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Preface.

A score of books illustrate the life of the North American Indian; but few or none have hitherto attempted to draw the Maori, a far higher order of uncivilized man. Perhaps the principal reason which has "tapued" Maoria to the writer of fiction is the difficulty of depicting a Maori heroine, or of painting an effective picture of a Maori love affair. The demarcation between the two sexes was in old times so strict, that courtship was carried on entirely by a system of glances—an alphabet sufficient, no doubt, for the language of love, but not at all adapted to the purposes of the novelist.

When it was suggested to the author to try his hand at "a Maori story," he fully realized this difficulty; but he ventured to think that a description, however slight, of the ancient customs of the island—an attempt, however humble, to put on record the rare military qualities that for so long a period enabled a few handfuls of half-page viiiarmed barbarians to resist the dominion of the white man, might prove to possess some little interest, due rather to the subject than to the merits of the writer.

The Maori race is fast disappearing; when the last of them has followed his ancestors to Te Reigna, all who were acquainted with them, before their so-called civilization, will probably have likewise passed away. The author has spent many years in New Zealand, and knows what the Maori once was, and what he is now. The associations of these years make it a pleasant task for him to render, before it is too late, his testimony, trifling as it may be, to the truth, honour, generosity, hospitality, and virtue which distinguished the inhabitants of Maoria before the advent of the Pakeha. With the Bible in one hand and the rum bottle in the other, we flattered ourselves that we had, in a few years, christianized and civilized the owners of the broad lands we had appropriated. But our presumption has been heavily rebuked, for the race has morally and physically deteriorated in the attempt, and promises to become extinct in the process. Thousands have dwindled down to hundreds, hundreds to tens, and the Maori of to-day is too often a drunkard, a liar, a thief, and a perjurer.

Nor, on the other hand, does he hold a high estimate of his white brother and his artificial civilization. Of the latter he says, "It's God is Gold;" and, in his secret page ixheart, he thinks that we are marching on to his annihilation with religion on our tongues and chicanery in our hearts.

Yet from him the author has received many an act of kindness, and he trusts that he has done justice to a brave race, and honestly described them as they were when they lived and died under their own laws and customs.

These few pages make no pretence to the character of a work of fiction. The traditions they describe are Maori traditions; the characters are real characters; and most of the incidents occurred under the observation of the author, or were related to him by the descendants of those who were present when they took place.

Yet another generation and the fair plains of New Zealand will have seen the last of the Maori. He was ignorant, superstitious, and cruel; but he was truthful, brave, and, according to his lights, honourable. He defended himself against foreign conquest and oppression with rare courage and skill; and the secret of his long and effective resistance to superior numbers might advantageously be studied and laid to heart in the home of his conquerors. That secret was his ready and willing obedience to the fundamental rule of Maori society, which taught that the first duty of every citizen is to be prepared to bear arms in behalf of the page xcommonwealth; and that far beyond the selfish luxury of the rich man, or the petty greed of the trader, is the simple patriotism which is ready to fight, and, if necessary, to die, in defence of its country.