To the Gold Coast for Gold

R >> Richard F. Burton >> To the Gold Coast for Gold

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Beyond the Soccorridos lies the charming valley of Camara dos Lobos,
popularly Cama di Lobos,

[Footnote: It is placed west instead of east of Cape Girao in the
_Conoise Handbook of Madeira_, by the Rev. J. M. Rendell. London:
Kegan Paul and Co., 1881.]

the lair of the sea-wolves, or seals. With its vivid lines of
sugar-cane, its terraces, its fine remains of forest vegetation, and its
distances of golden lights, of glazed blue half-lights, and of purple
shades, it looks like a stage-rake, a _decor de theatre_.
Tunny-fishing, wine-making, and sugar-boiling have made it,
from a 'miserable place,' a wealthy townlet whose tall white houses
would not disgrace a city; two manufactories show their craft by heaps
of _bagasse_, or trash; and the deep shingly bay, defended by a
_gurgulho_ of basaltic pillars, is covered with piscator's gear and
with gaily painted green boats. 'Seal's Lair' was the model district of
wine-production, like its neighbour on the north-western upland,
Campanario, famous for its huge Spanish chestnut: both were, however,
wasted by the oidium of 1852. In 1863 it partially recovered, under the
free use of sulphur; but now it has been ravaged by the more dangerous
phylloxera, which is spreading far faster than Mr. Henry Vizetelly
supposes.

[Footnote: _Facts about Port and Madeira_, by Henry Vizetelly, who
visited the island in 1877. The papers first appeared in the (old
original) Pall Mall Gazette (August 26-September 4,1877), and then were
published in a volume by Ward and Lock, 1880]

The only cure of this pest known to Madeira is the troublesome and
expensive process practised by a veteran oenologist, Mr. Leacock.

He bares every vine-root, paints it with turpentine and resin, and
carefully manures the plant to restore its stamina. Mr. Taylor, of
Funchal, has successfully defended the vines about his town-house by the
simple tonic of compost. But the Lobos people have, methinks, done
wisely to uproot the infected plant wholesale: indeed, from this point
to the furthest west we hardly saw a vine-stock. They have supplied its
place with garden-stuff, an article which always finds a ready sale. The
island is annually visited by at least 500 English ships, and there is a
steady demand for 'green meat.' I am not aware that beet-root, one of
the best antiscorbutics, has been extensively tried.

Off Cama di Lobos is the best tunny-fishing. It is practised quite
differently from the Mediterranean style; here the labyrinth of nets is
supplanted by the line of 300 fathoms. At night the bright fires on
board the fishing-canoes make travellers suspect that spears, grains, or
harpoons are used. This, however, is not the case; line-fishing is
universal, and the lights serve mostly for signals.

From Cama di Lobos the huge hill-shoulder to the west, whose face, Cabo
Girao, must be ascended by a rough, steep incline. Far easier to view
the scene from a boat. Cape 'Turn Again' is the furthest occidental
point reached by the far-famed exploration of O Zargo. The profile
suggests it to be the northern half of a dome once regular and complete,
but cut in two, as a cake might be, by time and the elements. It has the
name of being the 'highest sea-wall in the world' (1,934 feet); if so,
little Madeira can boast her 'unicum.' Beaching the summit, you either
stand up regardant or you peer couchant, as your nerves incline, down a
height whose merit is to be peculiarly high. Facetious picnickers roll
over the edge-rocks which may kill the unfortunates gathering
grass--dreadful trade!--upon the dizzy ledges. There are also quarrymen
who extract _cantaria_-slabs for sills and copings from the four
square apertures which look afar like mortice-holes; and a fine marbled
stone, white, blue, and ruddy, has been taken from this part of the
cliff-face. Finally, there is a little knot of tiny huts which sticks
like a wasp-nest to the very foot of the huge wall.

