CHAPTER IX: JOSIAH. 1843-1852.
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CHAPTER IX.
IN 1852, our faithful native boy, Josiah, died in our house, after some weeks of suffering. The first time we ever saw him was in the autumn of 1843, when he came to us for medical aid. His arm was in a very painful state, and needed great care. He was then about twenty, short, and well made, with soft, curly black hair, of which he was very proud. He had regular features, was very neat, even dandyish, in his dress, and not a little conceited in manner. Yet there was an earnestness about him that interested us greatly. After he had been some weeks under our care, and was in better health, we gave him a letter to the Bishop, who was then at the Waimate, asking him to admit the youth into his Training-school. Josiah stayed there some months, till the whole College party removed to Auckland. As St. John's was not ready, he came to us for a while. He was very anxious to live with us; and his master, who took him with him on an overland journey to Taranaki found him so attentive and intelligent, that he was
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quite willing to keep him. He was very active and energetic, doing more work in a day than many would do in two; often self-willed, and doing things in his own way, or beginning some grand work without orders, and being sorely aggrieved at having to undo it. He would put on a droll half-reproachful look sometimes when paid his wages, which were half-a-crown a week. He learnt what our old English gardener received, and would say to us, "John has one pound a week, I, half-a-crown, I can do as much work as he." When our gardener left us to go on to his own farm, it was agreed that Josiah should take his place, with an increase of wages. He was very proud and happy, poor fellow, and full of schemes for the future. His master had a small raupo cottage built for him, and he was amazingly busy and important about the plan and site. But though it was very neat, and looked quite snug with its wooden door and glass window, and had shelves within for his books, and a tidy little bedroom, where his looking-glass hung up, and his boxes--full of good English clothes--were placed, he was not content. His intention was to save money enough to build a wooden house in our paddock. This was his great ambition, and he used to tell our servants of all he meant to do, and how English-like his home should be, and that he would never marry till he could get a wife who would be a Pakeha in all her habits.
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He was not neglecting book-learning during this time. He was always ready to come up after the day's work, with clean hands and face, and shining hair, to work sums, or to read English. He did not readily learn to pronounce our sounds, but his perseverance never failed, and at last he could read most parts of the Prayer Book and Psalms fluently. We did not know till just before his death, how much English he knew; for a friend of ours came over to see him, who could not talk Maori, and he entered freely into conversation with her about GOD'S love to him, and of his own hopes, and asked her to read several collects in English. He was too shy to attempt this with us. He was a regular communicant from the time he first came to us, and went always twice to church; and on the Sunday evening, he not only used to come up himself to school, but always collected as many steady young men as he could from the town, and brought them to our house; often eight or ten men and boys would accompany him home to be schooled by his master in the Epistles or Gospel.
He was very steady and consistent in his conduct, strictly honest, sober, and truthful. I never knew him prevaricate when blamed. His besetting sin was his strong temper. He would be very stubborn, and declare he was in no way to blame; but after a while, when kindly and firmly talked to by his master, he seemed penitent and ashamed.
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Often it was very difficult to do justice; for the rough, rude ways towards him because he was "only a Maori," naturally roused his fiery temper. One day our little Irish housemaid came in high displeasure. Josiah had been calling her names. "What did he say?" "Oh, I don't know his language, but his look was enough." "Well, Josiah, what did you call Ann?" His eyes twinkled with fun. "I called her the little one," using a diminutive equal to our "dwarf;" and then, with a burst of anger, "Why does she call me slave?" He was a great wag, and could generally hold his own in the kitchen. "If you don't speak English, I shan't give you any dinner," said our old cook one Sunday to him. He paused for a minute, and then slowly answered, "Your son sleep in church." As the old lady had a high opinion of her sons, she did not ask for any more English. His caution towards his own people when they came to trade was most amusing. In vain did I appeal to him about prices current, or about the quality of the goods in their presence; but if I went into the house he would follow me with many words of caution. He had not many friends among his own native people. Indeed, he had only one whose society he cared for. This was Rota, a young man who had lived with the Bishop for several years, and gradually rose to be house-steward at the college, then schoolmaster, and finally
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was admitted to Holy Orders. These two young men, though very unlike in character, were strongly attached to each other, and the sunny sweetness of the one, and the sturdy purpose of the other, was doubtless helpful to both.
