RIDE UP THE MOUNTAIN. 75 a straw-stuffed pannel. With these we managed to struggle up the hill, at three miles an hour, a pace which was occasionally enlivened by a jerking gallop. The American mate, whom we brought with us, clung to the back of his pony, with uplifted knees and bent back, as if he had been striding the boltsprit of his schooner, and, eventually, gave up riding, with many oaths, and walked. The first part of the ride was through steep and narrow lanes, pitched and walled in with stones, where we overtook as many as fifty of the villagers, (mostly girls and women,) who, having attended morning mass, were going up the mountain to their work in the fields. Some of the men wore knee-breeches, with the ends of loose white linen drawers protruding from beneath them; the garments of the whole group were of a dismal cinder-colour, and the texture of them coarse; but there was no appearance of poverty in the faces of the people. We had been told that they were more industrious than the other islanders, and this seemed to prove it. Over the walls of the lanes we could sometimes see the country right and left, which was divided into small compartments by similar stone walls, and appeared to be well cultivated, the small fields forming narrow ledges, one above another, which, from the sea, looked like steps cut in the hills. An hour's ride brought us to open mountain, covered with turf and heath, with flocks of sheep and hogs; and an hour and a half more to the crater on the summit. This, which had once been a turbulent pit of boiling stone, was now a quiet green valley, inlaid with a dark still pond, and partook of that appearance of sad serenity which belongs to these volcanic valleys. The pond or lake was broken by small green hillocks and islands into many irregularities, and the round crater was clothed with heath and turf. There was nothing remarkable in the crater; and a gull or two, a white sheep, and a peasant cutting heath, were the few moving beings to enliven its gloomy lonesomeness. The air at this height was damp and keen, and we were not sorry to return. On the road were two wooden crucifixes in small stone-cells in the walls, in passing which our men religiously raised their hats. We left Corvo with something like regret, so welcome had the good, cheerfulhearted Padre Lopes made us. According to the CROSSING TO FLORES. 77 common practice among the islanders, he embraced us at leaving, and would have walked to the shore had we permitted it. How full of good feeling was this excellent priest! We were soon threading our way among the rocks,―recrossed a segment of the Atlantic in our open boat,-saw a shoal of small fish describing arcs in the air, were caught in a squall of wind and rain, and shut out of sight of land,became discontented at the misrule of the boatmen, who, when implicit obedience was most necessary, argued and quarrelled with their steersman,-saw land again,-landed at Flores, and took up our abode with the hospitable consul, Dr. Mackay. We then found out the approach to Santa Cruz, which from our moorings had appeared so unapproachable. At the bottom of the principal street of the town there are a small cove and beach, where the fishermen's boats are hauled up. In front of the cove is a bar of lava, connected with the jagged rocks on each side. A small passage, capable of admitting a moderately sized schooner, leads over the bar, which is hemmed in and screened from the winds and waves, with high walls of brown tuff. The boatmen are cautious, almost to timidity; but they have some reason for it, as the weather here is uncertain. They start with a fair wind on a fine day, the weather suddenly becomes tempestuous, they lose sight of the islands, and, being without a compass, are either blown out to sea and perish, or the boat is dashed to pieces on the rocks. In this way two boats and their crews were lost a few months since in only passing from one village to another, along the coast of Flores. Our morning row, though not more than thirty miles, was on the Atlantic Ocean, and in only a large wherry. In calm and fine weather, the sea, with the exception of the long ocean swell, is as smooth and quiet as the British Channel; but if it comes on to blow, in a very few minutes we are made aware of the vast difference. It is no uncommon thing to cross to Corvo from Flores, when the weather is fine and promising, and to be detained there for two or three weeks; and, in winter, Corvo is often cut off, for three or four months, from the other islands. Generally speaking, however, no one need feel the slightest hesitation in going where any of these Azorean boatmen would venture; |