Author: George Grey
Date: 2024-09-12T21:04:13+00:00
Keywords: Mythology; Polynesian; Legends; New Zealand
Description: A collection of Māori mythology covering the start of the universe through to the spread of Māori tribes through New Zealand’s North Island.
Publisher: Standard Ebooks

Polynesian Mythology

By George Grey.

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Preface to the First Edition

Towards the close of the year 1845 I was suddenly and unexpectedly required by the British Government to administer the affairs of New Zealand, and shortly afterwards received the appointment of Governor-in-Chief of those Islands.

When I arrived in them, I found Her Majesty’s native subjects engaged in hostilities with the Queen’s troops, against whom they had up to that time contended with considerable success; so much discontent also prevailed generally amongst the native population, that where disturbances had not yet taken place, there was too much reason to apprehend they would soon break out, as they shortly afterwards did, in several parts of the Islands.

I soon perceived that I could neither successfully govern, nor hope to conciliate, a numerous and turbulent people, with whose language, manners, customs, religion, and modes of thought I was quite unacquainted. In order to redress their grievances, and apply remedies, which would neither wound their feelings, nor militate against their prejudices, it was necessary that I should be able thoroughly to understand their complaints; and to win their confidence and regard, it was also requisite that I should be able at all times, and in all places, patiently to listen to the tales of their wrongs or sufferings, and, even if I could not assist them, to give them a kind reply, couched in such terms as should leave no doubt on their minds that I clearly understood and felt for them, and was really well disposed towards them.

Although furnished with some very able interpreters, who gave me assistance of the most friendly nature, I soon found that even with their aid I could still only very imperfectly perform my duties. I could not at all times and in all places have an interpreter by my side; and thence often when waylaid by some suitor, who had, perhaps, travelled on foot two or three hundred miles to lay before me the tale of his or her grievances, I was compelled to pass on without listening, and to witness with pain an expression of sorrow and keenly disappointed hope cloud over features which the moment before were bright with gladness, that the opportunity so anxiously looked for had at length been secured.

Again, I found that any tale of sorrow or suffering, passing through the medium of an interpreter, fell much more coldly on my ear, than it would have done had the person interested addressed the tale direct to myself; and in like manner an answer delivered through the intervention of a third person, appeared to leave a very different impression upon the suitor to what it would have had coming direct from the lips of the Governor of the country. Moreover, this mode of communication through a third person was so cumbrous and slow, that, in order to compensate for the loss of time thus occasioned, it became necessary for the interpreters to compress the substance of the representations made to me, as also of my own replies, into the fewest words possible; and as this had in each instance to be done hurriedly, and at the moment, there was reason to fear that much that was material to enable me fully to understand the question brought before me, or the suitor to comprehend my reply, might be unintentionally omitted. Lastly, I had on several occasions reasons to believe that a native hesitated to state facts, or to express feelings and wishes, to an interpreter, which he would most gladly have done to the Governor, could he have addressed him direct.

These reasons and others of equal force made me feel it to be my duty to make myself acquainted, with the least possible delay, with the language of the New Zealanders, as also with their manners, customs, and prejudices. But I soon found that this was a far more difficult matter than I had at first supposed. The language of the New Zealanders is a very difficult one to understand thoroughly: there was then no dictionary of it published (unless a vocabulary can be so called); there were no books published in the language which would enable me to study its construction; it varied altogether in form from any of the ancient or modern languages which I knew; and my thoughts and time were so occupied with the cares of the government of a country then pressed upon by many difficulties, and with a formidable rebellion raging in it, that I could find but very few hours to devote to the acquisition of an unwritten and difficult language. I, however, did my best, and cheerfully devoted all my spare moments to a task, the accomplishment of which was necessary to enable me to perform properly every duty to my country and to the people I was appointed to govern.

Soon, however, a new and quite unexpected difficulty presented itself. On the side of the rebel party were engaged, either openly or covertly, some of the oldest, least civilised, and most influential chiefs in the islands. With them I had either personally or by written communications to discuss questions which involved peace or war, and on which the whole future of the islands and of the native race depended; so that it was in the highest degree essential that I should fully and entirely comprehend their thoughts and intentions, and that they should not in any way misunderstand the nature of the engagements into which I entered with them.

To my surprise, however, I found that these chiefs, either in their speeches to me, or in their letters, frequently quoted, in explanation of their views and intentions, fragments of ancient poems or proverbs, or made allusions which rested on an ancient system of mythology; and although it was clear that the most important parts of their communications were embodied in these figurative forms, the interpreters were quite at fault—they could then rarely (if ever) translate the poems or explain the allusions, and there was no publication in existence which threw any light on the subjects, or which gave the meaning of the great mass of words which the natives upon such occasions made use of; so that I was compelled to content myself with a short general statement of what some other native believed that the writer of the letter intended to convey as his meaning by the fragment of the poem he had quoted, or by the allusions he had made. I should add that even the great majority of the young Christian natives were quite as much at fault on these subjects as were the European interpreters.

Clearly, however, I could not, as Governor of the country, permit so close a veil to remain drawn between myself and the aged and influential chiefs, whom it was my duty to attach to British interests and to the British race, whose regard and confidence, as also that of their tribes, it was my desire to secure, and with whom it was necessary that I should hold the most unrestricted intercourse. Only one thing could, under such circumstances, be done, and that was to acquaint myself with the ancient language of the country, to collect its traditional poems and legends, to induce their priests to impart to me their mythology, and to study their proverbs. For more than eight years I devoted a great part of my available time to these pursuits. Indeed, I worked at this duty in my spare moments in every part of the country I traversed, and during my many voyages from portion of the Islands. I was also always accompanied by natives, and still at every possible interval pursued my inquiries into these subjects. Once, when I had with great pains amassed a large mass of materials to aid me in my studies, the Government House was destroyed by fire, and with it were burnt the materials I had so collected, and thus I was left to commence again my difficult and wearying task.

The ultimate result, however, was, that I acquired a great amount of information on these subjects, and collected a large mass of materials, which were, however, from the manner in which they were acquired, in a very scattered state; for different portions of the same poem or legend were often collected from different natives, in very distant parts of the country; long intervals of time, also, frequently elapsed after I had obtained one part of a poem or legend, before I could find a native accurately acquainted with another portion of it; consequently the fragments thus obtained were scattered through different notebooks, and, before they could be given to the public, required to be carefully arranged and rewritten, and, what was still more difficult (whether viewed in reference to the real difficulty of fairly translating the ancient language in which they were composed, or my many public duties), it was necessary that they should be translated.

Having, however, with much toil acquired information which I found so useful to myself, I felt unwilling that the result of my labours should be lost to those whose duty it may be hereafter to deal with the natives of New Zealand; and I therefore undertook a new task, which I have often, very often, been sorely tempted to abandon; but the same sense of duty which made me originally enter upon the study of the native language has enabled me to persevere up to the present period, when I have already published one large volume in the native language, containing a very extensive collection of the ancient traditional poems, religious chants and songs of the Māori race, and I now present to the European reader a translation of the principal portions of their ancient mythology, and some of their most interesting legends.

Another reason that has made me anxious to impart to the public the most material portions of the information I have thus attained is, that probably to no other person but myself would many of their ancient rythmical prayers and traditions have been imparted by their priests; and it is less likely that anyone could now acquire them, as I regret to say that most of their old chiefs, and even some of the middle-aged ones who aided me in my researches, have already passed to the tomb.

With regard to the style of the translation a few words are required. I fear in point of care and language it will not satisfy the critical reader; but I can truly say that I have had no leisure carefully to revise it. The translation is also faithful; and it is almost impossible closely and faithfully to translate a very difficult language without almost insensibly falling somewhat into the idiom and form of construction of that language, which, perhaps, from its unusualness, may prove unpleasant to the European ear and mind; and this must be essentially the case in a work like the present, no considerable continuous portion of the original whereof was derived from one person, but which is compiled from the written or orally delivered narratives of many, each differing from the others in style, and some even materially from the rest in dialect.

I have said that the translation is close and faithful; it is so to the full extent of my powers, and from the little time I have had at my disposal. I have done no more than add in some places such few explanatory words as were necessary to enable a person unacquainted with the productions, customs, or religion of the country, to understand what the narrator meant. For the first time, I believe, a European reader will find it in his power to place himself in the position of one who listens to a heathen and savage high priest explaining to him, in his own words, and in his own energetic manner, the traditions in which he earnestly believes, and unfolding the religious opinions upon which the faith and hopes of his race rest.

That their traditions are puerile, is true; that the religious faith of the races who trust in them is absurd, is a melancholy fact; but all my experience leads me to believe that the Saxon, Celtic, and Scandinavian systems of mythology, could we have become intimately acquainted with them, would be found in no respects to surpass that one which the European reader may now thoroughly understand. I believe that the ignorance which has prevailed regarding the mythological systems of barbarous or semi-barbarous races has too generally led to their being considered far grander and more reasonable than they really were.

But the puerility of these traditions and barbarous mythological systems by no means diminishes their importance as regards their influence upon the human race. Those contained in the present volumes have, with slight modifications, prevailed perhaps considerably more than two thousand years throughout the great mass of the islands of the Pacific Ocean; and, indeed, the religious system of ancient Mexico was, probably, to some extent connected with them. They have been believed in and obeyed by many millions of the human race; and it is still more melancholy to reflect that they were based upon a system of human sacrifices to the gods; so that if we allow them to have existed for two thousand years, and that, in accordance with the rites which are based upon them, at least two thousand human victims were annually sacrificed throughout the whole extent of the numerous islands in which they prevailed (both of which suppositions are probably much within the truth), then at least four millions of human beings have been offered in sacrifice to false gods; and to this number we should have to add a frightful list of children murdered under the system of infanticide which the same traditions encouraged, as also a very large number of persons destroyed for having been believed guilty of the crime of sorcery or witchcraft.

It must further be borne in mind, that the native races who believed in these traditions or superstitions are in no way deficient in intellect, and in no respect incapable of receiving the truths of Christianity; on the contrary, they readily embrace its doctrines and submit to its rules; in our schools they stand a fair comparison with Europeans, and, when instructed in Christian truths, blush at their own former ignorance and superstition, and look back with shame and loathing upon their previous state of wickedness and credulity; and yet for a great part of their lives have they, and, for thousands of years before they were born, have their forefathers, implicitly submitted themselves to those awful superstitions, and followed those cruel and barbarous rites.

Preface to the Second Edition

After the lapse of upwards of thirty years I have to write a preface to a second edition of a work which has long been out of print. This is in some respects a trying task. Those who were my fellow labourers and assistants in collecting the materials for the original work, so long ago as the year 1845, are now nearly all dead. Some of them, to whom I was much attached, and on whose fidelity I placed the greatest reliance, led astray by designing men, joined in a native war against the Europeans, and perished, many of them on the field of battle; others from that want and those diseases which invariably accompany war. Others, again, surviving such disasters, died from old age or sickness, in a state of obstinate and resolute isolation from the Europeans, under a native king, in the mountainous fastnesses of the interior of the North Island.

Others, and not a small number of my native friends, remained true to their religious faith, and to their promises. Nearly all of these have gradually died off from natural causes—many of them much respected and admired. European hands and European regard have raised monuments to some of them—monuments which testify not only to native worth, but also to British admiration for nobility of character and purpose, wherever these qualities may be found.

Such, indeed, has been, upon the whole, the feeling between the two races during and since the cessation of the war to which I am alluding, that the Europeans thoroughly appreciated all instances of truly noble courage in the natives who were opposed to them, and loudly expressed their admiration for the men who thus distinguished themselves.

Even upon a recent occasion, when it was proposed to interfere, in an undesirable way, with a piece of land, which, in the eyes of all, was almost sanctified by an act of invincible and heroic courage on the part of a small body of hostile natives, the House of Representatives, composed of ninety-one European and four native members, insisted that the piece of land and its vicinity should be forever reserved as public ground, dedicated to the remembrance of the heroic deed of which it had been the theatre.

A generous conquering race thus preserved a record not of its own triumphs, but of an act of unconquerable courage upon the part of its adversaries, who fell before superior numbers and weapons—an act which the future inhabitants of New Zealand will strive to imitate, but can never surpass.1

However, wars and years have swept off nearly all those grand old chiefs who were my associates in many great trials, and for whom I felt and still cherish a deep regard. I desired to preserve, and they aided me in preserving, a memento of a noble race, in its original state when first discovered. No complete record of such a nation in its savage state-exists, and yet such a record, complete and perfect, is required to clear up many important points in the history of mankind.

There are also peculiar circumstances connected with the New Zealanders which render such a record peculiarly desirable in their case. They were probably the most remote of the Polynesian race, from the point from which that people came in their emigration to the islands of the Pacific. They therefore were most likely sprung from those who first separated from the parent stock, whose descendants in successive generations would probably have always kept continually in front in the line of successively advancing emigrations.

Again, in so far as our knowledge goes, it appears probable that no other people with whom we are acquainted, had been for so long a time shut off from all communication with exterior nations as the New Zealanders had been when first visited by Europeans. If these suppositions are granted, we ought to expect to find the Polynesian language, religion, legends, and customs all preserved in New Zealand in their most unadulterated form.

When the first edition of this work was published in 1855, I had no true idea of the number of New Zealand printed books and manuscripts which I had collected in pursuit of the task I had undertaken. In 1858 they were, however, all carefully arranged and catalogued, when it appeared that the collection contained 301 printed volumes, nearly all in the Māori language, and 223 manuscripts, and that the latter documents contained 10,090 pages. The tabulated form which follows, taken from the catalogue of Māori books which was published at Cape Town in 1858, shows the size of the various books and manuscripts, which are deposited in the library at that place.

Description of Books, Māori Language
I. Publications | Books | Leaves
Folio | 132 | 264
Quarto | 17 | 308
Octavo | 79 | 4,737
Duodecimo | 57 | 1,956
Sedecimo and smaller | 16 | 906
Total of Publications | 301 | 8,171
II. Manuscripts | — | —
Folio | 174 | 3,564
Quarto | 44 | 990
Octavo | 5 | 491
Total of Manuscripts | 223 | 5,045
Total of Māori Books | 524 | 13,216

It is very desirable that the portion of the Cape of Good Hope catalogue which relates to New Zealand should be republished in this country. It consists of only 76 pages, and contains a description of the contents of each printed work and of each manuscript.

Many of the manuscripts were written by natives from the dictation of the most celebrated old chiefs, such as Rangihaeata, Te Rauparaha, Pōtatau, Te Heuheu, Patuone, Te Taniwha, etc. Those that I took down from the dictation of the great chiefs, were all carefully gone over and corrected by natives who could read and write. The chiefs who supplied the various religious services, poems, legends, and histories, including the wars and events which had taken place during their own lives, were as anxious as I was, that a complete picture of the Māori race in its original state should be preserved and handed down to posterity, and they cheerfully and eagerly aided me in the work. In many cases I told them exactly what I wanted, supplied them with the requisite writing materials, and some months afterwards received a valuable manuscript which had been dictated to an educated native. Probably no such collection of materials for illustrating the history of a barbarous race has ever before been made. The labour undergone in its collection was great.

Another reason why this Cape catalogue should be republished in New Zealand (it has been long out of print) is, that it contains a minute account of the information supplied to me by each individual, which was embodied in the first edition of the Māori legends. When two or more individuals, European or native, supplied the same portion of a legend the manuscript furnished by each was catalogued, so that the aid rendered by each individual was recorded, although it was not made use of, except as a confirmation of that which had been previously supplied.

I find from the Cape of Good Hope catalogue of manuscripts, that the following European gentlemen gave me the undermentioned papers connected with Māori poetry and legends.

- J. White, Esq.—A manuscript of 215 pages of various songs, proverbs, and customs, all relating to the tribes of Hokianga, which were collected by Mr. White and by him prevented to Sir G. Grey.

A manuscript of two pages, being a translation by Mr. White of the Tale of the Two Dwarfs.

Neither of these manuscripts has been published. They are bound up in Vol. 146 of Māori works in the Cape Library. They are of value, not only from their intrinsic worth, but as illustrating the Ngāpuhi dialect. Copies of them should be obtained for New Zealand.

- The Present Bishop Of Wellington.—Manuscript, being an original paper on the System of Government amongst the New Zealand Tribes in their Savage state, written in 1846 by the Rev. Octavius Hadfield, 23 pages. A very valuable manuscript for Native history. A copy ought to be procured from the Cape of Good Hope for the purpose of publication in New Zealand.

Manuscript, being an original paper by the Rev. Octavius Hadfield, written in 1846, on the relations then existing between the British and the Native Tribes of New Zealand, 68 pages. Both of these MSS. are bound up in the 147th Vol. of Māori works.

- Sir Wm. Martin.—Manuscript, The Legend of Pāoa, written by Wm. Hoeti.

Manuscript, Explanations of various expressions in Native Poems as given by Natives, in the handwriting of Sir Wm. Martin, so eminent for his knowledge of the Natives, their language, and customs. This valuable manuscript is bound up in the 151st Vol. of Māori works. A copy ought to be procured from the Cape, and published for the use of students. It consists of twelve pages.

- Archdeacon Maunsell.—Manuscript, a treatise by the Rev. R. Maunsell on the Poetry of the New Zealanders, illustrated by examples of various songs. Bound up in Vol. 152 of New Zealand works. A copy of this ought to be procured from the Cape for the use of students. The name of the author shows its value.

- The Rev. J. F. H. Wholers, a German missionary who resided in Foveaux Straits, and at Ruapuke (Island).—Manuscript of nine pages, containing Six Legends of the Tribes inhabiting Foveaux Straits, with translations. Very valuable as containing the dialect spoken in the extreme south of New Zealand. Bound up in Vol. 151 of New Zealand works. Mr. Wholers has recently died. He was not only an amiable and excellent missionary, but a man of superior attainments. He published some Māori legends with English translations in the 7th Vol. Transactions New Zealand Institute, 1875. Pp. 3–53.

The foregoing list of contributions to my task, afforded by European friends, will show how very large my obligations were to the Māori chiefs for the assistance which they afforded me. This is perhaps as it should be. The legends, poems, and histories are Māori—as they recognised them, and supplied them. One instance that occurs to my recollection is this. Attracted by the beauty of the spot, I determined to pass a morning on the island of Mokoia.2 I proceeded there in a canoe with some friends and two or three natives. Wandering about, I grew weary, and was tempted at last to sit down at the edge of a beautiful warm spring, close to the margin of Lake Rotorua, in which lake the island of Mokoia stands. After a time a native chief came up to me, and knowing my fondness for legends, he told me the beautiful legend of his ancestress Hinemoa, who had landed on the spot where we sat. I was charmed with the tale, made him repeat it, and at once wrote it down in my notebook. I crossed over again to Te Ngae, the mission station on the mainland, in the afternoon, and repeated the legend to my old friend, Mr. Chapman, the missionary. He said, “It is strange, I have lived here for a good many years, and they never told me this.” I could not help smiling, and told him they could never have imagined that a missionary would have cared about such a thing. But he went out at once to ask some of his native converts about the matter, and returned quite pleased to think that he lived near so interesting a spot.

The discovery of this legend, on December 26, 1849, created a strong sensation of pleasure in many minds in New Zealand. It was not then known, and at first could hardly be believed, that tales, containing so much of romance and poetic beauty, existed in New Zealand. I shall never forget the pleasure with which my valued friend Domett first heard it, and long will live the magnificent poem, “Ranolf and Amohia,” into which his genius has expanded the legend, so fortuitously acquired.

The foregoing list of Māori manuscripts taken from the Cape of Good Hope catalogue will show how largely the Cape Library is endowed with New Zealand native literature of extraordinary value. Since the establishment of that Library I have made another collection of New Zealand manuscript literature for the Auckland Public Library. This latter is as yet unarranged, and no catalogue of it has been made. It is, however, extensive and valuable. But in the Auckland Library will also be found a considerable collection of manuscript South African literature, which would be of great value to the Cape Library. I must thus seem to have made an injudicious arrangement regarding the place of deposit of great historical treasures.

A man employed in the service of a great and extensive Empire can, however, never perfectly adjust or arrange his entire life. He can neither at any given moment estimate the time he may live, nor can he know in what part of the world he may in a few months find himself. Thus ignorant of his own fate, he is equally I ignorant of that of each of his associates. An arrangement he may deem wise and prudent may turn out, if he lives to a considerable age, not to have been the wisest he could have made, if it was in his power to have foretold the future. When I made arrangements for giving a Library to the Cape of Good Hope, I believed, if I lived so long, that I was likely to have resided at the Cape for a few years. My friend Dr. Bleek, one of the greatest of living philologists, was then resident at Cape Town. He was a good Māori scholar. We were in the habit of working together, and I hoped that we should have worked out and published a great part of the New Zealand literature which was deposited at the Cape. I soon had to leave the Cape, have never returned there, and my friend Dr. Bleek, many years younger than myself, is dead. Perhaps still advantages may be derived from the arrangement which was made. The learned of the Cape of Good Hope and of New Zealand must, in time, be driven into frequent and intimate correspondence regarding the sources of information which the two countries mutually possess of their early history, and of the native populations which inhabited each of two such important portions of the world. From such correspondence and literary intimacy great mutual advantages may arise to each of these two places. Ultimately, I have no doubt also, that frequent exchanges of literary treasures will take place between them, and that they will thus, each of them by relinquishing something, gradually acquire those manuscripts which, in their respective estimations, they think it most desirable that each country should possess. If in any respect either of them may feel disappointed, they will, I know, readily pardon a man whose sole desire was to benefit each of them, according to the best of his ability and knowledge at the moment he formed his decision.

I am indebted to my friend, Dr. Edward Shortland, an eminent Māori scholar, for having corrected for the press the native part of this volume, with the exception of about the first fifty or sixty pages. The students of the Māori language, in studying that portion of this work, will find their labour greatly lightened from the ability and care with which this has been done.

G. Grey.

Kawau, Oct. 6th, 1885.

Polynesian Mythology

The Children of Heaven and Earth

Ko Ngā Tama A Rangi

Tradition Relating to the Origin of the Human Race

Men had but one pair of primitive ancestors; they sprang from the vast heaven that exists above us, and from earth which lies beneath us. According to the traditions of our race, Rangi and Papa, or Heaven and Earth, were the source from which, in the beginning, all things originated. Darkness then rested upon the heaven and upon the earth, and they still both clave together, for they had not yet been rent apart; and the children they had begotten were ever thinking amongst themselves what might be the difference between darkness and light; they knew that beings had multiplied and increased, and yet light had never broken upon them, but it ever continued dark. Hence these sayings are found in our ancient religious services: “There was darkness from the first division of time, unto the tenth, to the hundredth, to the thousandth,” that is, for a vast space of time; and these divisions of times were considered as beings, and were each termed a Po; and on their account there was yet no world with its bright light, but darkness only for the beings which existed.

At last the beings who had been begotten by Heaven and Earth, worn out by the continued darkness, consulted amongst themselves, saying, “Let us now determine what we should do with Rangi and Papa, whether it would be better to slay them or to rend them apart.”

Then spoke Tūmatauenga, the fiercest of the children of Heaven and Earth, “It is well, let us slay them.”

Then spake Tānemahuta, the father of forests and of all things that inhabit them, or that are constructed of trees, “Nay, not so. It is better to rend them apart, and to let the heaven stand far above us, and the earth lie beneath our feet. Let the sky become as a stranger to us, but the earth remain close to us as a nursing mother.”

The brothers all consented to this proposal, with the exception of Tāwhirimātea, the father of winds and storms, and he, fearing that his kingdom was about to be overthrown, grieved greatly at the thought of his parents being torn apart. Five of the brothers willingly consented to the separation of their parents, but one of them would not consent to it.

Hence, also, these sayings of old are found in our prayers, “Darkness, darkness, light, light, the seeking, the searching, in chaos, in chaos;” these signified the way in which the offspring of heaven and earth sought for some mode of dealing with their parents, so that human beings might increase and live.

So, also, these sayings of old time, “The multitude, the length,” signified the multitude of the thoughts of the children of Heaven and Earth, and the length of time they considered whether they should slay their parents, that human beings might be called into existence; for it was in this manner that they talked and consulted amongst themselves.

But at length their plans having been agreed on, lo, Rongomātāne, the god and father of the cultivated food of man, rises up, that he may rend apart the heavens and the earth; he struggles, but he rends them not apart. Lo, next, Tangaroa, the god and father of fish and reptiles, rises up, that he may rend apart the heavens and the earth; he also struggles, but he rends them not apart. Lo, next, Haumia-tikitiki, the god and father of the food of man which springs without cultivation, rises up and struggles, but ineffectually. Lo, then, Tūmatauenga, the god and father of fierce human beings, rises up and struggles, but he, too, fails in his efforts. Then, at last, slowly up rises Tānemahuta, the god and father of forests, of birds, and of insects, and he struggles with his parents; in vain he strives to rend them apart with his hands and arms. Lo, he pauses; his head is now firmly planted on his mother the earth, his feet he raises up and rests against his father the skies, he strains his back and limbs with mighty effort. Now are rent apart Rangi and Papa, and with cries and groans of woe they shriek aloud, “Wherefore slay you thus your parents? Why commit you so dreadful a crime as to slay us, as to rend your parents apart?” But Tānemahuta pauses not, he regards not their shrieks and cries; far, far beneath him he presses down the earth; far, far above him he thrust up the sky.

Hence these sayings of olden time, “It was the fierce thrusting of Tāne which tore the heaven from the earth, so that they were rent apart, and darkness was made manifest, and so was the light.”

No sooner was heaven rent from earth than the multitude of human beings were discovered whom they had begotten, and who had hitherto lain concealed between the bodies of Rangi and Papa.

Then, also, there arose in the breast of Tāwhirimātea, the god and father of winds and storms, a fierce desire to wage war with his brothers, because they had rent apart their common parents. He from the first had refused to consent to his mother being torn from her lord and children; it was his brothers alone that wished for this separation, and desired that Papatūānuku, or the Earth alone, should be left as a parent to them.

The god of hurricanes and storms dreads also that the world should become too fair and beautiful, so he rises, follows his father to the realms above, and hurries to the sheltered hollows in the boundless skies; there he hides and clings, and nestling in this place of rest he consults long with his parent, and as the vast Heaven listens to the suggestions of Tāwhirimātea, thoughts and plans are formed in his breast, and Tāwhirimātea also understands what he should do. Then by himself and the vast Heaven were begotten his numerous brood, and they rapidly increased and grew. Tāwhirimātea despatches one of them to the westward, and one to the southward, and one to the eastward, and one to the northward; and he gives corresponding names to himself and to his progeny the mighty winds.

He next sends forth fierce squalls, whirlwinds, dense clouds, massy clouds, dark clouds, gloomy thick clouds, fiery clouds, clouds which precede hurricanes, clouds of fiery black, clouds reflecting glowing red light, clouds wildly drifting from all quarters and wildly bursting, clouds of thunder storms, and clouds hurriedly flying. In the midst of these Tāwhirimātea himself sweeps wildly on. Alas! alas! then rages the fierce hurricane; and whilst Tānemahuta and his gigantic forests still stand, unconscious and unsuspecting, the blast of the breath of the mouth of Tāwhirimātea smites them, the gigantic trees are snapped off right in the middle; alas! alas! they are rent to atoms, dashed to the earth, with boughs and branches torn and scattered, and lying on the earth, trees and branches all alike left for the insect, for the grub, and for loathsome rottenness.

From the forests and their inhabitants Tāwhirimātea next swoops down upon the seas, and lashes in his wrath the ocean. Ah! ah! waves steep as cliffs arise, whose summits are so lofty that to look from them would make the beholder giddy; these soon eddy in whirlpools, and Tangaroa, the god of the ocean, and father of all that dwell therein, flies affrighted through his seas; but before he fled, his children consulted together how they might secure their safety, for Tangaroa had begotten Punga, and he had begotten two children, Ikatere, the father of fish, and Tūtewehiwehi, or Tūtewanawana, the father of reptiles.

When Tangaroa fled for safety to the ocean, then Tūtewehiwehi and Ikatere, and their children, disputed together as to what they should do to escape from the storms, and Tūtewehiwehi and his party cried aloud, “Let us fly inland;” but Ikatere and his party cried aloud, “Let us fly to the sea.” Some would not obey one order, some would not obey the other, and they escaped in two parties: the party of Tūtewehiwehi, or the reptiles, hid themselves ashore; the party of Puuga rushed to the sea. This is what, in our ancient religious services, is called the separation of Tāwhirimātea. Hence these traditions have been handed down:—“Ikatere, the father of things which inhabit the water, cried aloud to Tūtewehiwehi, ‘Ho, ho, let us all escape to the sea.’

“But Tūtewehiwehi shouted in answer, ‘Nay, nay, let us rather fly inland.’

“Then Ikatere warned him, saying, ‘Fly inland, then; and the fate of you and your race will be, that when they catch you, before you are cooked, they will singe off your scales over a lighted wisp of dry fern.’

“But Tūtewehiwehi answered him, saying, ‘Seek safety, then, in the sea; and the future fate of your race will be, that when they serve out little baskets of cooked vegetable food to each person, you will be laid upon the top of the food to give a relish to it.’

“Then without delay these two races of beings separated. The fish fled in confusion to the sea, the reptiles sought safety in the forests and scrubs.”

Tangaroa, enraged at some of his children deserting him, and, being sheltered by the god of the forests on dry land, has ever since waged war on his brother Tāne, who, in return, has waged war against him.

Hence, Tāne supplies the offspring of his brother Tūmatauenga with canoes, with spears and with fishhooks made from his trees, and with nets woven from his fibrous plants, that they may destroy the offspring of Tangaroa; whilst Tangaroa, in return, swallows up the offspring of Tāne, overwhelming canoes with the surges of his sea, swallowing up the lands, trees, and houses that are swept off by floods, and ever wastes away, with his lapping waves, the shores that confine him, that the giants of the forests may be washed down and swept out into his boundless ocean, that he may then swallow up the insects, the young birds and the various animals which inhabit them—all which things are recorded in the prayers which were offered to these gods.

Tāwhirimātea next rushed on to attack his brothers Rongomātāne and Haumia-tikitiki, the gods and progenitors of cultivated and uncultivated food; but Papa, to save these for her other children, caught them up, and hid them in a place of safety; and so well were these children of hers concealed by their mother Earth, that Tāwhirimātea sought for them in vain.

Tāwhirimātea having thus vanquished all his other brothers, next rushed against Tūmatauenga, to try his strength against his; he exerted all his force against him, but he could neither shake him or prevail against him. What did Tūmatauenga care for his brother’s wrath? he was the only one of the whole party of brothers who had planned the destruction of their parents, and had shown himself brave and fierce in war; his brothers had yielded at once before the tremendous assaults of Tāwhirimātea and his progeny—Tānemahuta and his offspring had been broken and torn in pieces—Tangaroa and his children had fled to the depths of the ocean or the recesses of the shore—Rongomātāne and Haumia-tikitiki had been hidden from him in the earth—but Tūmatauenga, or man, still stood erect and unshaken upon the breast of his mother Earth; and now at length the hearts of Heaven and of the god of storms became tranquil, and their passions were assuaged.

Tūmatauenga, or fierce man, having thus successfully resisted his brother, the god of hurricanes and storms, next took thought how he could turn upon his brothers and slay them, because they had not assisted him or fought bravely when Tāwhirimātea had attacked them to avenge the separation of their parents, and because they had left him alone to show his prowess in the fight. As yet death had no power over man. It was not until the birth of the children of Taranga and of Makeatutara, of Māuitaha, of Māuiroto, of Māuipae, of Māuiwaho, and of Māui-tikitiki-a-Taranga, the demigod who tried to deceive Hinenuitepō, that death had power over men. If that goddess had not been deceived by Māui-tikitiki, men would not have died, but would in that case have lived forever; it was from his deceiving Hinenuitepō that death obtained power over mankind, and penetrated to every part of the earth.

Tūmatauenga continued to reflect upon the cowardly manner in which his brothers had acted, in leaving him to show his courage alone, and he first sought some means of injuring Tānemahuta, because he had not come to aid him in his combat with Tāwhirimātea, and partly because he was aware that Tāne had had a numerous progeny, who were rapidly increasing, and might at last prove hostile to him, and injure him, so he began to collect leaves of the whanake tree, and twisted them into nooses, and when his work was ended, he went to the forest to put up his snares, and hung them up—ha! ha! the children of Tāne fell before him, none of them could any longer fly or move in safety.

Then he next determined to take revenge on his brother Tangaroa, who had also deserted him in the combat; so he sought for his offspring, and found them leaping or swimming in the water; then he cut many leaves from the flax plant, and netted nets with the flax, and dragged these, and hauled the children of Tangaroa ashore.

After that, he determined also to be revenged upon his brothers Rongomātāne and Haumia-tikitiki; he soon found them by their peculiar leaves, and he scraped into shape a wooden hoe, and plaited a basket, and dug in the earth and pulled up all kinds of plants with edible roots, and the plants which had been dug up withered in the sun.

Thus Tūmatauenga devoured all his brothers, and consumed the whole of them, in revenge for their having deserted him and left him to fight alone against Tāwhirimātea and Rangi.

When his brothers had all thus been overcome by Tū, he assumed several names, namely, Tūkāriri, Tūkanguha, Tūkataua, Tū-whakaheke-tangata, Tūmatawhāiti, and Tūmatauenga; he assumed one name for each of his attributes displayed in the victories over his brothers. Four of his brothers were entirely deposed by him, and became his food; but one of them, Tāwhirimātea, he could not vanquish or make common, by eating him for food, so he, the last born child of Heaven and Earth, was left as an enemy for man, and still, with a rage equal to that of man, this elder brother ever attacks him in storms and hurricanes, endeavouring to destroy him alike by sea and land.

Now the meanings of these names of the children of the Heaven and Earth are as follows:—

Tangaroa signifies fish of every kind; Rongomātāne signifies the sweet potato, and all vegetables cultivated as food; Haumia-tikitiki signifies fern root, and all kinds of food which grow wild; Tānemahuta signifies forests, the birds and insects which inhabit them, and all things fashioned from wood; Tāwhirimātea signifies winds and storms; and Tūmatauenga signifies man.

Four of his brothers having, as before stated, been made common, or articles of food, by Tūmatauenga, he assigned for each of them fitting incantations, that they might be abundant, and that he might easily obtain them.

Some incantations were proper to Tānemahuta, they were called Tāne.

Some incantations were for Tangaroa, they were called Tangaroa.

Some were for Rongomātāne, they were called Rongomātāne.

Some were for Haumia-tikitiki, they were called Haumia.

The reason that he sought these incantations was, that his brothers might be made common by him, and serve for his food. There were also incantations for Tāwhirimātea to cause favourable winds, and prayers to the vast Heaven for fair weather, as also for mother Earth that she might produce all things abundantly. But it was the great God that taught these prayers to man.

There were also many prayers and incantations composed for man, suited to the different times and circumstances of his life—prayers at the baptism of an infant; prayers for abundance of food, for wealth; prayers in illness; prayers to spirits, and for many other things.

The bursting forth of the wrathful fury of Tāwhirimātea against his brothers, was the cause of the disappearance of a great part of the dry land; during that contest a great part of mother Earth was submerged. The names of those beings of ancient days who submerged so large a portion of the earth were—Terrible-rain, Long-continued-rain, Fierce-hail-storms, and their progeny were, Mist, Heavy dew, and Light dew, and these together submerged the greater part of the earth, so that only a small portion of dry land projected above the sea.

From that time clear light increased upon the earth, and all the beings which were hidden between Rangi and Papa before they were separated, now multiplied upon the earth. The first beings begotten by Rangi and Papa were not like human beings; but Tūmatauenga bore the likeness of a man, as did all his brothers, as also did a Po, a Ao, a Kore, te Kimihanga and Rūnuku, and thus it continued until the times of Ngāinui and his generation, and of Whiro-te-tipua and his generation, and of Tiki-tawhito-ariki and his generation, and it has so continued to this day.

The children of Tūmatauenga were begotten on this earth, and they increased, and continued to multiply, until we reach at last the generation of Māuitaha, and of his brothers Māuiroto, Māuiwaho, Māuipae, and Māui-tikitiki-a-Taranga.

Up to this time the vast Heaven has still ever remained separated from his spouse the Earth. Yet their mutual love still continues—the soft warm sighs of her loving bosom still ever rise up to him, ascending from the woody mountains and valleys, and men call these mists; and the vast Heaven, as he mourns through the long nights his separation from his beloved, drops frequent tears upon her bosom, and men seeing these, term them dewdrops.

The Legend of Māui

One day Māui asked his brothers to tell him the place where their father and mother dwelt; he begged earnestly that they would make this known to him in order that he might go and visit the place where the two old people dwelt; and they replied to him, “We don’t know; how can we tell whether they dwell up above the earth, or down under the earth, or at a distance from us.”

Then he answered them, “Never mind, I think I’ll find them out;” and his brothers replied,

“Nonsense, how can you tell where they are—you, the last born of all of us, when we your elders have no knowledge where they are concealed from us; after you first appeared to us, and made yourself known to us and to our mother as our brother, you know that our mother used to come and sleep with us every night, and as soon as the day broke she was gone, and, lo, there was nobody but ourselves sleeping in the house, and this took place night after night, and how can we tell then where she went or where she lives?”

But he answered, “Very well, you stop here, and listen; by and by you will hear news of me.”

For he had found something out after he was discovered by his mother, by his relations, and by his brothers. They discovered him one night whilst they were all dancing in the great House of Assembly. Whilst his relations were all dancing there, they then found out who he was in this manner. For little Māui, the infant, crept into the house, and went and sat behind one of his brothers, and hid himself, so when their mother counted her children that they might stand up ready for the dance, she said—“One, that’s Māuitaha; two, that’s Māuiroto; three, that’s Māuipae; four, that’s Māuiwaho;” and then she saw another, and cried out, “Halloa, where did this fifth come from?”

Then little Māui, the infant, answered, “Ah, I’m your child too.”

Then the old woman counted them all over again, and said, “Oh, no, there ought to be only four of you; now for the first time I’ve seen you.” Then little Māui and his mother stood for a long time disputing about this in the very middle of the ranks of all the dancers.

At last she got angry, and cried out, “Come, you be off now, out of the house at once; you are no child of mine, you belong to someone else.”

Then little Māui spoke out quite boldly, and said, “Very well, I’d better be off then, for I suppose, as you say it, I must be the child of some other person; but indeed I did think I was your child when I said so, because I knew I was born at the side of the sea,3 and was thrown by you into the foam of the surf, after you had wrapped me up in a tuft of your hair, which you cut off for the purpose; then the seaweed formed and fashioned me,4 as caught in its long tangles the ever-heaving surges of the sea rolled me, folded as I was in them, from side to side; at length the breezes and squalls which blew from the ocean drifted me on shore again, and the soft jellyfish of the long sandy beaches rolled themselves round me to protect me; then again myriads of flies alighted on me to buzz about me and lay their eggs, that maggots might eat me, and flocks of birds collected round me to peck me to pieces, but at that moment appeared there also my great ancestor, Tama-nui-ki-te-rangi, and he saw the flies and the birds collected in clusters and flocks above the jellyfish, and the old man ran, as fast as he could, and stripped off the encircling jellyfish, and behold within there lay a human being; then he caught me up and carried me to his house, and he hung me up in the roof that I might feel the warm smoke and the heat of the fire, so I was saved alive by the kindness of that old man. At last I grew, and then I heard of the fame of the dancing of this great House of Assembly. It was that which brought me here. But from the time I was in your womb, I have heard the names of these your firstborn children, as you have been calling them over this very night, when I again heard you repeating them. In proof of this I will now recite your names to you, my brothers. You are Māuitaha, and you are Māuiroto, and you are Māuipae, and you are Māuiwaho, and as for me, I’m little Māui-the-baby, and here I am sitting before you.”

When his mother, Taranga, heard all this, she cried out, “You dear little child, you are indeed my last born, the son of my old age, therefore I now tell you your name shall be Māui-tikitiki-a-Taranga, or Māui-formed-in-the-topknot-of-Taranga,” and he was called by that name.

After the disputing which took place on that occasion, his mother, Taranga, called to her lastborn, “Come here, my child, and sleep with the mother who bore you that I may kiss you, and you may kiss me,” and her ran to sleep with his mother.

Then his elder brothers were jealous, and began to murmur about this to each other. “Well, indeed, our mother never asks us to go and sleep with her; yet we are the children she saw actually born, and about whose birth there is no doubt. When we were little things she nursed us, laying us down gently on the large soft mats she had spread out for us—then why does she not ask us now to sleep with her? when we were little things she was fond enough of us, but now we are grown older she never caresses us, or treats us kindly. But as for this little abortion, who can tell whether he was really nursed by the sea tangles or by whom, or whether he is not some other person’s child, and here he is now sleeping with our mother. Who would ever have believed that a little abortion, thrown into the ocean, would have come back to the world again a human being!—and now this little rogue has the impudence to call himself a relation of ours.”

Then the two elder brothers said to the two younger ones, “Never mind, let him be our dear brother; in the days of peace remember the proverb—when you are on friendly terms, settle your disputes in a friendly way—when you are at war, you must redress your injuries by violence. It is better for us, oh, brothers, to be kind to other people; these are the ways by which men gain influence in the world—by labouring for abundance of food to feed others—by collecting property to give to others, and by similar means by which you promote the good of others, so that peace spreads through the world. Let us take care that we are not like the children of Ranginui and of Papatūānuku, who turned over in their minds thoughts for slaying their parents; four of them consented, but Tāwhirimātea had little desire for this, for he loved his parents; but the rest of his brothers agreed to slay them; afterwards when Tāwhiri saw that the husband was separated far from his wife, then he thought what it was his duty to do, and he fought against his brothers. Thence sprang the cause which led Tūmatauenga to wage war against his brethren and his parents, and now at last this contest is carried on even between his own kindred, so that man fights against man. Therefore let us be careful not to foster divisions amongst ourselves, lest such wicked thoughts should finally turn us each against the other, and thus we should be like the children of Ranginui and of Papatūānuku.”

The two younger brothers, when they heard this, answered, “Yes, yes, oh, eldest brothers of ours, you are quite right; let our murmuring end here.”

It was now night; but early in the morning Taranga rose up, and suddenly, in a moment of time, she was gone from the house where her children were. As soon as they woke up they looked all about to no purpose, as they could not see her; the elder brothers knew she had left them, and were accustomed to it; but the little child was exceedingly vexed; yet he thought, I cannot see her, ’tis true, but perhaps she has only gone to prepare some food for us. No—no—she was off, far, far away.

Now at nightfall when their mother came back to them, her children were dancing and singing as usual. As soon as they had finished, she called to her last born, “Come here, my child, let us sleep together;” so they slept together; but as soon as day dawned, she disappeared; the little fellow now felt quite suspicious at such strange proceedings on the part of his mother every morning. But at last, upon another night, as he slept again with his mother, the rest of his brothers that night also sleeping with them, the little fellow crept out in the night and stole his mother’s apron, her belt, and clothes, and hid them; then he went and stopped up every crevice in the wooden window, and in the doorway, so that the light of the dawn might not shine into the house, and make his mother hurry to get up. But after he had done this, his little heart still felt very anxious and uneasy lest his mother should, in her impatience, rise in the darkness and defeat his plans. But the night dragged its slow length along without his mother moving; at last there came the faint light of early morn, so that at one end of a long house you could see the legs of the people sleeping at the other end of it, but his mother still slept on; then the sun rose up, and mounted far up above the horizon; now at last his mother moved, and began to think to herself, “What kind of night can this be to last so long?” and having thought thus, she dropped to sleep again. Again she awoke, and began to think to herself, but could not tell that it was broad daylight outside, as the window and every chink in the house were stopped closely up.

At last up she jumped; and finding herself quite naked, began to look for her clothes, and apron, but could find neither; then she ran and pulled out the things with which the chinks in the windows and doors were stopped up, and whilst doing so, oh, dear! oh, dear! there she saw the sun high up in the heavens; then she snatched up, as she ran off, the old clout of a flax cloak, with which the door of the house had been stopped up, and carried it off as her only covering; getting, at last, outside the house, she hurried away, crying at the thought of being so badly treated by her own children.

As soon as his mother got outside the house, little Māui jumped up, and kneeling upon his hands and knees peeped after her through the doorway into the bright light. Whilst he was watching her, the old woman reached down to a tuft of rushes, and snatching it up from the ground, dropped into a hole underneath it, and clapping the tuft of rushes in the hole again, as if it were its covering, so disappeared. Then little Māui jumped on his feet, and, as hard as he could go, ran out of the house, pulled up the tuft of rushes, and peeping down, discovered a beautiful open cave running quite deep into the earth.

He covered up the hole again and returned to the house, and waking up his brothers who were still sleeping, said, “Come, come, my brothers, rouse up, you have slept long enough; come, get up; here we are again cajoled by our mother.” Then his brothers made haste and got up; alas! alas! the sun was quite high up in the heavens.

The little Māui now asked his brothers again, “Where do you think the place is where our father and mother dwell?” and they answered,

“How should we know, we have never seen it; although we are Māuitaha, and Māuiroto, and Māuipae, and Māuiwaho, we have never seen the place; and do you think you can find that place which you are so anxious to see? What does it signify to you? Cannot you stop quietly with us? What do we care about our father, or about our mother? Did she feed us with food till we grew up to be men?—not a bit of it. Why, without doubt, Rangi, or the heaven, is our father, who kindly sent his offspring down to us; Hauwhenua, or gentle breezes, to cool the earth and young plants; and Haumaringiringi, or mists, to moisten them; and Haumarotoroto, or fine weather, to make them grow; and Tōuarangi, or rain, to water them; and Tomairangi, or dews, to nourish them; he gave these his offspring to cause our food to grow, and then Papatūānuku, or the earth, made her seeds to spring, and grow forth, and provide sustenance for her children in this long-continuing world.”

Little Māui then answered, “What you say is truly quite correct; but such thoughts and sayings would better become me than you, for in the foaming bubbles of the sea I was nursed and fed: it would please me better if you would think over and remember the time when you were nursed at your mother’s breast; it could not have been until after you had ceased to be nourished by her milk that you could have eaten the kinds of food you have mentioned; as for me, oh! my brothers, I have never partaken either of her milk or of her food; yet I love her, for this single reason alone—that I lay in her womb; and because I love her, I wish to know where is the place where she and my father dwell.”

His brothers felt quite surprised and pleased with their little brother when they heard him talk in this way, and when after a little time they had recovered from their amazement, they told him to try and find their father and mother. So he said he would go. It was a long time ago that he had finished his first labour, for when he first appeared to his relatives in their house of singing and dancing, he had on that occasion transformed himself into the likeness of all manner of birds, of every bird in the world, and yet no single form that he then assumed had pleased his brothers; but now when he showed himself to them, transformed into the semblance of a pigeon, his brothers said, “Ah! now indeed, oh, brother, you do look very well indeed, very beautiful, very beautiful, much more beautiful than you looked in any of the other forms which you assumed, and then changed from, when you first discovered yourself to us.”

What made him now look so well in the shape he had assumed was the belt of his mother, and her apron, which he had stolen from her while she was asleep in the house; for the very thing which looked so white upon the breast of the pigeon was his mother’s broad belt, and he also had on her little apron of burnished hair from the tail of a dog, and the fastening of her belt was what formed the beautiful black feathers on his throat. He had once changed himself into this form a long time ago, and now that he was going to look for his father and mother, and had quitted his brothers to transform himself into the likeness of a pigeon, he assumed exactly the same form as on the previous occasion, and when his brothers saw him thus again, they said, “Oh, brother! oh, brother! you do really look well indeed;” and when he sat upon the bough of a tree, oh, dear! he never moved, or jumped about from spray to spray, but sat quite still, cooing to himself, so that no one who had seen him could have helped thinking of the proverb—“A stupid pigeon sits on one bough, and jumps not from spray to spray.”

Early the next morning, he said to his brothers, as was first stated, “Now do you remain here, and you will hear something of me after I am gone; it is my great love for my parents that leads me to search for them; now listen to me, and then say whether or not my recent feats were not remarkable. For the fact of transforming oneself into birds can only be accomplished by a man who is skilled in magic, and yet here I, the youngest of you all, have assumed the form of all birds, and now, perhaps, after all, I shall quite lose my art, and become old and weakened in the long journey to the place where I am going.”

His brothers answered him thus:—“That might be indeed, if you were going on a warlike expedition, but, in truth, you are only going to look for those parents who we all so long to see, and if they are found by you, we shall ever after all dwell happily, our present sorrow will be ended, and we shall continually pass backwards and forwards between our dwelling place and theirs, paying them happy visits.”

He answered them, “It is certainly a very good cause which leads me to undertake this journey, and if, when reaching the place I am going to, I find everything agreeable and nice, then I shall, perhaps, be pleased with it, but if I find it a bad, disagreeable place, I shall be disgusted with it.”

They replied to him, “What you say is exceedingly true, depart then upon your journey, with your great knowledge and skill in magic.” Then their brother went into the wood, and came back to them again, looking just as if he were a real pigeon. His brothers were quite delighted, and they had no power left to do anything but admire him.

Then off he flew, until he came to the cave which his mother had run down into and he lifted up the tuft of rushes; then down he went and disappeared in the cave, and shut up its mouth again so as to hide the entrance; away he flew very fast indeed, and twice he dipped his wing, because the cave was so narrow; soon he reached nearly to the bottom of the cave, and flew along it; and again, because the cave was so narrow, he dips first one wing and then the other, but the cave now widened, and he dashed straight on.

At last he saw a party of people coming along under a grove of trees, they were manapau trees,5 and flying on, he perched upon the top of one of these trees, under which the people had seated themselves; and when he saw his mother lying down on the grass by the side of her husband, he guessed at once who they were, and he thought, “Ah! there sit my father and mother right under me;” and he soon heard their names, as they were called to by their friends who were sitting with them; then the pigeon hopped down, and perched on another spray a little lower, and it pecked off one of the berries of the tree and dropped it gently down, and hit the father with it on the forehead; and some of the party said,

“Was it a bird that threw that down?” but the father said,

“Oh no, it was only a berry that fell by chance.”

Then the pigeon again pecked off some of the berries from the tree, and threw them down with all its force, and struck both father and mother, so that he really hurt them; then they cried out, and the whole party jumped up and looked into the tree, and as the pigeon began to coo, they soon found out from the noise, where it was sitting amongst the leaves and branches, and the whole of them, the chiefs and common people alike, caught up stones to pelt the pigeon with, but they threw for a very long time without hitting it; at last the father tried to throw up at it; ah, he struck it, but Māui had himself contrived that he should be struck by the stone which his father threw; for, but by his own choice, no one could have hit him; he was struck exactly upon his left leg, and down he fell, and as he lay fluttering and struggling upon the ground, they all ran to catch him, but lo, the pigeon had turned into a man.

Then all those who saw him were frightened at his fierce glaring eyes, which were red as if painted with red ochre, and they said, “Oh, it is now no wonder that he so long sat still up in the tree; had he been a bird he would have flown off long before, but he is a man:” and some of them said,

“No, indeed, rather a god—just look at his form and appearance, the like has never been seen before, since Rangi and Papatūānuku were torn apart.”

Then Taranga said, “I used to see one who looked like this person every night when I went to visit my children, but what I saw then excelled what I see now; just listen to me. Once as I was wandering upon the seashore, I prematurely gave birth to one of my children, and I cut off the long tresses of my hair, and bound him up in them, and threw him into the foam of the sea, and after that he was found by his ancestor Tama-nui-ki-te-rangi;” and then she told his history nearly in the same words that Māui-the-infant had told it to herself and his brothers in their house, and having finished his history, Taranga ended her discourse to her husband and his friends.

Then his mother asked Māui, who was sitting near her, “Where do you come from? from the westward?” and he answered,

“No.”

“From the northeast then?”

“No.”

“From the southeast then?”

“No.”

“From the south then?”

“No.”

“Was it the wind which blows upon me, which brought you here to me then?”

When she asked this, he opened his mouth and answered, “Yes.”

And she cried out, “Oh, this then is indeed my child;” and she said, “Are you Māuitaha?”

He answered, “No.”

Then said she, “Are you Māui-tikitiki-o-Taranga?” and he answered,

“Yes.”

