Amidst such scenes the missionaries dwelt in peace. War, and its inseparable and more hideous companion, cannibalism, showed themselves at their gates, but were not allowed to hurt them. Under the good providence of God, their security was owing, in a great measure, to the prudence and courage with which Mr. Marsden planned and carried out his projects. Himself a stranger to fear, he infused courage into those around him, and both he and they felt secure under the shield and buckler of the Almighty. No doubt the fearlessness of Mr. Marsden won the admiration of these savages and contributed not a little to his safety. His journal abounds in instances such as that which follows. The scene is in a Maori village, and the writer is surrounded with cannibals. “After conversing on several subjects, we had supper, sung a hymn, and then committed ourselves to the Angel of the everlasting covenant, and so lay down to rest; a number of the natives lay around the hut and some within. I slept well until daybreak, being weary with walking.”
He appears to have arrived at home, after this second visit to New Zealand, towards the close of November, 1819. In February, 1820, he was once more on his way back to New Zealand. His letters bear ample testimony to a fact which all who were acquainted with him in private life observed, that his heart was full of affection, and that his home was the scene of his greatest happiness. He had not returned, it is true, to be greeted with public honours; on the contrary, he was still a marked man. The governor and many of the leading men in the colony were prejudiced against him. We believe it is to this period of his life that an anecdote which we give on the best possible authority belongs. The governor had consented to his recent visit to New Zealand with reluctance, and had limited the period of his absence with military precision, threatening at the same time to deprive him of his chaplaincy unless he returned within the given time. The last day arrived, and the expected vessel was not in sight. The governor repeated his determination to those around him, and Mr. Marsden’s friends were filled with anxiety, and his wife and family at length gave up all hope. Towards evening the long-wished-for sail appeared in the offing, and at eight o’clock in the evening Mr. Marsden quietly walked into the governor’s drawing-room with the laconic and yet respectful address, “Sir, I am here to report myself.” But within the bosom of his family all was peace, and his presence shed light and joy on everything around him. His circumstances were prosperous—for his farm, which was almost entirely committed to Mrs. Marsden’s care, was now a source of considerable income; his children were growing up to manhood under their parents’ roof; his circle of friends and visitors was large, for there were no bounds to his simple hospitality; and the clergy of the colony, men like minded with himself, had now begun to regard him not only with affection, but with the reverence which belongs to years and wisdom and wide experience.
Yet at the call of duty this veteran was ready, on the shortest notice, to resume a life of such toil and hardship as nothing could have rendered welcome, its novelty once over, but motives the most solemn and commanding. H.M.S. Dromedary, Captain Skinner, was directed by government to proceed from Sydney to the Bay of Islands to receive a cargo of New Zealand timber for trial in the dockyards of England; and Sir Byam Martin, controller of the navy, knowing something of the energy of Mr. Marsden’s character, and his great acquaintance with New Zealand, requested that he would accompany the Dromedary, which was joined by the Coromandel, in order to facilitate the object of their visit. With this request he felt it his duty to comply. He arrived in New Zealand on the 20th of February, and embarked on board the Dromedary to return on the 25th of November. Thus nearly the whole year was given to the service of New Zealand.
The time was not lost. On his arrival, a difficulty occurred which he only could have set at rest. The natives had come to the determination to exchange nothing, nor to do any kind of work, except for muskets and powder. His first business was to assemble the few European settlers, the advanced guard of that mighty band of European colonists which was soon to follow, and to persuade them not on any account to supply the natives with these weapons of war, in their hands so sure a source of mischief. With regard to the duty of the missionaries there could be no doubt; and this he explained to all the powerful chiefs. They had come among them to preach the gospel of peace, how then could they be expected to furnish the means and implements of destruction? In writing to the Missionary Society at home he says, and he must have written such a sentence with an aching heart, “I think it much more to the honour of religion and the good of New Zealand even to give up the mission for the present, than to trade with the natives in those articles.”
After a short time spent in the Bay of Islands, at the mission, he proceeded, sometimes in company with Europeans, but for the most part alone, upon a tour of many hundred miles through regions yet untrodden by the foot of civilized men, mingling with the native tribes, accompanying them in their wanderings from place to place, teaching the first lessons of civilization and gospel truth, and receiving everywhere from these savages the kindest attention and the most hospitable welcome in return.
On their way to Tourangha, he writes, under the date of June 20: “The day was far spent when we reached the plain. We walked on till the sun was nearly set, when we stopped and prepared for the night. The servants, who had the provisions to carry, were very tired. There were no huts on the plain, nor any inhabitants, and we were therefore compelled to take up our lodging in the open air. I was very weary, having had no rest the preceding night; and having come a long day’s journey, so that I felt that rest would be very acceptable, even on a heap of fern or anything else.
“The peculiar scene that surrounded me, furnished the mind with new matter for contemplation on the works and ways of God. The mystery of his providence, and the still greater mystery of his grace, were all unsearchable to me. I had come from a distant country, and was then at the ends of the earth, a solitary individual, resting on an extensive wild, upon which no civilized foot had ever before trodden. My companions were poor savages, who nevertheless vied with each other in their attentions to me. I could not but feel attached to them. What would I have given to have had the book of life opened, which was yet a sealed book to them,—to have shown them that God who made them, and to have led them to Calvary’s mount, that they may see the Redeemer who had shed his precious blood for the redemption of the world, and was there set up as an ensign for the nations. But it was not in my power to take the veil from their hearts, I could only pray for them, and entreat the Father of mercies to visit them with his salvation. I felt very grateful that a Divine revelation had been granted to me; that I knew the Son of God had come, and believed that he had made a full and sufficient sacrifice or atonement for the sins of a guilty world. With compassionate feelings for my companions, under a grateful sense of my own mercies, I lay down to rest, free from all fear of danger.”
