men of the ship—in their own estimation; but they had shot their bolt and could go no further, so they settled down in a condition of social decay that became very distressing. This recalls an incident of Thackeray's: he once saw an unimportant looking man strutting along the deck of a steamer. Stepping up to him he said:
"Excuse me, sir, but are you any person in particular?"
Now we reach the post-card mania. This is the most pernicious disease that has ever seized humanity since the days of the Garden of Eden, and in no better place can it be seen at its worst than on a steamer calling at foreign ports: once it gets a foothold it supplants almost all other vices and becomes a veritable Frankenstein. It is harder to break away from this habit than from poker, gossiping, strong drink, tobacco, or even eating peas with your knife if you have been brought up that way. The majority of the "Corks" when landing at a port would not have stopped to say "Good morning" to Adam, to take a peep at Bwana Tumbo's hides and horns, or to pick up the Declaration of Independence if it lay at their feet—in their eager rush to load up with the cards necessary to let all their friends know that they had arrived at any given place on the map. This is but the first act in the drama, for stamps must be found, writing places must be secured, pencils, pens and ink must be had, together with a mailing list as long as to-day and to-morrow. The smoking-room is invaded, the lounge occupied, and every table, desk and chair in the writing-room is preempted, to the exclusion of all who are not addressing post-cards. Although we toiled like electrified beavers we got behind on the schedule, so that those who did not finish at Malta had to work hard to get their cards off at Constantinople, and so on through the trip. The chariot of Aurora would hardly hold their output at a single port. At the start it was a mild, pleasurable fad, but later it absorbed the victim's mind to such an extent that he thought of nothing but the licking of stamps and mailing of cards to friends—who get so many of them that they are for the most part considered a nuisance and after a hasty glance are quietly dropped in the waste-basket. Many had such an extensive collection of mailing lists that it became necessary to segregate them into divisions; in some cases these last were labeled for classification, "Atlantic Coast Line," "Middle West," "Canadian Provinces," "New England," "Europe," etc. Again they were subdivided into trades and professions, such as lawyers, ministers, politicians, stock brokers, real estate agents, bankers (in jail and out of it), dermatologists and "hoss-doctors." This habit obtained such a hold on people who were otherwise respectable that they would enter into any "fake," to gratify their obsession. Some of the "Corks" did not tour Spain but remained on the ship; many of these would get up packages of cards, dating them as if at Cadiz, Seville or Granada, and request those who were landing to mail them at the proper places, so as to impose on their friends at home. I felt no hesitancy, after silently receiving my share of this fraud, in quietly dropping them overboard as a just punishment for this impertinence. Incidents like this will account in part for the non-delivery of post-cards and the disappointment of those who did not receive them.
Our Purser had what is known in tonsorial circles as a "walrus" or drooping moustache; he was plied with so many foolish questions in regard to this mailing business that he became very nervous and tugged vigorously at this ornament whenever something new was sprung on him. It is said that water will wear a hole in stone, and so it came to pass that he pulled his moustache out, hair by hair, till there were left only nine on a side. The style of his adornment was then necessarily changed to the "baseball," by which it was known to the "fans" on board.
The handling of this enormous output has already become an international postal problem of grave importance in many countries; the mails have been congested and demoralized, and thousands of important letters have been delayed because Mrs. Galley-West would have her friends on Riverside Drive thoroughly realize that she has got as far as Queenstown on her triumphal tour, and that she and all the little Galley-Wests are "feeling quite well, I thank you."
The ultimate fate of the post-card mania is as yet undecided. It may, like the measles or the South Sea Bubble, run its course and that will end it; on the other hand, it may grow to such proportions that it will shut out all human endeavor and bring commercial pursuits to a complete standstill. In any case its foundations are laid in vanity and
MADEIRA
We lit right out for Madeira, and after a pleasant but uneventful voyage cast anchor in the harbor of Funchal, the capital, in less than nine days.
The Madeira Islands are owned by Portugal, but the natives all wish they were not and are most anxious to get under Uncle Sam's wing, à la Porto Rico. The islands are of volcanic origin and some of the mountain peaks are over six thousand feet high. The climate is delightful and the variation in temperature is not much over thirty degrees. Semi-tropical vegetation and flowers abound everywhere, and the place is beautifully clad with verdure. The natives have "that tired feeling," and do just as little work as will earn them a scanty living. They, however, blame this condition on the Government.
The group was at one time celebrated for its wines, but a blight came on the vines and the business of wine-making is greatly reduced; besides, Madeira wine has gone out of fashion of late years.
FUNCHAL
The Madeirans dress like comic opera bandits and are very picturesque in appearance, and while they look like Lord Byron's corsairs, they never cut a throat nor scuttle a ship under any circumstances; they are the mildest of men. While strolling in the public market I noticed a bit of local color: one of the fierce looking pirates had for sale half a dozen little red pigs with big, black, polka dots on them. I stopped to look at them and the corsair insisted that I should buy one at least and take it with me for a souvenir.
The principal feature of the place is that wheels are at a discount and most of the locomotion is done by sliding. The streets and sidewalks are paved with large, oblong pebbles which become highly polished by friction. Over these the sleds, with oxen attached to them, glide with ease, at the rate of three miles an hour. On this account it's the most tiresome place to walk in that I know of. Even most of the natives have stone-bruised feet and "hirple" along as if finishing a six-day walk in "the Garden."
While we were there a Portuguese man-of-war entered the harbor and there was a great waste of powder both from the forts and the battle-ship. The harbor was filled with little boats containing boys and men who dive for the coins thrown into the water for them by the passengers. They never fail to reach the money.
I asked a gentlemanly native where the flower market was and he very politely walked with me for three blocks and landed me in front of a flour mill. I explained his mistake and he then insisted on taking me to where they sold flowers, at which point we had an elaborate fare-welling—hat-lifting, laughing and handshaking. I asked him to visit me in New York, but he said with marked sadness in his voice that he hadn't the price and therefore must forego the pleasure.
The passenger list of the Cork being a large and notable one, the City Club gave us a ball at the Casino. It was alleged that the bluest blood on the island took part in this, the largest function of the season.
Madeira has been described by a distinguished traveler as "a neglected paradise." Part of this appearance is given it by the luxuriant growth of the Bougainvillea vine which has rich purple flowers, masses of which can be seen decorating the villas when one approaches Funchal from the sea. Madeira is some three hundred miles from Africa, and yet when sand storms arise on that continent the sand is blown across the sea and great mounds of it are piled up on this island; arrangements have to be made to prevent it from entering the houses.
The main island, Madeira, is thirty-three miles long and thirteen broad, with a population of 151,000. Funchal has 50,000 inhabitants, and is a quaint and interesting city. The island was known to the Romans, but was settled by Zargo in the interests of Portugal. Columbus married his wife at this port. Captain Cook bombarded Funchal in 1768 and brought that city to his terms. Napoleon was sent here on his way to St. Helena in 1815. So, on the whole, Madeira has had a fair amount of checkered history.