony with his peaceful surroundings. He was playful, though, when a little easier, and would stroke my riding-jacket and admire it, or watch with amusement his baby's merry ways. Early in July (our midwinter), we gathered together a little band of native and English friends to receive Holy Communion with him. It is at such times that people realise the mighty power of Christianity in drawing together into one family all nations, and kindreds, and tongues. The dear fellow rallied, though we had thought him dying. The day before his death, August 2nd, we were troubled to hear that he was earnestly desirous to return to his own place. He wanted to go to Onehunga, about six miles off, by cart, and then by canoe the remaining twelve, across the harbour. It
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was a lovely day, warm and bright, and he had a feverish fancy that he should revive if he could but breathe the fresh air once more. Of course, all his friends urged him to remain quietly where he was. He was so emaciated and weak that he would probably have died on the journey. He was very good and submissive. It is very common for Maori sick people just at last, when dying in English houses, to wish to go home. Any one less patient than David would have persisted in going. It is very natural. The Maoris live a much freer life; and even a large room seems close and dark to those, who, when ill, are carried out of doors and lie and look up at the blue sky. He was moved into the verandah as a half measure, and very much did he enjoy the sight of sea and sky. There was a lovely view in front, a grass plot and large masses of white arum flowers, and in the background purple wooded hills and islands, and the glittering sea. His three merry little black-eyed girls jumped and ran about out of doors, all unconscious of their great approaching loss. He did not like us to leave him, though he could not talk, but said, "stay a little longer," with the earnest look of one who knew his end was coming. His oppression was sad to see. He let the cold air play across his chest and panted for breath.
We saw him the next day and he told us it was well he had stayed. One of us brought him some
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water, and he repaid us with a bright sweet look of thankfulness. In the evening, without a sigh or struggle, he fell asleep as one of his native friends knelt by him in prayer.
As the Maoris say of such deaths, "he had arrived at home." Very peaceful and smiling the lifeless body looked. It was laid to rest in the little churchyard close by the sea, where three of his children had been buried. The chapel was quite full of native and English mourners. We had feared that David's people might insist on carrying off the body to be laid among his own tribe. It was his own and his wife's earnest desire that his body should be laid to rest among the friends who had cared for him to the last. The Bishop read the service. The day was glowingly bright, and all nature spoke of resurrection.
The widow remained for a long time at St. Stephen's. She used to speak often with thankfulness about her husband's release, and then end with the words, "But the pain of my heart is so sharp." It was touching to hear her talk to the bright-eyed boy of the father whom he would never know. One day I found her standing, with him in her arms, before the picture of a widowed friend of ours, which had been just sent us from England. She was talking to it, "How she too knew all about the pain and sorrow of widowhood." It is a sad ending to this story, but
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a true one, that, after all, our friendship with this poor woman was broken through the miseries of war. Just before our invasion of Waikato, where Rebekah was then living peaceably in her own village, supporting herself and her children by doing washing and needlework for settlers in the neighbourhood, she came in one evening to our house, breathless with fear and excitement. She had come across the harbour to the little port of Onehunga to do some shopping, and the tradespeople had told her that the troops were soon coming to put down the Maoris. We calmed her fears, and assured her that the Government would not attack the Waikato natives unless they rose against us. Unhappily, two or three days later, on a Sunday morning, General Cameron crossed the river with a large force and the war began. Rebekah fled with her children and the rest of her people up into the King's country for refuge. There, removed from Christian influences and surrounded by malcontents, her excitable temperament made her, after a while, believe herself to be a prophetess. Once only she wrote to me, and they were bitter words about our English people, though full of expressions of personal regard. A house had been set on fire after a skirmish, and one or two Maori women and children were, as it was believed, burnt. Of course, the men who did this only supposed the house to be a lurking-place for the enemy. She
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asked me whether it was part of our Christian religion to burn women and children alive.
Poor soul, she died before the war was over. We made many efforts to get hold of our little godson, now a boy often or eleven years old. After much delay and many difficulties, he was brought to us and put to school at St. Stephen's, where a large native boys' school was supported by the Government. David was singularly like his father in face and disposition, and we had good hopes of his future usefulness as a Clergyman among his people. But the seeds of consumption were in him and grew with his growth, and after a long illness, borne most patiently, he died at sixteen, and was laid beside his father.