And she cried aloud, “This is indeed my child. By the winds and storms and wave-uplifting gales he was fashioned and became a human being; welcome, oh my child, welcome; by you shall hereafter be climbed the threshold of the house of your great ancestor Hinenuitepō, and death shall henceforth have no power over man.”

Then the lad was taken by his father to the water, to be baptized, and after the ceremony prayers were offered to make him sacred, and clean from all impurities; but when it was completed, his father Makeatutara felt greatly alarmed, because he remembered that he had, from mistake, hurriedly skipped over part of the prayers of the baptismal service, and of the services to purify Māui; he knew that the gods would be certain to punish this fault, by causing Māui to die, and his alarm and anxiety were therefore extreme. At nightfall they all went into his house.

Māui, after these things, returned to his brothers to tell them that he had found his parents, and to explain to them where they dwelt.

Shortly after Māui had thus returned to his brothers, he slew and carried off his first victim, who was the daughter of Marutewhareaitu; afterwards, by enchantments, he destroyed the crops of Marutewhareaitu, so that they all withered.

He then again paid a visit to his parents, and remained for some time with them, and whilst he was there he remarked that some of their people daily carried away a present of food for some person; at length, surprised at this, he one day asked them, “Who is that you are taking that present of food to?”

And the people who were going with it answered him, “It is for your ancestress, for Muri-ranga-whenua.”

He asked again, “Where does she dwell?”

They answered, “Yonder.”

Thereupon he says, “That will do; leave here the present of food, I will carry it to her myself.”

From that time the daily presents of food for his ancestress were carried by Māui himself; but he never took and gave them to her that she might eat them, but he quietly laid them by on one side, and this he did for many days. At last, Muri-ranga-whenua suspected that something wrong was going on, and the next time he came along the path carrying the present of food, the old chieftainess sniffed and sniffed until she thought she smelt something coming, and she was very much exasperated, and her stomach began to distend itself, that she might be ready to devour Māui as soon as he came there. Then she turned to the southward, and smelt and sniffed, but not a scent of anything reached her; then she turned round from the south to the north, by the east, with her nose up in the air sniffing and smelling to every point as she turned slowly round, but she could not detect the slightest scent of a human being, and almost thought that she must have been mistaken; but she made one more trial, and sniffed the breeze towards the westward. Ah! then the scent of a man came plainly to her, so she called aloud, “I know from the smell wafted here to me by the breeze that somebody is close to me,” and Māui murmured assent. Thus the old woman knew that he was a descendant of hers, and her stomach, which was quite large and distended, immediately began to shrink and contract itself again. If the smell of Māui had not been carried to her by the western breeze, undoubtedly she would have eaten him up.

When the stomach of Muri-ranga-whenua had quietly sunk down to its usual size, her voice was again heard saying, “Art thou Māui?” and he answered,

“Even so.”

Then she asked him, “Wherefore hast thou served thy old ancestress in this deceitful way?” and Māui answered,

“I was anxious that thy jawbone, by which the great enchantments can be wrought, should be given to me.”

She answered, “Take it, it has been reserved for thee.” And Māui took it, and having done so returned to the place where he and his brothers dwelt.

The young hero, Māui, had not been long at home with his brothers when he began to think that it was too soon after the rising of the sun that it became night again, and that the sun again sank down below the horizon, every day; in the same manner the days appeared too short to him. So at last, one day he said to his brothers, “Let us now catch the sun in a noose, so that we may compel him to move more slowly, in order that mankind may have long days to labour in to procure subsistence for themselves;” but they answered him,

“Why, no man could approach it on account of its warmth, and the fierceness of its heat;” but the young hero said to them,

“Have you not seen the multitude of things I have already achieved? Did not you see me change myself into the likeness of every bird of the forest; you and I equally had the aspect and appearance of men, yet I by my enchantments changed suddenly from the appearance of a man and became a bird, and then, continuing to change my form, I resembled this bird or that bird, one after the other, until I had by degrees transformed myself into every bird in the world, small or great; and did I not after all this again assume the form of a man? [This he did soon after he was born, and it was after that he snared the sun.] Therefore, as for that feat, oh, my brothers, the changing myself into birds, I accomplished it by enchantments, and I will by the same means accomplish also this other thing which I have in my mind.” When his brothers heard this, they consented on his persuasions to aid him in the conquest of the sun.

Then they began to spin and twist ropes to form a noose to catch the sun in, and in doing this they discovered the mode of plaiting flax into stout square-shaped ropes (tuamaka), and the manner of plaiting flat ropes (paraharaha), and of spinning round ropes; at last, they finished making all the ropes which they required. Then Māui took up his enchanted weapon, and he took his brothers with him, and they carried their provisions, ropes, and other things with them, in their hands. They travelled all night, and as soon as day broke, they halted in the desert, and hid themselves that they might not be seen by the sun; and at night they renewed their journey, and before dawn they halted, and hid themselves again; at length they got very far, very far, to the eastward, and came to the very edge of the place out of which the sun rises.

Then they set to work and built on each side of this place a long high wall of clay, with huts of boughs of trees at each end to hide themselves in; when these were finished, they made the loops of the noose, and the brothers of Māui then lay in wait on one side of the place out of which the sun rises, and Māui himself lay in wait upon the other side.

The young hero held in his hand his enchanted weapon, the jawbone of his ancestress—of Muri-ranga-whenua, and said to his brothers, “Mind now, keep yourselves hid, and do not go showing yourselves foolishly to the sun; if you do, you will frighten him; but wait patiently until his head and fore legs have got well into the snare, then I will shout out; haul away as hard as you can on the ropes on both sides, and then I’ll rush out and attack him, but do you keep your ropes tight for a good long time (while I attack him), until he is nearly dead, when we will let him go; but mind now, my brothers, do not let him move you to pity with his shrieks and screams.”

At last the sun came rising up out of his place, like a fire spreading far and wide over the mountains and forests; he rises up, his head passes through the noose, and it takes in more and more of his body, until his forepaws pass through; then are pulled tight the ropes, and the monster began to struggle and roll himself about, whilst the snare jerked backwards and forwards as he struggled. Ah! was not he held fast in the ropes of his enemies!

Then forth rushed that bold hero, Māui-tikitiki-o-Taranga, with his enchanted weapon. Alas! the sun screams aloud; he roars; Māui strikes him fiercely with many blows; they hold him for a long time, at last they let him go, and then weak from wounds the sun crept slowly along its course. Then was learnt by men the second name of the sun, for in its agony the sun screamed out, “Why am I thus smitten by you! oh, man! do you know what you are doing? Why should you wish to kill Tamanuiterā?” Thus was learnt his second name. At last they let him go. Oh, then, Tamanuiterā went very slowly and feebly on his course.

Māuitaha and his brothers, after this feat, returned again to their own house, and dwelt there, and dwelt there, and dwelt there; and after a long time his brothers went out fishing, whilst Māui-tikitiki-o-Taranga stopped idly at home doing nothing, although indeed he had to listen to the sulky grumblings of his wives and children, at his laziness in not catching fish for them. Then he called out to the women, “Never mind, O mothers, yourselves and your children need not fear. Have not I accomplished all things? and as for this little feat, this trifling work of getting food for you, do you think I cannot do that? certainly; if I go and get a fish for you, it will be one so large that when I bring it to land you will not be able to eat it all, and the sun will shine on it and make it putrid before it is consumed.” Then Māui snooded his enchanted fish hook, which was pointed with part of the jawbone of Muri-ranga-whenua; and when he had finished this, he twisted a stout fishing line to his hook.

His brothers in the meantime had arranged amongst themselves to make fast the lashings of the top sides of their canoe, in order to go out for a good day’s fishing. When all was made ready, they launched their canoe, and as soon as it was afloat Māui jumped into it, and his brothers, who were afraid of his enchantments, cried out, “Come, get you out again; we will not let you go with us; your magical arts will get us into some difficulty.” So he was compelled to remain ashore whilst his brothers paddled off, and when they reached the fishing ground they lay upon their paddles and fished, and after a good day’s sport returned ashore.

As soon as it was dark night Māui went down to the shore, got into his brothers’ canoe, and hid himself under the bottom boards of it. The next forenoon his brothers came down to the shore to go fishing again, and they had their canoe launched, and paddled out to sea without ever seeing Māui, who lay hid in the hollow of the canoe, under the bottom boards. When they got well out to sea, Māui crept out of his hiding place; as soon as his brothers saw him they said, “We had better get back to the shore again as fast as we can, since this fellow is on board;” but Māui, by his enchantments, stretched out the sea, so that the shore instantly became very distant from them, and by the time they could turn themselves round to look for it it was out of view.

Māui now said to them, “You had better let me go on with you; I shall at least be useful to bail the water out of our canoe.” To this they consented, and they paddled on again, and speedily arrived at the fishing ground where they used to fish upon former occasions.

As soon as they got there his brothers said, “Let us drop the anchor and fish here;” and he answered,

“Oh no, don’t; we had much better paddle a long distance further out.”

Upon this they paddle on, and paddle as far as the farthest fishing ground, a long way out to sea, and then his brothers at last say: “Come now, we must drop anchor and fish here.”

And he replies again: “Oh, the fish here are very fine I suppose, but we had much better pull right out to sea, and drop anchor there. If we go out to the place where I wish the anchor to be let go, before you can get a hook to the bottom, a fish will come following it back to the top of the water. You won’t have to stop there a longer time than you can wink your eye in, and our canoe will come back to shore full of fish.”

As soon as they hear this they paddle away–they paddle away until they reach a very long distance off, and his brothers then say: “We are now far enough.”

And he replies: “No, no, let us go out of sight of land, and when we have quite lost sight of it, then let the anchor be dropped, but let it be very far off, quite out in the open sea.”

At last they reach the open sea, and his brothers begin to fish. Lo, lo, they had hardly let their hooks down to the bottom, when they each pulled up a fish into the canoe. Twice only they let down their lines, when behold the canoe was filled up with the number of fish they had caught. Then his brothers said: “Oh, brother, let us all return now.”

And he answered them: “Stay a little; let me also throw my hook into the sea.”

And his brothers replied: “Where did you get a hook?”

And he answered: “Oh, never mind, I have a hook of my own.”

And his brothers replied again: “Make haste and throw it then.” And as he pulled it out from under his garments, the light flashed from the beautiful mother-of-pearl shell in the hollow of the hook, and his brothers saw that the hook was carved and ornamented with tufts of hair pulled from the tail of a dog, and it looked exceedingly beautiful. Māui then asked his brothers to give him a little bait to bait his hook with; but they replied: “We will not give you any of our bait.” So he doubled his fist and struck his nose violently, and the blood gushed out, and he smeared his hook with his own blood for bait, and then be cast it into the sea, and it sank down, and sank down, till it reached to the small carved figure on the roof of a house at the bottom of the sea, then passing by the figure, it descended along the outside carved rafters of the roof, and fell in at the doorway of the house, and the hook of Māui-tikitiki-o-Taranga caught first in the sill of the doorway.

Then, feeling something on his hook, he began to haul in his line. Ah! ah! there ascended on his hook the house of that old fellow Tonganui. It came up, up; and as it rose high, oh dear! how his hook was strained with its great weight; and there came gurgling up foam and bubbles from the earth, as of an island emerging from the water, and his brothers opened their mouths and cried aloud.

Māui all this time continued to chant forth his incantations amidst the murmurings and wailings of his brothers, who were weeping and lamenting, and saying, “See now, how he has brought us out into the open sea, that we may be upset in it, and devoured by the fish.”

Then he raised aloud his voice, and repeated the incantation called Hiki, which makes heavy weights light, in order that the fish he had caught might come up easily, and he chanted an incantation beginning thus:—

“Wherefore, then, oh! Tonganui,
Dost thou hold fast so obstinately below there?”

When he had finished his incantation, there floated up, hanging to his line, the fish of Māui, a portion of the earth, of Papatūānuku. Alas! alas! their canoe lay aground.

Māui then left his brothers with their canoe, and returned to the village; but before he went he said to them, “After I am gone, be courageous and patient; do not eat food until I return, and do not let our fish be cut up, but rather leave it until I have carried an offering to the gods from this great haul of fish, and until I have found a priest, that fitting prayers and sacrifices may be offered to the god, and the necessary rites be completed in order. We shall thus all be purified. I will then return, and we can cut up this fish in safety, and it shall be fairly portioned out to this one, and to that one, and to that other; and on my arrival you shall each have your due share of it, and return to your homes joyfully; and what we leave behind us will keep good, and that which we take away with us, returning, will be good too.”

Māui had hardly gone, after saying all this to them, than his brothers trampled under their feet the words they had heard him speak. They began at once to eat food, and to cut up the fish. When they did this, Māui had not yet arrived at the sacred place, in the presence of the god; had he previously reached the sacred place, the heart of the deity would have been appeased with the offering of a portion of the fish which had been caught by his disciples, and all the male and female deities would have partaken of their portions of the sacrifice. Alas! alas! those foolish, thoughtless brothers of his cut up the fish, and behold the gods turned with wrath upon them, on account of the fish which they had thus cut up without having made a fitting sacrifice. Then, indeed, the fish began to toss about his head from side to side, and to lash his tail, and the fins upon his back, and his lower jaw. Ah! ah! well done Tangaroa, it springs about on shore as briskly as if it was in the water.

That is the reason that this island is now so rough and uneven—that here stands a mountain—that there lies a plain—that here descends a vale—that there rises a cliff. If the brothers of Māui had not acted so deceitfully, the huge fish would have lain flat and smooth, and would have remained as a model for the rest of the earth, for the present generation of men. This, which has just been recounted, is the second evil which took place after the separation of Heaven from Earth.

Thus was dry land fished up by Māui after it had been hidden under the ocean by Rangi and Tāwhirimātea. It was with an enchanted fishhook that he drew it up, which was pointed with a bit of the jawbone of his ancestress Muri-ranga-whenua; and in the district of Heretaunga they still show the fishhook of Māui, which became a cape stretching far out into the sea, and now forms the southern extremity of Hawke’s Bay.

The hero now thought that he would extinguish and destroy the fires of his ancestress of Mahuika. So he got up in the night, and put out the fires left in the cooking houses of each family in the village; then, quite early in the morning, he called aloud to the servants, “I hunger, I hunger; quick, cook some food for me.” One of the servants thereupon ran as fast as he could to make up the fire to cook some food, but the fire was out; and as he ran round from house to house in the village to get a light he found every fire quite out—he could nowhere get a light.

When Māui’s mother heard this, she called out to the servants, and said, “Some of you repair to my great ancestress Mahuika; tell her that fire has been lost upon earth, and ask her to give some to the world again.” But the slaves were alarmed, and refused to obey the commands which their masters, the sacred old people, gave them, and they persisted in refusing to go, notwithstanding the old people repeatedly ordered them to do so.

At last Māui said to his mother, “Well, then, I will fetch down fire for the world; but which is the path by which I must go?”

And his parents, who knew the country well, said to him, “If you will go, follow that broad path that lies just before you there; and you will at last reach the dwelling of an ancestress of yours; and if she asks you who you are, you had better call out your name to her, then she will know you are a descendant of hers; but be cautious, and do not play any tricks with her, because we have heard that your deeds are greater than the deeds of men, and that you are fond of deceiving and injuring others, and perhaps you even now intend in many ways to deceive this old ancestress of yours, but pray be cautions not to do so.”

But Māui said, “No, I only want to bring fire away for men, that is all, and I’ll return again as soon as I can do that.” Then he went, and reached the abode of the goddess of fire; and he was so filled with wonder at what he saw, that for a long time he could say nothing. At last he said, “Oh, lady, would you rise up? Where is your fire kept? I have come to beg some from you.”

Then the aged lady rose right up, and said, “Au-e! who can this mortal be?” and he answered,

“It’s I.”

“Where do you come from?” said she; and he answered,

“I belong to this country.”

“You are not from this country,” said she; “your appearance is not like that of the inhabitants of this country. Do you come from the northeast?”

He replied, “No.”

“Do you come from the southeast?”

He replied, “No.”

“Are you from the south?”

He replied, “No.”

“Are you from the westward?”

He answered, “No.”

“Come you, then, from the direction of the wind which blows right upon me?” and he said,

“I do.”

“Oh, then,” cried she, “you are my grandchild; what do you want here?”

He answered, “I am come to beg fire from you.”

She replied, “Welcome, welcome; here then is fire for you.”

Then the aged woman pulled out her nail; and as she pulled it out fire flowed from it, and she gave it to him. And when Māui saw she had drawn out her nail to produce fire for him, he thought it a most wonderful thing! Then he went a short distance off, and when not very far from her he put the fire out, quite out; and returning to her again, said, “The light you gave me has gone out, give me another.” Then she caught hold of another nail, and pulled it out as a light for him; and he left her, and went a little on one side, and put that light out also; then he went back to her again, and said, “Oh, lady, give me, I pray you, another light, for the last one has also gone out.” And thus he went on and on, until she had pulled out all the nails of the fingers of one of her hands; and then she began with the other hand, until she had pulled all the fingernails out of that hand, too; and then she commenced upon the nails of her feet, and pulled them also out in the same manner, except the nail of one of her big toes.

Then the aged woman said to herself at last, “This fellow is surely playing tricks with me.”

Then out she pulled the one toe nail that she had left, and it, too, became fire, and as she dashed it down on the ground the whole place caught fire. And she cried out to Māui, “There, you have it all now!” And Māui ran off, and made a rush to escape, but the fire followed hard after him, close behind him; so he changed himself into a fleet-winged eagle, and flew with rapid flight, but the fire pursued, and almost caught him as he flew. Then the eagle dashed down into a pool of water; but when he got into the water he found that almost boiling: the forests just then also caught fire, so that he could not alight anywhere, and the earth and the sea both caught fire too, and Māui was very near perishing in the flames.

Then he called on his ancestors Tāwhirimātea and Whatiri-mātakataka, to send down an abundant supply of water, and he cried aloud, “Oh, let water be given to me to quench this fire which pursues after me;” and lo, then appeared squalls and gales, and Tāwhirimātea sent heavy lasting rain, and the fire was quenched; and before Mahuika could reach her place of shelter, she almost perished in the rain, and her shrieks and screams became as loud as those of Māui had been, when he was scorched by the pursuing fire; thus Māui ended this proceeding. In this manner was extinguished the fire of Mahuika, the goddess of fire; but before it was all lost, she saved a few sparks which she threw, to protect them, into the Kaikōmako, and a few other trees, where they are still cherished; hence, men yet use portions of the wood of these trees for fire when they require a light.

Then he returned to the village, and his mother and father said to him, “You heard when we warned you before you went, nevertheless you played tricks with your ancestress; it served you right that you got into such trouble;” and the young fellow answered his parents,

“Oh, what do I care for that? do you think that my perverse proceedings are put a stop to by this? Certainly not; I intend to go on in the same way forever, ever, ever.”

And his father answered him, “Yes, then you may just please yourself about living or dying; if you will only attend to me, you will save your life; if you do not attend to what I say, it will be worse for you, that is all.” As soon as this conversation was ended, off the young fellow went to find some more companions for his other scrapes.

Māui had a young sister named Hinauri, who was exceedingly beautiful; she married Irawaru. One day Māui and his brother-in-law went down to the sea to fish; Māui caught not a single fish with his hook, which had no barb to it, but as long as they went on fishing Māui observed that Irawaru continued catching plenty of fish; so he thought to himself, “Well, how is this? how does that fellow catch so many whilst I cannot catch one?” Just as he thought this, Irawaru had another bite, and up he pulls his line in haste, but it had got entangled with that of Māui, and Māui thinking he felt a fish pulling at his own line, drew it in quite delighted; but when he had hauled up a good deal of it, there were himself and his brother-in-law pulling in their lines in different directions, one drawing the line towards the bow of the canoe, the other towards the stern.

Māui, who was already provoked at his own ill luck, and the good luck of his brother-in-law, now called out quite angrily, “Come, let go my line, the fish is on my hook.”

But Irawaru answered, “No, it is not, it is on mine.”

Māui again called out very angrily, “Come, let go, I tell you it is on mine.”

Irawaru then slacked out his line, and let Māui pull in the fish; and as soon as he had hauled it into the canoe, Māui found that Irawaru was right, and that the fish was on his hook; when Irawaru saw this too, he called out, “Come now, let go my line and hook.”

Māui answered him, “Cannot you wait a minute, until I take the hook out of the fish.”

As soon as he got the hook out of the fish’s mouth, he looked at it, and saw that it was barbed; Māui, who was already exceedingly wrath with his brother-in-law, on observing this, thought he had no chance with his barbless hook of catching as many fish as his brother-in-law, so he said, “Don’t you think we had better go on shore now?”

Irawaru answered, “Very well, let us return to the land again.”

So they paddled back towards the land, and when they reached it, and were going to haul the canoe on the beach, Māui said to his brother-in-law, “Do you get under the outrigger of the canoe, and lift it up with your back;” so he got under it, and as soon as he had done so, Māui jumped on it, and pressed the whole weight of the canoe down upon him, and almost killed Irawaru.

When he was on the point of death, Māui trampled on his body, and lengthened his backbone, and by his enchantments drew it out into the form of a tail, and he transformed Irawaru into a dog, and fed him with dung.6

As soon as he had done this, Māui went back to his place of abode, just as if nothing unusual had taken place, and his young sister, who was watching for the return of her husband, as soon as she saw Māui coming, ran to him and asked him, saying, “Māui, where is your brother-in-law?”

Māui answered, “I left him at the canoe.”

But his young sister said, “Why did not you both come home together?” and Māui answered,

“He desired me to tell you that he wanted you to go down to the beach to help him carry up the fish; you had better go therefore; and if you do not see him, just call out; and if he does not answer you, why then call out in this way, Mo-i, mo-i, mo-i.”

Upon learning this, Hinauri hurried down to the beach as fast as she could, and not seeing her husband, she went about calling out his name, but no answer was made to her; she then called out as Māui had told her, “Mo-i, mo-i, mo-i, mo-i.”

Then Irawaru, who was running about in the bushes near there, in the form of a dog, at once recognised the voice of Hinauri, and answered, “Ao! ao! ao! ao-ao-o!” howling like a dog, and he followed her back to the village, frisking along and wagging his tail with pleasure at seeing her; and from him sprang all dogs, so that he is regarded as their progenitor, and all New Zealanders still call their dogs to them by the words, “Mo-i, mo-i, mo-i.”

Hinauri, when she saw that her husband had been changed into a dog, was quite distracted with grief, and wept bitterly the whole way as she went back to the village, and as soon as ever she got into her house she caught up an enchanted girdle which she had, and ran back to the sea with it, determined to destroy herself by throwing herself into the ocean, so that the dragons and monsters of the deep might devour her; when she reached the seashore, she sat down upon the rocks at the ocean’s very edge, and as she sat there she first lamented aloud her cruel fate, and repeated an incantation, and then threw herself into the sea, and the tide swept her off from the shore.

Māui now felt it necessary to leave the village where Irawaru had lived, so he returned to his parents, and when he had been with them for some time his father said to him one day, “Oh my son, I have heard from your mother and others that you are very valiant, and that you have succeeded in all feats that you have undertaken in your own country, whether they were small or great; but now that you have arrived in your father’s country, you will, perhaps, at last be overcome.”

Then Māui asked him, “What do you mean? what things are there that I can be vanquished by?”

And his father answered him, “By your great ancestress, by Hinenuitepō, who if you look, you may see flashing, and as it were opening and shutting there, where the horizon meets the sky.”

And Māui replied, “Lay aside such idle thoughts, and let us both fearlessly seek whether men are to die or live forever.”

And his father said, “My child, there had been an ill omen for us; when I was baptizing you, I omitted a portion of the fitting prayers, and that I know will be the cause of your perishing.”

Then Māui asked his father, “What is my ancestress Hinenuitepō like?” and he answered,

“What you see yonder shining so brightly red are her eyes, and her teeth are as sharp and hard as pieces of volcanic glass; her body is like that of a man; and as for the pupils of her eyes, they are jade (pounamu); and her hair is like the tangles of long seaweed, and her mouth is like that of a barracuda.”

Then his son answered him, “Do you think her strength is as great as that of Tamanuiterā, who consumes man, and the earth, and the very waters, by the fierceness of his heat? Was not the world formerly saved alive by the speed with which he travelled? If he had then, in the days of his full strength and power, gone as slowly as he does now, not a remnant of mankind would have been left living upon the earth, nor, indeed, would anything else have survived. But I laid hold of Tamanuiterā, and now he goes slowly, for I smote him again and again, so that he is now feeble, and long in travelling his course, and he now gives but very little heat, having been weakened by the blows of my enchanted weapon; I then, too, split him open in many places, and from the wounds so made, many rays now issue forth, and spread in all directions. So, also, I found the sea much larger than the earth; but by the power of the last born of your children, part of the earth was drawn up again, and dry land came forth.”

And his father answered him, “That is all very true, O my last born and the strength of my old age; well, then, be bold, go and visit your ancestress who flashes so fiercely there, where the edge of the horizon meets the sky.”

Hardly was this conversation concluded with his father, when the young hero went forth to look for companions to accompany him upon this enterprise; and so there came to him for companions the small robin, and the large robin, and the thrush, and the yellowhammer, and every kind of little bird, and the water-wagtail, and these all assembled together, and they all started with Māui in the evening, and arrived at the dwelling of Hinenuitepō, and found her fast asleep.

Then Māui addressed them all, and said, “My little friends, now if you see me creep into this old chieftainess, do not laugh at what you see. Nay, nay, do not, I pray you; but when I have got altogether inside her, and just as I am coming out of her mouth, then you may shout with laughter if you please.”

And his little friends, who were frightened at what they saw, replied, “O sir, you will certainly be killed.”

And he answered them, “If you burst out laughing at me as soon as I get inside her, you will wake her up, and she will certainly kill me at once; but if you do not laugh until I am quite inside her, and am on the point of coming out of her mouth, I shall live, and Hinenuitepō will die.”

And his little friends answered, “Go on then, brave sir, but pray take good care of yourself.”

Then the young hero started off, and twisted the strings of his weapon tightly round his wrist, and went into the house and stripped off his clothes, and the skin on his hips looked mottled and beautiful as that of a mackerel, from the tattoo marks cut on it with the chisel of Uetonga; and he entered the old chieftainess.

The little birds now screwed up their tiny cheeks, trying to suppress their laughter. At last the little Tīwakawaka could no longer keep it in, and laughed out loud, with its merry, cheerful note; this woke the old woman up; she opened her eyes, started up, and killed Māui.

Thus died this Māui we have spoken of; but before he died he had children, and sons were born to him; some of his descendants yet live in Hawaiki, some in Aotearoa (or in these islands); the greater part of his descendants remained in Hawaiki, but a few of them came here to Aotearoa. According to the traditions of the Māori,7 this was the cause of the introduction of death into the world (Hinenuitepō being the goddess of death: if Māui had passed safely through her, then no more human beings would have died, but death itself would have been destroyed), and we express it by saying, “The water-wagtail laughing at Māui-tikitiki-o-Taranga made Hinenuitepō squeeze him to death.” And we have this proverb, “Men make heirs, but death carries them off.”

Thus end the deeds of the son of Makeatutara and of Taranga, and the deeds of the sons of Ranginui and of Papatūānuku. This is the narrative about the generations of the ancestors of the inhabitants of New Zealand, and therefore we, the people of that country, preserve closely these traditions of old times, as a thing to be taught to the generations that come after us; so we repeat them in our prayers, and whenever we relate the deeds of the ancestors from whom each family is descended, and upon other similar occasions.

The Legend of Tāwhaki

Now quitting the deeds of Māui, let those of Tāwhaki be recounted. He was the son of Hema and Urutonga, and he had a younger brother named Karihi. Tāwhaki having taken Hinepiripiri as a wife, he went one day with his brothers-in-law to fish from a flat reef of rocks which ran far out into the sea. He had four brothers-in-law; two of these, when tired of fishing, returned towards their village, and he went with them; when they drew near the village, they attempted to murder him, and thinking they had slain him, buried him; they then went on their way to the village, and when they reached it their young sister said to them, “Why, where is your brother-in-law?” and they replied,

“Oh, they’re all fishing.”

So the young wife waited until the other two brothers came back, and when they reached the village they were questioned by their young sister, who asked, “Where is your brother-in-law?” and the two who had last arrived answered her,

“Why, the others all went home together long since.” So the young wife suspected that they had killed her husband, and ran off at once to search for him; and she found where he had been buried, and on examining him ascertained that he had only been insensible, and was not quite dead; then with great difficulty she got him upon her back, and carried him home to their house, and carefully washed his wounds, and staunched the bleeding.

Tāwhaki, when he had a little recovered, said to her, “Fetch some wood, and light a fire for me;” and as his wife was going to do this, he said to her,

“If you see any tall tree growing near you, fell it, and bring that with you for the fire.” His wife went, and saw a tree growing such as her husband spoke of; so she felled it, and put it upon her shoulder and brought it along with her; and when she reached the house, she put the whole tree upon the fire without chopping it into pieces; and it was this circumstance that led her to give the name of Wahieroa (long-log-of-wood-for-the-fire) to their first son, for Tāwhaki had told her to bring this log of wood home, and to call the child after it, that the duty of avenging his father’s wrongs might often be recalled to his mind.

As soon as Tāwhaki had recovered from his wounds, he left the place where his faithless brothers-in-law lived, and went away, taking all his own warriors and their families with him, and built a fortified village upon the top of a very lofty mountain, where he could easily protect himself; and they dwelt there. Then he called aloud to the gods, his ancestors, for revenge, and they let the floods of heaven descend, and the earth was overwhelmed by the waters, and all human beings perished; and the name given to that event was, “The overwhelming of the Mataaho,” and the whole of that race perished.

When this feat was accomplished, Tāwhaki and his younger brother next went to seek revenge for the death of their father. It was a different race who had carried off and slain the father of Tāwhaki; the name of that race was the Ponaturi. The country they inhabited was underneath the waters, but they had a large house on the dry land, to which they resorted to sleep at night; the name of that large house was “Mānawatāne.”

The Ponaturi had slain the father of Tāwhaki, and carried off his body, but his father’s wife they had carried off alive, and kept as a captive. Tāwhaki and his younger brother went upon their way to seek out that people and to revenge themselves upon them. At length they reached a place from whence they could see the house called Mānawatāne. At the time they arrived near the house there was no one there but their mother, who was sitting near the door; but the bones of their father were hung up inside the house, under its high sloping roof. The whole tribe of the Ponaturi were at that time in their country under the waters, but at the approach of night they would return to their house, to Mānawatāne.

Whilst Tāwhaki and his younger brother Karihi were coming along still at a great distance from the house, Tāwhaki began to repeat an incantation, and the bones of his father, Hema, felt the influence of this, and rattled loudly together where they hung under the roof of the house, for gladness, when they heard Tāwhaki repeating his incantations as he came along, for they knew that the hour of revenge had now come. As the brothers drew nearer, their mother, Urutonga, heard the voice of Tāwhaki, and she wept for gladness in front of her children, who came repeating incantations upon their way. And when they reached at length the house, they wept over their mother, over old Urutonga. When they had ended weeping, their mother said to them, “My children, hasten to return hence, or you will both certainly perish. The people who dwell here are a very fierce and savage race.”

Karihi said to her, “How low will the sun have descended when those you speak of return home?” and she replied,

“They will return here when the sun sinks beneath the ocean.”

Then Kahiri asked her, “What did they save you alive for?” and she answered,

“They saved me alive that I might watch for the rising of the dawn. They make me ever sit watching here at the door of the house; hence this people have named me ‘Tatau,’ or ‘the door;’ and they keep on throughout the night calling out to me, ‘Ho, Tatau, there! is it dawn yet?’ and then I call out in answer, ‘No, no; it is deep night, it is lasting night, it is still night. Compose yourselves to sleep, sleep on.’ ”

Karihi then said to his mother, “Cannot we hide ourselves somewhere here?”

Their mother answered, “You had better return; you cannot hide yourselves here, the scent of you will be perceived by them.”

“But,” said Karihi, “we will hide ourselves away in the thick thatch of the house.”

Their mother, however, answered, “ ’Tis of no use, you cannot hide yourselves there.”

All this time Tāwhaki sat quite silent; but Karihi said, “We will hide ourselves here, for we know incantations which will render us invisible to all.”

On hearing this, their mother consented to their remaining, and attempting to avenge their father’s death. So they climbed up to the ridgepole of the house, upon the outside of the roof, and made holes in the thick layers of reeds which formed the thatch of the roof, and crept into them and covered themselves up; and their mother called to them, saying, “When it draws near dawn, come down again, and stop up every chink in the house, so that no single ray of light may shine in.”

At length the day closed, and the sun sank below the horizon, and the whole of that strange tribe left the water in a body, and ascended to the dry land; and, according to their custom from time immemorial, they sent one of their number in front of them, that he might carefully examine the road, and see that there were no hidden foes lying in wait for them either on the way or in their house. As soon as this scout arrived at the threshold of the house, he perceived the scent of Tāwhaki and Karihi; so he lifted up his nose and turned sniffing all round the inside of the house. As he turned about, he was on the point of discovering that strangers were hidden there, when the rest of the tribe (whom long security had made careless) came hurrying on, and crowding into the house in thousands, so that from the denseness of the crowd the scent of the strange men was quite lost. The Ponaturi then stowed themselves away in the house until it was entirely filled up with them, and by degrees they arranged themselves in convenient places, and at length all fell fast asleep.

At midnight Tāwhaki and Karihi stole down from the roof of the house, and found that their mother had crept out of the door to meet them, so they sat at the doorway whispering together.

Karihi then asked his mother, “Which is the best way for us to destroy these people who are sleeping here?”

And their mother answered, “You had better let the sun kill them, its rays will destroy them.”

Having said this, Tatau crept into the house again; presently an old man of the Ponaturi called out to her, “Ho, Tatau, Tatau, there; is it dawn yet?”

And she answered, “No, no, it is deep night—it is lasting night; ’tis still night; sleep soundly, sleep on.”

When it was very near dawn, Tatau whispered to her children, who were still sitting just outside the door of the house, “See that every chink in the doorway and window is stopped, so that not a ray of light can penetrate here.”

Presently another old man of the Ponaturi called out again, “Ho, Tatau there, is not it near dawn yet?”

And she answered, “No, no, it is night; it is lasting night; ’tis still night; sleep soundly, sleep on.”

This was the second time that Tatau had thus called out to them.

At last dawn had broken—at last the sun had shone brightly upon the earth, and rose high in the heavens; and the old man again called out, “Ho, Tatau there; is not it dawn yet?”

And she answered, “Yes.” And then she called out to her children, “Be quick, pull out the things with which you have stopped up the window and the door.”

So they pulled them out, and the bright rays of the sun came streaming into the house, and the whole of the Ponaturi perished before the light; they perished not by the hand of man, but withered before the sun’s rays.8

When the Ponaturi had been all destroyed, Tāwhaki and Karihi carefully took down their father’s bones from the roof of the house, and burnt the house with fire, together with the bodies of all those who were in it, and who had perished, scorched by the bright rays of the sun; they then returned again to their own country, taking with them their mother, and carefully carrying the bones of their father.

The fame of Tāwhaki’s courage in thus destroying the race of Ponaturi, and a report also of his manly beauty, chanced to reach the ears of a young maiden of the heavenly race who live above in the skies; so one night she descended from the heavens to visit Tāwhaki, and to judge for herself whether these reports were true. She found him lying sound asleep, and after gazing on him for some time, she stole to his side and laid herself down by him. He, when disturbed by her, thought that it was only some female of this lower world, and slept again; but before dawn the young girl stole away again from his side, and ascended once more to the heavens. In the early morning Tāwhaki awoke and felt all over his sleeping place with both his hands, but in vain, he could nowhere find the young girl.

From that time Tangotango,9 the girl of the heavenly race, stole every night to the side of Tāwhaki, and lo, in the morning she was gone, until she found that she had conceived a child, who was afterwards named Arahuta; then full of love for Tāwhaki, she disclosed herself fully to him and lived constantly in this world with him, deserting for his sake her friends above; and he discovered that she who had so loved him belonged to the race whose home is in the heavens.

Whilst thus living with him, this girl of the heavenly race, his second wife, said to him, “Oh, Tāwhaki, if our baby so shortly now to be born should prove a son, I will wash the little thing before it is baptized; but if it should be a little girl then you shall wash it.”

When the time came Tangotango had a little girl, and before it was baptized Tāwhaki took it to a spring to wash it, and afterwards held it away from him as if it smelt badly, and said, “Faugh, how badly the little thing smells.” Then Tangotango, when she heard this said of her own dear little baby, began to sob and cry bitterly, and at last rose up from her place with her child, and began to take flight towards the sky, but she paused for one minute with one foot resting upon the carved figure at the end of the ridgepole of the house above the door. Then Tāwhaki rushed forward, and springing up tried to catch hold of his young wife, but missing her, he entreatingly besought her, “Mother of my child, oh return once more to me!”

But she in reply called down to him, “No, no, I shall now never return to you again.”

Tāwhaki once more called up to her, “At least, then, leave me some remembrance of you.”

Then his young wife called down to him, “These are my parting words of remembrance to you. Take care that you lay not hold with your hands of the loose root of the creeper, which, dropping from aloft, sways to and fro in the air; but rather lay fast hold on that which, hanging down from on high, has again struck its fibres into the earth.” Then she floated up into the air, and vanished from his sight.

Tāwhaki remained plunged in grief, for his heart was torn by regrets for his wife and his little girl. One moon had waned after her departure, when Tāwhaki, unable longer to endure such sufferings, called out to his younger brother, to Karihi, saying, “Oh, brother, shall we go and search for my little girl?”

And Karihi consented, saying, “Yes, let us go.” So they departed, taking two slaves with them as companions for their journey.

When they reached the pathway along which they intended to travel, Tāwhaki said to the two slaves who were accompanying himself and his brother, “You being unclean or unconsecrated persons, must be careful when we come to the place where the road passes the fortress of Tōngāmeha, not to look up at it for it is enchanted, and some evil will befall you if you do.” They then went along the road, and when they came to the place mentioned by Tāwhaki, one of the slaves looked up at the fortress, and his eye was immediately torn out by the magical arts of Tōngāmeha, and he perished. Tāwhaki and Karihi then went upon the road, accompanied by only one slave. They at last reached the spot where the ends of the tendrils which hung down from heaven reached the earth, and they there found an old ancestress of theirs, who was quite blind, and whose name was Matakerepō. She was appointed to take care of the tendrils, and she sat at the place where they touched the earth, and held the ends of one of them in her hands.

This old lady was at the moment employed in counting some taro roots, which she was about to have cooked, and as she was blind she was not aware of the strangers who stole quietly and silently up to her. There were ten taro roots lying in a heap before her. She began to count them, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Just at this moment Tāwhaki quietly slipped away the tenth; the old lady felt about everywhere for it, but she could not find it. She thought she must have made some mistake, and so began to count her taro roots over again very carefully, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Just then Tāwhaki had slipped away the ninth. She was now quite surprised, so she counted them again quite slowly, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight; and as she could not find the two that were missing, she at last guessed that somebody was playing a trick upon her, so she pulled her weapon out, which she always sat upon, to keep it safe, and standing up turned round, feeling about her as she moved, to try if she could find Tāwhaki and Karihi; but they very gently stooped down to the ground and lay close there, so that her weapon passed over them, and she could not feel anybody; when she had thus swept her weapon all round her, she sat down and put it under her again. Karihi then struck her a blow upon the face, and she, quite frightened, threw up her hands to her face, pressing them on the place where she had been struck, and crying out, “Oh! who did that?” Tāwhaki then touched both her eyes, and, lo, she was at once restored to sight, and saw quite plainly, and she knew her grandchildren and wept over them.

When the old lady had finished weeping over them, she asked, “Where are you going to?” and Tāwhaki answered,

“I go to seek my little girl.”

She replied, “But where is she?”

He answered, “Above there, in the skies.”

Then she replied, “But what made her go to the skies?” and Tāwhaki answered,

“Her mother came from heaven. She was the daughter of Whatitiri-mātakataka.”

The old lady then pointed to the tendrils, and said to them, “Up there, then, lies your road; but do not begin the ascent so late in the day; wait until tomorrow, for the morning, and then commence to climb up.”

He consented to follow this good advice, and called out to his slave, “Cook some food for us.” The slave began at once to cook food, and when it was dressed, they all partook of it, and slept there that night.

At the first peep of dawn Tāwhaki called out to his slave, “Cook some food for us, that we may have strength to undergo the fatigues of this great journey;” and when their meal was finished, Tāwhaki took his slave, and presented him to Matakerepō, as an acknowledgement of her great kindness to them.

His old ancestress then called out to him, as he was starting, “There lies the ascent before you; lay fast hold of the tendrils with your hands, and climb on; but when you get midway between heaven and earth, take care not to look down upon this lower world again, lest you become giddy, and fall down. Take care, also, that you do not by mistake lay hold of a tendril which swings loose; but rather lay hold of one which, hanging down from above, has again firmly struck root into the earth.”

Just at that moment Karihi made a spring at the tendrils, to catch them, and by mistake caught hold of a loose one, and away he swung to the very edge of the horizon, but a blast of wind blew forth from thence, and drove him back to the other side of the skies; on reaching that point, another strong land wind swept him right up heavenwards, and down he was blown again by the currents of air from above: then just as he reached near the earth again, Tāwhaki called out. “Now, my brother, loose your hands; now is the time!” and he did so, and, lo, he stood upon the earth once more; and the two brothers wept together over Karihi’s narrow escape from destruction. And when they had ceased lamenting, Tāwhaki, who was alarmed lest any disaster should overtake his younger brother, said to him, “It is my desire that you should return home to take care of our families and our dependants.” Thereupon Karihi at once returned to the village of their tribe, as his eldest brother directed him.

Tāwhaki now began to climb the ascent to heaven, and his old ancestress, Matakerepō, called out to him as he went up, “Hold fast, my child; let your hands hold tight.” And Tāwhaki made use of, and kept on repeating, a powerful incantation as he climbed up to the heavens, to preserve him from the dangers of that difficult and terrible road.

At length he reached the heavens, and pulled himself up into them, and then by enchantments he disguised himself, and changed his handsome and noble appearance, and assumed the likeness of a very ugly old man; and he followed the road he had at first struck upon, and entered a dense forest into which it ran, and still followed it until he came to a place in the forest where his brothers-in-law, with a party of their people, were hewing canoes from the trunks of trees; and they saw him, and little thinking who he was, called out, “Here’s an old fellow will make a nice slave for us.” But Tāwhaki went quietly on, and when he reached them he sat down with the people who were working at the canoes.

It now drew near evening, and his brothers-in-law finished their work, and called out to him, “Ho! old fellow there! you just carry these heavy axes home for us, will you?”10 He at once consented to do this, and they gave him the axes. The old man then said to them, “You go on in front; do not mind; I am old and heavy laden; I cannot travel fast.” So they started off, the old man following slowly behind. When his brothers-in-law and their people were all out of sight, he turned back to the canoe, and taking an axe just adzed the canoe rapidly along from the bow to the stern, and lo, one side of the canoe was finished. Then he took the adze again, and ran it rapidly along the other side of the canoe, from the bow to the stern, and lo, that side also was beautifully finished.

He then walked quietly along the road again, like an old man, carrying the axes with him, and went on for some time without seeing anything; but when he drew near the village, he found two women from the village in the forest, gathering firewood, and as soon as they saw him, one of them observed to her companion, “I say, here is a curious-looking old fellow, is he not?” and her companion exclaimed,

“He shall be our slave;” to which the first answered,

“Make him carry the firewood for us, then.” So they took Tāwhaki, and laid a load of firewood upon his back, and made him carry that as well as the axes. So was this mighty chief treated as a slave even by female slaves.

When they all reached the village, the two women called out, “We’ve caught an old man for a slave.”

Then Tangotango exclaimed in reply, “That’s right; bring him along with you then. He’ll do for all of us.” Little did his wife Tangotango think that the slave they were so insulting, and whom she was talking about in such a way, was her own husband, Tāwhaki.

When Tāwhaki saw Tangotango sitting at a fireplace near the upper end of the house, with their little girl, he went straight up to the place, and all the persons present tried to stop him, calling out, “Ho! ho! take care what you are doing. Do not go there; you will become tapued from sitting near Tangotango.” But the old man, without minding them, went rapidly straight on, and carried his load of firewood right up to the very fire of Tangotango.

Then they all said, “There the old fellow is tapu; it is his own fault.” But Tangotango had not the least idea that this was Tāwhaki; and yet there were her husband and herself seated, the one upon the one side, the other upon the opposite side, of the very same fire.

They all stopped in the house until the sun rose next morning; then at daybreak his brothers-in-law called out to him, “Halloa, old man, you bring the axes along, do you hear?” So the old man took up the axes, and started with them; and they all went off together to the forest, to work at dubbing out their canoes. When they reached them, and the brothers-in-law saw the canoe which Tāwhaki had worked at, they looked at it with astonishment, saying, “Why, the canoe is not at all as we left it; who can have been working at it?” At last, when their wonder was somewhat abated, they all sat down and set to work again to dub out another canoe, and worked until evening, when they again called out to the old man, as on the previous one. “Halloa, old fellow, come here, and carry the axes back to the village again.”

As before, he said, “Yes;” and when they started, he remained behind; and after the others were all out of sight he took an axe, and began again to adze away at the canoe they had been working at; and having finished his work, he returned again to the village, and once more walked straight up to the fire of Tangotango, and remained there until the sun rose upon the following morning.

When they were all going at early dawn to work at their canoes as usual, they again called out to Tāwhaki, “Halloa, old man, just bring these axes along with you;” and the old man went patiently and silently along with them, carrying the axes on his shoulder. When they reached the canoes they were about to work at, the brothers-in-law were quite astonished on seeing it, and shouted out, “Why, here again, this canoe, too, is not at all as it was when we left it; who can have been at work at it?” Having wondered at this for some time, they at length sat down and set to again to dub out another canoe, and laboured away until evening, when a thought came into their minds that they would hide themselves in the forest, and wait to see who it was came every evening to work at their canoe; and Tāwhaki overheard them arranging this plan.

They therefore started as if they were going home, and when they had got a little way they turned off the path on one side, and hid themselves in the thick clumps of bushes, in a place from whence they could see the canoes. Then Tāwhaki, going a little way back into the forest, stripped off his old cloaks, and threw them on one side, and then repeating the necessary incantations he put off his disguise, and took again his own appearance, and made himself look noble and handsome, and commenced his work at the canoe. Then his brothers-in-law, when they saw him so employed, said one to another, “Ah, that must be the old man whom we made a slave of, who is working away at our canoe.” But again they called to one another and said, “Come here, come here, just watch; why he is not in the least like that old man.” Then they said amongst themselves, “This must be a demigod;” and, without showing themselves to him, they ran off to the village, and as soon as they reached it they asked their sister Tangotango to describe her husband for them; and she described his appearance as well as she could, representing him just like the man they had seen: and they said to her, “Yes, that must be he; he is exactly like him you have described to us.” Their sister replied, “Then that chief must certainly be your brother-in-law.”

Just at this moment Tāwhaki reappeared at the village, having again disguised himself, and changed his appearance into that of an ugly old man. But Tangotango immediately questioned him, saying, “Now tell me, who are you?” Tāwhaki made no reply, but walked on straight towards her. She asked him again, “Tell me, are you Tāwhaki?”

He murmured “Humph” in assent, still walking on until he reached the side of his wife, and then he snatched up his little daughter, and, holding her fast in his arms, pressed her to his heart. The persons present all rushed out of the courtyards, for the whole place was made tapu by Tāwhaki, and murmurs of gratification and surprise arose from the people upon every side at the splendour of his appearance, for in the days when he had been amongst them as an old man his figure was very different from the resplendent aspect which he presented on this day.

Then he retired to rest with his wife, and said to her, “I came here that our little daughter might be made to undergo the ceremonies usual for the children of nobles, to secure them good fortune and happiness in this life;” and Tangotango consented.

When in the morning the sun arose, they broke out an opening through the end of the house opposite to the door, that the little girl’s rank might be seen by her being carried out that way instead of through the usual entrance to the house; and they repeated the prescribed prayers when she was carried through the wall out of the house.

The prayers and incantations being finished, lightnings flashed from the armpits of Tāwhaki; then they carried the little girl to the water, and plunged her into it, and repeated a baptismal incantation over her.11

The Legend of Rupe

His Ascent Into Heaven

We left Hinauri floating out into the ocean;12 we now return to her adventures. For many months she floated through the sea, and was at last thrown up by the surf on the beach at a place named Wairarawa; she was there found, lying as if dead, upon the sandy shore, by two brothers named Ihuatamai and Ihuwareware; her body was in many parts overgrown with seaweed and barnacles, from the length of time she had been in the water, but they could still see some traces of her beauty, and pitying the young girl, they lifted her up in their arms, and carried her home to their house, and laid her down carefully by the side of a fire, and scraped off very gently the seaweed and barnacles from her body, and thus by degrees restored her.

When she had quite recovered, Ihuatamai and Ihuwareware looked upon her with pleasure, and took her as a wife between them both; they then asked her to tell them who she was, and what was her name; this she did not disclose to them, but she changed her name, and called herself Ihungarupaea, or the Stranded-log-of-timber.

After she had lived with these two brothers for a long time, Ihuwareware went to pay a visit to his superior chief, Tinirau, and to relate the adventures which had happened; and when Tinirau heard all that had taken place, he went to bring away the young stranger as a wife for himself, and she was given up to him; but before she was so given to him, she had conceived a child by Ihuatamai, and when she went to live with Tinirau it was near the time when the child should be born.

Tinirau took her home with him to his residence on an island called Motutapu: he had two other wives living there—they were daughters of Mangamanga-i-atua, and their names were Harataunga and Horotata. Now, when these two women saw the young stranger coming along in their husband’s company, as if she was his wife, they could not endure it, and they abused Hinauri on account of her conduct with their husband; at last they proceeded so far as to attempt to strike her, and to kill her, and they cursed her bitterly. When they treated her in this manner the heart of Hinauri became gloomy with grief and mortification, so she began to utter incantations against them, and repeated one so powerful that hardly had she finished it when the two women fell flat on the ground with the soles of their feet projecting upwards, and lay quite dead upon the earth, and her husband was thus left free for her alone.

All this time Hinauri was lost to her friends and home, and her young brother Māuimua, afterwards called Rupe, could do nothing but think of her; and excessive love for his sister, and sorrow at her departure, so harassed him, that he said he could no longer remain at rest, but that he must go and seek for his sister.

So he departed upon this undertaking, and visited every place he could think of without missing one of them, yet he could nowhere find his sister; at last, Rupe thought he would ascend to the heavens to consult his great ancestor Rehua, who dwelt there at a place named Te Pūtahi-nui-o-Rehua, and in fulfilment of this design he began his ascent to the heavenly regions.

Rupe continued his ascent, seeking everywhere hastily for Rehua; at last, he reached a place where people were dwelling, and when he saw them, he spoke to them, saying, “Are the heavens above this inhabited?” and the people dwelling there answered him,

“They are inhabited.”

And he asked them, “Can I reach those heavens?” and they replied,

“You cannot reach them, the heavens above these are those the boundaries of which were fixed by Tāne.”

But Rupe forced a way up through those heavens, and got above them, and found an inhabited place; and he asked the inhabitants of it, saying “Are the heavens above these inhabited?” and the people answered him,

“They are inhabited.”

And he again asked, “Do you think I can reach them?” and they replied,

“No, you will not be able to reach them, those heavens were fixed there by Tāne.”

Rupe, however, forced a way through those heavens too, and thus he continued to do until he reached the tenth heaven, and there he found the abode of Rehua. When Rehua saw a stranger approaching, he went forward and gave him the usual welcome, lamenting over him; Rehua made his lamentation without knowing who the stranger was, but Rupe in his lament made use of prayers by which he enabled Rehua to guess who he was.

When they had each ended their lamentation, Rehua called to his servants, “Light a fire, and get everything ready for cooking food.”

