three be was greatest. Giotto was also accomplished in all these arts. Vervecchio was as excellent a sculptor as painter. Benvenuto Cellini was a soldier, a goldsmith, a sculptor, a poet, and an accomplished musician. Salvator Rosa was a painter, a poet, and a musician, and his poetry is certainly, at the least, quite as good as his pictures; while what we have of his music is of a large and admirable character. Orcagna was painter, sculptor, and architect. Ghiberti, who made the famous doors of the Florentine Baptistery, of which Michael Angelo suid, with generous exaggeration, they were worthy to be the gates of paradise, was also an architect. But, not to extend the list, in a word, nearly all the artists of any note at this period not only practised several arts, but distinguished themselves in each; and for myself I cannot but think that the knowledge of all made them stronger in each. They threw into every thing they did the full weight of all they knew and were. The breadth of their culture gave refinement and strength to their work.

Belton. But how could they find time to accomplish themselves in so many arts, if one art requires a lifetime, as you say it does?

Mallett. There is time enough to do many things, if the person is seriously concentrated in his work, and does not squander his mind and his time by half-work. Nothing is so bad as that. There are many persons who think they are working, when in truth they are only dawdling over their work with half-attention. There is time enough thrown away every day to enable any one of earnest mind to do more than many a man does with his whole day. All depends upon love of the work on which one is engaged, and in concentration of one's faculties. It is, in my opinion, better to be utterly idle, and lie fallow to influences, than to muddle away hours in half-work. Besides, change of labor is rest, and to an active mind more rest than laziness. I have always found in music a more complete refreshment of my mind, after a hard day's work in my studio, than even sleep could give. The faculties and powers and interests are thrown in a different direction, and while one series works the other reposes. After an entire change of occupation one returns with fresh zest and vigor to the work he has left; whereas, if the thoughts are constantly treading the same path, they soon, as it were, wear a rut in the mind, out of which they cannot extricate themselves, and this begets in the end mannerism and self-repetition. Still more, the various arts are but different exercises of correlative powers. They each in turn refresh and enlarge the imaginative and motive powers, and extend their sphere. Each, as it were, is echoed and reflected into the other. The harmonies of color and forms and tones and words are closely related to each other, and but different expressions of merely the same thing. A sculptor's work will be cold if he is not sensitive to color and music; and a painter's work will be loose and vague unless his mind has been trained to the absoluteness of form and outline: neither can compose well his lines and forms unless he possess that innate sense of balance and harmonious arrangement and modulation which is developed by music.

THE Swedenborg Society of London held recently a meeting in commemoration of the sixty-fifth anniversary of its foundation. This event elicited from the London Daily News the subjoined entertaining paper on the famous prophet:

It is ninety-three years since the death of the seer, whose works the society distributes, and never, it appears, has the interest in these strange writings been more widely evoked, or more fully satisfied." The lifetime of Emanuel Swedenborg coincided, as his English biographer, Mr. Wilkinson, says, with the most skeptical and, in philosophy, the most materialistic age of thought. The movement that the Germans call the Aufklärung, that the French call the éclaircissement, was in full vigor. Only in Swedenborg's later years did the natural reaction begin, the reaction from Hume to Kaut, from Voltaire to a spiritual philosophy. Even Voltaire, perhaps, regretted sometimes that he had done his destructive work too well. Rationalism, he says, in one of his poems, is gaining a morose credit, and error has merits of its own. He would like to have left to peasants and children their fireside tales, while he laughed what he thought more pernicious superstitions out of court. There were three men in Europe, at that time, who in their several ways were helping to restore to Europe the belief in a spiritual life, in a spiritual world, in the existence of things not seen, and the possibility of hope and faith. The three were Kant, Wesley, Swedenborg, all working in very different fields, but all sowing the seeds of the present state of thought, the state of thought which is widely interested in the works of Swedenborg. The criticism of Kant threw doubt and discredit, to say the least, on the reasoning of the materialist philosophy, the preaching of Wesley renewed the life of the English Church, and the visions of Swedenborg were to many minds satisfactory evidence as to the unseen world, while his moral application of his mysticism is full of fervent and persuasive eloquence. It is not safe to venture on any account of the system of Swedenborg, for his writings are even more voluminous and various than those of Comte, while his disciples, like the Positivists, are apt to ask critics if they have read all the works of the master. It is easy, however, to select a few points in the general tendency of the Swedenborgian theories, and to show how they are adapted to modern wants, and have thus exercised no slight influence on modern imaginative literature. The life of the seer, as it is generally told, is more strange than any fairy tale, and the incidents and doctrines, with a difference, have been used by Balzac in two of his most powerful stories, "Louis Lambert" and "Séraphitus Séraphîta."

