But the fair head drooped, and pressed One quivering pang, one stifled moan, Then, not till then, the burning prayer THIRD SPIRIT. O'er a corse in cold death sleeping, It sought had closed eternally: It would have moved even thee, great King! This could not last, the infant died, APOLLO. Enough enough! from earth and sky For the work so darkly done, For the grace ye have not won, Spirits of Tartarean birth, Hence for ever from the earth! RECOLLECTIONS OF MADEIRA DURING THE CHAPTER V. "Pictures, like these, dear Madam, to design, "LADY SNEERWELL.-Why, truly Mrs. Clackitt has a very pretty talent, and a great deal of industry. "SNAKE.-True, Madam, and has been tolerably successful in her day. To my knowledge, she has been the cause of six matches being broken off, and three sons being disinherited; of four forced elopements, as many close confinements; nine separate maintenances, and two divorces."-The School for Scandal, Act I, Scene 1. HAVING cursorily glanced at the Portuguese character, I proceed to refresh my memory of the English in Madeira, who will form the subject of the present chapter. I cannot pretend to attempt anything more than a slight sketch; and I trust even that may afford amusement to those who are unacquainted with the manners and society I shall allude to. Estimating roughly, there are about two hundred and fifty British residents in Madeira. These are, of course, exclusive of the annual influx of visitors, whose average number I should count upwards of two hundred, and of whom we can too truly say, they "come like shadows, so depart;" for few land a second time at Funchal. I presume they either recover completely, or lapse into hopeless cases. However, be the cause what it may, such is the fact; and each succeeding autumn brings a fresh importation of invalids. One would fancy it must be melancholy annually to part for ever with so many pleasant friends, but it does not seem to strike the residents in this light. And the only way in which they appear to be aware of the migratory nature of the visitors is, in the hospitality with which they welcome these poor birds of passage, as if determined that their short stay should be a sufficiently merry one. In the olden and golden time, the princely merchants of Madeira were famed for their hospitality. Neither are they, in these * Continued from page 154. degenerate days, when people have the bad taste to refuse their wine, much altered in that respect. With reduced means of showing them, their hospitable feelings have suffered very little diminution; and so far as generosity, feasting, and fêteing, entitle a man thereto, the Madeira merchant fully deserves the name of Hospitable. At least, I know when I was in Madeira, "The neighbours were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true." The sphere of hospitality has, I admit, been contracted since the number of visitors to the island has so materially increased; and, if people depend on a letter of introduction, they will find that an invitation to dinner, or a bow on the Praza, is quite as Imuch as it should be valued at. The fact is, letters of introduction are more easily obtained than letters of credit. Everybody now has introductions. And as, in consequence of the increased accessibility of the place, there happen to be, among the winter sojourners, many who are not exactly unexceptionable (the very people who set a marketable value on their introductions, as equal to so many dinners and so much intimacy), it follows that they are occasionally disappointed. And it is very desirable they should be. But I am sure, from what I have seen, this does not apply to those who are worthy of their introductions. On the contrary, the residents are glad to get fresh draughts into their limited and threadbare circle, provided they be well-bred and agreeable; and, when once fairly in, no one need complain of lack of attention. I speak of them as I found them. I am not aware of anything peculiar to the season I passed in Madeira, calculated to put the residents in good and bountiful humour; but I will say, their kindness, their particular and often uncalled-for attention to the strangers, was beyond all praise. The style in which many of the residents live, they told me, was plainness and economy to what took place under the old régime, when Madeira wine found its way, by the East Indies, to England, and Madeira merchants made rapid fortunes. To judge, however, by the luxuries in which they still indulge, one cannot help thinking that these grand wine-distillers are as fond of enjoying themselves as ever, and manage somehow or other to accumulate the means of doing so, too. The profuseness of the ménage, the display of plate and array of domestics at the dinnertable, is certainly rather contradictory to any falling off; and the pomp and ceremony, on such occasions, is only rendered unembarrassing by the sociable character and humdrum manners of your kind hosts. We dare not recur to those feasts in the mansions of Funchal, nor to the libations of sercial poured out therein (I wish I could, though, for all that), lest we suddenly grow discontented with our mutton and sherry, and disgusted, like some military young gentlemen, with roughing it on beef-steaks and port wine. Talking of wine reminds me of my surprise, the first time I dined out in Madeira, to find after dinner various bottles circumnavigating the table under names perfectly unknown to me. I was quite at a loss which to chose, when a kind friend whispered that I could not do wrong-they were all Madeira. This was the case. Madeira, of which there are several kinds-the light and delicious bual, the dry and exquisite sercial, the luscious malmsey, and the rich dark tinta-is the only wine drunk. did once dine at a small bachelor-party, expressly given to discuss the sole dozen of port-wine in the island; and we used occasionally to indulge in champagne-luncheons and picnics; but neither would do after the Madeira.