The slaves soon made the fire burn up brightly, and brought hollow calabashes, all ready to have food placed in them, and laid them down before Rehua. All this time Rupe was wondering whence the food was to come from with which the calabashes, which the slaves had brought, were to be filled; but presently he observed that Rehua was slowly loosening the thick bands which enveloped his locks around and upon the top of his head; and when his long locks all floated loosely, he shook the dense masses of his hair, and forth from them came flying flocks of the Tui birds, which had been nestling there, feeding upon insects; and as they flew forth, the slaves caught and killed them, and filled the calabashes with them, and took them to the fire, and put them on to cook, and when they were done, they carried them and laid them before Rupe as a present, and then placed them beside him that he might eat, and Rehua requested him to eat food, but Rupe answered him, “Nay, but I cannot eat this food; I saw these birds loosened and take wing from thy locks; who would dare to eat birds that had fed upon insects in thy sacred head?” For the reasons he thus stated, Rupe feared that man of ancient days, and the calabashes still stood near him untouched.

At last, Rupe ventured to ask Rehua, saying, “O Rehua, has a confused murmur of voices from the world below reached you upon any subject regarding which I am interested?”

And Rehua answered him, “Yes, such a murmuring of distant voices has reached me from the island of Motutapu in the world below these.”

When Rupe heard this, he immediately by his enchantments changed himself into a pigeon, and took flight downwards towards the island of Motutapu; on, on he flew, until he reached the island, and the dwelling of Tinirau, and then he alighted right upon the windowsill of his house. Some of Tinirau’s people saw him and exclaimed, “Ha! ha! there’s a bird, there’s a bird;” whilst some called out, “Make haste, spear him, spear him;” and one threw a spear at him, but he turned it aside with his bill, and it passed on one side of him, and struck the piece of wood on which he was sitting, and the spear was broken. Then they saw that it was no use to try to spear the bird, so they made a noose, and endeavoured to slip it gently over his head, but he turned his head on one side, and they found that they could not snare him.

His young sister now suspected something, so she said to the people who were trying to kill or snare the bird, “Leave the bird quiet for a minute until I look at it;” and when she had looked well at it, she knew that it was her brother, so she asked him, saying, “What is the cause which has made you thus come here?” and the pigeon immediately began to open and shut its little bill, as if it was trying to speak. His young sister now called out to Tinirau, “Oh, husband, here is your brother-in-law;” and her husband said in reply,

“What is his name?” and she answered,

“It is my brother Rupe.” It happened that upon this very day Hinauri’s little child was born, then Rupe repeated this form of greeting to his sister, the name of which is Toetoetu:—

“Hinauri,
Hinauri is the sister,
And Rupe is her brother,
But how came he here?
Came he by travelling on the earth,
Or came he through the air?
Let your path be through the air.”

As soon as Rupe had ceased his lamentation of welcome to his sister, she commenced hers, and answered him, saying:—

“Rupe is the brother,
And Hina is his young sister,
But how came he here?
Came he by travelling on the earth,
Or came he through the air?
Let your path be now upwards through the air
To Rehua.”

Hardly had his young sister finished repeating this poem, before Rupe had caught her up with her newborn baby: in a moment they were gone. Thus the brother and sister departed together, with the infant, carrying with them the placenta to bury it with the usual rites; and they ascended up to Rehua, and as they passed through the air, the placenta was accidentally dropped, and falling into the sea, was devoured by a shark, and this circumstance was what caused the multitude of large eggs which are now found in the inside of the shark.

At length the brother and sister arrived at the dwelling place of Rehua, which was called Te Pūtahi-nui-o-Rehua. The old man was unable to keep his courtyard clean for himself, and his people neglected to do so from idleness; thus it was left in a very filthy state. Rupe, who was displeased at seeing this, one day said to Rehua, “Oh, Rehua, they leave this courtyard of yours in a very filthy state;” and then he added, “Your people are such a set of lazy rogues, that if every mess of dirt was a lizard, I doubt if they could even take the trouble to touch its tail to make it run away,” and this saying passed into a proverb.

At last, Rupe thought he could clean and beautify, in some respects, Rehua’s dwelling for him, so he made two wooden shovels for his work, one of which he called Tahitahia, and the other Rakerakea, and with them he quite cleansed and purified Rehua’s courtyard. He then added a building to Rehua’s dwelling, but fixing one of the beams of it badly, Rehua’s son, Kaitangata, was one day killed from hanging on to this beam, which giving way and springing back, he was thrown down and died, and his blood running about over part of the heavens, stained them, and formed what we now call a ruddiness in the sky; when, therefore, a red and ruddy tinge is seen in the heavens, men say, “Ah! Kaitangata stained the heavens with his blood.”13

Rupe’s first name was Māuimua; it was after he was transformed into a bird that he took the name of Rupe.

The Legend of Kae’s Theft of the Whale

Soon after Tūhuruhuru was born, Tinirau endeavoured to find a skilful magician, who might perform the necessary enchantments and incantations to render the child a fortunate and successful warrior, and Kae was the name of the old magician, whom some of his friends brought to him for this purpose. In due time Kae arrived at the village where Tinirau lived, and he performed the proper enchantments with fitting ceremonies over the infant.

When all these things had been rightly concluded, Tinirau gave a signal to a pet whale that he had tamed, to come on shore; this whale’s name was Tutunui. When it knew that its master wanted it, it left the ocean in which it was sporting about, and came to the shore, and its master laid hold of it, and cut a slice of its flesh off to make a feast for the old magician, and he cooked it, and gave a portion of it to Kae, who found it very savoury, and praised the dish very much.

Shortly afterwards, Kae said it was necessary for him to return to his own village, which was named Te Tihi-o-Manono; so Tinirau ordered a canoe to be got ready for him to take him back, but Kae made excuses, and said he did not like to go back in the canoe, and remained where he was. This, however, was a mere trick upon his part, his real object being to get Tinirau to permit him to go back upon the whale, upon Tutunui, for he now knew how savoury the flesh of that fish was.

At last Tinirau lent Tutunui to the old magician to carry him home, but he gave him very particular directions, telling him, “When you get so near the shore, that the fish touches the bottom, it will shake itself to let you know, and you must then, without any delay, jump off it upon the right side.”

He then wished Kae farewell, and the old magician started, and away went the whale through the water with him.

When they came close to the shore at Kae’s village, and the whale felt the bottom, it shook itself as a sign to Kae to jump off and wade ashore, but it was of no use; the old magician stuck fast to the whale, and pressed it down against the bottom as hard as he could. In vain the fish continued to shake itself; Kae held on to it, and would not jump off, and in its struggles the blowholes of Tutunui got stopped up with sand, and it died.

Kae and his people then managed to drag up the body of Tutunui on shore, intending to feast upon it; and this circumstance became afterwards the cause of a war against that tribe, who were called “The descendants of Poporokewa.” When they had dragged Tutunui on shore, they cut its body up and cooked it in ovens, covering the flesh up with the fragrant leaves of the Koromiko before they heaped earth upon the ovens, and the fat of Tutunui adhered to the leaves of the Koromiko, and they continue greasy to this day, so that if Koromiko boughs are put upon the fire and become greasy, the proverb says—“There’s some of the savouriness of Tutunui.”

Tinirau continued anxiously to look for the return of Tutunui, and when a long time had elapsed without its coming back again, he began to say to himself, “Well, I wonder where my whale can be stopping!” But when Kae and his people had cooked the flesh of the whale, and the ovens were opened, a savoury scent was wafted across the sea to Tinirau, and both he and his wife smelt it quite plainly, and then they knew very well that Kae had killed the pet which they had tamed for their little darling Tūhuruhuru, and that he had eaten it.

Without any delay, Tinirau’s people dragged down to the sea a large canoe which belonged to one of his wives, and forty women forthwith embarked in it; none but women went, as this would be less likely to excite any suspicion in Kae that they had come with a hostile object; amongst them were Hine-i-te-iwaiwa, Raukatauri, Raukatamea, Itiiti, Rekareka, and Rau-hau-a-Tangaroa and other females of note, whose names have not been preserved. Just before the canoe started, Tinirau’s youngest sister asked him, “What are the marks by which we shall know Kae?” and he answered her,

“Oh, you cannot mistake him, his teeth are uneven and all overlap one another.”

Well, away they paddled, and in due time they arrived at the village of the old magician Kae, and his tribe all collected to see the strangers. Towards night, when it grew dark, a fire was lighted in the house of Kae, and a crowd collected inside it until it was filled; one side was quite occupied with the crowd of visitors, and the other side of the house with the people of Kae’s tribe. The old magician himself sat at the foot of the main pillar which supported the roof of the house, and mats were laid down there for him to sleep on, but the strangers did not yet know which was Kae, for it did not accord with the Māori’s rules of politeness to ask the names of the chiefs, it being supposed from their fame and greatness that they are known by everybody.

In order to find out which was Kae, Tinirau’s people had arranged that they would try by wit and fun to make everybody laugh, and, when the people opened their mouths, to watch which of them had uneven teeth that lapped across one another, and thus discover which was Kae.

In order, therefore, to make them laugh, Raukatauri exhibited all her amusing tricks and games; she made them sing and play upon the flute, and upon the pūtōrino, and beat time with castanets of bone and wood whilst they sang; and they played at mora, and the kind of ti in which many motions are made with the fingers and hands, and the kind of ti in which, whilst the players sing, they rapidly throw short sticks to one another, keeping time to the tune which they are singing; and she played upon an instrument like a Jew’s harp for them, and made puppets dance, and made them all sing whilst they played with large whizgigs; and after they had done all these things the man they thought was Kae had never even once laughed.

Then the party who had come from Tinirau’s all began to consult together, and to say, “What can we do to make that fellow laugh?” and for a long time they thought of some plan by which they might take Kae in, and make him laugh; at last they thought of one, which was that they should all sing a droll comic song. So suddenly they all began to sing together, at the same time making most curious faces, and shaking their hands and arms in time to the tune.

When they had ended their song, the old magician could not help laughing out quite heartily, and those who were watching him closely at once recognised him, for there they saw pieces of the flesh of Tutunui still sticking between his teeth, and his teeth were uneven and all overlapped one another. From this circumstance a proverb has been preserved among the Māoris to the present day—for if anyone on listening to a story told by another is amused at it and laughs, one of the bystanders says, “Ah, there’s Kae laughing.”

No sooner did the women who had come from Tinirau’s see the flesh of Tutunui sticking in Kae’s teeth than they made an excuse for letting the fire burn dimly in the house, saying that they wanted to go to sleep—their real object, however, being to be able to perform their enchantments without being seen; but the old magician, who suspected something, took two round pieces of mother of pearl shell, and stuck one in the socket of each eye, so that the strangers, observing the faint rays of light reflected from the surface of the mother of pearl, might think they saw the white of his eyes, and that he was still awake.

The women from Tinirau’s went on, however, with their enchantments, and by their magical arts threw everyone in the house into an enchanted sleep, with the intention, when they had done this, of carrying off Kae by stealth. So soon as Kae and the people in the house were all deep in this enchanted sleep, the women ranged themselves in a long row the whole way from the place where Kae was sleeping down to their canoe. They all stood in a straight line, with a little interval between each of them; and then two of them went to fetch Kae, and lifted the old magician gently up, rolled up in his cloaks, just as he had laid himself down to sleep, and placed him gently in the arms of those who stood near the door, who passed him on to two others, and thus they handed him on from one to another until he at last reached the arms of the two women who were standing in the canoe ready to receive him; and they laid him down very gently in the canoe, fast asleep as he was; and thus the old magician Kae was carried off by Hine-i-te-iwaiwa and Raukatauri.

When the women reached the village of Tinirau in their canoe, they again took up Kae, and carried him very gently up to the house of Tinirau, and laid him down fast asleep close to the central pillar, which supported the ridgepole of the house, so that the place where he slept in the house of Tinirau was exactly like his sleeping place in his own house. The house of Kae was however, a large circular house, without a ridgepole, but with rafters springing from the central pillar running down like rays to low side posts in the circular wall; whilst the house of Tinirau was a long house, with a ridgepole running the entire length of the roof, and resting upon the pillar in its centre.

When Tinirau heard that the old magician had been brought to his village, he caused orders to be given to his tribe that when he made his appearance in the morning, going to the house where Kae was, they should all call out loud, “Here comes Tinirau, here comes Tinirau,” as if he was coming as a visitor into the village of Kae, so that the old magician on hearing them might think that he was still at home.

At broad daylight next morning, when Tinirau’s people saw him passing along through the village towards his house, they all shouted aloud, “Here comes Tinirau, here comes Tinirau;” and Kae, who heard the cries, started up from his enchanted sleep quite drowsy and confused, whilst Tinirau passed straight on, and sat down just outside the door of his house, so that he could look into it, and, looking in, he saw Kae, and saluted him, saying,

“Salutations to you, O Kae!” and then he asked him, saying, “How came you here?” and the old magician replied,

“Nay, but rather how came you here?”

Tinirau replied, “Just look, then, at the house, and see if you recognise it?”

But Kae, who was still stupified by his sleep, looking round, saw he was lying in his own place at the foot of the pillar, and said, “This is my house.”

Tinirau asked him, “Where was the window placed in your house?”

Kae started and looked; the whole appearance of his house appeared to be changed; he at once guessed the truth, that the house he was in belonged to Tinirau; and the old magician, who saw that his hour had come, bowed down his head in silence to the earth, and they seized him, and dragged him out and slew him: thus perished Kae.

The news of his death at last reached his tribe—the descendants of Poporokewa; and they eventually attacked the fortress of Tinirau with a large army, and avenged the death of Kae by slaying Tinirau’s son.

The Legend of Tūwhakararo

How He Was Murdered and Avenged

Now about this time Tūhuruhuru, the son of Rupe’s sister, grew up to man’s estate, and he married Apakura, and she gave birth to a son whom they named Tūwhakararo, and afterwards to a daughter named Mairatea; she had then several other children; then she gave birth to Whakataupōtiki; afterwards her last child was born, and its name was Reimatua.

When Mairatea grew up, she was married to the son of a chief named Poporokewa, the chief of the Āti Hāpai tribe, and she accompanied her husband to his home; but Tūwhakararo remained at his own village, and after a time he longed to see his sister, and thought he would go and pay her a visit; so he went, and arrived at a very large house belonging to the tribe of Poporokewa, the name of which was Uru-o-Manono; all the family and dependants of Poporokewa lived in that house, and Tūwhakararo remained there with them. It happened that a young sister of his brother-in-law, whose name was Maurea, took a great fancy to him, and showed that she liked him, although, at the very time, she was carrying on a courtship with another young man of the Āti Hāpai tribe.

Whilst Tūwhakararo was on this visit to his brother-in-law, some of the young men of the Āti Hāpai tribe asked him one day to wrestle with them, and he, agreeing to this, stood up to wrestle, and the one who came forward as his competitor was the sweetheart of his brother-in-law’s young sister. Tūwhakararo laid hold of the young man, and soon gave him a severe fall. That match being over, they both stood up again, and Tūwhakararo, lifting him in his arms, gave him another severe fall; and all the young people of the Āti Hāpai tribe burst out laughing at the youth, for having had two such heavy falls from Tūwhakararo, and he sat down upon the ground, looking very foolish, and feeling exceedingly sulky and provoked at being laughed at by everybody.

Tūwhakararo, having also finished wrestling, sat down too, and began to put on his clothes again, and whilst he was in the act of putting his head through his cloak, the young man he had thrown in wrestling ran up, and just as his head appeared through the cloak threw a handful of sand in his eyes. Tūwhakararo, wild with pain, could see nothing, and began to rub his eyes, to get the dust out and to ease the anguish; the young man then struck him on the head, and killed him. The people of the Āti Hāpai tribe then ran in upon him and cut his body up, and afterwards devoured it; and they took his bones, and hung them up in the roof, under the ridgepole of their house Te Uru-o-Manono.

Whilst they were hung up there the bones rattled together, and his sister heard them, and it seemed to her as if they made a sound like “Tauparoro, Tauparoro;” and she listened again to the rattling of the bones, and again she heard the words “Tauparoro, Tauparoro.” And the sister of Tūwhakararo looking up to the bones, said, “You rattle in vain, O bones of him who was devoured by the Āti Hāpai tribe, for who is there to lament over him or to avenge his death?”

At last the news of the sad event which had taken place reached the ears of his brother, Whakataupōtiki, and of his other brothers, and when they heard it they were grieved and pained at the fate of their brother, and at last Whakataupōtiki adopted a firm resolution to go and avenge Tūwhakararo’s death, and as the rest of his tribe agreed in this purpose, they began without delay to build canoes for its execution.

They named some of their canoes the Whiritoa, the Tapatapa-hukarere, the Toroa-i-taipakihi, the Hakirere, and the Mahunu-awatea, and to all the other canoes which they prepared for this purpose they also gave names; and when they had finished lashing on the top boards of their canoes, their mother Apakura, with all her female attendants, began to beat and prepare fern root for the warriors to carry with them as provisions for their voyage, and whilst the females were thus engaged in beating and preparing fern root for the war party who were about to start to revenge the death of Tūwhakararo, they kept on repeating a lament for the young man which might rouse the feelings of the warriors.

Lo, the army of Whakataupōtiki now embarked; they started in a thousand canoes, and floated out into the open sea, and proceeding upon their course, they landed at a certain place which lay in their route, and there the army of Whakatau had a review, to show how well they could go through their manoeuvres. They were formed into columns, and one column, with fierce shouts and yells, after a war dance, sprang upon the supposed enemy, and whilst they were thus engaged with their imaginary foe, a second column, with wild cries, advanced to their support; then the first column of warriors retired to reform, and thus column after column feigned to charge their foes.

Then one body of the warriors rushed to an adjoining creek and tried to jump across it, but they could not. A band of men under Whakatau’s immediate command were sitting upon the ground watching the others, and when the first body gave up in despair all thoughts of overleaping the creek, this chosen band of Whakatau rose from the ground, started forward, reached in good order the edge of the creek, and sprang easily across it (the whole body of them to the other side).

When the review was ended, Whakatau made a speech to the warriors, saying, “Warriors, all of you listen to me. We will not finish our voyage until the dark night, lest we should be seen by the people we are about to attack, and thus fail in surprising them.”

Just as it was dark, Whakatau ordered his own chosen band of warriors to go and pull the plugs out of all the canoes but their own, and they, in obedience to his orders, went round and pulled all the plugs out of the canoes, and thus they did to the whole of them without missing a single canoe of the whole thousand.

This having been done, Whakatau called aloud to the whole force, “Now my men, let us embark at once this very night.” Then the warriors hurriedly arose in the darkness, and all was confusion and noise, and one canoe was launched, and then another, and another, until all were afloat on the sea. Then they all embarked, and the several crews sprang cheerfully into their own canoes; but lo, presently the canoes all began to sink, one after the other, and the crews were compelled again to seek the shore, and to busy themselves in repairing them. In the meantime the chosen band of warriors of Whakatau urged on their canoes, leaving the others behind, and when they drew near the place where the house called the Uru-o-Manono was situated, they landed. Then the warriors silently surrounded the house in ranks throughout its whole circumference, and each of the eight doors of the house they guarded by a band of men, and Whakatau laid hold of a man named Hīoi, whom they caught outside of the house, and he questioned him, saying, “Where is my sister now?”

And Hīoi answered him, “She is in the house.”

And he asked him again, “In what part of the house does Poporokewa sleep?”

Hīoi replied, “At the foot of the large pillar which supports the ridgepole of the house.”

Whakatau next asked, “Has he any distinguishing mark by which we may know him?”

Hīoi answered, “You may know him by one of his teeth being broken.”

Whakatau asked him one question more, saying, “In what part of the house does my sister sleep?”

And Hīoi answered him, “She sleeps close to that door.”

Whakataupōtiki asked him no further questions, but took the fellow and cut out his tongue, and when he had done so he made him talk, and he still spoke quite distinctly, although a great part of his tongue was cut out. Whakatau then took him again, and cut his tongue off quite close to the root, and he made him try to talk again, and nothing but an indistinct mumbling could be heard, so he then ordered the man into the house to send his sister out to him.

Hīoi went as he was told to send Whakatau’s sister to him, for she was then in the Uru-o-Manono, the house of her father-in-law, Poporokewa. When he got inside, the whole mass of the Āti Hāpai tribe who were sitting saw him come in, and some of them asked him where he had been to, and what he had gone for; but what was the use of their talking to him, since he could do nothing but mumble out indistinct words in reply, and those who were sitting near him wondered what could be the matter.

But the sister of Whakatau guessed in a moment that this was some device of her brother’s, and at once went out of the house, and found Whakatau, and she and her brother wept together, partly from joy at their meeting, partly from sorrow in thinking of the melancholy death of their brother since they had last met.

When they had done weeping, Whakatau asked her, “In what part of the house does Poporokewa sleep?”

And she answered him, “He sleeps at the foot of the large pillar which supports the ridgepole of the house.”

And then she added, “But oh, my brother, a great part of the Āti Hāpai tribe have seen you before, and they will know you.”

Her brother then asked her, “What, then, do you think I had better do?”

His sister answered, “You had better cut your hair quite short to disguise yourself.”

He consented to this being done, so his sister cut his hair quite close for him, and when she had done this she rubbed his face all over with charcoal, and then he and his sister went together into the house. The fire in the house had got quite low some time before, and when they entered, the people near where they went in cried out, “Make up the fire, make up the fire; here’s a stranger, here’s a stranger.” So they blew up the fire and made it burn brightly, and many of them came to see Whakataupōtiki, and when they had looked well at him they broke out laughing, and said, “What a black looking fellow he is!” Even Poporokewa burst out laughing at his appearance, and Whakatau, when he saw him laugh, at once recognised him by his broken tooth.

Whakataupōtiki had taken a stout rope with him when he went into the house, and he held this ready coiled in his hand, with a noose at one end of it; and as soon as he recognised Poporokewa he slyly dropped the noose over his head, and suddenly hauling it tight, it got fast round his neck: then, still holding the rope in his hand, and lengthening it by degrees as he went, Whakatau and his sister rushed out of the house; and he still hauling with all his strength on the rope, climbed up on the roof, repeating a powerful incantation.

Then each warrior sprang up into his place from the ground, on which they had been lying down to conceal themselves, and they set fire to the house in several places at once, and slaughtered all those who tried to escape. Thus they burnt the Uru-o-Manono, and all those who were in it. Then the warriors returned, and carried with them joyful news to Apakura, the mother of Tūwhakararo.

The Legend of Rātā

His Adventures with the Enchanted Tree and Revenge of His Father’s Murder

Before Tāwhaki ascended up into the heavens a son named Wahieroa had been born to him by his first wife. As soon as Wahieroa grew to man’s estate he took Kura for a wife, and she bore him a son whom they called Rātā. Wahieroa was slain treacherously by a chief named Matuku-takotako, but his son Rātā was born some time before his death. It therefore became his duty to revenge the death of his father Wahieroa, and Rātā having grown up, at last devised a plan for doing this. He therefore gave the necessary orders to his dependants, at the same time saying to them, “I am about to go in search of the man who slew my father.”

He then started upon a journey for this purpose, and at length arrived at the entrance to the place of Matuku-takotako. He found there a man who was left in charge of it sitting at the entrance to the courtyard, and he asked him, saying, “Where is the man who killed my father?”

The man who was left in charge of the place answered him, “He lives beneath in the earth there, and I am left here by him, to call to him and warn him when the new moon appears. At that season he rises and comes forth upon the earth, and devours men as his food.”

Rātā then said to him, “All that you say is true, but how can he know when the proper time comes for him to rise up from the earth?”

The man replied, “I call aloud to him.”

Then said Rātā, “When will there be a new moon?”

And the man who was left to take care of the place answered him, “In two nights hence. Do you now return to your own village, but on the morning of the second day from this time come here again to me.”

Rātā, in compliance with these directions, returned to his own dwelling, and waited there until the time that had been appointed him, and on the morning of that day he again journeyed along the road he had previously travelled, and found the man sitting in the same place, and he asked him, saying, “Do you know any spot where I can conceal myself, and lie hid from the enemy with whom I am about to fight, from Matuku-takotako?”

The man replied, “Come with me until I show you the two fountains of clear water.”

They then went together until they came to the two fountains. The man then said to Rātā, “The spot that we stand on is the place where Matuku rises up from the earth, and yonder fountain is the one in which he combs and washes his dishevelled hair, but this fountain is the one he uses to reflect his face in whilst he dresses it. You cannot kill him whilst he is at the fountain he uses to reflect his face in, because your shadow would be also reflected in it, and he would see it; but at the fountain in which he washes his hair you may smite and slay him.”

Rātā then asked the man, “Will he make his appearance from the earth this evening?”

And the man answered, “Yes.”

They had not waited long there when evening arrived and the moon became visible, and the man said to Rātā, “Do you now go and hide yourself near the brink of the fountain in which he washes his hair;” and Rātā went and hid himself near the edge of the fountain, and the man who had been left to watch for the purpose shouted aloud, “Ho, ho! the new moon is visible—a moon two days old.” And Matuku-takotako heard him, and seizing his two-handed wooden sword, he rose up from the earth, and went straight to his two fountains. Then he laid down his two-handed wooden sword on the ground, at the edge of the fountain where he dressed his hair, and, kneeling down on both knees beside it, he loosened the strings which bound up his long locks, and shook out his dishevelled hair, and plunged down his head into the cool clear waters of the fountain. So Rātā, creeping out from where he lay hid, rapidly moved up and stood behind him, and as Matuku-takotako raised his head from the water, Rātā with one hand seized him by the hair, while with the other he smote and slew him. Thus he avenged the death of his father Wahieroa.

Rātā then asked the man whom he had found in charge of the place, “Where shall I find the bones of Wahieroa my father?”

And the keeper of the place answered him, “They are not here; a strange people who live at a distance came and carried them off.”

Upon hearing this, Rātā returned to his own village, and there reflected over many designs by which he might recover the bones of his father.

At length he thought of an excellent plan for this purpose, so he went into the forest and having found a very tall tree, quite straight throughout its entire length, he felled it, and cut off its noble branching top, intending to fashion the trunk into a canoe; and all the insects which inhabit trees, and the spirits of the forests, were very angry at this, and as soon as Rātā had returned to the village at evening, when his day’s work was ended, they all came and took the tree, and raised it up again, and the innumerable multitude of insects, birds, and spirits, who are called “The offspring of Hākuturi,” worked away at replacing each little chip and shaving in its proper place, and sang aloud their incantations as they worked; this was what they sang with a confused noise of various voices:—

Fly together, chips and shavings,
Stick ye fast together,
Hold ye fast together;
Stand upright again, O tree!

Early the next morning back came Rātā, intending to work at hewing the trunk of his tree into a canoe. When he got to the place where he had left the trunk lying on the ground, at first he could not find it, and if that fine tall straight tree, which he saw standing whole and sound in the forest, was the same he thought he had cut down, there it was now erect again. However, he stepped up to it, and manfully hewing away at it again, he felled it to the ground once more, and off he cut its fine branching top again, and began to hollow out the hold of the canoe, and to slope off its prow and the stern into their proper gracefully curved forms; and in the evening, when it became too dark to work, he returned to his village.

As soon as he was gone, back came the innumerable multitudes of insects, birds, and spirits, who are called the offspring of Hākuturi, and they raised up the tree upon its stump once more, and with a confused noise of various voices, they sang incantations as they worked, and when they had ended these the tree again stood sound as ever in its former place in the forest.

The morning dawned, and Rātā returned once more to work at his canoe. When he reached the place, was not he amazed to see the tree standing up in the forest, untouched, just as he had at first found it? But he, nothing daunted, hews away at it again, and down it topples crashing to the earth. As soon as he saw the tree upon the ground, Rātā went off as if going home, and then turned back and hid himself in the underwood, in a spot whence he could peep out and see what took place. He had not been hidden long when he heard the innumerable multitude of the children of Tāne approaching the spot, singing their incantations as they came along; at last they arrived close to the place where the tree was lying upon the ground. Lo, a rush upon them is made by Rātā. Ha, he has seized some of them; he shouts out to them, saying, “Ha, ha, it is you, is it, then, who have been exercising your magical arts upon my tree?”

Then the children of Tāne all cried aloud in reply, “Who gave you authority to fell the forest god to the ground? You had no right to do so.”

When Rātā heard them say this, he was quite overcome with shame at what he had done.

The offspring of Tāne again all called our aloud to him, “Return, O Rātā, to thy village, we will make a canoe for you.”

Rātā, without delay, obeyed their orders, and as soon as he had gone they all fell to work. They were so numerous, and understood each what to do so well, that they no sooner began to adze out a canoe than it was completed. When they had done this, Rātā and his tribe lost no time in hauling it from the forest to the water, and the name they gave to that canoe was Riwaru.

When the canoe was afloat upon the sea, 140 warriors embarked on board it, and without delay they paddled off to seek their foes. One night, just at nightfall, they reached the fortress of their enemies, who were named Ponaturi. When they arrived there, Rātā alone landed, leaving the canoe afloat and all his warriors on board. As he stole along the shore, he saw that a fire was burning on the sacred place where the Ponaturi consulted their gods and offered sacrifices to them. Rātā, without stopping, crept directly towards the fire, and hid himself behind some thick bushes of the Harakeke.14 He then saw that there were some priests upon the other side of the same bushes, serving at the sacred place, and, to assist themselves in their magical arts, they were making use of the bones of Wahieroa, knocking them together to beat time while they were repeating a powerful incantation known only to themselves, the name of which was Titikura. Rātā listened attentively to this incantation until he learnt it by heart, and when he was quite sure that he knew it, he rushed suddenly upon the priests; they, surprised and ignorant of the numbers of their enemy, or whence they came, made little resistance, and were in a moment smitten and slain. The bones of his father Wahieroa were then eagerly snatched up by him; he hastened with them back to the canoe, embarked on board it, and his warriors at once paddled away, striving to reach his fortified village.

In the morning some of the Ponaturi repaired to their sacred place, and found their priests lying dead there, just as they were slain by Rātā. So, without delay, they pursued him. A thousand warriors of their tribe followed after Rātā. At length this army reached the fortress of Rātā, and an engagement at once took place, in which the tribe of Rātā was worsted, and sixty of its warriors slain. At this moment Rātā bethought him of the spell he had learnt from the priests, and, immediately repeating the potent incantation Titikura, his slain warriors were by its power once more restored to life; then they rushed again to the combat, and the Ponaturi were slaughtered by Rātā and his tribe, a thousand of them—the whole thousand were slain.

Te Rātā’s task of avenging his father’s death being thus ended, his tribe hauled up his large canoe on the shore, and roofed it over with thatch to protect it from the sun and weather. Rātā now took Tongarautāwhiri as one of his wives, and she bore him a son whom he named Tūwhakararo. When this son came to man’s estate, he took Apakura as one of his wives, and from her sprang a son named Whakatau. He was not born in the manner that mortals are, but came into being in this way: One day Apakura went down upon the seacoast, and took off a little apron which she wore in front as a covering, and threw it into the ocean, and a god named Rongotakawiu took it and shaped it, and gave it form and being, and Whakatau sprang into life, and his ancestor Rongotakawiu taught him magic and the use of enchantments of every kind.

When Whakatau was a little lad, his favourite amusement was flying kites. Mortals then often observed kites flying in the air, and could see nothing else, for Whakatau was running about at the bottom of the waters, still holding the end of the string of the kite in his hands. One day he stole up out of the water by degrees, and at length came upon the shore, when the whole of his body was quite plainly seen by some people who were near, and they ran as fast as they could to catch him. When Whakatau observed them all running to seize him, he slipped back again into the water, and continued flying his kite as before; but the people who had seen him were surprised at this strange sight, and being determined to catch him the next time he came out, they sat down upon the bank to wait for him. At last Whakatau came up out of the water again, and stepped on shore once more; then the people who were watching for him all ran at full speed to catch him. When Whakatau saw them coming after him again, he cried out, “You had better go and bring Apakura here, she is the only person who can catch me and hold me fast.”

When they heard this, one of them ran to fetch Apakura, and she came with him at once, and as soon as she saw little Whakatau, she called out to him, “Here I am; I am Apakura.” Whakatau then stopped running, and Apakura caught hold of him with her hands, and she questioned him, saying, “Whom do you belong to?”

And Whakatau answered her, “I am your child; you one day threw the little apron which covered you on the sands of the sea, and the god Rongotakawiu, my ancestor, formed me from it, and I grew up a human being, and he named me Whakatau.”

From that time Whakatau left the water and continued to live on shore. His principal amusement, as long as he was a lad, was still flying kites; but he understood magic well, and nothing was concealed from him, and when he grew up to be a man he became a renowned hero.

This second legend of the destruction by Whakataupōtiki of the house called Te Tihi-o-Manono, or Te Uru-o-Manono, is added, because it differs considerably from the other, and is often alluded to in ancient poems.

Tinirau determined to attempt to avenge the death of his descendant Tūwhakararo, and he thought that the best person to do this was Whakatau, whom he knew to be very skilful in war, and in enchantments, so he directed his wife Hine-i-te-iwaiwa to find Whakatau, and she went in search. When she reached a village near where she expected to find him, she asked some people whom she saw, where Whakatau was, and they answered her, “He is on the top of yonder hill flying a kite.”

She at once proceeded on her way until she came to the hill, and seeing a man there, she asked him, “Can you tell me where I can find Whakatau?” and he replied,

“You must have passed him as you came here.”

Then she returned to the village where she had seen the people, and said to them, “Why, the man upon the hill says that Whakatau is here;” but they told her that the man who had spoken to her must have been Whakatau himself, and that she had better return to him, and told her marks by which she might know him. She therefore returned, and he, after some time, when she showed him that she knew certain marks about his person, admitted that he was Whakatau; and he then asked her what had made her come to him? and she replied, “Tinirau sent me to you to ask you to come and assist in avenging the death of our near relative; the warriors are all collecting at the village of Tinirau, but they fear to go to attack these enemies, for they are the bravest of all the enemies of Tinirau.”

Whakatau then asked her, “Have you yet given a feast to the warriors?” and she said,

“Not yet.”

He then spoke to her, saying, “Return at once and when you reach your village, give a great feast to the warriors; give them abundance of potted birds from the forests, but let all the oil in which the birds were preserved be kept for me; as for yourself, do not go to the feast, but, decking your head with a mourning dress of feathers, remain seated close in the house of mourning.” Then Hine-i-te-iwaiwa at once returned to Tinirau, to do as she had been directed.

Shortly after his visitor had left him, Whakatau called aloud to his people, saying. “Let the sideboards be at once fresh lashed on to our canoe, to the canoe of our ancestor of Rātā.” His men were so anxious to fulfil their chief’s orders, that almost as soon as he had spoken they were at work, and had finished the canoe that very day, and dragged it down to the sea; when night fell, six of his warriors embarked in it, and Whakatau made the seventh; they then paddled off, following a direct course, until they reached the village of Tinirau; where they found Hine-i-te-iwaiwa seated in her house of mourning. Whakatau then asked her, “Have the warriors all left yet?” and she replied,

“They will not do it, they are afraid.”

Whakatau then said to her, “Farewell, then; do you remain here until you hear further from me.”

Whakatau and his men having re-embarked in their canoe, made a straight course for the place where was situated the great house called the Tihi-o-Manono, and they let their anchor drop and floated there.

When the next morning broke, and some of the people of the village coming out of the house, and beyond their defences, saw the canoe floating at the anchorage, they gave the alarm, crying out, “A war party! a war party!” Then the warriors came rushing forth to the fray in crowds, and arranged themselves in bands. Then stood forth one of their champions whose name was Mango-huritapena and he defied Whakatau, who was standing up in his canoe, calling out, “Were you fool enough, then, to come here of your own accord?” and Whakatau answered him, by shouting out, “Which of the arts of war do you consider yourself famous for?” and Mango-huritapena shouted out in answer,

“I am a most skilful diver.”

“Dive here, then, if you dare,” shouted out Whakatau in reply. Then the champion of the enemy gave a plunge into the water, and dived under it. Just as he got right under the canoe, one of Whakatau’s men poured the oil which Hine-i-te-iwaiwa had given them into the sea, and its waters immediately became quite transparent, so that they saw the warrior come floating up under the canoe, and Whakatau transfixed him with a wooden spear; so that champion perished.

Then forward stepped another champion named Pītakataka, and he defied Whakatau, shouting out, “Ah! you only killed Mango-huritapena because he chanced to put himself in a wrong position.”

Whakatau shouted out in reply, “Which of the arts of war are you skilled in then?” and he answered,

“Oh! I leap so skilfully that I seem to fly in the air.”

“Then leap here, if you dare,” answered Whakatau; and the champion of his enemies took a run and made a spring high into the air; but Whakatau laid a noose on the canoe, and as the warrior alighted in it, he drew it tight and caught him as a bird in a snare, and thus slew that warrior also.

And thus, one after the other, he slew ten of the most famous warriors of his enemies; one whom he had seized, he saved alive, but he cut out his tongue, and then said to him, “Now, off with you to the shore again, and tell them there how I have overcome you all;” having done this, Whakatau retired a little distance back from the place, so that his canoe could not be seen by his enemies.

In the afternoon Whakatau landed on the coast, and before eating anything, offered the prescribed sacrifice of the hair and a part of the skin of the head of one of his victims to the gods; and when the religious rites were finished, he ate food; and having done this, he directed the people he had with him to return, saying, “Return at once, and when you reach the residence of Hine-i-te-iwaiwa, speak to her, saying, ‘Whakatau told us to come, and tell you, that he could not return with us;’ and he further said, ‘If heavy rain falls in large drops, it is a sign that I have been killed; but if a light, misty rain falls, and the whole horizon is lighted up with flames, then you may know that I have conquered, and that I have burnt the Tihi-o-Manono;’ he also said that he wished you to sit upon the roof of your house watching until you saw the Tihi-o-Manono burnt.” Whakatau’s people at once returned to Hine-i-te-iwaiwa to deliver the message he had given them.

Just before nightfall, Whakatau drew near the great house, called the Tihi-o-Manono, and as the people of Whitinakonako, a great chief, were collecting firewood at the edge of a forest, he stealthily dropped in amongst them, pretending to be collecting firewood too; and as they were going home with their loads of firewood upon their backs, he managed to push on in front of them, and got into the house first with a long rope in his hand. One end of this he pushed between one of the side posts which supported the roof, and the plank walls of the house, and did the same with every post of the house, until the rope had gone quite round it, and then he made one end of it fast to the last post, and held the other end in his hand.

By this time the people who lived in the house all came crowding on to pass the night in it, and soon filled it up: the house was so large, and there were so many of them, that they had to light ten fires in it.

When their fires had burnt up brightly, some of them called out to Mangōpare, the man whom Whakatau had saved alive, and whose tongue he had cut out, “Well now, tell us what kind of looking fellow that was who cut your tongue out;” and Mangōpare answered,

“There is no one I can compare him to, he was not like a man in the proportion of his frame.”

One of them then called out, “Was he at all like me?”

But Mangōpare answered, “There is nobody I can compare him to.”

Then another called out, “Was he at all like me?” and another, “Was he like me?” until, at length, Mangōpare called out,

“Have I not already told you, that there is not one of you whom I can compare to him?”

Whakatau himself then exclaimed, “Was he at all like me?”

And Mangōpare, who had not before seen him in the crowd, looked attentively at him for a minute, and then cried out, “I say, look here all of you at this fellow, he is not unlike the man, he looks very like him, perhaps it is he himself.”

But Whakatau coolly asked him again, “Was the man really something like me?”

And Mangōpare replied, “Yes, he was like you: I really think it was you;” and Whakatau shouted aloud,

“You are right, it was I.” As soon as they heard this, all of them in a moment sprang to their feet. But, at the same instant, Whakatau laid hold of the end of the rope which he had passed round the posts of the house, and, rushing out, pulled it with all his strength, and straightway the house fell down, crushing all within it, so that the whole tribe perished, and Whakatau, who had escaped to the outside of the house, set it on fire, and Hine-i-te-iwaiwa, who was sitting upon the roof of her own house watching for the event, saw the whole of one part of the heavens red with its flames, and she knew that her enemies were destroyed. Whakatau, having thus avenged the death of Tūwhakararo, returned to his own village.

The Legend of Toitehuatahi and Tamatekapua

The Dissensions Which Led to the Migrations from Hawaiki

Our ancestors formerly separated—some of them were left in Hawaiki, and some came here in canoes. Tuamatua and Uenuku paddled in their canoes here to Aotea; again, at that time some of them were separated from each other, that is to say, Uenuku and Houmaitawhiti.

For in the time of Houmaitawhiti there had been a great war, and thence there were many battles fought in Hawaiki; but this war had commenced long before that time, in the days of Whakatauihu, of Tāwhaki, and of Tūhuruhuru, when they carried off Kae alive from his place as a payment for Tutunui; and the war continued until the time of the disputes that arose on account of the body of warriors of Manaia. Again after that came the troubles that arose from the act of desecration that was committed by the dog of Houmaitawhiti and of his sons in eating the matter that had sloughed from an ulcer of Uenuku’s. Upon this occasion, when Toitehautahi and Uenuku saw the dog, named Pōtakatawhiti, do this, they killed it, and the sons of Houmaitawhiti missing the dog, went everywhere searching for it, and could not find it; they went from village to village, until at last they came to the village of Toitehautahi, and as they went they kept calling this dog.

At last the dog howled in the belly of Toi’, “Ow!” Then Tamatekapua and Whakatūria called their dog again, and again it howled “Ow!” Then Toi’ held his mouth shut as close as ever he could, but the dog still kept on howling in his inside. Thence Toi’ said as follows, and his words passed into a proverb, “Oh, hush, hush! I thought I had hid you in the big belly of Toi’, and there you are, you cursed thing, still howling away.”

When Tamatekapua and his brother had thus arrived there, he asked, “Why did not you kill the dog and bring it back to me, that my heart might have felt satisfied, and that we might have remained good friends? Now, I’ll tell you what it is, O my relations, you shall by and by hear more of this.” Then as soon as the two brothers got home, they began immediately to make stilts for Tamatekapua, and as soon as these were finished, they started that night and went to the village of Toi’ and Uenuku, and arrived at the fine pōporo tree of Uenuku, covered with branches and leaves, and they remained eating the fruit of it for a long time, and then went home again.

This they continued doing every night, until at last Uenuku and his people found that the fruit of his pōporo tree was nearly all gone, and they all wondered what had become of the fruit of the pōporo tree, and they looked for traces, and there were some—the traces of the stilts of Tama’. At night they kept watch on the tree. Whilst one party was coming to steal, the other was lying in wait to catch them. This latter had not waited very long, when Tama’ and his brother came, and whilst they were busy eating, those who were lying in wait rushed upon them, and caught both of them.

They seized Whakatūria at the very foot of the tree; Tama’ made his escape, but they gave chase, and caught him on the seashore. As soon as they had him firmly, those who were holding on cried out, “Some of you chop down his stilts with an axe, so that the fellow may fall into the water;” and all those who had hold of him cried out, “Yes, yes, let him fall into the sea.”

Then Tama’ called down to them, “If you fell me in the water, I shall not be hurt, but if you cut me down on shore, the fall will kill me.”

And when those who were behind, and were just running up, heard this, they thought well of it, so they chopped him down on shore, and down he came with a heavy fall, but in a moment he was on his feet, and off he went, like a bird escaped from a snare, and so got safe away.

Then all the village began to assemble to see Whakatūria put to death; and when they were collected, some of them said, “Let him be put to death at once;” and others said, “Oh, don’t do that; you had much better hang him up in the roof of Uenuku’s house, that he may be stifled by the smoke, and die in that way.” And the thought pleased them all, so they hung him up in the roof of the house, and kindled a fire, and commenced dancing, and when that ceased they began singing, but their dancing and singing was not at all good, but indeed shockingly bad; and this they did every night, until at last a report of their proceedings reached the ears of his brother Tama’ and of their father.

And Tama’ heard, “There’s your brother hanging up in the roof of Uenuku’s great house, and he is almost stifled by the smoke.”

So he thought he would go and see him, and ascertain whether he still lived in spite of the smoke. He went in the night, and arrived at the house, and gently climbed right upon the top of the roof, and making a little hole in the thatch, immediately over the spot where his brother hung, asked him in a whisper, “Are you dead?” but he whispered up to him,

“No, I’m still alive.”

And his brother asked again in a whisper, “How do these people dance and sing; do they do it well?”

And the other replied, “No, nothing can be worse; the very bystanders do nothing but find fault with the way in which they dance and sing.”

Then Tama’ said to him, “Would not it be a good thing for you to say to them, ‘I never knew anything so bad as the dancing and singing of those people;’ and if they reply, ‘Oh, perhaps you can dance and sing better than we do,’ do you answer, ‘That I can.’ Then if they take you down, and say, ‘Now, let us see your dancing,’ you can answer, ‘Oh, I am quite filthy from the soot; you had better in the first place give me a little oil, and let me dress my hair, and give me some feathers to ornament my head with;’ and if they agree to all this, when your hair is dressed, perhaps they will say, ‘There, that will do; now dance and sing for us.’ Then do you answer them, ‘Oh, I am looking quite dirty; first lend me the red apron of Uenuku, that I may wear it as my own, and his carved two-handed sword as my weapon, and then I shall really look fit to dance;’ and if they give you all these things, then dance and sing for them. Then I your brother will go and seat myself just outside the doorway of the house, and when you rush out, I’ll bolt the house door and window, and when they try to pursue and catch you, the door and window will be bolted fast, and we two can escape without danger.” Then he finished talking to him.

Then Whakatūria called down to Uenuku, and to all his people, who were assembled in the house, “Oh, all you people who are dancing and singing there, listen to me.”

Then they all said, “Silence, silence, make no more noise there, and listen to what the fellow is saying who is hanging up there. We thought he had been stifled by the smoke, but no such thing; there he is, alive still.” So they all kept quiet.

Then those who were in the house called up to him, “Halloa, you fellow hanging up in the roof there, what are you saying; let’s hear you.”

And he answered, “I mean to say that you don’t know any good dances or songs, at least that I have heard.”

Then the people in the house answered, “Are you and your tribe famous for your dancing and singing then?” and he answered,

“Their songs and dances are beautiful;” and they asked,

“Do you yourself know how to dance and sing?”

Then Uenuku said, “Let him down then;” and he was let down, and the people all called out to him,

“Now dance away.” And he did everything exactly as Tamatekapua had recommended him.

Then Whakatūria called out to them, “Make a very bright fire, so that there may be no smoke, and that you may see well!” and they made a bright clear fire. Then he stood up to dance, and as he rose from his seat on the ground, he looked bright and beautiful as the morning star appearing in the horizon, and as he flourished his sword his eyes flashed and glittered like the mother of pearl eyes in the head carved on the handle of his two-handed sword, and he danced down one side of the house, and reached the door; then he turned and danced up the other side of the house, and reached the end opposite the door, and there he stood.

Then he said quietly to them, “I am dying with heat; just slide back the door, and let it stand open a little, that I may feel the cool air;” and they slid the door back and left it open.

Then the lookers-on said, “Come, you’ve rested enough; the fresh air from outside must have made you cool enough; stand up, and dance.” Then Whakatūria rose up again to dance, and as he rose up, Tamatekapua stepped up to the door of the house, and sat down there, with two sticks in his hand, all ready to bolt up the sliding door and window.

Then Whakatūria, as is the custom in the dance, turned round to his right hand, stuck out his tongue, and made hideous faces on that side; again he turned round to the left hand, and made hideous faces on that side; his eyes glared, and his sword and red apron looked splendid; then he sprung about, and appeared hardly to stand for a moment at the end of the house near the door, before he had sprung back to the other end, and standing just a moment there, he made a spring from the inside of the house, and immediately he was beyond the door. Up sprang Tamatekapua, and instantly bolted the door. Back ran Whakatūria; he helped his brother to bolt up the window, and there they heard those inside cursing and swearing, and chattering like a hole full of young parrots, whilst away ran Tama’ and his brother. A stranger who was presently passing by the house pulled the bolts out of the door and window for them, and the crowd who had been shut into the house came pouring out of it.

The next morning Toi’ and Uenuku felt vexed indeed, for the escape of those they had taken as a payment for the fruit of their luxuriant pōporo tree, and said, “If we had had the sense to kill them at once, they would never have escaped in this way. In the days which are coming, that fellow will return seeking revenge for our having hung him up in the roof of the house.”

And before long Uenuku and Toitehuatahi went to make war on Tamatekapua and his people, and some fell on both sides; and at length a breach in the fortifications of the town of Houmaitawhiti and of his two sons was entered by a storming party of Uenuku’s force, and some of the fences and obstructions were carried; and the people of Houmaitawhiti cried out, “Oh, Hou’, oh, here are the enemy pressing their way in;” and Houmaitawhiti shouted in reply,

“That’s right; let them in, let them in, till they reach the very threshold of the house of Houmaitawhiti.” Thrice his men called out this to Hou’, and thrice did he answer them in the same manner. At last up rose Hou’ with his sons; then the struggle took place; those of the enemy that were not slain were allowed to escape back out of the town, but many of the slain were left there, and their bodies were cut up, baked, and devoured.

Then, indeed, a great crime was committed by Hou’ and his family, and his warriors, in eating the bodies of those men, for they were their near relations, being descended from Tamatea-kai-ariki. Then cowardice and fear seized upon the tribe of Hou’: formerly they were all very brave indeed, but at last Hou’ and all his tribe became cowardly, and fit for nothing, and Hou’ and Whakatūria both died, but Tamatekapua and his children, and some of his relations, still lived, and he, determined to make peace, that some remnant of his tribe might be saved; and the peace was long preserved.

The Legend of Poutini and Whaiapu

The Discovery of New Zealand

Now pay attention to the cause of the contention which arose between Poutini and Whaiapu, which led them to emigrate to New Zealand. For a long time they both rested in the same place, and Hine-tū-a-hōanga, to whom the stone Whaiapu15 belonged, became excessively enraged with Ngāhue, and with his stone Poutini.16 At last she drove Ngāhue out and forced him to leave the place, and Ngāhue departed and went to a strange land, taking his jade stone. When Hine-tū-a-hōanga saw that he was departing with his precious stone, she followed after them, and Ngāhoe arrived at Tūhua with his stone, and Hine-tū-a-hōanga arrived and landed there at the same time with him, and began to drive him away again. Then Ngāhue went to seek a place where his jade stones might remain in peace, and he found in the sea this island Aotearoa (the northern island of New Zealand), and he thought he would land there.

Then he thought again, lest he and his enemy should be too close to one another, and should quarrel again, that it would be better for him to go further off with his jade stone, a very long way off. So he carried it off with him, and they coasted along, and at length arrived at Arahura (on the west coast of the middle island), and he made that an everlasting resting place for his jade stone; then he broke off a portion of his jade stone, and took it with him and returned, and as he coasted along he at length reached Wairere (believed to be upon the east coast of the northern island), and he visited Whangaparāoa and Tauranga, and from thence he returned direct to Hawaiki, and reported that he had discovered a new country which produced the moa and jade stone in abundance. He now manufactured sharp axes from his jade stone; two axes were made from it, Tutauru and Hauhauterangi. He manufactured some portions of one piece of it into images for neck ornaments, and some portions into ear ornaments; the name of one of these ear ornaments was Kaukaumatua, which was recently in the possession of Te Heuheu, and was only lost in 1846, when he was killed with so many of his tribe by a landslip. The axe Tutauru was only lately lost by Purahokura and his brother Reretai, who were descended from Tamaihutoroa. When Ngāhue, returning, arrived again in Hawaiki, he found them all engaged in war, and when they heard his description of the beauty of this country of Aotea, some of them determined to come here.

Construction of Canoes to Emigrate to New Zealand

They then felled a tōtara tree in Rarotonga, which lies on the other side of Hawaiki, that they might build the Arawa from it. The tree was felled, and thus the canoe was hewn out from it and finished. The names of the men who built this canoe were, Rātā, Wahieroa, Ngāhue, Parata, and some other skilful men, who helped to hew out the Arawa and to finish it.

A chief of the name of Hoturoa, hearing that the Arawa was built, and wishing to accompany them, came to Tamatekapua and asked him to lend him his workmen to hew out some canoes for him too, and they went and built and finished the Tainui and some other canoes.

The workmen above mentioned are those who built the canoes in which our forefathers crossed the ocean to this island, to Aotearoa. The names of the canoes were as follows: the Arawa was first completed, then Tainui, then Mātaatua, and Tākitumu, and Kurahaupō, and Tokomaru, and Matahourua. These are the names of the canoes in which our forefathers departed from Hawaiki, and crossed to this island. When they had lashed the topsides on to the Tainui, Rātā slew the son of Manaia, and hid his body in the chips and shavings of the canoes. The names of the axes with which they hewed out these canoes were Hauhauterangi, and Tutauru. Tutauru was the axe with which they cut off the head of Uenuku.

