“The background represents a mantle or military cloak of royalty. At the sides are the supporters in feather cloaks and helmets. Kameeiamoku on the right carries an ihe, or spear, while Kamanawa, his twin brother, on the left, holds a kahili, or staff, used only upon state occasions.
“Above the shield is the crown, ornamented with twelve taro leaves. Below is the national motto taken from the speech of the king upon Restoration Day: ‘The life of the land is perpetuated by righteousness.’”
The coat-of-arms has not been used by the government since the islands have been a territory of the United States.
No tapa “cloth” is made in Hawaii to-day, though these people formerly excelled all Polynesia for fineness of the almost transparent, paper-like tissue, beaten from bark of the wauke, paper-mulberry. It was worn, several deep, for draping the human form. Now, for the most part, Hawaiian tapa can be seen only in the Museum, where rare samples are pasted carefully upon diamond-paned windows. Yards of it are stored in drawers. There is little resemblance between this delicate stuff and the handsome but heavy modern tapas of Samoa, with which one grows familiar in the curio shops of Honolulu.
A replica of the volcano Kilauea claimed especial attention, in view of our visit in the near future to the vent in Mauna Loa’s 14,000-foot flank; and we lingered over a model, worked out in wood and grass and stone, of an ancient temple and City of Refuge, or heiau, with its place of human sacrifice at one end of the inclosure. A gruesome episode took place shortly after this model was installed. A young Hawaiian, repairing the roof, lost balance and crashed through, breaking a gallery railing directly above the imitation sacrificial altar, where his real blood was spilled—Fate his executioner, ilamuku.
One more of the countless exhibits, and I am done. Here and there in the building, stages are set with splendid waxen Hawaiians engaged in olden pursuits, such as basket-weaving and poi-pounding. The figures, full-statured, are startlingly lifelike, except in the unavoidable deadness of the coloring. It is impossible to imitate the living hue, of which the natives say, “You can always see the blood of an Hawaiian under his skin.” The model for one of the best of these figures died some time ago; and to this day his young widow comes, and brings her friends, to admire the beautiful image.
No matter how the very thought of a museum aches your feet, and back, and eyes, do not pass by the Bishop Museum.
It was our good fortune to be bidden, with the Thurstons, to a New England breakfast at the Diamond Head seaside residence of Judge and Mrs. Sanford B. Dole. Judge Dole, who was President of the Provisional Republic (often called the Dole Republic) that followed the collapse of the monarchy, is a busy man; and so, rather than visit and be visited during the week, at eleven of a Sunday he and Mrs. Dole welcome their friends to déjeuner.
Imposingly tall, benignant and patriarchal, blue-eyed and healthy-skinned, with silver-white hair and long beard, the Judge is unaffectedly grand and courteous, making a woman feel herself a queen with his thought for her every comfort. He must have been another of the courtly figures of the old regime, and Jack always warms to the instance of the gallant resistance made by him and another man, holding the legislative doors against an infuriated mob during an uprising incident to a change of monarchs. “Can’t you see them? Can’t you see the two of them—the glorious youth of them risking its hot blood to do what it saw had to be done!” he cries in appreciation of the sons of men.