tages the prodigality of nature harmonizing with cultivation-with a semicircle of lofty mountains, whose forms and summits were grotesquely sculptured, opened on our view as we neared the Arco de Sao Jorge, and afforded us one of the finest scenes we had witnessed of quiet grandeur. Thence, toward the "Eutroza," the road skirts a cliff which overhangs a sea, whose tumult fills the ear, though many hundred feet below-and from whose fatal grasp a frail construction of wood, projecting from the rock, alone protects the traveler. Below this giddy height reposes, in safe serenity, the lovely village of Boa Ventura. It was on taking an inland direction thence that we reached the pass of the Torrinhas, after an exhausting ascent of some three hours-and over a fearful road. Near the upper part of the ravine the inclination is terrific-one false step, a trip or stumble upon the smooth large stones with which the road is paved, would precipitate horse and rider into the unfathomed abyss below. Precipices threaten you from above, and yawning chasms open beneath; while, before you, rises an abrupt mountain of rock, whose outlet, at first unseen, but reveals another and, perhaps, greater obstacle. The Trosachs in the Highlands of Scotland, and the Notch at the White Mountains in New Hampshire, though of somewhat resemblance, are by no means so fearful in character. Indeed I have seen nowhere such awful grandeur. It is fearful, though magnificent, to contemplate it! our emotions kindle, as in a storm; our blood warms, as in the midst of the battle. The sense of danger thrills our nerves, and gives unknown power to our conceptions.

And how, amid scenery like this, do we feel our impotence! the vanity of our works, compared with those of the Eternal! Man builds columns of marble,

and of stone-ay, pyramids which outlast centuries. The other, too, builds columns and pyramids; but His columns are the inaccessible rock, His pyramids the Alpine and Indian hills, whose beginning knows no time, whose duration no limit. The works of the one may be broken by the wave, shattered by the lightning, or leveled by the powder-blast. But His are immeasurable, invincible, eternal: "As they were in the beginning, are now, and ever shall be."

The Torrinhas-" turrets," or "towers"-defend the entrance to the Curral on the north. The Curral, or Curral das Freiras, is considered, by the tourist, generally, the master-piece of Madeira scenery. Nature, they say, tried her 'prentice-hand on other scenes, and then elaborated this. It is an enormous ravine on the exhausted bed of a former lake, hemmed in on every side by mountainous ranges. Perpendicular and lofty cliffs rise out from the hills by which it is encircled, and resemble the atalayas, or watch-towers of the Alpujarra Mountains of Grenada. From where I first looked down upon it, on the summit of the Torrinhas, nothing on its bottom was fully distinguishable. For I was some thousands of feet above it, and it was darkened by the shadow of reflected mountains. Its church and other buildings seemed small as the toys of children. But there was something impressive, aye, and oppressive, in its vast circuit and gloomy immensity.

A mist obscured the path as I prepared to descend the Torrinhas into the Curral, which added greatly to the dangers of the road; but as a bivouac on these cold and uncovered peaks all night was otherwise the only alternative, I plucked up resolution, and, contrary to the advice of my guide, proceeded downward. An occasional breeze, uplifting the mist, revealed to us

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precipices whose very brink we were at the moment approaching, till my escort, fearing their vows to the Virgin were no longer heard, broke out in open rebellion, and I was obliged to stop. Fortunately, in a short time after, the meridian sun dissipated the vapors, and enabled us to proceed.

I wish the Curral could be described. Nature, they say, has her affectations, and this is one of them. The whole scene is on a scale of such original extravagance, so grotesquely sublime, so sublimely grotesque, so discordant with all our preconceptions, so victorious over all imagination, that it at once defeats comprehension and defies description. Indeed, before one attempted to convey to another's mind an adequate picture, he would require much time, deep studies, and the nicest perceptive faculty, and, added to these, an art of coloring beyond any present discovery.

It is called Curral des Freiras, or the "Fold of the Nuns." Why, I know not, unless that the mountains which inclose it shut out the rude world from the religious recluse. It is some three thousand feet above the level of the sea and hemmed in by mountains whose summit reach as great a height as six thousand feet above the sea. Upon their jagged peaks we could see small spots of snow sparkling in the sunlight like the diamonds of a crown, which, when approached, we knew would turn out vast fields. Pico Ruivo, with its diadem of clouds, stood out like a despot, in cold isolation, its size and mysterious solitude confirming its claims to supremacy. We saw many a torrent bursting from it whose channels seemed to have been formed by the earthquake. In truth, every thing around or near the Curral appears to have been thrown out in one of nature's spasms. The cataract is more riotous, the precipice more fearful, the face of the mountain

more savage, than nature's regular moods. It is an epic composed by her before she had learned rhythm and poetic laws.

I was fain to rest awhile at the church, situated on a small elevated plateau in the bed of the Curral. The holy padre who officiated there received me kindly, brought wine and cake, and offered lodging for the night; ignorant if I was heretical or of the old faith. The full-orbed moon was rising over Pico Ruivo, and gave promise of a lovely evening. I thought best to avail myself of its light for a homeward journey, and receiving the benediction of the padre, mounted horse and took the road for Funchal. The road for some distance from the Curral clings to the precipitous sides of steep hills, unprotected by wall or parapet on its outer edges. Under the uncertain light of the moon it seemed too hazardous for venture; but the indifference with which my attendants traversed it encouraged me, and without accident we got upon the San Antonio road, which leads safely, though circuitously, to Funchal.

I have been nowhere under the sun where a lover of nature could be more gratified than by the tour I have in vain attempted to describe.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE VINTAGE-THE ORIGIN OF THE MADEIRA GRAPE-THE VARIOUS KINDS OF WINE.

ONE of the nicest times in Madeira is the gathering in of the vintage. It is made half-holiday-labor united with festive enjoyment, like a husking in New England, or rather as it was in my boyhood. New England since only indulges in isms-abolition-ism, temperanceism, and rheumat-ism.

The grapes mature some time in September-early in the month in the southern part of the island—and there is scarcely a more grateful sight than these round, plump, purple pendants from the vine, which is trained along a net-work of canes, some three or four feet above the ground

"Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grape

In Bacchanal profusion reels to earth,

Purple and gushing”—

holding out the word of promise to the eye, and keeping it to the hope.

The women and girls, with a portion of the men, go into the vineyards with their baskets and gather carefully the grapes. These they bring in on their heads, safely balanced. Would that these girls were prettier, that we might think of Hebes pouring out such wine! But Providence apportions its blessings.