When Professor Dana visited Kilauea (December 1840), he was surprised at the stillness of the scene. The incessant motion in the blood-red pools was like that of a cauldron in constant ebullition. The lava in each boiled with such activity as to cause a rapid play of jets over its surface. One pool, the largest of the three then in action, was afterwards ascertained by survey to measure 1,500 feet in one diameter and 1,000 in another; and this whole area was boiling, as seemed from above, with nearly the mobility of water. Still all went on quietly. Not a whisper was heard from the fires below. White vapours rose in fleecy wreaths from the pools and numerous fissures, and above the large lake they collected into a broad canopy of clouds, not unlike the snowy heaps or cumuli that lie near the horizon on a clear day, though their fanciful shapes changed more rapidly. On descending afterwards to the black ledge or gallery at the verge of the lower pit, a half-smothered gurgling sound was all that could be heard from the pools of lava. Occasionally, there was a report like that of musketry, which died away, and left the same murmuring sound, the stifled mutterings of a boiling fluid. Such was the scene by day—awful, melancholy, dismal—but at night it assumed a character of indescribable sublimity. The large cauldron, in place of its bloody glare, now glowed with intense brilliancy, and the surface sparkled with shifting points of dazzling light, occasioned by the jets in constant play. The broad canopy of clouds above the pit, which seemed to rest on a column of wreaths and curling heaps of lighted vapour, and the amphitheatre of rocks around the lower depths, were brightly illuminated from the boiling lavas, while a lurid red tinged the distant parts of the inclosing walls and threw their cavernous recesses into deeper shades of darkness. Over this scene of restless fires and fiery vapours, the heavens by contrast seemed unnaturally black, with only here and there a star, like a dim point of light.