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Amongst the Maoris: A Book of Adventure

Chapter XIX

page 176

Chapter XIX.

A Talk About Baked Human Heads And Other Matters.

Now then, sir,” said Jack Stanley, on the following evening, as they sat by the riverside, after, as he expressed it, a wholesome supper without any horrible smells to season it, with their blankets drawn around them, their mackintoshes spread upon the ground as beds, watching the Maori guides as they piled up the fire for the night. “Now then, you promised once upon a time to tell us all about baked New Zealanders' heads.”

“I should have thought you had had enough of horrors for a time, Jack. But what do you want to know, young man?”

“I am all in a puzzle, sir,” Jack answered. “My original idea of the New Zealanders was that they were a set of wretches, murdering and eating one another, cutting off their enemies' heads, executing horrible dances with an accompaniment of yells. I come here, and found page 177 them, for the most part, gentle and polite; indeed, in some respects, too much so, for I do not like rubbing noses at all; and I was just beginning to think that all I have been told of them is false, and that they are really specimens of the ‘noble savage,’ and a traduced and innocent people, when we came upon that horrid sickening erection of human heads; and the old tohunga behaves as much like a savage as he well can; so that all my original ideas have come back to me.”

“I suppose,” answered Colonel Bradshaw, “that these people, like the rest of mankind, have two sides of their character. They may, by some narrators, have been represented in exaggerated colours as sanguinary and cruel; by others, in the present day, they are spoken of as everything that is naturally noble. Either extreme is equally false. Had you stopped in your experience of Maori character at the time we first left the pah together, you might have said nothing of them but what was in their favour; were you now to represent all the New Zealanders like the old tohunga who treated you so badly, you would very much mislead those who listened to you. And you must always bear in mind that the greater part of those whom we have hitherto had to do with are pagans. Nature left to itself is always wicked; and even civilization alone will not make men virtuous, as witness the Greeks of old, with attainments almost beyond what we can arrive at now, who were the most treacherous, cruel, and lying of men.”

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“The Greeks did not eat their enemies, at least,” observed Jack.

“And the New Zealanders have, I believe, almost, if not altogether, left it off: only within a short time, it is true: even now many will speak of the days when they used to practise cannibalism; but always ending with, ‘we have given that up now.”’

“But that fellow, Bernard, told me that the Maoris had given up tattooing,” returned Jack; “and yet that old wretch was going to tattoo me. Oh, dear!” Jack added, “what a comfort it is to think he was interrupted: imagine going through life with filagree patterns all over one's face!”

“Oh, you would have become quite the rage,” laughed Bernard: “every one would have asked you to dinner.”

“I would have gone about in a caravan and shown myself as a sight: that would be at least a profitable investment,” said Jack. “But joking apart: what made them wish to tattoo me, I wonder?”

“What was it the tohunga said to you before he began his operations?” said Colonel Bradshaw. “You had called him a horrible old object when first you saw him. This saying had evidently rankled in his mind, and tattooing you was simply an act of revenge. He knew well it would be to a European about the most heavy return he could inflict. But Bernard was right: the tattoo is out of fashion with the Maoris; you can see yourself that the people admire everything European. They are anxious page 179 to imitate that which is better than what they have hitherto done. Do not even now form too hasty a judgment, Jack, because you saw the baked heads, and because the tohungas tried to tattoo you.”

“But tell me about the heads; what do they keep them for? how do they preserve them?”

“Oh, I see,” said the Colonel, laughing, “that you are, after all, as fond of horrors, after your kind, as your neighbours. Well, I will tell you all I know about the baked heads. But hand me that leather bag first, that I may fill my pipe, for I cleared out all the stock of tobacco that I had about me at the pah. I believe you might travel all over the islands, free of expense, so long as you carry some tobacco with you. It is the current coin about here.”

Jack did as he was desired; and the Colonel having filled his pipe, resumed:

“Formerly, in the days when, to use the Maoris' own expression, they knew no better, the people were in the habit of baking the heads of their enemies taken in battle. They used to impale them upon stakes, in rows in front of their dwelling-houses. I have formerly seen such exhibitions myself. I admit they are very revolting. Their friends they indulged by closing the mouth, and sewing the lips together; with the heads of enemies, the lips were stretched into a grin, and kept apart, as some that you saw. I have been told by a Maori, who has assisted at such a ceremony, the way in which the heads page 180 are preserved; but I warn you that the account is very disgusting.”

