Matthew Henry John Bartlett

I am reading Ask That Mountain: The Story of Parihaka by Dick Scott. I went to a book launch of his a week ago, and a man told me that this book changed his life. Up till now all I knew of Te Whiti was Tim Finn’s song. Interesting things have happened in New Zealand’s history:

The settler could not believe his eyes. Long furrows broke his grassland and a team of silent ploughmen was steadily extending the area of upturned soil. This was land only seven miles from New Plymouth, it had been in undisturbed European possession since the wars, the original owners, long ago killed or hunted off, had been forgotten. Courtney, the outraged farmer, rushed to stop them. But the Maori ploughmen who started work before sunrise at Oakura on the morning of 26 May 1879, serenely continued till dusk. And the next day was the same, and the next, until twenty acres were turned under.
   Fifty miles away to the south the same thing happened on Bayley’s farm. And soon the dogged ploughmen were working from daylight to dark on pakeha-occupied land from one end of Taranaki to the other. Sometimes they worked with bullocks, sometimes with horses, but always they were unarmed, good-tempered — and firm. Te Whiti is not ploughing the land, he is only ploughing the belly of the government, the intruders blandly explained to irate onlookers. The Governor, Sir Hercules Robinson, who made a special visit to watch the the men at work, ‘almost exploded with indignation’ at the sight.
   Wild rumours flew. Some thought the ploughing meant reoccupation of land bought and not paid for, some believed it was to call attention to the wrongs of the past, others declared it was a religious outburst inspired by Samson’s excursions against the Philistines. Parris, Civil Commissioner for Taranaki, was sent to Parihaka to sound out Te Whiti. Of course he had authorised the ploughing, Te Whiti told him. At the Waitara meeting the previous year Grey had said he would ‘plant a tree of peace whose branches would spread over the land’ — and then he had begun to steal the Waimate Plains. The ploughing was to probe Grey’s heart.
   …
   At Hawera where excited meetings condemned government delay in shooting down the Maoris, the settlers banded together to issue a declaration of independence. James Livingston, a sergeant in the wards, now a substantial landowner was made president, sentries guared his roughly fortified house, and over it solemnly flew the flag of the ‘Republic of Hawera’.
   The plains were close to bloodshed when a hundred Hawera vigilantes, armed with loaded rifles and extended in skirmishing order, came down on a party of ploughmen. Only the cool discipline of the Maoris averted pitched battle. Tohu had been asked by the ploughmen what they should do if any of their number were shot. ‘Gather up the earth on which the bolood has spilt and bring it to Parihaka,’ he replied.