newspapers containing matter of interest never reaching their address; from which I infer that the same practice more or less prevails on the Atlantic route. It is really too bad.
As we steam north, the weather grows fine, and we begin to have some splendid days and glorious sunsets. But we are all longing eagerly to arrive at our destination. At length, on the morning of the 24th of January, we discerned the high land of the island of Hawaii, about seventy miles off, on our beam. That is the island where Captain Cook was murdered by the natives, in 1779. We saw distinctly the high conical volcanic mountain of Mauna Loa, 14,000 feet high, its peak showing clear above the grey clouds.
We steamed on all day, peering ahead, looking out for the land. Night fell, and still our port was not in sight. At length, at about ten, the lighthouse on the reef which stretches out in front of Honolulu, shone out in the darkness. Then began a little display of fireworks, and rockets and blue lights were exchanged between our ship and the shore. A rocket also shot up from a steamer to seaward, and she was made out to be the 'Moses Taylor,' the ship that is to take us on to San Francisco.
At about one in the morning, we take our pilot on board, and shortly after, my German friends rouse me with the intelligence that we are alongside the wharf. I am now, however, getting an "old bird;" my enthusiasm about novelty has gone down considerably; and I decline the pleasure of accompanying them on shore at this early hour. Honolulu will doubtless wait for me until morning.