Seen from the deep indigo-blue water, that turns leek-green in the
shallows, Cape Girao ('they turn') is a grand study of volcanic
dykes. They are of all sizes, from a rope to a cable multiplied a
thousandfold; and they stand out in boldest dado-relief where the soft
background of tufa, or laterite, has been crumbled away by rain and
storm-blast. Some writers have described them as ramifying like a tree
and its branches, and crossing and interlacing like the ties of a
building; as if sundry volcanic vents had a common centre below. I saw
nothing of this kind. The dykes of light grey material, sometimes
hollowed out and converted into gutters by falling water, appeared to
have been shot up in distinct lines, and the only crossing was where a
slip or a fault occurred.

A front view of Cape Girao shows that it is supported on either side,
east and west, by buttresses of a darker rock: the eastern dip at an
angle of 45 deg., the western range between 20 deg. above and 40 deg. below. The
great central upheaval seems to have pushed its way through these older
strata, once straight, now inclined. The layers of the more modern
formation--lavas and scoriae--are horizontal; sheets of sub-columnar,
compact basalt have been spread upon and have crushed down to
paper-thickness their beds of bright red tufa, here and there white with
a saline effervescence. Of such distinct superimpositions we counted in
one place five; there may have been many more. All are altered soils, as
is shown by remains of trees and decayed vegetation.

Beyond Cabo Girao the scenery is grand enough, but monotonous in the
extreme. The island is girt by a sea-wall, more or less perpendicular;
from this coping there is a gentle upslope, the marvellous terracing for
cultivation being carried up to the mountain-tops. The lower levels are
everywhere dotted with white farmhouses and brown villages. The colours
of the wall are the grey of basalt, the purple of volcanic
conglomerates, and the bright reds and yellows of tufas. Here and there,
however, a thread of water pouring from the summit, or bursting from the
flank, fills a cavity which it has worn and turned for itself; and from
this reservoir the industrious peasant has diverted sufficient to
irrigate his dwarf terraced plots of cane, bananas, yams, or other
vegetables; not a drop of the precious fluid is wasted, and beds are
laid out wherever the vivifying influence can extend. The water-race
down the wall is shown by mosses and lichens, pellitories, and
rock-plants; curtains and hangers; slides, shrubs, and weepers of the
most vivid green, which give life and beauty to the sternest stone.

The only breaks in this regular coast-wall are the spines and spurs
protruding seawards; the caverns in which the surges break and roar, and
the _ribeiras_ or ravines whose heads are far inland, and whose
lines show grey second distances and blue third distances. At their
mouths lie the sea-beaches and the settlements: the latter, with their
towered churches and their large whitewashed houses, look more like
detached bits of city than our notion of villages. Other places are
built upon heaps of _debris_ washed down from the heights, which
hold out no promise of not falling again. The huts scattered amidst the
cultivation remind one of nothing but Africa. In some places, too, a
soft layer of tufa has been hollowed for man's abode, suggesting, like
the caves, a fine old smuggling-trade. As many as eight doors may be
counted side by side. In other places a rock-ledge, or even a detached
boulder, has been converted into a house by masonry-walls. We shall
seldom see these savageries on the eastern coast of the island.

The seafaring settlements are connected with the interior by breakneck
paths and by rude steps, slippery with green moss. The people seem to
delight in standing, like wild goats, upon the dizziest of 'jumpy'
peaks; we see boys perched like birds upon impossible places, and men
walking along precipice-faces apparently pathless. The villages are
joined to one another by roads which attempt to follow the sea-line; the
chasms are spanned by the flimsiest wooden bridges, and the cliff is
tunnelled or cut into a _corniche_.

After disembarking passengers at Ponta d'Agua and Ribeira Nova we passed
the great landslip of 1805, Lugar do Baixo. The heap of ruins has long
been greened over. The cause was evidently a waterfall which now
descends freely; it must have undermined the cliff, which in time would
give way. So in the Brazil they use water instead of blasting powder: a
trench is dug behind the slice of highland to be removed; this is filled
by the rains and the pressure of the column throws the rock bodily
down. We shall find this cheap contrivance useful when 'hydraulicking'
the auriferous clays of the Gold Coast.

