Passing through the market place we saw that feature of Honolulu under its
most favorable auspices—that is, in the full glory of Saturday
afternoon, which is a festive day with the natives. The native girls by
twos and threes and parties of a dozen, and sometimes in whole platoons
and companies, went cantering up and down the neighboring streets astride
of fleet but homely horses, and with their gaudy riding habits streaming
like banners behind them. Such a troop of free and easy riders, in their
natural home, the saddle, makes a gay and graceful spectacle. The riding
habit I speak of is simply a long, broad scarf, like a tavern table cloth
brilliantly colored, wrapped around the loins once, then apparently passed
between the limbs and each end thrown backward over the same, and floating
and flapping behind on both sides beyond the horse’s tail like a
couple of fancy flags; then, slipping the stirrup-irons between her toes,
the girl throws her chest forward, sits up like a Major General and goes
sweeping by like the wind.
The girls put on all the finery they can on Saturday afternoon—fine
black silk robes; flowing red ones that nearly put your eyes out; others
as white as snow; still others that discount the rainbow; and they wear
their hair in nets, and trim their jaunty hats with fresh flowers, and
encircle their dusky throats with home-made necklaces of the brilliant
vermillion-tinted blossom of the ohia; and they fill the markets
and the adjacent street with their bright presences, and smell like a rag
factory on fire with their offensive cocoanut oil.
Occasionally you see a heathen from the sunny isles away down in the South
Seas, with his face and neck tatooed till he looks like the customary
mendicant from Washoe who has been blown up in a mine. Some are tattooed a
dead blue color down to the upper lip—masked, as it were—leaving
the natural light yellow skin of Micronesia unstained from thence down;
some with broad marks drawn down from hair to neck, on both sides of the
face, and a strip of the original yellow skin, two inches wide, down the
center—a gridiron with a spoke broken out; and some with the entire
face discolored with the popular mortification tint, relieved only by one
or two thin, wavy threads of natural yellow running across the face from
ear to ear, and eyes twinkling out of this darkness, from under shadowing
hat-brims, like stars in the dark of the moon.
Moving among the stirring crowds, you come to the poi merchants, squatting
in the shade on their hams, in true native fashion, and surrounded by
purchasers. (The Sandwich Islanders always squat on their hams, and who
knows but they may be the old original “ham sandwiches?” The
thought is pregnant with interest.) The poi looks like common flour paste,
and is kept in large bowls formed of a species of gourd, and capable of
holding from one to three or four gallons. Poi is the chief article of
food among the natives, and is prepared from the taro plant.
The taro root looks like a thick, or, if you please, a corpulent
sweet potato, in shape, but is of a light purple color when boiled. When
boiled it answers as a passable substitute for bread. The buck Kanakas
bake it under ground, then mash it up well with a heavy lava pestle, mix
water with it until it becomes a paste, set it aside and let if ferment,
and then it is poi—and an unseductive mixture it is, almost
tasteless before it ferments and too sour for a luxury afterward. But
nothing is more nutritious. When solely used, however, it produces acrid
humors, a fact which sufficiently accounts for the humorous character of
the Kanakas. I think there must be as much of a knack in handling poi as
there is in eating with chopsticks. The forefinger is thrust into the mess
and stirred quickly round several times and drawn as quickly out, thickly
coated, just as if it were poulticed; the head is thrown back, the finger
inserted in the mouth and the delicacy stripped off and swallowed—the
eye closing gently, meanwhile, in a languid sort of ecstasy. Many a
different finger goes into the same bowl and many a different kind of dirt
and shade and quality of flavor is added to the virtues of its contents.
Around a small shanty was collected a crowd of natives buying the awa
root. It is said that but for the use of this root the destruction of the
people in former times by certain imported diseases would have been far
greater than it was, and by others it is said that this is merely a fancy.
All agree that poi will rejuvenate a man who is used up and his vitality
almost annihilated by hard drinking, and that in some kinds of diseases it
will restore health after all medicines have failed; but all are not
willing to allow to the awa the virtues claimed for it. The natives
manufacture an intoxicating drink from it which is fearful in its effects
when persistently indulged in. It covers the body with dry, white scales,
inflames the eyes, and causes premature decripitude. Although the man
before whose establishment we stopped has to pay a Government license of
eight hundred dollars a year for the exclusive right to sell awa
root, it is said that he makes a small fortune every twelve-month; while
saloon keepers, who pay a thousand dollars a year for the privilege of
retailing whiskey, etc., only make a bare living.