The life of Emanuel Swedenborg was a kind of commentary on his views. Born in 1688, he was distinguished as a child for the intensity of his devotion, and, as a young and

a middle-aged man, for success in scientific research and mechanical invention. He was the engineer who invented a way of carrying provisions and artillery to the siege of Frederickshall, where Charles XII. was shot. He was noted for treatises on the assay of metals, and on docks and sluices. Some time after he had gained high office in the miningservice of Sweden, he turned his attention more to speculation, and his philosophy is of that mystic sort which recognizes in the universe a system of correspondences and harmonies, sees in bodies the expression of souls, and believes that the natural world exists in obedience to the spiritual one. Thus Swedenborg would agree with the French student who has lately frightened the Bishop of Orleans by asserting that the sun is the cause of the world. But then Swedenborg goes a step further, and observes, according to his latest translator, "There is in the spiritual world a sun which is different from that in the natural world. To the truth of this I am able to bear solemn witness, inasmuch as I have seen that sun." Here we touch the point where Swedenborg ceases to be the philosopher, in the common sense of the word, and becomes the seer. It was in 1743 that what he considered his education was accomplished, and that he had a view of the spiritual world. Most people have heard the curious anecdote of how, after a hearty meal in a London tavern, he saw a vision of snakes and reptiles, and heard a voice say, "Eat not so much." From that day, with intervals of discouragement, in which doubt of his own gift seems once to have been near him, Swedenborg had what the heathen Norsemen called Forspan: he was a second-sighted man. Apart from his visits to the places of departed spirits, and his detailed accounts of them, apart from his seeing a friend at the friend's own funeral, and frightening the sister of the dead Frederick the Great with intelligence from that lamented monarch, the tale of how he saw and described a fire at Stockholm while he himself was at Gottenburg, three hundred miles off, is strange, and fairly well authenticated. Kant is usually given as the authority for this marvel, and Kant seems at least to have done his best to find out the truth of the story. With the religious and philosophic beliefs based on Swedenborg's writings, we have no concern here, but it is easy to see how, in an age when physical science is so powerful, people are glad to turn to a philosophy which makes physical nature as it were the veil of spiritual nature, and how the fairy tales of science are neglected for experiences more like the elder fairy tales of childhood, in their simple marvels.

of cool shadow and delicious green, their sides streaked with flashing water. Nearer yet, the coast-line shows itself with its feathery fringes of cocoa-nut and the long line of foaming surf. The breakers rushing on the coral-reefs girdle the Hawaian Islands with perpetual thunder, and the narrow channel which leads into the harbor of Honolulu leaves but little margin for the skillful hand of the pilot. Within the reef a first full glimpse of the strange and picturesque beauty of his new surroundings breaks upon the visitor. The coral-fishers ply their graceful trade; the water swarms with canoes, and amphibious brown beings sport in the transparent waters. Beyond the reef and the blue of the harbor the town of Honolulu nestles among palms and bananas, umbrella-trees and bread-fruits, oranges, mangoes, hibiscus, and passion-flowers, almost hidden in the dense greenery, the bright blossom of a sum

mer sea.

The arrival of a ship creates a deep stir of excitement in the quiet little island-capital. Two or three thousand people welcome the advent, whites, natives, and Chinamenfor the Celestials are numerous on the island. Men and women of a deep-brown tint swarm over the ship, all smiling and chattering in a language whose liquid syllables seem to have no backbone. The men display their lithe figures to the best advantage in white trousers and gay red shirts, and many of the younger beauties wear the gorgeous blossom of the red hibiscus in their abundant black hair, with many a garland besides of sweetscented vines and ferns trailing down their backs. Indeed, all the Sandwich-Islanders have a passion for flowers, and the stranger's eyes are charmed by the picturesque effect of the rich brown skins set off with the most gorgeous wreaths and festoons, a habit by no means confined to gala-days, so that he veritably sees a rainbow-tinted crowd. The wharf, heaped with piles of delicious fruits, oranges and guavas, strawberries, papayas, chiramǝyas, bananas, and a thousand productions of a most prolific climate; heaps of fish, strange in shape and dazzling in color, such as one would associate with the bright coral-forests beneath the waters; groups of coral-divers with the beautiful products of their submarine toil-all inspire the stranger with a realization of the novel and fantastic land to which he has come.

