thou royal woman of the Pacific here. Thou art glorious
with ribbons flying gracefully in the gentle breeze of
Puna. Where art thou, my beloved, who art anointed with
the fragrance of glory? Much love to thee, who dost
draw out my soul as thou dwellest in the shady
bread-fruits of Lahaina. O thou who art joined to my
affection, who art knit to me in the hot days of
Lahainaluna!

"Hark! When I returned great was my love. I was
overwhelmed with love like one drowning. When I lay
down to sleep I could not sleep; my mind floated after
thee. Like the strong south wind of Lahaina, such is
the strength of my love to thee, when it comes. Hear
me; at the time the bell rings for meeting, on
Wednesday, great was my love to you. I dropped my hoe
and ran away from my work. I secretly ran to the stream
of water, and there I wept for my love to thee.
Hearken, my love resembles the cold water far inland.
Forsake not thou this our love. Keep it quietly, as I
do keep it quietly here."

Here is another from one of the students in the missionary school:

"Love to thee, by reason of whom my heart sleeps not
night nor day, all the days of my dwelling here. O thou
beautiful one, for whom my love shall never cease. Here
also is this--at the time I heard you were going to
Waihekee, I was enveloped in great love. And when I had
heard you had really gone, great was my regret for you,
and exceeding great my love. My appearance was like a
sick person who cannot answer when spoken to. I would
not go down to the sea again, because I supposed you
had not returned. I feared lest I should see all the
places where you and I conversed together, and walked
together, and I should fall in the streets on account
of the greatness of my love to you. I however did go
down, and I was continually longing with love to you.
Your father said to me, Won't you eat with us? I
refused, saying I was full. But the truth was I had
eaten nothing. My great love to you, that was the thing
which could alone satisfy me. Presently, however, I
went to the place of K----, and there I heard you had
arrived. I was a little refreshed by hearing this. But
my eyes still hung down. I longed to see you, but could
not find you, though I waited till dark. Now, while I
am writing, my tears are dropping down for you; now my
tears are my friends, and my affection to you, O thou
who wilt forever be loved. Here, also is this: consent
thou to my desire, and write me, that I may know your
love. My love to you is great, thou splendid flower of
Lana-kahula."

Cheever seems to accept these letters as proof that love is universal,
and everywhere the same. He overlooks several important
considerations. Were these letters penned by natives or by
half-castes, with foreign blood in their veins and inherited
capacities of feeling? Unless we know that, no scientific deduction is
allowable. These natives are very imitative. They learn our music
easily and rapidly, and with the art of writing and reading they
readily acquire our amorous phrases. A certain Biblical tone,
suggesting the Canticles, is noticeable. The word "heart" is used in a
way foreign to Polynesian thought, and apart from these details, is
there anything in these letters that goes beyond selfish longing and
craving for enjoyment? Is there anything in them that may not be
summed up in the language of appetite: "Thou art very desirable--I
desire thee--I grieve, and weep, and refuse to eat, because I cannot
possess thee now?" Such longing, so intense and fiery[191] that it
seems as if all the waters of the ocean could not quench it,
constitutes a phase of all amorous passion, from the lowest up to the
highest. Philosophers have, indeed, disputed as to which is the more
violent and irrepressible, animal passion or sentimental love.
Schopenhauer believed the latter, Lichtenberg the former.[192]


