TILDEN FOUNDATIONS THE ROSARY MAGAZINE VOL. XXVI T JANUARY, 1905 THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY 315878 ASTCR LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS. 1905 The Land of Manana By REV. M. A. QUIRK O one who has never been farther from the soil of his native land than is involved in a sea voy age of a few days along the coast, the feeling that arises when the beloved shore is fading from view not to be looked upon again for many months, is one that must be experienced to be understood. Thoughts of loving friends arise, whose notes of fond farewell lie still unopened; conversation, if there be any, concerns itself only with the points of Fatherland fast No. 1 away with a certain feeling of sadnessand the long journey is begun. After many years of waiting, we are off at last for a trip through Europe, Asia and Africa, which shall include the lands of Ferdinand and Isabella, the Pharaohs and Cleopatra, the Promised Land of Abraham and Moses, sanctified into a Holy Land by the feet of the Son FUNCHAL IN JANUARY. of God, the lands of Alexander and Mohammed, of Demosthenes and Plato, of Cicero and the Caesars, of Hannibal and Napoleon. It seems strange that nearly all the events of the world's history worthy of note have occurred within the small territory included in a strip of land five hundred miles wide along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. No matter what phase of man's achieve SQUARE IN FUNCHAL. ments we may wish to study, whether it be war, religion, literature, music, sculpture, painting or oratory, the conclusion is forced upon us, that here it began, here it reached its highest development. The thought that at last it is to be our blessed privilege to live over again the great deeds of those heroes, whose names have been enshrined in our memory from boyhood, on the very spot where they took place; to stand on the Mount of Beatitudes and listen to the Master's Sermon; to be present with St. Paul at Damascus or Mars Hill, or with St. Peter in the Mamertine prisonthe thought of these and many other experiences in store for us is enough to quicken the pulse and to excite a longing that will not be quieted. Our party was made up as follows: First in point of dignity and distinction was the Very Rev. P. E. Smyth, M. R., of Jersey City. Then came Rev. F. J. O'Reilly, rector and chancellor of St. Mary's Cathedral, Peoria; Rev. J. J. Lynch, of the Cathedral, Thirty-six hours out from port brought balmy breezes, when life on board the palatial Princess Irene, of the North German Lloyd, was delightful day and night. Warmer each day grew until, reaching the Madeira Islands on the last day of January, we found barefooted boys, vine-clad hills overrun with flowers, and every indication of midsummer. As we were not to see Portugal, we were glad to get this glimpse of one of her possessions. These islands off the coast of Morocco, in northwestern Africa, have a population of 150,000. All but 2,000 of these are upon the largest island (Madeira), and quite one-third of them inhabit the capital city, Funchal. city, Funchal. With the exception of a few hundreds of Americans and Europeans, the people are all Portuguese. They do not look or act at all like those to be seen in Boston or San Francisco. The comparison is decidedly in favor of Funchal. They seem to be a simple people, unspoiled by the touch of modern civilization and, as far as we could judge from a visit of a few hours of a Sunday morning, a deeply religious people. Our first impulse on touching shore. was to fulfill our obligation of hearing Mass. We attended Mass at the Cathedral, which was built fifty years before Columbus crossed the ocean, and we visited five other churches between nine o'clock and noon. These were all filled, and in two of them we could not penetrate beyond the vestibule. In all the churches social distinctions were ignored. Men dressed in Prince Albert coats and carrying silk hats knelt on the floor beside barefooted marketwomen with great baskets of glorious calla lilies. Near me knelt a poor, old peddler, so unkempt and wild-looking that he is now associated in my mind with a Rufino I saw later in Tangiers, and a Soudanese at Kom Ombo up the Nile; and when I gave him a dime for a snap shot, he tried to force upon me a loaf of bread in return. After Mass, the people seemed prepared for a day of innocent enjoyment. The presence of three great steamers in the harbor may have drawn the people from their usual way of spending the Lord's Day. We saw no provision being made for any less innocent amusement than basking in the sun on the beach. Funchal has no wheeled vehicles. All the streets are. paved with pebbles covered with an oily moss. Over these roads sleds, drawn by oxen, glide smoothly and as swiftly as oxen can travel. Funchal rises 3,000 feet from the sea like an amphitheatre and is semicircular in form. Terrace after terrace rises-terraces of white, red-roofed houses nestling amid palms and trees festooned with vines, and the summit is crowned with the Mountain Church. Why is it that most of the high places of the earth are topped either by churches. or by forts? The view from the square, fronting the Mountain Church, looking down upon the city and the bay, is one not easily forgotten. We made the ascent on a cog-wheel railway, being pelted with flowers by the children, who expected a silver shower in return. The descent was made over a toboggan of pebbles, in a wicker basket on runners, manned by two natives, to modify the speed when its momentum threatened danger. I do not know the secret of Funchal's slippery pavement, but neither the wicked nor the just may safely walk upon it. When we left America war between Russia and Japan was imminent. We were, therefore, anxious to learn on arriving at Funchal whether war had been declared. No one with whom we could converse seemed to know or care. As our last recourse, we hunted up a daily paper, "O Diario Do Commercio." Not a man among us knew a word of Portuguese, but we prided ourselves on being able to patch up the languages we knew collectively to the extent of recognizing a declaration of war. But no war was mentioned, or rumor of war, and not a word about America, except some forty lines which A FUNCHAL SLEDGE. |