Pomares.

The ”Mana” Of The

How the Spirit of The Ancient Days Smote a Political Egg- Thrower in 1932.

From Our Own Correspondent.

Papeete, Oct. 29.

A STRANGE incident occurred in Tahiti during the recent political campaign for the election of a dele gate to represent Oceania in the French Senate —an incident which bears out the native belief that the old Maua at tributed to chiefly families is not yet dead, but maintains its potency in spite of modern innovations; though the Ta hitians admit that it is of little or no avail so far as Europeans are con cerned.

No native will so much as disturb a stone on one of the old maraes, except under compulsion, lest he become the victim of some malignant disease, or his mouth be twisted sideways.

Consequently, these old temples, where human sacrifices were offered up in the olden days, are given a wide berth and left to crumble under the in fluence of time. Even in a modern co conut grove one may happen across a patch of uncleared bush in the shade of which stands one of these remains, its original form reduced to a shapeless mound of stones by the growing jungle and the aerial roots of the sacred ban yan tree.

Neither, and for the same reason, will a native comport himself in anything but the most respectful fashion upon the premises of any hereditary chief, curtailed though their temporal author ity now is—except under the influence of liquor or some other unusual excite ment.

And perhaps that was the case on the present occasion.

It was in the village of Arue and the natives had gathered in the garden of the Chief for a big political meeting.

The Orator, a man well versed in na tive lore and customs, and with a re markable gift for extempore speaking, was extolling the good qualities of his candidate with all the powers at his command —and no doubt the audience got worked up to an unusual pitch of excitement.

Suddenly, out of the dark edges of the crowd, two rotten eggs were thrown in quick succession, presumably by a supporter of the opposing candi date. Both missiles missed the speaker but broke with an evil splash on the newly-painted house of the chief, in the rear.

“Speak to them in my name!” cried the last scion of the house of Pomare, an enormous man standing not much less than seven feet in height, and scal ing at least 200 kilos.

And the Orator proceeded, in terms that no native could misunderstand, and with all the invective of which he was such a master, to call down retri bution upon the head of the unlucky offender.

“What!” he thundered. “Do you not know that you stand in the grounds of the Chief? It is at his prestige that you have hurled these rotten eggs of yours, and not at me. This night’s work will recoil upon your own forehead, and your right arm will be blasted to

keep it from further mischief. Let others beware!”

And so the incident ended —for the moment.

But there was a sequel the following day. The news spread among the na tives with the customary astonishing rapidity.

In the hospital at Papeete, Tamarua came back to reality, after a longish spell on the operating table. His right arm had been badly smashed but not yet amputated, and his forehead scored with deep cuts —all the result of an un accountable tumble from a car.

The first words he uttered were: “This is the work of Tuatau, the guardian spirit of Hinei. It is my own fault. I should not have thrown those eggs!”

The chauffeur who drove Tamarua’s party from the meeting that night told how a monstrous black shape had be straddled the road ahead of him and deranged his steering, so that the car rocked and rattled as though stricken by an earthquake. Until they gained the crest of the hill on the road to Haa pape, no one noticed that one of their party was missing.

Then they mustered their courage and returned, to find Tamarua bleeding and unconscious by the roadside.