In
my
diary
of
our
third
day
in
Honolulu, I find this: I
am
probably
the
most
sensitive
man
in
Hawaii to-night—especially
about
sitting
down
in
the
presence
of
my betters. I
have
ridden
fifteen
or
twenty
miles
on
horse-back
since
5 P.M.
and
to
tell
the
honest
truth, I
have
a delicacy
about
sitting
down
at
all.
An
excursion
to
Diamond
Head
and
the
King's
Coacoanut
Grove
was
planned
to-day—time, 4:30 P.M.—the
party
to
consist
of
half
a
dozen
gentlemen
and
three
ladies.
They
all
started
at
the
appointed
hour
except
myself. I
was
at
the
Government
prison, (with Captain
Fish
and
another
whaleship- skipper, Captain Phillips,)
and
got
so
interested
in
its
examination
that
I
did
not
notice
how
quickly
the
time
was
passing. Somebody remarked
that
it
was
twenty
minutes
past
five
o'clock,
and
that
woke
me
up.
It
was
a
fortunate
circumstance
that
Captain Phillips
was
along
with
his
"turn out,"
as
he
calls
a top-buggy
that
Captain Cook brought
here
in
1778,
and
a
horse
that
was
here
when
Captain Cook came. Captain Phillips
takes
a
just
pride
in
his
driving
and
in
the
speed
of
his
horse,
and
to
his
passion
for
displaying
them
I
owe
it
that
we
were
only
sixteen
minutes
coming
from
the
prison
to
the
American Hotel—a distance
which
has been
estimated
to
be
over
half
a mile.
But
it
took
some
fearful driving.
The
Captain's
whip
came
down
fast,
and
the
blows started
so
much
dust
out
of
the
horse's
hide
that
during
the
last
half
of
the
journey
we
rode
through
an
impenetrable
fog,
and
ran
by
a
pocket
compass
in
the
hands
of
Captain Fish, a
whaler
of
twenty-six
years
experience,
who
sat
there
through
the
perilous
voyage
as
self-possessed
as
if
he
had been
on
the
euchre-deck
of
his
own
ship,
and
calmly said, "Port
your
helm—port,"
from
time
to
time,
and
"Hold
her
a
little
free—steady—so—so,"
and
"Luff—hard
down
to
starboard!"
and
never
once
lost
his
presence
of
mind
or
betrayed
the
least
anxiety
by
voice
or
manner.
When
we
came
to
anchor
at
last,
and
Captain Phillips
looked
at
his
watch
and
said, "Sixteen minutes—I
told
you
it
was
in
her! that's
over
three
miles
an
hour!" I
could
see
he
felt
entitled
to
a compliment,
and
so
I said I had
never
seen
lightning
go
like
that
horse.
And
I
never
had.
The
landlord
of
the
American said
the
party
had been gone nearly
an
hour,
but
that
he
could
give
me
my
choice
of
several
horses
that
could
overtake
them. I said,
never
mind—I
preferred
a
safe
horse
to
a
fast
one—I
would
like
to
have
an
excessively
gentle
horse—a
horse
with
no
spirit whatever—a
lame
one,
if
he
had
such
a thing.
Inside
of
five
minutes
I
was
mounted,
and
perfectly satisfied
with
my outfit. I had
no
time
to
label
him
"This
is
a horse,"
and
so
if
the
public
took
him
for
a
sheep
I cannot
help
it. I
was
satisfied,
and
that
was
the
main
thing. I
could
see
that
he
had
as
many
fine
points
as
any
man's horse,
and
so
I
hung
my
hat
on
one
of
them,
behind
the
saddle,
and
swabbed
the
perspiration
from
my face
and
started. I
named
him
after
this
island, "Oahu" (pronounced O-waw-hee).
The
first
gate
he
came
to
he
started in; I had
neither
whip
nor
spur,
and
so
I simply
argued
the
case
with
him.
He
resisted
argument,
but
ultimately
yielded
to
insult
and
abuse.
He
backed
out
of
that
gate
and
steered
for
another
one
on
the
other
side
of
the
street. I
triumphed
by
my
former
process.
Within
the
next
six
hundred
yards
he
crossed
the
street
fourteen
times
and
attempted
thirteen
gates,
and
in
the
meantime
the
tropical
sun
was
beating
down
and
threatening
to
cave
the
top
of
my
head
in,
and
I
was
literally
dripping
with
perspiration.