In no way did we more see the influence of Christianity upon Josiah, than in his readiness to wait upon the sick. A New Zealander (even a heathen) will be generally kind to one of his own tribe when ill, or at least to a kinsman; but there are few who like to put themselves out of the way to wait upon a stranger. Nor was it from natural kindness of disposition that he acted, for he was of rather a hard and unsympathising temper; but the sense of its being a Christian duty, led him to do many things for the sick, very unpleasant to his taste, and especially in his often ailing state. Towards the end of one very hot summer, a poor man was brought to our bay in a little boat, in the last stage of fever. Some English people, who had employed him, quietly shipped him off when too ill to be of any more use. He lived for a week or two in a little Maori house, with no one to care for or minister to him but ourselves and our boy. He went on doing offices of mercy for him, of the most trying kind, till the poor friendless creature died, and then Josiah dug his grave. Nor was this an uncommon instance. Though sometimes he was cross and irritable about helping
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others, and highly indignant if they were unthankful or disobedient to rules, yet his better principles generally prevailed.
He accompanied us on our bush journey in 1846. He had not at all approved of my going, evidently thinking that women should stay at home. When we were passing through the wood between the Wai-Rere and Tauranga, my husband, who had been ill, could not keep up with my bearers, and I insisted on calling a halt till he should come up. Josiah was very indignant. What harm could happen to him? There were men with him. But when we had rested some time, and there were no signs of the rest of the party, he aggravated me by standing up and saying in a severe dismal tone, "Did not I prophesy before we left home that this expedition would turn out badly?" When at Tauranga I became really ill he was the most faithful servant, and won golden opinions in the Mission-house.
He continued, amid many intervals of sickness, in our service till 1850, when his health finally began to give way. He had tried many means of recovery, and was sanguine about each. His letters, when away for change of air, were most loving. He used to write that his heart yearned after us; that we were, and had been, father and mother to him in his orphan state, and that he should never leave us. Poor fellow! this love towards us grew very steadily,
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and was most sincere. In the early days of his stay, when angry at some affront from one of our household, he came, with tears of pride, and said, "I will go away, and ask the Bishop to take me in. It is not for you Pakehas (English folk) that I care; it is for the sake of what I can learn that I come and live with you." But this proud independent feeling changed into the most faithful love. To his master he was particularly affectionate, and rarely showed wilfulness towards him.
Once when he had been very ill and was just able to sit up, our Bishop was sailing on one of his Mission voyages to the islands. Josiah was so restlessly anxious to get up to our house to see him depart, that some men carried him up in a chair. The tears ran down his thin cheeks as his beloved teacher passed out, and spoke a few loving words to him, and gave him his blessing. None of us thought that he would live to welcome him back; but he did. It was a trial to him to give up all his work, but he never attempted again to struggle with his illness. "I shall do no more work, I must die," was his quiet remark after any little exertion. His great anxiety was to get some faithful man to take his place. He wished, if possible, that his young cousin, who had lived with him when they were heathen boys together, should come into our service, or, as he said, "to be our child." After much correspondence, the young man
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came, and agreed to be trained by him in English habits and ways. It was amusing to see the eagerness and importance of the latter, and his care of his young companion. But the lad was of different stuff to his stedfast relative, he got tired of the sameness and restraint of his life; and after a few weeks, to Josiah's great disappointment, left us for his native village.