MAORIS OF NEW ZEALAND

Hawaii has brought us quite near the coast of America, whose red men
will form the subject of our next chapter. But, before passing on to
the Indians, we must once more return to the neighborhood of
Australia, to the island of New Zealand, which offers some points of
great interest to a student of love and a collector of love-stories.
We have seen that the islands of Torres Straits, north of Australia,
have natives and customs utterly unlike those of Australia. We shall
now see that south of Australia, too, there is an island (or rather
two islands), whose inhabitants are utterly un-Australian in manners
and customs, as well as in origin. The Maoris (that is, natives) of
New Zealand have traditions that their ancestors came from Hawaii
(Hawaiki), disputes about land having induced them to emigrate. They
may have done so by way of other islands, on some of their large
canoes, aided by the trade winds.[193] The Maoris are certainly
Polynesians, and they resemble Hawaiians and Tongans in many respects.
Their ferocity and cannibalism put them on a level with Fijians,
making them a terror to navigators, while in some other respects they
appear to have been somewhat superior to most of their Polynesian
cousins, the Tongans excepted. The Maoris and Tongans best bear out
Waitz-Gerland's assertion that "the Polynesians rank intellectually
considerably higher than all other uncivilized peoples." The same
authorities are charmed by the romantic love-stories of the Maoris,
and they certainly are charming and romantic. Sir George Grey's
_Polynesian Mythology_ contains four of these stories, of which I will
give condensed versions, taking care, as usual, to preserve all
pertinent details and intimations of higher qualities.


THE MAIDEN OF ROTORUA

There was a girl of high rank named Hine-Moa. She was of
rare beauty, and was so prized by her family that they would
not betroth her to anyone. Such fame attended her beauty and
rank that many of the men wanted her; among them a chief
named Tutanekai and his elder brothers.

Tutanekai had built an elevated balcony where, with his
friend Tiki, he used to play the horn and the pipe at night.
On calm nights the music was wafted to the village and
reached the ears of the beautiful Hine-Moa, whose heart was
gladdened by it, and who said to herself, "Ah, that is the
music of Tutanekai which I hear."

She and Tutanekai had met each other on those occasions when
all the people of Eotorua come together. In those great
assemblies they had often glanced each at the other, to the
heart of each of them the other appeared pleasing, and
worthy of love, so that in the breast of each there grew up
a secret passion for the other. Nevertheless, Tutanekai
could not tell whether he might venture to approach Hine-Moa
to take her hand, to see would she press his in return,
because, said he, "Perhaps I may be by no means agreeable to
her;" on the other hand, Hine-Moa's heart said to her, "If
you send one of your female friends to tell him of your
love, perchance he will not be pleased with you."

However, after they had thus met for many, many days, and
had long fondly glanced at each other, Tutanekai sent a
messenger to Hine-Moa, to tell of his love; and when
Hine-Moa had seen the messenger, she said, "Eh-hu! have we
then each loved alike?"

Some time after this, a dispute arose among the brothers as
to which of them the girl loved. Each one claimed that he
had pressed the hand of Hine-Moa and that she had pressed
his in return. But the elder brothers sneered at Tutanekai's
claims (for he was an illegitimate son), saying, "Do you
think she would take any notice of such a lowborn fellow as
you?" But in reality Tutanekai had already arranged for an
elopement with the girl, and when she asked, "What shall be
the sign by which I shall know that I should then run to
you?" he said to her, "A trumpet will be heard sounding
every night, it will be I who sound it, beloved--paddle then
your canoe to that place."

Now always about the middle of the night Tutanekai and his
friend went up into their balcony and played. Hine-Moa heard
them and vastly desired to paddle over in her canoe; but her
friends suspecting something, had all the canoes on the
shore of the lake. At last, one evening, she again heard the
horn of Tutanekai, and the young and beautiful chieftainess
felt as if an earthquake shook her to make her go to the
beloved of her heart. At last she thought, perhaps I might
be able to swim across. So she took six large, dry, empty
gourds as floats, lest she should sink in the water, threw
oft her clothes, and plunged into the water. It was dark,
and her only guide was the sound of her lover's music.
Whenever her limbs became tired she rested, the gourds
keeping her afloat. At last she reached the island on which
her lover dwelt. Near the shore there was a hot spring, into
which she plunged, partly to warm her trembling body, and
partly also, perhaps, from modesty, at the thoughts of
meeting Tutanekai.

