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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
[Illustration: _J. Webber del._ _I. Andrews. Sc._
_A Hawaiian Chief._]
KIANA:
A TRADITION OF HAWAII.
by
JAMES J. JARVES,
Author of “History of the Hawaiian Islands,” “Parisian” and
“Italian Sights,” “Art-Hints,” &c., &c.
Boston and Cambridge:
James Munroe and Company.
London:
S. Low, Son, and Company,
Ludgate Hill.
M DCCC LVII.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by
James Munroe and Company,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
Cambridge:
Thurston and Torry, Printers.
TO HIS MAJESTY ALEXANDER LIHOLIHO, WHO NOW SO WORTHILY FILLS THE THRONE
OF THE HAWAIIAN ISLANDS, AS KAMEHAMEHA IV., THIS TRADITION OF HIS KINGDOM
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
PREFACE.
Strictly speaking, there is no such thing as Fiction. Every emotion,
thought, or action embodied into literature has been human experience at
some time. We can imagine nothing within the laws of nature, but what has
had or may have an actual existence. A novel, therefore, but personifies
the Truth. In giving a local interest to its actors, it introduces them
to the reader through the medium of sympathies and passions, common
to his own heart, of reason intelligible to his own mind, or of moral
sentiments that find an echo in his own soul. Its success depends upon
the skill and feeling with which the author works out his characters into
a consistent whole—creating a simple and effective unity out of his plot,
locality, and motive. Still every reader likes to feel that the persons
whose fates warm his interest in the pages of a romance, actually lived
and were as tangibly human as himself, and his degree of interest is apt
to be in ratio to his belief that they were real personages. I am glad,
therefore, to be able to assure my readers of the following facts.
In my youth I spent several years in different parts of the Pacific
Ocean, but chiefly at the Sandwich or Hawaiian Islands. While engaged
in procuring materials for their history,—first published in 1843,—I was
much struck with a tradition relating to their history by Europeans, two
and a half centuries before Cook so accidentally stumbled upon them.
Briefly it was this—
Eighteen generations of kings previous to Kamehameha I., during the reign
of Kahoukapa, or Kiana, there arrived at Hawaii, a white priest, bringing
with him an idol, which, by his persuasion, was enrolled in the calendar
of the Hawaiian gods, and a temple erected for its service. The stranger
priest acquired great influence, and left a reputation for goodness that
was green in the memories of the people of Hawaii three centuries later.
Another statement adds that a vessel was wrecked on the island, and the
captain and his sister reached the shore, where they were kindly received
and adopted into the families of the chiefs.
Without enlarging here upon the tradition, and the light my subsequent
researches threw upon it, I will simply state that I became convinced
that a Spanish priest, woman, and several men were rescued from a wreck,
landed and lived in Hawaii, and acquired power and consideration from
their superior knowledge, and for a while were even regarded as gods.
Some of them intermarried with the aborigines, and their blood still
exists (or did recently) among certain families, who pride themselves
greatly upon their foreign origin.
Other traces of their existence are perceptible in the customs, ideas,
and even the language of the natives, which last has a number of words
strikingly analogous to the Spanish of the same meaning. Captain Cook
found among them a remnant of a sword-blade and another bit of iron. They
were not strangers to this metal, and as no ores exist in their soil,
they could have derived their knowledge solely from foreign intercourse.
Soon after the conquest of Mexico, Cortez sent three vessels upon an
exploring expedition to California. After sailing as far as 29° north,
one was sent back to report progress. The other two held on and were
never heard from. Why may not one of these be the vessel that was wrecked
on Hawaii? The winds would naturally drive her in that direction, and the
date of the expedition agrees, so far as can be made out from Hawaiian
chronology, with the time of the first arrival of white men on that
island. Indeed, at that period of maritime discovery, white men could
come from no other quarter. For my part, I believe that a port of Mexico
was the starting point of the wrecked party; a conjecture which derives
some plausibility from the fact, that, when the natives offered the
whites bananas and other tropical fruits, they were familiar with them,
which would be the case, if they came from Tehuantepec, from whence
Cortez fitted out his vessel.
