The object of such a luau is usually to enable the giver to pay for his new house, or to raise money for some private object of his own.  Notice of the coming feast is given months beforehand, as also of the amount each visitor is expected to give.  It will be a twenty-five cent, or a fifty cent, or a dollar luau.  The pigs—­the centre-piece of the feast—­have been fattening for a year before.  The affair is much discussed.  It is indispensable that all who attend shall come in brand-new clothing, and a native person will rather deny himself the feast than appear in garments which have been worn before.  A few of the relatives of the feast-giver act as stewards, and they must be dressed strictly alike.  At one luau which I had the happiness to attend the six men who acted as stewards were arrayed in green cotton shirts and crimson cotton trowsers, and had green wreaths on their heads.  I need not say that they presented a truly magnificent appearance.

To such a luau people ride thirty or forty miles; arriving often the evening beforehand, in order to be early at the feast next day.  When they sit down each person receives his abundant share of pig, neatly wrapped in ti-leaves; to the remainder of the food he helps himself as he likes.  They eat, and eat, and eat; they beat their stomachs with satisfaction; they talk and eat; they ride about awhile, and eat again; they laugh, sing, and eat.  At last a man finds he can hold no more.  He is “pau”—­done.  He declares himself “mauna”—­a mountain; and points to his abdomen in proof of his statement.  Then, unless he expects a recurrence of hunger, he carefully wraps up the fragments and bones which remain of his portion of pig, and these he must take with him.  It would be the height of impoliteness to leave them; and each visitor scrupulously takes away every remaining bit of his share.  If now you look you will see a calabash somewhere in the middle of the floor, into which each, as he completes his meal, put his quarter or half dollar.

In the evening there are dancing and singing, and then you may hear and see the extremely dramatic meles of the Hawaiians—­a kind of rapid chant, the tones of which have a singular fascination for my ears.  A man and woman, usually elderly or middle-aged people, sit down opposite each other, or side by side facing the company.  One begins and the other joins in; the sound is as of a shrill kind of drone; it is accompanied by gesticulations; and each chant lasts about two or three minutes, and ends in a jerk.  The swaying of the lithe figures, the vehement and passionate movements of the arms and head, the tragic intensity of the looks, and the very peculiar music, all unite to fasten one’s attention, and to make this spectacle of mele singing, as I have said, singularly fascinating.