Whilst the maiden was thus warming herself in the hot
spring, Tutanekai happened to feel thirsty and sent his
servant to fetch him a calabash of water. The servant came
to dip it from the lake near where the girl was hiding. She
called out to him in a gruff voice, like that of a man,
asking him for some to drink, and he gave her the calabash,
which she purposely threw down and broke. The servant went
back for another calabash and again she broke it in the same
way. The servant returned and told his master that a man in
the hot spring had broken all his calabashes. "How did the
rascal dare to break my calabashes?" exclaimed the young
man. "Why, I shall die of rage."

He threw on some clothes, seized his club, and hurried to
the hot spring, calling out "Where's that fellow who broke
my calabashes?" And Hine-Moa knew the voice, and the sound
of it was that of the beloved of her heart; and she hid
herself under the overhanging rocks of the hot spring; but
her hiding was hardly a real hiding, but rather a bashful
concealing of herself from Tutanekai, that he might not find
her at once, but only after trouble and careful searching
for her; so he went feeling about along the banks of the hot
spring, searching everywhere, whilst she lay coyly hid under
the ledges of the rock, peeping out, wondering when she
would be found. At last he caught hold of a hand, and cried
out "Hollo, who's this?" And Hine-Moa answered, "It's I,
Tutanekai;" And he said, "But who are you?--who's I?" Then
she spoke louder and said., "It's I, 'tis Hine-Moa." And he
said "Ho! ho! ho! can such in very truth be the case? Let us
two then go to the house." And she answered, "Yes," and she
rose up in the water as beautiful as the wild white hawk,
and stepped upon the edge of the bath as the shy white
crane; and he threw garments over her and took her, and they
proceeded to his house, and reposed there; and thenceforth,
according to the ancient laws of the Maori, they were man
and wife.


THE MAN ON THE TREE

A young man named Maru-tuahu left home in quest of his father, who had
abandoned his mother before the son was born because he had been
unjustly accused of stealing sweet potatoes from another chief.
Maru-tuahu took along a slave, and they carried with them a spear for
killing birds for food on the journey through the forest. One morning,
after they had been on the way a month, he happened to be up in a
forest tree when two young girls, daughters of a chief, came along.
They saw the slave sitting at the root of the tree, and sportively
contested with each other whose slave he should be.

All this time Maru-tuahu was peeping down at the two girls from the
top of the tree; and they asked the slave, saying, "Where is your
master?" He answered, "I have no master but him," Then the girls
looked about, and there was a cloak lying on the ground, and a heap of
dead birds, and they kept on asking, "Where is he?" but it was not
long before a flock of Tuis settled on the tree where Maru-tuahu was
sitting; he speared at them and struck one of the birds, which made
the tree ring with its cries; the girls heard it, and looking up, the
youngest saw the young chief sitting in the top boughs of the tree;
and she at once called up to him, "Ah! you shall be my husband;" but
the eldest sister exclaimed, "You shall be mine," and they began
jesting and disputing between themselves which should have him for a
husband, for he was a very handsome young man.

Then the two girls called up to him to come down from the tree, and
down he came, and dropped upon the ground, and pressed his nose
against the nose of each of the young girls. They then asked him to
come to their village with them; to which he consented, but said, "You
two go on ahead, and leave me and my slave, and we will follow you
presently;" and the girls said, "Very well, do you come after us."
Maru-tuahu then told his slave to make a present to the girls of the
food they had collected, and he gave them two bark baskets of pigeons,
preserved in their own fat, and they went off to their village with
these.

As soon as the girls were gone, Maru-tuahu went to a stream, washed
his hair, and combed it carefully, tied it in a knot, and stuck fifty
red Kaka feathers and other plumes in his head, till he looked as
handsome as the large-crested cormorant. The young girls soon came
back from the village to meet their so-called husband, and when they
saw him in his new head-dress and attired in a chief's cloak they felt
deeply in love with him and they said, "Come along to our father's
village with us." On the way they found out from the slave that his
master was the far-famed Maru-tuahu, and they replied: "Dear, dear, we
had not the least idea that it was he," Then they ran off to tell his
father (for this was the place where his father had gone and married
again) that he was coming. The son was warmly welcomed. All the young
girls ran outside, waved the corners of their cloaks and cried out,
"Welcome, welcome, make haste."

