The burden of taxes is
heavy, with scant privileges in return, the air they breathe being
about the only thing that is not taxed. The mother-country does not
even allow them a port of entry for a foreign mail service. A packet
passing never so close with mails for Horta must deliver them first in
Lisbon, ostensibly to be fumigated, but really for the tariff from the
packet. My own letters posted at Horta reached the United States six
days behind my letter from Gibraltar, mailed thirteen days later.
The day after my arrival at Horta was the feast of a great saint.
Boats loaded with people came from other islands to celebrate at
Horta, the capital, or Jerusalem, of the Azores. The deck of the
_Spray_ was crowded from morning till night with men, women, and
children. On the day after the feast a kind-hearted native harnessed a
team and drove me a day over the beautiful roads all about Fayal,
"because," said he, in broken English, "when I was in America and
couldn't speak a word of English, I found it hard till I met some one
who seemed to have time to listen to my story, and I promised my good
saint then that if ever a stranger came to my country I would try to
make him happy." Unfortunately, this gentleman brought along an
interpreter, that I might "learn more of the country." The fellow was
nearly the death of me, talking of ships and voyages, and of the boats
he had steered, the last thing in the world I wished to hear.
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