The cruel treatment which had long been practised by that singular and secluded people, the Japanese, toward American whalers who were thrown by the misfortune of shipwreck upon their coasts, the incentive of mercantile cupidity, and the urgency of personal ambition, induced the government of the United States, in 1852, to project an expedition to Japan, to obtain some assurance from the government of the country against a continuance or repetition of the inhospitality and cruelty inflicted upon our unfortunate citizens, and, if possible, to open the sources of trade. The East India squadron was accordingly augmented for this purpose, and Commodore Matthew Calbraith Perry was invested with the command, and charged with the performance of the duty.

After almost conjugating delay in all its moods and tenses, induced by the failure of the boilers of the unfortunate “Princeton,” and other causes, his flag-ship was ready for sea in November, 1852; and on the 24th of this month and year, with a desire to visit the hermetic empire, whetted by reading the Dutch historians, I found myself, as commander’s clerk, on board of her. At mid-day we had dropped, not below the “kirk or hill,” but below the hospital at Norfolk, and night found us ploughing deeply the ocean in the direction of Madeira; and before a very late hour the gleams from the Cape Henry lighthouse disappeared altogether.

The ship was the old steam-frigate “Mississippi,” which, as her name is a synonyme for the “father of waters,” may be termed the father of our war-steamers, having been the consort of the pioneer ship, the Missouri, destroyed by fire on her first cruise, under the rock of Gibraltar. She had been engaged unremittingly since she first slid from her ways. The power of her engines had pulled from a reef in the Gulf a large ship, and saved to the country the fine frigate Cumberland. The shot and shell from one of her sixty-eights, in the naval battery at Vera Cruz, had contributed to the downfall of the castle of San Juan. She had lain at her anchor near the site of once classic Athens, and in full view of what now remains of the once great city of Hannibal. She had once sought shelter from a Levanter near Brundusium that was, with its Appian way. Her paddle-wheels churning up the water of the Black sea, announced the first appearance of an American man-of-war in that stormy water; and on her decks, surrounded by his late fellows in exile, Kossuth, fresh from the damp of his Kutahia prison, addressed the seething populace around in the harbor of Marseilles, with a fervor and eloquence which almost extenuated so indefensible a violation of the national hospitality which our nation was then extending him; and now the old Mississippi was leaving her own country, bound to the other side of the great globe, bearing the hopes of many, and embarked in a mission which might be successful—which might, perhaps, come to naught.

I said she ploughed deeply on getting beyond the Capes, because, with the considerate intelligence and humanity which preside over our naval affairs, sending boxes of guns to sea with national names, bringing about such sad losses as those of the Albany and the Porpoise, the Mississippi, designed by her constructor to draw eighteen feet of water, and to carry four hundred and fifty tons of coal, has her bunkers enlarged to the capacity of six hundred tons, additional lines of copper put upon her, and goes out drawing twenty-one feet, her guards but a short distance from the water. In this state we left the United States; her decks not yet cleared of the stores hastily put aboard for the different messes; the lengthened visages of sad people all around, thinking whether they had omitted anything in their notes of last adieu sent back by the Pilot; the mustering and stationing of a new crew at their division and fire quarters; the making everything ready for sea, all presented such a novel scene to one who was on a man-of-war underway for the first time, that he was too much engrossed in observing, to tell his “native land good-night,” turning to do which, he found that it had “faded,” not over the “waters blue,” but behind an expanse of dull slate-colored ocean, which the heavy striking of our deeply-immersed paddles was slowly and drowsily disturbing. There was none of the graceful undulatory motion, and bellying out of the great white canvass of the sailing-ship, which writers of much imagination and nautical turn of mind, delight so much to sing about. It was only the sturdy prose of a warlike old steamer belching from the jaws of her great funnel columns of thick black smoke, which separated at her mainmast, or rolled away in dense masses astern, perversely holding on her way to the port of her destination. The “loguey” motion of the ship, while it kept her decks wet from the swashing of a cross sea over her head rail, at least had the advantage to a landsman of enabling him to get on his “sea-legs” all the sooner.