Then we came to Ponta do Sol, the only remarkable site on the trip,
famous for bodice-making and infamous for elephantiasis. Here a huge
column of curiously contorted basalt has been connected by a solid
high-arched causeway with the cliff, which is equally remarkable,
showing a central boss of stone with lines radiating quaquaversally.
There are outer steps and an inner flight leading under
a blind archway, the latter supplied with a crane. The landing in the
_levadia_, or surf, is abominable and a life-boat waits accidents
outside. It works with the heavy Madeiran oars, square near the grip and
provided with a board into whose hole the pin fits. The townlet, capital
of the 'comarca,' fronted by its little Alameda and a strip of beach
upon which I should prefer to debark, shows a tall factory-chimney,
noting the sugar-works of Wilhabram Bros. There is a still larger
establishment at the Serra d'Agoa in the Arco [Footnote: _Arco_
(bow, arch) is locally applied to a ridge or to the district bounded by
it.] da Calheta (Arch of the Creeklet), a property of the Visconde de
Calcada. The guide-books mention iron pyrites and specular iron in small
quantities behind Ponta do Sol.

Passing the deep ravine, Ribeiro Fundo, and the Ponta da Galera, with
its rooky spur, we sighted Jardim do Mar, a village on a mound of
_debris_ with black walls of dry stone defending the terraces from
surf and spray. The furthest point, where we halted half an hour, is
'Pauel do Mar' (Swamp of the Sea), apparently a misnomer. It is the port
of the Fajaa da Ovelha (Ewe's landslip), whose white tenements we see
perched on the _estreito_, or tall horizon-slope. The large
harbour-town is backed by a waterfall which may prove disastrous to it;
its lands were formerly famous for the high-priced _malvasia
Candida_--Candia malmsey.

The day had been delightful, 'June weather' in fickle April. The sea was
smooth as glass, and the skies, sunny in the morning and starry at
night, were canopied during the day by clouds banking up from the
south-east. The western wind blew crisp and cold. This phase of climate
often lasts till the end of June, and renders early summer endurable at
Madeira. The steam-tug was more punctual going than coming. She left
Funchal at 9 A.M., reached Pauel do Mar at half-past twelve, covering
some twenty-one direct knots; and returned to her moorings, crowded with
passengers, at half-past five, instead of half-past four. My companion,
M. Dahse, and I agreed that the coast was well worth seeing.

It would hardly be fair to leave Madeira without a visit to Machico, the
scene of Machim's apocryphal death. The realists derive the name from
Algarvan Monchique. I have made it on foot, on horseback, and by boat,
but never so comfortably as when on board the steam-tug
_Falcao_. Garajao, whose ruddy rocks of volcanic tufa, embedding
bits of lava, probably entitled it 'Brazenhead,' is worth inspecting
from the sea. Possibly the classic term 'Purple Islands' may have arisen
from the fiery red hue of the volcanic cliffs seen at the sunset
hour. Like Girao, the middle block of Tern Point is horizontally
stratified, while the western abutment slopes to the water. Eastward,
however, there has been immense degradation; half the dome has been
shaken down and washed away; while a succession of upheavals and
earthquakes has contorted the strata in the strangest manner. Seen from
Funchal, the profile of Garajao is that of an elephant's head, the
mahaut sitting behind it in the shape of a red-brown boss, the expanded
head of a double dyke seaming the tufas of the eastern face. We
distinguish on the brow two 'dragons,' puny descendants of the
aboriginal monsters. Beyond Garajao the shore falls flat, and the upland
soil is red as that of Devonshire. It is broken by the Ponta da
Oliveira, where there is ne'er an olive-tree, and by the grim ravine of
Porto de Canico o Bispo, the 'bishop' being a basaltic pillar with mitre
and pontifical robes sitting in a cave of the same material. I find a
better _episkopos_ at Ponta da Atalaia, 'Sentinel Point.' Head,
profile, and shoulders are well defined; the hands rest upon the knees,
and the plaited folds of the dress are well expressed by the basaltic
columns of the central upheaval. Beyond Porto Novo do Cal, with its old
fort and its limekiln, is the chapel of Sao Pedro, famous for its
_romeiro_, 'pattern' or pilgrimage for St. Peter's Day. June 29 is
kept even at Funchal by water-excursions; it is homage enough to pay a
penny and to go round the ships.