All these axes were made from the block of green stone brought back by Ngāhue to Hawaiki, which was called “The fish of Ngāhue.” He had previously come to these islands from Hawaiki, when he was driven out from thence by Hine-tū-a-hōanga, whose fish or stone was Obsidian. From that cause Ngāhue came to these islands; the canoes which afterwards arrived here came in consequence of his discovery.

The Voyage to New Zealand

When the canoes were built and ready for sea they were dragged afloat, the separate lading of each canoe was collected and put on board, with all the crews. Tamatekapua then remembered that he had no skilful priest on board his canoe, and he thought the best thing he could do was to outwit Ngātoroirangi, the chief who had command of the Tainui. So just as his canoe shoved off, he called out to Ngātoro, “I say, Ngātoro, just come on board my canoe and perform the necessary religious rites for me.” Then the priest Ngātoro came on board, and Tamatekapua said to him, “You had better also call your wife, Kearoa, on board, that she may make the canoe clean or common, with an offering of seaweed to be laid in the canoe instead of an offering of fish, for you know the second fish caught in a canoe, or seaweed, or some substitute, ought to be offered for the females, the first for the males; then my canoe will be quite common, for all the ceremonies will have been observed, which should be followed with canoes made by priests.” Ngātoro assented to all this, and called his wife, and they both got into Tama’s canoe. The very moment they were on board, Tama’ called out to the men on board his canoe, “Heave up the anchors and make sail;” and he carried off with him Ngātoro and his wife, that he might have a priest and wise man on board his canoe. Then they up with the foresail, the mainsail, and the mizzen, and away shot the canoe.

Up then came Ngātoro from below, and said, “Shorten sail, that we may go more slowly, lest I miss my own canoe.”

And Tama’ replied, “Oh, no, no; wait a little, and your canoe will follow after us.” For a short time it kept near them, but soon dropped more and more astern; and when darkness overtook them, on they sailed, each canoe proceeding on its own course.

Two thefts were upon this occasion perpetrated by Tamatekapua. He carried off the wife of Ruaeo, and Ngātoro and his wife, on board the Arawa. He made a fool of Ruaeo too; for he said to him, “O Rua’, you, like a good fellow, just run back to the village and fetch me my axe Tutauru; I pushed it in under the sill of the window of my house.” And Rua’ was foolish enough to run back to the house. Then off went Tama’ with the canoe, and when Rua’ came back again, the canoe was so far off that its sails did not look much bigger than little flies. So he fell to weeping for all his goods on board the canoe, and for his wife Whakaotirangi, whom Tamatekapua had carried off as a wife for himself. Tamatekapua committed these two great thefts when he sailed for these islands. Hence this proverb, “A descendant of Tamatekapua will steal anything he can.”

When evening came on, Rua’ threw himself into the water, as a preparation for his incantations to recover his wife, and he then changed the stars of evening into the stars of morning, and those of the morning into the stars of the evening, and this was accomplished. In the meantime the Arawa scudded away far out on the ocean, and Ngātoro thought to himself, “What a rate this canoe goes at! what a vast space we have already traversed! I know what I’ll do, I’ll climb up upon the roof of the house which is built on the platform joining the two canoes, and try to get a glimpse of the land in the horizon, and ascertain whether we are near it, or very far off.” But in the first place he felt some suspicions about his wife, lest Tamatekapua should steal her too; for he had found out what a treacherous person he was. So he took a string and tied one end of it to his wife’s hair, and kept the other end of the string in his hand, and then he climbed up on the roof. He had hardly got on the top of the roof when Tama’ laid hold of his wife, and he cunningly untied the end of the string which Ngātoro had fastened to her hair, and made it fast to one of the beams of the canoe, and Ngātoro feeling it tight thought his wife had not moved, and that it was still fast to her. At last Ngātoro came down again, and Tamatekapua heard the noise of his steps as he was coming, but he had not time to get the string tied fast to the hair of Kearoa’s head again, but he jumped as fast as he could into his own berth, which was next to that of Ngātoro, and Ngātoro, to his surprise, found one end of the string tied fast to the beam of the canoe.

Then he knew that his wife had been disturbed by Tama’, and he asked her, saying, “Oh, wife, has not someone disturbed you?”

Then his wife replied, “Cannot you tell that from the string being fastened to the beam of the canoe?”

And then he asked her, “Who was it?”

And she said, “Who was it, indeed? Could it be anyone else but Tamatekapua?”

Then her husband said to her, “You are a noble woman indeed thus to confess this; you have gladdened my heart by this confession. I thought after Tama’ had carried us both off in this way that he would have acted generously, and not loosely in this manner; but, since he has acted in this way, I will now have my revenge on him.”

Then that priest again went forth upon the roof of the house and stood there, and he called aloud to the heavens, in the same way that Rua’ did, and he changed the stars of the evening into those of the morning, and he raised the winds that they should blow upon the prow of the canoe and drive it astern, and the crew of the canoe were at their wits’ end, and quite forgot their skill as seamen, and the canoe drew straight into the whirlpool, called “The throat of Te Parata,”17 and dashed right into that whirlpool.

The canoe became engulfed in the whirlpool, and its prow disappeared in it. In a moment the waters reached the first bailing place in the bows, in another second they reached the second bailing place in the centre, and the canoe now appeared to be going down into the whirlpool head foremost. Then up started Hei, but before he could rise they had already sunk far into the whirlpool. Next the rush of waters was heard by Īhenga, who slept forward, and he shouted out, “Oh, Ngātoro, oh, we are settling down head first. The pillow of your wife Kearoa has already fallen from under her head!” Ngātoro sat astern listening; the same cries of distress reached him a second time. Then up sprang Tamatekapua, and he in despair shouted out, “Oh, Ngātoro, Ngātoro, aloft there! Do you hear? The canoe is gone down so much by the bow that Kearoa’s pillow has rolled from under her head.” The priest heard them, but neither moved nor answered until he heard the goods rolling from the decks and splashing into the water. The crew meanwhile held on to the canoe with their hands with great difficulty, some of them having already fallen into the sea.

When these things all took place, the heart of Ngāroto was moved with pity, for he heard, too, the shrieks and cries of the men, and the weeping of the women and children. Then up stood that mighty man again, and by his incantations changed the aspect of the heavens, so that the storm ceased, and he repeated another incantation to draw the canoe back out of the whirlpool, that is, to lift it up again.

Lo, the canoe rose up from the whirlpool, floating rightly; but, although the canoe itself thus floated out of the whirlpool, a great part of its lading had been thrown out into the water, a few things only were saved and remained in the canoe. A great part of their provisions were lost as the canoe was sinking into the whirlpool. Thence comes the native proverb, if they can give a stranger but little food, or only make a present of a small basket of food, “Oh, it is the half-filled basket of Whakaotirangi, for she only managed to save a very small part of her provisions.” Then they sailed on, and landed at Whangaparāoa, in Aotea here. As they drew near to land, they saw with surprise some pōhutukawa trees of the sea coast, covered with beautiful red flowers, and the still water reflected back the redness of the trees.

Then one of the chiefs of the canoe cried out to his messmates, “See there, red ornaments for the head are much more plentiful in this country than in Hawaiki, so I’ll throw my red head ornaments into the water;” and, so saying, he threw them into the sea. The name of that man was Tauninihi; the name of the red head ornament he threw into the sea was Taiwhakaea. The moment they got on shore they ran to gather the pōhutukawa flowers, but no sooner did they touch them than the flowers fell to pieces; then they found out that these red head ornaments were nothing but flowers. All the chiefs on board the Arawa were then troubled that they should have been so foolish as to throw away their red head ornaments into the sea. Very shortly afterwards the ornaments of Tauninihi were found by Māhina on the beach of Mahiti. As soon as Tauninihi heard they had been picked up, he ran to Māhina to get them again, but Māhina would not give them up to him; hence this proverb for anything which has been lost and is found by another person, “I will not give it up, ’tis the red head ornament which Māhina found.”

As soon as the party landed at Whangaparāoa, they planted sweet potatoes, that they might grow there; and they are still to be found growing on the cliffs at that place.

Then the crew, wearied from the voyage, wandered idly along the shore, and there they found the fresh carcass of a sperm whale stranded upon the beach. The Tainui had already arrived in the same neighbourhood, although they did not at first see that canoe nor the people who had come in it; when, however, they met, they began to dispute as to who had landed first and first found the dead whale, and as to which canoe it consequently belonged; so, to settle the question, they agreed to examine the sacred place which each party had set up to return thanks in to the gods for their safe arrival, that they might see which had been longest built; and, doing so, they found that the posts of the sacred place put up by the Arawa were quite green, whilst the posts of the sacred place put up by the Tainui had evidently been carefully dried over the fire before they had been fixed in the ground. The people who had come in the Tainui also showed part of a rope which they had made fast to the jawbone of the whale. When these things were seen, it was admitted that the whale belonged to the people who came in the Tainui, and it was surrendered to them. And the people in the Arawa, determining to separate from those in the Tainui, selected some of their crew to explore the country in a northwest direction, following the coast line. The canoe then coasted along, the land party following it along the shore; this was made up of 140 men, whose chief was Taikehu, and these gave to a place the name of Te Ranga of Taikehu.

The Tainui left Whangaparāoa18 shortly after the Arawa, and, proceeding nearly in the same direction as the Arawa, made the Gulf of Hauraki, and then coasted along to Rākaumangamanga, or Cape Brett, and to the island with an arched passage through it, called Motukōkako, which lies off the cape; thence they ran along the coast to Whiwhia, and to Te Aukanapanapa, and to Muriwhenua, or the country near the North Cape. Finding that the land ended there, they returned again along the coast until they reached the Tamaki, and landed there, and afterwards proceeded up the creek to Tauoma, or the portage, where they were surprised to see flocks of seagulls and oystercatchers passing over from the westward; so they went off to explore the country in that direction, and to their great surprise found a large sheet of water lying immediately behind them, so they determined to drag their canoes over the portage at a place they named Ōtāhuhu, and to launch them again on the vast sheet of saltwater which they had found.

The first canoe which they hauled across was the Tokomaru—that they got across without difficulty. They next began to drag the Tainui over the isthmus; they hauled away at it in vain, they could not stir it, for one of the wives of Hoturoa, named Marama-kiko-hura, who was unwilling that the tired crews should proceed further on this new expedition, had by her enchantments fixed it so firmly to the earth that no human strength could stir it. So they hauled, they hauled, they excited themselves with cries and cheers, but they hauled in vain, they cried aloud in vain—they could not move it. When their strength was quite exhausted by these efforts, then another of the wives of Hoturoa, more learned in magic and incantations than Marama-kiko-hura, grieved at seeing the exhaustion and distress of her people, rose up and chanted forth an incantation far more powerful than that of Marama-kiko-hura; then at once the canoe glided easily over the carefully-laid skids, and it soon floated securely upon the harbour of manuka. The willing crews urged on the canoes with their paddles. They soon discovered the mouth of the harbour upon the west coast, and passed out through it into the open sea; they coasted along the western coast to the southwards, and discovering the small port of Kāwhia, they entered it and, hauling up their canoe, fixed themselves there for the time, whilst the Arawa was left at Maketu.

We now return to the Arawa. We left the people of it at Tauranga. That canoe next floated at Motiti;19 they named that island after a spot in Hawaiki, because there was no firewood there. Next Tia, to commemorate his name, called the place now known by the name of Rangiuru, Tākapu-o-tāpui-ika-nui-a-Tia. Then Hei stood up and called out, “I name that place Tākapu-o-wai-tahanui-a-Hei;” the name of that place is now Otawa. Then stood up Tamatekapua, and pointing to the place now called the Heads of Maketu, he called out, “I name that place Te Kuraetanga-o-te-ihu-o-Tamatekapua.” Next Kahu called a place after his name, Motiti-nui-a-Kahu.

Ruaeo, who had already arrived at Maketu, started up. He was the first to arrive there in his canoe—the Pukeatea-wai-nui—for he had been left behind by the Arawa, and his wife Whakaotirangi had been carried off by Tamatekapua, and after the Arawa had left he had sailed in his own canoe for these islands, and landed at Maketu, and his canoe reached land the first. Well, he started up, cast his line into the sea, with the books attached to it, and they got fast in one of the beams of the Arawa, and it was pulled ashore by him (whilst the crew were asleep), and the hundred and forty men who had accompanied him stood upon the beach of Maketu, with skids all ready laid, and the Arawa was by them dragged upon the shore in the night and left there; and Ruaeo seated himself under the side of the Arawa and played upon his flute, and the music woke his wife, and she said, “Dear me, that’s Rua’!” and when she looked, there he was sitting under the side of the canoe; and they passed the night together.

At last Rua’ said, “O mother of my children, go back now to your new husband, and presently I’ll play upon the flute and pūtōrino, so that both you and Tamatekapua may hear. Then do you say to Tamatekapua, ‘O la! I had a dream in the night that I heard Rua’ playing a tune upon his flute,’ and that will make him so jealous that he will give you a blow, and then you can run away from him again, as if you were in a rage and hurt, and you can come to me.”

Then Whakaotirangi returned, and lay down by Tamatekapua, and she did everything exactly as Rua’ had told her, and Tama’ began to beat her, and she ran away from him. Early in the morning Rua’ performed incantations by which he kept all the people in the canoe in a profound sleep, and whilst they still slept from his enchantments the sun rose and mounted high up in the heavens. In the forenoon Rua’ gave the canoe a heavy blow with his club. They all started up. It was almost noon, and when they looked down over the edge of their canoe there were the hundred and forty men of Rua’ sitting under them, all beautifully dressed with feathers, as if they had been living on the Gannet Island, in the channel of Kārewa, where feathers are so abundant. And when the crew of the Arawa heard this they all rushed upon deck, and saw Rua’ standing in the midst of his one hundred and forty warriors.

Then Rua’ shouted out as he stood, “Come here, Tamatekapua; let us two fight the battle, you and I alone. If you are stronger than I am, well and good, let it be so; if I am stronger than you are, I’ll dash you to the earth.”

Up sprang then the hero Tamatekapua. He held a carved two-handed sword, a sword the handle of which was decked with red feathers. Rua’ held a similar weapon. Tama’ first struck a fierce blow at Rua’. Rua’ parried it, and it glanced harmlessly off; then Rua’ threw away his sword, and seized both the arms of Tamatekapua. He held his arms and his sword, and dashed him to the earth. Tama’ half rose, and was again dashed down; once more he almost rose, and was thrown again. Still Tama’ fiercely struggled to rise and renew the fight. For the fourth time he almost rose up; then Rua’, overcome with rage, took a heap of vermin (this he had prepared for the purpose, to cover Tama’ with insult and shame), and rubbed them on Tamatekapua’s head and ear, and they adhered so fast that Tama’ tried in vain to get them out. Then Rua’ said, “There, I’ve beaten you. Now keep the woman as a payment for the insults I’ve heaped upon you, and for having been beaten by me.” But Tama’ did not hear a word he said; he was almost driven mad with the pain and itching, and could do nothing but stand scratching and rubbing his head; whilst Rua’ departed with his hundred and forty men, to seek some other dwelling place for themselves. If they had turned against Tama and his people, to fight against them, they would have slain them all.

These men were giants: Tamatekapua was nine feet high, Rua’ was eleven feet high. There have been no men since that time so tall as those heroes. The only man of these later times who was as tall as these was Tūhourangi: he was nine feet high; he was six feet up to the armpits. This generation have seen his bones; they used to be always set up by the priests in the sacred places when they were made high places for the sacred sacrifices of the natives, at the times the potatoes and sweet potatoes were dug up, and when the fishing season commenced, and when they attacked an enemy. Then might be seen the people collecting, in their best garments, and with their ornaments, on the days when the priests exposed Tūhourangi’s bones to their view. At the time that the island Mokoia, in the lake of Rotorua, was stormed and taken by the Ngāpuhi, they probably carried those bones off, for they have not since been seen.

After the dispute between Tamatekapua and Rua’ took place, Tama and his party dwelt at Maketu, and their descendants after a little time spread to other places. Ngātoroirangi went, however, about the country, and where he found dry valleys, stamped on the earth, and brought forth springs of water; he also visited the mountains, and placed Patupaiarehe, or fairies, there, and then returned to Maketu, and dwelt there.

After this a dispute arose between Tamatekapua and Kahumatamomoe, and in consequence of that disturbance Tama’ and Ngātoro removed to Tauranga, and found Taikehu living there, and collecting food for them (by fishing), and that place was called by them Te Ranga-a-Taikehu.20 It lies beyond Motuhoa. Then they departed from Tauranga, and stopped at Katikati, where they ate food. Tama’s men devoured the food very fast, whilst he kept on nibbling his, therefore they applied this circumstance as a name for the place, and called it “Katikati-o-Tamatekapua,” the nibbling of Tamatekapua; then they halted at Whakahau, so called because they here ordered food to be cooked, which they did not stop to eat, but went right on with Ngātoro, and this circumstance gave its name to the place; and they went on from place to place till they arrived at Whitianga, which they so called from their crossing the river there, and they continued going from one place to another till they came to Tangiaro, and Ngātoro stuck up a stone and left it there, and they dwelt in Moehau and Hauraki.

They occupied those places as a permanent residence, and Tamatekapua died, and was buried there. When he was dying he ordered his children to return to Maketu, to visit his relations, and they assented and went back. If the children of Tamatekapua had remained at Hauraki, that place would now have been left to them as a possession.

Tamatekapua, when dying, told his children where the precious eardrop Kaukaumatua was, which he had hidden under the window of his house; and his children returned with Ngātoro to Maketu, and dwelt there; and as soon as Ngātoro arrived he went to the waters to bathe himself, as he had come there in a state of tapu, upon account of his having buried Tamatekapua, and having bathed, he then became free from the tapu and clean.

Ngātoro then took the daughter of Īhenga to wife, and he went and searched for the precious eardrop Kaukaumatua, and found it, as Tamatekapua had told them. After this the wife of Kahumatamomoe conceived a child.

At this time Īhenga, taking some dogs with him to catch kiwi21 with, went to Paritangi by way of Hakomiti, and a kiwi was chased by one of his dogs and caught in a lake, and the dog eat some of the fish and shellfish in the lake, after diving in the water to get them, and returned to its master carrying the captured kiwi in its mouth, and on reaching its master it dropped the kiwi, and vomited up the raw fish and shellfish which it had eaten.

When Īhenga saw his dog wet all over, and the fish it had vomited up, he knew there was a lake there, and was extremely glad, and returned joyfully to Maketu, and there he had the usual religious ceremonies which follow the birth of a child performed over his wife and the child she had given birth to; and when this had been done, he went to explore the country which he had previously visited with his dog.

To his great surprise he discovered a lake: it was Lake Rotoiti; he left a mark there to show that he claimed it as his own. He went further and discovered Lake Rotorua; he saw that its waters were running; he left there also a mark to show that he claimed the lake as his own. As he went along the side of the lake he found a man occupying the ground; then he thought to himself that he would endeavour to gain possession of it by craft, so he looked out for a spot fit for a sacred place, where men could offer up their prayers, and for another spot fit for a sacred place, where nets could be hung up, and he found fit spots; then he took suitable stones to surround the sacred place with, and old pieces of seaweed, looking as if they had years ago been employed as offerings, and he went into the middle of the shrubbery, thick with boughs of the taha shrub, of the koromuka, and of the karamū; there he stuck up the posts of the sacred place in the midst of the shrubs, and tied bunches of flax leaves on the posts, and having done this, he went to visit the village of the people who lived there.

They saw someone approaching, and cried out, “A stranger, a stranger is coming here!” As soon as Īhenga heard these cries he sat down upon the ground, and then, without waiting for the people of the place to begin the speeches, he jumped up and commenced to speak thus: “What theft is this, what theft is this of the people here, that they are taking away my land?” for he saw that they had their storehouses full of prepared fern roots and of dried fish, and shellfish, and their heaps of fishing nets, so as he spoke, he appeared to swell with rage, and his throat appeared to grow large from passion as he talked—“Who authorised you to come here and take possession of my place? Be off, be off, be off! leave alone the place of the man who speaks to you, to whom it has belonged for a very long time, for a very long time indeed.”

Then Marupunganui, the son of Tūarotorua, the man to whom the place really belonged, said to Īhenga, “It is not your place, it belongs to me; if it belongs to you where is your village, where is your sacred place, where is your net, where are your cultivations and gardens?”

Īhenga answered him, “Come here and see them.” So they went together, and ascended a hill, and Īhenga said, “See, there, there is my net hanging up against the ricks;” but it was no such thing, it was only a mark like a net hanging up, caused by part of a cliff having slipped away; “and there are the posts of the pine round my village;” but there was really nothing but some old stumps of trees. “Look there, too, at my sacred place a little beyond yours. And now come with me and see my sacred place, if you are quite sure you see my village and my fishing net—come along.” So they went together, and there he saw the sacred place standing in the shrubbery, until at last he believed Īhenga, and the place was all given up to Īhenga, and he took possession of it and lived there, and the descendants of the Tūarotorua departed from that place, and a portion of them, under the chiefs Kawaarero and Maraaho, occupied the Island of Mokoia, in Lake Rotorua.

At this time Ngātoro again went to stamp on the earth, and to bring forth springs in places where there was no water, and came out on the great central plains which surround Lake Taupō, where a piece of large cloak made of kiekie leaves was stripped off by the bushes, and the strips took root and became large trees, nearly as large as the Kahikatea tree (they are called Painanga, and many of them are growing there still).

Whenever he ascended a hill he left marks there, to show that he, claimed it; the marks he left were fairies. Some of the generation now living have seen these spirits; they are malicious spirits. If you take embers from an oven in which food has been cooked, and use them for a fire in a house, these spirits become offended. Although there be many people sleeping in that house, not one of them could escape (the fairies would, whilst they slept, press the whole of them to death).

Ngātoro went straight on and rested at Taupō, and he beheld that the summit of Mount Tongariro was covered with snow, and he was seized with a longing to ascend it, and he climbed up, saying to his companions who remained below at their encampment, “Remember now, do not you, who I am going to leave behind, taste food from the time I leave you until I return, when we will all feast together.” Then he began to ascend the mountain, but he had not quite got to the summit when those he had left behind began to eat food, and he therefore found the greatest difficulty in reaching the summit of the mountain, and the hero nearly perished in the attempt.

At last he gathered strength, and thought he could save himself if he prayed aloud to the gods of Hawaiki to send fire to him and to produce a volcano upon the mountain (and his prayer was answered); and fire was given to him, and the mountain became a volcano, and it came by the way of Whakaari, or White Island, of Moutohorā, of Okakaru, of Rotoehu, of Rotoiti, of Rotorua, of Tarawera, of Paeroa, of Orakei Korako, and of Taupō; it came right underneath the earth, spouting up at all the above-mentioned places, and ascended right up Tongariro, to him who was sitting upon the top of the mountain, and thence the hero was revived again, and descended, and returned to Maketu, and dwelt there.

The Arawa had been laid up by its crew at Maketu where they landed, and the people who had arrived with the party in the Arawa spread themselves over the country, examining it, some penetrating to Rotorua, some to Taupō, some to Whanganui, some to Ruatāhuna, and no one was left at Maketu but Hei’ and his son, and Tia and his son, and the usual place of residence of Ngātoroirangi was on the island of Motiti. The people who came with Tainui were still in Kāwhia, where they had landed.

One of their chiefs, named Raumati, heard that the Arawa was laid up at Maketu, so he started with all his own immediate dependants, and reaching Tauranga, halted there, and in the evening again pressed on towards Maketu, and reached the bank of the river opposite that on which the Arawa was lying, thatched over with reeds and dried branches and leaves; then he slung a dart, the point of which was bound round with combustible materials, over to the other side of the river; the point of the dart was lighted, and it stuck right in the dry thatch of the roof over the Arawa, and the shed of dry stuff taking fire, the canoe was entirely destroyed.

On the night that the Arawa was burnt by Raumati there was not a person left at Maketu; they were all scattered in the forests, at Tapuika, and at Waitaha, and Ngātoroirangi was at that moment at his residence on the island of Motiti. The pa, or fortified village, at Maketu was left quite empty, without a person in it. The canoe was lying alone, with none to watch it; they had all gone to collect food of different kinds—it happened to be a season in which food was very abundant, and from that cause the people were all scattered in small parties about the country, fishing, fowling, and collecting food.

As soon as the next morning dawned, Raumati could see that the fortified village of Maketu was empty, and not a person left in it, so he and his armed followers at once passed over the river and entered the village, which they found entirely deserted.

At night, as the Arawa burnt, the people, who were scattered about in the various parts of the country, saw the fire, for the bright glare of the gleaming flames was reflected in the sky, lighting up the heavens, and they all thought that it was the village at Maketu that had been burnt; but those persons who were near Waitaha and close to the seashore near where the Arawa was, at once said, “That must be the Arawa which is burning; it must have been accidentally set on fire by some of our friends who have come to visit us.” The next day they went to see what had taken place, and when they reached the place where the Arawa had been lying, they found it had been burnt by an enemy, and that nothing but the ashes of it were left them. Then a messenger started to all the places where the people were scattered about, to warn them of what had taken place, and they then first heard the bad news.

The children of Hou, as they discussed in their house of assembly the burning of the Arawa, remembered the proverb of their father, which he spake to them as they were on the point of leaving Hawaiki, and when he bid them farewell.

He then said to them, “O my children, O Mako, O Tia, O Hei, hearken to these my words:—

“There was but one great chief in Hawaiki, and that was Whakatauihu. Now do you, my dear children, depart in peace, and when you reach the place you are going to, do not follow after the deeds of Tu’, the god of war; if you do you will perish, as if swept off by the winds, but rather follow quiet and useful occupations, then you will die tranquilly a natural death. Depart, and dwell in peace with all, leave war and strife behind you here. Depart, and dwell in peace. It is war and its evils which are driving you from hence; dwell in peace where you are going conduct yourselves like men, let there be no quarrelling amongst you, but build up a great people.”

These were the last words which Houmaitawhiti addressed to his children, and they ever kept these sayings of their father firmly fixed in their hearts: “Depart in peace to explore new homes for yourselves.”

Uenuku perhaps gave no such parting words of advice to his children, when they left him for this country, because they brought war and its evils with them from the other side of the ocean to New Zealand. But, of course, when Raumati burnt the Arawa, the descendants of Houmaitawhiti could not help continually considering what they ought to do, whether they should declare war upon account of the destruction of their canoe, or whether they should let this act pass by without notice. They kept these thoughts always close in mind, and impatient feelings kept ever rising up in their hearts. They could not help saying to one another, “It was upon account of war and its consequences that we deserted our own country, that we left our fathers, our homes, and our people, and war and evil are following after us here. Yet we cannot remain patient under such an injury, every feeling urges us to revenge this wrong.”

At last they made an end of deliberation, and unanimously agreed that they would declare war, to obtain compensation for the evil act of Raumati in burning the Arawa; and then commenced the great war which was waged between those who arrived in the Arawa and those who arrived in the Tainui.

The Curse of Manaia

Ko Manaia, Ko Kuiwai

When the Tainui and the Arawa sailed away from Hawaiki with Ngātoroirangi on board, he left behind him his younger sister, Kuiwai, who was married to a powerful chief named Manaia. Some time after the canoes had left, a great meeting of all the people of his tribe was held by Manaia, to remove a tapu; and when the religious part of the ceremony was ended, the women cooked food for the strangers.

When their ovens were opened, the food in the oven of Kuiwai, the wife of Manaia, and sister of Ngātoroirangi, was found to be much underdone, and Manaia was very angry with his wife, and gave her a severe beating, and cursed, saying, “Accursed be your head! Are the logs of firewood as sacred as the bones of your brother, that you were so sparing of them as not to put into the fire in which the stones were heated enough to make them red hot? Will you dare to do the like again? If you do, I’ll serve the flesh of your brother in the same way; it shall frizzle on the red-hot stones of Waikororā.”

And his poor wife was quite overcome with shame, and burst out crying, and went on sobbing and weeping all the time she was taking the underdone food out of the oven; and when she had put it in baskets, and carried them up to her husband, and laid them before him, she ate nothing herself, but went on one side, and cried bitterly, and then retired and hid herself in the house.

And just before night closed in on them she cast her garments on one side, and girded herself with a new sash made from the young shoots of the toetoe, and stood on the threshold, and spread out her gods, Kāhukura, Itupawa, and Rongomai; and she and her daughter, and her sister Haungaroa, stood before them; and the appearance of the gods was most propitious. And when her incantations were ended, she said to her daughter, “My child, your journey will be a most fortunate one.” The gods were then by her bound up in cloths, and she hung them up again, and returned into the house.

She then said to her daughter, “Now depart, and when you reach your uncle Ngātoro, and your other relations, tell them that they have been cursed by Manaia, because the food in my oven was not cooked upon the occasion of a great assembly for taking off a tapu, and that he then said, ‘Are the logs in the forest as sacred as the bones of your brother, that you are afraid to use them in cooking? or are the stones of the desert the kidneys of Ngātoroirangi, that you don’t heat them? By and by I’ll frizzle the flesh of your brother on red-hot stones taken from Waikororā.’ Now, my child, depart to your uncle and relations. Be quick! This is the season of the wind of Pungawere, which will soon waft them here.”

The women then took by stealth the gods of the people, that is to say, Maru, and Te Iho-o-te-rangi, and Rongomai, and Itupawa, and Haungaroa; and they had no canoe for their journey, but these gods served them as a canoe to cross the sea. For the first canoes which had left Hawaiki for New Zealand carried no gods for human beings with them; they only carried the gods of the sweet potatoes and of fish; they left behind them the gods for mortals, but they brought away with them prayers, incantations, and a knowledge of enchantments, for these things were kept secret in their minds, being learnt by heart, one from another.

Then the girl and her companions took with them Kāhukura, and Itupawa, and Rongomai, and Maru, and the other gods, and started on their journey. Altogether there were five women, and they journeyed and journeyed towards New Zealand, and, borne up by the gods, they traversed the vast ocean, till at last they landed on the burning island of Whakaari, and when daylight appeared they floated again on the waters, and finally landed on the northern island of New Zealand, at Tāwhiuwhiu, and went by an inland route, and stopped to eat food at a place whence they had a good view over the plains, and after the rest of the party were done eating, Haungaroa still went on, and two of her companions teased her, saying, “Halloa, Haungaroa, what a long time you continue eating;” and those plains have ever since been called Kaingaroa, or Kaingaroa-o-Haungaroa (the long meal of Haungaroa). Haungaroa, who was much provoked with the two women who thus teased her, smote them on the face, whereupon those women ran away, and Haungaroa followed them for a long distance, but she pursued in vain; they would not come back to her, they fled from her, and Haungaroa, by her enchantments, changed them into tī trees, which stand on the plains whilst travellers approach them, but which move from place to place when they attempt to get close (and the natives believe that the trees are there at the present day).

Then the other three women continued their journey, and they at length reached the summit of a hill, and sat down there to rest themselves, and whilst they were resting Haungaroa thought of her mother, and love for her overcame her, and she wept aloud—and that place has ever since been called Te Tangihanga, or the place of weeping.

After they had rested for some time they continued their journey, until they reached the open summit of another high hill, which they named Piopio, and from thence they saw the beautiful lake of Rotorua lying at their feet, and they descended towards it, and came down upon the geyser, which spouts up its jet of boiling water at the foot of the mountain, and they reached the lake itself, and wound round it along its sandy shores. Then, leaving the lake behind them, they struck off towards Maketu, and at last reached that place also, coming out of the forests upon the seacoast, close to the village of Tuhoro, and when they saw the people there they called out to them, “Whereabout is the residence of Ngātoroirangi?”

And the people answered them, “He lives near the large elevated storehouse which you see erected on the hill there.”

And the niece of Ngātoroirangi saw the fence which surrounded this place, and she walked straight on towards the wicket of the fortification. She would not, however, pass in through it like a common person, but climbed the posts, and clambered into the fortress over its wooden defences, and having got inside, went straight on to the house of Ngātoroirangi, entered it, and going right up to the spot which was sacred, from his sitting on it, she seated herself down there.

When Ngātoroirangi’s people saw this, one of them ran off with all speed to tell his master, who was then at work with some of his servants on his farm, and having found him, he said, “There is a stranger just arrived at your residence, who carries a travelling bag as if she had come from a long journey, and she would not come in at the gate of the fortress, but climbed right over the wooden fences, and has quietly laid her travelling bag upon the very roof of your sacred house, and has walked up and seated herself in the very seat that your sacred person generally occupies.”

When the servant had ended his story, Ngātoro at once guessed who this stranger from a distance must be, and said, “It is my niece.”

And he then asked, “Where is Te Kehu?” and they told him,

“He is as work in his plantation of sweet potatoes.” And he bid them fetch him at once, and to be quick about it. And when he arrived they all went together to the place where his niece was, and when he reached her he at once led her before the altar, and she gave them the gods which she had brought with her from Hawaiki.

Then she said to them, “Come now, and let us be cleansed by diving in running water, and let the ceremony of Whāngaihoro be performed over us, for you have been cursed by Manaia and his tribe.”

When they heard this they cried aloud, and tore off their clothes, and ran so a running stream and plunged into it, and dashed water over themselves, and the priests chanted the proper incantations, and performed all the prescribed ceremonies; and when these were finished they left the stream and went towards the village again, and the priests chanted incantations for cleansing the courtyard of the fortress from the defilement of the curse of Manaia; but the incantations for this purpose have not been handed down to the present generation.

The priests next dug a long pit, termed the pit of wrath, into which by their enchantments they might bring the spirits of their enemies, and hang them and destroy them there. And when they had dug the pit, muttering the necessary incantations, they took large shells in their hands to scrape the spirits of their enemies into the pit with, whilst they muttered their enchantments. And when they had done this they scraped the earth into the pit again to cover them up, and beat down the earth with their hands, and crossed the pit with enchanted cloths, and wove baskets of flax leaves to hold the spirits of the foes which they had thus destroyed, and each of these acts they accompanied with proper spells.

The religious ceremonies being all ended, they sat down, and Ngātoroirangi wept over his niece, and then they spread food before the travellers; and when they had finished their meal they all collected in the house of Ngātoroirangi, and the old men began to question the strangers, saying, “What has brought you here?”

Then Kuiwai’s daughter said, “A curse which Manaia uttered against you; for when they had finished making his sacred place for him, and the females were cooking food for the strangers who attended the ceremony, the food in Kuiwai’s oven was not well cooked, and Manaia cursed her and you, saying, ‘Is firewood as sacred as the bones of your brethren that you fear to burn it in an oven? I’ll yet make the flesh of your brothers hiss upon red-hot stones brought from Waikororā, and heated to warm the oven in which they shall be cooked.’ That curse is the curse that brought me here, for my mother told me to hasten to you.”

When Ngātoroirangi heard this, he was very wroth, and he in his turn cursed Manaia, saying, “Thus shall it be done unto you—your flesh shall be cooked with stones brought from Maketu.” Then he told all his relations and people to search early the next morning for a large tōtara tree, from which they might build a canoe, as they had no canoe since Raumati had burnt the Arawa.

Then the people all arose very early the next morning, and with them were the chosen band of one hundred and forty warriors, and they went out to search for a large tōtara tree, and Kuiwai’s daughter went with them, and she found a great tōtara tree fallen down, and nearly buried in the earth; so they dug it out, and they framed a large canoe from it, which they named “The tōtara tree, dug from the earth;” and they hauled it down to the shore, and, launching it, embarked and paddled out to sea, and the favourable wind of Pungawere was blowing strong, and it blew so for seven days and nights, and wafted them across the ocean, and at the end of that time they had again reached the shores of Hawaiki.

The name of the place at which they landed in Hawaiki was Taraiwhenua; they landed at nighttime, and drew their canoe up above high water mark, and laid it in the thickets, that none might see that strangers had arrived.

Ngātoroirangi then went at once to a fortified village named Whaitiri-ka-papa, and when he arrived there he walked carelessly up to the house of Kuiwai, and peeping in at the door said that she was wanted outside for a minute; and she, knowing his voice came out to him immediately, and Ngātoroirangi questioned her, saying, “Have you anything to say to me that I ought to know?”

And she replied, “The whole tribe of Manaia are continually occupied in praying to their gods, at the sacred place; they pray to them to bring you and your tribe here, dead; perhaps their incantations may now have brought you here.”

Then Ngātoro asked her, “In what part of the heavens is the sun when they go to the sacred place?” and she answered,

“They go there early in the morning.”

Then Ngātoroirangi asked her again, “Where are they all in the evening?” and she replied,

“In the evening they collect in numbers in their villages for the night; in the morning they disperse about.”

Then, just as Ngātoroirangi was going, he said to her, “At the dawn of morning climb up on the roof of your house that you may have a good view, and watch what takes place.” Having thus spoken, he returned to the main body of his party.

Then Ngātoro related to them all that his sister had told him; and when they had heard this, Tangaroa, one of his chiefs, said, “My counsel is, that we storm their fortress this night;” but then stood up Rangitu, another chief, and said,

“Nay, but rather let us attack it in the morning.”

Now arose Ngātoro, and he spake aloud to them and said, “I agree with neither of you. We must go to the sacred place, and strike our noses until they bleed and we are covered with blood, and then we must lie on the ground like dead bodies, every man with his weapon hid under him, and their priests will imagine that their enchantments have brought us here and slain us; so shall we surprise them.” On hearing these words from their leader they all arose, and following him in a body to the courtyard of the sacred place, they found that the foolish priests had felt so sure of compelling their spirits by enchantments to bring Ngātoro and his tribe there, and to slay them for them, that they had even prepared ovens to cook their bodies in, and these were all lying open ready for the victims; and by the sides of the ovens they had laid in mounds the green leaves, all prepared to place upon the victims before the earth was heaped in to cover them up, and the firewood and the stones were also lying ready to be heated. Then the one hundred and forty men went and laid themselves down in the ovens dug out of the earth, as though they had been dead bodies, and they turned themselves about, and beat themselves upon their noses and faces until they bled, so that their bodies became all covered with blood, like the corpses of men slain in battle; and then they lay still in the ovens; the weapons they had with them were short clubs of various kinds, such as clubs of pounamu and of basalt, and of the bones of whales, and the priests whom they had with them having found out the sacred place of the people of that country, entered it, and hid themselves there.

Thus they continued to lie in the ovens until the sun arose next morning, and until the priests of their enemies, according to their custom each day at dawn, came to spread leaves and other offerings to the gods in the sacred place, and there, to their surprise, these priests found the warriors of Ngātoroirangi all lying heaped up in the ovens. Then the priests raised joyful shouts, crying—“At last our prayers have been answered by the gods; here, here are the bodies of the host of Ngāroto and of Tama’, lying heaped up in the cooking places. This has been done by our god—he carried them off, and brought them here.” The multitude of people in the village hearing these cries, ran out to see the wonder, and when they saw the bodies of the one hundred and forty lying there, with the blood in clots dried on them, they began to cry out—one, “I’ll have this shoulder;” another, “And I’ll have this thigh;” and a third, “That head is mine;” for the blood shed from striking their noses during the previous night was now quite clotted on their bodies; and the priests of those who were lying in the ovens having hidden themselves in the bushes of the shrubbery round the sacred place, could not be seen by the priests of the town of Manaia when they entered the sacred place to perform the fitting rites to the gods.

So these latter cried aloud, as they offered thanksgivings to the gods for having granted their prayers, and for having fulfilled their wishes; but just as their ceremonies were finished the priests of the war party of Ngātoroirangi rushing out from their hiding places upon the other priests, slew them, so that the priests were first slain, as offerings to the gods. Then arose the one hundred and forty men from the ovens, and rushed upon their enemies. All were slain, not one escaped but Manaia, and he fled to the town; but they at once attacked and carried the town by assault, and then the slaughter ceased. And the first battle at the sacred place was called Ihumotomotokia, or the battle of “Bruised Noses;” and the name of the town which was taken was Whaitiri-ka-papa, but Manaia again escaped from the assault on the town. They entered the breaches in the town as easily as if they had been walking in at the door of a house left open to receive them, whence this proverb has been handed down to us, “As soon as you have defeated your enemy storm their town.” The priests now turned over the bodies of the first slain, termed the holy fish, as offerings set apart for the gods, and said suitable prayers, and when these ceremonies were ended, the conquerors cooked the bodies of their enemies and devoured the whole of them; but soon afterwards the warriors of the other towns of Manaia which had not been assaulted were approaching as a forlorn hope to attack their enemies.

In the meanwhile Ngātoroirangi and his warriors, unaware of this, had retired towards their canoe, whilst the host of warriors whom Manaia had again assembled were following upon their traces. They soon came to a stream which they had to pass, and fording that they left it behind them and gained their canoe; but by the time they were there, their pursuers had reached the stream they had just left.

Ngātoroirangi now felt thirsty, and remembered that they had no water for the crew of the canoe, so he said, “There is no water here for us;” and Rangitu, hearing the voice of his commander, answered cheerfully,

“No, there is none here, but there is plenty in the stream we have just crossed.” So they gave the great calabash of the canoe to Rangitu, and he returned towards the stream, but before he got there the host of Manaia had reached it, and had occupied its banks.

Rangitu, who did not see them, as soon as he got to the edge of the stream, dipped his calabash to fill it, and as it did not sink easily, being empty and very light, he stooped down and put his hand upon it to press it under the water; and whilst he was holding it with one hand to press it down, one of the enemy, stealing on him, made a blow at him with his weapon. Rangitu saw nothing, but merely heard the whizz of the weapon as it was sweeping down through the air upon his head, and quick as thought he jerks the calabash out of the water, and holds it as a shield in the direction in which he heard the blow coming down upon him. The weapon is parried off from one side of his head, but the calabash is shattered to pieces, and nothing but the mouth of the vessel which he was holding is left in his hand.

Then off he darts, fast as he can fly, and reaches before the enemy Ngātoroirangi and his one hundred and forty warriors. As soon as he is thus sure of support, in a moment he turns upon his foes. Ha, ha! he slays the first of the enemy, and carries off his victim. Then, lo! Tangaroa has risen up; he is soon amongst the enemy, he slays and carries off the second man. Next Tamatekapua kills and carries off his man. Thus is it with each warrior. The enemy then breaks and flies, and a great slaughter is made of the host of Manaia, yet he himself again escapes with his life. The name given to this battle was Tarai-whenua-kura.

Having thus avenged themselves of their enemies, they again returned to these islands, and settled at Maketu, and cultivated farms there. Manaia, on his part, was not idle; for shortly after they had left his place of residence he with his tribe, set to work at refitting their canoes.

Ngātoroirangi, in the meantime, occupied the island of Motiti, off Tauranga, in the Bay of Plenty. There he built a fortified village, which he named Matarehua, and a large house ornamented with carved work, which he named Taimaihi-o-Rongo; and he made a large underground store for his sweet potatoes, which he named Te Marihope; and he and his old wife generally lived nearly alone in their village on Motiti, whilst the great body of their people dwelt on the mainland at Maketu. Whilst the old couple were in this way living on Motiti, suddenly one evening Manaia, with a large fleet of canoes and a whole host of warriors, appeared off the coast of the island, and they pulled straight up to the landing place, opposite to the house of Ngātoroirangi, and lay on their paddles there, whilst Manaia hailed him, calling out, “Ho! brother-in-law, come out here if you dare, let us fight before the daylight is gone.”

Ngātoroirangi no sooner heard the voice of Manaia than he came boldly out of the house, although he was almost alone, and there he saw the whole host of Manaia lying on their paddles at the anchorage off his landing place. But he at once hailed them, shouting out, “Well done, O brother-in-law, just anchor where you are for the night; it is already getting dark, and we shall not be able to see to meet the edge of one weapon with the other; the warriors could not, therefore, parry one another’s blows; tomorrow morning we will fight as much as you like.”

Manaia no sooner heard this proposal than he assented to it, saying, “You are right, it has already grown dark.”

And Ngātoro answered him, “You had better bring-to your canoes in the anchorage outside there.” Manaia therefore told his army to anchor their canoes, and to lose no time in cooking their food on board; and the priest Ngātoroirangi remained in his fortress.

All the early part of the night Ngātoroirangi remained in the sacred place, performing enchantments and repeating incantations, and his wife was with him muttering her incantations. And having finished them, they both returned to their house, and there they continued to perform religious rites, calling to their aid the storms of heaven; whilst the hosts of Manaia did nothing but amuse themselves, singing Haka and songs, and diverting themselves thoughtlessly as war parties do. Little did they think that they were so soon to perish. No, they flattered themselves that they would destroy Ngātoroirangi, having now caught him almost alone.

So soon as the depth of night fell upon the world, whilst Ngāroto and his aged wife were still in the house, and the old woman was sitting at the window watching for what might take place, she heard the host of Manaia insulting herself and her husband by singing taunting war songs. Then the ancient priest Ngātoro, who was sitting at the upper end of the house, rises up, unloosens and throws off his garments, and repeats his incantations, and calls upon the winds, and upon the storms, and upon the thunder and lightning, that they may all arise and destroy the host of Manaia; and the god Tāwhirimātea hearkened unto the priest, and he permitted the winds to issue forth, together with hurricanes, and gales, and storms, and thunders, and lightnings; and the priest and his wife hearkened anxiously that they might hear the first bursting forth of the winds, and thunders, and lightnings, and of the rain and hail.

Then, when it was the middle space between the commencement of night and the commencement of the day, burst forth the winds, and the rain, and the lightning, and the thunder, and into the harbour poured all the mountainous waves of the sea, and there lay the host of Manaia overcome with sleep, and snoring loudly; but when the ancient priest and his wife heard the rushing of the winds and the roaring of the waves, they closed their house up securely, and lay composedly down to rest, and as they lay they could hear a confused noise and cries of terror, and a wild and tumultuous uproar from a mighty host, but before very long all the loud confusion became hushed, and nothing was to be heard but the heavy rolling of the surges upon the beach; nor did the storm itself last very long—it had soon ceased.

When the next morning broke, the aged wife of Ngātoro went out of her house and looked to see what had become of the host of Manaia, and as she cast her eyes along the shore, there she saw them lying dead, cast up on the beach. The name Ngātoroirangi gave to this slaughter was Maikukutea; the name given to the storm which slew them all was Te Aputahi-a-Pawa. He gave the name of Maikukutea to the slaughter, because the fish having eaten the bodies of Manaia’s warriors, only their bones and the nails of their hands and feet, but hardly any part of their corpses, could be found.

Of the vast host of Manaia that perished, not one escaped; the body of Manaia himself they recognised by some tattoo marks upon one of his arms. Ngātoro now lighted a signal fire as a sign to his relations and warriors at Maketu that he wanted them to cross over to the island; and when his chosen band of one hundred and forty warriors saw the signal, they launched their canoe and pulled across to join their chief, and on reaching the island, they found that the host of Manaia had all perished.

Thus was avenged the curse of Mutahanga and of Manaia. However, it would have been far better if the canoe Arawa had not been burnt by Raumati; then Ngātoro and his warriors would have had two canoes to return in to Hawaiki, to revenge their wrongs, and the whole race of Manaia would have been utterly destroyed.

It would also have been far better if Ngātoro and his people had remained at Maketu, and had never gone to Moehau, then the Arawa would not have been burnt; for from the burning of that canoe by Raumati sprang the war, the events of which have now been recounted.

The Legend of Hatupatu and His Brothers

When Tamatekapua went with his followers to Moehau, the hill near Cape Colville, and Īhenga and his followers went to Rotorua, then Hānui, Hāroa, and Hatupatu went also to Whakamaru, to Māroa, to Tuata, to Tutukau, to Tuaropaki, to Hauhungaroa, to Hurakia, and to Horohoro, the districts which lie between Lakes Taupō and Rotorua, and between Rotorua and the head of the Waikato River, to snare birds for themselves, and followed their sport for many a day, until they had hunted for several months. But their little brother Hatupatu was all this time thinking to himself that they never gave him any of the rare dainties or nice things that they got, so that they might all feast together, but at each meal he received nothing but the lean tough birds; so when the poor little fellow went and sat down by the side of the fire to his food, he every day used to keep on crying and eating, crying and eating, during his meals. At last, saucy, mischievous thoughts rose up in his young heart. So one day, whilst his brothers were out snaring birds, and he, on this as on every other day, was left at their resting place to take care of the things, the little rogue crept into the storehouse, where the birds, preserved in their own fat, were kept in calabashes, and he stole some, and set resolutely to work to eat them, with some tender fern root, nicely beaten and dressed, for a relish; so that to look at him you could not help thinking of the proverb, “Bravo, that throat of yours can swallow anything.”

He finished all the calabashes of preserved birds, and then attacked those that were kept in casks, and when he had quite filled himself he crept out of the storehouse again, and there he went trampling over the pathway that led to their resting place, running about this side, and that side, and all around it, that his brothers might be induced to think that a war party had come, and had eaten up the food in their absence. Then he came back, and ran a spear into himself in two or three places, where he could not do himself much harm, and gave himself a good bruise or two upon his head, and laid down on the ground near their hut.

When his brothers came back they found him lying there in appearance very badly wounded. They next ran to the storehouse, and found their preserved birds all gone: so they asked him who had done all this, and he replied, “A war party.”

Then they went to the pathways and saw the footmarks, and said, “It is too true.” They melted some fat, and poured warm oil on his wounds, and he revived; and they all ate as they used to do in former days, the brothers enjoying all the good things, whilst Hatupatu kept eating and crying, and he went and sat on the smoky side of the fire, so that his cruel brothers might laugh at him, saying, “Oh, never mind him; those are not real tears, they are only his eyes watering from the smoke.”

Next day Hatupatu stopped at home, and off went his brothers to snare birds, and he began to steal the preserved birds again, and thus he did every day, every day, and of course at last his brothers suspected him, and one day they laid in wait for him, when he, not foreseeing this, again crouched into the storehouse and began eating. “Ha, ha, ha, we’ve caught you now then; your thievish tricks are found out, are they, you little rogue?”

His brothers killed him at once, and buried him in the large heap of feathers they had pulled out from the snared birds. After this they went back to Rotorua, and when they arrived, their parents asked them, “Where is Hatupatu? What’s become of your little brother?”

And they answered, “We don’t know; we have not seen him.”

And their parents said, “You’ve killed him.”

And they replied, “We have not.”

And they disputed and disputed together; and at last their parents said, “It is too true that you must have killed him; for he went away with you, and he is missing now when you return to us.”

At length Hatupatu’s father and mother thought they would send a spirit to search for him; so they sent one, and the spirit went. Its form was that of a blowfly, and its name was Tamumu-ki-te-rangi, or He-that-buzzes-in-the-skies, and it departed and arrived at the place where Hatupatu was buried, and found him and performed enchantments, and Hatupatu came to life again, and went upon his way, and met a woman who was spearing birds for herself, and her spear was nothing but her own lips, and Hatupatu had a real wooden spear. The woman speared at a bird with her lips, but Hatupatu had at the same moment thrown his spear at the same bird, and it stuck into her lips; and when he saw this, he ran off with all his speed, but he was soon caught by the woman, not being able to go as fast as she could, for her feet bore her along, and wings were upon her arms, like these of a bird, and she brought him to her house, and they slept there.

Hatupatu found that this woman never ate anything but raw food, and she gave the birds to Hatupatu to eat without their being in any way dressed; but he only pretended to eat them, lifting them up to his mouth, and letting them fall slyly. At dawn the woman prepared to go and spear birds, but Hatupatu always remained at home, and when she had departed, he began to cook food for himself, and to look at all the things in the cave of rocks that the woman lived in—at her two-handed wooden sword—at her beautiful cloak made of red feathers torn from under the wing of the kākā—at her red cloak of thick dog’s fur—at her ornamented cloak woven from flax; and he kept thinking how he could run off with them; and then he looked at the various tame lizards she had, and at her tame little birds, and at all her many curiosities; and thus he went on day after day, until at last one day he said to her, “Now you’d better go a long distance today, to the first mountain range, to the second range, the tenth range, the hundredth range, the thousandth mountain range; and when you get there, then begin to catch birds for us two.” To this she consented, and went. He remained behind, roasting birds for himself, and thinking, “I wonder how far she’s got now;” and when he thought she had reached the place he had spoken of, then he began to gather up her cloak of red feathers, and her cloak of dogs’ skins, and her cloak of ornamented flax, and her carved two-handed sword; and the young fellow said, “How well I shall look when all the fine feathers on these cloaks are rustled by the wind.” And he brandished the two-handed sword, and made cuts at the lizards, and at all the tame animals, and they were soon killed. Then he struck at the perch on which the little pet birds sat, and he killed them all but one, which escaped, and it flew away to fetch back the woman they all belonged to. Her name was Kurangaituku.

