William Pember Reeves

FIRE AND WATER

A long time ago, that is to say, in the twilight of Maori tradition, the chief Ngatoro and his wife, attended by a slave, landed on the shores of the Bay of Plenty. Thence they wandered inland through forests and over ferny downs, reaching at last a great central lake, beyond which high mountains stood sentry in the very heart of the island. One of these snow-clad summits they resolved to gain; but half-way on the climb the slave fell ill of sheer cold. Then the chief bethought him that in the Bay of Plenty he had noticed an island steaming and smoking, boiling with heat. Hot coals brought thence might warm the party and save the slave’s life. So Ngatoro, who was magician as well as chieftain, looked eastward and made incantations; and soon the fire rushing through the air fell at his feet. Another more prosaic version of the tale says that, Maori fashion, the kind-hearted hero despatched a messenger to bring the fire; he sent his wife. She, traversing land and sea at full speed, was soon back from White Island with a calabash full of glowing embers. From this, as she hurried along, sparks dropped here and there on her track. And wherever these fell the earth caught fire, hot springs bubbled up, and steam-jets burst through the fern. All her haste, however, went for nought; the slave died. Furious at his loss, her lord and master flung the red embers down one of the craters of Mount Tongariro, and from that day to this the mountains of Taupo have been filled with volcanic fires, smouldering or breaking out in eruption.[1]Such is one of the many legends which have grown up round the lakes and summits of the most famous volcanic province of New Zealand. It indicates the Maori understanding that the high cones south-west of Lake Taupo are one end of a chain of volcanic forces, and that the other end is White Island (Whaka-ari), the isolated crater which lifts its head above the sea twenty-seven miles out in the wide Bay of Plenty. It is a natural sulphur factory. Seen from the shores of the bay it looks peaceful enough. Its only peculiarity seems to be a white cloud rising high or streaming on the wind to leeward from the tip of its cone. At a distance the cloud appears not unlike other white clouds; but in the brightest weather it never vanishes away. I once spent three sunny spring days in riding round the great arc of the Bay of Plenty, often cantering for miles together along the sandy beach. There, out to sea, lay White Island always in view and always flying its white vapour-flag. In reality the quiet-looking islet seethes with fiery life. Seen at close quarters it is found to be a shell, which from one side looks comically like the well-worn stump of a hollow tooth. It is a barren crater near a thousand feet high, enclosing what was a lake and is now shrunk to a warm green pool, ringed with bright yellow sulphur. Hot springs boil and roar on the crater-lake’s surface, ever sending up columns of hissing and roaring steam many hundred feet into the air. At times, as in 1886, the steam has shot to the almost incredible height of fifteen thousand feet, a white pillar visible a hundred miles away. You may thrust a stick through the floor of the crater into the soft hot paste beneath. The walls of the abyss glow with heat, steam-jets hiss from their fissures, and on the outside is a thick crust of sulphur. The reek of the pit’s fumes easily outdoes that of the blackest and most vicious of London fogs. “It is not that soft smell of Roto-rua,” wrote Mr. Buddle, who smelt the place in 1906, “but an odour of sulphurous acid which sticks in one’s throat.” Yet commerce once tried to lay hands on White Island, and men were found willing to try and work amid its noisome activities. Commerce, however, failed to make Tartarus pay. Not far away from White Island lies Mayor Island, which once upon a time must have been an even stranger spot. It also is a high crater. On the rim of its yawning pit are to be seen the ruins of a Maori stockade, which, perched in mid-air and approachable only over the sea, must have been a hard nut for storming parties to crack in the bygone days of tribal wars. All is quiet now; the volcano has died out and the wars have become old tales.

[1] After writing this page I found that Mr. Percy Smith, formerly Surveyor-General, gives another version of the legend. He tells how the hero Ngatoro, landing on the shore of the Bay of Plenty, went inland, and, with a companion named Ngauruhoe, climbed Tongariro. Near the summit, Ngauruhoe died of cold, and Ngatoro, himself half-frozen, shouted to his sisters far away in the legendary island of Hawaiki to bring fire. His cry reached them far across the ocean, and they started to his rescue. Whenever they halted—as at White Island—and lit their camp fire, geysers spouted up from the ground. But when at length they reached Tongariro, it was only to find that Ngatoro, tired of waiting for them, had gone back to the coast.

A fourth version of the legend is contained in a paper by Mr. H. Hill in vol. xxiv. of the Transactions of the N.Z. Institute.

Needless to say, the scenes between Ruapehu and the sea-coast are not all as terrific as this. The main charm of the volcanic province is, indeed, its variety. Though in a sense its inhabitants live on the lid of a boiler—a boiler, too, that is perforated with steam holes—still it is a lid between five thousand and six thousand square miles in size. This leaves ample room for broad tracts where peace reigns amid apparent solidity and security. Though it is commonly called the Hot Lakes District, none of its larger lakes are really hot, that is to say hot throughout; they are distinctly cold. Roto-mahana before it was blown up in the eruption of 1886 was in no part less than lukewarm; but in those days Roto-mahana only covered 185 acres. At Ohinemutu there is a pool the water of which is unmistakably hot throughout; but it is not more than about a hundred yards long. Usually the hot lagoons are patchy in temperature—boiling at one end, cool at the other. Perhaps the official title, Thermal Springs District, is more accurate. The hot water comes in the form of springs, spouts, and geysers. Boiling pools there are in numbers, veritable cauldrons. Boiling springs burst up on the beaches of the cold lakes, or bubble up through the chilly waters. The bather can lie floating, as the writer has, with his feet in hot and his head in cold water. Very agreeable the sensation is as the sunshine pours from a blue sky on to a lagoon fringed with ferns and green foliage. There are places where the pedestrian fording a river may feel his legs chilled to the marrow by the swift current, and yet find the sandy bottom on which he is treading almost burn the soles of his feet. The first white traveller to describe the thermal springs noted a cold cascade falling on an orifice from which steam was puffing at intervals. The resultant noise was as strange as the sight. So do hot and cold mingle and come into conflict in the thermal territory.

“THE DRAGON’S MOUTH”