* But, as I am not writing a dissertation on the grape, to return to our party. Dinner-parties in Funchal, in spite of the excellent bill of fare, are slow as all dinner-parties ever are. But there is generally an agreeable finish, which sends one to roost well-satisfied with one's entertainment. A carpet-dance, music, or écarté, with a pretty girl; which means, by-the-bye, talking a great deal of nonsense, losing your money, and giving your friends, looking on, an opportunity to gamble. But if you tire of gormandizing, you can decline all dinner-parties, and still have plenty of gaiety. There are constantly evening-parties on a small scale, in addition to the monthly balls at the Funchalense Club. During the winter of 1845, when the niggers were dancing the Polka on the shores of Mogador, and all the world was at the feet of Jullien, Polka-mania had reached and was raging in Funchal; and dances were consequently more than usually frequent. I used to enjoy the balls in Funchal, I must say. There was a great absence of stiffness and ceremony, apart from want of decorum, which was new to me. Then it was so pleasant, after manifold waltzes and polkas with one and the same individual, to hand that agreeable personage into her palanquin, arrange her floating gauze and drapery within the limits of her couch, comfortably spread a warm shawl over the peering feet, draw the curtains, not too closely; and so, walking by her side one's head too often inside the hangings-accompany our fair friend on the road home. Such was returning from a ball in Funchal. Then the ride Of all wines, commend me to Madeira, such as it is in Madeira, which is as different as possible from the wine we call by that name in England. The merchants, while they brandy considerably, to suit the bad taste of the English market,-enormously, for the American,—and still more largely for the Russian, appreciate the flavour of the grape too well to doctor the wine they reserve for their own use. It is pure, strong, and full of flavour, but without the slightest acidity or heat. next day; then the continual rides and rambles; the most delightful intimacy springing up, till busy gossip took alarm, and you had to seek a fresh shrine at which to offer your innocent devotions. The most melancholy thing, and it was always to me a serious drawback to enjoyment, is the feeling which cannot fail to cross your mind of the more than ordinary insecure tenure of life holden by those in whom for the time you are so much interested. That graceful form, unnaturally slight and elegant-that expressive eye, unnaturally brilliantthat delicate complexion, unnaturally tinted the faltering voice-the pant-the entreating look to beg a pause in the mazy dance, are not to be passed unheeded by the most careless or least interested beholder. The lightest heart will at times feel a thrill of despair, as these things unconsciously obtrude themselves. But the general gaiety is not affected. The dance goes on; the merriest flutterers are those whose butterfly career is nearest to destruction. I saw no thoughtful brow-no painful train of reflection, there. The passion for enjoyment was the only striking feature among them; "and pleasure, like the flower of the cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the neighbourhood of death." Queer-looking old places are the houses of the English residents, the scenes of so much festivity and fun. Entering from the street, under the doorway of a large mass of white building, half-a-dozen stories high, with dozens of Venetianblinded windows on each story, you come at once into a lofty hall, at one end of which, through an arched gateway, may be observed a sea of casks, rolling about in all kinds of distressing positions over a paved court-yard. There is a strong winy smell, and considerable sound of hammering empty puncheons, Around the hall, two or three handsome palanquins are ranged. No other object meets the eye. The hall seems built for the palanquins. In a corner is a broad oak staircase, well defended at the bottom by a dark sturdy wicket. This leads to the habitable part of the house; the ground-floor being occupied by cellars and counting-house. There you first sue for admittance. The hall, which is only closed at night, is open to all visitors; and beggars not unfrequently take up their quarters in it during the day. The house itself has but one fault: it is too large; and the family must always be quarrelling for the bedrooms on the first-floor in preference to those on the sixth. The want of fire-places, to say nothing of the fire, gives a dreary and comfortless appearance to the whole establishment. The drawing-rooms are better-adapted for evening parties than for snug evenings at home-tolerably well-furnished, but # " "Epicurean." March, 1847.-VOL. XLVIII.—NO. CXCI. Y |