The town of Honolulu is unique, being a congregation of little villages almost hidden in bowers of glowing greenery. It is said that fifteen thousand people are buried away in the low-browed, shadowy houses under the glossy trees, which overarch the streets till they seem like magnificent forest-avenues, huge-leaved, bright, spreading trees, many of them exotics from the South Seas, rich with parasitic ferns and bright with fantastic flowers, through which the sunlight only breaks in dancing glints. The air is heavy with the odors of tuberoses, lilies, roses, and oleanders, many of which grow as large as rhododendrons, besides a great variety of lovely flowers almost unknown in our northern climate, except in hot-houses. In the deep shade of this perennial greenery the people live, even the verandas of the houses

being densely draped with trailing plants of different kinds. It is often difficult to tell which is the house and which the vegetation, so deftly does luxuriant Nature do her work.

The perfect beauty of Honolulu and its surroundings, however, is hardly to be realized from the town or even the sea. A few miles outside of the capital is the Pali, a wall-like precipice one thousand feet high. From this summit the complete glory of land and sea is joined into one entrancing picture. Outside of Honolulu the dense, arborescent foliage ceases, but the ground is covered with a greensward of a deep tint, a perfect sea of verdure, as thick as moss to the feet. Streamlets leap from crags and ripple by the road-side; every rock and stone is cushioned with delicate ferns. The hills are wall-like ridges of colored rock, broken into shafts and pinnacles, like cathedral-spires. At the summit of the ascent the far-famed view bursts on the vision, before shut in by winding paths and prison-like colonnades of mountaincrags.

Great masses of black, ferruginous volcanic rock form the Pali on either side, the tops splintered into fantastic pinnacles, that rise with the regularity of a work of art. A broad mass of green clothes the lower buttresses, fringing itself away in sweeps of palm and garden-like fields, variegated with grass and sugar-cane, white villas, banana-groves, and red tufa-cones, which glitter in the sun, witnesses of the devilish forces slumbering under the smiling greenery. Beyond this stretches the coral-reef, with its white line of foaming surf, and the broad, blue Pacific, just silvered by the light touch of the wind, which comes to the peak with a refreshing chill. The semicircular sweep of ocean, and the exquisite beauty set in its midst, would call to mind Homer's description of the fabrication of Achilles's shield:

"Thus the broad shield complete, the artist crowned

With his last hand; and poured the ocean round;
In living silver seemed the waves to roll,
And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the
whole."

This Pali was the scene of one of the historic tragedies of the island. Kamehameha, the conqueror, a fierce and ruthless warrior, who finally united the island sovereignties in his own person, drove the last remnant of the army of the King of Oahu up this precipice, and compelled them, in their mad despair, to plunge off, where their bones now lie bleaching in the valley below.

The drives about Honolulu are every af ternoon thronged with brilliant equestrians, for the Hawaians are almost as much born to the saddle as to the water. Hundreds of native horsemen and horsewomen, their heels armed with long spurs, tear along at furious pace. The women seem perfectly at home in their gay, brass-bossed saddles, which they always sit astride, and fly by with their orange and scarlet riding-dresses streaming in the wind, a bright, kaleidoscopic flash of bright eyes, white teeth, shining hair, garlands of flowers, and many-colored dresses; while the men seem hardly less picturesque in their jaunty costumes. The eye almost tires of the gay and exciting spectacle, with

its boisterous chatter and laughing; and the return to the cool, spacious hotel, with its embowered verandas, becomes a relief. Let us get a brief glimpse of a Honolulu inn.

On

A large lawn, shaded with noble trees, like an English park, conducts by a semicircular drive to a long, two-storied house of stone. On the front of the upper story is the dining-room, running the whole length of the building. It has no curtains, and its tints are cool and neutral, looking through its windows on cool mountains and flashing seas revealed in the open vistas of foliage. the same level is the parlor, with ever-open windows, that take in the same charming outlook. The bedrooms, paneled with aromatic woods, have jalousies, which insure at once coolness and privacy. The verandas are thick with lounging-chairs, and a cool breeze whispers through all the passages night and day. The eye takes in nothing but pleasure the play of light and color on the mountains, the glint of the seas, the deep green of the valleys, where showers, sunshine, and rainbows, make perpetual variety.