“Let us have it, sir, all the same,” said Jack. “It may be useful to Bernard in a surgical point of view.”

“Oh, then, Bernard shall hear it when he and I are alone,” said the Colonel, laughingly.

“Perhaps you may not find such an opportunity for a long time,” said Jack; “and I know the poor fellow is burning to hear it in the cause of science.”

“And the other poor fellow is burning to hear it for sheer curiosity,” said the Colonel. “Well, here it is: a fire of hot stones is made in a hole in the earth, after the fashion of the natives; then, having scooped out the brains of the dead man, the nose, eyes, and mouth are sewn up, and the head placed over the fire so as to be thoroughly steamed. This has to be done until all the flesh is dried up.”

“What a disgusting process!” said Jack. “I wonder what could have suggested it to the people?”

“How did so many of these baked heads come to England?” asked Bernard. “I should hardly have thought the New Zealanders would like to part with them.”

“The New Zealanders are like the rest of the world, they will barter almost anything. I have no doubt most of those heads which went to England were given in exchange for muskets and gunpowder and blankets.”

“I think it is a great pity that the people do not keep to their mats—they are at least picturesque; but those page 181 filthy blankets are disgusting. And did you observe the tohunga in his old pair of trousers, how absurd he looked?”

“I agree with you; but I suppose nothing will prevent the Maoris from following the European dress like everything else. They are already leaving off the manufacture of their flax dresses, which used to be the principal occupation of the women formerly.”

“Then it is really true also that they used to be cannibals?” asked Jack.

“Quite true. I have myself seen a building which still goes by the name of ‘Eat-man House,’ which used to be the scene of their feasts. Some day I will tell you a story relative to that place.”

“Now, sir, please,” said Jack.

“No, no, I won't do anything of the sort: you are a regular baby about stories. Another day—I want to go to sleep now.”

“One more question first,” said Jack. “Then you think that these people are really cured of all their barbarous customs and propensities?”

“No, I do not. So long as they remain heathen or merely nominal Christians, as too many of them are, the cruelty and the desire of revenge which is in all savage natures, Jack, is merely latent: any cause might bring it to the surface again. It is not so long ago that a dreadful massacre took place at a place called Wairau; it is still remembered by Europeans and by Maoris who took part in it. However, we must always speak of people as we page 182 find them; and for the present, at least, the Maoris appear peaceably enough disposed. But leave off questioning now, boy, or you will provoke me into making a baked New Zealander's head of yours, for I am dangerous when over-sleepy.”

The next morning, when they were all three bathing in the river, the Colonel and Bernard swimming backwards and forwards, they observed that Jack Stanley did not join them, and when called upon to do so, he made floundering and unsuccessful attempts to do so, thus proclaiming that he could not swim; and, upon Colonel Bradshaw expressing surprise at the fact, young Stanley said,

“I have never had an opportunity of learning. Why, you don't know the kind of life I have always led—tied to a London lodging, with no variety beyond a horrid school.”

“Why horrid?”

“I don't know,” answered Jack, laughingly. “Only you speak to me as if I had had the advantages you have. People can't swim without water, and I have not had the sight of any, generally, but the pump-water and the jug in my bed-room; but I am determined I will swim.”

And so saying, he made an amateur attempt at striking out, and went down head foremost, and came up sputtering.

“You are quite right, Jack: learn to swim by all means. Every man and woman is bound to swim; but page 183 we cannot wait for your education now, for I terribly want my breakfast.”

“So do I,” Jack answered; “only I thought it ought to be pleasure first and duty afterwards. —What have those fellows been about?” asked he, alluding to two of the Maoris who were hurrying from the river-banks some way higher up.

“Catching some fish for our breakfast, I hope. Yes: I see some. Come, dress yourselves quickly, and help me to fry them: I particularly like frying fish.”

I do not know what sort of fish it was the Maoris had caught; but it smelt very nice when frying in the open air, and tasted extremely good when eaten.

“Well, what are you thinking of?” asked the Colonel of Jack, who was contemplating his own hands, which were all bitten into bumps by the sand-flies.

“I was thinking what a nuisance flies of all kinds are,” said Jack. “I never saw anything like the flies in Wellington: they made me sick.”

“It is the want of swallows,” said Colonel Bradshaw.

“That is just what the hotel waiter said to me, sir,” Jack answered. “But I have been thinking lately how swallows could be brought over.”

“If you could think it out, Jack, you would deserve a statue to be erected to your memory,” said Colonel Bradshaw.