The area of this hydro-thermal district, which Mr. Percy Smith, the best living authority on the subject, calls the Taupo volcanic zone, is roundly about six thousand square miles. As already said, part of it lies under the sea, above which only White Island, Mayor Island, and Whale Island rise to view. Its shape, if we could see the whole of it, would probably be a narrow oval, like an old-fashioned silver hand-mirror with a slender handle. In the handle two active volcanoes lift their heads—Ruapehu, and Tongariro with its three cones. At the other end of the mirror White Island stands up, incessantly at work. This exhausts the list of active volcanoes; but there are six or seven extinct or quiescent volcanoes of first-class importance. Mayor Island, in the Bay of Plenty, is a dead crater rimmed by walls five miles round and nearly 1300 feet high, enclosing a terrible chasm lined with dark obsidian. Mount Edgecombe, an admirably regular cone, easily seen from the coast, has two craters in its summit; and the most appalling explosion ever known in the country occurred in the tract covered by Mount Tarawera and the Roto-mahana Lake. How terrific were the forces displayed by these extinct volcanoes in ages past may be judged by the vast extent of country overlaid by the pumice and volcanic clay belched forth from their craters. Not only is the volcanic zone generally overspread with this, only sparse patches escaping, but pumice is found outside its limits. Within these, it is, loosely speaking, pumice, pumice everywhere, dry, gritty, and useless,—a thin scattering of pumice on the hill-tops and steep slopes,—deep strata of pumice where it has been washed down into valleys and river terraces. Mingled with good soil it is mischievous, though two or three grasses, notably that called Chewing’s fescue, grow well in the mixture. Unmixed pumice is porous and barren. Fortunately the tracts of deep pumice are limited. They soak up the ample rainfall; grass grows, but soon withers; in dry weather a sharp tug will drag a tussock from the roots in the loose, thirsty soil. The popular belief is that it only needs a long-continued process of stamping and rolling to make these pumice expanses hold water and become fertile. Those who think thus point out that around certain lonely lagoons, where wild horses and cattle have been wont to camp and roll, rich green patches of grass are found. Less hopeful observers hold that the destiny of the pumice country is probably to grow trees, fruit-bearing and other, whose deep roots will reach far down to the water. Already the Government, acting on this belief, has taken the work of tree-planting in hand, and millions of young saplings are to be found in the Waiotapu valley and elsewhere in the pumice land. Prison-labour is used for the purpose; and though a camp of convicts, with movable prison-vans like the cages of a travelling menagerie, seems a strange foil to the wonders of Nature, the toil is healthy for the men as well as useful to the country. From the vast extent of the pumice and clay layers it would seem that, uneasy as the thermal territory now is, it has, for all its geysers, steaming cones, and innumerable springs, become but a fretful display of slowly dying forces. So say those who look upon the great catastrophe of 1886 as merely the flicker of a dying flame.

HUKA FALLS

As already said, the volcanic zone is a land of lakes, many and beautiful. Four of the most interesting—Roto-rua, Roto-iti, Roto-ehu, and Roto-ma—lie in a chain, like pieces of silver loosely strung together. South of these Tarawera sleeps in sight of its terrible mountain, and south again of Tarawera the hot springs of Roto-mahana still draw sight-seers, though its renowned terraces are no longer there. Lake Okataina is near, resting amid unspoiled forest: and there is Roto-kakahi, the green lake, and, hard by, Tikitapu, the blue lake, beautiful by contrast. But, of course, among all the waters Taupo easily overpeers the rest. “The Sea” the Maori call it; and indeed it is so large, and its whole expanse so easily viewed at once from many heights, that it may well be taken to be greater than it is. It covers 242 square miles, but the first white travellers who saw it and wrote about it guessed it to be between three and five hundred. Hold a fair-sized map of the district with the eastern side uppermost and you will note that the shape of Taupo is that of an ass’s head with the ears laid back. This may seem an irreverent simile for the great crater lake, with its deep waters and frowning cliffs, held so sacred and mysterious by the Maori of old. Seldom is its surface flecked by any sail, and only one island of any size breaks the wide expanse. The glory of Taupo—apart from the noble view of the volcanoes southward of it—is a long rampart of cliffs that almost without a break hems in its western side mile after mile. At their highest they reach 1100 feet. So steep are they that in flood-time cascades will make a clean leap from their summits into the lake; and the sheer descent of the wall continues below the surface, for, within a boat’s length of the overhanging cliff, sounding-leads have gone down 400 feet. Many are the waterfalls which in the stormier months of the year seam the rocky faces with white thread-like courses. On a finer scale than the others are the falls called Mokau, which, dashing through a leafy cleft, pour into the deep with a sounding plunge, and, even from a distance, look something broader and stronger than the usual white riband.

By contrast, on the eastern side of the lake wide strips of beach are not uncommon, and the banks, plains, and terrace sides of whitish pumice, though not inconsiderable, are but tame when compared with the dark basaltic and trachytic heights overhanging the deep western waters. Many streams feed Taupo; only one river drains it. It is not astonishing, then, that the Maori believed that in the centre a terrible whirlpool circled round a great funnel down which water was sucked into the bowels of the earth. A variant of this legend was that a huge taniwha or saurian monster haunted the western depths, ready and willing to swallow canoes and canoemen together. The river issuing from Taupo is the Waikato, which cuts through the rocky lip of the crater-lake at its north-east corner. There it speeds away as though rejoicing to escape, with a strong clear current about two hundred yards wide. Then, pent suddenly between walls of hard rock, it is jammed into a deep rift not more than seventy feet across. Boiling and raging, the whole river shoots from the face of a steep tree-clothed cliff with something of the force of a horizontal geyser. Very beautiful is the blue and silver column as it falls, with outer edges dissolving into spray, into the broad and almost quiet expanse below. This waterfall, the Huka, though one of the famous sights of the island, does not by any means exhaust the beauties of the Upper Waikato. A little lower down the Ara-tia-tia Rapids furnish a succession of spectacles almost as fine. There for hundreds of yards the river, a writhing serpent of blue and milk-white flecked with silver, tears and zig-zags, spins and foams, among the dripping reefs and between high leafy rocks, “wild with the tumult of tumbling waters.”

Broadly speaking, the Taupo plateau is a region of long views. Cold nights are more often than not followed by sunny days. The clear and often brilliant air enables the eye to travel over the nearer plains and hills to where some far-off mountain chain almost always closes the prospect. The mountains are often forest-clad, the plains and terraces usually open. Here will be seen sheets of stunted bracken; there, wide expanses of yellowish tussock-grass. The white pumice and reddish-brown volcanic clay help to give a character to the colouring very different to the black earth and vivid green foliage of other parts of the island. The smooth glacis-like sides of the terraces, and the sharply-cut ridges of the hills, seem a fit setting for the perpetual display of volcanic forces and an adjunct in impressing on the traveller that he is in a land that has been fashioned on a strange design. Nothing in England, and very little in Europe, remotely resembles it. Only sometimes on the dusty tableland of Central Spain, in Old or New Castile, may the New Zealander be reminded of the long views and strong sunlight, or the shining slopes leading up to blue mountain ranges cutting the sky with clean lines.

ARA-TIA-TIA RAPIDS

Some of the finest landscape views in the central North Island are to be seen from points of vantage on the broken plateau to the westward of Ruapehu. On the one side the huge volcanic mass, a sloping rampart many miles long, closes the scene; on the other, the land, falling towards the coast, is first scantily clothed with coarse tussock-grass and then with open park-like forest. The timber grows heavier towards the coast, and in the river valleys where the curling Wanganui and the lesser streams Waitotara and Patea run between richly-draped cliffs to the sea. Far westward above the green expanse of foliage—soon to be hewn by the axe and blackened by fire—the white triangle of Egmont’s cone glimmers through faint haze against the pale horizon.

Between Taupo and the eastern branch of the Upper Wanganui ran a foot-track much used by Maori travellers in days of yore. At one point it wound beneath a steep hill on the side of which a projecting ledge of rock formed a wide shallow cave. Beneath this convenient shelf it is said that a gang of Maori highwaymen were once wont to lurk on the watch for wayfarers, solitary or in small parties. At a signal they sprang out upon these, clubbed them to death, and dragged their bodies to the cave. There these cannibal bush-rangers gorged themselves on the flesh of their victims. I tell the story on the authority of the missionary Taylor, who says that he climbed to the cave, and standing therein saw the ovens used for the horrid meals and the scattered bones of the human victims. If he was not imposed upon, the story supplies a curious exception to Maori customs. Their cannibalism was in the main practised at the expense of enemies slain or captured in inter-tribal wars; and they had distinct if peculiar prejudices in favour of fair fighting. I have read somewhere that in the Drakensberg Mountains above Natal a similar gang of cannibal robbers was once discovered—Kaffirs who systematically lured lonely victims into a certain remote ravine, where they disappeared.