We anchored and screamed abominably off Santa Cruz, the capital of its
'comarca.' The townlet lies on the left of a large ravine, whose upper
bed contains the Madre d'Agoa, or water-reservoir. The settlement,
fronted by its line of trees, the Alameda, and by its broad beach
strewed with boats, consists of white, red, and yellow houses, one-,
two-, and three-storied; of a white-steepled church and of a new
market-place. East of it, and facing south, lies the large house of 'the
Squire' (Mr. H. B. Blandy), a villa whose feet are washed by the waves;
the garden shows the lovely union, here common, of pine and palm. The
latter, however, promises much and performs little, refusing, like the
olive, to bear ripe fruit. Beyond the Squire's is the hotel, approached
by a shady avenue: it is the most comfortable in the island after the
four of Funchal.

[Footnote: There are only two other country inns, both on the northern
coast. The first is at Santa Anna, some 20 miles north-north-east of the
capital; the second at Sao Vicente, to the north-west. All three are
kept by natives of Madeira. Unless you write to warn the owners that you
are coming, the first will be a 'banyan-day,' the second comfortable
enough. This must be expected; it is the Istrian 'Citta Nuova, chi porta
trova.']

Santa Cruz has a regular spring-season; and the few residents of the
capital frequent it to enjoy the sea-breeze, which to-day (April 23)
blows a trifle too fresh.

We then pass the Ponta da Queimada, whose layers of basalt are deeply
caverned, and we open the Bay of Machico. The site, a broad, green and
riant valley, with a high background, is softer and gayer than that of
Funchal. It has been well sketched in 'Views in the Madeiras,' and by
the Norwegian artist Johan F. Eckersberg in folio, with letterpress by
Mr. Johnson of the guide-book. The 'Falcon' anchors close to the
landing-stairs, under a grim, grey old fort, O Desembarcadouro,
originally a tower, and now apparently a dwelling-place. The
_debarcadere_ has the usual lamp and the three iron chains intended
to prevent accidents.

The prosperous little fishing-village, formerly the capital of
_the_ Tristam, lies as usual upon a wady, the S. Gonsales, and
consists of a beach, an Alameda, a church with a square tower, and some
good houses. Twenty years ago the people had almost forgotten a story
which named the settlement; and the impromptu cicerone carried strangers
who sought the scene of Machim's death to the Quinta de Santa Anna,

[Footnote: Here Mr. White made some of his meteorological
observations. VOL. I.]

well situated upon a land-tongue up the valley; to the parish church,
which was in a state of chronic repair, and in fact to every place but
the right. The latter is now supposed to be the little _Ermida_
(chapel) _de N. S. da Visitacao._ with its long steps and
wall-belfry on the beach and the left jaw of the wady: it is a mere
humbug, for the original building was washed away by the flood of
1803. In those days, too, visitors vainly asked for the 'remains of
Machim's cross, collected and deposited here by Robert Page, 1825.' Now
a piece of it is shown in frame. About 1863 I was told that a member of
the family, whose name, it is said, still survives about Bristol, wished
to mark the site by a monument--decidedly encouraging to
Gretna-Greenism.

From Machico Bay we see the Fora and other eastern outliers which form
the Madeiran hatchet-handle. Some enthusiasts prolong the trip to what
is called the 'Fossil-bed,' whose mere agglomerations of calcareous
matter are not fossils at all. The sail, however, gives fine views of
the 'Deserters' (_Desertas_), beginning with the 'Ship Rock,' a
stack or needle mistaken in fogs for a craft under sail. Next to it lies
the Ilheu Chao, the Northern or Table Deserta, not unlike Alderney or a
Perigord pie. Deserta Grande has midway precipices 2,000 feet high,
bisected by a lateral valley, where the chief landing is. Finally, Cu de
Bugio (as Cordeyro terms it) is in plan a long thin strip, and in
elevation a miniature of its big brother, with the additions of sundry
jags and peaks.