He
abandoned
the
gate
business
after
that
and
went
along
peaceably enough,
but
absorbed
in
meditation. I noticed
this
latter
circumstance,
and
it
soon
began
to
fill
me
with
apprehension. I said
to
my self,
this
creature
is
planning
some
new
outrage,
some
fresh
deviltry
or
other—no
horse
ever
thought
over
a
subject
so
profoundly
as
this
one
is
doing
just
for
nothing.
The
more
this
thing
preyed
upon
my
mind
the
more
uneasy I became,
until
the
suspense
became
almost
unbearable
and
I dismounted
to
see
if
there
was
anything
wild
in
his
eye—for I had
heard
that
the
eye
of
this
noblest
of
our
domestic
animals
is
very
expressive. I cannot
describe
what
a load
of
anxiety
was
lifted
from
my
mind
when
I found
that
he
was
only
asleep. I woke
him
up
and
started
him
into
a faster walk,
and
then
the
villainy
of
his
nature
came
out
again.
He
tried
to
climb
over
a
stone
wall,
five
or
six
feet high. I
saw
that
I
must
apply
force
to
this
horse,
and
that
I
might
as
well
begin
first
as
last. I plucked a stout switch
from
a
tamarind
tree,
and
the
moment
he
saw
it,
he
surrendered.
He
broke
into
a
convulsive
sort
of
a canter,
which
had
three
short
steps
in
it
and
one
long
one,
and
reminded
me
alternately
of
the
clattering
shake
of
the
great
earthquake,
and
the
sweeping
plunging
of
the
Ajax
in
a storm.
And
now
there
can
be
no
fitter
occasion
than
the
present
to
pronounce
a left-handed
blessing
upon
the
man
who
invented
the
American saddle.
There
is
no
seat
to
speak
of
about
it—one
might
as
well
sit
in
a shovel- -and
the
stirrups
are
nothing
but
an
ornamental
nuisance.
If
I
were
to
write
down
here
all
the
abuse
I
expended
on
those
stirrups,
it
would
make
a
large
book,
even
without
pictures. Sometimes I got
one
foot
so
far
through,
that
the
stirrup
partook
of
the
nature
of
an
anklet; sometimes
both
feet
were
through,
and
I
was
handcuffed
by
the
legs;
and
sometimes my feet got clear
out
and
left
the
stirrups
wildly dangling
about
my shins.
Even
when
I
was
in
proper
position
and
carefully
balanced
upon
the
balls
of
my feet,
there
was
no
comfort
in
it,
on
account
of
my
nervous
dread
that
they
were
going
to
slip
one
way
or
the
other
in
a moment.
But
the
subject
is
too
exasperating
to
write
about. A
mile
and
a
half
from
town, I came
to
a
grove
of
tall
cocoanut trees,
with
clean, branchless
stems
reaching straight
up
sixty
or
seventy
feet
and
topped
with
a spray
of
green
foliage
sheltering
clusters
of
cocoa- nuts—not
more
picturesque
than
a forest
of
collossal
ragged
parasols,
with
bunches
of
magnified
grapes
under
them,
would
be. I
once
heard
a gouty
northern
invalid
say
that
a cocoanut tree
might
be
poetical, possibly
it
was;
but
it
looked
like
a feather-duster struck
by
lightning. I
think
that
describes
it
better
than
a picture—and yet,
without
any
question,
there
is
something
fascinating
about
a cocoa-nut tree—and graceful, too.
About
a
dozen
cottages,
some
frame
and
the
others
of
native
grass,
nestled
sleepily
in
the
shade
here
and
there.
The
grass
cabins
are
of
a grayish color,
are
shaped
much
like
our
own
cottages,
only
with
higher
and
steeper
roofs
usually,
and
are
made
of
some
kind
of
weed
strongly
bound
together
in
bundles.
The
roofs
are
very
thick,
and
so
are
the
walls;
the
latter
have
square
holes
in
them
for
windows.
At
a
little
distance
these
cabins
have
a furry appearance,
as
if
they
might
be
made
of
bear
skins.
They
are
very
cool
and
pleasant
inside.
The
King's
flag
was
flying
from
the
roof
of
one
of
the
cottages,
and
His
Majesty
was
probably within.
He
owns
the
whole
concern thereabouts,
and
passes
his
time
there
frequently,
on
sultry
days
"laying off."
The
spot
is
called
"The
King's
Grove."