The scene at night on a man-of-war, is one full of interest to him who sees it for the first time. The decks, busily thronged during the day by the men in the performance of their duties, at an early hour of the night, with the exception of the watch, are apparently deserted; a number equal to the population of a small village, crowded close together, swing in their pendent beds in oblivious sleep, which the exertions of the day makes more profound, leaving nothing to disturb the quiet of the vessel, save the half-hour striking of the ship’s bell, and the quick responses of the different look-outs assuming their watchfulness, or the drumming of the wheels as they send the yesty water along the side.

In a few days we crossed that great liquid fortification of our coast—the Gulf-stream—when the temperature became greatly moderated, our stoves were taken down, the cloudy skies that we had had disappeared, and we hailed the sun. The water had changed from 41° to 71°, the sun came up magnificently from the ocean, and the air felt like a balmy spring morning; away off in the southeast floated piles of clouds like inverted illuminated pearl-shells, and for the first time since leaving Norfolk, we were enabled to look upon the deep blue sea, and the blue deep sea. Then, too, our fine band, composed of twenty-three brass and reed instruments, discoursed its most pleasant strains for the first time since we had been out, under the leadership of a talented old Italian musician—the only man I ever saw who, with a nice “ear for music,” kept both of his auriculars continually stopped with wool.

The cry of “Land, ho!” on the evening of the 11th of December, announced our vicinity to Madeira, after a rough and lonely passage from the United States of eighteen days. The weather proving rough, we wore ship and stood off during the night, and early in the morning again stood for the island, and it was not long before we were running under the lee of its northern side. Madeira at a distance, wrapped in its hazy robe of blue, presents the appearance of a huge monster reposing on the water, but running in under the land, the aspect is far more attractive. Being the first foreign land on which my eyes had ever rested, I gazed with increasing pleasure on the parti-colored soil, on the graceful and silvery cascades precipitating themselves down its steep shores, presenting the appearance of tapering spires of churches, while nestling here and there on the cliffs, amid thick verdure, were the happy-looking quintas and farmhouses. Toward evening, leaving the singular formed rocks “Las Desertas” on our left, we rounded the northeasternmost point of the island, and Funchal, in its terraced beauty, came in full view. We fired a gun and hoisted a jack for a pilot, but we were permitted to approach without the aid of that functionary. It being Sunday, perhaps they did not officiate on that day. Just before sundown we came to in the harbor, near the Pontinha, and immediately on anchoring were boarded by the Portuguese health-officer, who, finding we had no contagious disease aboard, granted us pratique. The second promptest visiters to welcome us were the washerwomen, who are all eager for the possession of the soiled linen, at the same time evincing a wonder of recognition and recollection perfectly satisfactory to themselves, but not at all convincing to anybody else. One old shrivelled dame of a laundress insisted that I had visited the island before, and pretended to adhere to the opinion with the tenacity of Dolly, in Oliver Twist, when she called upon the good bystanders to make her brother go home. This was old Madam Yesus, and, as my poor battered garments subsequently proved, she washed “not wisely, but too well.” They were eminently communicative on general topics, told us how “mucher pauvre” they were, gave us the first news of the approaching famine, and to men who had been tumbling about the ocean for over half a month, the unsavory intelligence that wine, which but a short time before could be bought for forty cents per bottle, could now only be obtained for a dollar.

Funchal, from the water, presents a very attractive appearance to the traveller who sees it for the first time. I don’t know when I have been more impressed with the beauty of any scene, than when from the deck of our ship, with a delicious atmosphere that obliterated all recollection of the month being December, a setting sun more keenly defining and causing to loom up each object, I looked upon its bright houses, made more so by the deep red of their tiles, as they rose in a terraced crescent, one above another, the convent of Santa Clara, the deep-hued verdure that filled up the interstices of the picture, the Loo Rock fort, and the cathedral in the foreground, with just enough of time-stain on its towers to make more venerable its front, and the tortuous paved road, running up the hills like an immense, stony serpent, terminating at the church of our “Lady of the Mount,” elevated nineteen hundred feet above the sea; and the vineyards in the distance.