Josiah never seemed lonely, or to crave to be among his own people. He was quite happy either at our house--looking at pictures or reading English --or sitting below in the sunshine, studying his Prayer-book and Testament. His own tribe had a great respect for him, which the steadiness and consistency of his conduct well deserved. Many, too, used to appeal to him from his knowledge of arithmetic. They liked him to come when they were selling large quantities of corn or flax in the town, to see that all was fairly weighed, and would pay him for his trouble. He was still able to go to church regularly, by starting early and resting on the way. His figure will long be remembered at St. Barnabas (a wooden church built for the natives), where he always went. He rang the bell as long as his strength would allow him. His dress on Sundays was to the last exceedingly neat and precise. He always wore a black coat, black trousers, a gay yellow waistcoat, black satin stock, and glossy hat. Nor was he like some New Zea-
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land and English boys, smart without being clean. His shirt and boots were spotless. His face scrubbed with soap and water till it shone. With a flower in his button-hole and his books under his arm, he travelled up the steep hill; often sitting down to pant for breath, but never forsaking the services of the church. Even when laid by all the week he would crawl out if possible on Sunday; and come to school, and bring others with him in the evening.
In 1851 he went to St. John's College, to be under medical care, and also to have thorough rest, which he would not take at home. He attended the Bishop's catechisings, and all the school teachings, with great interest. One day a dispute arose about the meaning of a Maori word, in a chapter which had been read. The natives present could not agree as to the sense, so he went up to one of the English students, and said "Can't you look out in the Greek for the word, and find the true meaning, and so settle the matter?"
The disease which had long shown itself in the neck and arm, soon after this flew to the hip, and a large abscess formed there. He was confined to his bed for several weeks, and we did not think it possible that he could again rally. He was affectionately nursed by a dear old English servant of ours. One Sunday, two or three weeks
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after he had been laid by, I went down to see him, and found him in great distress of mind. Though regular in his religious duties, he had always been reserved in talking about his feelings. He told me now that he had been reading the Psalms, and that the sense of his sins, and of the evil of sin, pressed heavily upon him. He appeared much distressed. An excellent missionary clergyman, who lived close by, came several times to see him, and, after many talks together, the cloud passed away, and he was never so depressed again.
We did not know fully all his past history, till he lay a dying--for he was very reserved and shy at all times of speaking of his inner feelings. He was born at a village some twenty miles from Auckland --his mother died when he was a child, and when thirteen or fourteen, he lost his father in an affray. There was some quarrel about land, and a man of his own tribe slew him. According to New Zealand law, the boy was bound, when strong enough, to punish--and slay, if possible--his father's murderer. Josiah was a sturdy, self-willed lad, with a good deal, of character, and lived on his own land with a young cousin, of whom he was very fond. He was nearly sixteen when he first began to hear about Christianity. The Gospel had been preached and received in the North of the Island several years before; but the Ngapuhi tribe, who were first converted, were hostile
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to the tribes near Auckland, and no one ventured for a time to carry the good news to them. At last, some teachers ventured their lives for their brethren's sake. They were kindly received: and some men in Josiah's village were converted. These formed themselves into a little church, and met for divine service every Sunday, and invited others to join them. The old heathen party had a great contempt for the converts. The band was very small and ignorant, but also very sincere and steadfast. Josiah soon heard of the new teaching, and had a great desire to attend on Sundays, and to understand about it, for he was of a remarkably inquiring spirit. His pride, however, as he told us on his death-bed, made him ashamed to show any interest in the matter; so he used to saunter carelessly along towards the little house where they met for worship, with a cob of Indian corn in his hand. By-and-by he would slip in and sit munching it in a corner, as if he was only there out of curiosity, and did not care or mean to learn.
But the same merciful God who led him thither to seek and inquire, softened the pride of his heart, and before long he had learnt all his native brethren had to teach, and determined to cast in his lot with them, and be a Christian. He was not contented, however, to stay at his own village. He wanted to know more than his teachers could tell him, and to learn how to read and write. So he left his land to take
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its chance, and went to live with an English catechist, who, by this time, had received encouragement enough from the many converts to come and settle in the neighbourhood. Whareiro--for this was his native name -- was, after due preparation, baptised, and named Josiah. He continued at the Mission for a year or two and then came to us. He had always an affectionate remembrance of his first English teachers, and especially of Mrs. Fairburn's patience with, and goodness, to him--though he used to tell how she had often to rebuke, and even punish, him for his strong self-will and dogged temper. Indeed, it is a strong proof of the earnestness of his wish to become a "Pakeha" (an Englishman), that he submitted to the restraint. It was not a necessary consequence of becoming a Christian--for many natives are baptised, and live in our communion without changing their old modes of life. It is rarely, however, in such cases, that they succeed in holding themselves up. Everything in their social habits at that time was against the influences of Christianity and civilisation.
