HONORED AS A CURIOSITY IN HONOLULU.
IF you get into conversation with a
stranger in Honolulu, 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 track,
ask him where he preaches. It is a safe bet
that he is either a missionary or captain of a
whaler. I became 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 one
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! Why, 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! man. 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—any thing;
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.”