“A statue with a garland of bluebottles on your brow,” interposed Bernard. “But what is your plan?”

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“I cannot call it a plan, for I doubt if it could be carried out. I know swallows cannot live in confinement, but they can live in a limited space. Could not some part of the deck be netted in as a sort of large aviary? They must be young swallows, of course, which must be brought over: the hatchings of the second broods, I should think. I know—at least, I have read—that some swallows are hatched too late in the year to leave England in September, though no one seems to be sure what becomes of those which are not strong enough to attempt the flight abroad.”

Jack stopped, and the Colonel said, “Well?”

“You will think me impertinent, perhaps, in my suggestions, but don't you imagine that these young birds might, if allowed sufficient flight upon deck within the aviary, survive the voyage, if by any means they could be protected from the cold at one time? I should think such a means of protection might be found.”

“But about their food Jack? Swallows live upon flies, and the birds could not wait till they got to New Zealand to find them in abundance. Would you bottle your flies?”

“Swallows eat bees, sir, also,” answered Jack, gravely. “Any number of hives of bees could be brought with them, and stationed within the nettings. The bees could be fed artificially upon honey or sugar, as they are at home in the winter.”

“But bees retire to their hives in the cold weather,” said Colonel Bradshaw.

“Only because of the cold; they will come out again page 185 on every moderately warm day. If a means could be found of keeping the swallows warm, it would also warm the bees; but I confess I cannot arrange that point satisfactorily. However, I dare say it is no business of mine, and I am talking like a prig.”

“I don't know that Jack,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “If every one argued in that way, we should have very little public spirit amongst us; and I suppose most ideas are crude at first. If you could do anything towards abating such a nuisance as the flies are in this country, you would be a blessing to society. But how about your swallows in the winter?”

“I thought of that; but I have been told that some parts of this country are temperate the whole year round, so perhaps the swallows might remain here altogether. I think they would hardly attempt to go to Spain from here —if Spain is their natural destination.”

“I don't know if a yearly change of air is necessary to the constitution of a swallow,” said Colonel Bradshaw, “and whether a bird would change his natural habits so far; but if they must change the climate, they might find places sufficiently near to fly to. Of course we know that the young birds are conducted abroad by the older ones. In such a circumstance as you suggest there would be no old birds to conduct the young ones away from here, as the young ones would never have been to Spain or elsewhere. But there is always that difficult property, instinct, to deal with.”

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“You know,” resumed Jack, “that it is a disputed point whether all swallows leave England for the winter, or not. Some people (and those who have watched the habits of the birds most closely) are inclined to believe that the later hatched swallows remain at home, sleeping during the cold months. Mr. White, of Selborne, has found swallows in a state of sleep during the winter.”

“You think, then, that the swallows might remain here through the winter?”

“I mean to say, sir,” answered Jack, “that I do not see that the birds need necessarily die by being unable to emigrate.”

“I see,” returned Colonel Bradshaw, “that you have at least thought the matter well over. You say that you have had no advantages, like others, of living in the country, Jack. How have you managed to know such facts as these?”

“Only from books, sir. I was always fond of natural history.”

“Ah!” said the Colonel, “we who live in the age of books estimate in a very small degree the magnitude of the advantage and the blessing they are to us: it is incalculable; and there is no excuse for, and nothing but contempt deserved by those young fools, whether boys or girls, who are content to be ignorant.”

“I am sure,” said Jack, simply, “I am awfully ignorant. I feel it every day.”

“So we must all of us, my dear boy, and that feeling page 187 is the first step to our real education; for we may go to school and learn by compulsion and by rote all the best years of our life; but we shall never really be educated until we begin to educate ourselves, and our education never can cease this side the grave—indeed, if it ceases there, which I should be sorry to believe. I think we are not sufficiently taught from our infancy the value of our mental faculties, and that they are, with our souls, equally the gift of God, and equally to be accounted for. We do not even look upon it as a sin to be content to be a fool, but rather imagine it a matter of choice whether we learn or leave unlearnt the things which we have an opportunity of acquiring, and whether we cultivate or allow to lie fallow the talents, by which I mean, in the usual acceptation of the words, the accomplishments we are capable of gaining.”

“Do you mean such accomplishments as music and painting, sir?”

“Yes, and many others, such as riding and swimming, and all the elegant little arts of the present day.”

“Do you think God takes account of such things?” added Jack Stanley, in some surprise.

“I think God takes account of everything connected with us,” answered the Colonel, gravely.