The hotel is the centre of stir in the Hawaian capital-a club-room, parlor, lounging-place, and news-exchange, all in one. Its corridors are lively with naval uniforms and the whiteduck dresses of the planters. Health-seekers, resident boarders, sea-captains, and a stream of townspeople, percolate everywhere in a free-and-easy commingling, and life seems pervaded with a free-and-easy bonhomie and kindliness. This charming hostelry was built by the government at large expense, and is a great addition to the attraction of the island capital, though its cost caused considerable grumbling in the discussion on the year's financial budget in the little Hawaian Legislature, where there is not much of great moment to talk about. We cannot forbear giving a brief extract, descriptive of the first night in Honolulu, in our author's own language:

A soft breeze, scented with a slight aromatic odor, wanders in at every opening, bringing with it, mellowed by distance, the hum and clatter of the busy cicada. The nights are glorious, and so absolutely still, that even the feathery foliage of the algaroba is at rest. The stars seem to hang among the trees like lamps, and the crescent moon gives more light than the full moon at home. The evening of the day we landed, parties of officers and ladies mounted at the door, and with much mirth disappeared on moonlight rides, and the white robes of flower-crowned girls gleamed among the trees, as groups of natives went by speaking a language which sounded more like the rippling of water than human speech. Soft music came from the iron-clads in the harbor, and from the royal band at the king's palace, and a rich fragrance of dewy blossoms filled the delicious air. These are indeed the 'isles of Eden,' the 'sun-lands,' musical with beauty. They seem to welcome us to their enchanted shores. Every thing is new, but nothing strange; for as I enjoyed the purple night, I remembered that I had seen such islands in dreams in the cold, gray North. How sweet,' I thought it would be, thus to hear far off the low sweet murmur of the sparkling brine,' to rest, and

... ever to seem

Falling asleep in a half-dream!'"

Let us not linger at the capital, however, but follow our traveler in her wanderings to other scenes even more beautiful and striking. A crazy and creaking steamer carries its voyagers along the smiling coast over the smooth tropic seas, just outside of the belt of reef over which the surf crashes ceaselessly. The sun drops its intense light and heat on the glassy waters, in the submarine chaparral of which strange fish flash in an endless game of hide-and-seek. The vessel creeps along slowly by the great red rocks of Maui, and finally a huge mountain-summit uplifted in a region of endless winter. This is Haleakala, the "House of the Sun," the largest extinct volcano in the world, its terminal crater being nineteen miles in circumference at a height of ten thousand feet. snail-like voyage of forty-eight hours, made interesting, however, by the bright scenery, ends at Hilo, one of the celebrated places of Hawaii. The great coast-line of gray cliffs, hundreds of feet in height, shows itself draped in green, but often black, rent, and caverned at the bases.

Α

Into the cracks and caves the surf rolls like thunder, sending broad sheets of foam high up among the ferns and trailers. Numberless cascades fall from the cliffs, or gush through the clefts and chasms, at the foot of which open out wide green lawns, each with its grass-house and patches of banana and palm, so close to the ocean that the spray is often frittered away on the fan-like fringes of foliage. Above are grassy uplands, glades and dells streaked with cataracts, and the dark, dense forests, which girdle Mauna-Kea and Mauna-Loa, two vast volcanic heights, which rise, capped with snow, fourteen thousand feet. In the last twenty-nine miles before reaching Hilo, there are more than sixty gulches, from one hundred to seven hundred feet in depth, each with its cataract, and fantastic with the wildest vagaries of tropical foliage and blooms. White churches dot the coast like mile-stones, too many even for the fast-dwindling population.

The paradise of Hawaii, Hilo, is best described as being without effort what Honolulu attempts to be. The crescent-shaped bay is the most beautiful in the Pacific, the farther extremity being formed by a black-lava inlet, where the cocoa-palm attains its greatest perfection; and beyond it again another fringe of cocoa-nuts marks the deep indentation of the coast. The whole bay is belted with golden sand, on which the deep monotone of the surf roars drowsily, mingled with the merry music of living waters, the Waiakea and Wailaku, which splash off the mountainside, and rush to the ocean, fern-fringed to the very mouths. White houses dot the greenery and the hills above, and churchspires denote the foreign element.