And as the little bird flew along, these are the words he kept singing, “Oh, Kurangaituku, our home is ruined, our things are all destroyed;” and so it kept singing until it had flown a very long way.

At last Kurangaituku heard it, and said, “By whom is all this done?”

And the little bird answered, “By Hatupatu—everything is gone.” Then Kurangaituku made haste to get home again, and as she went along she kept calling out, “Step out, stretch along; step out, stretch along. There you are, O Hatupatu, not far from me. There you are, O Hatupatu, not far from me. Step out, stretch along; step out, stretch along. There you are, O Hatupatu, not far from me now.”

She only made three strides, before she had reached her cave, and when she looked about, she could see nothing in it; but the little bird still guided her on, as she kept saying, “Step out, stretch along; step out, stretch along; I’ll catch you there now, Hatupatu; I’ll catch you there now, Hatupatu;” and she almost caught Hatupatu; and he thought, I’m done for now.

So he repeated his charm: “O rock, open for me, open.” Then the rock opened and he hid himself in it, and the woman looked and could not find him; and she went on to a distance, and kept calling out,

“I’ll catch you there, Hatupatu; I’ll catch you there, Hatupatu;” and when her voice had died away at a great distance, Hatupatu came up out of the rock and made off; and thus they went on, and thus they went on, the whole way, until they came to Rotorua; and when they arrived at the sulphur springs (called Te Whakarewarewa), Hatupatu jumped over these; but Kurangaituku, thinking they were cold, tried to wade through, but sunk through the crust, and was burnt to death.

Hatupatu proceeded on and sat on the shore of the lake, and when the evening came, he dived into the water, and rose up at the island of Mokoia, and sat in the warm bath there; just at this time his father and mother wanted some water to drink, and sent their slave to fetch some for them, and he came to the place where he found Hatupatu lying in the warm bath. Hatupatu laid hold of him and asked him, “Whom are you fetching that water for at this time of night?” and he answered,

“For so-and-so.”

Then Hatupatu asked him, “Where is the house of Hānui and of Hāroa?” and the slave answered,

“They live in a house by themselves; but what can your name be?” and he answered him,

“I am Hatupatu.” So the old slave said,

“O Hatupatu, are you still alive?” and he replied,

“Yes, indeed.”

And the old slave said to him, “Oh, I’ll tell you; I and your father and mother live together in a house by ourselves; and they sent me down here to fetch water for them;” and Hatupatu said,

“Let us go to them together;” and they went: and on coming to them, the old people began to weep with a loud voice; and Hatupatu said, “Nay, nay; let us cry with a gentle voice, lest my brethren who slew me should hear; and I, moreover, will not sleep here with you, my parents; it is better for me to go and remain in the cave you have dug to keep your sweet potatoes in, that I may overhear each day what they say, and I’ll take all my meals there.” So he went, and he said, “Let my father sleep with me in the cave in the night, and in the daytime let him stop in the house;” and his father consented, and thus they did every day and every night, and his brothers noticed that there was a change in their food, and they did not get so much or such good food as whilst their brother had been away, for his mother kept the best of everything for him; they had worse food now; so they beat their mother and their slaves, and this they did continually.

At last, they heard the people all calling out, “Oh, oh, Hatupatu’s here;” and one of them said, “Oh, no, that can’t be; why, Hatupatu is dead;” but when they saw it was really him, one of them caught hold of his two-handed wooden sword, and so did the others; and Hatupatu also caught hold of his two-handed wooden sword. He had decorated his head in the night, and had stuck it full of the beautiful feathers befitting a chief; and he had placed a bunch of the soft white down from the stomach of the albatross in each ear; and when his brothers and the multitude of their followers dared him to come forth from the storehouse and fight them, he caught hold of his girdle, and of his apron of red feathers, and girding on his apron, he repeated an incantation suited for the occasion. When this was finished his head appeared rising up out of the storehouse, and he repeated another incantation, and afterwards a third over his sword.

Hatupatu now came out of the storehouse, and as his brothers gazed on him they saw his looks were most noble. Glared forth on them the eyes of the young man, and glittered forth the mother of pearl eyes of the carved face on the handle of his sword, and when the many thousands of their tribe who had gathered round saw the youth, they too were quite astonished at his nobleness. They had no strength left, they could do nothing but admire him: he was only a little boy when they had seen him before, and now, when they met him again, he was like a noble chief, and they now looked upon his brothers with very different eyes from those with which they looked at him.

His three brothers sprang at him. Three wooden swords were at the same time levelled at Hatupatu to slay him. He held the blade of his sword pointed to the ground, till the swords of his brothers almost touched him, when he rapidly warded off the blows, and whirling round his wooden sword, two of the three were felled by the blade of it, and one by a blow from the handle. Then they sprang up, and rushed at him once more. Over they go again, two felled by the blade of his sword, and one by the handle; it was enough—they gave in. Then their father said to them, “Oh! my sons, I would that you were as strong as you are in attacking one another; in seeking revenge for your ancestral canoe, Te Arawa, which was consumed in a fire by the chief Raumati. Long have you been seeking to revenge yourselves upon him, but you have not succeeded, you have gained no advantage; perhaps you are only strong and bold when you attack your young brother, my lastborn child.”

When his sons Hānui, Hāroa, and Karika heard these words of their father they and their many followers felt their hearts grow sad. They began to prepare for a war party, by beating flat pieces of prepared fern root; and they cooked sweet potatoes in ovens, and mashed them, and packed them up in baskets of flax, and again put them in the ovens, that the food might keep for a long time; and they cooked shellfish in baskets, and thus collected food for an expedition to Maketu. Whilst his brothers were making all these preparations for the expedition their father was secretly teaching Hatupatu the tattoo marks and appearance of Raumati, so that he might easily recognise that chief. And when the canoes started with the warriors he did not embark with them, but remained behind. The canoes had reached the middle of the lake, when Hatupatu rose up, and taking thirty cloaks of red feathers with him, went off to the war. He proceeded by diving under the water—that was the path he chose; and when he reached the deepest part of the lake, he stopped to eat a meal of mussels in the water, and then rose up from the bottom, and came out. He had got as far as Ngāukawakawa when his brothers and the warriors in the canoes arrived there, and found him spreading out the cloaks he had brought with him to dry; and as soon as their canoes reached the shore, they asked him, “Where is your canoe, that you managed to get here so fast?”

And he answered, “Never mind; I have a canoe of my own.”

Hatupatu threw off here the wreath of leaves he wore round his brow, and it took root, and became a pōhutukawa tree, which bears such beautiful red flowers. His brothers’ canoes had by this time got out into Rotoiti; then he again dived after them, and rose to the surface, and came out of the water at Kuharua, where he threw off his wreath of tōtara leaves, and it took root and grew, and it is still growing there at this day. When his brothers and the warriors arrived at Kuharua, they found him sitting there, and they were astonished at his doings. They landed at Otamarae, and marched overland, encamped for the night at Kaharoa-a-Tāuhu, and the next day they reached Maketu; and when the evening came, they ranged their warriors in divisions; three hundred and forty warriors were told off for each of the divisions, under the command of each of Hatupatu’s three brothers; but no division was placed under his command.

Hatupatu knew that the jealousy of his brothers, on account of their former quarrels, was the reason they had not told off any men for him; so he said, “Oh, my brothers, I did not refuse to hearken to you when you asked me to come with you; but I came, as you requested, just as I went readily with you upon that occasion when you killed me; and here I am now left in a very bad position; so I pray you, let some of the warriors be placed under my command; let there be fifty of them.”

But they said to him, “Pooh! pooh! Come now, you be off home again. What can you do? The only thing you are fit to destroy is food.” He, the young man, said no more, but at once left his brothers, and on the same night he sought out a rough thicket as his resting place; and when he saw how convenient for his purpose was the place he had selected, he turned to and began to tie together in bundles the roots of the creeping plants, and of the bushes, and dressed them up with the cloaks he had with him; and when he had finished, the war band of these figures, which the young man had made, looked just like a band of real warriors. The day had hardly dawned, when the inhabitants of the place they had come to attack saw their enemies, and sent off messengers to tell the warriors, on this side and that side, that they should come and fight with them against the common enemy.

In the meantime, all the warriors of the columns of Hatupatu’s, brothers were exhorting their men, and encouraging them by warlike speeches; first one chief stood up to speak, and then another, and when they had all ended, Hatupatu himself got up, to encourage his mock party. He had been sitting down, and as he gracefully arose, it was beautiful to see his plumes and ornaments of feathers fluttering in the breeze; the long hair of the young man was tied up in four knots, or clubs, in each of which was stuck a bunch of feathers; you would have thought he had just come from the gannet island of Kārewa (in the Bay of Plenty), where birds’ feathers abound; and when he had done speaking to one party of his column, he unloosened his hair, leaving but one clump of it over the centre of his forehead, and now he wore a cloak of red feathers; then he made another speech, encouraging his men to be brave; then after sitting down again, he ran to the rear, and took all the feathers and knots from his hair, and he this time wore a cloak of flax with a broidered border; again he addressed his men, and this being finished, he was seen again in the centre of the body, standing up to speak, naked, and stripped for the fight. Once more he appeared at the head of the column; this time he had the hair at the back of his head tied up in a knot and ornamented with feathers; he wore a cloak made of the skins of dogs, and the long wooden war axe was the weapon he had in his hands. Having concluded this speech, he appeared again in a different place, with his hair tied in five bunches, each ornamented with feathers, whilst a large rough dog-skin formed his cloak; and the weapon in his hand was a mere22 made of white whalebone: thus he ended his speeches to his party. When the people of the place he had come to attack saw how numerous were the chiefs in the column of Hatupatu, and what clothes and weapons they had, they dreaded his division much more than those of his brothers.

His brothers’ divisions had many warriors in them, although the number of chiefs was only equal in number to the divisions: thus there were three divisions, and also three chiefs; whilst, although Hatupatu had only one division, it appeared to be commanded by a multitude of chiefs, who had superb dresses. Thence the enemy burnt with fear of that division, which they accounted to be composed of men; but no, it was only formed of clumps of grass dressed up.

Now the people of the place they were attacking drew out to the battle, and as they pressed nearer and nearer, they pushed forth long heavy spears, and sent forth volleys of light spears made of the branches of manuka trees, at the column of Hānui—Alas! it is broken; they retreat, they fly, they fall back on the division of Hāroa; they are here rallied, and ordered to charge; but they do not—they only poke forward their heads as if intending to go; the enemy has reached them, and is on them again; they are again broken and disordered; they run in now upon the third line, that of Karika; they are rallied, and again ordered to charge; but they only press forward the upper part of their bodies, as if intending to advance, when the enemy is already upon them in full charge. It is over; all the divisions of Hatupatu’s brothers are broken and flying in confusion. What did it matter whether they were many or few, they were all cowards. Their enemies saw no brave men’s faces, only the black backs of heads running away.

All this time the division of Hatupatu appears to be sitting quietly upon the ground, and when the men in full retreat came running in upon it, Hatupatu rose up to order them to charge again. He cried out, “Turn on them again, turn on them again.” For a long time the enemy and Hatupatu were hidden from each other’s view. At last they saw him. Then rushes forward Hatupatu from one party, and a chief of the enemy, named also Karika (like his brother), from the other, and the latter aims a fierce blow at Hatupatu with a short spear; he parries it and strikes down Karika with his two-handed sword, who dies without a struggle, motionless, as food hidden in a bag. Hatupatu draws forth his whalebone mere, cuts off Karika’s head, and grasps it by the hair. It is enough—the enemy break—fall back—fly; then his brothers and their warriors turn again on the foes, and slay them. Many thousands of them fall. Whilst his brothers are thus slaying the enemy, he is eagerly seeking for Raumati. He is found; Hatupatu catches him; his head is cut off; it is concealed. The slaughter being ended, they return to their encampment; they cook the bodies of their enemies; they devour them; they smoke their heads and carefully preserve them: and when all is done, each makes speeches boasting of his deeds; and one after the other vaunting to have slain the great chief Raumati. But Hatupatu said not a word of his having Raumati’s head.

They return to Rotorua. This time he goes in the canoe with them. They draw near to the island of Mokoia, and his brothers, as they are in the canoe, chant songs of triumph to the gods of war. They cease. Their father inquires from the shore, “Which of you has the head of Raumati?” and one, holding up the head he had taken, said,

“I have;” and another said,

“I have.”

At last their father calls out, “Alas, alas! Raumati has escaped.”

Then Hatupatu stands up in the canoe, and chants a prayer to the god of war over a basket heaped up with heads, whilst holding up in his hand the head of Karika.

Then his hand grasps the head of Raumati, which he had kept his under his cloak, and he cries, “There, there; I have the head of Raumati.” All rejoice. Their father strips off his cloak, rushes into the lake, and repeats a thanksgiving to the gods.

When he had ended this, he promoted in honour his lastborn child, and debased in rank his eldest sons.

Thus at last was revenge obtained for the burning of the Arawa, and the descendants of Tamatekapua emigrated, and came and dwelt in Pakotore, and Rangitihi was born there, and his children, and one of them came to Rangiwhakakapua, or Rotorua, and dwelt there; and afterwards one of his daughters went to the Whakatōhea tribe, at Ōpōtiki. After that Rangitihi and all his sons went to Ahuriri, to revenge the death of the husband of Rongomaipāpā, and she was given up to them as a reward. Then grew up to manhood Uenukukōpako, and began to visit all the people subject to him at Whakamaru, at Māroa, at Tutukau, at Tuata, and he went and afterwards returned to Pakotore, and whilst going backwards and forwards he lost his dog, named Pōtakatawhiti, at Mokoia; it was killed by Mataaho and Kawaarero.

He came back from Whakamaru to look for it, and when he found it had been killed a great war was commenced against Rotorua, and some were slain of each party. After this, Rangiteaorere, the son of Rangiwhakaekeau, grew up to man’s estate. In his time they stormed and took the island of Mokoia, and Rotorua was conquered by the sons of Rangitihi, who kept it still and still, until the multitude of men there increased very greatly, and spread themselves in all parts; and the descendants of Ngātoroirangi also multiplied there, and some of them still remain at Rotorua. Tumakoha begat Tarāwhai, and Te Rongitakaroro was one of his sons; his second son was Tarewa, and his third was Taporahitaua.

Legend of the Emigration of Turi

The Progenitor of the Whanganui Tribes

The following narrative shows the cause which led Turi, the ancestor of the Whanganui tribes, to emigrate to New Zealand, and the manner in which he reached these islands.

Hoimatua, a near relation of Turi, had a little boy named Pōtikiroroa. This young fellow was sent one day with a message to Uenuku, who was an ariki, or chief high priest, to let him know that a burnt offering had been made to the gods, of which Uenuku, as ariki, was to eat part, and the little fellow accidentally tripped and fell down in the very doorway of Wharekura, the house of Uenuku, and this being a most unlucky omen, Uenuku was dreadfully irritated, and he laid hold of the little fellow and ate him up, without even having the body cooked, and so the poor boy perished.

Turi was determined to have revenge for this barbarous act, and to slay some person as a payment for little Pōtikiroroa, and after casting about in his thoughts for some time as to the most effectual mode of doing this, he saw that his best way of revenging himself would be to seize Hawepōtiki, the little son of Uenuku, and kill him.

One day Turi, in order to entice the boy to his house, ordered the children of all the people who dwelt there with him to begin playing together, in a place where Hawepōtiki could see them; so they began whipping their tops, and whirling their whizgigs, but it was of no use; the little fellow could not be tempted to come and play with them, and that plan failed.

At last summer came with its heats, scorching men’s skins; and Turi, one very hot day, ordered all the little children to run and bathe in the river Waimātuhirangi; so they all ran to the river and began sporting and playing in the water. When little Hawepōtiki saw all the other lads swimming and playing in the river, he was thrown off his guard and ran there too, and Turi waylaid him and killed him in a moment, and thus revenged the death of Pōtikiroroa.

After killing the poor boy, Turi cut the heart out of his body, himself and his friends eat the body; but when, shortly afterwards, a chieftainess named Hotukura, sent up a present of baskets of food to their sacred prince to Uenuku, carried in the usual way by a long procession of people, some of Turi’s friends pushed into the basket of baked sweet potatoes prepared for Uenuku the heart of Te Hawepōtiki, cut up and baked too, and so it was carried up to Uenuku in the basket, and laid before him that he might eat it.

Uenuku, who had missed his little boy, being still unable to ascertain what had become of him, could not help sighing when he saw such an excellent feast, and said, “Poor little Hawepōtiki, how he would have liked this, but he now no longer comes running to sit by my side at mealtime;” and then he himself ate the food that was laid before him. He had hardly, however, ended his meal when one of his friends who had found what had been done, came and told him, saying, “They have made you eat a part of Hawepōtiki.” And he answered, “Very well, let it be; he lies in the belly of Toitehuatahi;” meaning by this proverb that he would have a fearful revenge; but he showed no other signs of feeling, that he might not gratify his enemies by manifesting his sorrow, or alarm them by loud threats of revenge.

At this time Turi was living in a house, the name of which was Rangiātea, and there were born two of his children, Tūrangaimua and Tāneroroa. One evening, shortly after the death of Te Hawepōtiki, Rongorongo, Turi’s wife, went out of the house to suckle her little girl, Tāneroroa, and she heard Uenuku in his house, named Wharekura, chanting a poem, of which this was the burden:—

“Oh! let the tribes be summoned from the south,
Oh! let the tribes be summoned from the north;
Let Ngāti Ruanui come in force;
Let Ngāti Rongotea’s warriors too be there,
That we may all our foes destroy,
And sweep them utterly away.
Oh, they ate one far nobler than themselves.”

When Rongorongo heard what Uenuku was chanting, she went back to her house and said to her husband, “Turi, I have just heard them chanting this poem in Wharekura.” And Turi answered, “What poem do you say it was?” Then she hummed it gently over to her husband, and Turi at once divined the meaning of it,23 and said to his wife, “That poem is meant for me;” and he knew this well, because, as he had killed the child of Uenuku, he guessed that they meant to slay him as a payment for the boy, and that the lament his wife had heard evinced that they were secretly laying their plans of revenge.

He, therefore, at once started off to his father-in-law, Toto, to get a canoe from him, in which he might escape from his enemies; and Toto gave him one, the name of which was Aotea; the tree from which it had been made grew upon the banks of the Lake Waiharakeke. Toto had first hewn down the tree, and then split it, breaking it lengthways into two parts; out of one part of the tree he made a canoe, which he named Matahorua, and out of the other part he made a canoe which he named Aotea. He gave the canoe which he had named Aotea he made a present of to Rongorongo; thus giving a canoe to each of his two daughters. Matahorua was the canoe in which a large part of the world was explored, and Reti was the name of the man who navigated it.

One day Kupe and Hoturapa went out upon the sea to fish together; and when they had anchored the canoe at a convenient place, Kupe let down his line into the sea; and he said to his cousin, Hoturapa, “Hotu’, my line is foul of something; do you, like a good young fellow, dive down and release it for me.” But Hoturapa said, “Just give me your line, and let me see if I cannot pull it up for you.” But Kupe answered, “It’s of no use, you cannot do it; you had better give a plunge in at once, and pull it up.” This was a mere stratagem upon the part of Kupe, that he might obtain possession of Kuramārōtini, who was Hoturapa’s wife. However, Hoturapa, not suspecting this, good-naturedly dived down at once to bring up Kupe’s line; and as soon as he had made his plunge, Kupe at once cut the rope which was attached to the anchor, and paddled off for the shore as fast as he could go, to carry off Hoturapa’s wife, Kuramārōtini. When Hoturapa came up to the surface of the water, the canoe was already a long distance from him, and he cried out to Kupe, “Oh, Kupe, bring the canoe back here to take me in.” But Kupe would not listen to him; he brought not back the canoe, and so Hoturapa perished. Kupe then made haste and carried off Kuramārōtini, and to escape from the vengeance of the relations of Hoturapa he fled away with her on the ocean, in her canoe Matahorua, and discovered the islands of New Zealand, and coasted entirely round them without finding any inhabitants.

As Kupe was proceeding down the east coast of New Zealand, and had reached Castle Point, a great cuttlefish, alarmed at the sight of a canoe with me in it, fled away from a large cavern which exists in the south headland of the cove there; it fled before Kupe, in the direction of Raukawa, or Cook’s Straits. When Kupe arrived at these straits, he crossed them in his canoe, to examine the middle islands. Seeing the entrance of Awaiti (now called Tory Channel) running deep up into the land, he turned his canoe in there to explore it. He found a very strong current coming out from between the lands, and named the entrance Kurateau. Strong as the current was, Kupe stemmed it in his canoe, and ascended it until he was just surmounting the crown of the rapid. The great cuttlefish, or dragon, that had fled from Castle Point, which Kupe named Te Wheke-a-Muturangi, or the cuttlefish of Muturangi, had fled to Tory Channel, and was lying hid in this part of the current. The monster heard the canoe of Kupe approaching as they were pulling up the current, and raised its arms above the waters to catch and devour the canoe, men and all. As it thus floated upon the water, Kupe saw it, and pondered how he might destroy the terrible monster. At last he thought of a plan for doing this. He had already found that, although he kept on chopping off portions of its gigantic arms, furnished with suckers, as it tried to fold them about the canoe, in order to pull it down, the monster was too fierce to care for this; so Kupe seized an immense hollow calabash he had on board to carry his water in, and threw it overboard. Hardly had it touched the water ere the monster flew at it, thinking that it was the canoe of Kupe, and that he would destroy it; so it reared its whole body out of the water, to press down the huge calabash under it; and Kupe, as he stood in his canoe, being in a most excellent position to cut it with his axe, seized the opportunity, and striking it a tremendous blow, he severed it in two, and killed it.24

The labours of Kupe consisted in this, that he discovered these islands, and examined the different openings which he found running up into the country. He only found two inhabitants in the country—a bird which he named the Kōkako, and another bird which he named the Tīwaiwaka. He, however, did not ultimately remain in these islands, but returned to his own house, leaving the openings he had examined in the country as signs that he had been here.

Thus he left his marks here, but he himself returned to his own country, where he found Turi and all his people still dwelling, although it was now the fourth year from that one in which he had slain little Hawepōtiki; but Turi was then on the point of flying to escape from the vengeance of Uenuku, and as he heard of the discoveries Kupe had made, he determined to come to these islands. So he had his canoe, the Aotea, dragged down to the shore in the night; and Kupe, who happened to be near the place, and heard the bottom of the canoe grating upon the beach as they hauled it along, went to see what was going on; and when he found what Turi was about to do, he said to him, “Now, mind, Turi, keep ever steering to the eastward, where the sun rises; keep the bow of your canoe ever steadily directed towards that point of the sky.” Turi answered him, “You had better accompany me, Kupe. Come, let us go together.” And when Kupe heard this, he said to Turi, “Do you think that Kupe will ever return there again?” and he then continued, “When you arrive at the islands, you had better go at once and examine the river that I discovered (said to be the Pātea); its mouth opens direct to the westward. You will find but two inhabitants there (meaning the Kōkako and Tīwaiwaka); one of them carries its tail erect and sticking out. Now do not mistake the voice of one of them for that of a man, for it calls out just like one; and if you stand on one side of the river, and call out to them, you will hear their cries answering you from the other. That will be the very spot that I mentioned to you.”25

Turi’s brother-in-law, Tuau, now called out to him, “Why, Turi, the paddles you are taking with you are good for nothing, for they are made from the huhoe tree.” Turi replied, “Wherever can I get other paddles now?” and Tuau answered, “Just wait a little, until I run for the paddles of Taipāraeroa;” and he brought back, and put on board the canoe, two paddles, the names of which were Rangihorona and Kautukiterangi, and two bailers, the names of which were Tipuahoronuku and Rangikawheriko. Then Turi said, “Tuau, come out a little way to sea with me, and then return again, when you have seen me fairly started upon my long voyage.” To this Tuau cheerfully consented, and got into the canoe, which was already afloat. Then were carried on board all the articles which the voyagers were to take; and their friends out on board for them, seed, sweet potatoes, of the species called Te Kakau, and dried stones of the berries of the karaka tree; and some live edible rats in boxes, and some tame green parrots; and added some pet Pūkeko, or large waterhens; and many other valuable things were put on board the canoe, whence the proverb, “The Aotea’s valuable freight.”

At last away floated the canoe, whilst it was yet night, and Tuau sat at the stern, gently paddling as they dropped out from the harbour; but when they got to its mouth, Turi called out to his brother-in-law, “Tuau, you come and sit for a little at the house amidships, on the floor of the double canoe, and let me take the paddle and pull till I warm myself.” So Tuau came amidships, and sat down with the people there, whilst Turi went astern and took his paddle. Then Turi and his people pulled as hard as they could, and were soon far outside the harbour in the wide sea. Tuau, who had intended to land at the heads, at last turned to see what distance they had got. Alas! alas! they were far out at sea. Then he called out to Turi, “Oh, Turi, Turi, pray turn back the canoe and land me.” But not the least attention did Turi pay to him; he persisted in carrying off his brother-in-law with him, although there was Tuau weeping and grieving when he thought of his children and wife, and lamenting as he exclaimed, “How shall I ever get back to my dear wife and children from the place where you are going to!” But what does Turi care for that; he still thinks fit to carry him off with him, and Tuau cannot now help himself. They were now so far out at sea that he could not gain the shore, for he could scarcely have seen where the land was whilst swimming in the water, as it was during the night time that they started.

Lo! the dawn breaks; but hardly had the daylight of the first morning of their voyage appeared than one of the party, named Tapo, became insolent and disobedient to Turi. His chief was therefore very wroth with him, and hove him overboard into the sea; and when Tapo found himself in the water, and saw the canoe shooting ahead, he called out to Turi quite cheerfully and jocosely, “I say, old fellow, come now, let me live in the world a little longer.” And when they heard him call out in this manner, they knew he must be under the protection of the god Maru, and said, “Here is Maru, here is Maru.” So they hauled him into the canoe again and saved his life.

At last the seams of Turi’s canoe opened in holes in many places, and the water streamed into it, and they rapidly dipped the bailers into the water and dashed it out over the sides; Turi, in the meanwhile, reciting aloud an incantation, which was efficacious in preventing a canoe from being swamped. They succeeded at length, by these means, in reaching a small island which lies in mid-ocean, which they named Rangitahua. There they landed, and ripped all the old lashings out of the seams of the canoe, and re-lashed the top sides on to it, and thoroughly refitted it.

Amongst the chiefs who landed there with them was one named Porua, whose canoe was called Te Rīrino. They were carrying some dogs with them, as these would be very valuable in the islands they were going to, for supplying by their increase a good article of food and skins for warm cloaks. On this island they, however, killed two of them, the names of which were Whakapapa-tuakua and Tangakākāriki. The first of these they cooked and shared amongst them, but the second they cut up raw as an offering to the gods, and laid it cut open in every part before them, and built a sacred place, and set up pillars for the spirits, that they might entirely consume the sacrifice; and they took the enchanted apron of the spirits, and spread it open before them, and wearied the spirits by calling on them for some omen, saying, “Come, manifest yourselves to us, O gods; make haste and declare the future to us. It may be now that we shall not succeed in passing to the other side of the ocean; but if you manifest yourselves to us, and are present with us, we shall pass there in safety.” Then they rose up from prayer, and roasted with fire the dog which they were offering as a sacrifice, and holding the sacrifice aloft, called over the names of the spirits to whom the offering was made; and having thus appeased the wrath of the offended spirits, they again stuck up posts for them, saying as they did so—

“Tis the post which stands above there;
’Tis the post which stands in the heavens,
Near Atutahimarehua.”

Thus they removed all ill luck from the canoes, by repeating over them prayers called Keuenga, Takanga, Whakainuinumanga, etc., etc.

When all these ceremonies were ended, a very angry discussion arose between Potoru and Turi, as to the direction they should now sail in; Turi persisted in wishing to pursue an easterly course, saying, “Nay, nay, let us still sail towards the quarter where the sun first flares up;” but Potoru answered him, “But I say nay, nay, let us proceed towards that quarter of the heavens in which the sun sets.” Turi replied, “Why, did not Kupe, who had visited these islands, particularly tell us, ‘Now mind, let nothing induce you to turn the prow of the canoe away from that quarter of the heavens in which the sun rises?’ ” However, Potoru still persisted in his opinion, and at last Turi gave up the point, and let him have his own way; so they embarked and left the island of Rangitahua, and sailed on a westerly course.

After they had pursued this course for some time, the canoe Rīrino getting into the surf, near some rocks, was lost on a reef which they named Taputapuatea, being swept away by a strong current, a rapid current, by a swift running current, swiftly running on to the realms of death; and the Rīrino was dashed to pieces: hence to the present day is preserved this proverb, “You are as obstinate as Potoru, who persisted in rushing on to his own destruction.”

When the Rīrino had thus been lost, Turi, in the Aotea, pursued his course towards the quarter of the rising sun, and whilst they were yet in mid-ocean, a child, whom he named Tutawa, was born to Turi; they had then but nine sweet potatoes left, and Turi took one of these, leaving now but eight, and he offered the one he took as a sacrifice to the spirits, and touched with it the palate of little Tutawa, born in mid-ocean, at the same time repeating the fitting prayers. When they drew near the shore of these islands, one of the crew named Tuanui-a-te-ra was very disobedient and insolent to Turi, who, getting exceedingly provoked with him, threw him overboard into the sea. When they had got near enough to the shore to see distinctly they foolishly threw the red ornaments they wore on their heads (named Pōhutukawa) into the sea, these being old, dirty, and faded from length of wear, for they thought, although wrongly, the red things they saw in such abundance on the shore were similar ornaments.

At length the Aotea is run up on the beach of these islands, and the wearied voyagers spring out of her on to the sands, and the first thing they remark are the footprints of a man. They run to examine them, and find them to be those of Tuanui-a-te-ra, whom Turi had shortly before thrown overboard. There can be no doubt of this, because some of the footprints are crooked, exactly suiting a deformed foot which he had.

Turi having rested after his voyage, determined to start and seek for the river Pātea, which Kupe had described to him, and he left his canoe Aotea in the harbour, which he named after it. He travelled along the coast line from Aotea to Pātea, having sent one party before him, under Pungarehu, ordering them to plant the stones of the berries of the karaka tree, which they had brought with them, all along their route, in order that so valuable an article of food might be introduced into these islands. Turi, who followed with another party after Pungarehu, gave names to all the places as they came along. When he reached the harbour of Kāwhia he gave it that name, or the awhinga of Turi; then he came to Marokopa, or the place that Turi wound round to another spot; the river Waitara he named from the tāranga, or wide steps which he took in fording at its mouth; Mōkau, or Moekau, he named from his sleeping there; at Mangati they opened and spread out an enchanted garment named Hunokiko, and as all the people gazed at it, Turi named the place Mātakitaki; at another place (near the lake at the Grey institution at Taranaki), Turi took up a handful of earth to smell it, that he might guess whether the soil was good enough, and he named that place Hongihongi; another place, six miles to the south of Taranaki, he named Tapuwae, or the footsteps of Turi; another place he named Ōakura, from the bright redness of the enchanted cloak Hunokiko; another place Katikara, twelve miles south of Taranaki; another river he named Rāoa, from a piece of food he was eating nearly choking him there; another spot he named Kaupokonui (a river thirty-four miles northwest of Pātea), or the head of Turi; when they arrived there the enchanted cloak Hunokiko was twice opened and spread out, so he called the spot Marae kura; a place that they encamped at he named Kapuni (a river at Waimate), or the encampment of Turi; another place he called Waingongoro, or the place at which Turi snored; another spot he named Tanganoe, after his paddle; Ohingahape he named after the crooked foot of Tuanui-a-te-ra; a headland where there was a natural bridge running over a cave he named Whitikau, from the long time he was fording in the water to turn the headland, because he did not like to cross the bridge (this is five miles north of Pātea).

At length he reached the river which Kupe had described to him; there he built a pa, or fortress, which he named Rangitaawhi, and there he erected a post, which he named Whakatopea, and he built a house, which he named Matangireia, and he laid down a doorsill, or threshold, which he named Paepaehakehake; and he built a small elevated storehouse to hold his food, and he named it Paeāhua; the river itself he named Pātea; and he dug a well, which he named Parara-ki-te-uru. The farm he cultivated there he named Hekeheke-i-papa; the wooden spade he made he called Tipuiahuma. Then he had his farm dug up, and the chant they sang to encourage themselves, and to keep time as they dug, was—

“Break up our goddess mother,
Break up the ancient goddess earth.
We speak of you, O earth, but do not you disturb
The plants we have brought hither from Hawaiki the noble.
It was Māui who scraped the earth in heaps round the sides
In Kuratau.”

There they planted the farm. They had but eight seed potatoes, but they divided these into small pieces, which they put separately into the ground; and when the shoots sprang up, Turi made the place sacred with prayers and incantations, lest anyone should venture there and hurt the plants; the name of the incantation he used was Ahuaroa. When harvesttime came, they gathered in the crop of sweet potatoes, and found that they had eight hundred baskets of them.

The deeds above related were those which our ancestor Turi performed. Rongorongo was the name of his principal wife, and they had several children, from whom sprang the tribes of Whanganui and the Ngāti Manui tribe.

Legend of the Emigration of Manaia

The Progenitor of the Ngāti Awa Tribes

The cause which led Manaia to come here from Hawaiki was his being very badly treated by a large party of his friends and neighbours, whom, according to the usual custom when a chief has any heavy work to be done, he had collected to make his spears for him, for they violently ravished his wife Rongotiki.

It chanced thus: One day Manaia determined to have his neighbours all warned to come to a great gathering of people for the purpose of making spears for him; so he sent round a messenger to collect them, and the messenger arrived at the place of Tupenu, who listened to his message, and be, being chief of the tribe who lived at that place, encouraged his people to go in obedience to the message of Manaia. They went and set to work, and after some time it happened that Menaia felt a wish to go and catch some fish for his workmen; so he went off in his canoe, with several of his people. After he had been gone for some time, the workmen proposed amongst themselves to assault Rongotiki, the wife of Manaia; and they carried their intentions into execution without anyone knowing what they were doing. All this time Manaia, suspecting nothing, was paddling in his canoe out to sea; and when he reached the fishing ground, they lay on their paddles. Manaia’s people soon caught plenty of fish, but he had not even a single bite, until at last, as they were on the point of returning, he felt a fish nibbling at his hook; so he gave a jerk to his line to pull it up, and when he got the fish up to the side of the canoe, to his surprise he saw that the hook was not in the mouth of the fish, but fast in its tail; and as this had long been esteemed as a sign that your wife was being insulted by somebody, he at once knew how his had been treated by his workmen. Without waiting, therefore, a moment longer, he said to his crew, “Heave up the anchor: we will return to the shore.” So they hove up the anchor, and shaped a course for the landing place on the main. Whilst they were pulling in to the shore, Manaia took the fish he had caught, and with the hook still fast in its tail, tied it on to one of the thwarts of the canoe, and left it there, in order that when Rongotiki saw it, she might know, without his telling her, that he was aware that she had been badly treated by his workmen.

At length his canoe reached the shore, and the crew jumping out, hauled it up on the sandy beach, and Manaia leaving it there’ walked home towards his village. When he had got near home, his wife seeing him approach, arose and made the fire ready to roast some fern root for her husband, who she thought would come back hungry; and when he reached home the fire was lighted, and she was sitting by the side of it roasting the fern root, and she made signs to him by which he might know what had happened; but he knew it already from the manner in which his hook had caught in the tail of the fish. Then he sent his wife to fetch the fish, saying, “Mother, go and fetch the fish I have caught from my canoe;” so she went, and when she got there, she found that there were no fish but the single one, hanging to the thwart of the canoe, with a hook fast in its tail; then she took that fish and carried it home with her, and when she got there Manaia said, “That is the fish I meant you to bring, lest you should have said that I did not know what had taken place until you told me.”

Manaia then turned over in his mind various plans for revenging himself upon the people who had acted in so brutal a manner towards his wife, and he consulted with his own tribe how they might destroy those who had thus injured him. When the tribe of Manaia heard what had taken place, they all arose to seek revenge; but before the fighting which arose from this affair broke out, Manaia went to the people who had wronged his wife, and told them, “That he hoped they would make the spears large and strong, and not put him off with weak things, but rather make them stout and strong;” this was a mere piece of deceit on his part, in order that when he attacked them, their weapons might be too heavy readily to parry their enemies’ blows with them.

All these preparations having been made, Manaia lay in ambush with some of his people, and when the opportunity of rushing on their enemies presented itself, Manaia nudged with his elbow his son. Tuurenui, who was lying by his side, to encourage him to distinguish himself by rushing in, and killing the first man of the enemy; but being afraid to go he did not move, and whilst Manaia was encouraging him in vain, another young man, the name of whose father had never been told by his mother, rushed forward and slew the first of the enemy, and as with his weapon he struck him down, he cried out, “The first slain of the enemy belongs to me, to Kahukakanui, the son of Manaia;” then for the first time Manaia knew that this young man was his son, his last born son. He had before thought that Tuurenui had been his only son; but when the other young man called out his name, he knew that he also was his son, and, pleased with his courage, he loved him very much.

The people lying in ambush all followed the youth when he rushed on their enemies and slaughtered them; but their chief, Tupenu, fled by the way of the beach of Pikopikoiwhiti, and Manaia pursued him closely, but was not fleet enough of foot to catch him. Then he called out to his wife, Rongotiki, to utter incantations to weaken his enemy; and she did so, repeating an incantation termed Tapuwae; and when she had finished that, by her enchantments she rendered the flying warrior faint and feeble, so that Manaia rapidly gained on him, caught him, and slew him.

Thus perished Tupenu and the party of people whom he had taken with him to work for Manaia. The report of what had occurred soon spread throughout the country, and at last reached the tribe of Tupenu; and when they heard it, they said, “Your relatives have perished.”

Their army collected and started to avenge themselves on Manaia and his tribe, and to destroy them: they slew many of them, and continued from time to time to attack them, so that their numbers dwindled away, till at length Manaia began to reflect within himself, saying, “Ah, ah! my warriors are wasting away, and by and by perhaps I also shall be slain. Rather than let this state of things continue, I had better abandon this country, and, removing to a great distance, seek a new one for myself and my people.”

Having made up his mind to act in this way, he began to repair a canoe, and to fit it for sea. The name of the canoe was Tokomaru; it belonged to his brother-in-law. When it was fit for sea, he asked his brother-in-law, “Will you not consent to accompany me on this voyage?” and the latter asked in reply,

“Where do you want me to accompany you to?”

Manaia said, “I wish you to bear me company on this voyage which I am about to undertake to search for a new and distant country for both of us.”

But his brother-in-law, when he understood what Manaia was pressing him to do, replied, “No, I will not go with you.”

Manaia answered, “That is right: do you remain here.”

When the canoe was quite fit for sea, they dragged it down to the water, and hauled it into the sea until it floated; then they brought down the cargo, and stowed it away, and Manaia embarked in it, with his wife, his children, and his dependants; and then he said to some of his warriors, “Let my brother-in-law now be slain as an offering to the gods, that they may prove propitious to this canoe of ours.” So he called to his brother-in-law, who was standing on the shore, bidding him farewell, “I say, wade out to me for one minute, that I may tell you something, and take my last farewell; for I am going to part forever from you, leaving you here behind me.”

When Manaia’s brother-in-law heard this, he began to wade out to him. At first the water hardly covered his ankles, next it touched his knees, at last it came up above his loins, and when it had reached so high, he said, “Shove the canoe in a little nearer the shore: I shall be under water directly.”

But Manaia answered him, “Wade away; there is no depth of water;” and to deceive him better, he kept on pretending to touch the bottom with a stick; and the poor fellow, having no suspicion, believed what Manaia said, that the water was not deep. But Manaia had spoken before to his people, saying, “Let him come on, out into the deep water, until his feet cannot touch the bottom; then seize him by the head and slay him.” At length his feet could no longer touch the bottom, and he found himself swimming close to the canoe; then Manaia seized him by the head, with one blow of his stone battle axe he clave it, and his brother-in-law perished.

Having thus slain his victim, he caught up his dog, which had swam out with its master, and lifting it into the canoe, he sailed away to search for a new country for himself.

He sailed on and on, and had proceeded very far from the land they had quitted, when one day the dog Manaia had taken into the canoe scented land, and howled loudly, struggling to get loose and jump overboard into the water. The people in the canoe were much surprised at this, and said, “Why, what can be the matter with the dog?” and some of them said, “We’d better let him go, if he wishes it, and see what comes of it.” So they let the dog loose, and he jumped overboard, and swam on ahead of the canoe, howling loudly as he went, and this he continued to do till at last night fell on them. The canoe still followed for a long time the low, faint howling of the dog, which they could only indistinctly hear. At last he had got so far off, they could no longer distinguish it; but the dog, after swimming for a long time, finally reached land.

In the meantime the canoe came following straight on the track which the dog had taken, and when at length the night ended, and the day began to break, they again heard the howling of the dog, which had landed close to the stranded carcass of a whale. They pulled eagerly to the shore, and as soon as they reached it, there they saw the whale lying stranded, and the dog by its side; and there they landed on this island, on Aotea.

They were rejoiced indeed when they ascertained this was the country for which they had been seeking. First, they allotted out equally amongst them the whale they had found; but first Manaia addressed his men, saying, “We must now build a house to shelter us, and then we will cut up the whale.” His people at once obeyed their chief’s directions. Some of them began to collect materials for building a shelter, and others to clear spots of ground, and to prepare them for planting.

Some few of them called out, “Here is the best place for our village;” whilst others, on the contrary, cried out, “No, no, this is the best place for it;” and others still, who had got a little further along the beach, cried out, “Here is still a better place;” and others yet further ahead said, “Here, here, this is the best place we have yet seen.” Thus all were led to leave their proper work, and to wander a long way along the shore, exploring the new country, and seeking for a site for their future home; at last they found that little by little they had been drawn a long way from the spot where they had landed, and from the whale which they had found.

Now there were some other canoes coming close after the canoe Tokomaru, which presently made the land too, and reached the shore just at the point where the Tokomaru had been drawn up upon the beach, and they saw the marks of the Tokomaru upon the sand, and the sheds that had been put up, and the bits of land that had been cleared; and they, without delay, began to claim each one as his own, the sheds, the cleared ground, and the whale, which all belonged to the people of the canoe which had first landed.

Then they went to search for the people who had come in that canoe, and when they had found them each party saluted the other, and when their mutual greetings were over, those who had come in the first canoe asked those who had come in the second, “When did you arrive here?”

And they answered them by saying, “When did you arrive here?”

Those of the first canoe answered, “A long time ago.”

Then the people of the second canoe answered, “And we also arrived a long time ago.”

Those who had come in the first canoe now replied, “Nay, nay, we arrived here before you.”

Then those of the second canoe answered, “Nay, nay, but we arrived here before you;” and they continued thus disputing, arguing each party with the other.

At last Manaia asked them, “What are the proofs you give to show when you arrived here?”

And they answered, “That is all very well; but what proofs have you to show when you arrived here?”

But Manaia replied, “The proof I have to show when I arrived here is a whale of mine which I found upon the beach.”

Then the people who had come in the second canoe answered, “No, indeed, that whale belongs to us.”

But Manaia answered quite angrily, “No; I say that whale belongs to me. Just look you, you will see my sheds standing there, and my temporary encampment, and the pieces of land which my people have cleared.”

But the others answered him, “Nay, indeed those are our sheds, and our pieces of cleared land; and as for the whale, it is our whale; now let us go and examine them.”

So the whole party returned together, until they came to the place where they had landed, and when they saw all these things there, Manaia said, “Look you, that whale belongs to me, as well as those sheds and the cleared pieces of land.”

But the others laughed at him and said, “Why you must have gone mad; all these houses belong to us, and the clearings and that whale too.”

And Manaia, who was now quite provoked, replied, “I say no; the clearings are mine, the sheds are mine, as well as the whale.”

The others, however, answered him, “Very well, then, if that is the case, where is your sacred place?”

But Manaia replied, “Where is your sacred place also then?”

And they answered, “Come along and see it.” And they all went together to see the sacred place of these newly arrived people, and when they saw it Manaia believed them.

Although he gave credit to the fact of their having arrived first, Manaia was sorely perplexed and troubled, and he abandoned altogether the part of the country he had first reached, and started again to seek for another place for himself, for his relations, and for his people. They coasted right along the shores of the island from Whangaparāoa and doubled the North Cape, and from thence made a direct course to Taranaki, and made the land at Tongapōrutu, between Parininihi and Mōkau, and they landed there and remained for some time, and left the god they worshipped there. The name of their god was Rakeiora.

They then turned to journey back towards Mōkau: some of them went by land along the coast line, and others in their canoe, the two parties kept in sight of one another as they examined the coast; and when they reached the river Mōkau those in the canoe landed, and they left there the stone anchor of their canoe; it is still lying near the mouth of the river, on its north side, and the present name of the rock is the Punga-o-Matori. Then they pulled back in the Tokomaru, to Tongapōrutu, and leaving the canoe there, explored the country unto Pukearuhe, thence they went on as far as Papatiki, and there descended to the shore to the beach of Kukuriki, and travelling along it, they reached the river of Onaero, forded it, and passed the plain of Motunui, and Kaweka, and Urenui, that river had a name before Manaia and his people reached it; but when Manaia arrived there with his son, Tuurenui, he changed its name, and called it after his son, Tuurenui; and they forded the river, and travelled on until they reached Rōhutu, at the mouth of the river Waitara, and they dwelt there, and there they found people living, the native inhabitants of these islands; but Manaia and his party slew them, and destroyed them, so that the country was left for himself and for his descendants, and for his tribe and their descendants, and Manaia and his followers destroyed the original occupants of the country, in order to obtain possession of it.

Manaia was the ancestor of the Ngāti Awa tribe; he fought two great battles in Hawaiki, the names of which were Kirikiriwawa and Rotorua; the fame of his weapons resounded there—their names were Kihia and Rakea; and there also was known the fame of his son, of Kahu-kaka-nui-a-Manaia, of the youth who was baptized with the baptism of children whose fathers are not known.

The Story of Hinemoa

The Maiden of Rotorua

And the man said to him, “Now O governor, just look round you, and listen to me, for there is something worth seeing here; that very spot you are sitting upon, is the place on which sat our great ancestress Hinemoa, when she swam over here from the main. But I’ll tell you the whole story.

“Look you now, Rangiuru was the name of the mother of a chief called Tūtānekai; she was properly the wife of Whakauekaipapa (the great ancestor of the Ngāti Whakaue tribe); but she at one time ran away with a chief named Tūwharetoa (the great ancestor of the Te Heukeu and the Ngāti Tūwharetoa tribe); before this she had three sons by Whakaue, their names were Tawakeheimoa, Ngāraranui, and Tuteaiti. It was after the birth of this third son, that Rangiuru eloped with Tūwharetoa, who had come to Rotorua as a stranger on a visit. From this affair sprang Tūtānekai, who was an illegitimate child; but finally, Whakaue and Rangiuru were united again, and she had another son whose name was Kōpako; and then she had a daughter whom they named Tupa; she was the last child of Whakaue.

“They all resided here on the island of Mokoia. Whakaue was very kind indeed to Tūtānekai, treating him as if he was his own son; so they grew up there, Tūtānekai and his elder brothers, until they attained to manhood.

“Now there reached them here a great report of Hinemoa, that she was a maiden of rare beauty, as well as of high rank, for Umukaria (the great ancestor of the Ngāti Unui-kara-hapu, or sub-tribe), was her father; her mother’s name was Hinemaru. When such fame attended her beauty and rank, Tūtānekai and each of his elder brothers desired to have her as a wife.

“About this time Tūtānekai built an elevated balcony, on the slope of that hill just above you there, which he called Kaiweka. He had contracted a great friendship for a young man named Tiki. They were both fond of music: Tūtānekai played on the horn, and Tiki on the pipe; and they used to go up into the balcony and play on their instruments in the night; and on calm evenings the sound of their music was wafted by the gentle land breeze across the lake to the village at Ōwhata, where dwelt the beautiful Hinemoa, the younger sister of Wāhiao.

“Hinemoa could then hear the sweet-sounding music of the instruments of Tūtānekai and of his dear friend Tiki, which gladdened her heart within her. Every night the two friends played on their instruments in this manner, and Hinemoa then ever said to herself, ‘Ah! that is the music of Tūtānekai which I hear.’

“For although Hinemoa was so prized by her family, that they would not betroth her to any chief, nevertheless she and Tūtānekai had met each other on those occasions when all the people of Rotorua come together.

“In those great assemblies of the people Hinemoa had seen Tūtānekai, and as they often glanced each at the other, to the heart of each of them the other appeared pleasing, and worthy of love, so that in the breast of each there grew up a secret passion for the other. Nevertheless, Tūtānekai could not tell whether he might venture to approach Hinemoa to take her hand, to see would she press his in return, because said he, ‘Perhaps I may be by no means agreeable to her;’ on the other hand, Hinemoa’s heart said to her, ‘If you send one of your female friends to tell him of your love, perchance he will not be pleased with you.’

“However, after they had thus met for many, many days, and had long fondly glanced each at the other, Tūtānekai sent a messenger to Hinemoa, to tell of his love; and when Hinemoa had seen the messenger, she said, ‘Eh-hu! have we then each loved alike?’

“Some time after this, and when they had often met, Tūtānekai and his family returned to their own village; and being together one evening, in a large warm house of general assembly, the elder brothers of Tūtānekai said, ‘Which of us has by signs, or by pressure of the hand, received proofs of the love of Hinemoa?’ And one said, ‘It is I who have;’ and another said, ‘No, but it is I.’ Then they also questioned Tūtānekai, and he said, ‘I have pressed the hand of Hinemoa, and she pressed mine in return;’ but his elder brothers said, ‘No such thing; do you think she would take any notice of such a lowborn fellow as you are?’ He then told his reputed father, Whakaue, to remember what he would then say to him, because he really had received proofs of Hinemoa’s love; they had even actually arranged a good while before, the time at which Hinemoa should run away to him; and when the maiden asked, ‘What shall be the sign by which I shall know that I should then run to you?’ he said to her, ‘A trumpet will be heard sounding every night; it will be I who sound it, beloved—paddle then your canoe to that place.’ So Whakaue kept in his mind this confession which Tūtānekai had made to him.

“Now always about the middle of the night Tūtānekai, and his friend Tiki, went up into their balcony and played, the one upon his trumpet, the other upon his flute, and Hinemoa heard them, and desired vastly to paddle in her canoe to Tūtānekai; but her friends suspecting something, had been careful with the canoes, to leave none afloat, but had hauled them all up upon the shore of the lake; and thus her friends had always done for many days and for many nights.

“At last she reflected in her heart, saying ‘How can I then contrive to cross the lake to the island of Mokoia? it can plainly be seen that my friends suspect what I am going to do.’ So she sat down upon the ground to rest; and then soft measures reached her from the trumpet of Tūtānekai, and the young and beautiful chieftainess felt as if an earthquake shook her to make her go to the beloved of her heart; but then arose the recollection, that there was no canoe. At last she thought, perhaps I might be able to swim across. So she took six large dry empty gourds, as floats, lest she should sink in the water, three of them for each side, and she went out upon a rock, which is named Iri-iri-kapua, and from thence to the edge of the water, to the spot called Wairerewai, and there she threw off her clothes and cast herself into the water, and she reached the stump of a sunken tree which used to stand in the lake, and was called Hinewhata, and she clung to it with her hands, and rested to take breath, and when she had a little eased the weariness of her shoulders, she swam on again, and whenever she was exhausted she floated with the current of the lake, supported by the gourds, and after recovering strength she swam on again; but she could not distinguish in which direction she should proceed, from the darkness of the night; her only guide was the soft measure from the instrument of Tūtānekai; that was the mark by which she swam straight to Waikimihia, for just above that hot spring was the village of Tūtānekai, and swimming, at last she reached the island of Mokoia.

