Vincent O’Malley: The origins of the Kīngitanga

When the first parliament of New Zealand assembled in 1854, it was composed solely of white men.

The deliberate exclusion of Māori from the ruling body was in direct contradiction to the promises made in Te Tiriti just 14 years earlier.

As historian Vincent O’Malley explains here, that betrayal and power imbalance stirred Māori to conceive of a new response to the settlers.

In his new book, Invasion of Waikato / Te Riri Ki Tainui, published by Bridget Williams Books, Dr O’Malley explores the circumstances that gave rise to the first Māori king. This is excerpted from the third chapter: “A new constitution and the Kīngitanga.”

 

In the early 1850s, it was almost inconceivable that the Crown would wage war on its closest and most powerful Māori allies. All that changed in the blink of an eye, historically speaking.

If we had to identify a turning point, it might be 30 June 1852.

It was on that date that the British Parliament passed into law the New Zealand Constitution Act, replacing an earlier Constitution Act of 1846, never fully implemented. The 1846 Act had provided for a House of Representatives for each of the two provinces, but restricted the right to vote to men over the age of 21 years who had passed an English-language literacy test.

Māori literacy rates in the 1840s were high, by some estimates even higher than for Pākehā — but in te reo Māori, not English. The effect of this crude provision was to disenfranchise the majority-Māori population and hand exclusive power over to a much smaller number of settlers.

The 1852 Constitution

Governor George Grey warned that any attempt to implement such a provision would end in disaster. There was no reason, he wrote, to think that Māori would willingly submit to rule by the minority. Assemblies were shelved for the time being.

But the 1852 Constitution that was intended to fix the problem produced a similar outcome by different means. Gone was the requirement to read and write in English. Instead, the new measure introduced a property qualification. That was no obstacle in theory — in the North Island, especially, most Māori still owned large areas of land.

The problem was that the 1852 Constitution Act required such lands to be held under title from the Crown, and nearly all Māori land was in “native title”. This meant most Māori held their lands according to custom but did not have a piece of paper saying they were the legal owner. As a result, very few Māori men were eligible to vote.

British politicians assumed no harm would be done by the 1852 Constitution Act, as they had been assured by Grey that Māori were well on the path to “civilisation”. They interpreted this to mean that large numbers of Māori men would be entitled to take part in elections, and for those who could not, an extra safeguard had been included.

Section 71 of the Act provided for “native districts” to be declared, in which Māori laws, customs and usages would prevail so long as they were not deemed contrary to “the general principles of Humanity”.

In effect, this would provide legal recognition of the status quo outside the townships, where Māori already ran their own affairs. And since British politicians also assumed that the jurisdiction of the new General Assembly would not extend into areas subject to section 71, no real injustice would be done by excluding Māori who lived in these regions from voting. They would continue to govern themselves, only now with their legal right to do so formally recognised.

That was the theory, anyway. On the ground, 12,000 miles away from Britain, the new Constitution Act came to be interpreted and implemented quite differently.

Parliament’s authority extended over all of New Zealand and no areas would ever be proclaimed “native districts” under section 71 — despite this provision remaining theoretically available until it was finally repealed in 1986.

A Parliament hostile to Māori interests and composed solely of Pākehā men was established, until just four Māori members were finally provided for in 1868.

This time Grey ducked for cover, leaving the colony at the end of 1853, in defiance of instructions that he should remain long enough to implement the new constitution.

Parliament eventually met for the first time in Auckland on 24 May 1854. The 37 Pākehā men who took their seats in the House of Representatives were greeted with a 21-gun salute fired from Fort Britomart, followed by a round of celebratory gunfire from members of the 58th Regiment stationed at nearby Albert Barracks.

Māori Reaction

Rangatira from around the country were not so joyous when they eventually heard of these developments. They queried Māori exclusion from the new body in contradiction of the promises made to them in Article 3 of Te Tiriti, and correctly came to see the General Assembly as antagonistic to their own interests.

Parliament would either have to be altered to allow Māori to participate on equal terms, or provision would have to be made for a parallel assembly of chiefs from around the country to have a say in the administration of affairs. And if neither of these options were to emerge, Māori would need to find their own solutions independently from the Crown.

Ultimately, because of the unwillingness of successive Pākehā governors and officials to budge, that was the path taken.

Wiremu Tāmihana was one rangatira who felt strongly on the matter. A man of high principle and integrity, he was at a loss to understand why Māori had been excluded from Parliament. About 1855, he travelled to Auckland to present the new Governor, Thomas Gore Browne, with a petition signed by leading Waikato chiefs calling for Māori to be admitted to Parliament on equal terms with Pākehā.

