grind it just as their great-great-great-grandfathers did.  They plow with a board slightly shod with iron; their trifling little harrows are drawn by men and women; small windmills grind the corn, ten bushels a day, and there is one assistant superintendent to feed the mill and a general superintendent to stand by and keep him from going to sleep.  When the wind changes they hitch on some donkeys and actually turn the whole upper half of the mill around until the sails are in proper position, instead of fixing the concern so that the sails could be moved instead of the mill.  Oxen tread the wheat from the ear, after the fashion prevalent in the time of Methuselah.  There is not a wheelbarrow in the land—­they carry everything on their heads, or on donkeys, or in a wicker-bodied cart, whose wheels are solid blocks of wood and whose axles turn with the wheel.  There is not a modern plow in the islands or a threshing machine.  All attempts to introduce them have failed.  The good Catholic Portuguese crossed himself and prayed God to shield him from all blasphemous desire to know more than his father did before him.  The climate is mild; they never have snow or ice, and I saw no chimneys in the town.  The donkeys and the men, women, and children of a family all eat and sleep in the same room, and are unclean, are ravaged by vermin, and are truly happy.  The people lie, and cheat the stranger, and are desperately ignorant, and have hardly any reverence for their dead.  The latter trait shows how little better they are than the donkeys they eat and sleep with.  The only well-dressed Portuguese in the camp are the half a dozen well-to-do families, the Jesuit priests, and the soldiers of the little garrison.  The wages of a laborer are twenty to twenty-four cents a day, and those of a good mechanic about twice as much.  They count it in reis at a thousand to the dollar, and this makes them rich and contented.  Fine grapes used to grow in the islands, and an excellent wine was made and exported.  But a disease killed all the vines fifteen years ago, and since that time no wine has been made.  The islands being wholly of volcanic origin, the soil is necessarily very rich.  Nearly every foot of ground is under cultivation, and two or three crops a year of each article are produced, but nothing is exported save a few oranges—­chiefly to England.  Nobody comes here, and nobody goes away.  News is a thing unknown in Fayal.  A thirst for it is a passion equally unknown.  A Portuguese of average intelligence inquired if our civil war was over.  Because, he said, somebody had told him it was—­or at least it ran in his mind that somebody had told him something like that!  And when a passenger gave an officer of the garrison copies of the Tribune, the Herald, and Times, he was surprised to find later news in them from Lisbon than he had just received by the little monthly steamer.  He was told that it came by cable.  He said he knew they had tried to lay a cable ten years ago, but it had been in his mind somehow that they hadn’t succeeded!