“At the place where she landed on the island, there is a hot spring separated from the lake only by a narrow ledge of rocks; this is it—it is called, as I just said, Waikimihia. Hinemoa got into this to warm herself, for she was trembling all over, partly from the cold, after swimming in the night across the wide lake of Rotorua, and partly also, perhaps, from modesty, at the thoughts of meeting Tūtānekai.

“Whilst the maiden was thus warming herself in the hot spring, Tūtānekai happened to feel thirsty, and said to his servant, ‘Bring me a little water;’ so his servant went to fetch water for him, and drew it from the lake in a calabash, close to the spot where Hinemoa was sitting. The maiden, who was frightened, called out to him in a gruff voice, like that of a man, ‘Whom is that water for?’ He replied, ‘It’s for Tūtānekai.’ ‘Give it here, then,’ said Hinemoa. And he gave her the water, and she drank, and having finished drinking, she purposely threw down the calabash, and broke it. Then the servant asked her, ‘What business had you to break the calabash of Tūtānekai?’ but Hinemoa did not say a word in answer. The servant then went back, and Tūtānekai said to him, ‘Where is the water I told you to bring me?’ So he answered, ‘Your calabash was broken.’ And his master asked him, ‘Who broke it?’ and he answered, ‘The man who is in the bath.’ And Tūtānekai said to him, ‘Go back again then, and fetch me some water.’

“He therefore took a second calabash, and went back, and drew water in the calabash from the lake; and Hinemoa again said to him, ‘Whom is that water for?’ So the slave answered as before, ‘For Tūtānekai.’ And the maiden again said, ‘Give it to me, for I am thirsty.’ And the slave gave it to her, and she drank, and purposely threw down the calabash, and broke it. And these occurrences took place repeatedly between those two persons.

“At last the slave went again to Tūtānekai, who said to him, ‘Where is the water for me?’ and his servant answered, ‘It is all gone. Your calabashes have been broken.’ ‘By whom?’ said his master. ‘Didn’t I tell you that there is a man in the bath?’ answered the servant. ‘Who is the fellow?’ said Tūtānekai. ‘How can I tell?’ replied the slave; ‘why, he’s a stranger.’ ‘Didn’t he know the water was for me?’ said Tūtānekai. ‘How did the rascal dare to break my calabashes? Why, I shall die from rage.’

“Then Tūtānekai threw on some clothes, and caught hold of his club, and away he went, and came to the bath, and called out, ‘Where’s that fellow who broke my calabashes?’ And Hinemoa knew the voice, that the sound of it was that of the beloved of her heart; and she hid herself under the overhanging rocks of the hot spring; but her hiding was hardly a real hiding, but rather a bashful concealing of herself from Tūtānekai, that he might not find her at once, but only after trouble and careful searching for her. So he went feeling about along the banks of the hot spring, searching everywhere, whilst she lay coyly hid under the ledges of the rock, peeping out, wondering when she should be found. At last he caught hold of a hand, and cried out, ‘Halloa, who’s this?’ and Hinemoa answered, ‘It’s I, Tūtānekai.’ And he said, ‘But who are you? who’s I?’ Then she spoke louder, and said, ‘It’s I; ’tis Hinemoa.’ And he said, ‘Ho! ho! ho! can such in very truth be the case? Let us two then go to my house.’ And she answered, ‘Yes;’ and she rose up in the water as beautiful as the wild white hawk, and stepped upon the edge of the bath as graceful as the shy white crane; and he threw garments over her, and took her, and they proceeded to his house, and reposed there; and thenceforth, according to the ancient laws of the Māori, they were man and wife.

“When the morning dawned, all the people of the village went forth from their houses to cook their breakfasts, and they all ate; but Tūtānekai tarried in his house. So Whakaue said, ‘This is the first morning that Tūtānekai has slept in this way; perhaps the lad is ill: bring him here—rouse him up.’ Then the man who was to fetch him went and drew back the sliding wooden window of the house, and peeping in, saw four feet. Oh! he was greatly amazed, and said to himself, ‘Who can this companion of his be?’ However, he had seen quite enough, and turning about, hurried back as fast as he could to Whakaue, and said to him, ‘Why, there are four feet, I saw them myself, in the house.’ Whakaue answered, ‘Who’s his companion, then? hasten back and see.’ So back he went to the house, and peeped in at them again, and then for the first time he saw it was Hinemoa. Then he shouted out in his amazement, ‘Oh! here’s Hinemoa, here’s Hinemoa, in the house of Tūtānekai!’ and all the village heard him, and there arose cries on every side, ‘Oh! here’s Hinemoa, here’s Hinemoa with Tūtānekai!’ And his elder brothers heard the shouting, and they said, ‘It is not true;’ for they were very jealous indeed. Tūtānekai then appeared coming from his house, and Hinemoa following him, and his elder brothers saw that it was indeed Hinemoa; and they said, ‘It is true, it is a fact.’

“After these things Tiki thought within himself, ‘Tūtānekai has married Hinemoa, she whom he loved; but as for me, alas! I have no wife;’ and he became sorrowful, and returned to his own village. And Tūtānekai was grieved for Tiki, and he said to Whakaue, ‘I am quite ill from grief for my friend Tiki.’ And Whakaue said, ‘What do you mean?’ And Tūtānekai replied, ‘I refer to my young sister Tupa: let her be given as a wife to my beloved friend, to Tiki.’ And his reputed father, Whakaue, consented to this. So his young sister Tupa was given to Tiki, and she became his wife.

“The descendants of Hinemoa and of Tūtānekai are at this very day dwelling on the lake of Rotorua, and never yet have the lips of the offspring of Hinemoa forgotten to repeat tales of the great beauty of their renowned ancestress, Hinemoa, and of her swimming over here; and this, too, is the burden of a song still current.”

The Story of Marutūāhu, the Son of Hotunui, and of Kahureremoa, the Daughter of Paka

Hotunui was one of those chiefs who arrived in New Zealand from a land beyond the ocean. The Tainui was the canoe in which he arrived in these islands. He left Kāwhia, where he first settled, and came overland to Hauraki, and finally took up his residence in a village called Wakatīwai. He had at Kāwhia, a son called Marutūāhu, but Hotunui was not there when this child was born.

The cause which made him come from Kāwhia to Hauraki was a false accusation that was brought against him regarding a storehouse of sweet potatoes belonging to another chief, a friend of his. The accusation arose in this way. Hotunui went out of his house one night, almost at the same moment that a thief had gone out to rob this storehouse; it was very unfortunate that they should both have gone out nearly at the same moment, just about midnight. When day dawned, Hotunui came out of his house, and people in the morning had seen his footsteps, right along the path by which the thief had gone, and there were the sweet potatoes dropped all along the path, and as the soles of Hotunui’s feet were very large, his footprints had quite erased those of the thief; so presently they brought an accusation against Hotonui, that he had stolen the sweet potatoes. At this time Hotunui’s wife had just conceived Marutūāhu, but he was so overcome by shame at the accusation brought against him, that the thought came into his mind to run away from wife and all, and go to Hauraki to seek another residence for himself. His corn was ready, and he had dug his farm, and prepared the ground for planting it, but had not yet put in the seed, when he went to his wife and said, “Now, remember, when the child is born, if it is a boy, call it Marutūāhu, and if it is a girl, call it Paretuahu \[either name meaning the field made ready for planting], in remembrance of that cultivation of mine, prepared for planting to no purpose.” Then Hotunui went off to Hauraki, and resided at Wakatīwai, and became the chief of the people of that country, and he took another wife, the young sister of a chief named Te Whatu, and she bore him a child named Paka.

When Marutūāhu came to man’s estate, he took up his club, and asked his mother, saying, “Mother, show me the mountain range that is near my father’s abode;” and the mother said,

“Look, my child, towards the place of sunrise.”

And her son said, “What, there?” and he was answered by his mother,

“Yes, that is it—Hauraki;” and Marutūāhu answered,

“ ’Tis well; I understand.”

Then Marutūāhu started with his slave, and travelled towards Hauraki, and they carried with them a spear for killing birds; this they took as a means of procuring food on the journey, as they came by way of the wooded mountains where birds are plentiful. They were a whole month before they arrived at Kohukohunui, and reached the outskirts of the forests there early one morning at the same time that two young girls, the daughters of Te Whatu, the chief of Hauraki, were coming along the same path from the opposite direction. Marutūāhu was up in a forest tree, spearing Tui birds, at the moment when the two girls saw the slave sitting under the tree in which Marutūāhu was killing birds, and his master’s cloak lying on the ground by him. The two girls came merrily along the path; the youngest sister was very beautiful, but the eldest was plain; and when they saw the slave of Marutūāhu, the youngest one, who had seen him first, called out playfully, “Ah! there’s a man will make a nice slave for me.”

“Where?” said the elder sister, “where is he?” and the youngest replied,

“There, there, cannot you see him sitting at the root of that tree?” Then up they ran towards him, sportively contesting with one another whose slave he should be; and the youngest got there first, and therefore claimed him as her slave.

All this time Marutūāhu was peeping down at the two girls from the top of the tree; and they asked the slave, saying, “Where is your master?”

He answered, “I have no master but him.”

Then the girls looked about, and there was the cloak lying on the ground, and a heap of dead birds; and they kept on asking, “Where is he?” but it was not long before a flock of Tui settled on the tree where Marutūāhu was sitting; he speared at them, and struck a Tui, which made the tree ring with its cries; the girls heard it, and looking up, the youngest saw the young chief sitting in the top boughs of the tree; and she at once called up to him, “Ah, you shall be my husband;” but the eldest sister exclaimed, “You shall be mine,” and they began jesting and disputing between themselves which should have him for a husband, for he was a very handsome young man.

Then the two girls called up to him to come down from the tree, and down he came, and dropped upon the ground, and pressed his nose against the nose of each of the young girls. They then asked him to come to their village with them; to which he consented, but said, “You two go on ahead, and leave me and my slave, and we will follow you presently;” and the girls said,

“Very well, do you come after us.” Marutūāhu then told his slave to make a present to the girls of the food they had collected, and he gave them two bark baskets of pigeons, preserved in their own fat, and they went off to their village with these. Marutūāhu stopped behind with his slave, and as soon as the girls had gone, he went to a stream, and washed his hair in the water, and then came back, and combed it very carefully, and after coming it, he tied it up in a knot, and stuck fifty red kākā feathers in his head, and amongst them he placed the plume of a white heron, and the tail of a huia, as ornaments; he thus looked extremely handsome, and said to his slave, “Now, let us go.”

It was not very long before the two young girls came back from the village to meet their so called husband, that they might all go in together; and when they came up to him, there he was seated on the ground, looking quite different to what he did before, for he now appeared as handsome as the large crested cormorant; he had on outside, a Peuru cloak, within that, a cloak called the Kahakaha, and under that again, a garment called the Kōpū (this in ancient times made up the dress of a great chief); the two young girls felt deeply in love with him when they saw him, and they said to Maru’, “Come along to our father’s village with us;” and he again consented, and told his slave to keep with them, and as they all went along, Maru’ stopped a little until he was some way behind, for he thought that the girls had not found out who he was; as they proceeded, seeing that Maru’ did not follow them fast, they asked his slave, who kept along with them, “What is the name of your master?” and the slave answered,

“Is there no chief of the west coast of the island whose fame has reached this place?” and the young girls said,

“Yes, the fame of one man has reached this place, the fame of Marutūāhu, the son of Hotunui?” and the slave answered,

“This is he;” and the girls replied, “Dear, dear, we had not the least idea it was he.” By this time Maru’ was coming up again to join them, for he guessed the girls had asked his slave who he was, and that they had been told, but the girls ran off together to Hotunui, and their father Te Whatu, to inform them who was coming, as they had previously left the old men waiting for their return; but presently the two girls changed their plan, and arranged between themselves that the youngest should run off quickly to tell Hotunui that his son was coming, and that the eldest sister should be left to lead Marutūāhu to the village; and in this way they proceeded, those who were going slowly to the village loitering along, whilst the younger sister was far ahead, running as fast as she could, and crying out as she came near the village, “Are you there, O Hotunui? here’s your son coming—here is Marutūāhu.”

Then Hotunui called out with a loud voice, “Where is he?” and she replied,

“Here he comes, he is coming along close behind me; make haste and have the floor of the house covered with fine mats for him, so that he may have a fitting reception.”

Marutūāhu soon came in sight, and as he was seen approaching, he looked as handsome as the beautiful crested cormorant. The people got upon the defences of the village, and ran outside the gates, to look at him; and the young girls all waved the corners of their cloaks, crying out, “Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, make haste, make haste;” and he stepped boldly out, and reached the village.

As soon as he had arrived there, they all wept over him; and when they had done weeping, they sat down, and formed a semicircle, with Marutūāhu at the open part; and Hotunui stood up to make a speech of welcome to his son, and he spoke thus: “Welcome, welcome, oh, my child, welcome to Hauraki, welcome. You are very welcome. You have suddenly appeared here, urged by your own affections. You are very welcome.”

Having said this, Hotunui sat down again; then Marutūāhu jumped up to make a speech in reply, and he said, “That is right, that is right, oh, my father, call out to your child, ‘You are welcome.’ Here I am arrived at Hauraki, here I am seeking out my father’s village in Hauraki, but I, who am the mere slave of my father, can say nothing in answer to his welcome; here I am arrived at your village, it is for you to speak; a young man just arrived from the forests has no fitting word to say in your presence.”

Thus he ended his speech, and a feast was spread out, and they all fell to eating, for they had killed ten dogs for the feast, and the chiefs all ate, and the two young girls; but, although no one knew it, the two sisters were all the time quarrelling with each other as to which of them should have Marutūāhu for a husband: the heart of one of them whispered to her, he shall be mine; but the heart of the other young girl said just the same thing to her.

The feast being ended, they left the common part of the fortress where food was eaten, and moved on one side, to the sacred precincts. When the evening came on a fire was kindled in the house, and the eldest girl not seeing her younger sister, went to her father to ask for her, and was told that she had been given as a wife to Marutūāhu. At this she was exceedingly vexed, and provoked with her sister; for although she was plain, she thought to herself, I am very pretty, and I am sure, there’s not the least reason why Marutūāhu should be frightened at me; and she went off to quarrel with her younger sister; but Marutūāhu did not like her on account of her plainness, and her pretty sister kept him as her husband.

Te Paka, the son of Hotunui, the nephew of Te Whatu, and the younger brother of Marutūāhu, had grown up to be a young man, so they gave him the elder daughter of Te Whatu to be his wife; thus the elder sister was married, as well as the young one, who was given to Marutūāhu for his wife; and Te Paka’s wife bore him a daughter, whom they called Te Kahureremoa.

The youngest daughter of Te Whatu, whom Marutūāhu married, bore him three children, Tamatepō, Tamaterā, and Whanaunga; from Tamatepō sprang the Ngāti Rongoū tribe; from Tamaterā sprang the tribe of Ngāti Tamaterā, and from Whanaunga sprang the Ngāti Whanaunga tribe.

Whilst Marutūāhu was living at Hauraki, his father Hotunui told him how very badly some of the people of that place had treated him. These were the facts of the case, as the old chief related them to him:—“One day when the canoes of the tribe came in full of fish, after hauling their nets, he sent down one of his servants from his house to the canoe to bring back some fish for him, and when the servant ran down for this purpose, the man who owned the nets said to him, ‘Well, what brings you here?’ upon which his servant answered, ‘Hotunui sent me down to bring up some fish for him; he quite longs to taste them.’ Upon which the owner of nets cursed Hotunui in the most violent and offensive manner, saying, ‘Is his head the flax that grows in the swamp at Otoi? or is his topknot flax, that the old fellow cannot go there to get some flax to make a net for himself with, instead of troubling me?’ When Hotunui’s servant heard this, he returned at once to the house, and his master, not seeing the fish, said, ‘Well, tell me what is the matter;’ so he replied, ‘I went as you told me, and I asked the man who had been hauling the net for some fish, and he only looked up at me. Again I asked him for some fish; and then he said, “Who sent you here to fetch fish, pray?” Then I told him Hotunui sent me down to bring up some fish for him; he quite longs to taste them. Then the man cursed you, saying to me, ‘Is Hotunui’s head the flax that grows in the swamp at Otoi; or is his topknot flax, that the old fellow cannot go there to get some flax to make a net with for himself?’ ”

When Hotunui had told this story to Marutūāhu, he said, “Now, oh, my son, this tribe is a very bad one; they seem bent upon lowering the authority of their chiefs.”

The heart of Marutūāhu felt very gloomy when he heard his father had been treated thus, and Hotunui said to him, “You may well look sad, my son, at hearing what I have just said; this tribe is composed of very bad people.”

And Marutūāhu replied, “Leave them alone; they shall find out what such conduct leads to.”

Then Marutūāhu began to catch and dry great quantities of fish for a feast, and he worked away with his men at making fishing nets, until he had collected a very great number. It was in the winter that he began to make these nets, and the winter, spring, summer, and part of autumn passed before they were finished; then he sent a messenger to the tribe who had cursed his father to ask them to come to a feast, and to help him to stretch these nets; and when the messenger came back Marutūāhu asked him, “Where are they?” and the messenger answered,

“The day after tomorrow they will arrive here.”

Then Marutūāhu gave orders, saying, “Tomorrow let the feast be ranged in rows, so that when they arrive here they may find it all ready for them.” Upon this they all retired to rest, and when the dawn appeared they arranged the food to be given to the strangers in rows. The outside of the rows was composed of fish piled up; but under these was placed nothing but rotten wood and filth, although the exterior made a very goodly show. He intended this feast to be a feast at which those who came as guests should be slaughtered, in revenge for the curse against Hotunui, which had exceedingly pained his heart.

Soon after daybreak the next morning the guests came, and seeing the piles of provisions which were laid out for them, they were exceedingly rejoiced, and longed for the time of their distribution, and when they might touch this food, little thinking how dearly they were to pay for it. The guests had all arrived and taken their seats on the grass, when Marutūāhu and his people came together;—they were only one hundred and forty.

As they were to stretch the great net made up of all the small ones upon the next morning, on that evening they put all the nets and ropes into the water to soak them, in order to soften the flax of which they were made, so that they might be more easily stretched; and when the morning dawned those who had come for the purpose began to draw out the net, stretching the rope and the bottom of the net along the ground, and pegging it tight down from corner to corner, and thus whilst Marutūāhu’s people were preparing food for them to eat, the others worked away at stretching the net taut, and pegging it fast to the ground to hold it; it was not long before they had finished this and had put on the weights to sink it.

Marutūāhu sent a man to see whether they had finished stretching the net, and when the man came back he said, “Have they done stretching the net?” and the man answered, “Yes, they have finished.”

Then Marutūāhu said, “Let us go and lift the upper end of the net from the ground;—they have finished the lower end of it.” Then the one hundred and forty men went with him, each one carrying a weapon carefully concealed under his garments lest their guests should see them; and when they reached the place where the net was, they found the guests, nearly a thousand in number, had finished stretching the lower end of the net.

Then the priest of Marutūāhu who was to consecrate the net said, “Let the upper end of the net be raised, so that the net may be stretched straight out;” and Marutūāhu said,

“Yes, let it be done at once, it is getting late in the day.” Then the one hundred and forty men began to lift up the net, with the left hand they seized the ropes to raise it, but with the right hand each firmly grasped his weapon, and Marutūāhu shouted out, “Lift away, lift away, lift it well up;” when they had raised it high in the air, they walked on with it; holding it up as if they were spreading it out, until they got it well over the strangers, who were either pegging the lower end down, or were seated on the ground looking on; then Marutūāhu shouted out, “Let it fall;” and they let it fall, and caught in it their guests, nearly a thousand in number; they caught every one of them in the net, so that they could not move to make any effectual resistance, and whilst some of the one hundred and forty men of Marutūāhu held the net down, the rest slew with their weapons the whole thousand, not one escaped, whilst they lost not a single man themselves. Hence “The feast of rotten wood” is a proverb amongst the descendants of Marutūāhu to this day. This feast of rotten wood was given at a place then named Pukeahau, but which was afterwards called Karihitangata (or, men were the weights which were attached to the net to sink it), upon account of the thousand people who were slain by treachery in the net of Marutūāhu; for men were the weights that were attached to that net to sink it. After the death of all these people, the country they inhabited became the property of Marutūāhu, and his heirs dwell there to the present day.

About the time that Te Kahureremoa, Paka’s daughter, became marriageable, a large party of visitors arrived at Wharekawa, the village of Te Paka; they came from Aotea, or the Great Barrier Island; at their head was the principal chief of Aotea, and he brought in his canoes a present of two hundred and sixty baskets of mackerel for Te Paka, and they became such good friends, that they thought they would like to be connected; so it was arranged that Te Paka’s daughter, Te Kahureremoa, should be given as a wife to the son of that chief. Part of Te Paka’s plan was to get possession of Aotea for his family, for he thought when his daughter had children, and they were grown up, that it was possible they would secure the island for their grandfather, or for their mother’s family.

When the party of visitors was about to return to Aotea, having formed this connection with Te Paka’s tribe through the girl, her father gave her up to them to take to Aotea to her husband, and he told his daughter to go on board the canoe, and to accompany them to Aotea; but he told her to no purpose, for she did not obey him; in short, Te Kahureremoa refused to go. So the old chief to whom the canoes belonged said, “Never mind, never mind, leave her alone, we shall not be very long away, we shall soon return, we shall not be long before we are back;” and they left Te Kahureremoa with her father, and paddled off in their canoes.

In one month’s time they came back again, and brought with them a present of thirty baskets of mackerel, and as soon as they arrived they distributed these amongst their friends; and down ran Te Kahureremoa from the village to the landing place to take a basket of mackerel for herself. As soon as Paka saw this, he gave his daughter a sound scolding for going and taking the fish; this is what Paka said to his daughter: “Put that down, you shall not have it: I wanted you to go and become the wife of the young chief of the place where these good fish abound, and you refused to go, therefore you shall not now have any.”

This was quite enough; poor little Te Kahureremoa felt entirely overcome with shame, she left the basket of fish, dropping it just where she was, and ran back into the house, and began to sob and cry; then her thoughts suggested to her, that after this, it would be better that she should be no more seen by the eyes of her father, and that her father’s face should be no more seen by her, and her heart kept on urging her to run away to Takakōpiri, and to take him for her lord; she had seen him, and liked him well; he was a great chief, and had abundance of food of the best kind on his estates; plenty of potted birds of all kinds; and kiwi, and kiore and weka, and eels, and mackerel, and crayfish; in short, he had abundance of all kinds of food, and was rich in every sort of property.

As she thought of all this, the chief’s young daughter continued weeping and sobbing in the house, quite overcome with shame, and when evening came she was still crying, but at night, she said to herself. “Now I’ll be off, whilst all the men are fast asleep;” so she get up and ran away, accompanied by her female slave. The next morning when the sun rose they found she was gone, and she had fled so far, that when those who were sent to seek her came to the footprints of herself and her slave, their edges had so sunk down, that the pursuers could not tell how long it was since she had passed.

Waipuna was the village from which Te Kahureremoa started, and they had left Pūkorokoro behind them, and by the time it was full daybreak they had reached Waitakaruru, and as the full rays of the sun shone on the earth, they were passing above Pouarua; then for a little time they travelled very fast and reached Riwaki, at the mouth of the river Piako; and this they crossed and pushed on for Opani, and thence those in pursuit of them returned, they could follow them no further; the tide also was flowing, which stopped the pursuit.

Just then some of the canoes of the upriver country were returning from Ruawehea, and when the people in the canoes saw her, they raised loud cries of—“Ho, ho! here’s Te Kahureremoa, here’s the daughter of Paka;” she stepped into one of the canoes with them, and the people kept crying out the whole way from the mouth of the river up its course as they ascended it, “Here’s Te Kahureremoa;” and they rowed very fast, feeling alarmed at having so great a chieftainess on board, and so confused were they at her presence, that throughout the whole day they kept on bending their heads down to their very paddles, as they pulled. They stopped at Raupa, where the Awaiti branches off to Tauranga, and there they spent one night; and the next day they went over the range towards Katikati: the people of Raupa urged her to stop there for a little; she, however, would not, but driven by the fond thoughts of her heart, she pressed onwards, and reached the summit of the ridge of Hikurangi, and looked down upon Katikati, and saw also Tauranga; then the young girl turned, and looked round at the mountain at Otawa, and although she knew what it was, she liking to hear his name, and of his greatness, spoke to the people of the country, who, out of respect were accompanying her, and asking said, “What is the name of yonder mountain?” and they answered her,

“That is Otawa.”

And the young girl asked again, “Is the country of that mountain rich in food?” and they replied,

“Oh, there are found kiore, and kiwi and weka, and pigeons, and tui; why that mountain is famed for the variety and number of birds that inhabit it.”

Then the young girl took courage, and asked once more, “Whom does all that fruitful country belong to?” and they told her,

“The Waitaka is the name of the tribe that inhabit that country, and Takakōpiri is the chief of it. He is the owner of that mountain, and he is the great chief of the Waitaka; and when the people of that tribe collect food from the mountains, they bear everything to him; the food of all those districts, whatever it may be, belongs to that great lord alone.”

When the young girl heard all this, she said to the people, “I and my female slave are going there, to Otawa.”

And the people said to her, “No; is that really the case?” and she said,

“Yes, we are going there. Paka sent us there, that we should ask Takakōpiri to pay him a visit at Wharekawa.” She said this to deceive the people, and prevent them from stopping her; and immediately started again upon her journey, and came down upon the seashore at Katikati.

The Waitaha, the tribe of Takakōpiri, inhabited that village; and as soon as they saw the young girl coming, there arose joyful cries of—“Here is Kahureremoa! oh, here is the daughter of Paka!” and the people collected in crowds to gaze at the young chieftainess. She rested at the village, and they immediately began to prepare food, and when it was cooked, they brought it to her, and she partook of it, and when she had done it was nighttime; then they brought plenty of firewood into the house, and made up a clear fire, so that the house might be quite light, and they all stood up to dance, that she might pass a cheerful evening.

After they had all danced, they continued soliciting Te Kahureremoa to stand up and dance also, whilst they sat looking on to see how gracefully and beautifully she moved. Upon which she coyly said, “Ah, yes, that’s all very well; do you want me to dance indeed?” At last, however, the young girl sprang up, and she had hardly stretched forth her lovely arms in the attitude of the dance, before the people all cried out with surprise and pleasure at her beauty and grace; her arms moved with an easy and rapid action like that of swimming; her nimble lissom fingers were reverted till their tips seemed to touch the backs of the palms of her hands; and all her motions were so light, that she appeared to float in the air; then might be seen, indeed, the difference between the dancing of a nobly born girl and of a slave; the latter being too often a mere throwing about of the body and of the arms. Thus she danced before them; and when she had finished, all the young men in the place were quite charmed with her, and could think of nothing but Te Kahureremoa.

When night came on, and the people had dispersed to their houses, the chief of the village came to make love to her, and said, that upon account of her great beauty he wished her to become his wife; but she at once started up with her female slave, and notwithstanding the darkness, they plunged straight into the river, forded it, and proceeded upon their journey, leaving the chief overwhelmed with shame and confusion, at the manner in which Te Kahureremoa had departed. However, away she went, without any fearful thought, on her road to Tauranga, and by daybreak they had reached the Wairoa. When the people of the village saw her coming along in the dawn, they raised joyful cries of—“Here is Te Kahureremoa;” and some of Takakōpiri’s people, who were there, would detain the young girl for a time: so she rested, and ate, and was refreshed; thence she proceeded along the base of the mountains of Otawa, and at night slept at its foot; and when morning broke, she and her slave continued their journey.

There, just at the same time, was Takakōpiri coming along the path, to sport in his forests at Otawa; his sport was spearing birds, and right in the pathway there stood a tall forest tree covered with berries, upon which large green pigeons had settled in flocks to feed. The two girls came toiling along, with their upper cloaks thrown around their shoulders like plaids, for the convenience of travelling, the slave girl carrying a basket of food on her back for her mistress. As the girls drew near the forest they heard the loud flapping of the wings of a pigeon, for the young chief had struck one with his spear; so they stopped at once, and Te Kahureremoa said to her slave, “Somebody is there, just listen how that bird flaps its wings;” and her slave answered,

“Yes, I hear it.”

And Te Kahureremoa said, “That was the flapping of the wings of a bird which somebody has speared;” and her slave replied,

“Yes, we had better go and see who it is.” And they had not gone far before they heard a louder flap, as the bird was thrown upon the ground; they at once approached the spot, and seeing a heap of pigeons which had been killed, lying at the root of a tree, they sat down by them. Takakōpiri had observed them coming along, and as he watched the girls from the tree, he said to himself, “These girls are travelling, and they come from a long distance, for their cloaks are rolled over their shoulders like plaids; they are not from near here; had they come from the neighbourhood they would have worn their cloaks hanging down in the usual way.”

Then the young chief came down from the tree, leaving his spear swinging to a bough: as he was descending, the girls saw him, and the slave knew him at once at a distance, and said, “Oh, my young mistress, that is Takakōpiri;” and Te Kahureremoa said,

“No, no, it is not indeed;” but the slave said,

“Yes, it is he, I saw him when he came to Hauraki;” and the young girl said,

“You are right, it is Takakōpiri;” and her slave said,

“Yes, yes, this is the young chief who has caused us to come all this distance.”

By this time he had reached the ground, and he and the girls cried out at the same time to each other, “Welcome, welcome;” and the young man came up to them, and stooped down, and pressed his nose to the nose of each of them. Te Kahureremoa felt and knew whose face touched hers, but Takakōpiri did not know whose nose he had pressed.

Then he said to them, “We had better go to my village, which is on the other side of the forest;” and he pressed them to go, and the girls consented to go to the village with him. As they went along the path, he kept urging them to make haste, and Te Kahureremoa thought that he might still not know who she was, or he would never speak so impatiently, and tell her to make haste, so she made an excuse to arrange her dress, and stopped they began to wave their garments, and to sing, in songs of welcome—

“Welcome, welcome, thou who comest
From afar, from beyond the far horizon;
Our dearest child hath brought thee thence;
Welcome, oh, welcome here.”

And each of the many hundreds of persons who had come out to welcome her, as she passed his residence, prayed her to stop there; but Takakōpiri continued to say to her, “Press on, follow close, quite close, after me;” and so he led her through the throng of people, each of whom felt so moved towards the young girl, that, although they were in the very presence of their young lord, they could not help soliciting her to stop at each house as she came by. At length she arrived at Takakōpiri’s dwelling, and there for the first time she stopped and sat down, and the people came thronging in crowds to gaze upon her; and they spread before the two young girls food in abundance, the birds which the young chief had taken upon the mountains; and a feast was made for the crowd that surrounded them; thus they remained feasting, and admiring that young girl, and when the sun sank below the horizon, they were still sitting there gazing upon her. The youths of the village thought they could never be weary of looking at her, but none dared to utter one word of love for fear of Takakōpiri. Before a month had passed she was married to the young chief, and she bore him a daughter, named Tuparshaki, from whom, in eleven generations, or in about 275 years, have sprung all the principal chiefs of the Ngāti Pāoa tribe who are now alive (in 1853).

The Two Sorcerers

Ko Te Matenga O Kiki

Kiki was a celebrated sorcerer, and skilled in magical arts; he lived upon the river Waikato. The inhabitants of that river still have this proverb, “The offspring of Kiki wither shrubs.” This proverb had its origin in the circumstance of Kiki being such a magician, that he could not go abroad in the sunshine; for if his shadow fell upon any place not protected from his magic, it at once became tapu, and all the plants there withered.

This Kiki was thoroughly skilled in the practice of sorcery. If any parties coming up the river called at his village in their canoes as they paddled by, he still remained quietly at home, and never troubled himself to come out, but just drew back the sliding door of his house, so that it might stand open, and the strangers stiffened and died; or even as canoes came paddling down from the upper parts of the river he drew back the sliding wooden shutter to the window of his house, and the crews on board of them were sure to die.

At length, the fame of this sorcerer spread exceedingly, and resounded through every tribe, until Tāmure, a chief who dwelt at Kāwhia, heard with others, reports of the magical powers of Kiki, for his fame extended over the whole country. At length Tāmure thought he would go and contend in the arts of sorcery with Kiki, that it might be seen which of them was most skilled in magic; and he arranged in his own mind a fortunate season for his visit.

When this time came, he selected two of his people as his companions, and he took his young daughter with him also; and they all crossed over the mountain range from Kāwhia, and came down upon the river Waipā, which runs into the Waikato, and embarking there in a canoe, paddled down the river towards the village of Kiki; and they managed so well, that before they were seen by anybody, they had arrived at the landing place. Tāmure was not only skilled in magic, but he was also a very cautious man; so whilst they were still afloat upon the river, he repeated an incantation of the kind called “Mata-tawhito,” to preserve him safe from all arts of sorcery; and he repeated other incantations, to ward off spells, to protect him from magic, to collect good genii round him, to keep off evil spirits, and to shield him from demons; when these preparations were all finished, they landed, and drew up their canoe on the beach, at the landing place of Kiki.

As soon as they had landed, the old sorcerer called out to them that they were welcome to his village, and invited them to come up to it; so they went up to the village: and when they reached the square in the centre, they seated themselves upon the ground; and some of Kiki’s people kindled fire in an enchanted oven, and began to cook food in it for the strangers. Kiki sat in his house, and Tāmure on the ground just outside the entrance to it, and he there availed himself of this opportunity to repeat incantations over the threshold of the house, so that Kiki might be enchanted as he stepped over it to come out. When the food in the enchanted oven was cooked, they pulled off the coverings, and spread it out upon clean mats. The old sorcerer now made his appearance out of his house, and he invited Tāmure to come and eat food with him; but the food was all enchanted, and his object in asking Tāmure to eat with him was, that the enchanted food might kill him. Therefore Tāmure said that his young daughter was very hungry, and would eat of the food offered to them; he in the meantime kept on repeating incantations of the kind called Mata-tawhito, Whakangungu, and Parepare, protections against enchanted food, and as she ate she also continued to repeat them; even when she stretched out her hand to take a sweet potato, or any other food, she dropped the greater part of it at her feet, and hid it under her clothes, and then only ate a little bit. After she had done, the old sorcerer, Kiki, kept waiting for Tāmure to begin to eat also of the enchanted food, that he might soon die. Kiki having gone into his house again, Tāmure still sat on the ground outside the door, and as he had enchanted the threshold of the house, he now repeated incantations which might render the door enchanted also, so that Kiki might be certain not to escape when he passed out of it. By this time Tāmure’s daughter had quite finished her meal, but neither her father nor any of his people had partaken of the enchanted food.

Tāmure now ordered his people to launch his canoe, and they paddled away, and a little time after they had left the village, Kiki became unwell; in the meanwhile, Tāmure and his people were paddling homewards in all haste, and as they passed a village where there were a good many people on the river’s bank, Tāmure stopped, and said to them, “If you should see any canoe pulling after us, and the people in the canoe ask you, have you seen a canoe pass up the river, would you be good enough to say, ‘Yes, a canoe has passed by here?’ and then if they ask you, ‘How far has it got?’ would you be good enough to say, ‘Oh, by this time it has got very far up the river?’ ” and having thus said to the people of that village, Tāmure paddled away again in his canoe with all haste.

Some time after Tāmure’s party had left the village of Kiki, the old sorcerer became very ill indeed, and his people then knew that this had been brought about by the magical arts of Tāmure, and they sprang into a canoe to follow after him, and pulled up the river as hard as they could; and when they had reached the village where the people were on the river’s bank, they called out and asked them, “How far has the canoe reached, which passed up the river?” and the villagers answered,

“Oh, that canoe must have got very far up the river by this time.” The people in the canoe that was pursuing Tāmure, upon hearing this, returned again to their own village, and Kiki died from the incantations of Tāmure.

Some of Kiki’s descendants are still living—one of them, named Mokahi, recently died at Tauranga-a-ruru, but Te Maioha is still living on the river Waipā. Yes, some of the descendants of Kiki, whose shadow withered trees, are still living. He was indeed a great sorcerer: he overcame every other sorcerer until he met Tāmure, but he was vanquished by him, and had to bend the knee before him.

Tāmure has also some descendants living, amongst whom are Mahu and Kiake of the Ngāti Maru tribe; these men are also skilled in magic; if a father skilled in magic died, he left his incantations to his children; so that if a man was skilled in sorcery, it was known that his children would have a good knowledge of the same arts, as they were certain to have derived it from their parent.

The Magical Wooden Head

Ko Ngā Puhi A Puarata Rāua Ko Tautōhito

This head bewitched all persons who approached the hill where the fortress in which it was kept was situated, so that from fear of it, no human being dared to approach the place, which was thence named the Sacred Mount.

Upon that mount dwelt Puarata and Tautōhito with their carved head, and its fame went through all the country, to the river Tamaki, and to Kaipara, and to the tribes of Ngāpuhi, to Akau, to Waikato, to Kāwhia, to Mōkau, to Hauraki, and to Tauranga; the exceeding great fame of the powers of that carved head spread to every part of Aotearoa, or the northern island of New Zealand; everywhere reports were heard, that so great were its magical powers, none could escape alive from them; and although many warriors and armies went to the Sacred Mount to try to destroy the sorcerers to whom the head belonged, and to carry it off as a genius for their own district, that its magical powers might be subservient to them, they all perished in the attempt. In short, no mortal could approach the fortress, and live; even parties of people who were travelling along the forest tract, to the northwards towards Muriwhenua, all died by the magical powers of that head; whether they went in large armed bodies, or simply as quiet travellers, their fate was alike—they all perished, from its magical influence, somewhere about the place where the beaten track passes over Waimatuku.

The deaths of so many persons created a great sensation in the country, and, at last, the report of these things reached a very powerful sorcerer named Hakawau, who, confiding in his magical arts, said he was resolved to go and see this magic head, and the sorcerers who owned it. So, without delay, he called upon all the genii who were subservient to him, in order that he might be thrown into an enchanted sleep, and see what his fate in this undertaking would be; and in his slumber he saw that his genius would triumph in the encounter, for it was so lofty and mighty, that in his dream its head reached the heavens, whilst its feet remained upon earth.

Having by his spells ascertained this, he at once started on his journey, and the district through which he travelled was that of Akau; and, confiding in his own enchantments, he went fearlessly to try whether his arts of sorcery would not prevail over the magic head, and enable him to destroy the old sorcerer Puarata.

He took with him one friend, and went along the seacoast towards the Sacred Mount, and passed through Whangaroa, and followed the seashore to Rangikahu, and Kuhawera, and came out upon the coast again at Karoroumanui, and arrived at Mareatai; there was a fortified village, the people of which endeavoured to detain Hakawau and his friend until they rested themselves and partook of a little food; but he said, “We ate food on the road, a short distance behind us; we are not at all hungry or weary.” So they would not remain at Maraetai, but went straight on until they reached Putataka, and they crossed the river there, and proceeded along the beach to Rukuwai; neither did they stop there, but on they went, and at last reached Waitara.

When they got to Waitara, the friend who accompanied Hakawau began to get alarmed, and said, “Now we shall perish here, I fear;” but they went safely on, and reached Te Weta; there the heart of Hakawau’s friend began to beat again, and he said, “I feel sure that we shall perish here;” however they passed by that place too in safety, and on they went, and at length they reached the most fatal place of all—Waimatuku. Here they smelt the stench of the carcasses of the numbers who had been previously destroyed; indeed the stench was so bad that it was quite suffocating, and they both now said, “This is a fearful place; we fear we shall perish here.” However, Hakawau kept on unceasingly working at his enchantments, and repeating incantations, which might ward off the attacks of evil genii, and which might collect good genii about them, to protect them from the malignant spirits of Puarata, lest these should injure them; thus they passed over Waimatuku, looking with horror on the many corpses strewed about the beach, and in the dense fern and bushes which bordered the path; and as they pursued their onward journey, they expected death every moment.

Nevertheless they died not on the dreadful road, but went straight along the path till they came to the place where it passes over some low hills, from whence they could see the fortress which stood up on the Sacred Mount. Here they sat down and rested, for the first time since they had commenced their journey. They had not yet been seen by the watchmen of the fortress. Then Hakawau, with his incantations, sent forth many genii, to attack the spirits who kept watch over the fortress and magic head of Puarata. Some of his good genii were sent by Hakawau in advance, whilst he charged others to follow at some distance. The incantations by the power of which these genii were sent forth by Hakawau was a Whangai. The genii he sent in front were ordered immediately to begin the assault. As soon as the spirits who guarded the fortress of Puarata saw the others, they all issued out to attack them; the good genii then feigned a retreat, the evil ones following them, and whilst they were thus engaged in the pursuit, some of the thousands of good genii, who had last been sent forth by Hakawau, stormed the fortress now left without defenders; when the evil spirits who had been led away in the pursuit, turned to protect the fortress, they found that the genii of Hakawau had already got quite close to it, and the good genii of Hakawau without trouble caught them one after the other, and thus all the spirits of the old sorcerer Puarata were utterly destroyed.

When all the evil spirits who had been subject to the old sorcerer had been thus destroyed, Hakawau walked straight up towards the fortress of this fellow, in whom spirits had dwelt as thick as men stow themselves in a canoe, and whom they had used in like manner to carry them about. When the watchmen of the fortress, to their great surprise, saw strangers coming, Puarata hurried to his magic head, to call upon it; his supplication was after this manner—“Strangers come here! strangers come here! Two strangers come! two strangers come!” But it uttered only a low wailing sound; for since the good genii of Hakawau had destroyed the spirits who served Puarata, the old sorcerer addressed in vain his supplications to the magic head, it could no longer raise aloud its powerful voice as in former times, but uttered only low moans and wails. Could it have cried out with a loud voice, straightway Hakawau and his friend would both have perished; for thus it was, when armies and travellers had in other times passed the fortress, Puarata addressed supplications to his magic head, and when it cried out with a mighty voice, the strangers all perished as they heard it.

Hakawau and his friend had, in the meantime, continued to walk straight to the fortress. When they drew near it, Hakawau said to his friend, “You go directly along the path that leads by the gateway into the fortress; as for me, I will show my power over the old sorcerer, by climbing right over the parapet and palisades:” and when they reached the defences of the place, Hakawau began to climb over the palisades of the gateway. When the people of the place saw this, they were much exasperated, and desired him, in an angry manner, to pass underneath the gateway, along the pathway which was common to all, and not to dare climb over the gateway of Puarata and of Tautōhito; but Hakawau went quietly on over the gateway, without paying the least attention to the angry words of those who were calling out to him, for he felt quite sure that the two old sorcerers were not so skilful in magical arts as he was; so Hakawau persisted in going direct to all the most holy places of the fortress, where no person who had not been made sacred might enter.

After Hakawau and his friend had been for a short time in the fortress, and had rested themselves a little, the people of the place began to cook food for them; they still continued to sit resting themselves in the fortress for a long time, and at length Hakawau said to his friend, “Let us depart.” Directly his servant heard what his master said to him, he jumped up at once and was ready enough to be off. Then the people of the place called out to them not to go immediately, but to take some food first; but Hakawau answered, “Oh, we ate only a little while ago; not far from here we took some food.” So Hakawau would not remain longer in the fortress, but departed, and as he started, he smote his hands on the threshold of the house in which they had rested, and they had hardly got well outside of the fortress before every soul in it was dead—not a single one of them was left alive.

The Art of Netting Learned by Kāhukura from the Fairies

Ko Te Kōrero Mo Ngā Patupaiarehe

Once upon a time, a man of the name of Kāhukura wished to pay a visit to Rangiaowhia, a place lying far to the northward, near the country of the tribe called Te Rarawa. Whilst he lived at his own village, he was continually haunted by a desire to visit that place. At length he started on his journey, and reached Rangiaowhia, and as he was on his road, he passed a place where some people had been cleaning mackerel, and he saw the inside of the fish lying all about the sand on the seashore: surprised at this, he looked about at the marks, and said to himself, “Oh, this must have been done by some of the people of the district.” But when he came to look a little more narrowly at the footmarks, he saw that the people who had been fishing had made them in the nighttime, not that morning, nor in the day; and he said to himself. “These are no mortals who have been fishing here—spirits must have done this; had they been men, some of the reeds and grass which they sat on in their canoe would have been lying about.” He felt quite sure from several circumstances, that spirits or fairies had been there; and after observing everything well, he returned to the house where he was stopping. He, however, held fast in his heart what he had seen, as something very striking to tell all his friends in every direction, and as likely to be the means of gaining knowledge which might enable him to find out something new.

So that night he returned to the place where he had observed all these things, and just as he reached the spot, back had come the fairies too, to haul their net for mackerel; and some of them were shouting out, “The net here! the net here!” Then a canoe paddled off to fetch the other one in which the net was laid, and as they dropped the net into the water, they began to cry out, “Drop the net in the sea at Rangiaowhia, and haul it at Mamaku.” These words were sung out by the fairies, as an encouragement in their work, and from the joy of their hearts at their sport in fishing.

As the fairies were dragging the net to the shore Kāhukura managed to mix amongst them, and hauled away at the rope; he happened to be a very fair man, so that his skin was almost as white as that of these fairies, and from that cause he was not observed by them. As the net came close into the shore, the fairies began to cheer and shout, “Go out into the sea some of you, in front of the rocks, lest the nets should be entangled in Tawata-wauia-a-Teweteweuia,” for that was the name of a rugged rock standing out from the sandy shore; the main body of the fairies kept hauling at the net, and Kāhukura pulled away in the midst of them.

When the first fish reached the shore, thrown up in the ripples driven before the net as they hauled it in, the fairies had not yet remarked Kāhukura, for he was almost as fair as they were. It was just at the very first peep of dawn that the fish were all landed, and the fairies ran hastily to pick them up from the sand, and to haul the net up on the beach. They did not act with their fish as men do, dividing them into separate loads for each, but every one took up what fish he liked, and ran a twig through their gills, and as they strung the fish, they continued calling out, “Make haste, run here, all of you, and finish the work before the sun rises.”

Kāhukura kept on stringing his fish with the rest of them. He had only a very short string, and, making a slipknot at the end of it, when he had covered the string with fish, he lifted them up, but had hardly raised them from the ground when the slipknot gave way from the weight of the fish, and off they fell; then some of the fairies ran good-naturedly to help him to string his fish again, and one of them tied the knot at the end of the string for him, but the fairy had hardly gone after knotting it, before Kāhukura had unfastened it, and again tied a slipknot at the end; then he began stringing his fish again, and when he had got a great many on, up he lifted them, and off they slipped as before. This trick he repeated several times, and delayed the fairies in their work by getting them to knot his string for him, and put his fish on it. At last full daylight broke, so that there was light enough to distinguish a man’s face, and the fairies saw that Kāhukura was a man; then they dispersed in confusion, leaving their fish and their net, and abandoning their canoes, which were nothing but stems of flax. In a moment the fairies started for their own abodes; in their hurry, as has just been said, they abandoned their net which was made of rushes; and off the good people fled as fast as they could go. Now was first discovered the stitch for netting a net, for they left theirs with Kāhukura, and it became a pattern for him. He thus taught his children to make nets, and by them the Māori race were made acquainted with that art, which they have now known from very remote times.

Te Kanawa’s Adventure with a Troop of Fairies

Te Kanawa, a chief of Waikato, was the man who fell in with a troop of fairies upon the top of Pukemore, a high hill in the Waikato district.

This chief happened one day to go out to catch kiwi with his dogs, and when night came on he found himself right at the top of Pukemore. So his party made a fire to give them light, for it was very dark. They had chosen a tree to sleep under—a very large tree, the only one fit for their purpose that they could find; in fact, it was a very convenient sleeping place, for the tree had immense roots, sticking up high above the ground: they slept between these roots, and made the fire beyond them.

As soon as it was dark they heard loud voices, like the voices of people coming that way; there were the voices of men, of women, and of children, as if a very large party of people were coming along. They looked for a long time, but could see nothing; till at last Te Kanawa knew the noise must proceed from fairies. His people were all dreadfully frightened, and would have run away if they could; but where could they run to? for they were in the midst of a forest, on the top of a lonely mountain, and it was dark night.

For a long time the voices grew louder and more distinct as the fairies drew nearer and nearer, until they came quite close to the fire; Te Kanawa and his party were half dead with fright. At last the fairies approached to look at Te Kanawa, who was a very handsome fellow. To do this, they kept peeping slyly over the large roots of the tree under which the hunters were lying, and kept constantly looking at Te Kanawa, whilst his companions were quite insensible from fear. Whenever the fire blazed up brightly, off went the fairies and hid themselves, peeping out from behind stumps and trees; and when it burnt low, back they came close to it, merrily singing as they moved—

“Here you come climbing over Mount Tirangi
To visit the handsome chief of Ngāpuhi,
Whom we have done with.”26

A sudden thought struck Te Kanawa, that he might induce them to go away if he gave them all the jewels he had about him; so he took off a beautiful little figure, carved in green jade,27 which he wore as a neck ornament, and a precious carved jade eardrop from his ear. Ah, Te Kanawa was only trying to amuse and please them to save his life, but all the time he was nearly frightened to death. However, the fairies did not rush on the men to attack them, but only came quite close to look at them. As soon as Te Kanawa had taken off his neck ornament, and pulled out his jade earring, and his other earring, made of a tooth of the tiger shark, he spread them out before the fairies, and offered them to the multitude who were sitting all round about the place; and thinking it better the fairies should not touch him, he took a stick, and fixing it into the ground, hung his neck ornament and earrings upon it.

As soon as the fairies had ended their song, they took patterns of the earrings, and handed them about from one to the other, until they had passed through the whole party, which then suddenly disappeared, and nothing more was seen of them.

The fairies carried off with them similitudes of all the jewels of Te Kanawa, but they left behind them his jasper neck ornament and his earrings, so that he took them back again, the hearts of the fairies being quite contented at getting the patterns alone; they saw, also, that Te Kanawa was an honest, well-dispositioned fellow. However, the next morning, as soon as it was light, he got down the mountain as fast as he could without stopping to hunt longer for kiwi.

The fairies are a very numerous people; merry, cheerful, and always singing, like the cricket. Their appearance is that of human beings, nearly resembling a European’s; their hair being very fair, and so is their skin. They are very different from the Māori, they do not resemble them.

Te Kanawa had died before any Europeans arrived in New Zealand.

The Loves of Takarangi and Raumahora

There was, several generations since, a chief of the Taranaki tribe, named Rangirarunga. His pā was called Whakarewa; it was a large pā, renowned for the strength of its fortifications. This chief had a very beautiful daughter, whose name was Raumahora; she was so celebrated for her beauty that the fame of it had reached all parts of these islands, and had, therefore, come to the ears of Te Rangiapitirua, a chief of the Ngāti Awa tribes, to whom belonged the pā of Pukeariki, on the hill where the Governor’s house stood in New Plymouth. This chief had a son named Takarangi; he was the hero of his tribe. He, too, naturally heard of the beauty of Raumahora; and it may be that his heart sometimes dwelt long on the thoughts of such great loveliness.

Now in those days long past, there arose a war between the tribes of Te Rangiapitirua and of the father of Raumahora; and the army of the Ngāti Awa tribes marched to Taranaki, to attack the pā of Rangirarunga, and the army invested that fortress, and sat before it night and day, yet they could not take it; they continued nevertheless constantly to make assaults upon it, and to attack the garrison of the fortress, so that its inhabitants became worn out from want of provisions and water, and many of them were near dying.

At last the old chief of the pā, Rangirarunga, overcome by thirst, stood on the top of the defences of the pā, and cried out to the men of the enemy’s army, “I pray you to give me one drop of water.”

Some of his enemies, pitying the aged man, said, “Yes;” and one ran with a calabash to bring him water. But the majority being more hard-hearted were angry at this, and broke the calabash in his hands, so that not a drop of water reached the poor old man; and this was done several times, whilst his enemies continued disputing amongst themselves.

The old chief still stood on the top of the earthen wall of the fortress, and he saw the leader of the hostile force, with the symbols of his rank fastened on his head: he wore a long white comb, made from the bone of a whale, and a plume of the long downy feathers of the white heron, the emblems of his chieftainship. Then was heard by all, the voice of the aged man as he shouted to him from the top of the wall: “Who art thou?”

And the other cried out to him: “Lo, he who stands here before you is Takarangi.”