One of the curiosities of the Taupo wilderness is the flat-topped mountain Horo-Horo. Steep, wooded slopes lead up to an unbroken ring of precipices encircling an almost level table-top. To the eyes of riders or coach-passengers on the road between Taupo and Roto-rua, the brows of the cliffs seem as inaccessible as the crown of Roraima in British Guiana in the days before Mr. Im Thurn scaled it. The Maori own Horo-Horo, and have villages and cultivations on the lower slopes where there is soil fertile beyond what is common thereabout. Another strange natural fortress not far away is Pohaturoa, a tusk of lava, protruding some eight hundred feet hard by the course of the Waikato and in full view of a favourite crossing-place. Local guides are, or used to be, fond of comparing this eminence with Gibraltar, to which—except that both are rocks—it bears no manner of likeness.

The Japanese, as we know, hold sacred their famous volcano Fusiyama. In the same way the Maori in times past regarded Tongariro and Ruapehu as holy ground. But, whereas the Japanese show reverence to Fusi by making pilgrimages to its summit in tens of thousands, the Maori veneration of their great cones took a precisely opposite shape,—they would neither climb them themselves nor allow others to do so. The earlier white travellers were not only refused permission to mount to the summit, but were not even allowed to set foot on the lower slopes. In 1845 the artist George French Angas could not even obtain leave to make a sketch of Tongariro, though he managed to do so by stealth. Six years earlier Bidwill eluded native vigilance and actually reached the summit of one of the cones, probably that of Ngauruhoe, but when, after peering down through the sulphurous clouds of the inaccessible gulf, he made his way back to the shores of Lake Taupo, the local chieftain gave him a very bad quarter of an hour indeed. This personage, known in New Zealand story as Old Te Heu Heu, was one of the most picturesque figures of his race. His great height—“nearly seven feet,” says one traveller; “a complete giant,” writes another—his fair complexion, almost classic features, and great bodily strength are repeatedly alluded to by the whites who saw him; not that whites had that privilege every day, for Te Heu Heu held himself aloof among his own people, defied the white man, and refused to sign the treaty of Waitangi or become a liegeman of the Queen. His tribesmen had a proverb—“Taupo is the Sea; Tongariro is the Mountain; Te Heu Heu is the Man.” This they would repeat with the air of men owning a proprietary interest in the Atlantic Ocean, Kinchin Junga, and Napoleon. He was indeed a great chief, and a perfect specimen of the Maori Rangatira or gentleman. He considered himself the special guardian of the volcanoes. Like him they were tapu—“tapu’d inches thick,” as the author of Old New Zealand would say. Indeed, when his subjects journeyed by a certain road, from one turn of which they could view the cone of Ngauruhoe, they were expected at the critical spot to veil their eyes with their mats so as not to look on the holy summit. At any rate, Bidwill declares that they told him so. Small wonder, therefore, if this venturesome trespasser came in for a severe browbeating from the offended Te Heu Heu, who marched up and down his wharÉ breaking out into passionate speech. Bidwill asserts that he pacified the great man by so small a present as three figs of tobacco. Of course, it is possible that in 1839 tobacco was more costly at Taupo than in after years. The Maori version of the incident differs from Bidwill’s.

In the uneasy year of 1845 Te Heu Heu marched down to the Wanganui coast at the head of a strong war-party. The scared settlers were thankful to find that he did not attack them. He was, indeed, after other game, and was bent on squaring accounts with a local tribe which had shed the blood of his people. Bishop Selwyn, who happened to be then in the neighbourhood, saw and spoke with the highland chieftain, urging peace. The interviews must have been worth watching. On the one side stood the typical barbarian, eloquent, fearless, huge of limb, with handsome face and maize-coloured complexion, and picturesque in kilt, cloak, and head-feather. On the other side was a bishop in hard training, a Christian gentleman, as fine as English culture could furnish, whose clean-cut aquiline face and unyielding mouth had the becoming support of a tall, vigorous frame lending dignity to his clerical garb. Here was the heathen determined to save his tribe from the white man’s grasping hands and dissolving religion; there the missionary seeing in conversion and civilisation the only hope of preserving the Maori race. Death took Te Heu Heu away before he had time to see his policy fail. Fate was scarcely so kind to Selwyn, who lived to see the Ten-Years’ War wreck most of his life’s work among the natives.

As far as I know, Te Heu Heu never crossed weapons with white men, though he allied himself with our enemies and gave shelter to fugitives. His region was regarded as inaccessible in the days of good Governor Grey. He was looked upon as a kind of Old Man of the Mountain, and in Auckland they told you stories of his valour, hospitality, choleric temper, and his six—or was it eight?—wives. So the old chief stayed unmolested, and met his end with his mana in no way abated. It was a fitting end: the soil which he guarded so tenaciously overwhelmed him. The steep hill-side over his village became loosened by heavy rain and rotted by steam and sulphur-fumes. It began to crack and slip away. According to one account, a great land-slip descending in the night buried the kainga and all in it save one man. Another story states that the destruction came in the day-time, and that Te Heu Heu refused to flee. He was said to have stood erect, confronting the avalanche, with flashing eyes, and with his white hair blown by the wind. At any rate, the soil of his ancestress the Earth (he claimed direct descent from her) covered him, and for a while his body lay there. After some time his tribe disinterred it, and laying it on a carved and ornamented bier, bore it into the mountains with the purpose of casting it down the burning crater of Tongariro. The intention was dramatic, but the result was something of an anticlimax. When nearing their journey’s end the bearers were startled by the roar of an eruption. They fled in a panic, leaving the remains of their hero to lie on the steep side of the cone on some spot never identified. There they were probably soon hidden by volcanic dust, and so, “ashes to ashes,” slowly mingled with the ancestral mass.[2]

[2] The accepted tradition of Te Heu Heu’s funeral is that given above. After these pages went to the printer, however, I lighted upon a newspaper article by Mr. Malcolm Ross, in which that gentleman states that the bier and the body of the chief were not abandoned on the mountain-side, but were hidden in a cave still known to certain members of the tribe. The present Te Heu Heu, says Mr. Ross, talks of disinterring his ancestor’s remains and burying them near the village of Te Rapa.

LAKE TAUPO

The chiefs of the Maori were often their own minstrels. To compose a panegyric on a predecessor was for them a worthy task. Te Heu Heu himself was no mean poet. His lament for one of his forefathers has beauty, and, in Mr. James Cowan’s version, is well known to New Zealand students. But as a poem it was fairly eclipsed by the funeral ode to his own memory composed and recited by his brother and successor. The translation of this characteristic Maori poem, which appeared in Surgeon-Major Thomson’s book, has been out of print for so many years that I may reproduce some portions of it here:—

See o’er the heights of dark Pauhara’s mount

The infant morning wakes. Perhaps my friend

Returns to me clothed in that lightsome cloud.

Alas! I toil alone in this lone world.

Yes, thou art gone!

Go, thou mighty! go, thou dignified!

Go, thou who wert a spreading tree to shade

Thy people all when evil hovered round!

Sleep on, O Chief, in that dark, damp abode!

And hold within thy grasp that weapon rare

Bequeathed by thy renownÉd ancestor.

