“To judge by the conspicuous exhibitions of artistic effort and the countless displays by the photo fiend in many of Zelania’s towns, a stranger would conclude that the Maoris were the ‘superior’ and dominant race, though there are but a little over 43,000 in the whole country, mostly on the north or warmer island, and it is said they are about stationary in numbers and in morals.”
He told his audience that these Maoris, when originally discovered, were a stalwart, brave and rather superior race of savages; that war was the only argument that appealed to their perverted consciences, and he quoted an admiring New Zealand poet to prove the “amiable” heroism of the Maori “ladies.”
“E’en woman, formed for sweetness, for love, and tender art
Here showed the tiger instinct, the hard and ruthless heart;
Her’s was the task in battle, the wounded braves to slay,
And cook the reeking corpses for the feast that closed the fray.”
“Yes, the Maori women were brave, very brave, but, my children, in all Zelania there was not a mouse.
“Of these Maoris, there are several tribes,” he says, “who, when free from the meddlesome ‘white man’s yoke,’ are usually engaged in slaying and stewing each other, and, besides carving with their greenstone cleavers their cooked brethren and their own faces, they practised much in wood-carving. In this, while the workmanship is fair, there is a manifest lack of a sense of proportion, that amuses the connoisseur as it delighted the amateur in art.
“Like the more common, or at least more numerous and more pretentious white fellow-citizen, these Maoris go to church some, and to school, and to the drink-shop and to jail, but as the Maoris have a little creed of their own, they don’t go to church very much. But if the Maori goes less to church, to school, and to Parliament, he also goes less to jail and to the hotel than his more pretentious white British fellow-citizen.
“The Maoris are picturesque, especially at the more popular tourist resorts, where their presence lends a particularly charming romance to the occasion. The emotional tourist—especially if a young gentleman from ‘Home’—who is safely piloted by the alert, polite, and loquacious ‘Maggie’ among the roaring and exploding geysers of that charming compromise between awe-inspiring beauty and terror, that unpreached sermon, that unsung song, that unwritten poem, that section of hell in an earthly paradise, Rotorua, in whose weird precincts are seen and heard and smelled, at close range, the seething fires of ‘Pluto’s dread abode,’ he will cherish a generous respect for Maori hospitality forever. Under Maggie’s watchful guidance, the most unsophisticated tourist could safely approach the yawning mouth of these boiling caldrons without endangering life or health or appetite; though, unless one heeds the cautious guide, the boot soles are in danger of shrinking, and in these sulphurous regions ‘kuss words’ flow from pious lips.
“Nature,” Oseba argued, “was a unity and is consistent. She ignores individuals, and strives, oblivious to time, for universals. No created thing ever escapes the influence of environment. But Nature carries out her works with the instruments at hand. Whence came these Maoris is a guess, but as in character, stature, proportion, personal bearing, and mental possibilities, no other savage on the globe compares with them, they must have been sufficiently long in Zelania to have become modified by, and made to conform to, the luring conditions of that wonderful country.”
But I must continue:—