And the aged chief of the pā called down to him: “Young warrior, art thou able to still the wrathful surge which foams on the hidden rocks of the shoal of O-rongo-mai-ta-kupe?” meaning: “Hast thou, although a chief, power to calm the wrath of these fierce men?”

Then proudly replied to him the young chief: “The wrathful surge shall be stilled; this arm of mine is one which no dog dares to bite,” meaning that no plebeian hand dared touch his arm, made sacred by his deed and rank, or to dispute his will. But what Takarangi was really thinking in his heart was, “That dying old man is the father of Raumahora, of that so lovely maid. Ah, how I should grieve if one so young and innocent should die tormented with the want of water.” Then he arose, and slowly went to bring water for that aged man, and for his youthful daughter; and he filled a calabash, dipping it up from the cool spring which gushes up from the earth, and is named Fount Ōrangi.28 No word was spoken, or movement made, by the crowd of fierce and angry men, but all, resting upon their arms, looked on in wonder and in silence. Calm lay the sea, that was before so troubled, all timid and respectful in the lowly hero’s presence; and the water was taken by Takarangi, and by him was held up to the aged chief; then was heard by all, the voice of Takarangi, as he cried aloud to him, “There:—said I not to you, ‘No dog would dare to bite this hand of mine?’ Behold the water for you—for you and for that young girl.” Then they drank, both of them, and Takarangi gazed eagerly at the young girl, and she too looked eagerly at Takarangi; long time gazed they, each one at the other; and as the warriors of the army of Takarangi looked on, lo, he had climbed up and was sitting at the young maiden’s side; and they said amongst themselves, “O comrades, our lord Takarangi loves war, but one would think he likes Raumahora almost as well.”

At last a sudden thought struck the heart of the aged chief, of the father of Raumahora: so he said to his daughter, “O my child, would it be pleasing to you to have this young chief for a husband?” and the young girl said,

“I like him.” Then the old man consented that his daughter should be given as a bride to Takarangi, and he took her as his wife. Thence was that war brought to an end, and the army of Takarangi dispersed, and they returned each man to his own village, and they came back no more to make war against the tribes of Taranaki—forever were ended their wars against them.

And the descendants of Raumahora dwell here in Wellington. They are Te Puni, and all his children, and his relatives. For Takarangi and Raumahora had a daughter named Rongougaroa, who was married to Te Whiti; and they had a son named Āniwaniwa, who married Tāwhirikura; and they had a son named Rerewha-i-te-rangi, and he married Puku, who was the mother of Te Puni.

Stratagem of Puhihuia’s Elopement with Te Ponga

There was formerly a large fortified town upon Mount Eden; its defences were massive and strong, and a great number of persons inhabited the town. In the days of olden time a war was commenced by the tribes of Āwhitu and of Waikato against the people who inhabited the town of Mount Eden or Maungawhau.

They were engaged in a fierce war: one side first persisted in their efforts for victory, until they were successful in beating the other party; then the other side in their turn succeeded in resisting their enemies, and gained a victory in their turn; thus the tribes of Waikato did not succeed in destroying their enemies as they desired.

After this the people of Waikato thought, for a long time, “Well, what had we better do now to destroy these enemies of ours?” And seeing no way to accomplish this, they determined to make peace with them; so, at last, they arranged a peace, and it appeared to be a sure one.

When this peace had been made, Te Ponga, a chief from Āwhitu, and one of the fiercest enemies of the people of that town, went, attended by a large company, to Maungawhau, and whilst he was yet a long way off, he and his party were seen coming along by the people of the fortified town, and they ran to the gates of the fortress, calling out, “Welcome, oh, welcome, strangers from afar!” and they waved their garments to them; and the strangers, encouraged by these cries, came straight on to the town until they reached it, and then walked direct to the large courtyard in front of the house of the chief of the town, where they all seated themselves.

The inhabitants being all now assembled in the town, as well as the strangers, the chiefs of each party stood up and made speeches, and when they had concluded this part of the ceremony, the women lighted fires to cook food for the strangers, and when the ovens were heated, they put the food in and covered them up. In a very short time the food was all cooked, when they opened the ovens, placed the food in baskets, and ranged it in a long pile before the visitors; then, separating it into shares, one of the chiefs called aloud the name of each of the visitors whom a share was intended; and when this allotment was completed they fell to at the feast.

The strangers, however, ate very slowly, knowing they had better take but little food, in order not to surfeit themselves, so that their waists might be slim when they stood up in the ranks of the dancers, and that they might look as slight as if their waists were almost severed in two; and as the strangers sat they kept on thinking, “When will night come and the dance begin?” and the thoughts of the others were of the same kind.

As soon as it began to get dark, the inhabitants of the village rapidly assembled, and when they had all collected in the courtyard of the house, which was occupied by the strangers, they stood up for the dance, and rank after rank of dancers was duly ranged in order, until at length all was in readiness.

Then the dancers began, and whilst they sprang nimbly about, Puhihuia, the young daughter of the chief of the village, stood watching a good opportunity to bound forward before the assembly, and make the gestures usual with dancers, since she knew that she could not dance so well, or so becomingly, if she pressed on before the measure was completed, but that when the beating time by the assembly with their feet and hands, and the deep voices of the men, were all in exact unison, was the fitting moment for her to bound forward into the dance, with the becoming gestures.

Then, just as they were all beating time together, Puhihuia perceived the proper moment had come, and forth she sprang before the assembled dancers; first she bends her head with many gestures towards the people upon the one side, and then towards those upon the other, as she performed her part beautifully; her full orbed eyes seemed clear and brilliant as the full moon rising in the horizon, and whilst the strangers looked at the young girl, they all were quite overpowered with her beauty; and Te Ponga, their young chief, felt his heart grow wild with emotion, when he saw so much loveliness before him. In the meanwhile the people of the village went on dancing, until all the evolutions of the dance were duly completed, when they paused.

Then up sprang the strangers to dance in their turn, and they duly ranged themselves in order, rank behind rank of the dancers, and began with their hands to beat time, and whilst they thus gave the time of the measure, the young chief, Te Ponga, stood peeping over them and waiting a good opportunity to spring forward, and in his turn make gestures; at last forth he bounded; then he, too, bent his head with many gestures, first upon the one side and then upon the other; indeed, he performed beautifully! The people of the village were so surprised at his agility and grace that they could do nothing but admire him, and as for the young girl Puhihuia, her heart conceived a warm passion for Te Ponga.

At length the dance concluded, and all dispersed, each to the place where he was to rest; then, overcome with weariness, they all reclined in slumber, except Te Ponga, who lay tossing from side to side, unable to sleep, from his great love for the maiden, and devising scheme after scheme by which he might have an opportunity of conversing alone with her. At last he formed a project, or rather it originated in the suggestions of his private slave, who said to his master, “Sir, I have found out a plan by which you may accomplish your wishes; listen to me whilst I detail it to you. Tomorrow evening, just at nightfall, as you sit in the courtyard of the chief of the village, feign to be very thirsty, and call to me to bring you a draught of water; on my part, I will take care to be at a distance from the place, but do you continue to shout loudly and angrily to me, ‘Sirrah, I want water, fetch me some;’ call loudly, so that the father of the young girl may hear; then he will probably say to his daughter, ‘My child, my child, why do you let our guest call in that way for water, without running to fetch some for him?’ Then, when the young girl, in obedience to her father’s orders, runs down the hill to fetch water from the fountain for you, do you follow her to the spring; there you can uninterruptedly converse together; but when you rise to follow the young girl, in order to prevent them from suspecting your intentions, do you pretend to be in a great passion with me, and speak thus—‘Where’s that deaf slave of mine? I’ll go and find the fellow. Ah! you will not hear when you do not like, but I’ll break your head for you, my fine fellow.’ ”

Thus the slave advised his master, and they arranged fully the plan of their proceedings. The next day Te Ponga went to visit the chief of the village, and sat in his house watching the young girl, and before long evening closed in, and they retired to rest, and some time afterwards Te Ponga, pretending to be thirsty, called out loudly to this slave, “Halloa! sir, fetch me some water;” but not a word did the slave answer him; and Te Ponga continued to call out to him louder and louder, until at last he seemed to become weary of shouting. When the chief of the village heard him calling out in this way for water, he at length said to his young daughter, “My child, run and fetch some water for our guest; why do you allow him to go on calling for water in that way, without fetching some for him?” Then the maiden arose, and, taking a calabash, went off to fetch water; and no sooner did Te Ponga see her starting off than he too arose, and went out of the house, feigning by his voice and words to be very angry with his slave, so that all might think he was going to give him a beating; but as soon as he was out of the house, he went straight off after the young girl; he did not, indeed, well know the path which led to the fountain, but led by the voice of the maiden, who tripped along the path singing blithely and merrily as she went, Te Ponga followed the guidance of her tones.

When the maiden arrived at the brink of the fountain and was about to dip her calabash into it, she heard someone behind her, and, turning suddenly round, ah! there stood a man close behind her; yes, there was Te Ponga himself. She stood quite astonished for some time, and at length asked, “What can have brought you here?”

He answered, “I came here for a draught of water.”

But the girl replied, “Ha, indeed! Did not I come here to draw water for you? Why, then, did you come? Could not you have remained at my father’s house until I brought the water for you?”

Then Te Ponga answered, “You are the water that I thirsted for.”

And as the maiden listened to his words, she thought within herself, “He then has fallen in love with me;” and she sat down, and he placed himself by her side, and they conversed together, and to each of them the words of the other seemed most pleasant and engaging. Why need more be said? Before they separated they arranged a time when they might escape together, and then each of them returned to the village to wait for the occasion they had agreed upon.

When the appointed time had arrived, he desired some of the chosen men of his followers to go to the landing place on Manukau Harbour, where the canoes were all hauled on shore, there to wait for him and Puhihuia, and he directed them when they got there to prepare one canoe in which he and all his followers might escape; he desired that this canoe should be launched and kept afloat in the water with every paddle in its place, so that the moment they embarked it might put off from the shore; he further directed them to go round every one of the other canoes, to cut the lashings which made the top sides fast to the hulls, and to pull out all the plugs, so that those following them might be checked and thrown into confusion at finding they had no canoes in which to continue the pursuit. Those of his people to whom Te Ponga gave these orders immediately departed, and did exactly as their chief had directed them.

The next morning Te Ponga having told his host that he must return to his own country, all the people of the place assembled to bid him farewell; and when they had all collected, the chief of the fortress stood up, and, after a suitable speech, presented his jade mere to Te Ponga as a parting gift, which might establish and make sure the peace which they had concluded. Te Ponga in his turn presented with the same ceremonies his jade mere to the chief of the fortress; and when all the rites observed at a formal parting were completed, Te Ponga and his followers arose, and went upon their way: then the people of the place all arose too, and accompanied them to the gates of the fortress to bid them farewell; and as the strangers quitted the gates, the people of the place cried aloud after them, “Depart in peace! depart in peace! May you return in safety to your homes!”

Just before the strangers had started, Puhihuia and some of the young girls of the village stole a little way along the road, so as to accompany the strangers some way on their path; and when they joined them, the girls stepped proudly along by the side of the band of strange warriors, laughing and joking with them; at last they got some distance from the village, and Puhihuia’s father, the chief of the place, seeing his daughter was going so far, called out, “Children, children, come back here!” Then the other girls stopped and began to return towards the village, but as to Puhihuia, her heart beat but to the one thought of escaping with her beloved Te Ponga. So she began to run. She drew near to some large scoria rocks, and glided behind them, and, when thus hidden from the view of those in the village, she redoubled her speed; well done, well done, young girl! She runs so fast that her body bends low as she springs forward. When Te Ponga saw Puhihuia running in this hurried manner, he called aloud to his men, “What is the meaning of this? let us be off as fast as we can too.” Then began a swift flight, indeed, of Te Ponga and his followers, and of the young girl; rapidly they flew, like a feather drifting before the gale, or as runs the weka which has broken loose from the fowler’s snare.

When the people of the village saw that their young chieftainess was gone, there was a wild rushing to and fro in the village for weapons, and whilst they thus lost their time, Te Ponga and his followers, and the young girl, went unmolestedly upon their way; and when the people of the fortress at last came out ready for the pursuit, Te Ponga and his followers, and Puhihuia, had got far enough away, and before their pursuers had gained any distance from the fortress, Te Ponga and his people had almost reached the landing place at Manukau Harbour, and by the time the pursuing party had arrived near the landing place, they had embarked in their canoe, had grasped their paddles, and being all ready, they dashed their paddles into the water, and shot away, swift as a dart from a string, whilst they felt the sides of the canoe shake from the force with which they drove it through the water.

When the pursuers saw that the canoe had dashed off into Manukau Harbour, they laid hold of another canoe, and began to haul it down towards the water, but as the lashings of the top sides were cut, what was the use of their trying to haul it to the sea? they dragged nothing but the top sides—there lay the bottom of the canoe unmoved. Pursuit was impossible; the party that had come to make peace escaped, and returned uninjured and joyful to their own country, and went cheerfully upon their way, carrying off with them the young chieftainess from their enemies, who could only stand like fools upon the shore, stamping with rage and threatening them in vain.

The History of Pāoa, the Ancestor of the Ngāti Pāoa Tribe

When Pāoa came to this country, bordering on the river Thames, Waihou and Piako, he came from the southward, from the Ngāti Kahunghu tribe; the Whaiapāoa (East Cape) was the country of his ancestors; his father was named Rongo-tiu-moe-whara.

Whilst Pāoa was living with his father, he had a quarrel with his wife; and she, being overcome with shame, went away to other places, to stop there, and mourn and weep for the manner in which she had been treated by her husband. For a long time after she had gone Pāoa remained, expecting that his wife would come back again; and after he had expected her return for very many days, at last he surmised she must have gone to some very distant place; so he thought, “Perhaps she has gone to a great distance, I will go and find her.”

Then he set off on his journey, with his slave as a travelling companion, and went through many villages searching for his wife, and she could not be found; for when she heard the voice of Pāoa she hid herself. However he continued to travel in search of her, but as he could nowhere find his wife, at last he returned to his father and his relations, that he might once more see them. And when he arrived at their village he wept towards them, saying, “If we cannot find her, I and my slave will return to search this town and that town, and this village and that village. If we cannot find her, I and my slave will still continue to search for her.”

Then his father spoke, saying, “Yes, go, my son, but take some of your brethren with you to bear you company upon the road.”

And Pāoa answered, “ ’Tis well, I will take them; if we find her, then we will all return to you; if we cannot find her, I will send my brothers back to you; but, as for myself, I will not in that case return to you, but I and my slave will persevere in our efforts, and will continue until we have searched every town and village.”

His father replied, “Be it so, my son.”

Then Pāoa and his brothers started and traversed the forests until they came out into the Taupō country, and at last reached the Lake of Taupō; but Pāoa’s wife could not be found there; so he then said to his brethren, “Now, then, my young brothers, you must return to our father, to cheer up his heart once more.” But his brothers earnestly entreated him to let them still bear him company, and spoke most affectionately to their eldest brother; but Pāoa spoke angrily to them, and positively ordered them to return. So they went on their way home again, and returned from Taupō to the Whaiapāoa.

So Pāoa pursued his journey in peace and reached Tongariro, and thence came out upon the Taranaki country; but his wife could nowhere be found. Then he pursued his journey up the west coast, until he came out upon the river Waikato, some distance above its mouth, in the interior of the country, and stopped at a village there. And when the people of the village saw Pāoa, they questioned his slave, saying, “Who is this?” and they were answered by the slave,

“It is Pāoa.”

And they asked the slave again, “Whence does he come?”

And the slave told them thus, “We come together from the eastward, from the rising sun.”

Then they questioned further, saying, “What made you undertake this journey?”

And the slave answered them, “We came to try to find his wife, and we have searched everywhere, and, lo! she has not yet been found.”

Then the people of the village said to the slave, “Why should such a woman be sought after in this manner by you? here is a maiden as a wife for him; why should you search further? If there are maidens in your country, have we not as good here? Why should such a woman be sought after in such a manner by you? Lo, here is a maiden as a wife for your master.” Then Pāoa was married to a maiden of that place.

Then he removed a little way from that village to Kaitotehe, and dwelt there, and made it his permanent residence; and two male children were there born to him; the eldest was named Toawhena, the second Toapoto. And after he had lived there for some time, Pāoa cast his glances on a very beautiful young woman, but who was a slave of very mean origin; and Pāoa made love to that woman, caught by her beauty—that was the cause that led Pāoa to make her his slave wife—and he deserted his wife of high rank and his children. When Pāoa’s slave saw that his master had deserted his wife of rank, he said to himself, “As for me, I will return to my lady.” So he returned to his mistress, and continued to live with her as her slave; and, in order to support her children, his mistress was obliged to work with her slave. And they cultivated together a garden of sweet potatoes, and were fortunate, for in the first year they had one hundred baskets of sweet potatoes, and in the second year they had two hundred baskets of sweet potatoes; and the slave and his lady went on working most industriously, and extending their cultivations.

Pāoa and the woman he had taken as a slave wife also laboured together, and they extended their cultivations as much as they could; but strangers kept on dropping in, consuming from time to time a few basketfuls of their produce; for visitors who came never went to any other house; they naturally all resorted to Pāoa, that it might be seen that they regarded him as the principal person; and thus it went on each year.

At last, after the third season of harvest, some distant connections of Pāoa’s principal wife came in their canoe into the river Horotiu, and landed at Pepepe, where was their young female relation, the wife of Pāoa. So the travellers asked her, saying, “Where shall we find Pāoa?”

And she told them, “Oh, Pāoa’s place is a little lower down the river, at Kaitotehe.”

Then the travellers went straight on board their canoe again, and pulled down the river to Kaitotehe, and landed there; and there was Pāoa. And some of his people raised the cry of “Strangers! strangers! Here are strangers come to visit Pāoa!”

Now it happened that the slave wife of Pāoa had just come back from the forests, from gathering the curved sprouts of the mamaku trees, and sprouts of the mauku, and such coarse kinds of wild food as are eaten in times of scarcity; and as soon as she had come back she bound up the sprouts she had collected in the leaves of the wharangi and of the karamū, that they might be so cooked as to be juicy and tender, and then put them under the hot ashes of the fire. She was just caught doing this by the strangers who had arrived; and off she ran on one side, leaving her vegetables cooking, not having had time to take them out of the fire. In came the strangers, straight up to the village from the river; and whilst some of them went up to the houses, others came straight to the fire where the food was cooking; and seeing the hot ashes heaped up, they said amongst themselves, “Someone is cooking eels here;” and those amongst them who were very glad at the thought of getting such good food said, “Ah! there are no doubt some nice eels cooking in this fire.” And the travellers lingered about the fire, waiting until the person the food belonged to should come back again, and, taking off the fire, should take out the dainties they longed for. But not a bit did the woman come back to her fire again; she was nearly dead with alarm lest the strangers should see the food cooking in her oven, and should say, “See what beggarly stuff this wretched creature eats.” As for Pāoa, too, he could not open his mouth to say a word, he felt so disgraced at not having any food to set before his guests.

At last Pāoa told his slave wife to run to his principal wife and bring a few sweet potatoes for the visitors; but the woman said to him, “What is the use of my going? she will not let us have any.”

But Pāoa answered, “Never mind, you had better go; even if you get none, you can but try.”

So the woman hurried off to carry Pāoa’s message; and whilst she was still coming, and a long way off, she was seen by the children of Pāoa’s principal wife; and off ran the children to their mother, and told her, saying, “Here comes that slave wife of Pāoa’s.”

When their mother heard what they said, off she ran too, and got into her house to hide herself. However, the other woman came straight on to the house, for she had seen Pāoa’s wife go into it; and when she reached the doorway she bent down, and, peeping into the house, there she saw Pāoa’s wife working away, weaving a garment of flax. So she saluted the wife of Pāoa, and his principal wife saluted her too; and when the ceremonies of the salutation were completed, the slave wife delivered her message, and said, “I have been sent here by Pāoa to fetch a little food for the strangers who have just arrived.”

Now Pāoa’s principal wife had guessed very readily that the woman had been sent by Pāoa to fetch provisions; so she in her turn spoke and said, “I send provisions for the strangers indeed! Whence should I have provisions? Am I a man, that I should be strong to labour and till the ground? Has a poor woman strength to labour? I will not part with any of my hard-earned little store of food. I shall keep it to nourish my deserted children, lest they perish from want.”

All this time Pāoa was waiting anxiously until his messenger returned; and as soon as ever she came back he questioned her, saying, “Well, what does she say?” and the woman answered,

“She will not give any provisions; she says she has nothing to give her children, and they are famishing.”

When Pāoa heard this, he had not a word to say; he felt so completely abashed, that he could give no answer; but he turned to the strangers and said, “We have no food here, and shall be very hungry, so that we can have no pleasant conversation. It is only when the appetite is satisfied that conversation runs agreeably.”

The strangers still sat until evening began to close in, till almost starving with hunger; then his guests returned to their own village. On the very same day that they had arrived they got into their canoe again, and pulled away. As for poor Pāoa, he was left overwhelmed with shame, and he said that he would abandon that country, and be off and seek some new abode; and that very night he departed a fugitive from his own place.

Thus Pāoa started in the night, and he went straight from the Waikato for Hauraki, up the valley of the Mangawara Creek, which runs out into the Waikato, at the base of Mount Taupiri, on its eastern side. When the day dawned, Pāoa was still pushing hurriedly on; and at last he reached the hills of Tikitikimaurea, where the Mangawara has its source; and ascending these, he rested there, and saw the Waikato lying far behind him, and Hauraki lying before him: and then he wept sore for grief at leaving his children, and his people, and his place. He wept long as he thought of these things; and when tears had somewhat assuaged his grief, he bid them all farewell, and ceased sorrowing.

Then he resumed his journey again, and pushed straight on for the river Piako, and at last came out upon the banks of that river, and stopped at a fortified village named Mirimirirau, and he stopped there and dwelt there amongst the people of that place, and they became a people for him, and they dealt kindly with him, and he was as a chief to them, and he dwelt there; and a year passed away, and by degrees the fame of Pāoa spread into the district of Hauraki, and at length it reached the village of Ruawhea.

And it chanced that a visiting party started from the fortified village where Pāoa dwelt, and went to Ruawhea, where a large part of the people of Hauraki were assembled; and when they saw the party of visitors approaching, a cry was raised, “These strangers come from a great distance; they come from the river Piako.” Then, indeed, loud were the cries of “Welcome! welcome!” which were raised; and the visitors took up their abode in some of the buildings which belonged to Tukutuku (she was the daughter of the chief of Ruawhea); and they seated themselves there, and had not sat long—indeed, but a very short time—when their hospitable young hostess had fires lighted to roast fern root in, to stay their appetites whilst other food was prepared; and they rose up and went to the fires, and partook of the fern root whilst better food was preparing; and when the food was cooked, it was spread out before them, and consisted chiefly of delicate eels. When they had finished their meal, they lay down to rest; and when day broke they went to the residences of other people, each one going to the place of those friends he had come to visit.

After many days the several persons of this visiting party all assembled again at the residence of Tukutuku previous to returning home, and they rested there, intending to sleep there. As soon as it grew dark, a bright fire was lighted in the house, and the dancers were all ranged in order; for the residence of a chief was known by the people dancing there.

Whilst the dance was going on, Tukutuku took an opportunity of questioning some of the strangers, saying, “Where is he of whom we have heard so much here?”

Then the strangers answered, “Whom do you mean?” The maiden replied, “I mean Pāoa;” and they answered her,

“Oh, he is living on the Piako.”

And she said, “Do you think we shall ever see Pāoa here?” and they replied,

“We cannot tell; perhaps he will come here.”

The young maiden was still unmarried. Many chiefs flocked about her to try to win her favour, but she never would consent to take them. Now when her parents heard their daughter asking in this manner after Pāoa, they said to one another, “Why, surely the girl must have taken a fancy to Pāoa: do you hear how she is asking after him?”

When the morning broke, the party of visitors departed for the Piako, filled with wonder at the greatness and rank of the maiden, and the number of her dependents. Her real greatness was shown by her courteousness and generosity to all her dependents; and when they saw this, their hearts were moved, and they brought to her as presents large quantities of food, such as dried shellfish and other delicacies, so that she could show great hospitality to strangers.

When the party from Pāoa’s fortified village, who had been visiting at Hauraki, arrived near their own place, the people of the fortress saw them returning, and they waved their garments and cried out, “Hasten here, hasten here!” as a welcome to them upon their return; so those who were returning landed, and entered the fortress, and seated themselves in the courtyard, and began to relate all that they had seen and heard. And they talked until evening, and Pāoa was seated with them; and as they talked they mentioned the great rank of Tukutuku, the maiden whom they had seen, and they said to Pāoa, “Oh! father, the maiden questioned us about you.”

And he replied, “About whom, say you, did the maiden question you?”

And they said, “She questioned us about you, saying, ‘Where is the man whose renown has been so much heard of here?’ and we answered her, ‘Who is it you are asking after?’ and she told us, ‘It is Pāoa I am speaking of;’ and then the maiden said to us, ‘I should much like to see him; for his fame is noised over the whole country, far and wide.’ Then we told her, ‘he is to be found at his own fortress;’ and she questioned us again, saying, ‘Where is his fortress?’ And we answered, ‘At Mirimirirau.’ Then she said to us, ‘Do you think he will visit my residence, or not?’ And we answered the maid, ‘Who knows? perhaps he will visit this place.’ ”

When Pāoa heard this, he said to them, “Wait a little, we will all go and see her in the tenth month, when our crops are harvested and stored; let us go on our journey unembarrassed with work, lest whilst we are absent on the journey our hearts should feel anxious about our homes;” and all his people fell in with this arrangement, saying,

“Yes, yes; we will start in the tenth month. Let the party be large; let not one of us fail of going.”

And he said, “Be it so; let the maiden’s request be complied with;” and when this understanding had been come to, the party broke up.

When the tenth month arrived, Pāoa started with a very large retinue, on a visit to Hauraki; they went in their canoes, and they stopped at Kerepēhi, and there they slept the first night; and the next day they continued to pull down the river, until they reached its mouth at Rawaki, and there they rested a little and partook of food; and as soon as the tide began to flow, they again embarked in their canoes, and entered the Hauraki river, and they went up the river rapidly and without pulling hard; for they went in with the flood tide. And when the people of the village at the entrance saw them, they shouted aloud to them with cries of welcome; so they landed there, and went towards the village in a body, with Pāoa in the midst of them; and as they all moved along, Pāoa towered high above them all; he looked, as he walked along, like the bird called the “stilts” moving in a flock of little birds. And as they moved towards the village, loud cries of “Welcome, welcome!” continued to resound; so they went gladly on until they reached the village. Pāoa had put on his old coarse cloak, made of the leaves of the tī tree: next his body he had a rough cloak, such as chiefs wear, outside of that a cloak made of flax, and over all his coarse cloak made of tī leaves. They all seated themselves in a courtyard; and then the people of the village all looked hard at them, trying to make out which was Pāoa, saying, “Who is that in the coarse cloak? perhaps it is the chief of whom we have heard so much.” They had not rested very long, when their hosts brought bundles of firewood and fern root, and stones to pound it on; then they lighted up clear, bright fires, and began to bake the pieces of fern root, and then to pound them with wooden mallets; and the noise of the rapidly beating mallets was loud as the confused murmur of a multitude. In a little time they laid out on one side the pieces of baked fern root, which they had duly pounded, with baskets of cooked fish; and the visitors, rising from their seats, went to partake of the food prepared for them; and Pāoa seated himself in the midst of them; and the people of the village (who still had their eyes fixed upon him) picked out a basket with fine salmon (kahawai) in it, and laid it before him for his portion; they thought, “We will find out whether he is an affected fellow, or a really great man. If he is a weak, conceited fellow, he will only eat the best food, and refuse the worst.” But Pāoa, just looking at the basket of beautiful fish they had placed before him, pushed it on one side for his companions to eat, pulled a flax dish, with the refuse food in it, towards him, and ate of that, and so fast, too, that he appeared hardly to have dipped his hand twice in it when he had finished it all; and when some of the people of the village saw the manner in which he ate, they said to one another, “After all, he’s a low fellow; see what stuff he eats;” but the old men of the village said,

“That man is a chief, he is only trying to appear to be a person of no importance.”

Presently Pāoa took another flax dish of refuse, dirty food, and swallowed that also. Then one of the people of the village, no longer able to restrain his curiosity, asked a young lad of the party of their guests, “Who is that man?” And he was answered by the lad, “That is Pāoa.”

When he heard this, he went to the place where the chiefs of the village were sitting by (watching their guests eat), and told them, “That is Pāoa; how dirtily he eats!”

Some of the people who heard this said, “It is Pāoa, the greedy;” thence that proverb has ever since been applied to the Ngāti Pāoa tribe; so that men say, “as greedy as a Ngāti Pāoa!”

Pāoa being thus at last recognised and being known to them all, they all collected and crowded round to gaze at him, saying, “It is truly no wonder that such reports have spread here of this man, that he was such a fine handsome fellow.”

When Pāoa’s people had all done eating, they all retired again, and took their seats upon the ground on one side. Then the people of the place brought forth a present for Pāoa—a “pueru” cloak, and a cloak which they were weaving, and which was nearly finished. They then all lay down to sleep.

As soon as the day broke, the travellers entered their canoes, and pulled away again upon their journey. As they came up the river, they were seen by the people of Turua, which is a fortified village; and the greater part of Pāoa’s people said, “We had better not land here;” but the people of the place waved their garments, and cried out to them, “Welcome, welcome!” Then Pāoa said, “When there is a call to a feast, open your ears” (Let the drum of your ears be then not thick); and the Ngāti Pāoa have ever since kept that saying amongst them as a proverb.

So they landed there, and they were received and treated just in the same manner as at the former village. Pāoa did not throw off his warm cloak manufactured of tī leaves, but continued to wear it; and the people kindled fires and cooked fern root for them, and they ate food and slept there; and as soon as day broke, they again embarked in their canoes and continued to pull up the river.

They next halted at Te Kari; for they were invited to stop there by the inhabitants of that fortified village: so they landed there, and they were all at once recognised by the people of that village; for some of them had formerly visited the Piako, and had seen Pāoa; but those persons in the village who had not previously seen Pāoa, came to gaze upon him, and admired him extremely. The tide was now ebbing, and it was difficult to pull against the stream; but in the evening the tide began to flow again, so they then sent off a canoe up the river to Ruawhea that they might hear that Pāoa had arrived in their district; and as they pulled along in the dark, the people of the village of Rangiora heard the noise of their paddles, and they called out, “Where do you we hear paddling in that canoe come from?”

And they answered them, “Oh, we belong to this district.”

Then they again asked them, “Which of our villages are you coming from?”

And they told them, “We come from Te Kari!”

Then they asked them, “What is the news there?”

And they replied, “Oh, not much; the great piece of news is, that Pāoa is there; and we are going up the river that Taharua may hear the news.”

Then they asked, “Will Pāoa and his party come up the river tomorrow?”

And they answered, “Yes, in the morning, as soon as the tide makes and some food has been cooked for them to eat before they start; but we must pull on.”

And the others answered, “Depart, then; pull well on your journey.”

And when the people at the village of Te Matai heard their paddles as they pulled up the river, they asked them just the same questions as they were asked at Rangiora; they then pulled on to the village of Te Mangarahi, and told the people there the very same news; and, in the same manner, as they passed the village of Tutu they told the news there. At last they landed at Opukeko, which was the fortified village of the chief Taharua. There also they asked them the news, saying, “What news have you brought, that you thus come pulling up the river by night?”

And they answered, “We come to let you know that here is Pāoa arrived at the village of Te Kari.”

And they asked, “Is it really Pāoa, or some of his people?” They replied, “It is really Pāoa.”

“When will he arrive?”

They answered, “By and by; he will probably not be able to travel quickly. The people of the villages will try to detain him; for he is a stranger in these parts, and they will wish to entertain him.”

Then the others asked them, “But which place is it that they are coming to visit, to stop there for some time as guests?”

They answered them, “It is here they are coming—to this village; therefore it was that we came here, that you might be aware of their intention.”

And the others replied, “It was very good of you.”

Then they all slept.

The next morning Tukutuku arose very early, and employed herself in melting fragrant gums to perfume her house with. As for the visitors who were coming to stay with them, they continued their journey, and pulled up the river as far as the village at Rangiora; and there, as the people called to them with cries of “Welcome, welcome!” they landed, and remained for that day and night.

The next morning they again resumed their journey; and when they reached the village of Mangarahi a large number of people ran out to welcome them, and to beg them to stay there; and being thus invited by the inhabitants of that village, they landed and remained there. As for Pāoa, he still would wear his old coarse cloak. And his companions said to him, “O, father! will you not throw off that old coarse thing? before much longer its stiff, rough collar will rub all the hair off the back of your head.”

And he answered, “Never mind; it will do well enough.” In all respects he behaved in the same way in this village as he had done in the others they had rested at.

They slept there that night, and the next morning they again continued to pull up the river. And when they reached the village of Tutu, its inhabitants all shouted out to them with cries of welcome and invited them to come on shore. And the people all went down to the river to escort Pāoa up to their village; and he stopped there, and passed the night at that village.

In the evening a messenger, who had been sent from Taharua’s fortified village, reached Tutu. He had been sent there to see if Pāoa had arrived so far upon his journey; and as none of them at Taharua’s village knew him, as he was a stranger, the messenger had been directed to observe his appearance, so as to be able to point him out from his companions when they arrived, that they might all know which was Pāoa. This messenger, having ascertained that Pāoa and his party intended the next morning to pull up to the village of Taharua, returned there the same evening; and when he reached the village, he told them that the guests who were coming to visit them would arrive there on the morrow.

When Tukutuku heard this, she spoke to her servants, saying, “Now, my people, rise early in the morning, and gather leaves to strew the courtyard and the house for the strangers.” She had already prepared scents and fragrant gums to perfume the house with; and having now given these orders to her people, they all retired to rest.

But the next day, very early in the morning, Tukutuku arose, and went and gave the necessary directions for preparing abundance of food for the strangers, and then returning she smeared the inside of her house with perfumes and sweet-smelling gums; for it was her house which was to be allotted to the strangers on their arrival; and when she had thus perfumed it, she drew close the sliding door and the window, that the perfume might not escape; so that the house might smell delightfully, and be agreeable to her guests when they arrived. She next caused the floor of the verandah in front of her house to be covered with clean fine mats for the strangers to sit upon.

The same morning the party who were coming to visit them continued their journey, and the people of the village of Tutu came with them, to escort them upon their way. As they pulled up the river, they were seen coming by the people of Taharua’s village, who were collected upon the top of the parapets of the fortification to salute them with songs of welcome; then was heard the cheering joyful sound of the ancient Māori song of welcome for strangers.

On they came, pulling straight for the landing place; and as they landed they were saluted with cries of “Welcome, welcome!” and they came on towards the village; and when Pāoa rose up in the canoe to land, he put on the same coarse old mat made of the leaves of the tī tree. All the rest of his party were dressed in handsome cloaks; he alone wore an old, exceedingly shabby coarse cloak. His friends were all quite vexed with him, and asked him to throw off that shabby old thing; but he only replied, “That’ll do; I’ll keep this cloak on.”

Although the rest were so well dressed, and Pāoa so badly, yet those who had not seen him before had not long to look before they distinguished which was him, and said, “There! That’s Pāoa!” because his appearance was so much superior to that of the others; and yet they could not see his good garments, because they were covered by his coarse old cloak; and as for his hair, it was all rough and disordered, twisted up behind by the high collar of his old cloak, so that his hair all stuck up and his head looked quite shaggy. His friends felt quite discontented; for they said they wished him to look to advantage there, where he was a stranger. Thus they went along on the path to the village through the crowd which had collected to look at the strangers. At length they entered the village, and the courtyard which had been strewed with leaves for their reception; and those who were in front seated themselves in the verandah of the house which had been prepared for them.

In the meantime Pāoa followed on, the main part of the people thronging round him to look at him. When he came up to the house, he called out to his party, “Let us all go inside the house, and leave the outside vacant for these people to sit there.”

Then those of his party who were in front went on, and some of them laying hold of the door of the house drew it back; and no sooner was the door opened than out issued a very delicious smell, the sweet scent of the perfume; and they all cried out, “Oh! oh! how very sweet the house smells!” But what did Pāoa care for the sweet perfume? And although the house was so beautified, and although the floor of it was covered with such beautiful variegated mats that he ought for very shame to have thrown aside his coarse old cloak, nevertheless he would not take it off, but, as soon as he had got into the house, lay down in it, to sleep in it, just as he was.

No long time elapsed ere food was spread before the strangers; it consisted of eels and sweet potatoes. As for Pāoa, he did not show himself outside the house, but ate his food inside it, and then lay down to sleep there again until evening, when the people of the village assembled to dance before the strangers; for amongst the natives of New Zealand the dances of the evening distinguish the village of a chief. When the ranks of the dancers were formed, Pāoa came out into the verandah of the house, and seated himself there to look on, but he did not mingle with the dancers. When the people of the village had finished their dancing and singing, their visitors stood up to dance and sing in their turn; and at length they also ceased.

Then, when their guests retired into their house, after the dances were over, the principal inhabitants of the village all crowded into it also, to hear what took place; and there also came young Tukutuku, the daughter of Taharua, the chief of the place, and she went and seated herself in the dark corner at the farthest end of the house, whence she could watch Pāoa without being seen. She often tried to draw near to Pāoa, but from shyness she could not do so; and although she stayed in the house with the others, talking until the morning broke, she never once approached him.

In the early morning, food was prepared for the visitors; and as soon as it was spread before them, they ate their food. Two days they remained there; and for two days and nights Tukutuku tried to approach Pāoa, but she could not overcome her shyness, and she came not near him. Upon the third day Pāoa told his people that they must return to their own place, that he felt dull and tired from stopping so long. The inhabitants of the village heard of this his intention, and so did Tukutuku. So the young chieftainess came to try to detain the strangers; and having come, she said, “I hear you are about to return.”

And her visitors answered her, “ ’Tis true.”

And she said to them, “Do we not give you food enough, that you leave us so soon? Nay, stop a little longer; then presently you shall return to your own village.”

And they replied, “Be it so.”

It was not yet evening when the servants of the young chieftainess appeared, bringing a feast for the strangers, and laid thousands of nicely dressed eels before them, so that her guests now, for the first time, were fully aware of her wealth and substance; and when night closed in, the dancers arranged themselves in ranks, and all the people of the village assembled, because the strangers were to start the next day; and they all continued for a long time to dance and sing, and at length ceased, and then they all assembled in the house of their guests. Then came the young chieftainess, Tukutuku, and seated herself at the door of the house. Pāoa, too, was lying at the side of the house, next to the door; that was the place he had occupied ever since his arrival; for that seat in a house is always set apart for a chief, and no inferior person may occupy it. And it was not long before the young girl, according to the custom of her country, stretched out her hand, and taking Pāoa’s hand, pressed it. Of course the young girl had told her father and her mother of her love for Pāoa, and they had given their consent to it; therefore it was that she stretched forth her hand to take Pāoa’s. But Pāoa did not like this at all; for he feared, if he accepted her love, that he and his party might be slain by her tribe. He thought that her parents had not consented to her wishes. In the meantime the young girl again tried to take his hand; but Pāoa rudely thrust her hand away.

Then also Pāoa felt so vexed about her, that he ordered his people to stop the song and dance. So the people of the place all broke up, and went out from the house of the strangers, and returned to their own homes, and the young girl was forced to go with them. When she reached her father, she told him how she had put forth her hand to take Pāoa’s; and the old man said to her, “Did not he appear pleased at this sign of your love?” and she answered,

“Alas! no.”

Then her mother said to her, “Go back again, and try again, and take some of your female friends as witnesses with you, lest the man say that your anxiety to gain his love arises from your own wishes alone. He is doubtless afraid lest he and his people should be slain. He thinks undoubtedly that your father and I have not given out consent. Go, and do not be afraid.”

Then the young girl went, with four of her female friends, she making the fifth; and she seated herself for a time outside in the open air (for she felt herself abashed at Pāoa having so rudely thrust her hand away), and she then told one of her companions to go and fetch him. When this female came to Pāoa, she said to him, “Come along alone with me.”

But Pāoa answered, “Where to?” and she said,

“Oh, just here. It is a young lady who sent me to you.”

Pāoa’s young men, observing this, said, “Oh, we had better all go together.”

But the female who had been sent to fetch Pāoa said, “No, no; do you all stop here; do not come.”

Then Pāoa’s people murmured amongst themselves, saying, “Who may this woman be?” and others of them answered,

“Oh, it is one of the female friends of Tukutuku, whom we see always going about with her in the daytime.”

And they answered them, “So it is; perhaps, then, Tukutuku sent her to fetch Pāoa.”

In the meantime Pāoa had gone off with the messenger. They went along together until they came to a house, in the verandah of which they found Tukutuku sitting with her female friends. The floor of the house was nicely covered with floor mats, and the house was made to smell sweetly from sweet-scented Tāwhiri leaves being scattered about it.

As soon as Tukutuku saw Pāoa coming, she welcomed him by crying out, “Welcome, welcome!” As for him, he sat down at the door of the house, for he felt quite ashamed when he saw that there were only females there. But Tukutuku’s friends called out to Pāoa, “You are welcome; pray walk inside the house.”

So Pāoa entered the house, and seated himself; as for Tukutuku, she and her friends were seated in the verandah. One side of the house was left for Pāoa. The house was lighted with a lamp, made of twisted flax dipped in shark’s oil; and one of Tukutuku’s companions kept on trimming the lamp which she held.

When Tukutuku and her friends had entered the house, her companions said, “We will go now.”

But Tukutuku stopped them, begging them to stay, saying, “Let us all pass the night here, until tomorrow’s dawn has well broken.” They still, however, persisted in leaving her; but she still detained them; so they remained, and they let the lamp go out, and they all prepared to sleep.

Then Pāoa said to Tukutuku, “Are you of noble birth?”

And she answered him, “I am nobly born. There is no other great prince in these districts except my father.”

Then he replied, “That is very good; as you say it, it is true, and pleases me.” Again he spoke to her, saying, “Is your nation a powerful nation?”

And the young girl answered, “They are so. If you would see the greatness of my race, look as far as the mountains of Moehau (at Cape Colville); they reach to there. Did you see them as you passed Rawaki?”

Pāoa answered her, “Yes, I did see them.”

And the young girl said again, “From thence my father’s territories extend right round the Cape and along the coast to the eastward as far as Katikati; there they end, that is the limit.”

Pāoa then spoke to her, saying, “As for me, I have no people over whom I rule, I am but a sojourner in the land; my own country is Whiapu (or the East Cape);” and then he related to her the manner and cause of his coming to that country, down to the time of his arriving at her village.

When the next day had well broken, Pāoa arose and returned to his friends, and to the people who formed his retinue, and the young girl and her companions returned to her mother’s house; and her companions spoke to her mother, saying, “Pāoa came to our house.”

And the old lady asked them, saying, “Who brought him there?”

And they answered, “We did; our young mistress told us to bring him there!”

And her mother answered, “It is well.”

Before long the news became spread abroad, that Pāoa and Tukutuku were man and wife. Then a war party, led by the young chiefs who would fain have had Tukutuku for their wife, came to molest Taharua, the father of the young girl, and to demand a payment from him, and they said they would also attack and rob Pāoa and his people out of revenge; but Taharua stopped them, saying, “Let the war party rob me alone; but do not go to our guests. What right have you to trouble men who have done no wrong?” In truth, the young girl was betrothed to no man; she avoided all her lovers, she did not like any of them; therefore the war party molested Taharua without any just cause or reason. Yet that day many war parties came to molest and rob Taharua; and then they ceased, there was an end of them.

Finally those who accompanied Pāoa paddled away to their homes again; but he remained with his young wife, with Tukutuku. When a month had expired, he said to her that he was anxious to return to his own village on the Piako. And the young wife answered, “So? Well, then, let us go together, and make our journey in such a manner that you may see all my subjects and all my relations, and that they may see me, lest they get vexed at my long tarrying away from them; for it is some time since I sent to them, saying, ‘I am about to come down the river to see you!’ ”

Pāoa replied to her, “Yes, yes; do let us go together.”

So they rested that night, and next morning, as soon as the sun rose, they got into their canoes and paddled down the river, and they landed at each one of the same villages which Pāoa had stopped at when he came up the river, village for village, until they came out of the mouth of the river into the gulf; and by this time her subjects had given to their young chieftainess two large canoes full of baskets of shellfish, which had been taken from their shells and then strung upon strings and dried in the sun. Thus Pāoa saw how great was the esteem in which they held his young wife, so that he said, “Nothing could be better than his young wife for a great chieftainess for the country.”

Having quitted the river, they paddled on and landed at Tararu, and stopped there, and his young wife left there the presents of dried shellfish which she had received, intending to take them on board the canoes again upon her return; and they slept that night at Tararu.

The next morning, when the sun arose, they again paddled on upon their journey, until they reached Te Puru, where they landed, and there a present of dried fish was made to them; and they returned the same day to Waiau.

There Pāoa first tasted the mussels of Waiau, which place belonged to his wife; and he liked that place very much on account of the goodness of its mussels; then they continued their homeward journey from that place, and, as they returned, six canoes full of baskets of dried shellfish were given to them; and when they again reached Tararu, they began to return up the river towards the Piako. When they arrived at Pareparenga, Tukutuku desired the people to give her a supply of fish, and they obeyed her orders; and Pāoa was therefore much pleased with the people of Pareparenga, and said that his wife should indeed be a ruler over them. Thus she continued to act towards all the people that they met with upon their journey, until they reached Pāoa’s own village; they there presented him with a canoe full of dried fish; presents of dried eels had been made to them from place to place, as they pulled along the shore. And the people of Pāoa’s village were all charmed with Tukutuku; they all quite devoted themselves to her. She treated them most kindly, and they in return dealt very affectionately with her. And when all the provisions she had brought with her were consumed, from the liberal manner in which she shared them with Pāoa’s people, she, in no way daunted, began to work most industriously to collect new supplies, by digging up the roots of the whanake, and of the pōhue, and of the kārito, and by collecting aruhe and freshwater mussels (unios). And when Pāoa’s people saw this, they exclaimed, “It is no wonder that the fame of this girl spread so far and wide; is not she truly industrious?” And when they saw their chieftainess labour so industriously, they for very shame began to labour also: hitherto they had not known the value of the above sorts of food; and partly from that cause, partly from their indolence, partly because those sorts of food were so common, they had not taken the trouble to collect them. But now they repeated the proverbs—“The deeds of a real chief surpass those of other men;” and, “The hard inside heart of a Tawa tree differs much, in the uses it can be applied to, from the soft outside sap of the tree;” and, “Well done! you are a chief of men indeed!”

The chieftainess dwelt there, and greatly increased the number of the new tribe she was collecting round her; many resorted to her; at first she had but very few dependants; but from her generosity and graciousness they now became many, so that her fortified village was thickly inhabited. And she had many children; for ten had been born to her. One of them was her renowned son, Horowhenua; he was the youngest, the lastborn of her children.

Pāoa dwelt there with her too: he had grown old, so that he was forced to support his steps with a staff. At last his affection for his first children broke forth; and he said to his sons who were with him, “My children, let me be taken to see your elder brothers.”

They all assented to his wish but Horowhenua; and he said, “Sirs, they will set our sire a task to do; those children of his are a thoughtless set.”

His brothers asked him, “What task will they give him to do?”

And he answered them, “He is aged, and a sacred person, and they will detain him there, to bless their plantations of sweet potatoes for them, that they may bring forth abundantly; but take him there, as you seem to wish it.”

But they said, “Nay, but rather let him go with twenty chosen men of our people to take care of him.”

Horowhenua answered them, “ ’Tis well; then if our brethren detain him there, let those who go with him return here to us, that we may be certified by them that he is so detained; then will we go and bring him back here again.”

His brothers answered him, “So be it.”

Then he said to his father Pāoa, “Sir, do not delay long there. If you had been younger, it would have been well that you should have been longer absent; but now that your days must be so few, we cannot afford to lose any of them: and as for this, also, remember that none would think it fitting that an aged man, as good as dead, should have a task appointed him to do.”

And Pāoa answered, “Oh, you don’t think they will give me some task to do?”

And Horowhenua replied, “They will give you a task. Who can believe they will treat you with the consideration that we do? But at least delay not long away from us; remain with them for ten days (that will be long enough) and then return to us. Certainly you should see your children.”

Pāoa answered, “ ’Tis well; I will sleep here this night, and as the morrow dawns I will depart upon my journey.”

So Pāoa started to see his first family; and as they separated from their friends to go upon their road, Horowhenua said to those who were sent with the old man to take care of him, “If they detain him there who we commit to your charge, return here speedily, that we may all go and fetch him back with us;” and they answered him,

“It shall be so.”

Then they continued their journey, and reached the top of the range at Tikitikimaurea; and Pāoa beheld from thence his own former abode, and the abode of his children, and he wept; and as he gazed on the Waikato district, and saw the fires at the village of Waitawheta sending up columns of smoke, he told those who accompanied him that there was the dwelling place of his children, and he wept again; and then they proceeded on their journey. And they halted for the night and slept upon the road, for they travelled slowly from having Pāoa under their care; for he was old, and stayed his steps with a staff.

When the day broke, again they went on their way, and just as the evening closed in they reached the outskirts of the village; and as soon as the inhabitants of it saw them, they began to call out, to warn the others, “Strangers! strangers! here are strangers coming here.”

And one ran to meet them to find out who they were, and he, finding out that it was Pāoa, ran back again, and, being questioned as to who the strangers were by the crowd who had assembled at the outcry, he told them, “It is Pāoa, and he has grown very aged, and supports his steps with a staff.”

As for Pāoa, he stopped with his party at the first house which was inhabited that he came to on the outskirts of the village; but his sons remained in the fortress of Waitawheta, because this was the first time that the old chief had returned to see his children since he had separated himself from them and from their mother.

The next morning the old man took his belt to gird himself with, and said to those who accompanied them, “Now let us go to the fortified village, that I may see my children;” and they answered,

“Be it so.” Then came those who had been appointed to conduct him to the village, and those who had been sent to bring him a present of food, that he and his people might be refreshed before the ceremonies of weeping and lamenting took place at his meeting his sons.

Pāoa bid those who had accompanied him to eat heartily of this food, and they did so; and when their meal was ended the messenger who had been sent to conduct them said, “Now let us proceed to their village;” and Pāoa answered,

“Certainly; so now, my friends, get on your backs again the loads which you have carried so far, and let us start.”

Then when those in the fortified village who had climbed up upon the fences, or crowded outside the gates, saw Pāoa and his party coming along, they raised the usual cries of welcome, and waved their garments; and the old man wept aloud as he came slowly towards them. And so, he weeping and they loudly shouting “Welcome, welcome!” he came slowly on; and when he reached the open space in the centre of the fortified village, all the people wept aloud, and their voices sounded loud as howl a great company of dogs; and they continued thus to lament aloud throughout the day, until evening closed in; then they all collected in a semicircle, and seated themselves on the ground, and then arose the sons of Pāoa and made speeches welcoming their father in the presence of the whole assembly, and the old man rose up and addressed his sons and all their people in their turn. Then were many flax baskets of food brought forth, and piled up to a very goodly height, and they all feasted until after nightfall. The principal people then assembled in the house which had been set apart for Pāoa, that they might mutually hear and tell the news; and the hearts of the sons of Pāoa were filled with gladness towards their aged sire; for they thought within themselves, “Surely he is come to bless our plantations of sweet potatoes for us, that they may produce abundantly.”

After a time his sons said to him, “Great is our good fortune, that you have thus come to us.”

And he answered them, “Why so, my children?”

And they answered him, “That you may bless for us our plantations of sweet potatoes.”

And when the old man heard them say this he laughed; and his sons said to him, “Why laughest thou, O our father?”

And he answered them, “Nay, I did but laugh.”

But they answered him again, “Nay, but tell us wherefore thou didst laugh, O father.”

And he replied, “It was but something your servant Horowhenua said.”

And they answered him, “Whose saying do you speak of?”

And he replied, “It was a direction given by your servant Horowhenua.”

And they answered, “As for us, we regard not what he says.”

But the old man said to them, “Look, now, my children; you had better be careful what you do, for he is strong and fierce.”