The group is too windy for cereals, but it grows spontaneously orchil
and barilla (_Mesembryanthemum nodiflorum_), burnt for soda. Few
strangers visit it, and many old residents have never attempted the
excursion. It is not, however, unknown to sportsmen, who land--with
leave--upon the main island and shoot the handsome 'Deserta petrels,'
the _cagarras_ (_Puffinus major_, or sheerwater), the rabbits,
the goats that have now run wild, and possibly a seal. A poisonous
spider is here noticed by the guide-books, and the sea supplies the
edible _pulvo (octopus)_ and the dreaded _urgamanta_. This
huge ray (?) enwraps the swimmer in its mighty double flaps and drags
him to the bottom, paralysing him by the wet shroud and the dreadful
stare of its hideous eyes.

CHAPTER IV.

MADEIRA (_continued_)--CHRISTMAS--SMALL INDUSTRIES--
WINE--DEPARTURE FOR TENERIFE.

The Christmas of 1881 at Madeira could by no means be called gay. The
foreign colony was hospitable, as usual, with dinners, dances, and
Christmas trees. But amongst the people festivities seemed to consist
chiefly of promenading one's best clothes about the military band and
firing royal salutes, not to speak of pistols and squibs. The noise
reminded me of Natal amongst the Cairene Greeks; here, as in the Brazil,
if you give a boy a copper he expends it not on lollipops, but on
fireworks. We wished one another _boas entradas_, the 'buon'
principio' of Italy, and remembered the procession of seventeen years
ago. The life-sized figures, coarsely carved in wood and dressed in real
clothes, were St. Francis, St. Antonio de Noto, a negro (Madeiran
Catholics recognise no 'aristocracy of the skin'); a couple of married
saints (for even matrimony may be sanctified), SS. Bono and Luzia, with
half a dozen others. The several platforms, carried by the brotherhoods
in purple copes, were preceded by the clergy with banners and crosses
and were followed by soldiers. The latter then consisted of a battalion
of _cacadores_, 480 to 500 men, raised in the island and commanded
by a colonel entitled 'Military Governor.' They are small, dark figures
compared with the burly Portuguese artillerymen stationed at the Loo
Fort and Sao Thiago Battery, and they are armed with old English
sniders.

Behind the Tree of Penitence and the crosses of the orders came an Ecce
Homo and a bit of the 'true Cross' shaded by a canopy. The peasantry,
who crowded into town--they do so no longer--knelt to kiss whatever was
kissable, and dodged up and down the back streets to gain
opportunities. Even the higher ranks were afoot; they used to acquire in
infancy a relish for these mild amusements. And one thing is to be noted
in favour of the processions; the taste of town-decoration was
excellent, and the combinations of floral colours were admirable.
Perhaps there is too much of nosegay in Madeira, making us
remember the line--

Posthume, non bene olet qui bane semper olet.

I went to the Jesuit church to hear the _predica_, or sermon. The
preacher does not part his hair 'amidships,' or display cambric and
diamond-rings, yet his manner is none the less _manieree_. For him
and his order, in Portugal as in Spain, the strictest minutiae of
demeanour and deportment are laid down. The body should be borne
upright, but not stuck up, and when the congregation is addressed the
chest is slightly advanced. The dorsal region must never face the
Sacrament; this would be turning one's back, as it were, upon the
Deity. The elbow may not rest upon the cushion. The head, held erect,
but not haughtily, should move upon the atlas gently and suavely,
avoiding 'lightness' and undue vivacity. The lips must not smile; but,
when occasion calls for it, they may display a saintly joy. The eyebrows
must not be raised too high towards the hair-roots; nor should one be
elevated while the other is depressed. The voice should be at times
_tremolando_, and the tone periodically 'sing-song.' Finally, the
eyes are ordered to wander indiscriminately, and with all pudicity, over
the whole flock, and never to be fixed upon a pretty lamb.

