Piles of
bananas, guavas, limes, and oranges, decorate the tables at each
meal, and strange vegetables, fish, and fruits vary the otherwise
stereotyped American hotel fare. There are no female domestics.
The host is a German, the manager an American, the steward an
Hawaiian, and the servants are all Chinamen in spotless white linen,
with pigtails coiled round their heads, and an air of superabundant
good-nature. They know very little English, and make most absurd
mistakes, but they are cordial, smiling, and obliging, and look cool
and clean. The hotel seems the great public resort of Honolulu, the
centre of stir--club-house, exchange and drawing-room in one. Its
wide corridors and verandahs are lively with English and American
naval uniforms, several planters' families are here for the season;
and with health seekers from California, resident boarders, whaling
captains, tourists from the British Pacific Colonies, and a stream
of townspeople always percolating through the corridors and
verandahs, it seems as lively and free-and-easy as a place can be,
pervaded by the kindliness and bonhomie which form an important item
in my first impressions of the islands. The hotel was lately built
by government at a cost of $120,000, a sum which forms a
considerable part of that token of an advanced civilization, a
National Debt.
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