At 4:30 P.M. I cast anchor at Fayal, exactly eighteen days from Cape
Sable. The American consul, in a smart boat, came alongside before the
_Spray_ reached the breakwater, and a young naval officer, who feared
for the safety of my vessel, boarded, and offered his services as
pilot. The youngster, I have no good reason to doubt, could have
handled a man-of-war, but the _Spray_ was too small for the amount of
uniform he wore. However, after fouling all the craft in port and
sinking a lighter, she was moored without much damage to herself. This
wonderful pilot expected a "gratification," I understood, but whether
for the reason that his government, and not I, would have to pay the
cost of raising the lighter, or because he did not sink the _Spray_, I
could never make out. But I forgive him.

It was the season for fruit when I arrived at the Azores, and there
was soon more of all kinds of it put on board than I knew what to do
with. Islanders are always the kindest people in the world, and I met
none anywhere kinder than the good hearts of this place. The people of
the Azores are not a very rich community. 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