The prayers of the Anglican Church were concluded. Then the great apostle of the South Seas ascended an ornate pulpit, the gift of a few English friends of Mr. Summers, the carving of which had much impressed the native congregation, themselves by no means without practice in this ancient section of art. In his sermon—short, fervent, and chiefly persuasive—he appealed to those better feelings which the teaching of the missionary clergy, of whatever denomination, had been chiefly desirous of fostering. "What," he asked, "had been the condition of the tribes before that great and good man Marsden, the pioneer pastor, came among them? War unbridled, ruthless, remorseless, with its accompaniments still more dreadful—slavery, torture, child-murder, the eating of human flesh, practices which, to their honour be it spoken, the Maoris as a nation had discontinued. Were they not ashamed of these things?" ("Yes, yes!" from the assembled crowd.) "Who had taught them to be ashamed of these things? The missionary clergy, the pakeha from beyond the seas. Who had given them the seed, the grain, the potato, the domestic animals, the tools of iron, from which they now reaped such abundant harvests and stores of produce? Bread, flour-mills, garden-seeds and vegetables,—all these came from the pakeha. Who taught them the use of all these things? The Mikonaree. He laboured with his hands, he lived poorly, he coveted nothing for himself, he only held a small portion of their waste lands on which to grow food for himself and his family.
"He had done all this. But he had done more. He had taught them to worship the only true God, and His Son Jesus Christ our Lord—the God of mercy, of truth, of charity, of peace. And had they not lived in peace, in plenty, in good will among themselves, until this war arose, which was now raging to the destruction of Maori and pakeha alike? Who counselled this shedding of blood, this burning of pahs? The clergy? No. They knew that the voice of every clergyman, every missionary in both islands, had been against it, was against it now. If his advice had been taken, a runanga would have been held, of the wisest pakehas and the high rangatiras. Judges like Mannering and Waterton would have sat there—men who knew the Maori tongue and the Maori customs. They would have done justice. The Waitara would never have been bought from Teira. The Maori law would have been respected, as well as the English law, in which every man has equal rights, the native as well as the pakeha. Then there would have been no war; no killing of pakeha settlers who wished to cultivate the soil and to live in peace; no death of the soldiers and sailors; no death of the volunteers who wished to buy and sell in the towns, who bought the natives' pigs and potatoes, their wheat and their flax; no death of high chiefs or of the young men of the tribes, of officers of the troops, of officers of the ships. All these of the young and the old who now lie cold in the earth or beneath the sky would be alive and well this day." Here more than one face betrayed deep feeling; falling tears and gestures of unutterable anguish told their tale.
"But the war, unhappily, had commenced, and still raged. Unwise white men, proud and haughty chiefs, had been impatient, and forced on the war. Had the Maoris respected the lessons they had been taught, and been patient, even when suffering injustice, all would have been well. The Waitara block would have been given up. It has been given up now. They had many friends in the pakeha runanga; even in Sydney the Kawana Dennitoni had sent a letter in their favour, warning the council of the pakehas not to take Waitara. But there were unwise men on both sides. Blood was shed. And the state of war took place. And now you will say, 'This is all very well, but we knew much of this before. The state of war is accomplished. What are we to do? What is best for the Maori people?'
"I will tell you. This is my saying. I have prayed to God that it may be right and wise, according to His will, and for your benefit, who are my children in the Lord. We have always taught you to desire peace—peace and good will towards all men. Cherish no more hard feelings against the pakeha. You will have to live in the land with him. His race is the stronger, the more numerous; he has ships, soldiers, and guns, more than you can number; they are like the sands of the seashore.
"The war must soon be over. I, who speak to you now, say so. Heed not those foolish men of your race who tell you to go on fighting. It is of no use. When the last battle is fought, and my words come true, yield yourself to the Kawana, Hori Grey, saying, 'We are conquered. Show us mercy. We desire peace for the future.' He has always been a friend of the Maori people. He is a friend now. You will find that you will receive mercy, that a portion of your lands will be restored to you. Not all. Part will be taken for utu, as by Maori custom. After that I say, heed my words and those of the good Mikonaree who have always tried to do you good—who will do you more good in the future. 'Love your enemies; do good to those who despitefully use you. If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink,' as did Henare Taratoa, whom I taught when he was young. You can read your Bible, many of you. Do what you are there commanded, and it will be well with you.
"And now it may be that you will see my face no more. I have been called back to the land whence I came, so many years ago, to do you good, to help, to teach every man, woman, and child in this land of Maui; such I may have done, though the seed of the Word has sometimes perished by the wayside. But other seed, I will believe, has taken root, and will bring forth, in due time, some twenty, some fifty, some an hundred fold.
"And when the day comes, as come it will, when peace overspreads the land, when the churches are again crowded, when the schools are full of your children, when the harvests are bounteous, and the Maori people are as well clothed, as well fed, and as well taught as the pakehas, you will hear that your pihopa, the man who loved you and prayed with you, is no more. In that hour remember that I told you all this would come to pass, and honour his mana by obeying the words of his mouth, and the commandment of the most high God."
As the sermon neared this conclusion, the hearts of the people were more deeply and strongly affected. Tears streamed down the faces of the younger members of the congregation. Sobs and groans were frequent. And as he turned to leave the little chapel, a simultaneous rush was made to the door, so as to be enabled to say a last farewell. All doubt and hesitation as to his actions since the war were swept away by the magic of his vibrating voice, the magnetic force of his earnest tones. They now commenced to realize that they were losing a friend in need, a judge in Israel, a champion in the day of their oppression.
As he left the church with his host and hostess, the women and children clustered around him, with cries of grief and genuine sorrow. They knelt before him, they struggled for the right to kiss his hand, they implored him to come again; they vowed that they would always be his children, and would obey his commands till their death.
It was to Hypatia a scene indescribably affecting. The tears came to her own eyes as she stood there, sympathetic, emotional, wondering no more at the contagious power of the united forces of faith, enthusiasm, and oratory combined to sway a multitude and lead a people to heroic deeds. The men stood aloof while the women were making their moan, and then came forward respectfully, each to receive a handshake and a word of greeting, advice, or friendly warning. Last of all, the few elders who had attended as it were under protest, made known their recantation of doubt or distrust. An aged chief, whose scarred countenance and limbs told a tale of ancient wars, hobbled forward, leaning upon his hano. With an air of mingled dignity and despondency he thus delivered himself—