not comprehend; they only looked at each other and spoke in their hard, hissing speech.  After this little Taniwha went on shore, bearing with him his precious nail.  He kept it for years, using it in turns as a spear-head and an auger, or carrying it slung round his neck as a sacred charm.[1] But one day, when out in a canoe, he was capsized in the breakers off a certain islet and, to use his own words, “my god was lost to me, though I dived for it.”

[Footnote 1:  Heitiki.]

Taniwha describes how a thief was shot by Lieutenant Gore for stealing a piece of calico.  The thief offered to sell a dog-skin cloak, but when the calico was handed down over the bulwarks into his canoe which was alongside the Endeavour, he simply took it, gave nothing in return, and told his comrades to paddle to land.

“They paddled away.  The goblin went down into the hold of the ship, but soon came up with a walking-stick in his hand, and pointed it at the canoe.  Thunder pealed and lightning flashed, but those in the canoe paddled on.  Then they landed; eight rose to leave the canoe, but the thief sat still with his dog-skin mat and the goblin’s garment under his feet.  His companions called him, but he did not answer.  One of them shook him and the thief fell back into the hold of the canoe, and blood was seen on his clothing and a hole in his back.”

What followed was a capital example of the Maori doctrine of utu, or compensation, the cause of so many wars and vendettas.  The tribe decided that as the thief had stolen the calico, his death ought not to be avenged, but that as he had paid for it with his life he should keep it.  So it was buried with him.

The French were but a few months behind the English in the discovery of New Zealand.  The ship of their captain, De Surville, just missed meeting Cook at the Bay of Islands.  There the French made a fortnight’s stay, and were well treated by the chief, Kinui, who acted with particular kindness to certain sick sailors put on shore to recover.  Unfortunately one of De Surville’s boats was stolen, and in return he not only burnt the nearest village and a number of canoes, but kidnapped the innocent Kinui, who pined away on shipboard and died off the South American coast a few days before De Surville himself was drowned in the surf in trying to land at Callao.

For this rough-handed and unjust act certain of De Surville’s countrymen were destined to pay dearly.  Between two and three years afterwards, two French exploring vessels under the command of Marion du Fresne entered the Bay of Islands.  They were in want of masts and spars, of wood and water, and had many men down with sickness.  The expedition was on the look-out for that dream of so many geographers—­the great south continent.  Marion was a tried seaman, a man of wealth and education, and of an adventurous spirit.  It is to Crozet, one of his officers, that we owe the story of his fate.  Thanks probably to the Abbe Rochon, who edited Crozet’s papers, the narrative is clear, pithy, and business-like:  an agreeable contrast to the Hawkesworth-Cook-Banks motley, so much more familiar to most of us.