Then there was a great feast, at which ten dogs were eaten. But all
this time the two girls were quarrelling with each other as to which
of them should have the young chief for a husband. The elder girl was
plain, but thought herself pretty, and could not see the least reason
why he should be frightened at her; but Maru-tuahu did not like her on
account of her plainness, and her pretty sister kept him as her
husband.


LOVE IN A FORTRESS

A chief named Rangirarunga had a daughter so celebrated for her beauty
that the fame of it had reached all parts of these islands. A young
hero named Takarangi also heard of her beauty, and it may be that his
heart sometimes dwelt long on the thoughts of such loveliness. They
belonged to different tribes, and war broke out between them, during
which the fortress of the girl's father was besieged. Soon the
inhabitants were near dying from want of food and water. At last the
old chief Rangirarunga, overcome by thirst, stood on the top of the
defences and cried out to the enemy: "I pray you to give me one drop
of water." Some were willing, and got calabashes of water, but others
were angry thereat and broke them in their hands. The old chief then
appealed to the leader of the enemy, who was Takarangi, and asked him
if he could calm the wrath of these fierce men. Takarangi replied:
"This arm of mine is one which no dog dares to bite." But what he was
really thinking was, "That dying old man is the father of Rau-mahora,
of that lovely maid. Ah, how should I grieve if one so young and
innocent should die tormented with the want of water." Then he filled
a calabash with fresh cool water, and the fierce warriors looked on in
wonder and silence while he carried it to the old man and his
daughter. They drank, both of them, and Taka-rangi gazed eagerly at
the young girl, and she too looked eagerly at Takarangi; long time
gazed they each one at the other; and as the warriors of the army of
Takarangi looked on, lo, he had climbed up and was sitting at the
young maiden's side; and they said, amongst themselves, "O comrades,
our lord Takarangi loves war, but one would think he likes Rau-mahora
almost as well."

At last a sudden thought struck the heart of the aged chief; so he
said to his daughter, "O my child, would it be pleasing to you to have
this young chief for a husband?" And the young girl said, "I like
him." Then the old man consented that his daughter should be given as
a bride to Takarangi, and he took her as his wife. Thence was that war
brought to an end, and the army of Takarangi dispersed.


STRATAGEM OF AN ELOPEMENT

Two tribes had long been at war, but as neither gained a permanent
victory peace was at last concluded. Then one day the chief Te Ponga,
with some of his followers, approached the fortress of their former
enemies. They were warmly welcomed, ovens were heated, food cooked,
served in baskets and distributed. But the visitors did not eat much,
in order that their waists might be slim when they stood up in the
ranks of the dancers, and that they might look as slight as if their
waists were almost severed in two.

As soon as it began to get dark the villagers danced, and whilst they
sprang nimbly about, Puhihuia, the young daughter of the village
chief, watched them till her time came to enter the ranks. She
performed her part beautifully; her fall-orbed eyes seemed clear and
brilliant as the full moon rising in the horizon, and while the
strangers looked at the young girl they all were quite overpowered
with her beauty; and Te Ponga, their young chief, felt his heart grow
wild with emotion when he saw so much loveliness before him.

Then up sprang the strangers to dance in their turn. Te Ponga waited
his opportunity, and when the time came, danced so beautifully that
the people of the village were surprised at his agility and grace, and
as for the young girl, Puhihuia, her heart conceived a warm passion
for Te Ponga.