The poor fellow underwent a terrible conflict of mind about his land. By tribal law it would pass after his death to the kinsman who had slain his father. He came in one day with a plan of the property in his hand, and offered to give it to us who had been parents to him. When we told him we
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could not accept it he went to the Bishop saying he should have it for Church purposes. His face clouded over when again it was refused, and the duty of forgiveness pressed on him. At last, when very ill, he sent for the old man to come. There was a short and solemn interview. Josiah shook hands with him and told him the land would be his, and after this he was in perfect peace. He shared his house with a sick relative and gave him much of his long-cherished store of goods. He told us on our return from Waikato that his "bag of wind was broken." He was moved up to our house, and never left it or his bed again. He talked very freely during this last week of his life about himself and his ground of hope. We had seen the fruits of Christianity in his life, but were hardly prepared for such clearness of views and strength of conviction. All reserve was broken down. He was never tired of speaking of the "free love of God." I use his own expression. He told us of his early youth; of his desire, to hear the new teaching; of the pride that held him back; and would again and again say, "What but the free love of God could have led me to himself." He wanted to be gone, and was greatly pleased when his clergyman, Rev. G. Kissling, read the 17th of St. John to him and spoke of his approaching end. The last morning of his life I went to him early, and began to bathe his forehead with Eau-de-Cologne. He had always liked
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this; but, in his odd, practical way of looking at things he said, "Don't do it, it is a waste now." The death sweat was on his brow. His friend Rota supported him in his arms. He turned to him and said, "Hold fast to the good when I am gone." Then he began in English, Bishop Ken's "Praise God from whom all blessings flow," but the words died away, and he fell asleep without a struggle. We who knelt beside his bed could but pray for grace to live as faithfully to our much greater light, and to die as full of trust and peace as he had done.
We had no boy afterwards of our Josiah's stamp. We had a Waikato man for a while, who might have sat for the god Pan. He had the most grotesquely ugly face, with a profusion of shaggy brown hair in which he delighted to stick red geraniums. We called him Sylvan; and, really, when he lay out in the sunshine on a bed of fern, gay with flowers and beaming with smiles, he might have been deemed a Faun of the South Pacific. He could not read or write, and one afternoon came to ask me if I were very busy; if not, would I write a letter for him. So we went together into the dining-room. He began by dictating a number of affectionate greetings; then much good talk. At last he stopped and said, "Is that enough about those things."
"Yes."
"Then tell my people I won't marry my cousin."
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It appeared that a mariage de convenance was on the tapis for poor Sylvan, and he was by no means agreeable to the proposed match.
His successor was a tall, thin, withered-looking man, as ugly as Sylvan, without his picturesqueness. He affected great style in his dress, and appeared every Sunday in a very tight-fitting blue dress coat, with brass buttons, a yellow waistcoat and white trousers. He abounded in wise saws. Poor Tommy, he attached himself warmly to the scion of a noble house, who was out in New Zealand on a visit. He often rowed him across the harbour, and would fetch him at night from any party. Once, when he was very tired and cold, he walked up to the verandah outside the drawing-room, and, calling the young nobleman by his Christian name, summoned him to come home.
When Lord ---------- left Auckland, he gave a handsome present to the faithful Tommy, who was so grateful and impressed that he came to us saying that, as he had neither wife nor child to leave his land to, he should bequeath it to his generous English friend. Accordingly he drew out a very clear plan of his estate, and begged us to forward it by the next mail, with all due formality, which we did.
