On
a
certain
bright
morning
the
Islands
hove
in
sight, lying
low
on
the
lonely sea,
and
everybody climbed
to
the
upper
deck
to
look.
After
two
thousand
miles
of
watery
solitude
the
vision
was
a
welcome
one.
As
we
approached,
the
imposing
promontory
of
Diamond
Head
rose
up
out
of
the
ocean
its
rugged
front softened
by
the
hazy
distance,
and
presently
the
details
of
the
land
began
to
make
themselves
manifest:
first
the
line
of
beach;
then
the
plumed coacoanut trees
of
the
tropics;
then
cabins
of
the
natives;
then
the
white
town
of
Honolulu, said
to
contain
between
twelve
and
fifteen
thousand
inhabitants
spread
over
a
dead
level;
with
streets
from
twenty
to
thirty
feet wide,
solid
and
level
as
a floor,
most
of
them
straight
as
a line
and
few
as
crooked
as
a corkscrew.
The
further
I traveled
through
the
town
the
better
I
liked
it.
Every
step
revealed a
new
contrast—disclosed
something
I
was
unaccustomed to.
In
place
of
the
grand
mud-colored brown fronts
of
San Francisco, I
saw
dwellings built
of
straw, adobies,
and
cream-colored pebble-and-shell- conglomerated coral,
cut
into
oblong
blocks
and
laid
in
cement;
also
a
great
number
of
neat
white
cottages,
with
green
window-shutters;
in
place
of
front
yards
like
billiard-tables
with
iron fences
around
them, I
saw
these
homes
surrounded
by
ample
yards,
thickly
clad
with
green
grass,
and
shaded
by
tall
trees,
through
whose
dense
foliage
the
sun
could
scarcely
penetrate;
in
place
of
the
customary
geranium, calla lily, etc.,
languishing
in
dust
and
general
debility, I
saw
luxurious
banks
and
thickets
of
flowers,
fresh
as
a
meadow
after
a rain,
and
glowing
with
the
richest
dyes;
in
place
of
the
dingy
horrors
of
San Francisco's pleasure grove,
the
"Willows," I
saw
huge-bodied, wide-spreading forest trees,
with
strange
names
and
stranger
appearance—trees
that
cast a shadow
like
a thunder-cloud,
and
were
able
to
stand
alone
without
being
tied
to
green
poles;
in
place
of
gold
fish,
wiggling
around
in
glass globes,
assuming
countless
shades
and
degrees
of
distortion
through
the
magnifying
and
diminishing
qualities
of
their
transparent
prison
houses, I
saw
cats—Tom-cats,
Mary
Ann
cats, long-tailed cats, bob-tailed cats, blind cats, one-eyed cats,
wall-eyed
cats, cross-eyed cats,
gray
cats,
black
cats,
white
cats,
yellow
cats,
striped
cats,
spotted
cats,
tame
cats, wild cats,
singed
cats,
individual
cats,
groups
of
cats, platoons
of
cats,
companies
of
cats, regiments
of
cats,
armies
of
cats,
multitudes
of
cats,
millions
of
cats,
and
all
of
them
sleek, fat,
lazy
and
sound
asleep. I
looked
on
a
multitude
of
people,
some
white,
in
white
coats, vests, pantaloons,
even
white
cloth
shoes,
made
snowy
with
chalk
duly laid
on
every
morning;
but
the
majority
of
the
people
were
almost
as
dark
as
negroes—women
with
comely
features,
fine
black
eyes, rounded forms, inclining
to
the
voluptuous,
clad
in
a single
bright
red
or
white
garment
that
fell
free
and
unconfined
from
shoulder
to
heel,
long
black
hair
falling loose,
gypsy
hats, encircled
with
wreaths
of
natural
flowers
of
a
brilliant
carmine
tint;
plenty
of
dark men
in
various
costumes,
and
some
with
nothing
on
but
a
battered
stove-pipe
hat
tilted
on
the
nose,
and
a
very
scant
breech-clout;—certain smoke-dried children
were
clothed
in
nothing
but
sunshine—a
very
neat
fitting
and
picturesque
apparel
indeed.