Turn yet this once thy bold athletic frame,

And let me see thy skin carved o’er with lines

Of blue; and let me see again thy face

Beautifully chiselled into varied forms!

Cease, cease thy slumbers, O thou son of Rangi!

Wake up! and take thy battle-axe, and tell

Thy people of the coming signs, and what

Will now befall them. How the foe, tumultuous

As are the waves, will rush with spears uplifted,

And how thy people will avenge their wrongs.

No, thou art fallen; and the earth receives

Thee as its prey! But yet thy wondrous fame

Shall soar on high, resounding o’er the heavens

Loosely speaking, New Zealand is a volcanic archipelago. There are hot pools and a noted sanatorium in the Hanmer plains in the middle of the Middle Island. There are warm springs far to the north of Auckland, near Ohaeawai, where the Maori once gave our troops a beating in the early days of our race-conflict with them. Auckland itself, the queen of New Zealand towns, is almost a crater city. At any rate, it is surrounded by dead craters. You are told that from a hill-top in the suburbs you may count sixty-three volcanic cones. Two sister towns, Wellington and Christchurch, have been repeatedly taken and well shaken by Mother Earth. Old Wellington settlers will gravely remind you that some sixty years ago a man, an inoffensive German baron, lost his life in a shock there. True, he was not swallowed up or crushed by falling ruins; a mirror fell from a wall on to his head. This earthquake was followed in 1855 by another as sharp, and one of the two so alarmed a number of pioneer settlers that they embarked on shipboard to flee from so unquiet a land. Their ship, however, so the story runs, went ashore near the mouth of Wellington harbour, and they returned to remain, and, in some cases, make their fortunes. In 1888 a double shock of earthquake wrecked some feet of the cathedral spire at Christchurch, nipping off the point of it and the gilded iron cross which it sustained, so that it stood for many months looking like a broken lead-pencil. A dozen years later, Cheviot, Amuri, and Waiau were sharply shaken by an earthquake that showed scant mercy to brick chimneys and houses of the material known as cob-and-clay. Finally, in the little Kermadec islets, far to the north of Cape Maria Van Diemen, we encounter hot pools and submarine explosions, and passing seamen have noted there sheets of ejected pumice floating and forming a scum on the surface of the ocean. As might be supposed, guides and hangers-on about Roto-rua and Taupo revel in tales of hairbreadth escapes and hair-raising fatalities. Nine generations ago, say the Maori, a sudden explosion of a geyser scalded to death half the villagers of Ohinemutu. In the way of smaller mishaps you are told how, as two Maori children walked together by Roto-mahana one slipped and broke through the crust of silica into the scalding mud beneath. The other, trying to lift him out, was himself dragged in and both were boiled alive. Near Ohinemutu, three revellers, overfull of confidence and bad rum, stepped off a narrow track at night and perished together in sulphurous mud and scalding steam. At the extremity of Boiling Point a village, or part of a village, is said to have been suddenly engulfed in the waters of Roto-rua. At the southern end of Taupo there is, or was, a legend current that a large wharÉ filled with dancers met, in a moment, a similar fate. In one case of which I heard, that of a Maori woman, who fell into a pool of a temperature above boiling-point, a witness assured me that she did not appear to suffer pain long: the nervous system was killed by the shock. Near Roto-rua a bather with a weak heart was picked up dead. He had heedlessly plunged into a pool the fumes and chemical action of which are too strong for a weak man. And a certain young English tourist sitting in the pool nicknamed Painkiller was half-poisoned by mephitic vapour, and only saved by the quickness of a Maori guide. That was a generation ago: nowadays the traveller need run no risks. Guides and good medical advice are to be had by all who will use them. No sensible person need incur any danger whatever.

Among stories of the boiling pools the most pathetic I can recall is of a collie dog. His master, a shepherd of the Taupo plateau, stood one day on the banks of a certain cauldron idly watching the white steam curling over the bubbling surface. His well-loved dog lay stretched on the mud crust beside him. In a thoughtless moment the shepherd flung a stick into the clear blue pool. In a flash the dog had sprung after it into the water of death. Maddened by the poor creature’s yell of pain, his master rushed to the brink, mechanically tearing off his coat as he ran. In another instant he too would have flung himself to destruction. Fortunately an athletic Maori who was standing by caught the poor man round the knees, threw him on to his back and held him down till all was over with the dog.

IN A HOT POOL

Near a well-known lake and in a wharÉ so surrounded by boiling mud, scalding steam, hot water, and burning sulphur as to be difficult of approach, there lived many years ago two friends. One was a teetotaller and a deeply religious man—characteristics not universal in the Hot Lakes district at that precise epoch. The other inhabitant was more nearly normal in tastes and beliefs. The serious-minded friend became noted for having—unpaid, and with his own hands—built a chapel in the wilderness. Yet, unhappily, returning home on a thick rainy evening he slipped and fell into a boiling pool, where next day he was found—dead, of course. In vain the oldest inhabitants of the district sought to warn the survivor. He declined to be terrified, or to change either his dangerous abode or his path thereto. He persisted in walking home late at night whenever it suited him to do so. The “old hands” of the district shook their heads and prophesied that there could be but one end to such recklessness. And, sure enough, on a stormy night the genial and defiant Johnnie slipped in his turn and fell headlong into the pool which had boiled his mate. One wild shout he gave, and men who were within earshot tore to the spot—“Poor old Johnnie! Gone at last! We always said he would!” Out of the darkness and steam, however, they were greeted with a sound of vigorous splashing and of expressions couched in strong vernacular.

“Why, Johnnie man, aren’t you dead? Aren’t you boiled to death?”

“Not I! There’s no water in this —— country hot enough to boil me. Help me out!”

It appeared that the torrents of rain which had been falling had flooded a cold stream hard by, and this, overflowing into the pool, had made it pleasantly tepid.

