Thus is it with regard to the specimens of savage art, no matter in what way it is developed. Taking New Zealand as an example, there is not in England a single specimen of a Maori house. It could be easily taken to pieces and put together again; it is peculiarly valuable to ethnologists on account of the extraordinary mixture which it displays of ancient Egyptian architecture and ancient Mexican art; and in a very few years there will not be a single specimen of aboriginal architecture in the whole of New Zealand. The Maories, who have abandoned the club for the rifle, the mat for the blanket, and even the blanket for the coat and trousers, have begun to modify their ancient architecture, and to build houses after the European models.
Unless, therefore, means be taken to rescue specimens of Maori architecture from destruction, it is much to be doubted whether in twenty years’ time from the present date a single specimen will exist as a type of native art. So it is with the canoes. Graceful, picturesque, and adorned with the finest specimens of Maori art, the canoes were unique among vessels. At the present day the more useful but more commonplace whaleboat has superseded the canoe, and in a few years the elaborately decorated vessels of the Maories will have utterly passed away.
We may be sure that the tide of civilization is sweeping so rapidly over the world, that a very few years will see the end of savage life in all lands to which the white man can gain access. The relics of the ancient mode of life are left by the natives to perish, and, unless they are rescued, and brought to a country where they can be preserved, they will necessarily vanish from the face of the earth. Having this idea in my own mind, I set myself some years ago to collect articles of daily use from all parts of the world. The light which they throw upon anthropology is really astonishing, and, among some eight or nine hundred specimens, there is not one that does not tell its own story.
Take, for example, the stone merai that lies before me. What a tale does it not tell of the country where it was found, and of the workman who made it! The stone shows that it was obtained from a volcanic country; the short, weighty form of the weapon shows that it was made for a courageous race who fought hand to hand; and the graceful curves and perfect balance of the weapon show that the maker was a true artist. More than that. The merai has been made by rubbing it with another stone, and must have occupied years of labor. See, then, what a tale this weapon tells us—the volcanic region, the courageous warrior, and the worthlessness of time. Year after year the man must have worked at that merai, bending his tattooed face over it, balancing it in his hand, and watching its soft curves grow into perfection. Then, after it was made, he has evidently carried it about with him, fought with his foes, and dashed out their brains with its once sharp and now notched edge. Afterward, when he, or may be his grandson, came to fight against the white men, their fire-arms were too terrible to be opposed, and the merai was taken from the hand of the dead warrior as he lay on the field of battle, its plaited cord still round his wrist. Nevermore will a stone merai be made, and before very long the best examples of Maori weapons will be found in English museums.
We will now return to the subject of the tapu. Useful as it may be as a guardian of property, it often exaggerates that duty, and produces very inconvenient results. For example, some travellers were passing through the country, and were hungry and wearied, and without food. Very opportunely there came in sight a fine pig; but the animal contrived to run across a piece of ground which was tapu, and in consequence became tapu itself for a certain number of days, and could not be eaten.
There are thousands of such tapu spots in the country. If, for example, a great chief has been travelling, every place where he sits to rest is tapu, and is marked by a slight fence of sticks. In many cases, each of these sacred spots has its own name. The same is the case when the body of a chief is carried to his own pah for burial, every resting place of the bearers becoming tapu. Therefore nothing was more likely than to come across one of these tapu spots, or more easy than for the pig to break through its slight fence.
A curious modification of the tapu took place before and after a battle. The tohunga assembled the warriors of his own party, and went with them to the lake or river, which had been made tapu for the purpose. The men then threw off all their clothing, and went into the water, which they scooped up with their hands and threw over their heads and bodies. The priest then recited the appropriate incantation.
Thus the battle tapu was laid upon the warriors, who were thereby prohibited from undertaking any other business except that of fighting, and were supposed, moreover, to be under the protection of the gods. This tapu was most strictly regarded, and the warriors had to learn quite a long list of occupations which were forbidden to them, such as carrying a load, cutting their own hair, touching the head of a woman, and so forth.
After the fighting is over, it is necessary that the tapu should be taken off from the survivors, so that they should be enabled to return to their usual mode of life. This ceremony is rather a complicated one, and varies slightly in different parts of the country. The chief features, however, are as follows:—
Each man who had killed an enemy, or taken a slave, pulled off a lock of hair from the victim, and retained it as a trophy. They then went in a body to the tohunga, and gave him a portion of the hair. This he tied on a couple of little twigs, raised them high above his head, and recited the incantation; after which the whole body joined in the war song and dance. This being over, the warriors clapped their hands together and struck their legs, that act being supposed to take off the tapu which had been contracted by imbruing them in the blood of the enemy.