Our countrymen are not over-popular in Portugal or in Madeira; such
mortal insults as those offered by Byron, to name only the corypheus,
will rankle and can never be forgotten. In this island strangers,
especially Englishmen, have a bad practice of not calling upon the two
governors, civil and military. The former, Visconde de Villa Mendo, is
exceptional; he likes England and the English. As a rule the highest
classes mix well with strangers; not so the _medio ceto_ who, under
a constitutional _regime_, rule the roast. Men with small fixed
incomes have little to thank us for; we make things dear, and we benefit
only the working men. Bourgeois exactions have driven both French ships
and American whalers to Tenerife; and many of them would do the same
with the English and German residents and visitors of Funchal. Not a few
have noble and historic names, whose owners are fallen into extreme
poverty. Professor Azevedo's book is also a _nobiliaire de
Madere_. The last generation used to be remarkably prim and precise,
in dress as in language and manner. They never spoke of 'hogs' or
'horns,' and they wore the skimpy waistcoats and the regulation whiskers
of Wellington's day. The fair sex appeared only at 'functions,' at
church, and at the Sunday promenade in the Place. The moderns dress
better than their parents, who affected the most violent colours, an
exceedingly pink pink upon a remarkably green green; and the shape of
the garment was an obsolete caricature of London and Paris. They no
longer assume the peculiar waddle, looking as if the lower limbs were
unequal to the weight of the upper story; but the walk never equals that
of the Spanish woman. This applies to Portugal as well. The strong
points, here as in the Peninsula, are velvety black eyes and blue-black
hair dressed _a la Diane_. It is still the fashion, as at Lisbon,
to look somewhat _boudeuse_ when abroad, by way of hint that man
must not expect too much; yet these cross faces at home or with
intimates are those of _bonnes enfants_. Lastly, the dark
complexions and the irregular features do not contrast well with the
charming faces and figures of Tenerife, who mingle the beauty of
Guanchedom with that of Spain and Ireland.

The list of public amusements at Funchal is not extensive. Years ago the
theatre was converted into a grain-store, and now it is a
wine-store. The circus of lumber has been transferred from under the
Peak Fort to near the sea; it mostly lacks men and horses. The Germans
have a tolerable lending library; and the public _bibliotheca_ in
the Town House, near the Jesuit church, is rich in old volumes, mostly
collected from religious houses. In 1851 the books numbered 1,800; now
they may be 2,000; kept neat and clean in two rooms of the fine solid
old building. Of course the collection is somewhat mixed, Fox's
'Martyrs' and the 'Lives of the Saints' standing peacefully near the
'Encyclopedie' and Voltaire. A catalogue can hardly be expected.

There are three Masonic lodges and two Portuguese clubs, one good, the
other not; and the former (Club Funchalense), well lodged in a house
belonging to Viscountess Torre Bella, gives some twice or three times a
year very enjoyable balls. The Cafe Central, with _estaminet_ and
French billiard-table, is much frequented by the youth of the town, but
not by residents. The great institution is the club called the 'English
Rooms,' which has been removed from over a shop in the Aljube to
Viscondessa de Torre Bella's house in the Rua da Alfandega. The British
Consulate is under the same roof, and next door is Messieurs Blandy's
ubiquitous 'Steamer Agency.' The roomy and comfortable quarters, with a
fine covered balcony looking out upon the sea, are open to both
sexes. The collection of books is old; but the sum of 100_l_. laid
out on works of reference would bring it fairly up to the level of the
average English country-club. Strangers' names were hospitably put down
by any proprietary member as guests and visitors if they did not outstay
the fortnight; otherwise they became subscribers. But crowding was the
result, and the term has been reduced to three days: a month's
subscription, however, costs only 10_s_. 6_d_. The doors close
at 7.30 P.M.: I used to think this an old-world custom kept up by the
veteran hands; but in an invalid place perhaps it is wisely done.

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