On their part, more Maori deserted their _hapu_ for the great world outside their little islands and, needless to say, were gazed at with shuddering curiosity. Such as these, taught by experience that there existed a race superior to their own, convinced their countrymen of the advantages to be gained by permanent friendship with the British Pakeha. So these played their part in watering the tree of civilisation, whose roots now began to take firm hold of the soil; while the white men, ever improving in type and conduct, helped along the great work. As yet there was no attempt at systematic colonisation. Scattered over the Islands and wholly dependent upon the good will of their hosts, the Pakeha kept as friendly with the natives as circumstances would allow, while they saw to it that musket or rifle stood ever handy to their grip. The taste which the Maori had acquired for wandering outside their own country at length brought about a remarkable conjunction, destined to bear most importantly upon the future of New Zealand. It was nothing else than the formation of a friendship between a Christian Englishman of singular nobility of character and a Maori of sanguinary disposition, a warrior notable among a race of warriors and, withal, a cannibal of cannibals. In the first decade of the years when George the Third was king there was born in Yorkshire a boy who was brought up as a blacksmith. For some time he followed his trade; but, having a strong inclination towards a missionary life, he was ordained a clergyman of the Church of England, and in due course found himself senior chaplain of the colony of New South Wales. This man, whose name must be ever honoured in the history of New Zealand, was Samuel Marsden, who was the first to desire to bring, and who did actually bring the tidings of the Gospel to the land of the Maori. There were missionaries at work in Tahiti, in the Marquesas and in Tonga; but New Zealand, the land of the ferocious warrior and savage cannibal, had been esteemed an impossible country, or, at all events, as not yet prepared for the sowing. So it was left to itself. Then came a day when Samuel Marsden, walking through the narrow streets of Sydney, stopped to gaze at a novel sight. Not far from him stalked proudly three splendid-looking men, types of a race with which he was unfamiliar. They were not Australian aboriginals. That was instantly evident. Their faces were strangely scarred, their heads, held high, were plumed with rare feathers, and the outer garment they wore, of some soft, buff material, suggested the Roman toga. There was, indeed, something Roman about their appearance, with their fine features, strong noses, and sternly compressed lips.