At first, as has been said, the seat of war was confined to the Taranaki district, but as time rolled on the full painfulness of the struggle began to press upon us. One by one the large flourishing schools on the Waikato and Wai-pa rivers had to be closed, with their branch village schools under native teachers, which had become centres of light. The fine country which we had seen covered with wheat crops became a battle-field; the mills were closed, the churches built by the natives were often used as barracks for the troops. In the towns the English got frightened by the wild rumours afloat of intended attack and surprises. We had to advise old faithful friends, who came in to trade as usual, not to
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venture into Auckland, so our bay became deserted. No invalids were brought to be nursed, no canoes heavily laden with produce skimmed across the harbour. It seemed as if the pleasant intercourse with the Maoris, which for twenty years had made our lives so bright, was at an end. And, instead, came almost daily news of war and its attendant miseries to both races. It was time of sore trial to faith and patience. It dimmed one's enjoyment of the fair natural beauty all around, "The land was defiled." We had 10,000 troops in the Waikato. After heavy loss on our side the pah at Ra-ngi-ri-ri was taken in 1863, and 120 of the bravest fighting men on the Maoris' side made prisoners. For many months these fine fellows were kept on board a coal-hulk in the harbour.
The Officers, both naval and military, had a great admiration of the Maoris for their wonderful pluck and courage. I heard a young officer tell the story of Orakau at a dinner table, and he jumped up with kindling eyes and with a quiver in his voice that did him honour. For, indeed, the action of this little band of so-called savages was as heroic as any recorded in the brave days of old. A body of 300 men, and as was afterwards found of some women also, had thrown themselves into a strong pah. The General, determined to avoid the risk of terrible loss of life by storming,
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invested the pah. For three days the besieged endured the want of water. They were called on to surrender, but they refused. On the fourth day the gates of the pah opened, and a compact body issued forth, the strongest and bravest in front and rear, the old men and boys and women in the centre. There was no hurry or wavering; they came at a steady trot across the plain, hoping to break through the lines. They might have escaped, so sudden was the movement, but the mounted volunteers came up and cut them down. Some few got away. The soldiers went about helping the wounded and carrying them to the hospital. One sergeant saved the life of a very pretty half-caste girl, who was badly wounded in the arm. When she recovered he wanted to marry her; but she refused him. Our dear old Bishop, who was up at the camp, looked after her and brought her safely into Auckland. He stopped by the way at a little store to buy a trimmed hat to cover her closely-cropped head. She is married to a Maori man, and has a large family of sons and daughters.
One promising young man, trained at St. John's College and married to one of the St. Stephen's schoolgirls, fell in fair fight. He was not unfriendly to the English, but was drawn into the contest, as many were, through love for his own people. He was in the fight at the gate pah where numbers of our officers were killed and wounded. All night,
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at peril of his own life from soldiers and the insurgents, he kept watch over the wounded Englishmen. After his death a little book of prayers was found in his pocket. He had compiled these and used them daily with his people.
We got hard hits from our allies sometimes in these troublesome times. One old man came to see us at the beginning of the war. He was a clever, shrewd, man, and used to read with interest a magazine printed monthly by the Government for the instruction of the native people. There had been a very sensible article written in Maori on the folly and evil of tribal wars, which generally begin about land. The old native proverb is "Women and land; these are the causes of the destruction of men." The writer of the article urged the Maoris to go to the law-courts to settle all disputes instead of taking up arms. I was making tea in the kitchen for my old friend, and he began in a low voice, "Mother, have you read that article in the Messenger?" "Yes," said I. "Don't you think it very sensible?" "Yes." "Then, why"--and he lowered his voice to a whisper-- "didn't Governor go to law about Wai-ta-ra?" The Maoris never realised that Governor meant a responsible ministry. I was obliged to turn my attention to the tea-table and say that women did not meddle with politics.
There was a delightful speech made at a great
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meeting near Napier, during the war, by a very faithful ally of the English Government. "We have heard a good deal," said he, "about Japhet's dwelling in the tents of Shem, and we were very willing to receive him--nay, we opened our tent-door and said, 'Come in, Japhet.' But what we do not like is this: 'Now Japhet is inside, he spurns us,'" and Renata struck out with his foot as he spoke, "and says, Get out, Shem." "You English," said he, "are very like that monkey-engine," and he pointed to a machine that was at work near, driving piles into the ground with heavy thuds. "You beat our heads down to the earth."
