I turned seaward under the dead crater known as Diamond
Head. My way was for some time under the shade of
certain thickets of green thorny trees, dotted with
houses. Here I enjoyed some pictures' of the native
life: wide-eyed, naked children, mingled with pigs; a
youth asleep under a tree; an old gentleman spelling
through glasses his Hawaiian Bible; the somewhat
embarrassing spectacle of a lady at her bath in a
spring; and the glimpse of gaudy-coloured gowns in the
deep shade of the houses. Thence I found a road along
the beach itself, wading in sand, opposed and buffeted
by the whole weight of the Trade: on one hand, the
glittering and sounding surf, and the bay lively with
many sails; on the other, precipitous, arid gullies and
sheer cliffs, mounting towards the crater and the blue
sky. For all the companionship of skimming vessels,
the place struck me with a sense of solitude. There
came in my head what I had been told the day before at
dinner, of a cavern above in the bowels off the
volcano, a place only to be visited with the light of
torches, a treasure-house of the bones of priests and
warriors, and clamorous with the voice of an unseen
river pouring seaward through the crannies of the
mountain.
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