For half an hour we skirted along the coast, seeing no other signs of human habitation than an occasional hut among the boulders on the cliffs, until, rounding a point, we came suddenly upon the beautiful village of Funchal, which is built on the beach of a romantic bay, with the verdant hills rising in grassy terraces in every direction. Low, white stone buildings peeped out from small forests, and the air was soft and balmy as it gently fanned the cheek, giving one a delicious sense of rest and warmth, only to be felt and appreciated on the borders of the tropics after a cold, damp, cheerless English winter. Scarcely had we dropped anchor ere the deck of the ship was swarming with men and women from the shore, offering for sale native work of every description, wicker basket chairs, sofas, tables, inlaid work-boxes, feather flowers, parrots, canaries, such lovely embroidery, and, what was most acceptable to many of us, the varied fruits of the island. Whilst feasting ourselves with bananas, mangoes, oranges, etc, we had an opportunity of observing the strange jumble of humanity on our decks, and surrounding the ship in row-boats of all sizes and shapes. Scores of half-nude, dark-skinned boys were in the boats chattering and tempting passengers to throw coins into the water for them to dive after, and the amount of dexterity they displayed in diving after a sixpence, catching it before it had sunk apparently more than five or six feet, sometimes bringing it up between their toes, was truly remarkable. On the deck everything was noise and confusion; the sailors at work unloading cargo were hustling the swarthy half-breed Portuguese peddlers out of their way, while they, with one eye on their customers and another on their wares (for Mr Jack Tar is not at all particular about throwing overboard anything that happens to be in his way), were chattering away in a polyglot tongue half English and half Portuguese, praising their own goods and deprecating their neighbours'. They will take generally before they leave the ship less than one-half what they ask for their goods when they first come aboard, and we noticed that passengers who had been to Madeira before did not attempt to make a bargain until the vessel was just about to start. As we were to remain at anchor five or six hours we wished to take a run on shore, and, together with a married lady and her husband, chartered one of the queer cheese-box-looking boats for the expedition. All appears delightfully clear while in the distance: the convent on the slope, and the green hill itself, form an agreeable background; but ashore the prospect changed, and the streets turned out to be narrow and dirty, with the exception of the principal boulevard, which runs up from the beach toward the hill.