A Visit to the Prophet.

In the year 1904 I was riding round the Mountain, from Hawera to New Plymouth, and in the course of that leisurely horseback tour, when I turned off the main road to visit various Maori villages and explore old battlefields, I called in at Parihaka, the town of the Prophet. My visit to that Mecca of Maoridom was prompted and fortified by letters from two Maori chiefs of page 18 high mana in the old patriot party, and I was received, though a stranger, with all the hospitality for which Te Whiti and his tribe were renowned. In a long talk with the old chief I learned something of his outlook on world affairs as well as the more immediate subject of Maori rights and the perennial grievance of the West Coast reserves. Te Whiti was then a man of about seventy-five, I judged. He was white-headed, with a short straggly beard; his features were small and finely cut; a well shaped nose; his eyes keen, shrewd. with often a glint of humour. He had many questions to ask. The Russo-Japanese war was then being fought, and several of his people came up to listen when they heard the old man ask for the latest news about it. It was plain that the Japanese were not popular in Parihaka. The Russians were in the right, according to the voice of Taranaki; their foes were an “iwi kohuru,” a treacherous race. I opined that that view was assumed because the Japanese were friends of the English.

That evening Te Whiti invited me to his meeting-hall, to see his poi parties rehearse their dances for the coming monthly festival of the faithful, the 18th, the anniversary of the beginning of the never-forgotten Waitara war, in 1860. The poi dance was more than a mere amusement in Parihaka. It was a semi-religious ceremony; the ancient songs centuries old were chanted, and Te Whiti's speeches were recorded in a kind of musical Hansard and given forth in high rhythmic song to the multitude at those periodical gatherings. It was a memorable evening in that dance-hall, where I was the only pakeha.

“Sit with me here,” said the prophet, “and tell me what you think of my poi girls.” Many of the people, men and women, seeing their leader bring a guest on to the dais, spread with many soft mats, came up to “hongi” with me, in polite salutation, and I pressed many noses of the Taranaki aristocracy that evening.

Those were memorable poi song and dance acts, altogether different from any others I had seen. They were very wild and high, unrestrained in voice and action. The tossing white plumes with which every one of the dancers, about thirty-five of them, had decked her flowing black hair, the bright, glittering eyes, the old Polynesian hulalike vigour of the women's movements in perfect time to the songs, gave the poi-swinging a touch exciting to the senses. But it was the high ceremonious chanting that was the most thrilling part of it. The songs were ritual, historical, sacred. Te Whiti explained their significance, one after the other. I think we were there for more than two hours, watching and listening and admiring. The old man was exceedingly proud of his poi women and girls, and they seemed to put forth their best efforts for his critical eyes.

It was fitting that the old prophet of the Mountain, when he was laid in his grave yonder, beside his home—that was three years after my visit—should be farewelled with the ancient chant of the Aotea canoe and the invocations of the ancient days, to the tapping sound of many poi balls. To the Maori fancy the leader's spirit still lingered, with a smile on the spirit lips, to hear once more the music of his beloved “rangi poi.”

One other memory of Parihaka is still rather vivid. It was a kind of anti-climax to the primitive pleasure of the poi-women's night. Te Whiti's handsome daughter, wife of Taare Waitara, gave me a comfortable room in the prophet's big house, and I slept a dreamless sleep, after that long day's ride and the long talks and the varied entertainment of Parihaka town. But early in the morning the room became strangely warm, and the warmth increased. I wondered sleepily if the house had caught fire, and at last got up to investigate. The flax mats on the floor were quite hot. In the passage outside I met my hostess. “Oh,” she said, laughing, “that's always a little surprise for our visitors. The baker has to begin his work very early.” Then I found that the community bake-house was just below the dwelling.

Parihaka baked all its own bread; the large bake-oven turned out several hundreds of loaves two or three times a week to feed the faithful, and an extra large supply was needed for the gathering of the 18th of the month.

Later on that day, as I rode on to New Plymouth along that beautiful coast, I met many little parties of Maori travellers, some of them families packed in carts behind slow-plodding bullock-teams, bound for Parihaka; and all of them wore in their hair or their hats, the white feather badge of the prophet of peace, the raukura of Te Whiti-o-Rongomai.