NGONGOTAHA MOUNTAIN

Needless to say, there is one fatal event, the story of which overshadows all other stories told of the thermal zone. It is the one convulsion of Nature there, since the settlement of New Zealand, that has been great enough to become tragically famous throughout the world, apart from its interest to science. The eruption of Mount Tarawera was a magnificent and terrible spectacle. Accompanied as it was by the blowing-up of Lake Roto-mahana, it destroyed utterly the beautiful and extraordinary Pink and White Terraces. There can be no doubt that most of those who saw them thought the lost Pink and White Terraces the finest sight in the thermal region. They had not the grandeur of the volcanoes and the lakes, or the glorious energy of the geysers; but they were an astonishing combination of beauty of form and colour, of what looked like rocky massiveness with the life and heat of water in motion. Then there was nothing else of their kind on the earth at all equal to them in scale and completeness. So they could fairly be called unique, and the gazer felt on beholding them that in a sense this was the vision of a lifetime. Could those who saw them have known that the spectacle was to be so transient, this feeling must have been much keener. For how many ages they existed in the ferny wilderness, seen only by a few savages, geologists may guess at. Only for about twelve years were they the resort of any large number of civilised men. It is strange how little their fame had gone abroad before Hochstetter described them after seeing them in 1859. Bidwill, who was twice at Roto-rua in 1839, never mentions them. The naturalist Dieffenbach, who saw them in 1842, dismisses them in a paragraph, laudatory but short. George French Angas, the artist, who was the guest of Te Heu Heu in 1845, and managed, against express orders, to sketch Tongariro, does not seem to have heard of them. Yet he of all men might have been expected to get wind of such a marvel. For a marvel they were, and short as was the space during which they were known to the world, their fame must last until the Fish of Maui is engulfed in the ocean. There, amid the green manuka and rusty-green bracken, on two hill-sides sloping down to a lake of moderate size—Roto-mahana or Warm Lake,—strong boiling springs gushed out. They rose from two broad platforms, each about a hundred yards square, the flooring of craters with reddish-brown sides streaked and patched with sulphur. Their hot water, after seething and swirling in two deep pools, descended to the lake over a series of ledges, basins, or hollowed terraces, which curved out as boldly as the swelling canvas of a ship, so that the balustrades or battlements—call them what you will—seemed the segments of broken circles. Their irregular height varied from two to six feet, and visitors could scale them, as in Egypt they climb the pyramids. One terrace, or rather set of terraces, was called White, the other Pink: but the White were tinged lightly with pink in spots, and their rosy sisters paled here and there, so as to become nearly colourless in places. “White,” moreover, scarcely conveys the exact impression of Te Tarata, except from a distance or under strong light. Domett’s “cataract of marble” summed it up finely. But to be precise, where it was smoothest and where water and the play of light made the surface gleam or glisten, the silica coating of the White ledges reminded you rather of old ivory, or polished bone tinted a faint yellow. As for the “Pink” staircase, one traveller would describe it as bright salmon-pink, another as pale rose, for eyes in different heads see the same things differently. The White Terrace was the higher of the two, and descended with a gentler slope than the other. The skirts of both spread out into the lake, so that its waters flowed over them. The number and fine succession of these ivory arcs and rosy battlements made but half their charm. The hot water as it trickled from shelf to shelf left its flinty sediment in delicate incrustations—here like the folds of a mantle, there resembling fringing lace-work, milk outpoured and frozen, trailing parasites or wild arabesques. Or it made you think of wreathed sea-foam, snow half-melted, or the coral of South Sea reefs. Then among it lay the blue pools, pool after pool, warm, richly coloured, glowing; while over every edge and step fell the water, trickling, spurting, sparkling, and steaming as it slowly cooled on its downward way. So that, though there was a haunting reminder of human architecture and sculpture, there was none of the smug finish of man’s buildings, nothing of the cold dead lifelessness of carved stone-work. The sun shone upon it, the wind played with the water-drops. The blue sky—pale by contrast—overarched the deeper blue of the pools. Green mosses and vivid ferns grew and flourished on the very edge of the steam. What sculptor’s frieze or artist’s structure ever had such a framework? In the genial water the bathers, choosing their temperature, could float or sit, breathing unconfined air and wondering at the softness and strange intensity of colour. They could bathe in the day-time when all was sunshine, or on summer nights when the moonlight turned the ledges to alabaster. Did the tribute of his provinces build for Caracalla such imperial baths as these? No wonder that Nature, after showing such loveliness to our age for a moment, snatched it away from the desecration of scribbling, defacing, civilised men!

The eruption of Tarawera was preceded by many signs of disturbance. Science in chronicling them seems to turn gossip and collect portents with the gusto of Plutarch or Froissart. The calamity came on the 10th of June, and therefore in early winter. The weather had been stormy but had cleared, so no warning could be extracted from its behaviour. But, six months before, the cauldron on the uppermost platform of Te Tarata had broken out in strange fashion. Again and again the water had shrunk far down, and had even been sucked in to the supplying pipe, leaving the boiling pit, thirty yards across and as many feet deep, quite dry. Then suddenly the water had boiled up and a geyser, a mounting column or dome many feet in thickness, had shot up into the air, struggling aloft to the height of a hundred and fifty feet. From it there went up a pillar of steam four or five times as high, with a sound heard far and wide. Geyser-like as the action of the terrace-pool had been, nothing on this scale had been recorded before. Then from the Bay of Plenty came the news that thousands of dead fish had been cast up on the beaches, poisoned by the fumes of some submarine explosion. Furthermore, the crater-lake in White Island suddenly went dry—another novelty. Next, keen-eyed observers saw steam issuing from the top of Ruapehu. They could scarcely believe their eyes, for Ruapehu had been quiescent as far back as man’s memory went. But there was no doubt of it. Two athletic surveyors clambered up through the snows, and there, as they looked down four hundred feet on the crater-lake from the precipices that ringed it in, they saw the surface of the water lifted and shaken, and steam rising into the icy air. Later on, just before the catastrophe, the Maori by Roto-mahana lost their chief by sickness. As he lay dying some of his tribe saw a strange canoe, paddled by phantom warriors, glide across the lake and disappear. The number of men in the canoe was thirteen, and as they flitted by their shape changed and they became spirits with dogs’ heads. The tribe, struck with terror, gave up hope for their chief. He died, and his body lay not yet buried when the fatal night came. Lastly, on the day before the eruption, without apparent cause, waves rose and swept across the calm surface of Lake Tarawera, to the alarm of the last party of tourists who visited the Terrace. Dr. Ralph, one of these, noted also that soft mud had apparently just been ejected from the boiler of the Pink Terrace, and lay strewn about twenty-five yards away. He and his friends hastened away, depressed and uneasy.

No one, however, Maori or white, seriously conceived of anything like the destruction that was impending. The landlord of the Wairoa hotel grumbled at the native guide Sophia for telling of these ominous incidents. And a Maori chief, with some followers, went to camp upon two little islets in Roto-mahana lying handy for the hot bathing-pools. Why should any one expect that the flat-topped, heavy looking mountain of Tarawera would burst out like Krakatoa? True, Tarawera means “burning peak,” but the hill, and its companion Ruawahia, must have been quiescent for many hundred years. For were not trees growing in clefts near the summits with trunks as thick as the height of a tall man? Nor was there any tradition of explosions on the spot. Thirteen generations ago, said the Maori, a famous chief had been interred in or near one of the craters, and Nature had never disturbed his resting-place. The surprise, therefore, was almost complete, and only the winter season was responsible for the small number of tourists in the district on the 10th of June. It was about an hour past midnight when the convulsion began. First came slight shocks of earthquake; then noises, booming, muttering, and swelling to a roar. The shocks became sharper. Some of them seemed like strokes of a gigantic hammer striking upwards. Then, after a shock felt for fifty miles round, an enormous cloud rose above Tarawera and the mountain spouted fire, stones, and dust to the heavens. The burning crater illumined the cloud, so that it glowed like a “pillar of fire by night.” And above the glow an immense black canopy began to open out and spread for at least sixty miles, east, north-east and south-east. Seen from far off it had the shape of a monstrous mushroom. In the earlier hours of the eruption the outer edges of the mushroom shape were lit up by vivid streams and flashes of lightning, shooting upward, downward, or stabbing the dark mass with fierce sidelong thrusts. Forked bolts sped in fiery zig-zags, or ascended, rocket-fashion, to burst and fall in flaming fragments. Sounds followed them like the crackling of musketry. Brilliantly coloured, the flashes were blue, golden or orange, while some were burning bars of white that stood out, hot and distinct, across the red of the vomiting crater. But more appalling even than the cloudy canopy with its choking dust, the tempest, the rocking earth, or the glare of lightning, was the noise. After two o’clock it became an awful and unceasing roar, deafening the ears, benumbing the nerves, and bewildering the senses of the unhappy beings within the ring of death or imminent danger. It made the windows rattle in the streets of Auckland one hundred and fifty miles away, and awoke many sleepers in Nelson at a more incredible distance. And with the swelling of the roar thick darkness settled down—darkness that covered half a province for hours. Seven hours after the destruction began, settlers far away on the sea-coast to the east were eating their morning meals—if they cared to eat at all—by candle-light. To say that it was a darkness that could be felt would be to belittle its horrors absurdly—at any rate near Tarawera. For miles out from the mountain it was a darkness that smote and killed you—made up as it was of mud and fire, burning stones, and suffocating dust. Whence came the mud? Partly, no doubt, it was formed by steam acting on the volcanic dust-cloud; but, in part, it was the scattered contents of Roto-mahana—a whole lake hurled skyward, water and ooze together. With Roto-mahana went its shores, the Terraces, several neighbouring smaller lakes and many springs. Yet so tremendous was the outburst that even this wreck was not physically the chief feature of the destruction. That was the great rift, an irregular cleft, fourteen or fifteen miles long, opened across the Tarawera and its companion heights. This earth-crack, or succession of cracks, varied in depth from three hundred to nine hundred feet. To any one looking down into it from one of the hill-tops commanding it, it seemed half as deep again. It, and the surrounding black scoria cast up from its depths, soon became cold and dead; but, continuing as it did to bear the marks of the infernal fires that had filled it, the great fissure remained in after years the plainest evidence of that dark night’s work. When I had a sight of it in 1891, it was the centre of a landscape still clothed with desolation. The effect was dreary and unnatural. The deep wound looked an injury to the earth as malign as it was gigantic. It was precisely such a scene as would have suggested to a zealot of the Middle Ages a vision of the pit of damnation.

