The track is of a most extraordinary kind. I say nothing of the roughness, the steepness, and the frightful abysses it overhangs. For some distance, I remember, it is a series of artificial steps, cut in the solid rock, and steps no longer, but in name.

Up these my active little steed scrambled like a cat; but sometimes even this assistance to the clinging hoof is wanting, and the bare face of the slippery crag has to be surmounted. You feel your horse sliding, rolling, and jerking under you in the most uncomfortable manner possible, now his fore, now his hind legs in the air; it is not every horse that can do it, and I rejoiced in the stoutness and activity of mine, who never actually fell once with me during this perilous ascent. I had, as every body has, I presume, my "hair breadth 'scapes." Once, I inadvertently fired a small pistol close to the horse's ear, expecting grand things, as the report crashed, echoed, and re-echoed through the glen. And very fine the effect was; but the moment I fired, the beast backed astern in the narrow path, and it was only my simultaneously throwing my self off, with the arriero's applying a fearful whack on his flank, which prevented his tumbling head-long over the forest precipice. But this was nothing:-at another time, where the path was scarcely a foot wide, and the precipice indescribably profound, the horse shyed at something in the bank, and, sans reflection, I dropped my whip pretty freely over his forelock. In an instant he fell back, and I felt his off hind leg sink, as he backed over the cliff; whether it was the sagacity of the animal, or my persuasions, that prevented his making a rapid descent of a few thousand feet, I know not; but after a terrific struggle, in which I nearly lost my seat, the brute regained his footing. It all occurred in a moment. Everybody, of course, has these wonderful escapes to tell; but if anyone rides over the worst roads in Madeira, they will have no reason to be surprised at mine.

The ascent of this stupendous glen, must have taken me about four hours. When I stood upon the narrow ridge that divides the Boaventura from a tributary of the Coural, the ravine I had just ascended was hidden in a calm sea of very white mist, so thick, it appeared not to move. It was a curious sight, and gave rise to a few curious sensations, recollecting the glorious objects that great curtain enclosed.

There are several of these ridges between the mountain gorges. The most striking, is that which separates the beautifully wooded ravine of the Serra d'Agoa, from the wild Coural. It is a narrow wall, not many feet wide, with the mild beauties of the Serra on one hand, its woods of laurel,-its lawns of broom, and fern, one mass of mingling shade," undulating quietly into the far distance, and on the other, the deep, dark, vast, grey crater of the Coural. The contrast is exquisite, the vastness of the double view most wonderful.

"

But we must ride along.

It was sunset, when I reached the cluster of huts, and the small Convent of Santa Clara, in the bed of the Coural. The quiet homeliness of the scene is rather unaccountable, when you remember, how it appears as a part of the grand view, from the edge of the Jardin. You leave the Coural by a kind of bastion road which is very curious, and exhibits a degree of perseverance, and ingenuity, on the part of the Portuguese, exceedingly rare in Madeira.*

The road, (steep enough, of course,) is hewn out of the rock, projecting by walls of masonry from the sides of impending crags, joining ridges, and closing gaps, which look as if meant to have been for ever disunited. Beetling rocks overhang; as you get higher, the steepness renders it hard work to progress, but even to a tired steed it is nothing, after the Boaventura; and if he does not cast a shoe in getting up, he will require no breathing, until you reach the top. Here you find yourself on the Coural, opposite the Jardin, still in the midst of noble scenes, and within an easy ride of Funchal.

Rather an awkward mountain path, rendered more so than usual, by a dense mist, which obscurity induced my horse, contrary to all my entreaties and endeavours, to keep as close to the edge of the precipice as he possibly could, without tumbling over; soon brought me on the smooth pavèes, in the neighbourhood of Funchal, and I arrived at quarters, about ten o'clock that night, after a stiff ride of fourteen successive hours.

This was my last scran ble in the hills; and a glorious wind-up it was, to the magnificent scenes I had found in my numerous rambles.

I wish I felt my pen sufficiently descriptive, or my memory sufficiently tenacious, to dwell yet on the forests of St. Vimcente, the lovely Serra d'Agoa, and the glories of the West; all those places are haunts of sublimity and beauty. The great drawback, the tourist complains of, is, I imagine, the total want of associative interest. With the exception of the romantic history of Robert de Machim, and the faint traces of Moorish origin, which people pretend to discover among the Madeirense of the West, I do not. think there is a legend, or a spot of ground, hallowed by association.

True, there is the Coural das Freiras-the Nun's Fold, but what romance is attached to it, I never could find out. Pico das Arrie

*I must not forget to mention the construction of the levadas. The one which passes half way round the Meyametada ravine, a thousand feet or more above the torrent, is so clever, that it makes one sigh for the want of energy, or funds, or something that has allowed the great levada in the west to remain so many years in an unfinished state.

ros, may have been the discovery of some enterprising burroqueros, but tradition sayeth not: and if Cama do Lobos, was once a den of wolves, all I can say, is, that it is now a den of thieves! But:

"the rav

Of a bright sun, can make sufficient holiday;"

and to the lover of the picturesque, there is enough, without such reminiscences. His eye wanders over the stupendous scenery now existing, and looks back to the mighty convulsions that must have changed the whole surface of the still beautiful island. Those are his associations. There are things, which need no mediative recollections to awaken interest: the clouds in all their varying forms; the rushing winds careering over the mountains; the mighty ocean around all, are, as in the beginning; and the power, -the vitality of nature in her stronghold, if less apparent without the contrast of the perishable efforts of man,-the ivied tower, or the ruined abbey,-are yet the more striking, and fully felt, from the undisturbed, and solitary grandeur of her reign.

