In the north of New Zealand, a flag staff carrying
the Union Jack, had been cut down by an insurgent chief. A settlement had
been sacked, with completeness and the chivalry innate in the Maoris. No
hurt was done the whites, that could be avoided, nor was there looting of
property. The Maoris let Bishop Selwyn wash the earth with the contents
of a spirit cask. It was all sobriety in victory.
'They were,' Sir George noted of his favourite native race, 'naturally
ambitious of military renown; they were born warriors.' British troops
had been hurled against their pas, or fortresses, only to be hurled back,
heaps of slain. A Maori pa, in some forest fastness, stoutly built for
defence from within, held by determined men with firearms, was hard to
storm. Gallantry rushed to suicide.
The Maori wars, in their broad sense, are history. It is enough here to
define them as the collision of two races. The white tide of civilisation
was beating upon the foreshores of native New Zealand. There were King
Canutes, tattooed warriors of the flying day, who would have ordered it
back. You see how easily troubles grew, although they might have been the
last desire of anybody.
Two Maori chieftains, Heke and Kawiti, were the centre of disturbance,
and Sir George Grey was to have faithful dealing with them.
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