THE ANGELIC MAORI.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3372, 11 November 1911, Page 3

THE ANGELIC MAORI.

AT THE '.’.'HITE CITY.

THE COMMENTS OF ‘JOHN BULL.’

“Jim Crow,” the licensed crank and flippant critic of Hbratio Bottomley’s journal ‘John Bull,’ has just discovered the Maoris at the White City, and m tins current issue of “Bull” devotes a whole page to singing their praises. Space forbids quotation of his ultracomplimentary article in its entirety, but New Zealanders will read with zest —and maybe a few grins and chuckles —the following excerpts. From one of them one may gather that Maggie Papakura completely captivated Jim Crow, and that she took advantage of his innocence to, in the vernacular “pull his leg.” It certainly will come as news to those who are familiar with' Maggie’s history to hear that her acquaintance with the English language is of recent date.

But by the muttons. Thus says Jim Crow: “I used to think the Montenegrins and the British were the only fine people in the world. Now I have discovered a tertium quid, a tertius gaudens, in the gentle Maoris. . . Now, they are, perhaps, the only people in the world who combine a charming simplicity with the attractive side of civilisation. In a sense they remain children, they derive delight from the most innocent amusements, they brush shoulders with modern life, and suffer no contamination. . . . Like all true

sportsmen, the Maoris have the manners of Crichton and the gentleness of sucking doves. Gaunt warriors, who execute wild, barbaric dances such as would freeze our blood if we were tied to a stake in their midst, they have the blandest of smiles when we lure them on to a scenic railway. Nor is it the hi and ness of the witless. On the contrary, thev are shrewd and sharp, with minds like lightning, souls of refined gold. Though they have been in contact, with rude civilisation of a crude colony for generations, they remain utterly unspoiled. . . . They are, perhaps, the only children of Nature who are unspoiled hv civilisation. Go to the White City and' talk to Maggie Papakura, the Maori Queen, and realise how conversation can be a liberal education. A dry humor, an instinctive knowledge of men and women, indulgence, benevolence, diplomacy of the highest order—in fact, the lovable qualities are hers. . . ! Lei me illustrate _ her by saying that she knew no English a short while ago. and now speaks it better than any Englishman except myself; she is overwhelmed with compliments—3oo letters a day on a modest average—but- is unspotted of the world. . . . Hara Poata is the genius of. this fairland. Never nowhere in this round world may you discern such exquisite grace, such sublime poetry of motion. With glad eyes, whose eloquence is of the mystic moon, with satin face of rare candescence, with the stately tread of some glorious desert chief, with the transfiguration of an apostle and the hedonism of Amaryllis and the soothing radiance of the Gioconda, she captures every heart. She is at once a sphinx, a hagiology, and an illumination. To see her dance, it slays imagination’s ecstasies. . . . The rich pale skins of the Maoris combine the warmth of the Pacific and the peacefulness of unsullied pleasaunces. The very meu are attractive. To see their women walk is an education in deportment such as no Imperial Court can show. To hear them sing is to listen to the music of the spheres. O. Iwa your voice will ever convey caresses to the very agony of death. Beautiful, gracious creatures, they intoxicate our horizon, only bewildering us because they are so far above our ken. Kindly, cynical observers, they come here and watch and wonder. All our faults are laid bare to their calm gaze. They are not sure that we realise our responsibilities, but they forgive us in advance. They question our belief in the sanctity of love, which to them is an eternal sacrament. But they are, above all things, natural. . . . The more I know them the more I am convinced that they hold the key of happiness. Listen to this from Queen Maggie Papakura: ‘I have been to Oxford. How shall I speak of the peaceful meadows, the streams, the grey, silent, old buildings ? They spoke to my heart. They were like the dreams of my girlhood come true—my girlhood, when I wandered all alone in the wilds around my native village, far away in New Zealand, with no companions but the trees and the birds.’ What an idealisation of Oxford ! . . . Think what a mentality here stands revealed! Ponder over the personality which can still find sweetness in the parched honeycomb of Oxonian austerity! . . . They are probably the only example of a native race which has derived benefit from civilisation. Instead of driving them to drink, and vice, and insolence, as it drives the horrid negro of West Africa, and the intolerable mongrels of Abyssinia, it relines them with culture, quickens their ready wit, teaches them toleration. . . . Their only hatred is for pretence, and they will forgive anything for the frankness which they recognise is a feature of our national character. This may be summed up as the Britons of the Southern Seas—not Angels, but Saints.