Being an open roadstead, with the wind from a certain direction a very heavy sea tumbles into the harbor, and there is at all times a considerable surf breaking on the beach. On going ashore you have to employ Portuguese surf-boats, which are much better constructed for purposes of landing than our own. On either side, not far from the keel, they have projecting pieces resembling the side-fins of a dolphin, which gives them much steadiness in a sea-way, while head and stern they have perpendicular handles as it were. As they near the beach, one of the boatmen jumps over into the water, and, seizing the piece at the prow, keeps the boat head on, when the succeeding swell sets her high, if not dry, upon the sand, and you are ashore. Your way thither may only be delayed a short time, by the officer contrabandista, who, pulling alongside, touches his hat, and proceeds, by an inspection of your boat, to see whether his aquatic countrymen are not attempting to smuggle ashore such things as soap and tobacco, which his most gracious sovereign of Portugal has been pleased to reserve as a government monopoly. When the weather is rather rough, the customary place of landing is the Pontinha, a steep rock terminating an arched causeway, or kind of breakwater, from which the coal is usually embarked for the steamers stopping at the island. The scene presented, or the horrible clamor that salutes your ears, is not particularly calculated to prolong the pleasant illusion which the more distant sight of the place gave you. You no sooner put your foot on the stone stairs than your winding way of ascent is beset by innumerable lazzaroni most offensive in habit and appearance, whose rabid importunities for alms will not permit you to say them nay. Once through this crowd of “dago” pauperism—the most squalid and effete of all pauperism, your movements on the causeway are impeded by the boisterous calls of the Borro Querros, with their horses already saddled and bridled for “gentlemin” to ride. The bellowing guttural of one fellow provokes your attention to his steed, in whose praises he is loud, having gotten which, he digs him in flank, and dashes off over the stony pavement, to show you his paces. Your charger selected (I had a weakness in the matter of a fine bay myself,) the din ceases. Our party, consisting of five or six well mounted, determined on a gallop to the “Petite Coral,” calling on the polite and hospitable consul on our way thither. One peculiarity strikes you on starting, that is, that your dago friend, of whom you obtained your charger, acts as a kind of equerry during your ride, and the better to enable him to accompany you, when you are inclined to give your horse the rein, he seizes that animal by the tail with one hand, keeping off the flies with a wisp in the other, or uses it as an accelerator on his haunches, holding on meanwhile with a grip which the Kirk Alloway witches would have envied when they brought about that finale to “poor Maggy.”

The streets through which we rode were quite narrow, and enclosed by balconied houses of two stories, or stuccoed garden walls, over which the graceful banana leaf bent, or a cornice of beautiful running flowers was to be seen. From the nearly closed casement pretty dark eyes peeped down upon you, pretty I fear, because scarcely any other features were visible. The native women we met in the street walked closely veiled, which none who met them desired to have done away with, if a truant zephyr once gave a sight of their swarthy faces. Your attention is attracted by the rather picturesque costume of the natives, which consists of a loose shirt drawn at the waist, knee breeches made full, white boots which are regularly chalked, and on the summit of their cranium they wear a cap of cloth bearing an identical resemblance to an apothecary’s glass funnel inverted. The manner in which the peasants retain these head coverings in their place, has been as perplexing to strangers, as how the apple got inside the dumpling was to England’s sovereign, but considering the population, it would not be uncharitable to conclude that the tension is induced by the vacuum in the noddles they surmount, on the principle of the “sucker” with which philosophic juveniles raise a brick. The continued “Boo-ah” resounding in the streets, as the driver of the sleds with casks upon them spurs up the two poor little oxen, whom a small boy leads with a string from the horn, soon convinces you that you are in the land of the elevating “Tinta,” and generous “Serchal.” Should the sled drag heavily over the stones, the small boy throws down in front of it a wetted cloth, passing over which, the runner is lubricated.