The war had the unhappy effect of separating us from one special old friend who had for years been in the habit of coming in, every few weeks to see us, and often sleeping at our house. He was a younger brother of the old Waikato chief, Te Wherowhero, but was a very different type of man from his huge, grand-looking kinsman. He was short and thick-set, and his face so artistically tattooed all over that hardly a bit of the natural skin was to be seen save a little triangular space on the forehead.
He was an exceptionally cautious man, a born diplomatist. He would ask any number of questions, but never commit himself to the expression of an opinion, and his talk abounded in dark sayings and proverbs. As soon as the Gospel was brought to
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Waikato he and his wife and daughter became Christians. They were all well conducted and steadfast, and Ta-ma-ti (Thomas) Nga-po-ro was much respected and looked up to by his people. He lived at a place about fifteen miles across the Manakau harbour, and acted as native teacher for many years.
In 1850 he became very anxious to build a stone church in his village. Up to that time the services had been held in a raupo building. 2 He and his people had to work very hard and to endure many privations to raise the needful funds. I remember well his coming to see us in the spring of 1853. We asked if he and his people had got their crops planted, and he answered, "No, the carts and horses have been all at work carrying stone and timber. When our last year's stores are used up, we must do as we can"; which really meant suffering for lack of sufficient food for months to come.
"But," he added, with one of his rare bright smiles, "the building will be finished by the end of next year. I thought that I should be the David to collect only for this work, but God has let me be the Solomon to complete it." The church was built, and services were held there regularly by Tamati for many years.
Just before our troops crossed the boundary-line
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into the Waikato district, this old man was suddenly called upon with many others to sign a paper declaring formally his allegiance to the Queen. As a younger brother of old Te Wherowhero, and as uncle to the so-called Maori king, he was looked upon with some suspicion by the then Government. It is not to be wondered at that the wary old man refused to sign the paper without taking a long time for deliberation. He had been always friendly to the English, and had been a magistrate in Government employ. As a native magistrate, he had been very active in the cause of temperance, and had levied so many fines that he had. £100 to give towards church expenses.
On Ta-ma-ti's refusing to sign the paper put into his hand, all his people followed his example. They were then ordered to remove at once from their village, which was on our side of the Waikato river, into the Maori border. Winter rains had set in, the roads were bad, and their horses and carts, and the larger part of their stock of provisions had to be left behind. Poor old man! he went for refuge into his nephew's country, where he has lived ever since.
His property was used or destroyed by the troops, and the church which he had built with so much cost and toil was used as barracks for some years. He is still alive, and remains in the King's country. He is friendly to the native clergyman, who visits
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the people there from time to time; but he has never visited Auckland again, though sixteen years have passed since he fled in hot haste.
Early in 1865 came the terrible news from the East Cape, of the Rev. Carl Volkner's murder by the fanatical Hauhaus there, and of the detention of the Rev. T. Grace in captivity by them. It was a shock to all friends of the Mission. For nearly fifty years English missionaries had dwelt in safety among the New Zealanders even in the wildest days of heathenism, and now after long years of Christian training and by a people who had been lovingly taught and helped by their kind-hearted pastor and his wife, Mr. Volkner was hung within sight of his church and home. Many things were said and written in England and in the colonies which implied that the Mission had been a failure, and that the Christian religion never could have really taken root in the land. Such speakers and writers forgot that deeds as revolting have been done again and again in Christian countries under similar circumstances. The outbreaks and ferocity of the Anabaptists in Munster, the Jacquerie in France after the English had desolated the country, the horrors of the Thirty Years' War in Germany may well be quoted as parallel cases of cruelty and revenge following a long season of trial and misery.
