L.B.
LETTER XVIII.
HAWAIIAN HOTEL, HONOLULU. March 20th.
Oahu, with its grey pinnacles, its deep valleys, its cool chasms,
its ruddy headlands, and volcanic cones, all clothed in green by the
recent rains, looked unspeakably lovely as we landed by sunrise in a
rose-flushed atmosphere, and Honolulu, shady, dew-bathed, and
brilliant with flowers, deserved its name, "The Paradise of the
Pacific." The hotel is pleasant, and Mrs. D.'s presence makes it
sweet and homelike; but in a very few days I have lost much of the
health I gained on Hawaii, and the "Rolling Moses" and the Rocky
Mountains can hardly come too soon. For Honolulu is truly a
metropolis, gay, hospitable, and restless, and this hotel
centralizes the restlessness. Visiting begins at breakfast time,
when it ends I know not, and receiving and making visits, court
festivities, entertainments given by the commissioners of the great
powers, riding parties, picnics, verandah parties, "sociables," and
luncheon and evening parties on board the ships of war, succeed each
other with frightful rapidity. This is all on the surface, but
beneath and better than this is a kindness which leaves no stranger
to a sense of loneliness, no want uncared for, and no sorrow
unalleviated.
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