prayers were read by a lay-reader, who used the Prayerbook, which has been admirably translated into Maori by Archdeacon Maunsell, of Auckland, one of the early missionaries, the natives taking up the responses with harmonious voice, all together in perfect rhythm and time. After service, thinking I might get Horomona's honest opinion of what they thought of the Bishop's utterance, I carefully led up to the subject, as one must do in order to meet their dignified and delicate way of expressing an opinion, and also engaged Ihaia (Isaiah), one of their principal men, in the conversation. "Yes," he said, "they understand; they glad Pihopa come; they think he speak well; they think him very good, but—you see those rafters across the top of walls? Pihopa look up at them all the time, no look at Maories on the floor; Maories should sit up there." The fact is that they are born orators, quite free from any mauvaise honte, and cannot understand why a speaker does not eye them, whereas the Bishop in his first essay to preach to natives was naturally shy. Maori humour in its criticism of men and manners is delightful in its complete unconsciousness of itself.
Then came bed-time. The end of the long, un-partitioned "whare," or house, was furnished with a low platform of flax sticks, on which mats and blankets were spread, forming a bed intended to accommodate a dozen sleepers. The Bishop and Archdeacon were conducted to small huts to sleep by themselves, whilst I was invited to a share in the general bed. Some made shakedowns for themselves on the floor, whilst the rest took to the platform, leaving me a corner place, and then, after much deliberation, out of a mark, as I suppose, of respect to
