was old Madam Yesus, and, as my poor battered garments subsequently proved, she washed “not wisely, but too well.” They were eminently communicative on general topics, told us how “mucher pauvre” they were, gave us the first news of the approaching famine, and to men who had been tumbling about the ocean for over half a month, the unsavory intelligence that wine, which but a short time before could be bought for forty cents per bottle, could now only be obtained for a dollar. Funchal, from the water, presents a very attractive appearance to the traveller who sees it for the first time. I don’t know when I have been more impressed with the beauty of any scene, than when from the deck of our ship, with a delicious atmosphere that obliterated all recollection of the month being December, a setting sun more keenly defining and causing to loom up each object, I looked upon its bright houses, made more so by the deep red of their tiles, as they rose in a terraced crescent, one above another, the convent of Santa Clara, the deep-hued verdure that filled up the interstices of the picture, the Loo Rock fort, and the cathedral in the foreground, with just enough of time-stain on its towers to make more venerable its front, and the tortuous paved road, running up the hills like an immense, stony serpent, terminating at the church of our “Lady of the Mount,” elevated nineteen hundred feet above the sea; and the vineyards in the distance. Being an open roadstead, with the wind from a certain direction a very heavy sea tumbles into the harbor, and there is at all times a considerable surf breaking on the beach. On going ashore you have to employ Portuguese surf-boats, which are much better constructed for purposes of landing than our own. On either side, not far from the keel, they have projecting pieces resembling the side-fins of a dolphin, which gives them much steadiness in a sea-way, while head and stern they have perpendicular handles as it were. As they near the beach, one of the boatmen jumps over into the water, and, seizing the piece at the prow, keeps the boat head on, when the succeeding swell sets her high, if not dry, upon the sand, and you are ashore. Your way thither may only be delayed a short time, by the officer contrabandista, who, pulling alongside, touches his hat, and proceeds, by an inspection of your boat, to see whether his aquatic countrymen are not attempting to smuggle ashore such things as soap and tobacco, which his most gracious sovereign of Portugal has been pleased to reserve as a government monopoly. When the weather is rather rough, the customary place of landing is the Pontinha, a steep rock terminating an arched causeway, or kind of breakwater, from which the coal is usually embarked for the steamers stopping at the island. The scene presented, or the horrible clamor that salutes your ears, is not particularly calculated to prolong the pleasant illusion which the more distant sight of the place gave you.