Gilman, our host, is a fine picturesque looking man, half Indian,
and speaks remarkably good English, but his wife, a very pretty
native woman, speaks none, and he attends to us entirely himself.

A party of native travellers rainbound are here, and the native
women are sitting on the floor stringing flowers and berries for
leis. One very attractive-looking young woman, refined by
consumption, is lying on some blankets, and three native men are
smoking by the fire. Upa attempts conversation with us in broken
English, and the others laugh and talk incessantly. My inkstand,
pen, and small handwriting amuse them very much. Miss K., the
typical American travelling lady, who is encountered everywhere from
the Andes to the Pyramids, tireless, with an indomitable energy,
Spartan endurance, and a genius for attaining everything, and
myself, a limp, ragged, shoeless wretch, complete the group, and our
heaps of saddles, blankets, spurs, and gear tell of real travelling,
past and future. It is a most picturesque sight by the light of the
flickering fire, and the fire which is unquenchable burns without.

About 300 yards off there is a sulphur steam vapour-bath, highly
recommended by the host as a panacea for the woeful aches, pains,
and stiffness produced by the six-mile scramble through the crater,
and I groaned and limped down to it: but it is a truly spasmodic
arrangement, singularly independent of human control, and I have not
the slightest doubt that the reason why Mr. Gilman obligingly
remained in the vicinity was, lest I should be scalded or blown to
atoms by a sudden freak of Kilauea, though I don't see that he was
capable of preventing either catastrophe! A slight grass shed has
been built over a sulphur steam crack, and within this there is a
deep box with a sliding lid and a hole for the throat, and the