Hilo is unique. A humid climate and long repose from volcanic disturbance have given it a great depth of vegetable mould. Rich soil, rain, heat, and sunshine, stimulate Nature to its most prodigal efforts. Even high-water mark on the shore is draped with the convolvulus. The wood is so dark that the town is suggested rather than seen. From

the sea it looks a dense mass of green, relieved with bright splashes of color, a maze of innumerable trees. Above, broad lands sweep in charming little plantations, broken with hill and valley, till they repose on the white majesty of mountain-crests, sleeping in marble stillness over the incessant fires below. Mauna-Loa is a shapely, dome-like curve, with a crater eight hundred feet in depth, likely at any time to upheave a cataract of destruction from its bosom. It ever throbs and palpitates, and its low rumblings every few days give warning that in a moment beautiful Hilo may become a thing of the past, a red waste of smoking ruin. Such before has been the fate of the town, involving general destruction of life. Hilo proves even more fascinating on close acquaintance. There is no road except bridle-paths, and the houses of the missionaries, while they suggest NewEngland life, do it in such an idealized way as to make it a quaint element of poetry and antiquity in the wild luxuriance of Nature.

The houses of the foreigners yield the palm in picturesqueness to the thatched residences of the natives with their fantastic verandas covered with flowering trailers. Everywhere may be met flowing waters; each house has its pure stream arrested in a bath-house, and thence liberated among the kalo patches. Each veranda is a gatheringplace, and the dresses of the inhabitants are always brightened with wreaths of flow

ers.

These gay gatherings (for the islanders always keep open houses), the hot-house temperature, the strange trees and flowers, the rich odors which load the air, and the low recitative of the groves and the distant surf, transport the visitor out of his accustomed feelings into a new world of sensations.

All unsightly things are transformed into things of grace by trailing vines and parasitic ferns. One sees a labyrinth of lilies, roses, fuschias, clematis, begonias, convolvuli, the huge grenadilla, purple and yellow lemons, passiflora, custard-apples, rose-apples, mangoes, mangosteins, oranges, tamarinds, papayas, bananas, bread-fruit, magnolias, gardenias, eucalyptus, and innumerable other fruits, flowers, and plants. The ginger-plant, with its overpowering perfume and porcelain blossoms, meets one at every turn, and the palm-trees have an indescribable grace and witchery. Through the bridle-lanes, native women and the foreign ladies may be seen at any hour riding in the winged Hawaian dress, or in full Turkish trousers and jauntily-made riding-habits, dashing about like female Centaurs.

The habits of the people are very simple. They visit each other without even the ceremony of knocking, and there are no bells on the doors. The evening, however, is the recognized time for calling, and they go about through the sombre groves, which shut out the starlight, with lanterns. It is presumed that people are always ready to receive their friends, for hospitality is a second nature both with the natives and foreign residents.

The visitor at Hilo never fails to ascend to the wonderful crater of Kilauea, which is always in a state of disturbance, and one of the great fire-mountains of the world. To peer into its terrible, smoking pit, is well

worth the aching bones, strained muscles, and severe fatigue of the ascent. A slow, tedious journey of ten hours up craggy and broken paths, through the matted luxuriance of forest-trails, ends at the Crater House, some miles from the volcanic pit, a unique house, kept by a half-native, who remains in spite of the peril of his situation, for his gains are large from curiosity-hunters and sight-seers. The fire-abyss, about four thousand feet high on the flank of Mauna-Loa, is nine miles in circumference, and one thousand feet in depth to the igneous lake within. All around the margin, great jets of steam and blowing cones are seen, and the pit itself is constantly rent and shaken by earthquakes. Terrible eruptions occur at intervals, but the phenomena of the volcano are incessant. This fiery lake is known in Hawaian mythology as the "House of Everlasting Fire," the abode of the dread goddess Pele.

As the visitor approaches the crater, all vegetation is blotted out. The accustomed sights and sounds of Nature cease, and there is nothing but a Plutonic region of blackness and desolation, terraces, cliffs, lakes, ridges, rivers, mountain-sides, whirlpools, chasms, solid, black, and shining, or ashen gray, stained yellow with sulphur or white with alum. The lava is fissured everywhere by earthquakes, and is almost too hot for the feet. He who seeks to see the hearth of Pele must climb painfully over the rough and broken lava-flow, stumbling nearly every step, and breaking through the steaming crust, till boots and gloves are nearly burned through. Suddenly, without forewarning, fiery drops are spun high in the air, like liquid glass from the blow-pipe, and the traveler stands on the awful brink of Kilauea. A new glory is added to the possibilities of sight, and common words become tame. There are groanings and detonations, the crash of breakers, but of fiery waves on a fiery coast. Below one sees an irregular lake ranging from five hundred feet to nearly a mile in width, the sides perpendicularly bold and craggy. The prominent object is fire in motion, but the surface of the great lake is constantly skinning over with a surface of grayish white like frosted silver. The movement is always from the sides to the centre, like the rush of a whirlpool, and at each burst of agitation there are hissings and roarings. Now furious and demoniacal, now playful and sportive, again languid, the imprisoned forces are in perpetual change. Sometimes a dozen firefountains play around the verge, then they are swallowed up in one fierce vortex. Sometimes the whole lake takes the form of great waves, and lashes the sides with clots and splashes of fire thrown up almost to the top of the crater, where the awe-stricken visitor stands rooted. All is confusion, force, terror, and majesty. The color has not the crimson gleam of blood, nor the whiteness of light, but something awful and indescribable between the two.