When the dance was concluded, everyone, overcome with weariness, went
to sleep--all except Te Ponga, who lay tossing from side to side,
unable to sleep, from his great love for the maiden, and devising
scheme after scheme by which he might have an opportunity of
conversing with her alone. At last he decided to carry out a plan
suggested by his servant. The next night, when he had retired in the
chief's house, he called this servant to fetch him some water; but the
servant, following out the plot, had concealed himself and refused to
respond. Then the chief said to his daughter, "My child, run and fetch
some water for our guest." The maiden rose, and taking a calabash,
went off to fetch some water, and no sooner did Te Ponga see her start
off than he too arose and went out, feigning to be angry with his
slave and going to give him a beating; but as soon as he was out of
the house he went straight off after the girl. He did not well know
the path to the well, but was guided by the voice of the maiden, who
sang merrily as she went along.

When she arrived at the fountain she heard someone behind her, and
turning suddenly around she beheld the young chief. Astonished, she
asked, "What can have brought you here?" He answered, "I came here for
a draught of water." But the girl replied, "Ha, indeed! Did not I come
here to draw water for you? Could not you have remained at my father's
house until I brought the water for you?" Then Te Ponga answered, "You
are the water that I thirsted for." And as the maiden listened to his
words, she thought within herself, "He, then, has fallen in love with
me," and she sat down, and he placed himself by her side, and they
conversed together, and to each of them the words of the other seemed
most pleasant and engaging. Before they separated they arranged a time
when they might escape together, and then they returned to the
village.

When the time came for Te Ponga to leave his host he directed some
dozen men of his to go to the landing-place in the harbor, prepare one
large canoe in which he and his followers might escape, and then to
take the other canoes and cut the lashings which made the top sides
fast to the hulls. The next morning he announced that he must return
to his own country. The chief and his men accompanied him part of the
way to the harbor. Puhihuia and the other girls had stolen a little
way along the road, laughing and joking with the visitors. The chief,
seeing his daughter going on after he had turned back, called out,
"Children, children, come back here!" Then the other girls stopped and
ran back toward the village, but as to Puhihuia, her heart beat but to
the one thought of escaping with her beloved Te Ponga. So she began to
run. Te Ponga and his men joined in the swift flight, and as soon as
they had reached the water they jumped into their canoe, seized their
paddles and shot away, swift as a dart from a string. When the
pursuing villagers arrived at the beach they laid hold of another
canoe, but found that the lashings of all had been cut, so that
pursuit was impossible. Thus the party that had come to make peace
returned joyfully to their own country, with the enemy's young
chieftainess, while their foes stood like fools upon the shore,
stamping with rage and threatening them in vain.

These stories are undoubtedly romantic; but again I ask, are they
stories of romantic love? There is romance and quaint local color in
the feat of the girl who, reversing the story of Hero and Leander,
swam over to her lover; in the wooing of the two girls proposing to an
unseen man up a tree; in the action of the chief who saved the
beautiful girl and her father from dying of thirst, and acted so that
his men came to the conclusion he must love her "almost as well" as
war; in the slyly planned elopement of Te Ponga. But there is nothing
to indicate the quality of the love--to show an "illumination of the
senses by the soul," or a single altruistic trait. Even such touches
of egoistic sentimentality as the phrase "To the heart of each of them
the other appeared pleasing and worthy, so that in the breast of each
there grew up a secret passion for the other;" and again, "he felt his
heart grow wild with emotion, when he saw so much loveliness before
him," are quite certainly a product of Grey's fancy, for Polynesians,
as we have seen, do not speak of the "heart" in that sense, and such a
word as "emotions" is entirely beyond their powers of abstraction and
conception. Grey tells us that he collected different portions of his
legends from different natives, in very distant parts of the country,
at long intervals, and afterward rearranged and rewrote them. In this
way he succeeded in giving us some interesting legends, but a
phonographic record of the _fragments_ related to him, without any
embroidering of "heart-affairs," "wild emotions," and other adornments
of modern novels, would have rendered them infinitely more valuable to
students of the evolution of emotions. It is a great pity that so few
of the recorders of aboriginal tales followed this principle; and it
is strange that such neatly polished, arranged, and modernized tales
as these should have been accepted so long as illustrations of
primitive love.[194]


MAORI LOVE-POEMS

Besides their stories of love, the Maoris of New Zealand also have
poems, some accompanied with (often obscene) pantomimes, others
without accompaniment. Shortland (146-55), Taylor (310), and others
have collected and translated some of these poems, of which the
following are the best. Taylor cites this one:

The tears gush from my eyes,
My eyelashes are wet with tears;
But stay, my tears, within,
Lest you should be called mine.