Near
by
is
an
interesting ruin—the
meagre
remains
of
an
ancient
heathen
temple—a
place
where
human
sacrifices
were
offered
up
in
those
old
bygone
days
when
the
simple
child
of
nature, yielding momentarily
to
sin
when
sorely
tempted,
acknowledged
his
error
when
calm
reflection
had shown
it
him,
and
came forward
with
noble
frankness
and
offered
up
his
grandmother
as
an
atoning
sacrifice—in
those
old
days
when
the
luckless
sinner
could
keep
on
cleansing
his
conscience
and
achieving
periodical happiness
as
long
as
his
relations
held
out; long,
long
before
the
missionaries
braved
a
thousand
privations
to
come
and
make
them
permanently
miserable
by
telling
them
how
beautiful
and
how
blissful a
place
heaven
is,
and
how
nearly
impossible
it
is
to
get
there;
and
showed
the
poor
native
how
dreary
a
place
perdition
is
and
what
unnecessarily liberal facilities
there
are
for
going
to
it;
showed
him
how,
in
his
ignorance
he
had gone
and
fooled
away
all
his
kinfolks
to
no
purpose;
showed
him
what
rapture
it
is
to
work
all
day
long
for
fifty
cents
to
buy
food
for
next
day
with,
as
compared
with
fishing
for
pastime
and
lolling
in
the
shade
through
eternal
Summer,
and
eating
of
the
bounty
that
nobody
labored
to
provide
but
Nature.
How
sad
it
is
to
think
of
the
multitudes
who
have
gone
to
their
graves
in
this
beautiful
island
and
never
knew
there
was
a hell!
This
ancient
temple
was
built
of
rough blocks
of
lava,
and
was
simply a roofless inclosure a
hundred
and
thirty
feet
long
and
seventy
wide—nothing
but
naked
walls,
very
thick,
but
not
much
higher
than
a man's head.
They
will
last
for
ages
no
doubt,
if
left unmolested.
Its
three
altars
and
other
sacred
appurtenances
have
crumbled
and
passed
away
years
ago.
It
is
said
that
in
the
old
times
thousands
of
human
beings
were
slaughtered
here,
in
the
presence
of
naked
and
howling
savages.
If
these
mute
stones
could
speak,
what
tales
they
could
tell,
what
pictures
they
could
describe,
of
fettered
victims
writhing
under
the
knife;
of
massed
forms
straining forward
out
of
the
gloom,
with
ferocious
faces
lit
up
by
the
sacrificial
fires;
of
the
background
of
ghostly
trees;
of
the
dark
pyramid
of
Diamond
Head
standing
sentinel
over
the
uncanny
scene,
and
the
peaceful moon
looking
down
upon
it
through
rifts
in
the
cloud-rack!
When
Kamehameha (pronounced Ka-may-ha-may-ah)
the
Great—who
was
a
sort
of
a
Napoleon
in
military
genius
and
uniform success—invaded
this
island
of
Oahu
three
quarters
of
a
century
ago,
and
exterminated
the
army
sent
to
oppose
him,
and
took
full
and
final
possession
of
the
country,
he
searched
out
the
dead
body
of
the
King
of
Oahu,
and
those
of
the
principal
chiefs,
and
impaled
their
heads
on
the
walls
of
this
temple.
Those
were
savage times
when
this
old
slaughter-house
was
in
its
prime.
The
King
and
the
chiefs
ruled
the
common
herd
with
a
rod
of
iron;
made
them
gather
all
the
provisions
the
masters
needed; build
all
the
houses
and
temples;
stand
all
the
expenses,
of
whatever kind;
take
kicks
and
cuffs
for
thanks;
drag
out
lives
well
flavored
with
misery,
and
then
suffer
death
for
trifling offences
or
yield
up
their
lives
on
the
sacrificial
altars
to
purchase
favors
from
the
gods
for
their
hard
rulers.
The
missionaries
have
clothed
them, educated them,
broken
up
the
tyrannous
authority
of
their
chiefs,
and
given
them
freedom
and
the
right
to
enjoy
whatever
their
hands
and
brains
produce
with
equal
laws
for
all,
and
punishment
for
all
alike
who
transgress
them.
The
contrast
is
so
strong—the benefit
conferred
upon
this
people
by
the
missionaries
is
so
prominent,
so
palpable
and
so
unquestionable,
that
the
frankest
compliment
I
can
pay
them,
and
the
best,
is
simply
to
point
to
the
condition
of
the
Sandwich
Islanders
of
Captain Cook's time,
and
their
condition to-day.
Their
work
speaks
for
itself.