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if you are an “Iolani,” into Bishop's Lane-just one mile and a half from the middle of the town.
But should you continue up the hill, you will very soon view, on your right hand, and on the left also, the large and beautiful grounds of “Nuuanu Cemetery.” Just beyond this, the Royal Mausoleum—the tomb of the Kamehamehas--of King Kalakaua I., of Princesses Ruth and Likelike (Mrs. Cleghorn, sister of the late king, and mother of Princess* Kaiulani, heir-apparent to the throne) — of "the good Queen Emma,” who was consort of Kamehameha IV., the king who translated the English Prayer-Book into Hawaiian for his people, and Mrs. Bishop (chiefess), the last of the Kamehamehas. Now, in five miles, you can be at the Pali, about fifteen hundred feet above sea level. It is a carriage-road, after a fashion, but from about here continues to grow narrower, more steep, rugged and hard as you near the precipice. No tourist would wish to miss this scene--to miss seeing one of the most magnificent stretches of land and sea, with coloring that he could not dream of, we fancy, lying far away below him, that this world has to offer.
From this road you can wind around Oahu, on horseback, if you choose.
The Pali, too, is not without its “strange, eventful history.” It was here that Kamehameha I. conquered the chief of Oahu, and thus formed the islands into one kingdom. The battle took place in the spring of 1795, and the people of Oahu fought with great bravery. Many were killed by being driven over the
precipice. Bones can still be found there, if one has an aloha for such grave relics and mortal curios. “Many men, many minds.” For myself, I would prefer some of the feathers of their helmets, or a bit of the chief's spear, who fought well, but was defeated ! My sympathy is never for the victorious—the crowned in any kind of warfare, but for the ones who are "left.” . Beg' your pardon, my dear reader. “This same skuh, sir; was Yorick's skull, the king's jester.” “Alas! - poor Yorick !—I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed, I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?”
“Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher.”
“There is a precipice,
Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing
To stand upon the beetling verge, and see
CHRISTMAS IN HAWAII.
“ While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
And glory shone around.
Had seized their troubled mind;
To you and all mankind.
Is born of David's line
And this shall be the sign :
To human view displayed,
And in a manger laid.'
Appeared a shining throng
Addressed their joyful song:
And on the earth be peace;
Begin and never cease.'”
Do they keep Christmas in Hawaii ? Do they V trim the Church, and sing carols, and all that? Bless me! you almost take away my breath, coming
upon me with your rush of cold north-wind catechism! Kindly recollect, I am used to a “warm belt" every hour in the three hundred and odd days of a year, and can't stand such a shock!
Do they keep Christmas in Hawaii? Well, I should think so! You cannot even fancy with what heart, and soul, and mind, and strength, and earnestness, they keep the glorious high-day and festival! On entering the Cathedral Christmas Eve, you will not be reminded by the invigorating and delightful fragrance of fir and spruce, of box and hemlock, of the mountain-sides and the pine forests, but you will see it filled with rare tropical exotics—the most delicate ferns, in “leis,"—chains, ropes, garlands, small enough for a lady's neck, or large around as your arm; in pots, in groups, in bunches, magnificent leaves of the royal palm, cocoanut, and banana; and woven in and out, flowers of richest dye and color—and oh," maile !” May I never be forgiven by any native if I forget thee, thou queen of rarest sweetness!
Many of the ferns, and the maile, are brought from far up in the valleys; and it is a labor of love-real work, to get them. No foreigner knows how to weave and plait anything at all in such perfection as the native. They are masters of the art, and no mean one it is!
A little native boy will sit contentedly down if only he can get an armful of ferns, a bit of maile and a few red or yellow blossoms (oh, then is he too perfectly happy!). He will start a garland, and holding it be