A MAORI SUPERSTITION.

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 7, Issue 344, 21 May 1863, Page 4

A MAORI SUPERSTITION.

[From Old New Zealand, by a Pakeha-Maori.]

These [Maori] priests or to)nun,a would? and do to this hour, undertake to call up the spirit of any dead person, if paid for the same. I have seen many of the exhibitions, but one instance ’will suffice as an example. A young chief, who had been very popular and greatly respected in his tribe, and had been killed in battle ; and, at the request of several of his nearest friends, the tohmiga had pi’omised on a certain night to call up his spirit to speak to speak to them, and answer certain questions they wished to put. The priest was to come to the village of the relations, and the interview was to take place in a large house common to all the population. This young man had been a great friend of mine ; and so, the day before the event, 1 was sent to by his relations, and told that an opportunity offered of conversing with my friend once more. I was not much inclined to bear a part in

outrageous mummery, but curiosity caused me to go. Now it is necessary to remark that this young chief was a. man in advance of his times and peojileiin many respects. He was the first of fils tribe who could read and write ; ancTamongst other unusual things for a natke to do, he kept a register of deaths ai® births, and a journal of any remarkable events which happened in the tribe. Now this book was lost. No one could find it, although his friends had searched unceasingly for it,' as it contained many matters of interest, and as they wished to preserve it for his sake. I also wished to get it, and had often enquired if it had been found, but had always been answered in the negative. The appointed time came, and at night we all met the priest in the large house I have mentioned. Fires were lit, which gave an uncertain flickering light. . - The - priest retired to the darkest corner. All was expectation, and the silence was only broken by the sobbing of the sister, and other relations of the dead man. They seemed to be, and, indeed, were, in an agony of excitement, agitation, and grief. This state of things continued for a long time, and I began to fee] in a way surprising to myself, as if there was something real in the matter. The heartbreaking sobs of the women, and the grave and solemn silence of the men, convinced me that to them at leastj this was a serious matter. I saw the brother of the dead man now and then wiping the tears in silence from his eyes. I wished ! had not come, for I felt that any unintentional symptom of incredulity on my part would shock and hurt the feelings of my friends exceedingly ; and yet, whilst feeling thus, I felt myself more and jrnore |near to believing in the deception about to be practiced. The real grief, and also the general undoubting

faith, in all around me, had this effect. We were all seated' on a rush-strewn floor; about thirty persons. The door was shut; the fire had burned down, leaving nothing but glowing charcoal. The room was oppressively hot. The light was little better than darkness ; and the part of the room in which the tohunga sat was now in perfect dai'kness. Suddenly, without the slighest warning, a voice came out of the darknes. “ Salutation !—salutation to you all !—salutation ! —salutation to you, my tribe ! family, I salute you !—friends, I salute you !■—friend, my pakeh a friend, I salute you !” The high-handed daring imposture was successful ; our feelings were taken by storm. A cry, expressive of affection and despair, such as was not good to hear, came from the sister of the dead chief, a fine stately and really handsome woman of about five-and-twenty. She was rushing with both arms extended,’ into the dark, in the direction from whence the voice came. She was instantly seized round the waist and restrained by her brother by mam force, till moaning and fainting she lay still on the ground. At the same time another female voice was heard from a young girl, who was held by the wrist by two young men her brothers. “ Is it you % —is it you I — truly, it is you !— aue ! aue ! they hold ; me, they restrain me ; wonder not that I have not followed you; they watch me, they restrain me, but I go to you. The sun shall not rise, the sun shall not rise, aue ! aue /” Here she fell insensible on the rush floor, and with her sister was carried out. The remaining women were all weeping and exclaiming, but wei'e silenced by the men, who were themselves nearly as much excited, though not so clamorous. I, however, did notice two old men who sat close to me, were not in the slighest degree moved in any way, though : they did not seem, at all incredulous, but quite the contrary. The Spirit spoke again. . “ Speak to me the tribe ! —speak to me the family ! speak to me the pakeha !” The “pakeha,” however, was not at the moment inclined for conversation. The deep distress of the two women, the evident belief of all round him of the presence of the spirit, the “ dai'kness visible,” the novelty of the scene, gave rise to a state of feelings not favorable to the conversational powers. Besides, I felt reluctant to give too much apparent credence to an imposture, which at the very same time, by some strange impulse, I felt half ready to give way to. At last the brother spoke—“ How is it with you I —is it well with you in that country V The answer came—(the voice all through, it is to be remembered, was not the voice of the tohunga , but a si range melancholy souud, like the sound of the wind blowing into a hollow vessel,) —“ It is well with me—ray place is a good place.’’ The brother spoke agaiu—” Have you seen ——, and , and V’ (I forget the names mentioned.) “ Yes, they are all ivitli me.” A woman’s voice now from another part of the room anxiously cried out—“ Have you seen my sister V’ “Yes, I have seen her.” “Tell her my love is great towards her, and never will cease.” “Yes, I will tell.” Here the women burst into tears, and pakeha felt a strange swelling of the chest, which he could in no way account for. The Spirit spake again. “ Give my large tame pig to the priest (the pakeha was disenchanted at once),*‘and my double-gun.” Here the brother interrupted—“ Your gun is a. manaiunga, I shall keep it.” He is also disenchanted, thought I, but I was mistaken. He believed, but wished to keep the gun liis brother had carried so long. An idea now struck me that I could expose the imposture without showing palpable disbelief. “ We cannot find your book, ”■* said I, “ where have you concealed it ?” The answer instantly came, “ I concealed it between the tahuhu of my house and the thatch, straight over you as you? go in at the door.” Here the brother rushed out, — all was silence till his return. In five