LAKE AND MOUNT TARAWERA

Until six in the morning the eruption did not slacken at all. Hot stones and fireballs were carried for miles, and as they fell set huts and forests on fire. Along with their devastation came a rain of mud, loading the roofs of habitations and breaking down the branches of trees. Blasts of hot air were felt, but usually the wind—and it blew violently—was bitter cold. At one moment a kind of cyclone or tornado rushed over Lake Tikitapu, prostrating and splintering, as it passed, the trees close by, and so wrecking a forest famous for its beauty.[3] What went on at the centre of the eruption no eye ever saw—the great cloud hid it. The dust shot aloft is variously computed to have risen six or eight miles. The dust-cloud did not strike down the living as did the rain of mud, fire, and stones. But its mischief extended over a much wider area. Half a day’s journey out from the crater it deposited a layer three inches thick, and it coated even islands miles off the east coast. By the sea-shore one observer thought the sound of its falling was like a gentle rain. But the effect of the black sand and mouse-coloured dust was the opposite of that of rain; for it killed the pasture, and the settlers could only save their cattle and sheep by driving them hastily off. Insect life was half destroyed, and many of the smaller birds shared the fate of the insects. By Lake Roto-iti, fourteen miles to the north of the crater, Major Mair, listening to the dropping of the sand and dust, compared it to a soft ooze like falling snow. It turned the waters of the lake to a sort of soapy grey, and overspread the surrounding hills with an unbroken grey sheet. The small bull-trout and crayfish of the lake floated dead on the surface of the water. After a while birds starved or disappeared. Wild pheasants came to the school-house seeking for chance crumbs of food, and hungry rats were seen roaming about on the smooth carpet of dust.

How did the human inhabitants of the district fare at Roto-rua and Ohinemutu? Close at hand as they were, no damage was done to life or limb. They were outside the range of the destroying messengers. But nearer to the volcano, in and about Roto-mahana, utter ruin was wrought, and here unfortunately the natives of the Ngati Rangitihi, living at Wairoa and on some other spots, could not escape. Some of them, indeed, were encamped at the time on islets in Roto-mahana itself, and they of course were instantly annihilated in the midst of the convulsion. Their fellow tribesmen at Wairoa went through a more lingering ordeal, to meet, nearly all of them, the same death. About an hour after midnight Mr. Hazard, the Government teacher of the native school at Wairoa, was with his family roused by the earthquake shocks. Looking out into the night they saw the flaming cloud go up from Tarawera, ten miles away. As they watched the spectacle, half in admiration, half in terror, the father said to his daughter, “If we were to live a hundred years, we should not see such a sight again.” He himself did not live three hours, for he died, crushed by the ruin of his house as it broke down under falling mud and stones. The wreck of the building was set alight by a shower of fireballs, yet the schoolmaster’s wife, who was pinned under it by a beam, was dug out next day and lived. Two daughters survived with her; three children perished. Other Europeans in Wairoa took refuge in a hotel, where for hours they stayed, praying and wondering how soon the downpour of fire, hot stones, mud and dust would break in upon them. In the end all escaped save one English tourist named Bainbridge. The Maori in their frail thatched huts were less fortunate; they made little effort to save themselves, and nearly the whole tribe was blotted out. One of them, the aged wizard Tukoto, is said to have been dug out alive after four days: but his hair and beard were matted with the volcanic stuff that had been rained upon him. The rescuers cut away the hair, and Tukoto’s strength thereupon departed like Samson’s. At any rate the old fellow gave up the ghost. In after days he became the chief figure in a Maori legend, which now accounts for the eruption. It seems that a short while before it, the wife of a neighbouring chief had denounced Tukoto for causing the death of her child. Angry at an unjust charge, the old wizard prayed aloud to the god of earthquakes, and to the spirit of Ngatoro, the magician who kindled Tongariro, to send down death upon the chief’s wife and her people. In due course destruction came, but the gods did not nicely discriminate, so Tukoto and those round him were overwhelmed along with his enemies. At another native village not far away the Maori were more fortunate. They had living among them Sophia the guide, whose wharÉ was larger and more strongly built than the common run of their huts. Sophia, too, was a fine woman, a half-caste, who had inherited calculating power and presence of mind from her Scotch father. Under her roof half a hundred scared neighbours came crowding, trusting that the strong supporting poles would prevent the rain of death from battering it down. When it showed signs of giving way, Sophia, who kept cool, set the refugees to work to shore it up with any props that could be found; and in the end the plucky old woman could boast that no one of those who sought shelter with her lost their lives.

The township of Roto-rua, with its side-shows Ohinemutu and Whaka-rewa-rewa, escaped in the great eruption scot free, or at any rate with a light powdering of dust. The place survived to become the social centre of the thermal country, and now offers no suggestion of ruin or devastation. It has been taken in hand by the Government, and is bright, pleasant, and, if anything, too thoroughly comfortable and modern. It is scientifically drained and lighted with electric light. Hotels and tidy lodging-houses look out upon avenues planted with exotic trees. The public gardens cover a peninsula jutting out into the lake, and their flowery winding paths lead to lawns and tennis-courts. Tea is served there by Maori waitresses whose caps and white aprons might befit Kensington Gardens; and a band plays. If the visitors to Roto-rua do not exactly “dance on the slopes of a volcano,” at least they chat and listen to music within sight of the vapour of fumaroles and the steam of hot springs. A steam launch will carry them from one lake to another, or coaches convey them to watch geysers made to spout for their diversion. They may picnic and eat sandwiches in spots where they can listen to muddy cauldrons of what looks like boiling porridge, sucking and gurgling in disagreeable fashion. Or they may watch gouts of dun-coloured mud fitfully issuing from cones like ant-hills—mud volcanoes, to wit.