For two days he waited, all the while watching Pākehā file past into the offices. As he later told a missionary, he then thought to himself: “We are treated like dogs — I will not go again. I then went to Mangere and I said to Potatau — go back to Waikato and let us consider some Tikanga for ourselves.”

The King Movement — Te Kīngitanga

By 1856, that “tikanga” appeared to be reflected in reports of multiple rūnanga (tribal assemblies) that had been established or revived across Waikato. At these meetings, entire communities debated the important matters of the day without regard to age or gender (settler observers complained that women and children were allowed to participate in these discussions).

Promising reports of the work of the rūnanga encouraged Governor Browne to despatch an official (Francis Dart Fenton, later Chief Judge of the Native Land Court) to Waikato, with instructions to work with these Māori institutions. But Fenton was withdrawn early in 1858 amid rumours he had antagonised many of the chiefs through his actions. A parliamentary committee condemned Fenton’s removal, but by the time its report was released in October 1860 matters had changed significantly.

For one thing, although unofficial rūnanga remained active in many areas, and those considered well-disposed towards the Crown were now often termed “Queen’s rūnanga”, others were now known as “King’s rūnanga”. The latter gave their allegiance to Pōtatau Te Wherowhero, raised up as the first “kīngi” in 1858.

Although kings were not unknown in other Pacific cultures, the elevation of a single Māori king was a striking new development. It had been inspired in part by admiration for the British monarchy. Piri Kawau of Ngāti Toa and Te Ātiawa travelled to England in 1843 and returned home convinced that Māori needed their own monarch.

In 1852, Tāmihana Te Rauparaha, son of the famous Ngāti Toa leader Te Rauparaha, was granted an audience with Queen Victoria when in London. He sailed back to Aotearoa with a similar conviction. Soon after, Tāmihana and his ally Mātene Te Whiwhi began travelling the North Island to convince others of the need for a Māori king.

Neither Tāmihana Te Rauparaha nor Piri Kawau envisaged setting up a rival to Queen Victoria. They were seeking to bind Māori together around a common symbol of authority.

Through the Treaty, the Crown had promised to preserve and protect Māori rangatiratanga, and those behind the Māori King movement were simply seeking to give this concept new expression. Many rangatira resented the all-Pākehā, anti-Māori Parliament from which they had been excluded. They or their parents had entered a compact with Queen Victoria and her descendants in 1840, but proponents of a Māori king did not see their goal as incompatible with that agreement.

The idea of a Māori king gained further traction when Iwikau Te Heuheu of Ngāti Tūwharetoa called a hui to discuss such suggestions at Pūkawa, on the shores of Lake Taupō, late in 1856.

By this time, a number of rangatira had been offered but declined the kingship. Pōtatau Te Wherowhero, an obvious candidate for the role as his status and whakapapa linked him to every major tribal grouping in the country, fell from his horse en route to the hui and never made it there.

Local missionary Thomas Samuel Grace wrote that he had “not been able to discover anything hostile to British rule in the minds of the Maoris who desire a King”, but was himself accused of stirring up trouble.

In April 1857, Governor Browne visited Waikato, warning the tribes that he could not countenance the election of a Māori king but was willing to work with Māori communities on matters of concern to them.

When in May 1857 a further hui was held at Paetai, close to Rangiriri on the banks of the Waikato River, supporters of the Kīngitanga (as it had come to be known) hoisted the flag of the United Tribes of New Zealand. The flag, first selected by rangatira in Northland in 1834, was now inscribed with the words “Potatau, King of New Zealand”.

Meanwhile, a Queen’s party carried a Union Jack and their leading rangatira, Wiremu Nēra Te Awaitaia, told the hui that he had entered into a solemn agreement with Queen Victoria and intended to stick to it.

For its supporters, the Kīngitanga was not a rival authority to Queen Victoria but simply a solution to the problems that plagued Māori communities. As far as Te Awaitaia and the Queen’s party were concerned, though, the King movement was nothing but trouble. These divisions spilled over into a further gathering held at Ihumātao near Auckland later that month, at the tangi of Ngāti Tamaoho rangatira Epiha Putini (Jabez Bunting).

Browne, who had come away from his visit to Waikato convinced that no king would be installed, felt betrayed by the continuing discussions and warned government ministers that it would not be safe to allow a king to be selected.

The Crown’s hostility towards the Kīngitanga was now apparent. For supporters of the idea of a Māori king, that created a dilemma. Should they push ahead and risk precisely the kind of trouble that Te Awaitaia had warned would come, or abandon their plans and give up on the Kīngitanga? Some saw a potential solution in steering a middle path. What if they called their new leader not “king”, but something else?