Alas! I am betrothed (literally, my hands are bound);
It is for Te Maunee
That my love devours me.
But I may weep indeed,
Beloved one, for thee,
Like Tiniran's lament
For his favorite pet Tutunui
Which was slain by Ngae.
Alas!

Shortland gives these specimens of the songs that are frequently
accompanied by immodest gestures of the body. Some of them are "not
sufficiently decent to bear translating." The one marked (4) is
interesting as an attempt at hyperbole.

(1)

Your body is at Waitemata,
But your spirit came hither
And aroused me from my sleep.

(4)

Tawera is the bright star
Of the morning.
Not less beautiful is the
Jewel of my heart.

(5)

The sun is setting in his cave,
Touching as he descends (the
Land) where dwells my mate,
He who is whirled away
To southern seas.

More utilitarian are (6) and (7), in which a woman asks "Who will
marry a man too lazy to till the ground for food?" And a man wants to
know "Who will marry a woman too lazy to weave garments?" Very
unlover-like is the following:

I don't like the habits of woman.
When she goes out--
She _Kuikuis_
She _Koakoas_
She chatters
The very ground is terrified,
And the rats run away.
Just so.

More poetic are the _waiata_, which are sung without the aid of any
action. The following ode was composed by a young woman forsaken by
her lover:

Look where the mist
Hangs over Pukehina.
There is the path
By which went my love.

Turn back again hither,
That may be poured out
Tears from my eyes.

It was not I who first spoke of love.
You it was who made advances to me
When I was but a little thing.

Therefore was my heart made wild.
This is my farewell of love to thee.

A young woman, who had been carried away prisoner from Tuhua, gives
vent to her longing in these lines:

"My regret is not to be expressed. Tears like a spring
gush from my eyes. I wonder whatever is Te Kaiuku [her
lover] doing: he who deserted me. Now I climb upon the
ridge of Mount Parahaki; from whence is clear the view
of the island Tahua. I see with regret the lofty Taumo,
where dwells Tangiteruru. If I were there, the shark's
tooth would hang from my ear. How fine, how beautiful,
should I look. But see whose ship is that tacking? Is
it yours? O Hu! you husband of Pohiwa, sailing away on
the tide to Europe.

"O Tom! pray give me some of your fine things; for
beautiful are the clothes of the sea-god.

"Enough of this. I must return to my rags, and to my
nothing-at-all."

In this case the loss of her finery seems to trouble the girl a good
deal more than the loss of her lover. In another ode cited by
Shortland a deserted girl, after referring to her tearful eyes, winds
up with the light-hearted

Now that you are absent in your native land,
The day of regret will, perhaps, end.

There is a suggestion of Sappho in the last of these odes I shall
cite:

"Love does not torment forever. It came on me like the
fire which rages sometimes at Hukanai. If this
(beloved) one is near me, do not suppose, O Kiri, that
my sleep is sweet. I lie awake the live-long night, for
love to prey on me in secret.

"It shall never be confessed, lest it be heard of by
all. The only evidence shall be seen on my cheeks.

"The plain which extends to Tauwhare: that path I trod
that I might enter the house of Rawhirawhwi. Don't be
angry with me, O madam [addressed to Rawhirawhwi's
wife]; I am only a stranger. For you there is the body
(of your husband). For me there remains only the shadow
of desire."