For the country around is not dead or even sleeping, and within a circuit of ten miles from Roto-rua there is enough to be seen to interest an intelligent sight-seer for many days. Personally I do not think Roto-rua the finest spot in the thermal region. Taupo, with its lake, river, and great volcanoes, has, to my mind, higher claims. Much as Roto-rua has to show, I suspect that the Waiotapu valley offers a still better field to the man of science. However, the die has been cast, and Roto-rua, as the terminus of the railway and the seat of the Government sanatorium, has become a kind of thermal capital. There is no need to complain of this. Its attractions are many, and, when they are exhausted, you can go thence to any other point of the region. You may drive to Taupo by one coach-road and return by another, or may easily reach Waiotapu in a forenoon. Anglers start out from Roto-rua to fish in a lake and rivers where trout are more than usually abundant. You can believe if you like that the chief difficulty met with by Roto-rua fishermen is the labour of carrying home their enormous catches. But it is, I understand, true that the weight of trout caught by fly or minnow in a season exceeds forty tons. At any rate—to drop the style of auctioneers’ advertisements—the trout, chiefly of the rainbow kind, are very plentiful, and the sport very good. I would say no harder thing of the attractions of Roto-rua and its circuit than this,—those who have spent a week there must not imagine that they have seen the thermal region. They have not even “done” it, still less do they know it. Almost every part of it has much to interest, and Roto-rua is the beginning, not the end of it all. I know an energetic colonist who, when travelling through Italy, devoted one whole day to seeing Rome. Even he, however, agrees with me that a month is all too short a time for the New Zealand volcanic zone. Sociable or elderly tourists have a right to make themselves snug at Roto-rua or Wairakei. But there are other kinds of travellers; and holiday-makers and lovers of scenery, students of science, sportsmen, and workers seeking for the space and fresh air of the wilderness, will do well to go farther afield.

At Roto-rua, as at other spots in the zone, you are in a realm of sulphur. It is in the air as well as the water, tickles your throat, and blackens the silver in your pocket. Amongst many compensating returns it brightens patches of the landscape with brilliant streaks of many hues—not yellow or golden only, but orange, green, blue, blood-red, and even purple. Often where the volcanic mud would be most dismal the sulphur colours and glorifies it. Alum is found frequently alongside it, whitening banks and pool in a way that makes Englishmen think of their chalk downs. One mountain, Maunga Kakaramea (Mount Striped-Earth), has slopes that suggest an immense Scottish plaid.

But more beautiful than the sulphur stripes or the coloured pools, and startling and uncommon in a way that neither lakes nor mountains can be, are the geysers. Since the Pink and White Terraces were blown up, they are, perhaps, the most striking and uncommon feature of the region, which, if it had nothing else to display, would still be well worth a visit. They rival those of the Yellowstone and surpass those of Iceland. New Zealanders have made a study of geysers, and know that they are a capricious race. They burst into sudden activity, and as unexpectedly go to sleep again. The steam-jet of Orakei-Korako, which shot out of the bank of the Waikato at such an odd angle and astonished all beholders for a few years, died down inexplicably. So did the wonderful Waimangu, which threw a column of mud, stones, steam, and boiling water at least 1500 feet into mid-air. The WaikitÉ Geyser, after a long rest, began to play again at the time of the Tarawera eruption. That was natural enough. But why did it suddenly cease to move after the opening of the railway to Roto-rua, two miles away? Mr. Ruskin might have sympathised with it for so resenting the intrusion of commercialism; but tourists did not. Great was the rejoicing when, in 1907, WaikitÉ awoke after a sleep of thirteen years. Curiously enough, another geyser, Pohutu, seems likewise attentive to public events, for on the day upon which the Colony became a Dominion it spouted for no less than fourteen hours, fairly eclipsing the numerous outpourings of oratory from human rivals which graced the occasion. There are geysers enough and to spare in the volcanic zone, to say nothing of the chances of a new performer gushing out at any moment. Some are large enough to be terrific, others small enough to be playful or even amusing. The hydrodynamics of Nature are well understood at Roto-rua, where Mr. Malfroy’s ingenious toy, the artificial geyser, is an exact imitation of their structure and action. The curious may examine this, or they may visit the extinct geyser, Te Waro, down the empty pipe of which a man may be lowered. At fifteen feet below the surface he will find himself in a vaulted chamber twice as roomy as a ship’s cabin and paved and plastered with silica. From the floor another pipe leads to lower subterranean depths. In the days of Te Waro’s activity steam rushing up into this cavern from below would from time to time force the water there violently upward: so the geyser played. To-day there are geysers irritable enough to be set in motion by slices of soap, just as there are solfataras which a lighted match can make to roar, and excitable pools which a handful of earth will stir into effervescence. More impressive are the geysers which spout often, but whose precise time for showing energy cannot be counted on—which are, in fact, the unexpected which is always happening. Very beautiful are the larger geysers, as, after their first roaring outburst and ascent, they stand, apparently climbing up, their effort to overcome the force of gravity seeming to grow greater and greater as they climb. Every part of the huge column seems to be alive; and, indeed, all is in motion within it. Innumerable little fountains gush up on its sides, to curl back and fall earthwards. The sunlight penetrates the mass of water, foam, and steam, catching the crystal drops and painting rainbows which quiver and dance in the wind. Bravely the column holds up, till, its strength spent, it falters and sways, and at last falls or sinks slowly down, subsiding into a seething whirlpool. Brief, as a rule, is the spectacle, but while the fountain is striving to mount skyward it is “all a wonder and a wild desire.”

Two Maori villages, one at Ohinemutu, the other at Whaka-rewa-rewa, are disordered collections of irregular huts. Among them the brown natives of the thermal district live and move with a gravity and dignity that even their half-gaudy, half-dingy European garb cannot wholly spoil. Passing their lives as they do on the edge of the cold lake, and surrounded by hot pools and steam-jets, they seem a more or less amphibious race, quite untroubled by anxiety about subterranean action. They make all the use they can of Nature’s forces, employing the steam and hot water for various daily wants. Of course they bathe incessantly and wash clothes in the pools. They will sit up to their necks in the warm fluid, and smoke luxuriously in a bath that does not turn cold. But more interesting to watch is their cooking. Here the steam of the blow-holes is their servant; or they will lay their food in baskets of flax in some clean boiling spring, choosing, of course, water that is tasteless. Cooking food by steam was and still is the favourite method of the Maori. Where Nature does not provide the steam, they dig ovens in the earth called hangi, and, wrapping their food in leaves, place it therein on red-hot stones. Then they spread more leaves over them, pour water upon these, and cover the hole with earth. When the oven is opened the food is found thoroughly cooked, and in this respect much more palatable than some of the cookery of the colonists. In their culinary work the Maoris have always been neat and clean. This makes their passion for those two terrible delicacies, putrid maize and dried shark, something of a puzzle.