I will not go into the question, of how far the interest excited by association with past events, and things, is necessary to the enjoyment of natural scenery. I, myself, believe that it enhances enjoyment. But I pity the man who cannot appreciate scenery, without such connexion; who cannot love it for its own sake, and admires it merely for the scenes of human intervention, which have been enacted in its presence, and have long passed away. To such men, and there are many, I recommend not a tour in Madeira; but to those who think :

"Dear nature is the kindest mother still;"

let them cruise round the island, and spend a couple of weeks in the hills, never forgetting to remain a couple more in the good city of Funchal, to learn what Madeira wine, and Madeira hospitality really are; and if they do not return with a feeling of satis. faction, unknown to the hackney tourists in the hallowed grounds of Italy and the continent, I have no more faith in the influence of glorious scenery, and good fellowship upon the human heart. Madeira is a pleasant place to die away life in,-a better, to idle six months in,- but to rattle off a few weeks, it is a delicious spot!

To the listless individual, who has indifferent health and nothing to do, and nothing to care for,-Madeira might do for a permanent residence. To the wanderer of greater vigour, and energy, who wishes to fling away a month pleasantly for recruiting, or recrea

tion, I also say, run down to Madeira. Just let him taste its sweets; skim over town and country; glance rapidly at the senhoras; bring the last new waltzes from England, for the English girls, and waltz to distraction; drink plenty of Madeira wine, -and not flirt too desperately, and he will fancy himself in a modern garden of Epicurus. Then will he thoroughly enjoy Madeira, and come away with unqualified admiration of the place, -then will he talk wildly about a country, which is really very remarkable, a climate which is certainly deuced agreeable, and wine which is a libation for the gods.

And these are the only motives which should induce a visit to the island. It will not benefit the invalid, to remain there one month, and it will disgust a man in health, to stay six.

I went there myself, intending to sojourn a few weeks. Partly from not wishing to encounter that indescribable feeling, which—

"sets one's heart ajar,

On leaving the most unpleasant people: "

and partly from those vacillations, and undecided plans, which amount to nothing, and are always to be met with, among people who have nothing to do.

I loitered there many months. What would induce me to pass another winter there? Nothing! For in spite of the mountains,-in spite of the vine, and the orange,-in spite of the perfumed air, and the flowers,-the senhoras, and senhorinas, picnics and polkas,-Madeira is a melancholy place to become acquainted with. Oh! were it not that Madeira and consumption are as inseparably associated as oranges and Saint Michael's,-what a paradise it would be!

And so, farewell, beautiful, melancholy Madeira! They say the poor invalids never visit thy shores a second time; I shall follow their example, for I am certain I never shall. I feel glad to have retained by an indifferent memory, some indifferent reminiscences of thee, and if anything could give me unmixed pleasure when recalling those days spent on thy soil, it would be the satisfaction of feeling that my recollections had afforded a slight amusement to a few readers to whom thou art yet a land unknown.

And again farewell, beautiful Madeira! Thy mountain glories can never become less glorious,-thy skies can never appear less deeply blue, nor thy waters less bright and transparent. And that my countrymen may never grow less hospitable, nor their wives and daughters more fond of scandal-talking, is the sincere wish of one who has lived among them, and parted from them with mingled feelings of pleasure and dissatisfaction.

(17)

A WOMAN'S GRIEF.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Why urge me to seek in her voice and her looks,
The sign of her kindness and favour?

I know that she values and studies my books,
And tends the rare plants that I gave her.
She smiles when we meet, and her speech when we part,
Bears sometimes the semblance of sighing;
Yet bid me not woo her, I feel that her heart
In the grave of her loved one is lying.

For her I awaken sweet poesie's string,

And her praise to my lay is extended;
She seeks for my aid, when entreated to sing,
And our voices in concert are blended.
We speak on the treasures of science and art,
And chide the swift moments for flying;
Yet I tell not my love, for I know that her heart
In the grave of her loved one is lying.

She steals not from active employment away,
To weep without check or restriction;
She does not profane, by parading display,
The stillness of sacred affliction.

She bears in the world's busy labours a part:
She is ever the first in complying
With duty or charity's call; but her heart
In the grave of her loved one is lying.

The gifted are won by her eloquent tongue,

The good by her wisdom and meekness;

She has sense for the old, she has wit for the young,

And patience for folly and weakness.

The lovers, who venture their hopes to impart,

She soothes and consoles, while denying ;

And they cease from their suit, for they know that her heart

In the grave of her loved one is lying.

September, 1847.-VOL. L.-NO. CXCVII.