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“Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
In every work regard the writer's end,
Since mone can compass more than they intend ;
A mal if the means be just, the conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is date.”


IF you go to the crest of the Rocky Mountains, you will see the clouds—the great white warships of the sky—sailing majestically along beneath, and settling down into the valleys and gorges ; and you will be awed by the thunder of heaven's cannonade and the rapid play of the lightning. But you will see the birds flying through and above it all, to sing their songs in the clear blue ether 1 It was not my intention when I went to Hawaii to write at all about the country, excepting in my private correspondence. My work was of another kind, and was very engrossing and laborious, leaving me nor time nor strength for anything of the sort. When the season of rest and leisure came to me, after seven years, I determined to recollect scenes and incidents, and to put them into book form—but certainly not with the hope of fame or wealth, but partly with the “pure intention” of speaking an unselfish, an honest, and a truthful word for those along whose road during my long stay, I saw no flowers strewed or garlands thrown, nor even Stones removed. You know the old story, perhaps, where the lovely face of a woman is being criticised by her friends (?). As one after another points to some blemish or defect in feature, line, or color, one said, finally: “I am sure she could never be called beautiful, her mouth is so ugly.” Then one honest heart came late to the rescue: “I don’t know; I never see below her eyes.” In Hawaii superstition abounds—the wildest savagery of heathen superstition is still there, hydra-headed. The hula-hula is there—the old savage, heathen national dance. The savage himself is there—the heathen in all his war-paint and feathers, if you look only far enough below the eyes—look low enough. Leprosy, with

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