University of Virginia Library

NIGHT SCENE IN THE PALACE GROUNDS

The veranda we occupied overlooked the royal grounds, and afforded an excellent view of the two thousand or twenty-five hundred natives sitting, densely packed together, in the glare of the torches, between our position and the palace, a hundred feet in front of us. It was a wild scene—those long rows of eager, dusky faces, with the light upon them; the band of hula girls in the center, showily attired in white bodices and pink skirts, and with wreaths of pink and white flowers and garlands of green leaves about their heads; and the strongly illuminated torchbearers scattered far and near at intervals through the large assemblage and standing up conspicuously above the masses of sitting forms. Light enough found its way to the broad verandas of the palace to enable us to see whatever transpired upon them with considerable distinctness. We could see nothing there, however, except two or three native sentries in red uniforms, with gleaming muskets in their hands.

Presently some one said: "Oh, there's the King!"

"Where?"

"There—on the veranda—now, he's just passing that—No; it's that blasted Harris."

That isn't really his Christian name, but he is usually called by that or a stronger one. I state this by way of explanation. Harris is the Minister of Finance and Attorney General, and I don't know how many other things. He has three marked points: He is not a second Solomon; he is as vain as a peacock; he is as "cheeky" as—however, there is no simile for his "cheek." In the Legislature, the other day, the Speaker was trying to seat a refractory member; the member knew he was strictly in order, though, and that his only crime was his opposition to the Ministry, and so he refused to sit down. Harris whispered to the interpreter: "Tell the Speaker to let me have the chair a moment." The speaker vacated his place; Harris stepped into it, rapped fiercely with the gavel, scowled imperiously upon the intrepid commoner, and ordered him to sit down. The man declined to do it. Harris commanded the Sergeant-at-Arms to seat him. After a trial, that officer said the bold representative of the people refused to permit him to seat him. Harris ordered the Sergeant to take the man out of the house—remove him by force! [Sensation— tempest, I should rather say.] The poor humbled and browbeaten country members threw off their fears for the moment and became men; and from every part of the house they shouted: "Come out of that chair! leave that place! put him out! put out the —!" (I have forgotten the Hawaiian phrase, but it is equivalent to "miserable dog.") And this terrible man, who was going to perform such wonders, vacated the Speaker's chair, and went meekly back to his own place, leaving the stout opponent of the Ministry master of the field. The Legislature adjourned at once, and the excited and triumphant Kanakas burst forth into a stirring battle hymn of the old days of Kamehameha the Great. Harris was an American once (he was born in Portsmouth, N. H.) , but he is no longer one. He is hoopilimeaai to the King. How do you like that, Mr. H.? How do you like being attacked in your own native tongue?

(NOTE TO THE READER: That long native word means—well, it means Uriah Heep boiled down—it means the soul and spirit of obsequiousness. No genuine American can be other than obedient and respectful toward the Government he lives under and the flag that protects him, but no such American can ever be hoopilimeaai to anybody.)

I hope the gentle reader will pardon this digression; but if the gentle reader don't want to do it, he can let it alone.