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
it
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".