On reaching the residence of the American consul, we dismounted and partook of a lunch, which his hospitality invariably provides for his visiting countrymen. It is unnecessary to tell with what gusto, men who eighteen days before were gathered around a stove in their own land, were now in the genial air of Madeira, windows open, and perfume coming in all around from beautiful plants, partook of the rich treat of guavas, the small banana, and the Mandarin orange just plucked from the tree that thrust itself in the casement. The snack over, we ascended to the consul’s observatory; a fine glass, mounted on a tripod, swept the offing and anchorage, giving every object much nearness. Our old ship lying stately at her anchors, was just saluting with twenty-one guns the Portuguese flag floating at her fore, which was promptly returned by the fort on Loo Rock. Around and below us were patches of green-vine and trellis, amid an expanse of red tile roofs, on many of which were placed wine-casks that they might sweeten in the sun. We then descended to the wine-houses, where butt after butt of large dimensions, reached by foot ladders, of Tinta and Serchal, and “Navy,” told how the delightful grape of the island had swelled into fullness, and then been crushed into wine. Ah! Clarence, thou shouldst have lived till now.

We mounted and started for le Petite Coral, by the way of the church Nossa Senhora do Monte. The angle of ascent of the road is over twenty degrees, but the style of going up is usually to give your horse his head and his rider’s heel, and if like Putnam’s he dashes up, racketing it over the stones, and sending back fire from his heels, why it’s the way. Being bantered for a dash up by one of my messmates, and my friend the Borro Querro in the rear not being a party thereto, I regret to remark, that the last I saw of that respected individual after the start, he was engaged in performing some very sudden gyrations proximate to the roadside hedge. However, a glass of the country wine, on his joining me at the blowing place, about half-way up, enabled me to make my entire peace with him for the suddenness of my leaving. The way up was lined with vines and dogs, peasant girls and chapels, mendicants and donkeys, which would knock Mr. Laurence Sterne’s sentimental blubber all in the head. The clatter of the approaching hoofs caused the dark browed senoritas to “come unto the window,” but the horses appeared to hurry on the faster for their presence. The descent of this mountain is generally made at a rapid pace, on a rude sled, two boys riding behind and giving it proper direction. The mode of movement about the streets, is, if a foreigner and invalid, in a hammock suspended from a pole, and borne on the shoulders of two men, steadying themselves as they walk with quarter-staffs; if a native gentleman in a canopied sled drawn by unsightly oxen, which quick mode of movement will convey a very good idea of the enterprise of the people who employ it.

But we were on the way to the Church of the Lady of the Mount. It was not very long before we dismounted at the foot of the long flight of discolored stone steps that led to its front. On reaching the terrace we looked down on the view below us. The town had dwindled into a white-washed amphitheatre; the ships were not quite as much changed as the objects to the sight of Edgar from the cliffs of Dover, but appeared greatly reduced in proportion. I could scarcely believe that the Mississippi, riding at her anchors in the bay, was the floating home of over three hundred human beings!

On entering the church, we were met at the door by a pussy snuff-taking priest, whose besmeared outer garment looked as if it would have been all the better for the application of a cake of brown soap in connection with some of the clear water which coursed down the mountain past his sanctuary. The interior of the edifice displayed the most garish taste, and with its sickening amount of gilding, was embellished in the most tawdry manner. There was the customary proportion of relics, and the paintings around looked very old. Our stay was short, and after leaving a small sum for our footing, as Jack would say, we returned to our steeds, leaving the wax figure of the lady patroness of the island in a glass case in the rear, looking as demure and as indifferent to our presence as when we entered. The whilom legends of the devout tell of her, at a time when breadstuffs were scarce, having left her crystal enclosure and gone to hurry on cargoes of grain to Funchal, which, like Buckingham, were “on the sea.”