"In the last two lines," writes Shortland, "the poetess coolly
requests the wife of the person for whom she acknowledges an unlawful
passion not to be angry with her, because 'she--the lawful wife--has
always possession of the person of her husband; while hers is only an
empty, Platonic sort of love.' This is rather a favorite sentiment,
and is not unfrequently introduced similarly into love-songs of this
description."


THE WOOING-HOUSE

It is noticeable that these love-poems are all by females, and most
frequently by deserted females. This does not speak well for the
gallantry or constancy of the men. Perhaps they lacked those qualities
to offset the feminine lack of coyness. In the first of our Maori
stories the maiden swims to the man, who calmly awaits her, playing
his horn. In the second, a man is simultaneously proposed to by two
girls, before he has time to come off his perch on the tree. This
arouses a suspicion which is confirmed by E. Tregear's revelations
regarding Maori courtship _(Journ. Anthrop. Inst_., 1889):

"The girl generally began the courting. I have often
seen the pretty little love-letter fall at the feet of
a lover--it was a little bit of flax made into a sort
of half-knot--'yes' was made by pulling the knot
tight--'no' by leaving the matrimonial noose alone.
Now, I am sorry to say, it is often thrown as an
invitation for love-making of an improper character.
Sometimes in the _Whare-Matoro_ (the wooing-house), a
building in which the young of both sexes assemble for
play, songs, dances, etc., there would be at stated
times a meeting; when the fires burned low a girl would
stand up in the dark and say, 'I love So-and-so, I want
him for my husband,' If he coughed (sign of assent), or
said 'yes' it was well; if only dead silence, she
covered her head with her robe and was ashamed. This
was not often, as she generally had managed to
ascertain (either by her own inquiry or by sending a
girl friend) if the proposal was acceptable. On the
other hand, sometimes a mother would attend and say 'I
want So-and-so for my son.' If not acceptable there was
general mocking, and she was told to let the young
people have their house (the wooing-house) to
themselves. Sometimes, if the unbetrothed pair had not
secured the consent of the parents, a late suitor would
appear on the scene, and the poor girl got almost
hauled to death between them all. One would get a leg,
another an arm, another the hair, etc. Girls have been
injured for life in these disputes, or even murdered by
the losing party."


LIBERTY OF CHOICE AND RESPECT FOR WOMEN

The assertion that "the girl generally began the courting" must not
mislead us into supposing that Maori women were free, as a rule, to
marry the husbands of their choice. As Tregear's own remarks indicate,
the advances were either of an improper character, or the girl had
made sure beforehand that there was no impediment in the way of her
proposal. The Maori proverb that as the fastidious Kahawai fish
selects the hook which pleases it best, so a woman chooses a man out
of many (on the strength of which alone Westermarck, 217, claims
liberty of choice for Maori women) must also refer to such liaisons
before marriage, for all the facts indicate that the original Maori
customs allowed women no choice whatever in regard to marriage. Here
the brother's consent had to be obtained, as Shortland remarks (118).
Many of the girls were betrothed in infancy, and many others married
at an age--twelve to thirteen--when the word choice could have had no
rational meaning. Tregear informs us that if a couple had not been
betrothed as children, everyone in the tribe claimed a right to
interfere, and the only way the couple could get their own way was by
eloping. Darwin was informed by Mantell "that until recently almost
every girl in New Zealand who was pretty or promised to be pretty was
tapu to some chief;" and we further read that

"when a chief desires to take to himself a wife, he fixes
his attention upon her, and takes her, if need be, by force,
without consulting her feelings and wishes or those of
anyone else."