The crust is wrinkled in great folds, which seem to crawl and writhe like serpents. Great pieces are constantly broken off and engulfed, while the fiery fountains dance round the lake with a joyousness which would be enlivening were it not so terrible. The bank of

lava constantly changes, and caverns hung with blazing stalactites are sometimes formed. Suddenly a new impulse will seize the Titanic forces, and fire will be thrown to a great

wave sixty feet high that charged against the solid shore like a million battering - rams. There were five of these oceanic onsets, destroying every thing for thirty feet above the

height. All the minor jets and cones will collapse and converge in one glowing mass, which upheaves itself pyramidically, and disappears with a vast plunge. Innumerable billows will be dashed in the air, the lake recoil on either side, then upheave itself in one colossal wave, overflow its brink, again slowly retire with a majestic flow, leaving the centre throbbing and swaying as if in fruitless agony.

Words, as Miss Bird pathetically deplores, are unequal to the task of describing so sublime a spectacle. It is probably the most stupendous of all active craters, both in size and activity. It is impossible to conceive a grander type of force and terror, and it is no wonder that the superstitious islanders were wont to place there the abode of their grewsome goddess, to whom none but human sacrifices were welcome, a Polynesian alter of the Indian goddess Kali, the patron deity of the Thugs. There is another summit crater, and Kilauea becomes silent and placid when the topmost cone becomes a pyramid of fire, whose magnificence burns fourteen thousand feet in air, and is seen one hundred miles away at sea. The proximity of Kilauea gives sublimity to Hilo, and takes the current talk out of commonplace ruts. For even the thoughtless and happy islanders know they tremble on the brink of a terrible fate. Let one out of several outbreaks of Kilauea show how well grounded is this apprehension. On April 2, 1868, there came an awful climax. The crust of the earth rose and fell like a stormy sea. Rocks were rent, mountains fell, houses were shattered, and man and beast ran about demented. The earth opened in a thousand fissures, and it seemed as if the very granite ribs of the hills were being broken up. The shocks were like the ticking of a watch in frequency. Whole villages were buried in avalanches of earth, and the sea receded, building itself up in a giant

sea-level in the path of advance. Still the volcano gave no sign, but people kept their horses ready saddled for flight to Honolulu. The hourly question was, "What of Kila

uea?"

Suddenly, five days after the first disturbance, the ground south of Hilo was opened, and the question was answered. The molten river, after traveling for twenty miles underground, emerged through a fissure two miles in length with tremendous force and volume. Four fire-fountains boiled up with terrific fury, throwing lava and rocks of many

rocks that made the lava foam as it dashed down the mountain and over precipices in red cataracts. The river of fire was from two to eight hundred feet wide and twenty deep, with a speed of twenty miles an hour. It finally divided into four streams, with an aggregate width of a mile and a half. The whole southeast shore of Hawaii sunk from six to eight feet, and several hamlets, with their inhabitants, were utterly destroyed. The terrified survivors, from a wide track of ruin, fled into Hilo from the reeling mountains, the uplifted seas, and the inundation of fire. There were two thousand earthquake shocks in a fortnight. Such are the startling possibilities which in a single night may transform a paradise into a wrinkled chaos of smoking lava.

Gay dresses, bright sunshine, music, dancing, a life without care, and a climate without asperities, make up the sunny side of native life at Hilo, where the typical SandwichIslander is seen at his best. But there are dark moral shadows: the population is gradually shrinking away, and the terrible, incurable disease of leprosy is making swift headway-so that many of the fair homes will soon be desolate. Only forty years since, however, the people dwelling in the splendid belt of verdure between the volcanic wilderness and the sea were a sensual, shameless herd, where polyandry and polygamy were in equal favor. No man except the chiefs had any rights, and there was no consciousness of any moral obligation. Now order and external decorum prevail. There is not a locked door in Hilo, and nobody is afraid of robbery or violence. We are told that these people have one of the best administered governments in the world; the laws are equable and enlightened, education is universal, and prisons and almshouses are unknown. The causes of decline are mysterious, but no