minutes lie came back with the hook in hi s hand. I was beaten, but made another effort. “ What have you written in that book ?” said I. “ A great many things.” Tell me some of them.” “ Which of them ?” “ Any of them.” “ You are seeking for some information, what do you want to know? I will tell you.” Then suddenly—“ Farewell, 0 tribe! farewell, my family, I go !” Here a general and impressive cry of “ farewell” arose from every one in the house. “Farewell,” again cried the spirit, from deep beneath the ground! “Farewell,” again from high in air! “ Farewell/’ again came moaning through the distant darkness of the night. “ Farewell !” I was for a moment stunned. The deception was perfect. There was a dead silence at last. “ A ventriloquist,” said I ! —“ or—or — perhaps the devil.”

I was fagged and confused. It was past midnight; the company broke up, and I went to a house where a bed had been prepared for me. I wished to be quiet and alone ; but it was fated there should be little quiet that night. I.was just falling asleep, after having thought for some time on the extraordinary scenes I had witnessed, when I heard the report of a musket at some little distance, followed by the shouting of men and the screams of women. Out I rushed. I had a presentiment of some horrible catastrophe. Men were running by, hastily armed. I could get no information, so went with the stream. There was a bright flame beginning to spring up at a short jdistance, and every one appeared going in that direction ; I was soon there. A house had been set on fire to make a light. Before another house, close at hand, a dense circle of human beings was formed. I pushed my way through, and then saw, by the bright light of the flaming house, a scene which is still fresh before me : there in the verandah of the house, was an old grey-bearded man ; he knelt on one knee, and on the other he supported the dead body of the young girl who said she would follow the spirit to the spirit land. The delicate looking body from the waist upwards was bare and bloody ; the old man’s right arm was under the neck, the lower part of his long grey beard was dabbled with blood, his left hand was twisting his matted hair ; he did not weep, he howled, and the sound .was that of a heathen despair, knowing no hope. The young girl had secretly procured a loaded musket, tied a loop for her foot to the trigger, placed the muzzle to her tender breast, and blown herself to shatters. And the old man was her father, and a tohunga.. A calm voice now spoke beside me, “She has followed her rangativr ,” it said. I looked round, and saw the famous tohunga of the night.

ORIGINAL POETRY. [Tlie following Song waa sung last Friday evening at the Oddfellows’ Hall, Wellington, and as it is quite as local to Wanganui we give it insertion at the request of several friends'.] With deep respect I make my bow Again before you all, And welcome faces seen before In this here self-same Hall. Onr wish has been in coming here— One in its motive pure— In Wellington taste for music To work a perfect cure. In all the northern settlements The cry of war we hear. No matter ! if we firmly stand We’ve nothing much to fear; For if Sir George does once begin His enemies will be fewer, He’ll give the Maories such a pill That’ll work a perfect cure. New Zealand authors have come out Since I last time was here, And “ Malioe Leaves,” ’tis strange, now bud In this late time of year. The author, it seems dear to me, No Government “sops” allure ; He tells too much plain truth, I think, And proves a perfect cure. Provincial Session too’s going on, A little perhaps too fast; But that’s a trifle—it will pi'ovo As useful as the last. For the Doctor knows as well as you His policy is quite sure ; Tlie opposition’s all my eye ! A regular perfect cure. They say two members bolted For home the other day, And knock’d four horses useless i Before they got half way. Some say they spoke more freely Than Government could endure, And Fitz to “ bolt ” induced them. What a regular perfect cure ! So Volunteering’s gone to pot; You’re all afraid to drill. Why ! Wanganui beats you clean, And so it always will. I hope you’ll get a Major Like they’ve got, and be sure He’ll make you win the Champion Belt; He’ll work a perfect cure. I’m told that cattle shipments Are now-a-days no use, For though a goose may be a bird, A Bird is not a goose. Of southerly gales and Yankee ships Beware ! You may be sure To all rash speculators They’ll prove a perfect cure. Besides, your legislation Drives half your trade away, For people who ship cattle here Toll threepence a head must pay. Of course, if this is wanted, You’re acting right, I’m sure; To all inland stockowners You’ll prove a perfect cure. Stand boldly out against this tax, And in the end, I’m sure, You’ll make the Government knock it off, And wont that be a cure ! So now adieu ! what perhaps I’ve said You all have heard before, , But as I’ve given it kindly Why no one need feel sore. So, if again I meet you, You all wifi say, I’m sure, . That Small is a decent fellow, A regular perfect cure.

‘ An’ sure, it’s aisy enough to build a chimley,’ siad O’Rourke ; ye hold one brick up, an’ jist slip another one under it.’

Samuel Foote. —‘ Why are you for ever humming that sir ?’ Foote asked a man, without a sense of tune in him. ‘ Because it haunts me.’ ‘No wonder/ said Foote, £ yon are ever murdering it.’ Foote, praising the hospitality of the Irish, after one of his trips to the sister kingdom, a gentleman asked him whether he had ever been at Cork ? ‘ No, sir/ replied Foote, ‘ but I have seen many drawings of it.’