Perhaps a few facts as to the condition of the
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Opotiki people, where Mr. Volkner worked, may best explain the cause of this fanatical outburst. These East Cape natives had not had much oversight for some years, till Mr. Volkner was sent down in 1859 to live among them. They were a quiet set of people, and received him gladly; the work grew in spite of the usual hindrances, a church was built, and a Mission-house with school close by. Then came the Waikato War, in which the East Cape Maoris took no part. But after a while it spread to Tauranga, and when fighting had been going on there for some time they were drawn into the fray. How could they do otherwise? they were allied to the Tauranga tribe by ties of blood and friendship; and, moreover, they knew that the Ro-to-rua tribe, their old enemies, were fighting on the English side. So a large party from Opotiki, in 1864, went to the seat of war and took part in an engagement with Colonel Greer's men of the 67th Regiment, and suffered most severely. On the return of the remnant of the war party, there was a great meeting called to weep for the dead. Mr. Volkner went over at once to condole with the survivors, and with the bereaved mothers, and sisters, and widows. As he drew near he heard a ta-ngi going on, for these barbarians still "lift up their voices and weep," when bowed with sorrow, as in the patriarchal days. It was just when the excitement, passionate grief, and exasperation
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against their old enemies was at its height that two men of that tribe were seen quietly coming down the hill from the southwards towards the valley of weeping. These two men had been on a visit to friends in the south and knew nothing of what had been taking place. But the sight of them stirred up some of the women who had lost relatives in the late fight to fury, and they urged with imperious gestures that these Ro-to-rua men should be slain as utu. Amid the uproar an old widow got up, who had just lost her only son, and claimed to be listened to. "My friends," said she, "your words are not right. They would have been right in the old days, when we had no light and followed the longings and desires of our Maori hearts. But we have received the new law and we must abide by its teaching. Let these men, who have done no wrong, come and go in peace." Her words prevailed. Mr. Volkner told us this band of mourners received the two strangers in solemn silence, put food before them, and sent them unharmed on their way.
This happened less than a year before. The winter was coming on, and the great loss of life and the excitement and restlessness of the remainder of the tribe had hindered the planting of crops, and in the early spring fever broke out among the half-starved, dejected people, and raged with fatal effect for two or three months. Mr. Volkner, who had sent his
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wife to Auckland, nursed them with unwearied care. He gave all his little stock of wine and scanty store of comforts and medicines to the sick, and for a while they were most thankful, and patient; but the continued mortality began first to depress them and then to excite their suspicions. They refused to take food or medicine from his hands, and at last, finding that his visits were no longer acceptable, he thought it better to come away for a time. Unhappily, in his absence their minds were further poisoned against him by a foreigner, then resident in the district, who told them that Mr. Volkner was a friend of the Government, and had advised the sending troops to Tauranga.
Our good friend could not long be happy away from his work and flock, and as the summer advanced he determined, against the advice of some steadfast native men from Opotiki (who came up to see him), to go back and look after his scattered people. He thankfully accepted a gift of wine for the sick, while expressing his doubt whether they would take it from him, and sailed with the Rev. Mr. Grace in a little vessel. Only a short time before his arrival at the East Cape, a man, calling himself a prophet, had come from Taranaki to ferment and kindle strife. He was a clever man, who had seen mesmeric performances, and by the power of fanaticism exerted great influence over his countrymen. He proclaimed a new religion, though indeed it was a mixture of
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wild applications of Old Testament history with spells and incantations. A pole was set up in the pah, round which the people danced. They drew in their breaths all at once, somewhat in the way paviours used to do. This deep groan at the end of each sentence, "Hau," gave a name to the fanatical movement which lasts to this day.
The women flung themselves prostrate on the ground in a sort of excited trance. Just at the height of their madness the little vessel was seen, and they decided that if she should make her way up to the settlement the prophet would take it for a sign that the Lord had delivered their enemies into their hands.
It is touching now to remember that Bishop Patteson accompanied the Primate and Mrs. Selwyn when they went to break the news to the widow. She listened quite calmly, and said, "Then he has won the crown!"
We had had Mr. Volkner with us only a fortnight before; he was a fair-haired, blue-eyed German, very young-looking; almost our last sight of him was beside the grave of a sweet young girl, a missionary's daughter, laid to rest in the churchyard above our house. It was sunset, our Bishop was reading the Burial Service. It was grand, indeed, to hear him read it. The light of the setting sun lit up his beautiful face and glinted
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on the fair hair of the future martyr as he stood with bowed head. Below us lay the sea like a burnished mirror. We little thought that in so few days Carl Volkner's body would be cast out dishonoured by the people whom he had gone to help and minister to, and that his companion, another great friend of ours, would be in the hands of the fanatics. Mr. Grace's wife and little children were living close to us, and had to wait, hoping against hope for days and days, till our Bishop went down in a man-of-war to try to rescue him, and brought him back in triumph to his home. And now the three are in paradise together.
