his appearance elegant, his conversation sparkling and bright, and his sorrows unfathomable, we all know. He was a prince to be proud of; and his nation mourned him more for the promise that was in him than for his position by birth.' Then alluding to the great grief of his life, the same writer adds: We have all read in history of an English King, who after his son's death was never seen to smile again; and those who were most about our late King assert that after his son's death, he thought of him every hour of every day, and dreamed of him by night. Now that they have met again, it cannot be wrong to say, that the death of the son hastened the death of the father. God grant that we may never again see so heart-broken a man.'

The Bishop of Honolulu, who only became personally acquainted with the late King during the last thirteen months of his life, but through that time was in constant, almost daily intercourse with him, thus describes him, particularly in reference to his religious character, knowledge, and views: A man of rare physical powers, of elegant tastes, keen perceptions, who could enjoy Kingsley, Thackeray, Tennyson, and was ever quoting Shakespeare, the bent of his mind was still theological. He had the strong religious instincts peculiar to his race. Those he felt could never be satisfied by truths which addressed themselves only to the logical faculty. The Catholic faith, as taught in the Church of England, in its integrity, seemed to meet fully the cravings of his soul. He loved to dwell on the regularity of the English orders, and few laymen could vindicate with the same ability every link in the chain of their transmission. He was familiar with the works of Wheatley, Palmer, Courayer, Perceval. A true churchman on conviction, he was no less opposed to Roman error than

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447

to Congregationalism; but no one ever heard from his lips an uncharitable word with regard to other religious systems. He used to remark the soundness of our position as a Church-that of Scripture interpreted by "the old fathers"-and he would say "the waters become purer as you approach the fountain." In the last conversation I had with him, he remarked, with reference to a service that had been held for the American residents, “I highly approve your attempts to soften down national feelings of irritation. The Church is Catholic, and knows no nationalities." Talking over his plan of visiting England next year with the Queen, he said, "I want to go as a member of the Anglican Church myself, and ask my fellow-churchmen to aid me in saving my poor people."

On the morning after his death the body of the King was removed into the throne-room of the palace. How changed was that apartment in the three days since the reception. The hall that had been so brilliant with artificial light, now dimmed by the partial exclusion of the natural day. The then subdued sound of many voices, of salutations, not unmixed with anxiety, the whisper of rustling silk, the clink of peaceful swords on the floor, and the faint pauses of music from without, now hushed into such silence, that a breath was heard, and a sigh startled the ear like a cry of pain. Only from the circle of mourners who surrounded the palace there reached that apartment the pathetic monotonous chant of wailing, now low, now rising higher, as if by new accessions of grief; just as from the encircling reefs the island hears the murmur of the surf varying in force with the varying winds. The throne with its crimson hangings was no longer the point to which all eyes turned; but a bier in the centre of the room, draped with black cloth,

on which lay extended the stalwart form of the late King arrayed in his Field-marshal's uniform, and elongated by death into a giant's length. At his head was a small table or altar, on which stood the emblem of his faith. The officers of state formed a silent group beyond the catafalque, and at each extremity were native chiefs, bearing in their hands the tall kahilis or feathered wands of office, with that patient immobility attained only by the unsophisticated races of men. And, lastly, at the front corner of that couch of death was bowed a figure hidden by a black veil, chief mourner of all those who sincerely mourned their sovereign, and whose statue-like attitude struck every heart with awe and pity.

And such remained the scene when the subjects of Kaméhaméha, high and low, were allowed to pass through the room and bid their chief a silent last aloha. The lying in state was protracted, owing to the preparation of the funeral obsequies, which were on a scale unprecedented in that country. All honours which the love and reverence of a people could suggest were paid at the funeral; and the erection of a new mausoleum was commenced, on rising ground looking down on the city of Honolulu, the distant Waianae mountains, and the ocean. "The situation was well chosen; and while the fan-like landscape spreads out its unspeakable softness and beauty to the west, and the setting sun seems to linger over the ocean's rim, as if loth to part from a scene so lovely, sunrise and resurrection stand close behind the mountain curtain which fringes the valley on the east, and which prolongs the freshness and sweetness of the morning hours.'*

Polynesian. December 12, 1863.

The circumstances of the new name which Queen Emma received from her husband on the death of their only child, the Prince of Hawaii, and the import of it, have been mentioned in the previous chapter; and now in her early widowhood-for the Queen was not sevenand-twenty at the time of the King's death-the people, in their affectionate sympathy, changed her name once more. The adjective particle na, meaning 'all,' or the entire,' was substituted for that of ka, which is genitive singular. So instead of the name Kaleleo-kalani,' the flight of the chief, or heaven,' the desolation of the wife as well as the mother was thenceforward expressed by Kaleleo-na-lani,'-'the flight of ALL the chiefs, or the entire heaven:' for it seemed to the people that to their Queen, now, all joy was darkened, and that her earth was utterly empty and void.

G G

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE WILD OLIVE TREE.

I toompanied

T was on the 11th of October, 1862, that Dr. Staley,

Mr. Mason, now Archdeacon of Maui, and by Mr. Ibbotson, also in priest's orders, landed in his diocese; where he was followed soon after by Mr. Scott, also a priest, who had gone by ship from England to San Francisco. It can never be forgotten by those most interested in this. movement that the mission to the Sandwich Islands was one sown in tears. The much lamented Prince Consort of England died the day before Dr. Staley's consecration, and when the mission touched land they heard of the death of the young Prince of Hawaii. A strange and unaccountable gloom had fallen on the spirits of one of the clergy who journeyed with the bishop, the one probably fullest of hope and buoyancy, as they neared the port of Honolulu, the goal of their long travel; and the sad news of the blighted hope of a nation was received by him without surprise, and almost as if he had been prepared for the intelligence. Within a year, the venerable prelate who had laid his hands on Dr. Staley's head was reposing in the tomb, and a child of the Bishop of Honolulu, and one of Mr. Scott, were added to the number of the dead. The death of the good Kaméhaméha IV. makes up the melancholy catalogue.