To absolutely identify the white strangers of Hawaii with the missing
ships of Cortez, is not now possible. But the interest in them, left
thus isolated from civilization amid savages, upon an island in the
centre of the then unknown ocean, is peculiar. Especially have I always
been curious to trace the fate of the solitary white woman,—a waif of
refinement cast thus on a barbarous shore,—and of the priest too,—to
learn how far their joint influence tempered the heathenism into which
they were thrown, or whether they were finally overcome by paganism.
Twelve years ago, while amid the scenery described in this volume, and
the customs and traditions of the natives were fresh in my mind, I began
to pen their history; but other objects prevented my going on, until
the past winter, when leisure and the advice of friends, pleased with
the subject, prompted its completion. The descriptions of the natural
features of this remarkable island, of the religion, customs, government,
and conditions of its aborigines, as well as the events in general,
are as faithful transcripts, in words, of the actual, to my personal
knowledge, as it is in my power to give.
In saying thus much for the facts, I am in duty bound to add a word for
the ideas. Prefaces, some say, are never read. It may be so. But for
myself, I like the good old custom, by which as author, or reader, I can
talk or be talked directly to. It is the only way of familiar intercourse
between two parties so essential to each other. I shall therefore speak
on.
Every tale is based upon certain ideas, which are its life-blood. Of
late, fiction has become the channel by which the topics most in the
thought of the age, or which bear directly upon its welfare, reach most
readily the popular mind. But few authors, however, can count upon
many readers, and I am not one of them. Still what a man has to say to
the public, should be his earnest thought frankly told. No one has a
monopoly of wisdom. The most gifted author cannot fill the measure of the
understanding. The humblest may give utterance to ideas, that, however
plain to most thinkers, may through him be the means of first reaching
some minds, or at least suggesting thoughts that shall leave them wiser
and happier. If what he say, has in it no substance of truth, it will
speedily come to naught. But on the contrary, if it contain simply the
seeds of truth, they will be sure to find a ripening soil somewhere in
human hearts, and bud and blossom into peace and progress. With this
motive I have spoken freely such views as have been prompted by my
experience and reflections. They are not much to read, nor much to skip.
Whichever the reader does, he carries with him my warmest wishes for his
welfare, and the hope that if he find in the Story nothing to instruct,
it may still be not without the power “to amuse.”
CASA DAUPHINÉ,
Piazza Maria Antonia,
_Florence_, 1857.
KIANA: A TRADITION OF HAWAII.
CHAPTER I.
“They that sail on the sea tell of the danger thereof; and when
we hear it with our ears, we marvel thereat.”—_Ecclesiasticus_,
xliii. 24.
“The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.”
_Ancient Mariner._
To be alone on the great ocean, to feel besides the ship that bears you,
nothing human floats within your world’s horizon, begets in a thoughtful
mind a deep solemnity. The voyager is, as it were, at once brought before
the material image of eternity. Sky and sea, each recedes without limit
from his view; a circle above, a circle around, a circle underneath, no
beginning, no ending, no repose for the sight, no boundary on which to
fix the thought, but growing higher and higher, wider and wider, deeper
and deeper, as the eye gazes and finds no resting point,—both sea and
sky suggest, with overpowering force, that condition of soul which,
knowing neither time nor space, forever mounts Godward. In no mood does
Nature speak louder to the heart than in her silence. When her thunders
roll through the atmosphere and the hills tremble, the ocean surges and
the wind wails; when she laughs through her thousand notes from bird or
blossom, the heart either exults at the strife, or grows tender with
sympathy in the universal joy. But place man alone on the ocean, shrouded
in silence, with no living thing beyond his own tiny, wooden world for
companionship, he begins to realize in the mighty expanse which engulfs
his vision his own physical insignificancy. The very stars that look
down upon him, with light twinkling and faint, from the rapidity with
which they have sent their rays through distant firmaments to greet his
vision and tell him there are countless worlds of greater beauty and
higher perfection for his spirit to explore; even they deepen his feeling
of littleness, till, finally, his soul recovers its dignity in the very
magnitude of the scenery spread for its exploration. It knows that all
this is but a portion of its heritage; that earth, air and water, the
very planets that mock its curiosity, are ministering spirits, given with
all their mysteries to be finally absorbed into its own all-penetrating
nature.