This is confirmed by William Brown, in his book on the aborigines. But
the most graphic and harrowing description of Maori maltreatment of
women is given by the Rev. E. Taylor:

"The _ancient and most general way_ of obtaining a wife
was for the gentleman to summon his friends and make a
regular _taua_, or fight, to carry off the lady by
force, and oftentimes with great violence.... If the
girl had eloped with someone on whom she had placed her
affection, then her father and brother would refuse
their consent," and fight to get her back. "The
unfortunate female, thus placed between two contending
parties, would soon be divested of every rag of
clothing, and would then be seized by her head, hair,
or limbs," her "cries and shrieks would be unheeded by
her savage friends. In this way the poor creature was
often nearly torn to pieces. These savage contests
sometimes ended in the strongest party bearing off in
triumph the naked person of the bride. In some cases,
after a long season of suffering, she recovered, to be
given to a person for whom she had no affection, in
others to die within a few hours or days from the
injuries which she had received. But it was not
uncommon for the weaker party, when they found they
could not prevail, for one of them to put an end to the
contest by suddenly plunging his spear into the woman's
bosom to hinder her from becoming the property of
another."

After giving this account on page 163 of the Maori's "ancient and
_most general_ way" of obtaining a wife--which puts him below the most
ferocious brutes, since those at least spare their females--the same
writer informs us on page 338 that "there are few races who treat
their women with more deference than the Maori!" If that is so, it can
only be due to the influence of the whites, since all the testimony
indicates that the unadulterated Maori--with whom alone we are here
concerned--did not treat them "with great respect," nor pay any
deference to them whatever. The cruel method of capture described
above was so general that, as Taylor himself tells us, the native term
for courtship was _he aru aru_, literally, a following or pursuing
after; and there was also a special expression for this struggling of
two suitors for a girl--_he puna rua_. As for their "great respect"
for women, they do not allow them to eat with the men. A chief, says
Angas (II., 110), "will sometimes permit his favorite wife to eat with
him, though not out of the same dish." Ellis relates (III., 253) that
New Zealanders are "addicted to the greatest vices that stain the
human character--treachery, cannibalism, infanticide, and murder." The
women caught in battle, as well as the men, were, he says, enslaved or
eaten. "Sometimes they chopped off the legs and arms and otherwise
mangled the body before they put the victim to death." Concubines had
to do service as household drudges. A man on dying would bequeath his
wives to his brother. No land was bequeathed to female children. The
real Maori feeling toward women is brought out in the answer given to
a sister who went to her brothers to ask for a share of the lands of
the family: "Why, you're only a slave to blow up your husband's fire."
(Shortland, 119, 255-58.)


MAORI MORALS AND CAPACITY FOR LOVE

When Hawkesworth visited New Zealand with Captain Cook, he one day
came accidentally across some women who were fishing, and who had
thrown off their last garments. When they saw him they were as
confused and distressed as Diana and her nymphs; they hid among the
rocks and crouched down in the sea until they had made and put on
girdles of seaweeds (456). "There are instances," writes William Brown
(36-37), "of women committing suicide from its being said that they
had been seen naked. A chief's wife took her own life because she had
been hung up by the heels and beaten in the presence of the whole
tribe."

Shall we conclude from this that the Maoris were genuinely modest and
perhaps capable of that delicacy in regard to sexual matters which is
a prerequisite of sentimental love? What is modesty? The _Century
Dictionary_ says it is "decorous feeling or behavior; purity or
delicacy of thought or manner; reserve proceeding from pure or chaste
character;" and the _Encyclopaedic Dictionary_ defines it as
"chastity; purity of manners; decency; freedom from lewdness or
un-chastity." Now, Maori modesty, if such it maybe called, was only
skin deep. Living in a colder climate than other Polynesians, it
became customary among them to wear more clothing; and what custom
prescribes must be obeyed to the letter among all these peoples, be
the ordained dress merely a loin cloth or a necklace, or a cover for
the back only, or full dress. It does not argue true modesty on the
part of a Maori woman to cover those parts of her body which custom
orders her to cover, any more than it argues true modesty on the part
of an Oriental barbarian to cover her face only, on meeting a man,
leaving the rest of her body exposed. Nor does suicide prove anything,
since it is known that the lower races indulge in self-slaughter for
as trivial causes as they do in the slaughter of others. True modesty,
as defined above, is not a Maori characteristic. The evidence on this