We found the fish market crowded; for the native is very fond of fish, and
eats the article raw and alive! Let us change the subject.
In old times here Saturday was a grand gala day indeed. All the native
population of the town forsook their labors, and those of the surrounding
country journeyed to the city. Then the white folks had to stay indoors,
for every street was so packed with charging cavaliers and cavalieresses
that it was next to impossible to thread one’s way through the
cavalcades without getting crippled.
At night they feasted and the girls danced the lascivious hula hula—a
dance that is said to exhibit the very perfection of educated notion of
limb and arm, hand, head and body, and the exactest uniformity of movement
and accuracy of “time.” It was performed by a circle of girls
with no raiment on them to speak of, who went through an infinite variety
of motions and figures without prompting, and yet so true was their
“time,” and in such perfect concert did they move that when
they were placed in a straight line, hands, arms, bodies, limbs and heads
waved, swayed, gesticulated, bowed, stooped, whirled, squirmed, twisted
and undulated as if they were part and parcel of a single individual; and
it was difficult to believe they were not moved in a body by some
exquisite piece of mechanism.
Of late years, however, Saturday has lost most of its quondam gala
features. This weekly stampede of the natives interfered too much with
labor and the interests of the white folks, and by sticking in a law here,
and preaching a sermon there, and by various other means, they gradually
broke it up. The demoralizing hula hula was forbidden to be
performed, save at night, with closed doors, in presence of few
spectators, and only by permission duly procured from the authorities and
the payment of ten dollars for the same. There are few girls now-a-days
able to dance this ancient national dance in the highest perfection of the
art.
The missionaries have christianized and educated all the natives. They all
belong to the Church, and there is not one of them, above the age of eight
years, but can read and write with facility in the native tongue. It is
the most universally educated race of people outside of China. They have
any quantity of books, printed in the Kanaka language, and all the natives
are fond of reading. They are inveterate church-goers—nothing can
keep them away. All this ameliorating cultivation has at last built up in
the native women a profound respect for chastity—in other people.
Perhaps that is enough to say on that head. The national sin will die out
when the race does, but perhaps not earlier.—But doubtless this
purifying is not far off, when we reflect that contact with civilization
and the whites has reduced the native population from four hundred
thousand (Captain Cook’s estimate,) to fifty-five thousand in
something over eighty years!
Society is a queer medley in this notable missionary, whaling and
governmental centre. If you get into conversation with a stranger and
experience that natural desire to know what sort of ground you are
treading on by finding out what manner of man your stranger is, strike out
boldly and address him as “Captain.” Watch him narrowly, and
if you see by his countenance that you are on the wrong tack, ask him
where he preaches. It is a safe bet that he is either a missionary or
captain of a whaler. I am now personally acquainted with seventy-two
captains and ninety-six missionaries. The captains and ministers form
one-half of the population; the third fourth is composed of common Kanakas
and mercantile foreigners and their families, and the final fourth is made
up of high officers of the Hawaiian Government. And there are just about
cats enough for three apiece all around.
A solemn stranger met me in the suburbs the other day, and said:
“Good morning, your reverence. Preach in the stone church yonder, no
doubt?”
“No, I don’t. I’m not a preacher.”
“Really, I beg your pardon, Captain. I trust you had a good season.
How much oil”—
“Oil? What do you take me for? I’m not a whaler.”
“Oh, I beg a thousand pardons, your Excellency.
“Major General in the household troops, no doubt? Minister of the
Interior, likely? Secretary of war? First Gentleman of the Bed-chamber?
Commissioner of the Royal”—
“Stuff! I’m no official. I’m not connected in any way
with the Government.”
“Bless my life! Then, who the mischief are you? what the mischief
are you? and how the mischief did you get here, and where in thunder did
you come from?”
“I’m only a private personage—an unassuming stranger—lately
arrived from America.”
“No? Not a missionary! Not a whaler! not a member of his Majesty’s
Government! not even Secretary of the Navy! Ah, Heaven! it is too blissful
to be true; alas, I do but dream. And yet that noble, honest countenance—those
oblique, ingenuous eyes—that massive head, incapable of—of—anything;
your hand; give me your hand, bright waif. Excuse these tears. For sixteen
weary years I have yearned for a moment like this, and”—
Here his feelings were too much for him, and he swooned away. I pitied
this poor creature from the bottom of my heart. I was deeply moved. I shed
a few tears on him and kissed him for his mother. I then took what small
change he had and “shoved”.