But they answered him with the proverb, “Who fears for a fierceness not more terrible than that of a rat?”

Again he said to them, “My children, his elder brothers said not a word against my coming here; he alone opposed my wishes, objecting to my coming here; he alone opposed my wishes, objecting to my coming here; he would hardly let me come.”

And they said, “Very well, then, we will not now let you return to him.”

But he answered, “Nay, do not detain me; for then your servant will come and take me forcibly away.”

And they said, “Let him not venture to come here to take you away; for if he does, we will slay him.”

Those who had been sent to bear Pāoa company sat by and heard these things said, and straightway they returned; and when they reached the Piako, even the village from which they had started, Horowhenua questioned them, saying, “Is there any news?”

And they said, “Yes, there is news: Pāoa is detained and will not be permitted to return here.”

Horowhenua then asked, “Who detains him?”

And they replied, “His sons.”

And he said, “Aye, I knew it would be so.”

Then they added, “But Pāoa spoke to them and said, ‘Now, take care; for if you detain me here, your servant will presently come and take me away by force, he will not remain where he is, he will come for me;’ and your brothers said to him, ‘Who will come and do this?’ and he answered, ‘Horowhenua will come and do it;’ and they replied, ‘If he ventures to come here we will slay him;’ then Pāoa answered him, ‘That you are not strong enough to do; your servant is like a mighty fish, which cannot be held in the fisher’s net, but rends it;’ and they again replied, ‘Nay, rather we say, is a net so strong that it is a fit enemy for great whales?’ ”

When Horowhenua heard this he said, “Well, they shall have what they wish. I shall see them lying dead before me ere long.”

Then he rose, and said aloud to those around him, “Gird yourselves for the battle, start for your journey to bring back our chief and father. Before he went, I cautioned you, saying, ‘Let him not go;’ it is you who have brought this upon us.”

And his elder brothers dared not to open their mouths, or to say a word in reply, because they felt that their advice had turned out badly. So Horowhenua commanded them all, saying, “Gird yourselves for war.” And his brothers consenting, their warriors all did so, and proceeded on their expedition; one hundred and forty warriors started to bring home Pāoa by force.

So they travelled upon their way, and by the evening they had reached the summit of the range at Tikitikimaurea, and looked over the district of Waikato; and there they could see the fires of the village of Waitawheta burning brightly with long columns of smoke ascending from them. There in the village was Pāoa dwelling with his sons and six hundred of their warriors. When they had for some time gazed over the extensive district which lay beneath them Horowhenua said, “Let us descend from the mountain range, and sleep at its base, at the head of the river Mangawara.” Then they journeyed on, till they reached the place he had named. He said, “Halt! we will make our camp here; at the morning’s light we will go to the fortified village of my brothers, and urge them to let our father return with us; and if his sons then refuse to let him go, it is enough, what more can we do? Then we will return; we can do no more; we shall at least have come to fetch him back with us.” His brothers assented to what he said, and they discussed the matter; and when they had ended their conversation, food was shared out for all; and when they had eaten, all slept.

They had not slept long when the seer Tīpā cried out, and roused them, saying, “You who sleep there, awake, arise; I have been troubled by visions which bode ill; the omens have filled me with alarms: there will be a battle tomorrow in which many will be slain. The omens warned me, making me start on my right or fortunate side; and then on my left or enemies’ side I felt it too. Then four times my left side shuddered, and then four times my right side; thence the victory is to be to us. So I will address myself to sleep again; then, if the spirit who is propitious to our foes repays the omens of the spirit friendly to us by making my left side again involuntarily to shudder, the omens will be unpropitious, and this very night we will return, in which case the battle upon the morrow, in which the gods foretell so many will fall, will not take place.”

Then another of the party spoke, and said that he, too, had shuddered in his sleep, and, starting, had thrown his arms out from his side as if striking down a foe, which was a good omen; on the other part, a third said that he had dreamt they were all eating the provisions they had brought with them—a dream which portended much evil. Before they had slept they had intended at the dawn of day to have gone to the fortified village as friendly visitors, and then to have tried to bring Pāoa back with them. Now from these evil-boding dreams, they all feared the thoughts of approaching the village.

When it drew near to the morning, the seer Tīpā rose again, and said, “Their gods have given me no bad omens in return for the good one I had received; I have kept expecting it in vain, but the dreadful shuddering has not returned to me. Lo, I see the signs of dawn; awake, arise, and let us arrange our plans.” Then the warriors all arose, and Tīpā addressing them said, “Without doubt the old and sacred man has, according to the custom of our priests, gone out in the early morning light to bless the plantations of sweet potatoes belonging to his sons, which lie immediately outside the fence of their fortified village;” and the warriors all agreed that such was probably the case. Then said Tīpā, “Which, then, of you will go and see?”

And Horowhenua answered, “That be my care. I will go and see; and if I find him I will bring him here.” And Tīpā answered, “ ’Tis well; and having got there, delay not.”

So Horowhenua rose up; and taking with him his two-handed wooden sword, he departed. At the very same time the old man had just arrived in the midst of the plantation of sweet potatoes, and was blessing them; and having blessed the division of the plantation which belonged to one of his sons, he had gone on to bless the other; and as soon as he had stuck into the ground his consecrated staff, he repeated this incantation, proper for the occasion:—

“There stands the consecrated staff;
It is the staff sacred to the God Turora, to Rereahi,
And to Tūrongo.
There is the holy staff;
There, there it stands.
There stands the staff,
With the toctoc29 sacred to the God Haka
And to Hāua.
There stands the holy staff;
There, there it stands.”

The instant the aged chief had finished his blessing, there stood Horowhenua before him. Day had not yet fully broken; but the dawn was just breaking. The old man, seeing someone, said, “Who is this?”

And Horowhenua answered, “It is I.” And his father knew his voice, and he murmured lowly in reply, for he feared lest he should be slain by his other sons; for there were very many warriors in the fortified village—there were six hundred of them.

Then his father asked him, “Who have borne you company?” And his son ran over all their names for him; and when he had finished them all, the old man was filled with pity for them, and with wonder at their boldness.

Then Horowhenua said to him, “Let us begone, the day begins to break.” And his father consenting, they hurried away together.

In the meantime the people in the fortified village kept listening for the voice of the old man, when he might call them out, having finished his mystic ceremonies. And having waited a long time without hearing it, some of them said, “Surely he has become tired and has fallen asleep.”

His sons answered, “Some of you go and see.”

So some of their people went to search for him; and they called as they went, “Where are you, Sir, where are you, Sir?” At length, not finding him, some of them said, “Perhaps he has fallen asleep on the sand at the river’s edge.” So they searched along the banks, and there they found on the sand footprints going right inland. By this time day had so fully broken that men could see each other’s features; therefore the footprints could be seen quite plainly, and they saw that they were those of Horowhenua and Pāoa; so they knew that the old man had been carried off by Horowhenua. So they raised the cry of “He has been carried off, taken away by Horowhenua.” And Pāoa’s sons heard the outcry, and they sprang to their feet, and they and their six hundred men rushed out of the fortress: so the fugitives were pursued. And when Horowhenua reached his brothers and his warriors, he gave no time to welcome their father and chief with tears and weeping according to the usual custom, but they went straight upon their way homewards, for they heard the uproar from the pursuers in the distance. And ere long the pursuers came in sight of them, and saw them winding up a steep ascent of the mountain range: those who were leading the old chief and helping him on his way were in front; and Horowhenua brought up the rear with the rear guard. On came the six hundred warriors in pursuit, dashing at them as a Kahawai (salmon) darts at a fly, and soon drew near them. Already had those who were in front, conducting Pāoa, won the very summit of the ridge at Tikitikimaurea: then the old man said, “Children, leave me here, and save yourselves. I am an old man; why should you run this risk for me? My life is not worth that of one of my children.”

In the meantime their pursuers pressed close upon them. And Horowhenua rushed back in front of the rear guard, and then took a firm stand, brandishing his weapon. When Horowhenua thus stood firm, the whole hundred and forty warriors of his party took their stand with him; and then when Horowhenua made a charge to the rear, they all charged with him. Here some of his warriors were slain; five of them fell. At last Horowhenua was left fighting alone, right in the front of the battle; and his half-brother Toawhena seeing him there, strikes a blow at him with his weapon; Horowhenua parries it with his, and away it glances. Then Toawhena in his turn is fiercely smitten by Horowhenua; and down, down he goes. In the meantime up comes Toapoto to his brother’s aid; he lets fly a blow at Horowhenua, which he parries on his right side, and returns a left-handed blow, which fells Toapoto to the earth. And when the warriors saw their two chiefs thus slain, they broke and fled in confusion, but they were pursued and slaughtered; four hundred of them were slain, two hundred of them escaped; and then Pāoa was carried off in triumph by his children.

Appendix
I

On the Native Songs of New Zealand

And a comparison of the intervals discernible in them with the intervals stated to have been performed by the ancient Greeks in some of their divisions of the musical scale called ένος ἐναρμονικὸν, or by others ἁρμονία.

All nations, perhaps, without excepting any, have some method of expressing the more energetic emotions beyond mere speaking or acting; a sense of joy or pain, naturally calling forth ejaculations and vociferations exceeding in limit the tone of voice used in ordinary discourse. The cry of war, the encouraging to battle, the shout of victory, or the lament of the vanquished, the wailing over a deceased friend, grief at the departure of a lover, each in its turn has prompted or suggested some modification of sound beyond the ordinary range of mere tame everyday discourse; and this modification of voice we may call, in a wide sense, natural music.

But as the highest art is to conceal the art,30 and to imitate nature, that mighty nation, the Greeks, with an art almost peculiarly their own, having observed these expressions of sentiment, thence deduced certain laws31 of interval, by which, while they kept within the limits of the art, they took care not to transgress those of nature, but judiciously to adopt, and as nearly as possible to define, with mathematical exactness, those intervals which the uncultured only approach by the irregular modulation of natural impulses; so their art was the schooling of nature by the more exact observance of her laws, and by training nature by perfect art, they made art like nature, and corrected nature by art, as the sculptor or painter gives the classic embodiment or personification, not the commonplace and often defective representation of an object.

This I opine to have been the real nature of the enharmonic scale of the Greeks; and hence I conceive the reason of the remnant of that scale being found among most of those nations who have been left to the impulses of a “nature-taught” song rather than been cramped by the trammels of a conventional system—the result of education and civilisation.

It may not be amiss, before going further into this analogy of nature, and of an art reciprocally reflecting back that nature, to endeavour to give the uninitiated an idea of what is meant by the “enharmonic genus” of the Greeks.

I must first remark that while we have, properly speaking, only one scale of musical notes and two genera, the Greeks had three scales and five genera. For we have only the diatonic scale, but by a certain introduction of one or more semitones, we make what is called the chromatic.

Whereas, the Greeks had three scales, comprising five genera, or, according to some, nine,32 all differing not only, as ours do, in the position of intervals, but in the intervals themselves; this difference of interval (rather than position of interval), gave rise to the expression, “genera of a system,” and depended on the distribution of two intermediate sounds on the tetrachord or 4th.

The principal scales and genera were three; the diatonic, the chromatic, and the enharmonic. The diatonic (genus) consisted of a limma or minor half tone, a major tone, and a major tone ascending; this had another modification, by which, while it retained the same semitone, it contracted the next tone, and extended the last; the latter was called soft diatonic.

The chromatic, which consisted of semitone, semitone, one tone and a half interval, or nearly one minor third, was called tonaaeon, and had two modifications, one called hemiolion, and the other malakon; these shades or modifications seem of later invention, and soon to have fallen into disuse.

The enharmonic consisted of a quarter tone, a quarter tone and an interval of two tones, an interval somewhat greater than our third major.

Wallis says that we have no idea of these intervals at the present day, as in any way connected with a scale, since they amount to little more than an imperfect elevation or depression of the voice within the limits of what we call a sound or harmonic note; though a certain use is made of the term enharmonic, and the existence of the interval is admitted in the higher researches on music, and said to be apparent in the so-called tierce wolf of the organ, in untempered instruments, and in the systems of equal temperament.

Writers of the present day greatly differ as to the existence or use of these χρόαι, or shades of distinction, some wishing to modify them by a modern application of the term, amounting to those shades, “nuances” or slurs, which the best vocalists or performers are sometimes heard to introduce;33 others again34 declaring them to be in practice impossible; and all for the most part alleging that, whatever might have been the case in former times, no such modifications do exist in practice at the present day. Now, with regard to the existence of them in ancient times, innumerable authorities might be quoted; but, not to exceed a reasonable limit, I shall only cite one or two testimonies, and shall confine myself to those referring to the enharmonic.

Vitruvius (lib. V c. 5) says: “Diatoni vero quod naturalis est facilior est intervallorum distantia;” of the enharmonic he says: “Est autem harmoniae modulatio ab arte concepta, et ea re cautio ejus maximè gravem et egregiam habet auctoritatem.” The graveness and seriousness are given as the striking characteristics of this genus.

We may here incidentally remark, that though he says, “ab arte concepta,” it does not prove that it might not have been art imitating nature; and more, it is not impossible that these, at present so-called uncivilised and savage nations, might have retained this character of song from a period of the highest state of civilisation, at an epoch of great antiquity.

Plutarch (Περὶ Μουσικῆς) remarks, that the most beautiful of the musical genera is the enharmonic, on account of its grave and solemn character, and that it was formerly most in esteem.

Aristides Quintilian tells us it was the most difficult of all, and required a most excellent ear.

Aristoxenus observes that it was so difficult that no one could sing more than two dieses consecutively, and yet the perceptions of a Greek audience were fully awake to, and their judgement could appreciate, a want of exactness in execution; for Dionysius of Halicarnassus says he himself has been in the most crowded theatre, where, if a singer or citharoedist mistook the smallest interval (presumed to be the enharmonic diesis), he was hissed off the stage.

Isaac Vossius,35 from a multitude of authorities, has established that transitions were made by ancient singers and performers, from the diatonic to the chromatic and enharmonic, with the greatest facility; and he adds, “which, because the moderns cannot do, they even positively and seriously assert that the ancients could not sing the enharmonic.” Whereas, continues he, “not only did they sing it, but accompanied it with instruments.”

So Plutarch (Περὶ Μουσικῆς), who adds a remark, the purport of which is, such persons (who affirm that the ancients could not accompany the enharmonic) forget that if they can accompany greater intervals which were composed of less, there can be no reason why the scale of an instrument might not be so adjusted as to accompany the less intervals which compose those greater.

The doubt of the possibility of using the enharmonic as a scale is not confined to our own day, for Plutarch, as we have seen (and in other places also), speaks of the decline of it; and Athenaeus speaks of certain Greeks who, from time to time, retired by themselves to keep up the recollection of the good old music, since the art had become so corrupted.

In Plutarch’s time (de Musica) he bitterly complains that certain people “affirmed the enharmonic diesis to be absolutely undistinguishable,” and that, therefore, it had no place in the scales of nature, and that those who attempted to prove it were mere triflers πεφλναρηκέναι).36

He then makes the remark about the possibility of accompanying the enharmonic intervals with instruments, and adds, “and these very people who talk about the enharmonic having no foundation in nature, having an extraordinary attachment to dissonances and irrational intervals” (περιττά … ἦἄλογα), which have no existence in the real science of the proportions of natural intervals, and may be compared to certain irregular tenuities or awkward excrescences on what should be a beautiful tree or other object. For whatever reason, it appears it was wholly laid aside in Plutarch’s time, which he attributes to the dullness of the ears of those of his day.

Wallis supposes the genera of the chromatic and enharmonic to have fallen into disuse for many ages; Scaliger, not till Domitian: the enharmonic, because of the extreme difficulty; the chromatic, on account of its softness and effeminacy. Dr. Wallis adds, “Modern music never affected to appreciate such subtlety and delicate nicety, for neither voice could execute, nor ear easily distinguish so minute differences, at least so we suppose nowadays.”

Dr. Burney (I 433), in his History of Music, from various authorities, concludes that this genus (the close enharmonic) was almost exclusively in use before Aristoxenus (about the time of Alexander the Great), and we gather from Aristoxenus that there were exercises in it for practice, and this observation is corroborated in the Notices et Extraits des MSS., t. XVI, in a most elaborate and clever paper, by Mr. Vincent, from certain MSS. in the King of France’s library.

Dr. Burney, in common with most other modern writers on the subject, says, “The intervals of the close enharmonic tetrachord

appear wholly strange and unmanageable,” and hence it has been concluded that the enharmonic was impossible in practice.

Dr. Burney, however, one day received a letter from his friend Dr. Russell, regarding the “state of music in Arabia, and to the Doctor’s utter astonishment, he learnt from that letter that the Arabian scale of music was divided into quarter tones; and that an octave, which, upon our keyed instruments is only divided into 12 semitones, in the Arabian scale contained 24, for all of which they had particular denominations.”

This latter observation would seem to tally very well with what Mr. Lane37 says of the canoon (κάγωγ) of the present Arabs, which, he says, has 24 treble notes. Only, that he adds, each note has three strings to it, which (later, as we shall see) he affirms to have been thirds of tones. If so, the system is a shade of the chromatic; and if Mr. Lane is right (and he gives a drawing of the instrument), Dr. Russell must err, or speak of another instrument. I should be inclined to give preference to Lane, because of the great pains he has taken in describing the instrument.

Mr. Lay Tradescant,38 speaking of the Chinese intervals, says, that “it is impossible to obtain the intervals of their scale on our keyed instruments, but they may be perfectly effected on the violin.”

Mr. Vincent39 gives a most scientific description of an elaborate instrument made at Paris, exhibited at the Institut, on which the quarter tones were most correctly illustrated, and observes, that a much less interval than the quarter-tone, perhaps eight or ten times less, is discernible, as proved by a M. Delezenne,40 1827; and our own ears attest that universally in the modulations of the voice of the so-called savage tribes, and in the refined and anomalously studied Chinese, there are intervals which do not correspond to any notes on our keyed instruments, and which to an untrained ear appear almost monotonous.

There is another matter with which incidentally we have to do, namely, an apparent difference of opinion between ancient authors themselves about the enharmonic. Plutarch41 says that Aristoxenus (in a book not now extant) informs us that Olympus was the inventor of an enharmonic, but of a kind consisting of a scale in which certain notes, the “lichani” or “indicatrices,” were omitted, and that the airs of Olympus were so simple and beautiful, that there was nothing like them.

This Scale would approximate to the Scotch, or rather to that given as Chinese by Dr. Russell.42

But there is nothing repugnant in this, to the division of the intermediate half-note between this saltus; and, as here, it is the division of the half-note interval with which we have to do;

the discussion as to the variety or difference introduced by Olympus—(as to whether he made use of this design or not)—is not of any importance to our subject, our object being merely to show that the smaller interval, called a quarter tone, has its representative in modern times.

Suffice it to say, that many Chinese airs, of which I have two, show the diesic modulation and the saltus combined; but the majority of the New Zealand airs which I have heard are softer and more “ligate,” and have a great predominance of the diesic element.

It may not be amiss to define in what sense we wish “diesis” to be understood, for sometimes, by modern writers especially, it is used for the simple minor halftone of 24:25 in contradistinction to the major of 15:16. In Dr. Smith’s Harmonics it is the limma of equal temperament. Sometimes the moderns use the term for the double sharp. It was Rameau’s diese major, Henfling’s Harmonia, Boyce’s quarter-note, the Earl of Stamford’s tierce wolf, observed in the tuning of an organ. Dr. Maxwell makes 2025:2048 the maj. diesis, and 32768:32805 the min. But the sense in which I shall use it is that of the ancient quarter-tone, being an approach to the quarter of a tone major, or rather the division of the limma 243:256 into two unequal parts; this is called the Aristoxenian diesis quadrantalis; which is represented nearly by 120 being the lowest note; then 116.60:113.39.

I shall not trouble the reader with chronological or scholastic differences; the diesis of Archytas being given by Vincent as 115⁵⁄₇:112½, that of Eratosthenes as 117:114, for keen indeed must be the ear that could discern between 15:16 and 24:25 (except in harmony); much more difficult still would it be to discover a difference between 116.60:113.39 and 115⁵⁄₇:112½ or 117:114

If any wish to examine this matter more closely, they can consult the Treatises on Harmonics. Mr. Vincent has calculated these differences by logarithms to the 60 root of 2.

My point is, to prove that the ancients did possess and practise a modulation which contained much less intervals than ours, and that such, or an approach to such, modulation (though probably but imperfect) is still retained among some people, and that the principles on which the Greeks founded their enharmonic genus, still survive in natural song, though I will not be bold enough to assert that sometimes these songs may not change into one of the chromatic χρόαι, which, for want of practice, I might not be able to decide. One thing, however, is certain, that, as Aristoxenus tells us, no perfect ear could modulate more than two dieses at a time (and then there was a “saltus” or interval of two tones), and as the New Zealand songs frequently exhibit more than two close intervals together, it is more than probable that many of these songs are a chromatic, represented by 120, 114, 108, or 120, 112½, 108; but it will not be worth while for the present purpose to discuss this nicety, as all we want is a practical approximation.

In proof that a system of modulation like the above still survives, I shall produce, as nearly as my ear could discern, the modulation of some of the New Zealand melodies; and shall show a still nearer approach to the system of the real Greek enharmonic, in a Chinese air which I heard and noted.

A few remarks on the system itself, the intervals, and the notation.

System

First, that an enharmonic modulation might exist is admitted by many modern writers. Mr. Donkin, for instance, author of the able article on Ancient Music in Dr. W. Smith’s “Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities,” observes (under the title of “Music”) of the different genera less frequently named,43 “that it would be wrong to conclude hastily that the others would be impossible in practice, or necessarily unpleasing;” and of the enharmonic he says, “but it is impossible to form a judgement of its merits without a much greater knowledge of the rules of composition than seems now attainable.”

Mr. Lay Tradescant having shown the difference of interval of the Chinese instruments from the intervals generally in use in Europe, adds—“It will therefore very readily appear from the respective rules, that the character of the music, or, if you please, the mood (he should have said ‘genus’), must be very different from our own, and that none of our instruments (he should have said keyed or bored) are capable of doing justice to any air that is played on the kin” (or scholar’s lute). He subjoins: “In my travels I sometimes wrote down the airs that I had heard among the natives, but though I took much pains to learn them accurately, I always found they had lost something of their peculiarity when played upon the violin.

“The reason of this defect seems to have been that the intervals of the Indian music did not agree with those of Europe.”44

Mr. Tradescant might have added, that there will always be some difference in an air played on the guitar and on the violin, though the intervals used are esteemed the same; and, again, perhaps the learned traveller did not take care to divide the scale of his violin mathematically, like that of the kin, before he tried the effect; he might also not have noted the right interval. He concludes: “There is, however, a connection between the Chinese and old Scotch music, so that when any highly-admired airs of Scotland happen to fall within the compass of the kin, they seem at home when played upon this instrument.”

Mr. Lane says the “canoon” of the Arabians had twenty-four notes. Dr. Russell to Burney says that the Arab scale of twenty-four notes was equal to one octave. But Mr. Lane adds, that “the most remarkable peculiarity in the Arab system of music is the division of tones into thirds.” Hence, from the system of thirds of tones, I have heard the Egyptian musicians urge against the European systems of music that they are deficient in the number of sounds.

The same remark was made to me by Selim Agar, a Nubian, when singing some Amharic songs: “Your instrument” (piano), said he, “is very much out of tune, and jumps very much.”

Mr. Lane adds: “These small and delicate gradations of sound give a peculiar softness to the performances of the Arab musicians, which are generally of a plaintive character; but they are difficult to discriminate with exactness, and therefore seldom observed in the vocal and instrumental music of those persons who have not made a regular study of the art.”

Had Mr. Lane been describing the character and difficulties of the ancient Greek enharmonic or chromatic, he could not have used other terms; they are almost the words of Aristoxenus, Vitruvius, Plutarch, and other ancient writers on the genera; and yet, he adds, “he took great delight in the more refined kind of music,” and found “the more he became habituated to the style the more he was pleased with it.” He continues: “He was perfectly charmed with the performance of some female singers, and that the natives are so fascinated as to lavish considerable sums on them.”

Precisely so the Greeks of old.

Intervals

We must not suppose that the Greek enharmonic was a consecutive gamut of quarter-tones—no; we are told distinctly by all authors (except, perhaps Salinas), that there was a quarter-tone, then another quarter-tone, then a great interval completing the fourth; or reversely, a great interval of two major tones, or about our third major, the quarter-tone, another quarter-tone, thus completing the fourth.

So with these nations, and especially in the Chinese airs I have heard, there is either the two quarter-tones, then an interval of about a third; or, the interval of the third, and then the two dieses or quarter-tones, or it is a mixed genus, and adds a tone or halftone at either extreme.

I here beg to state that, though with great care and the assistance of a graduated monochord, and an instrument divided like the intervals of the Chinese kin, I have endeavoured to give an idea of those airs of New Zealand which I have heard, yet so difficult to discover the exact interval, that I will not vouch for the mathematical exactness: neither will I pledge myself not to have written a chromatic for an enharmonic interval, or vice versa.

I must also, in justice to myself, add, that the singer did not always repeat the musical phrase with precisely the same modulation, though, without a very severe test, this would not have been discernible, nor then to many ears; the general effect being to a European ear very monotonous.

But I may say that, when I sang them from my notation, they were recognised and approved of by competent judges; and that the New Zealander himself said, “he should soon make a singer of me.”

I may also add that I have studied the subject for more than twenty years, and have read something out of almost every book of note that has been written on it; but yet I only offer these airs as an approximation, and if anyone shall be found who may do more justice to them, I shall be delighted to hear of the result.

Notation

The notation that I have adopted is, for the enharmonic diesis, , quarter tone or half sharp; the usual ♯ for the sharp; and for three-quarter sharp. In like manner, the for quarter tone or half flat; ♭ for the flat; and for the three-quarter flat.

In the Arab ternal division I should use—one-third sharp, /♯; two-third sharp, ♯/; one-third flat, /♭; two-third flat, ♭//.

In my notation, also, it must be observed, that a sign ♯ or ♭ never conveys its influence beyond the note to which it is attached; thus

would read E half-flat, E natural, E half-sharp, E natural; and is a delicate expression of the chromatic

or of the diatonic

I now give the airs as best I can.

One word as to time. Though I have timed the airs I have given, I am free to confess there was neither metre nor rhythm of any marked character discernible in them; and even in the divisions of the lines or verses, the singer seemed to stop indifferently now at one, now at another word. I have, however, followed in my divisions those given in the book, taking it for granted that the learned author, who has given himself so much pains about the matter, will have chosen the most authentic.

James A. Davies,45
Formerly of Trin. Coll. Camb.
Late Private Sec. to H.R.H. Prince Leopold,
Count of Syracuse, Naples.
17, Great Ormond Street, Queen Square, September, 1854.

Mr. McGregor gives the following specimens of Arabian Music.—See his “Eastern Music.”

Which I represent thus:—

or thus, perhaps clearer:—

The run at the end is also met with in the New Zealand songs. The cadence is mixed, i.e. enharmonic and diatonic.

The Chinese Air sung under my window in London:—

No. 1

He Waiata Aroha

Or, The Bride’s Complaint46

This last bar would perhaps be better written—

but I have avoided as much as possible or , as being so very unusual, and it is evident to the musician that D three-quarters sharp is equal to E quarter flat, at least sufficiently near in practice.

No. 2

A Lamentation47

No. 3

Whakarongo48

No. 4

Child’s Song, to teach singing49

Appendix
II

On New Zealand and Polynesian Ethnology

Sir George Grey read the following paper at a meeting held on 8th May, 1869, at the Museum of Practical Geology, London, Prof. Huxley, President, in the chair:—

XXII.—On the Social Life of the Ancient Inhabitants of New Zealand, and on the National Character it was likely to form. By Sir George Grey, K.C.B.

I propose this evening to try to show what was the nature of the social life of the ancient inhabitants of New Zealand, and what kind of national character it was likely to create.

In my attempt to do this, I shall make the New Zealanders themselves describe their social life; and for this purpose I will read portions of an historical legend which I have translated, which contains a clear and, I think, in many respects a not unpleasing picture of the life which the New Zealanders passed. By this mode of dealing with the subject, it is true, it will lose attractions which an argumentative and imaginative manner of treating it might have imparted to it; but, on the other hand, it will immeasurably again in reality. We shall be travelling in the paths of truth, not of fancy; for although the historical facts of the legend might be questioned (I think wrongly) by the sceptical, all those who knew the New Zealanders when first they came into contact with Europeans, will at once recognise and admit the truth and fidelity of the picture it contains of their social life.

With regard to the New Zealand legends generally, I have laid on the table, for the inspection of the Society, some books written by natives, showing the manner in which those natives who collected them for me wrote them down, and supplied them to me.

I have also laid upon the table a printed volume of many of the native legends in the Māori language, as also a printed volume of Māori poems; and I would especially call attention to a manuscript commentary upon this volume of poems, which a native, who had formerly been one of their priests, spent several years in writing. The labour he thus undertook was entirely a work of love on his part. He had never seen a European commentary on any work. The conception of such an elucidation of their ancient poetry and customs was an entirely original one on his part. I was absent from New Zealand when he entered on the task. On my return there, I accidentally heard of the existence of this commentary, and obtained it from the writer, who had then completed his elucidation of about one-half of the volume of poems which lies on the table; and he is now engaged in elucidating and explaining the latter half of the volume. The labour thus bestowed on these poems shows in what high estimation they are held by the natives.

The legend to which I am about to call your attention is the history of the Chief Pāoa, the ancestor of the Ngāti Pāoa tribe, who inhabit the country lying on the rivers Piako and Waihou, now called the Thames, not far distant from Auckland. It is a simple narrative of everyday life, of which it is replete with minute descriptions. Could we now obtain such a record of our ancient British forefathers, such a document would be regarded as the most precious of our historical possessions. Yet there are strong grounds for believing that the social life of our British ancestors closely resembled that of the ancient New Zealanders, and that scenes not much differing from one another were in remote ages occurring on the Thames in England and the Thames in New Zealand.

I also feel confident that the legend I am about to submit to you will show that the social life of the New Zealanders was likely to form a national character distinguished for hospitality, courteousness, and courage—that it was likely to develop some heroic qualities, and to render it a matter of duty on the part of the chiefs to set their people a good example in all those occupations and pursuits which were esteemed amongst them. Altogether the life the New Zealanders led was not devoid of many graces and of many charms; under it as high a degree of happiness might be enjoyed as was possible in a country where a system of worship of false gods prevailed. It is probable that many races of men have, for a vast number of centuries, led a precisely similar life; and when one hears it described in their own simple language, it is easy to understand how many of them dreaded the evils and wants of civilization, and clung with desperate tenacity to a mode of life and manners which long custom and immemorial tradition had endeared to them. Hence has sprung much of that heroic and well nigh invincible resistance which mountaineers and imperfectly civilized or barbarous races have so often opposed to the occupation of their country by foreign and more civilized nations.

But what it especially becomes those to observe who contemplate the various vicissitudes to which the human race is subject in its march from degree of civilization to degree of civilization is this, that, in such a system of society as we shall have to consider, the entire wealth of a nation is upon the whole distributed with a great degree of equality. A fair degree of comfort, and an ample amount of subsistence are the property of all. There are no startling inequalities in dwelling, in clothing, in any of the conveniences that belong to man. All amusements are in common, the property of the chief subserves for the comfort and happiness of all; and although a chief be poor, if he sprang from truly illustrious ancestors, his poverty does not impair his princely power. When, therefore, a race which has lived for centuries in such a social state becomes, to a great extent, comparatively civilized, when its civilization has reached such a condition that those evils which are inseparably mingled with the blessings of civilization become apparent, when poverty oppresses a considerable portion of the population, when the unequal distribution of lands and of the general wealth is oppressively evident and want is endured by many, when mere wealth begins to give a power which previously belonged to rank and worth, and the chiefs feel their power fading from them, it is easy to conceive that a remembrance of the former state of society, preserved in such legends as the one I am to bring before you, would constantly be present in many minds, until a general yearning for benefits lost, and a too faint recollection of the ills with which those benefits were accompanied, would take general possession of a large portion of the public mind, and a revolt would take place against the new system which had recently sprung up, and a large party would endeavour at all risks and at all hazards to restore the state of affairs which prevailed in the time of their forefathers. In truth, such a revolt against innovations has almost invariably taken place under circumstances such as I have above stated; and too often such a revolt, instead of being attributed to its natural causes, has been ascribed to an absolute incapacity for civilization in the barbarous race, and has even been held to afford a legitimate plea in justification of its extermination, instead of which only that which was to have been anticipated had occurred, and a temporary difficulty had taken place, which was certain soon to be followed and checked by a natural reaction.50

I have alluded to the strong probability that the social state of our British ancestors in many respects closely resembled that of the New Zealanders. In the pride of rank, station, and power, nations, like individuals, are too apt to forget the humble origin from which they sprang. In our own case, we have but few materials for adequately realising the former state of the English nation. The notices we find scattered throughout the earliest missionary letters relating to the conversion of Britain are our best guides to its former social state, as documents of exactly the same character are our best guides in the present day as to the state of New Zealand when Christianity was introduced into this country.

However humbling it may be to our pride, we shall find that, when the Pope was a powerful, honoured, and benignant prince, and the city of Rome a civilized and beneficent power in the world, our own ancestors must have been in a state in many respects not very different from that of the New Zealanders when British missionaries established themselves in this country—that is, within a period which living men can well remember.

In the year 625, Pope Boniface thus concluded a letter which he sent through the missionaries to the glorious Edwin, king of the English: “We have moreover sent you the blessing of your Protector, the blessed Peter, Prince of the Apostles; that is, a shirt, with one gold ornament, and one garment of Ancyra, which we pray your Highness to accept with the same good will as is intended by us.” And to the queen of King Edwin Pope Boniface wrote thus: “To the glorious Lady his daughter, Queen Ethelberga, Boniface, Bishop, servant of the servants of God,” etc. And then, after giving the Christian queen the most admirable and touching advice, how, by the display of Christian graces, she should strive to win the unconverted king to the true faith, the Pope goes on to say: “We have moreover sent you the blessing of your Protector, St. Peter, the Prince of the Apostles; that is, a silver looking glass and a gilt ivory comb, which we beg your Highness to accept with the same good will as it is known to be sent by us.”

It is difficult for us now, travelling back over the space of more than twelve hundred years, and all the varying phases of civilization which have passed in that time, to realise to ourselves the king of England sitting in one part of a kind of hut, awkwardly trying on so novel a garment as a shirt in the presence of his admiring chieftains, whilst in another corner sat our scantily clad queen, coyly and shyly peeping at her royal face in a mirror, which her laughing maids of honour and her female attendants afterwards passed from one to the other with strange ejaculations of wonder and surprise.

Let me give one illustration more to show the almost grotesque fidelity with which, in somewhat corresponding stages of society, the same images are produced in races wide as the poles asunder. Taking up Caxton’s “Golden Legend,” published in 1483, and turning to the “Life of St. Patrick,” we find the following event recorded as having occurred in Ireland:—

“After it happed on a tyme that a man of that contre stole a shepe which bylonged to his neyghbour, where upon Saynt Patryke admonished the peple, that who somever had taken his shold delyuer it ageyn whythin seven dayes. When al the peple were assembled wythin the chyrche; and the man whiche had stolen it made no semblaunce to render or delyuer agayn thys shepe, thenne Saynt Patryke commanded by the virtu of God, that the shepe shold blete and crye in the belly of hym that had eten hit; and so happed it, that in the presence of all the peple the shepe cryed and bleted in the belly of hym that had stolen hit; and the man that was culpable repented hym of his trespace, and the other fro thenne forth on kepte them fro stelyng of shepe fro ony other man.”

If now we turn to the New Zealand legends, we shall find that a dog was stolen from a chief named Whakatūria, and eaten; that the dog was in vain sought for, and that all denied having been guilty of the theft. At last Whakatūria, accompanied by his relation, Tamatekapua, who was a renowned priest, entered the village where the thief resided, and the priest then, in the presence of all the people, called on the dog, commanding it to howl in the belly of the thief who had eaten it. The dog accordingly howled in the belly of a chief named Toi. In vain Toi held his mouth closely shut, pressing his hand over it. The dog continued to howl away till Toi cursed it, saying, “Oh! hush, hush! I thought I had hid you in the big belly of Toi; and there you are, you cursed thing, still howling away.” Thus the theft was discovered, the thief was punished, and an end put to dog-stealing.

You must pardon me delaying you whilst I say a few words which at the present time may be very useful to a race in whose welfare I have for many years taken the deepest interest.

I have called your attention to the period of revolt against the further encroachments of civilisation which invariably takes place, in some form or other, in the history of every barbarous race in its progress from barbarism to civilization. Now, such revolt, in most instances with which we are acquainted, takes at the same time the form of a revolt against Christianity, and culminates in an attempt to overthrow the Christian faith.

When such an event takes place, the cry is too generally raised, that truly barbarous races are incapable of receiving the truths of Christianity—that its pure doctrines were only intended for certain races which were capable of receiving them, of appreciating them, and of profiting by them; and, forgetful of all the teachings of history, men are too ready to conclude that a race is incapable of becoming a Christian nation, which, after years of acquaintance with Christianity, and after all the leading chiefs and the great bulk of the nation have apparently embraced the Christian religion, can suddenly renounce its truths, turn upon its Christian teachers, and expel them from amongst them, and set up a religion which mingles, in grotesque confusion, Christian and pagan rites and doctrines. Another reason is thus found for alleging that it is only in the extermination of such a race that we can look for the attainment of permanent peace, Christianity, and progress in the country which it inhabits.

Now, in truth, as Christianity and civilization have gone hand in hand, as those who were becoming civilized had generally accepted the Christian doctrines, as those who had remained barbarous had for the most part clung to their pagan faith, the revolt against civilization, involved in itself, as an almost necessary consequence, a revolt against Christianity.

That the occurrence of such a circumstance in the history of a semi-barbarous race need not fill us with despair, the history of our own country fully shows. No country has more thoroughly embraced and held by the Christian faith than Britain; no country has made greater efforts to spread a knowledge of Christian doctrines amongst mankind; no country has been benefited more largely by its steadfast adherence to the Christian faith. Yet no country in its early history afforded more astounding examples of such revolts against Christianity as I have alluded to; for example, such revolts took place in 616, 633, and 635, as well as at other periods. I will confine my observations to the first of them.

Ethelbert, King of the English, had, about the 597, embraced the Christian faith. Gregory was at that time the Pope; and he not only corresponded with King Ethelbert, but sent him also a few small presents, not, apparently, of such value as the shirt and woollen garment which Pope Boniface subsequently sent to King Edwin.

Ethelbert, after gloriously governing his kingdom for fifty-six years, died in 616, the Christian bishops expressing their full belief that so good and Christian a king had entered into the eternal joys of the kingdom which is heavenly.

Yet no sooner was King Ethelbert dead than such a revolt against Christianity as I have spoken of broke out; his son and successor, Eadbald, led astray by evil influences, and the popular wish, joined in it; a form of paganism was again firmly established, apparently much resembling in its general features the Hauhau faith, which has suddenly risen in New Zealand. Bishop Mellitus was driven out of the kingdom, and, a conference of Bishops having been held, it was unanimously agreed that it was better for them all to return to their own country, where they might serve God in freedom, than to continue without any advantage among those barbarians who had revolted from the faith.

Anyone who has watched the course of recent events in New Zealand, will see the remarkable parallelism between these events and the similar ones in Britain in AD 616. It only remains for us to remember that one faithful teacher lingered in Britain in 616 when all the others withdrew; and he was ultimately able to send over into France to his brother bishops, to tell them that their former flocks were returning to Christianity, and that they might safely come back to govern their churches, which they accordingly did, finding indeed how unwise and premature had been their conclusion that their teaching had been without any advantage among these barbarians who had revolted from the faith.

It was upon such successes as these Christian teachers enjoyed, and upon such revolts against Christianity as appalled them and staggered their imperfect faith, that was built up that glorious and widespread Christian freedom in the midst of which we are all assembled here tonight.

Mr. Lecky, in his recent most brilliant work on the History of Morals, has given his reasons for concluding that fairy tales are the normal product of a certain condition of the imagination, and that the belief in fairies will invariably be found to exist in companionship with a certain form of society—that is, wherever there is an ignorant and rustic population. This is an undoubted ruth in the case of the ignorant and rustic population of New Zealand, whose fairy tales closely resemble those of Europe: but it is only a partial truth; for it holds good of a belief not only in fairies but in dragons, and of all similar delusive beliefs which the human mind is capable of conceiving. The real law which governs this subject would seem to be, that the human imagination is only capable of much more restricted flights than we are in the habit of attributing to it, and that, whatever may be the race or people, the limits to which it can reach in each stage of civilization are soon attained, and that consequently, instead of having new images presented to our minds as we explore the poetry, legends, and works of imagination of newly discovered races, we find the same beliefs recurring with an almost monotonous and tedious uniformity, and only so slightly varied as the features of the country and the kind of animals inhabiting it, or the circumstances of the society resident there render absolutely unavoidable.

In illustration of this I will quote one or two passages from Spenser’s “Faery Queen,” together with corresponding passages from New Zealand dragon legends. These quotations from Spenser contain descriptions of dragons so apparently natural, and expressed with such minute grandeur of language, that for two centuries and a half they have justly claimed the admiration of all who love English poetry and the English tongue; yet their strict verbal and poetical conformity with the corresponding New Zealand legends are such as at first to lead to the impression, either that Spenser must have stolen his images and language from the New Zealand poets, or that they must have acted unfairly by the English bard—the truth being that Spenser has simply recorded images which had their existence given to them long before his time, and in a certain state of civilization in England, and that under similar circumstances in New Zealand the human imagination, giving reins to its fancy, had, of very necessity, fallen upon exactly similar images.

These are some of the passages to which I allude:—

“Eftsoons that dreadful dragon they espied,
Where stretched he lay upon the sunny side,
Of a great hill, himself like a great hill.”

—Spenser

“Hardly had Hotupuku (the dragon) scented a smell like the scent of men, ere he came creeping out of his den; the war party were still hidden by the slope of the hill and the bushes from him, and he from them. Before they saw him, alas! alas! he had stolen down upon them; and ere they could break and fly when they did see him, he was so large and near that he looked like a great hill!”

—New Zealand Legend

“With that they heard a roaring hideous sound,
That all the air with terror filled wide,
And seemed un’neath to shake the steadfast ground;
Eftsoons that dreadful dragon they espied!”

—Spenser

“Like the crashing and rumbling of thunder was the loud roaring sound made by the dragon in rushing forth from its den!”

—N.Z. Legend

“But all so soon as he from far descryed
Those glistring arms, that heaven with light did fill,
He roused himself full blythe, and hastened them untill.”

—Spenser

“The huge dragon when it saw its favourite food (the warriors) all ready, as it were a meal prepared for it, joyed exceedingly, and, opening wide its vast mouth, stretched forth its tongue to lick them in, and hastened out of its den.”

—N.Z. Legend

“As for great joyaunce of his new-come guest,
Eftsoons he ’gan advance his haughty crest,
As chaffed boar his bristles doth uprear,
And shook his scales to battle ready dress’d.”

—Spenser

“By the power of these prayers and incantations, the large-pointed spines of the crest of the dragon sank down flat again upon its back, although just now they had been all standing erect, as he joyed to think he should devour the men he smelt.”

—N.Z. Legend

“But stings and sharpest steel—did far exceed
The sharpness of his cruel rending claws.”

“But his most hideous head to tell
My tongue does tremble.”

“And over all with brazen scales was armed;
His large long tail, wound up in hundred folds,
Does overspread his long brass-scaly back.”

—Spenser

“It lay there in size large as a monstrous whale, in shape like a hideous lizard; for in its huge heads, its limbs, its tail, its scales, its tough skin, its sharp spines, yes, in all these it resembled a lizard.”

—N.Z. Legend

“His blazing eyes, like two bright shining shields,
Did burn with wrath and sparkle living fire.”

“So flamed his eyes with rage and ravenous ire.”

“But far within, as in a hollow glade,
Those glaring lamps were set that made a dreadful shade.”

—Spenser

“They soon saw the terrible monster crouching there, with its fierce large eyes, round and flaming as the full moon, as it shoots up above the horizon. Whilst they watched those eyes they seemed to flash with various colours; and from the sun’s bright rays playing through the green leafy places into the creature’s covert, its eyes seemed to shine with a fierce green, as if a clear green jadestone had been set for a pupil in the dark black part of each of its eyes.”

—N.Z. Legend

Without pursuing this subject into many other similar details, I will add one other quotation from the “Faery Queen.”

“I wot not whether the revenging steel
Were hardened with that holy-water dew,
Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feel,
Or his baptized hands now greater grew,
Or other secret virtue did ensue,
Else never could the force of fleshly arm,
Nor molten metal, in his blood embrue.”

—Spenser

The New Zealand legends regarding dragons generally equally assert that it was only by some secret virtues, obtained by prayer or supernatural means, that their heroes were enabled to destroy dragons.

Endnotes

1. There is a beautiful poem on Rewi’s defence of Ōrākau in Mr. Bracken’s “Lays of the Land of the Māori and Moa.” The description of this noble defence there given is quite accurate.

2. See Journal of an Expedition Overland from Auckland to Taranaki Auckland, 1851. P. 188.

3. If a child was born before its time, and thus perished without having known the joys and pleasures of life, it was carefully buried with peculiar incantations and ceremonies; because if cast into the water, or carelessly thrown aside, it became a malicious being or spirit, actuated by a peculiar antipathy to the human race, who it spitefully persecuted, from having been itself deprived of happiness which they enjoyed. All their malicious deities had an origin of this kind.

4. See Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, 1st ed., Guineve, p. 240:—

“For there was no man knew from whence he came;
But after tempest, when the long wave broke
All down the thundering shore of Bude and Ross,
There came a day still as heaven, and then
They found a naked child upon the sands
Of wild Dimdagil by the Cornish sea,”
And that was Arthur; and they fostered him.

5. The manapau was a species of tree peculiar to the country from whence the people came, where the priests say it was known by that name.

6. This quarrel of Māui with his brother-in-law, Irawaru, is sometimes narrated in this way:—

Māui and his brother-in-law had been paying a visit to the people of a village not very distant from where they lived; when they were about to return home again, Māui asked his brother-in-law to carry a little provision for them both upon their short journey, but Irawaru answered surlily, “What should I carry any provision for? Why I have just had an excellent meal.” They then started, and Māui, who was very angry, by his enchantments drew out the earth as they proceeded, so as to lengthen exceedingly the road they had to traverse; at last, being both overcome by hunger and fatigue, they sat down to rest, and Māui, who knew what his intentions were before they started, and had brought provisions with him, eat a good meal, but gave none to his brother-in-law. He then, to throw Irawaru off his guard, asked him to clean and dress his hair for him, and laid his head on his lap for that purpose; when his own was finished, he offered to do the same for Irawaru, who suspecting no harm laid his head on Māui’s lap, who threw him into an enchanted sleep, and then by his enchantments changed him into a dog.

7. Inhabitants of New Zealand.

8. The New Zealanders say that the “Kanae,” or salmon, had come on shore with the Ponaturi, and escaped out of the house by its power of leaping, gaining the water again by successive springs.

9. According to some traditions her name was Hāpai.

10. The European reader cannot at all enter into the witty nature of this adventure in the estimation of a New Zealander. The idea of a sacred chief of high rank being by mistake treated as a common slave, conveys impressions to their minds of which we can form no accurate notion.

11. Tāwhaki is said to still dwell in the skies, and is worshipped as a god, and thunder and lightning are said to be caused by his footsteps when he moves.

12. See here.

13. The part of the tradition which relates to the death of Kaitangata is considerably shortened in the translation, as not being likely to interest the European reader.

14. New Zealand flax.

15. Or pounamu, or greenstone, or jade.

16. Obsidian, with which the natives grind down the jade.

17. The people of New Zealand have another name for this whirlpool; they call it “the steep descent where the world ends.”

18. Whangaparāoa, the bay of the sperm whale, so called from the whale found there.

19. Kei Motiti koe e noho ana—“I suppose you are at Motiti, as you can find no firewood.”

20. The fishing bank of Taikehu.

21. Apteryx Australis.

22. A sharp instrument of war.

23. The discovery of a plot by guessing the meaning of a song which persons were overheard singing was a common circumstance with all the races and throughout all the islands of the Pacific; for instance, in Pitcairn’s Island, when first occupied by part of the crew of the “Bounty” and some Tahitian men and women we find:—“Brown and Christian were very intimate, and their two wives overheard one night Williams’s second wife sing a song, ‘Why should the Tahitian men sharpen their axes to cut off the Englishmen’s heads?’ The wives of Brown and Christian told their husbands what Williams’s second wife had been singing; when Christian heard of it, he went by himself with his gun to the house where all the Tahitian men were assembled; he pointed his gun at them, but it missed fire. Two of the natives ran away into the bush.” —Pitcairn’s Island and the Islanders

24. They show several spots upon the east coast where Kupe touched with his canoes; but I have not yet had time to arrange and transcribe the various traditions connected with his landing at those places. —G. G.

25. It will be seen that they did not follow Kupe’s directions, thinking that he was deceiving them, he being probably friendly to Uenuku.

26. Te Wherowhero, afterwards the first Māori King, related this story to me, but said he did not remember the whole song, and that this was the concluding verse; it was probably in allusion to their coming to peep at Te Kanawa.

27. Jade or Nephrite, commonly called greenstone.

28. The spring of Ōrangi is still well known to the Taranaki natives, as also the site of the pā near it.

29. A species of reed, the leaves of which were tied on the staff.

30. Cicero.

31. Cicero, Orat.

32. Ptolomaeus the Magian, Mr. Vincent’s paper in Notices et Extraits des MSS., tom. XVI. Paris.

33. Smith.

34. Burney.

35. De poematum Cantu.

36. That the enharmonic has no foundation in nature is false, for what tree tapers “per saltum?”—what river flows in heaps?—this gradation is nature’s life stream; the other scales may be compared to the proportional parts, the enharmonic to the continuous procession.

37. Lane’s Modern Egypt.

38. Lay Tradescant’s Chinese as They Are.

39. Notices et Extraits des MSS., tom. XVI.

40. Mémoire de la Société Royale de Lille.

41. Περὶ Μουσικῆς.

42. Burney, vol. I.

43. As the soft diatonic, the hemiolion chromatic, the soft chromatic.

44. Lay Tradescant’s Chinese as They Are.

45. Author of the “Papers on the Rhythm of the Ancient Greek Orators, of the Psalms, Selah, the Evil Eye, read before the Royal Society of Literature;” and of “Papers on Accent and Quantity, discovering their true and real difference, from authentic sources.” See English Journal of Education, February, March, April, June, July, and August: G. Bell, 186, Fleet Street,

46. Grey, G. (Ed.). (1853). Ko ngā mōteatea, me ngā hakirara o ngā Māori. Page 30.

47. Grey, G. (Ed.). (1853). Ko ngā mōteatea, me ngā hakirara o ngā Māori. Page 28.

48. Grey, G. (Ed.). (1853). Ko ngā mōteatea, me ngā hakirara o ngā Māori. Page 47.

49. Grey, G. (Ed.). (1853). Ko ngā mōteatea, me ngā hakirara o ngā Māori. Page 211.

50. For the Legend of Pāoa see chapter 23.

List of Illustrations

1. A bar of music demonstrating a close enharmonic tetrachord made up of G, G half-sharp, A, and C.

2. A bar of music demonstrating a scale made up of C, D, E flat, G, A flat, and C.

3. A bar of music demonstrating the addition of a quarter tone made up of D, D half-sharp, E flat, and G.

4. A bar of music showing E half-flat, E natural, E half-sharp, and E natural.

5. A bar of music showing the chromatic progression E flat, E natural, F, and E.

6. A bar of music showing the diatonic progression D sharp, E, F sharp, and E.

7. Two bars of music for voice with the lyrics “O Mohamed Allah”

8. A bar of music showing the progression E, A, B half-flat, B, and D.

9. A bar of music showing the progression G, A, A half-sharp, B, and D.

10. Four bars of music without lyrics for voice.

11. He Waiata Aroha

12. A Lamentation

13. Whakarongo

14. Child’s Song

Colophon

Polynesian Mythology
was published in 1855 by
George Grey.

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