We entertained British Consul Rumble to dinner, a return compliment for several courtesies from him, to-night at eight P.M., and he is just departing; my feet are very sore. We caught about fifteen good fish in the trammel-net, and a lot of sardines in a fine bag-net which I bought here for the ship; it is spread from an iron ring and catches a few of the more foolish fish; we also caught a ray, or skate, yesterday, about eight feet in width, in the trammel-net. Some people would venture to eat it, we did not, it was so black and ugly.
Our engineers and officers have worked very hard all week, overhauling the engine, taking it all to pieces, reassembling it, and working till one o’clock each night. So we promised them a jaunt on shore to the Seven Cities, the wonder of the island.
So this Sunday morning I saw six of our crew off for a drive over the island, the captain on the box, a burly figure compared to the little Portuguese driver beside him, two engineers, two mates, and the steward, all in neat Sunday dress, inside an open antediluvian barouche held together with string, the springs down on the axles, and a huge heap of ragged maize tied behind to feed the scarecrow horses. I was to have gone with them but there was not room, and I found it impossible to get more than the one machine on this Sabbath morn. All the rest were laid up or had gone off with Sunday parties. To get the one, I’d to run from pillar to post, and use soft, persuasive language, and listen to infinite reasons for there being no possibility of getting a trap at all.
But it was worth the trouble of hunting for the carriage to see my six good shipmates drive off in great form with a crack of the whip, rumbling over the cobbles, and waving hats to the writer, who suddenly felt somewhat lonely.
But to-day, Monday, there’s nothing to keep me on board, I have done my painful duty; I have drawn in best style our registered number on our sails above reef points, according to act, and on tin plates for stencils to paint the same on St Ebba’s side to port and starboard.
On our fore quarter, there is now L H, which signifies Leith, and 256, each letter the thickness—number of inches and fraction of an inch—ordered by the Board of Trade, with the distance between letters and figures all according to the law of the Medes and Persians.
It went decidedly against the grain to stamp our yacht-like craft with such vulgar herring-fisher’s symbols. And putting black paint by mistake on a white sail is enough to make a yachtsman weep. What benefit can be derived by anyone by the above procedure I have yet to learn.
So to-day I also must go and see these Seven Cities. No one knows the reason for the name; my messmates tell me it is a volcanic valley almost circular, with a double lake at the bottom, and round the lakes are smaller extinct volcanoes covered with foliage.
Arming ourselves, therefore, with a sandwich of goodly proportions, and a bottle of vino tinto from our friend Sancho at the Atlantico café, we sallied forth in solitary state in an old brougham, one artist whaler, three horses and a Portuguese driver, and a bundle of maize straws astern, and drove and drove, always uphill, through little whitewashed villages and narrow lanes, between low stone walls, and crops of Indian corn, rather dry-looking, with pumpkins and gourds on the stubbles; past many farm carts, loaded with golden maize or pumpkins, and with groaning, squeaking wooden discs for wheels, till high up we came to little grass fields and hedges of bramble, and loose stone dykes with bracken and canes on them, and where the air was fresh as in Perthshire, and there were very wide views of the blue Atlantic. The drive felt long, but a sketch-book going, helped to make the road feel tolerable, but it was quite an hour and a half before we came to our change place, Lomba da Cruze, and mounted a stirrupless pack-saddle on a donkey, and began an hour’s uphill climb through cuttings of lava deposit, overhung with brambles, many laurels, heath and ferns.