Life at Roto-rua is not all sight-seeing; there is a serious side to it. Invalids resort thither, as they do to Taupo, in ever-increasing numbers. The State sanatorium, with its brand-new bath-house, is as well equipped now as good medical bathing-places are in Europe, and is directed by a physician who was in former years a doctor of repute at Bath. Amid the embarras des richesses offered by the thermal springs of the zone, Roto-rua has been selected as his headquarters, because there two chief and distinct kinds of hot healing waters are found in close neighbourhood, and can be used in the same establishment. The two are acid-sulphur and alkaline-sulphur, and both are heavily loaded with silica. Unlike European springs they gush out at boiling-point, and their potency is undoubted. Sufferers tormented with gout or crippled with rheumatism seek the acid waters; the alkaline act as a nervous sedative and cure various skin diseases. There are swimming baths for holiday-makers who have nothing the matter with them, and massage and the douche for the serious patients. Persons without money are cared for by the servants of the Government. Wonderful cures are reported, and as the fame of the healing waters becomes better and better established the number of successful cases steadily increases. For the curable come confidently expecting to be benefited, and this, of course, is no small factor in the efficacy of the baths, indisputable as their strength is. Apart, too, from its springs, Roto-rua is a sunny place, a thousand feet above the sea. The air is light even in midsummer, and the drainage through the porous pumice and silica is complete. In such a climate, amid such healing influences and such varied and interesting surroundings, the sufferer who cannot gain health at Roto-rua must be in a bad way indeed.

In the middle of Roto-rua Lake, a green hill in the broad blue surface, rises the isle of Mokoia. There is nothing extraordinary in the way of beauty there. Still, it is high and shapely, with enough foliage to feather the rocks and soften the outlines. Botanists know it as one of the few spots away from the sea-beach where the crimson-flowering pohutu-kawa has deigned to grow. In any case, the scene of the legend of Hinemoa is sure of a warm corner in all New Zealand hearts. The story of the chief’s daughter, and her swim by night across the lake to join her lover on the island, has about it that quality of grace with which most Maori tales are but scantily draped. How many versions of it are to be found in print I do not dare to guess, and shall not venture to add another to their number. For two of New Zealand’s Prime Ministers have told the story well, and I can refer my readers to the prose of Grey and the verse of Domett. Only do I wish that I had heard Maning, the Pakeha Maori, repeat the tale, standing on the shore of Mokoia, as he repeated it there to Dr. Moore. In passing I may, however, do homage to one of the few bits of sweet romance to be found in New Zealand literature. Long may my countrymen steadfastly refuse to disbelieve a word of it! For myself, as one who has bathed in Hinemoa’s bath, I hold by every sentence of the tradition, and am fully persuaded that Hinemoa’s love-sick heart was soothed, as she sat on her flat-topped rock on the mainshore, by the soft music of the native trumpet blown by her hero on the island. After all, the intervening water was some miles broad, and even that terrific instrument, a native trumpet, might be softened by such a distance.

Long after the happy union of its lovers, Mokoia saw another sight when Hongi, “eater of men,” marched down with his Ngapuhi musketeers from the north to exterminate the Arawa of the lake country. To the Roto-rua people Mokoia had in times past been a sure refuge. In camp there, they commanded the lake with their canoes; no invader could reach them, for no invader could bring a fleet overland. So it had always been, and the Mokoians trusting thereto, paddled about the lake defying and insulting Hongi and his men in their camp on the farther shore. Yet so sure of victory were the Ngapuhi chiefs that each of the leaders selected as his own booty the war-canoe that seemed handsomest in his eyes. Hongi had never heard of the device by which Mahomet II. captured Constantinople, but he was a man of original methods, and he decided that canoes could be dragged twenty miles or more from the sea-coast to Lake Roto-iti. It is said that an Arawa slave or renegade in his camp suggested the expedient and pointed out the easiest road. At any rate the long haul was successfully achieved, and the canoes of the Plumed Ones—Ngapuhi—paddled from Roto-iti into Roto-rua. Then all was over except the slaughter, for the Mokoians had but half-a-dozen guns, and Hongi’s musketeers from their canoes could pick them off without landing.

Fifteen hundred men, women, and children are said to have perished in the final massacre. Whether these figures were “official” I cannot say. The numbers of the slain computed in the Maori stories of their wars between 1816 and 1836 are sometimes staggering; but scant mercy was shown, and all tradition concurs in rating the death-roll far higher than anything known before or after. And Mokoia was crowded with refugees when it fell before Hongi’s warriors. Of course, many of the islanders escaped. Among them a strong swimmer, Hori (George) Haupapa, took to the lake and managed to swim to the farther shore. The life he thus saved on that day of death proved to be long, for Haupapa was reputed to be a hundred years old when he died in peace.

The famous Hongi was certainly a savage of uncommon quickness of perception, as his circumventing of the Mokoians in their lake-stronghold shows. He had shrewdness enough to perceive that the Maori tribe which should first secure firearms would hold New Zealand at its mercy; and he was sufficient of a man of business to act upon this theory with success and utter ruthlessness. He probably did more to destroy his race than any white or score of whites; yet his memory is not, so far as I know, held in special detestation by the Maori. Two or three better qualities this destructive cannibal seems to have had, for he protected the missionaries and advised his children to do so likewise. Then he had a soft voice and courteous manner, and, though not great of stature, must have been tough, for the bullet-wound in his chest which finally killed him took two years in doing so. Moreover, his dying exhortation to his sons, “Be strong, be brave!” was quite in the right spirit for the last words of a Maori warrior.

Hongi would seem to be an easy name enough to pronounce. Yet none has suffered more from “the taste and fancy of the speller” in books, whether written by Englishmen or Colonists. Polack calls him E’Ongi, and other early travellers, Shongee, Shongi, and Shungie. Finally Mr. J. A. Froude, not to be outdone in inaccuracy, pleasantly disposes of him, in Oceana, as “Hangi.”

“Old Colonial,” in an article written in the Pall Mall Gazette, gives Mokoia as the scene of a notable encounter between Bishop Selwyn and Tukoto, a Maori tohunga or wizard. To Selwyn, who claimed to be the servant of an all-powerful God, the tohunga is reported to have said, as he held out a brown withered leaf, “Can you, then, by invoking your God, make this dead leaf green again?” The Bishop answered that no man could do that. Thereupon Tukoto, after chanting certain incantations, threw the leaf into the air, and, lo! its colour changed, and it fluttered to earth fresh and green once more.

Among many odd stories told of the juggling feats of the vanishing race of tohungas this is one of the most curious. More than one version of it is to be found. For example, my friend Edward Tregear, in his book The Maori Race, relates it as an episode of a meeting between Selwyn and Te Heu Heu, where the trick was the riposte of the chief to an appeal by the Bishop to him to change his faith. In that case the place of the encounter could scarcely have been Mokoia, or the tohunga have been Tukoto.

Whatever may be said—and a great deal may be said—against the tohunga as the foe of healing and knowledge, the religious prophets who from time to time rise among the Maori are not always entirely bad influences. A certain Rua, who just now commands belief among his countrymen, has managed to induce a following to found a well-built village on a hill-side among the forests of the Uriwera country. There, attended by several wives, he inhabits a comfortable house. Hard by rises a large circular temple, a wonderful effort of his native workmen. He has power enough to prohibit tobacco and alcohol in his settlement, to enforce sanitary rules, and to make his disciples clear and cultivate a large farm. Except that he forbids children from going to school, he does not appear to set himself against the Government. He poses, I understand, as a successor of Christ, and is supposed to be able to walk on the surface of water. His followers were anxious for ocular proof of this, and a hint of their desire was conveyed to the prophet. He assembled them on a river’s bank and gravely inquired, “Do you all from your hearts believe that I can walk on that water?” “We do,” was the response. “Then it is not necessary for me to do it,” said he, and walked composedly back to his hut.