The descent to the Coral—a deep mountain gorge of singular and circular formation—is by a narrow shelf of a road cut in the face of a precipitous hill, and running in inclined planes. One does not entirely fancy the task of going down; but then the horses are rough-shod, with reference to such places, are remarkably sure footed, and move instinctively with much caution. On getting to the bottom, the road by which we had just come looked like a mere thread-line on the face of the cliff that hung over us. Its depth is some sixteen hundred feet, and you look up to the azure above you as from an immense pit. We stopped at a small mill situated at the lowest point of the Coral, to give our horses a little time to blow, and our borro querros a little country wine, which was likewise patronized by ourselves. I noticed around clumps of pines planted for fuel, and a number of exquisite flowers growing spontaneously. We ascended from the Coral by a road equally as narrow and precipitous as the one by which we had gone down, only proving less clear; a large rock which had caved from the bank nearly barricaded the path, and on reaching it my horse, whose reputation I subsequently ascertained to be one for shying, came quite near treating himself and rider to a Tarpean fate. On reaching the top, we were refreshed by a breeze redolent with perfume, and turned into a road enclosed on either side by hedges of bona fide geranium. It is feeding on this sweet plant that imparts to the meat of the native cattle, when eaten, a peculiar flavor; and the honey of the bee who gathers his sweets from it, is strongly impregnated with its pleasant odor. No wonder that the attenuated invalid should resort to thee, beautiful Madeira, to revive his drooping spirits. We returned to the city in the evening, by a road running past pleasant gardens, and by a bridge that spans the canal which receives the quickly-swollen mountain streams, and put ourselves in charge of mine host of Guilletti’s.

The next day I landed near the governmental house, where was staying as a guest the invalided empress mother of Brazil, who had, with a broken constitution, gone to Madeira, since to die. I visited the charitable hospital of the place, which fronts on the grand plaza. No sight can be more loathsome than the one to be seen in the wards of a Portuguese hospital, unless it be that of the dead mendicants that you pass in the streets of some of the cities of China. The most terrible ailments that flesh is heir to, and the greatest suffering that “age, ache, and penury, can lay on nature,” were present all around. And then there were others in whom the flame of life, after flickering lowly, had just gone out. I was very willing to get away from the apartment, and after descending to a dimly-lighted chapel below, where a solitary priest was engaged in prayer for the repose of the dead and dying above, and glancing at its characteristic decorations, I left the building. The edifice itself is quite an extended one, though it has no architectural beauty to attract attention. Over its main entrance, cut elaborately in a massive block of stone, are the royal arms of Portugal.

My next place of visit was to the local prison, through which I was accompanied by a sergeant. The inmates, who were composed of both sexes, confined for offences of smuggling a bar of soap, up to those of a graver character, are allowed to indulge in any handiwork for which they are competent, and the product of their hands, tied on the ends of poles, is thrust through their prison-windows into the street, of which they solicit the purchase by the passer-by. But not even in the prisons are you exempt from the “por sua suade”—the interminable solicitation for alms; and the distance which the prisoner may be from you is no barrier, as he is provided with a small car which, with a pole, he can push to his outer grating, and as quickly withdraw. I can mention a circumstance to show with what little sense of degradation or hesitancy this thing of alms-asking is indulged in by a dago population. I was sitting in front of the consul’s, conversing with some friends, when quite a genteel and tidily-dressed person, rejoicing in a much better pair of patent-leathers than I could muster, approached us and solicited alms, and was quite pertinacious in his request. I had heard of the Spanish beggars on horseback, who solicited aid of pedestrians on the ground that they had more need of assistance than other people because they had to support their beast as well as themselves, but I had never met with anything quite as deliberate until I encountered my patent-leather-shoe friend at Madeira.

And now we have been at Funchal two days, and the third, on which we are to take our departure for St. Helena, has arrived. In taking leave of the pleasant isle of vine and bower, the writer regrets that he can not, for the benefit of those of a more sentimental mood than himself, follow the example of others, and say something about the Santa Clara convent, that stands embosomed by deep foliage on the hill, and tell in touching tones about the fair and unhappy Donna Clementina, who, besides being admired because Heaven had vouchsafed to her a visage blonde, when those around were brunette, was also loved for other qualities, for which vide her devotees—how she “would be a nun,” and how she “wouldn’t be a nun;” and how some “young Lochinvar,” who they say came “out of the west,” once wished to do something both romantic and desperate, and rescue the fair lady from the holy precincts where, it was represented, she was most unwillingly detained; but, with Mr. Aminadab Sleek, in the play, “we are really afraid we can’t.”

Good-by, Madeira, whose tropical beauty was so fresh to me, and the picture of whose loveliness will be ever in mind.

“Long, long be my heart with such memories filled.”