Few, however, can so realize their own spirit-power, as to be calm in
a calm. A motionless ship upon a silent ocean has a phantom look. The
tall, tapering spars, the symmetrical tracery of ropes, the useless sails
in white drooping folds, the black body in sharp relief in the white
light, added to the ghost-ship,—the twin of the one in the air,—in
dimly-shadowed companionship, hull uppermost and her masts pointing
downwards in the blue water, make up a spectral picture. As day after day
passes, overhead a hot burning sun whose rays blind without rejoicing, no
ripple upon the water, no life, because neither fish nor bird can bear
the heat; the very garbage thrown overboard floating untouched, as if
destruction rejected her own; the night mantling all in darkness, making
silence still more oppressive,—for even the blocks refuse their wonted
creaking;—all this consumes the body like rust slowly eating into iron.
Nature faints and man sinks into her lassitude. He feels deserted of
his own mother. She that bore him mocks him. Perchance a cold grey sky,
pregnant with gloom, shuts down all around him, reflecting itself in the
ocean which looks even greyer and colder. The atmosphere grows barren of
light. No wind comes. Silent, motionless, and despairing, the vessel lies
upon the waters; not slumbering, for every nerve within is quickened to
unnatural keenness to catch a sign of change. It comes not. The seamen’s
hearts, too worn to pray or curse, daily sink deeper within them, like
masses of lead slowly finding their way through the fathomless depths of
the ocean. A sail, a floating spar, a shark or devil fish, anything that
were of man or beast, a shrub, the tiniest sea-snail or wildest bird,
would be welcomed as Columbus hailed the floating signs that told to his
mutinous crew a coming shore.
But none come. Weeks go by thus. Is man a god that his soul cannot fail
within him! Must he not sympathize with the surrounding inanition!
Welcome battle, welcome storm, welcome all that excites his energies,
though it consume blood and muscle; be the mind racked and the body
tortured; still man marches triumphantly on to his object. But take away
opposition, reduce him to nothingness, convince him that action begets no
result, that will is powerless, and he is no longer man. Not to act is
conscious annihilation. But Nature never wholly deserts. She leaves hope
to cheer humanity with promises that sooner or later must be fulfilled.
There is, however, no condition so destitute of all that makes man _Man_
as helpless solitude, when mind and body alike without action, stagnate
and forget their origin.
Such was the condition of the crew of a vessel about the year 1530, lying
motionless on the waters of the Pacific, not far from 25° north latitude
and 140° west longitude. The bark was of that frail class, called
caravel, scarcely fitted to navigate a small lake, much less to explore
unknown seas. Yet, in those days European navigators did not hesitate
to trust their lives and fortunes, on voyages of years’ duration, to
craft which would now be condemned even for river navigation. The one of
which we speak was of about seventy tons burden, with a high poop, which
gave a comfortable cabin, a half deck and a forecastle, raised like the
poop, sufficient to give partial shelter to the numerous crew. One mast
with a large lateen sail rose from the centre of the vessel, but her
progress was aided as much by oars as by canvas. At the masthead was a
castle-shaped box, in which the seamen could comfortably remain, either
as lookouts, or for defence. This gave to the spar a clumsy, top-heavy
look, wholly inconsistent with our modern ideas of nautical symmetry.
It was plain that the caravel had been long from port, and had suffered
much from stress of weather. Her sides were rusty grey; barnacles clung
so thickly below and above the water line, as to greatly interfere with
her sailing qualities; the seams were open, and as the hot sun poured
upon them, pitch oozed out. A tattered and threadbare sail hung loosely
from the long yard which swayed from the masthead. The cordage appeared
strained and worn to its last tension. Iron rust had eaten through and
stained the wood in all parts of the hull. If paint had ever existed, the
elements had long since eaten it up. Everything indicated long and hard
usage. Yet amid all there were signs of seamanship and discipline; for
bad and shattered as were rope, spar, and sail, everything was in its
place and in the best order its condition permitted.
Within the cabin was a weather-beaten young man, well made, of a strong
and active frame, features bronzed by long exposure to varied climates,
and fine soft hair, somewhat light in color, which even now would have
curled gracefully, had it been properly cared for. He lay ill and panting
on the transom, with his face close to the open port, gasping for air;
not that he was seriously reduced, for it was readily seen that fatigue,
anxiety and scanty fare had more to do with his weak condition than
actual disease. Near him was a rude chart of the coasts of Mexico and
adjacent sea, which he had long and carefully, and, to all appearance,
fruitlessly studied. It was covered with a labyrinth of pencil marks,
indicating a confused idea both of navigation and his present position.