In
place
of
roughs
and
rowdies
staring
and
blackguarding
on
the
corners, I
saw
long-haired, saddle-colored
Sandwich
Island
maidens sitting
on
the
ground
in
the
shade
of
corner
houses, gazing
indolently
at
whatever
or
whoever
happened
along;
instead
of
wretched cobble-stone pavements, I walked
on
a
firm
foundation
of
coral, built
up
from
the
bottom
of
the
sea
by
the
absurd
but
persevering
insect
of
that
name,
with
a
light
layer
of
lava
and
cinders
overlying
the
coral,
belched
up
out
of
fathomless
perdition
long
ago
through
the
seared
and
blackened
crater
that
stands
dead
and
harmless
in
the
distance now;
instead
of
cramped
and
crowded street-cars, I met dusky
native
women
sweeping
by,
free
as
the
wind,
on
fleet
horses
and
astride,
with
gaudy
riding-sashes,
streaming
like
banners
behind
them;
instead
of
the
combined
stenches
of
Chinadom
and
Brannan
street
slaughter-houses, I
breathed
the
balmy
fragrance
of
jessamine, oleander,
and
the
Pride
of
India;
in
place
of
the
hurry
and
bustle
and
noisy
confusion
of
San Francisco, I
moved
in
the
midst
of
a
Summer
calm
as
tranquil
as
dawn
in
the
Garden
of
Eden;
in
place
of
the
Golden
City's
skirting
sand
hills
and
the
placid
bay, I
saw
on
the
one
side
a frame-work
of
tall,
precipitous
mountains
close
at
hand,
clad
in
refreshing green,
and
cleft
by
deep, cool, chasm-like valleys—and
in
front
the
grand
sweep
of
the
ocean; a brilliant,
transparent
green
near
the
shore, bound
and
bordered
by
a
long
white
line
of
foamy
spray dashing against
the
reef,
and
further
out
the
dead
blue
water
of
the
deep
sea,
flecked
with
"white caps,"
and
in
the
far
horizon
a single, lonely sail—a
mere
accent-mark
to
emphasize a slumberous
calm
and
a
solitude
that
were
without
sound
or
limit.
When
the
sun
sunk down—the
one
intruder
from
other
realms
and
persistent
in
suggestions
of
them—it
was
tranced
luxury
to
sit
in
the
perfumed
air
and
forget
that
there
was
any
world
but
these
enchanted islands.
It
was
such
ecstacy
to
dream,
and
dream—till
you
got a bite. A
scorpion
bite.
Then
the
first
duty
was
to
get
up
out
of
the
grass
and
kill
the
scorpion;
and
the
next
to
bathe
the
bitten
place
with
alcohol
or
brandy;
and
the
next
to
resolve
to
keep
out
of
the
grass
in
future.
Then
came
an
adjournment
to
the
bed-chamber
and
the
pastime
of
writing
up
the
day's
journal
with
one
hand
and
the
destruction
of
mosquitoes
with
the
other—a
whole
community
of
them
at
a slap. Then,
observing
an
enemy
approaching,—a hairy
tarantula
on
stilts—why
not
set
the
spittoon
on
him?
It
is
done,
and
the
projecting
ends
of
his
paws
give
a
luminous
idea
of
the
magnitude
of
his
reach.
Then
to
bed
and
become
a promenade
for
a
centipede
with
forty-two
legs
on
a
side
and
every
foot
hot
enough
to
burn
a
hole
through
a raw-hide.
More
soaking
with
alcohol,
and
a
resolution
to
examine
the
bed
before
entering
it,
in
future.
Then
wait,
and
suffer,
till
all
the
mosquitoes
in
the
neighborhood
have
crawled
in
under
the
bar,
then
slip
out
quickly,
shut
them
in
and
sleep
peacefully
on
the
floor
till
morning. Meantime
it
is
comforting
to
curse
the
tropics
in
occasional wakeful intervals.
We
had
an
abundance
of
fruit
in
Honolulu,
of
course. Oranges, pine- apples, bananas, strawberries, lemons, limes, mangoes, guavas, melons,
and
a
rare
and
curious
luxury
called
the
chirimoya,
which
is
deliciousness itself.
Then
there
is
the
tamarind. I
thought
tamarinds
were
made
to
eat,
but
that
was
probably
not
the
idea. I ate several,
and
it
seemed
to
me
that
they
were
rather
sour
that
year.
They
pursed
up
my lips,
till
they
resembled
the
stem-end
of
a tomato,
and
I had
to
take
my
sustenance
through
a
quill
for
twenty-four hours.
They
sharpened
my teeth
till
I
could
have
shaved
with
them,
and
gave
them
a "wire edge"
that
I
was
afraid
would
stay;
but
a
citizen
said "no,
it
will
come
off
when
the
enamel
does"—which
was
comforting,
at
any
rate. I found, afterward,
that
only
strangers
eat
tamarinds—but
they
only
eat
them
once.