It was during this tour that the following letter was addressed to the lady of his excellent friend Dr. Mason Good. It is long, but the reader will scarcely wish that it had been shorter. Let it stand on record as an evidence of the power of true religion in maintaining amidst the rudest scenes, and the rough warfare of an adventurous life, all the gentleness and affection of the most refined and polished society of a Christian land.
“New Zealand, Sept. 22, 1820.
“Dear Madam,—Your kind favour arrived in the Bay of Islands September 7, the evening I returned from a long journey. I had no sooner cast my eye over your letter, than busy imagination transported me from the solitary woods, dreary wastes, and savage society of New Zealand, into ‘the polished corner’ of Guilford-street, and surrounded me with every cordial that could refresh the weary traveller, revive the fainting spirits, and blow the languishing spark of Christian love with a heavenly flame. I had literally been living for weeks a savage life, as far as outward circumstances went. I ate, I slept in the thick wood, in a cave, or on the banks of a river, or sea, with my native companions, wherever the shadows of the evening, or gathering storm compelled us to seek for shelter. Every day as I advanced from tribe to tribe, I was introduced to new acquaintances; my object was to gain from observation and experience that knowledge of savage life which I could not learn from books, and to make myself well acquainted with the wants, wishes, and character of the native inhabitants, to enable me, if my life should be spared, to aid to the utmost of my power in their deliverance from their present temporal miseries, which are great upon them, and from their much sorer bondage to the prince of darkness. I am happy in having obtained this object to a certain extent, at the expense of a few temporal privations, and a little bodily evil. When I have lain down upon the ground after a weary day’s journey, wrapped up in my great coat, surrounded only by cannibals, I often thought how many thousands are there in civil life, languishing upon beds of down, and saying, with Job, ‘in the evening would God it were morning,’ while I could sleep free from fear or pain, far remote from civil society under the guardian care of him who keepeth Israel. Though I everywhere met with the greatest kindness from the natives, as well as hospitality, for they always gave me the best fern-root, potato, or fish in their possession, yet I could never have duly estimated the sweets of civil life, and the still greater mental gratification of Christian communion, if I had not passed through these dark regions of Satan’s dominions, on which the dayspring from on high hath never cast a single ray. You cannot conceive how great a feast your letter was, after so long a fast. I was instantly present with every person you mentioned, and lived over again some of those happy moments I once spent under your hospitable roof. A sacred warmth flowed round my soul, my heart was sweetly melted under the influence of that pure and undefiled religion which dropped from your pen, like the heavenly dew, as it ran through every line. What shall we call those pure sensations that thus warm and captivate the soul? Do they flow from the communion of saints, or at these delightful moments does some invisible seraph touch our lips with a live coal from God’s altar? If you have ever experienced similar feelings, their recollection will explain more fully my meaning than my words can express. When these lines meet your eye, may they find your soul rapt up to the third heaven! But to where am I now wandering? the veil of the flesh is not now rent, we have not yet entered into the holy of holies. Though God has given you and your seed the land of Goshen, and you have light continually in your dwelling, yet you are still in Egypt, while I am constrained to dwell in Mesech, and to dwell in these remote and dark tents of Kedar. But, my dear madam, seas and continents will not long separate the people of God. I humbly hope the day is at no great distance, when we shall join the spirits of just men made perfect. At present you abound with blessings.... Jacob often thought of Bethel, and when in his afflictions he seemed to have forgotten that sacred spot, God said unto him, ‘Arise and go to Bethel, and dwell there.’ It will always be safest for us to dwell also at Bethel. I must now close, as my paper is nearly full, and your patience must also be tired when it comes to your turn to read what I have written.
“Remember me to your sister, Mrs. Skinner. Tell Mr. Good I received his last letter, and will answer it at a more convenient season. I was on my passage to Port Jackson in a small schooner, but adverse winds drove me back almost dead with sea-sickness. I have been here since February last, and when I shall get home I am uncertain; I venture no more in the schooner. Mrs. M. wants me back, as she has much upon her hands. It gave me great satisfaction to hear my son had arrived safe. I knew your kindness would far exceed my wishes. I will endeavour, as far as able, to pay all my debts when I see Mr. Good and you face to face; till then you must give me credit, and if I do not pay you, you will be sure to receive both principal and interest in the resurrection of the just.
“I remain, dear madam,
“Yours, in the bonds of Christian love,
“Samuel Marsden.”
The immediate object of his visit being accomplished, he returned to Sydney, where a strange reception awaited him. Governor Macquarie had sent to Lord Bathurst a despatch in answer to the statements of the senior chaplain, already noticed, in which he brought heavy charges against the latter, which deeply affected his character, not only as a magistrate, but as a Christian man and a minister. The office of a magistrate he had been compelled to undertake in common with the other clergy of the colony, who were all included in the commission of the peace. For this there was no justification except hard necessity. Mr. Marsden, however, had long been weary of the irksome task, and had once and again requested the governor to accept his resignation. This the governor had expressly declined to do, on the ground that “his services as a magistrate were too beneficial to the public;” but in fact, it would seem, only that he might have the opportunity of inflicting upon him the annoyance of a formal dismissal, which was shortly afterwards notified in the “Sydney Gazette.”