For a time, it seemed “matua” might be the title instead. In July 1857, Pōtatau Te Wherowhero signalled at last his willingness to take on the new role, and some months later members of Ngāti Maniapoto endorsed his kingship.

A hui was announced for 2 June 1858 at Ngāruawāhia, where it was expected that Te Wherowhero would be formally raised up to the position. One day before the ceremony, rangatira from a number of hapū from South Auckland and lower Waikato made it clear they were willing to acknowledge Te Wherowhero as their “matua” (their parent or father) but would never agree to him being called their king.

Discussions continued into the next morning, when Te Wherowhero was asked his preference. He made it clear he wished to be called king. Matters became confused again when Te Wherowhero was asked if he would be their “parent”, to which he agreed. Supporters of this alternative title returned to their homes, declaring: “Let them have a King. We have a ‘Matua’. Never forget it.” Supporters of Te Wherowhero as kīngi travelled on to a second gathering at Rangiaowhia just over a fortnight later.

The tenor of addresses there was described by one Pākehā spectator as “anything but rebellious”. At a second gathering at Rangiaowhia, Wiremu Tāmihana raised up Pōtatau Te Wherowhero as king, using a Bible that is still employed for this purpose by descendants of Tāmihana today.

An even bigger gathering on 2 May 1859 at Ngāruawāhia, by now the acknowledged headquarters of the Kīngitanga, brought together rangatira from across the island. Although support for the Kīngitanga was far from universal, it was widespread enough for it to be a genuinely multi-tribal movement, even as Waikato was seen by all as its strongest heartland.

Protecting Māori Land and Authority

Supporters had been drawn to the movement for various reasons. Many Māori saw in it a way to put a halt to the ongoing loss of land. Within Waikato, a tapu had been placed over lands south of the Mangatāwhiri River in June 1853, in theory making it impossible for these to be sold. But the Crown’s land purchasing by this time frequently involved a “divide-and-rule” strategy by which individuals and small groups were offered inducements, including cash advances, as a way of undermining broader opposition.

Already, lands south of Mangatāwhiri along the west coast had been purchased, and most of the lands north of Waikato had been acquired by both the Crown and individual Pākehā. If nothing was done, Waikato, with its fertile grasslands and easy access to the main market of Auckland, would be next.

As land passed to the Crown and settlers, with it went control. Already, government policies offering land on generous terms (including an Auckland provincial government offer of free lands to intending immigrants) had seen an influx of settlers to the colony.

In 1858, Māori were officially outnumbered in their own country for the first time. And the newcomers had not travelled halfway around the world to treat people they generally regarded as inferior to themselves as their equals.

Most settlers saw themselves at the apex of their own imagined racial hierarchy, with Māori beneath them. Even chiefs of great mana and standing began to report being abused and assaulted in townships like Auckland. Meanwhile, calls for Waikato to be “opened up” to European settlers grew louder.

From this Eurocentric perspective, autonomous Māori communities living beyond the reach of British law would need to be brought to heel and shown who was boss. This was not just a question of land ownership. Pākehā had come to this country expecting to be in charge, and by the late 1850s finally felt powerful enough to begin making that a reality, even if they were ultimately dependent on the British Army to enforce such an outcome.

At first, some Crown officials, including the influential Native Secretary and Chief Land Purchase Commissioner Donald McLean, had advocated ignoring the Kīngitanga in the hope that it would die if not given the oxygen of government attention. They had fatally underestimated the depth of Māori resolve.

By 1860, it was obvious to most observers that the Kīngitanga was going nowhere.

Extract taken from The Invasion of Waikato / Te Riri Ki Tainui (BWB, $39.99), a companion piece to The Great War for New Zealand: Waikato 1800–2000 (BWB, 2016).

Vincent O’Malley has gained recognition and awards for his extensive research and publications on the New Zealand Wars. His works include The Great War for New Zealand: Waikato 1800–2000 (BWB, 2016), The New Zealand Wars/Ngā Pakanga o Aotearoa (BWB, 2019), and Voices from the New Zealand Wars/He Reo nō ngā Pakanga o Aotearoa (BWB, 2021).

Among his many awards are the 2022 Ockham New Zealand Book Award for non-fiction, the Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement, and Royal Society Te Apārangi’s Humanities Aronui Medal. Dr O’Malley is a Fellow of the Royal Society Te Apārangi and a founding partner of HistoryWorks, which specialises in Treaty of Waitangi research.