He had been recently poring over it, and at last had thrown it aside as
utterly worthless, or at all events as affording him no clue by which to
extricate himself from his present situation in a sea wholly unknown to
the navigators of his day.
Near him sat a priest, whose thoughtful, benevolent face was far from
expressing despair even under their present circumstances. He talked to
the young man of the necessity of trusting themselves to the guidance
of Providence, and sought to cheer him by his own hopeful serenity and
untiring action.
Around the deck and under such shelter from the heat as they could
contrive, the crew reclined in mournful groups; some with faces hardened
into despair, and others careless or indifferent. A few only manifested
a spirit of pious resignation. The strongest seldom spoke. Their looks
were as sullen as their tempers were fierce, and if they opened their
mouths, it was to mutter or curse, daring Nature to do her worst. Nothing
but their physical debility prevented frequent violent explosions of the
pent-up irritability arising from their helpless state. Disease and
starvation were rapidly adding fresh horrors to their situation. One
seaman lay on the hard deck with a broken thigh, in which mortification
had already begun, groaning and piteously asking for water. In his thirst
he would have drank more in one hour than was allowanced to the entire
crew for a day’s consumption. Several others, whose fevered tongues
rattled from dryness, were also tossing and moaning on the rough planks,
too weak or hopeless to join in the fruitless appeal of their dying
comrade. Such water as they had was clotted with slime, and impregnated
with foul odors. Their meat was all gone, and the little bread left,
musty and worm-eaten.
All wore the look of having long struggled with adverse fortune. They
were men whose element was made up of hardship and adventure; men, who,
forgetting in one hour’s better fortune all that had brought them to
their present condition, would not hesitate to embark again on a similar
errand. Here they were, bowed in spirit, haggard in features, their
hardy limbs lying torpidly about, indifferent to death itself, but worn
to worse than death by drifting for weeks about under a pitiless sun on
an unknown sea, which the oldest of them had never heard of, and which
seemed to them as if they had arrived within the confines of stagnant
matter, where they were doomed to rot in body and decay in mind, coffined
in their vessel, whose slow destruction kept even pace with their own.
Five of their number had already died and been cast overboard. Gladly
would they have seen sharks gorge themselves on their late shipmates, as
that would have shown them that the water still contained life. But no
carrion fishes came near them. With faces upturned and glassy eyes fixed
upon the caravel, those corpses floated about them so long that the crew
were at last afraid to look over the bulwarks for fear of seeing what
they desired so much to forget.
But humanity had not altogether abandoned them. The frailest in body
among that vessel’s company proved the strongest in faith and action. A
woman was of their number. Consuming even less of their provisions than
the others, she reserved herself, and in great measure her allowance of
food, for those whose necessity she considered as greater than her own.
At all hours was she to be seen moving quietly about, speaking hope and
courage to one, giving to eat or drink to another, or fanning the hot
brow of a half delirious sufferer, while she talked to him of a home into
which no suffering could enter, if the heart once were right. Especially
was she devoted to the young man in the cabin. He evidently relied even
more upon her than upon the priest, and imbibed fresh strength and hope
from her voice and example. The priest was equally unwearied with his
bodily aid and spiritual counsel to the crew. Thus it was that amid the
most trying of the experiences of ocean-life, despair did not altogether
quench hope.
Yet what situation could be more cheerless! One altogether similar in
the history of navigation had never occurred before, and by the hurried
course of discovery and civilization, would not again occur. They were
literally ALONE, drifting on an unknown, motionless sea. No winds stirred
its surface; no birds flew by; no fishes came up from beneath their keel;
there was no change except from the burning day to the feverish night,
which brought with it no cooling dew, nor any sign to excite a sailor’s
hope. Although they could not know the fact, not a vessel beside theirs
for thousands of miles east or west, north or south, floated on that
ocean. Driven thither against their wills, they were the first to explore
its solitude. It was true that continents and archipelagoes thickly
peopled were around them, but for all they knew, they were being carried
by an irresistible fate to the boundary of nature, whence they would drop
into a fathomless void. They were therefore literally ALONE.