[44] SIXTH DAY.

Endless Corridors and a grim-looking Hall. – Portrait of St. Thomas à Becket. – Ancient Cloister. – Venerable Orangetrees. – Sepulchral Inscriptions. –The Refectory. – Solemn Summons to Breakfast. – Sights. – Gorgeous Sacristy. – Antiquities. – Precious Specimen of Early Art. – Hour of Siesta. – A Noon-day Ramble. – Silence and Solitude. – Mysterious Lane. – Irresistible Somnolency of my Conductor. – An unseen Songstress. – A Surprise. – Donna Francisca, her Mother and Confessor. – The World of Alcobaça awakened. – Return to the Monastery. – Departure for Batalha. – The Field of Aljubarota. – Solitary Vale. – Reception at Batalha. – Enormous Supper. – Ecstasies of an old Monk. – His sentimental Mishap. – Night Scene. – Awful Denunciations.

 

8th June.

I ROSE early, slipped out of my pompous apartment, strayed about endless corridors – not a soul stirring. Looked into a [45] gloomy hall, much encumbered with gilded ornaments, and grim with the ill-sculptured effigies of kings; and another immense chamber, with white walls covered with pictures in black lacquered frames, most hideously unharmonious.
One portrait, the full size of life, by a very ancient Portuguese artist named Vasquez, attracted my minute attention. It represented no less interesting a personage than St. Thomas à Becket, and looked the character in perfection; – lofty in stature and expression of countenance; pale, but resolute, like one devoted to death in his great cause; the very being Dr. Lingard has portrayed in his admirable History.
From this chamber I wandered down several flights of stairs to a cloister of the earliest Norman architecture, having in the centre a fountain of very primitive form, spouting forth clear water abundantly into a marble basin. Twisting [46] and straggling over this uncouth mass of sculpture are several orange-trees, gnarled and crabbed, but covered with fruit and flowers, their branches grotesque and fantastic, exactly such as a Japanese would delight in, and copy on his caskets and screens; their age most venerable, for the traditions of the convent assured me that they were the very first imported from China into Portugal. There was some comfort in these objects; every other in the place looked dingy and dismal, and steeped in a green and yellow melancholy.
On the damp, stained and mossy walls, I noticed vast numbers of sepulchral inscriptions (some nearly effaced) to the memory of the knights slain at the battle of Aljubarota: I gave myself no trouble to make them out, but continuing my solitary ramble, visited the refectory, a square of seventy or eighty feet, begloomed by dark-coloured painted windows, [47] and disgraced by tables covered with not the cleanest or least unctuous linen in the world.
I had proceeded thus far, when three venerable fathers, of most grave and solemn aspect, made their appearance; to whom having bowed as lowly as Abraham did to his angelic visitors, I received as many profound obeisances in return, and a summons to breakfast. This I readily obeyed: it wanted three-quarters of eight, and I was as hungry as a stripling novice. The Prior of Aviz having supped too amply the night before, did not appear; but he of St. Vincent's, all kindness and good digestion, did the honours with cordial grace, and made tea as skilfully as the most complete old dowager in Christendom. My Lord of Alcobaça was absent, – engaged, as I was told, and readily believed, upon conventual affairs of urgent importance.
The repast finished, and not soon, our [48] whole morning was taken up with seeing sights, though not exactly the sights I most wished to see. Some MSS. of the fourteenth century, containing, I have been assured, traditional records of Pedro the Just and the Severe, were what I wished for; but they either could not or would not be found; and instead of being allowed to make this interesting research, or having it made for me, we were conducted to a most gorgeous and glistening sacristy, worthy of Versailles itself, adorned with furbelows of gilt bronze, flaunting over panels of jasper and porphyry: copes and vestments, some almost as ancient as the reign of Alfonzo Henriquez, and others embroidered at Rome with gold and pearl, by no means barbaric, were displayed before us in endless succession.
One of the sacristans or treasurers who happened to have a spice of antiquarianism, guessing the bent of my wishes, produced, from a press or ambery elaborately carved, [49] the identical candlesticks of rock-crystal, and a cross of the same material, studded with the most delicately-tinted sapphires which were taken by the victorious John the First from the King of Castile's portable chapel, after the hard-fought conflict of Aijubarota; and several golden reliquaries, as minutely chased and sculptured as any I ever saw at St. Denis, though wrought by St. Eloy's holy hands: one in particular, the model of a cathedral in the style of the Sainte Chapelle at Paris, struck me as being admirable. Ten times at least did I examine and almost worship this highly-wrought precious specimen of early art, and as many times did my excellent friend the Prior of St. Vincent's, who had come in search of me, express a wish that I should not absolutely wear out my eyes or his patience.
"It is growing insufferably warm," said he, "and the hour of siesta is arrived; and I cannot help thinking that perhaps it [50] would not be unpleasant for you to retire to your shady chamber: for my part, I can hardly keep my eyes open any longer. But I see this proposal does not suit you - you English are strangely given to locomotion, and I know full well that of all English you are not the least nimble. Here," continued he, calling a young monk, who was sitting by in a nook of the sacristy peeling walnuts, "suspend that important occupation, and be pleased to accompany this fidalgo to any part of your domain he likes to ramble to."
"Right willingly," answered this sprout of holiness: "whither shall we go ?"
"Through the village, into the open country, if you have no objection," answered I; "to any point, in short, where I may enjoy rural scenery, trees, and rocks, and running waters."
"Trees, and rocks, and running waters!" re-echoed the monk with a vacant stare. "Had you not better visit our rabbit-war- [51] ren – the finest in this world? Though, to be sure, the rabbits, poor things! are all asleep at this time of day, and it would be cruel to disturb even them."
This was a broad hint, but I would not take it. The monk, finding I was bent on he could not imagine what pursuit, and that there was no diverting me from it, tucked up his upper garments, shadowed his sleek round face with an enormous straw hat, offered me another of equal size quite new and glossy, and, with staves in our hands, we set forth like the disciples journeying to Emmaus in some of Poelemburg's smooth landscapes.
We passed through quadrangles after quadrangles, and courts after courts, till, opening a sly door in an obscure corner, which had proved a convenient sally-port, no doubt, for many an agreeable excursion, we found ourselves in a winding alley, bordered by sheds and cottages, with irregular steps leading up to rustic porches [52] and many a vine-bower and many a trellised walk. No human being was to be heard or seen; no poultry were parading about; and except a beautiful white macaw perched on a broken wall, and nestling his bill under his feathers, not a single member of the feathered creation was visible. There was a holy calm in this mid-day silence – a sacredness, as if all nature had been fearful to disturb the slumbers of universal Pan.
I kept, however, straggling on – impiously, it would have been thought in Pagan times – between long stretches of garden-walls overhung by fig-trees, the air so profoundly tranquil that I actually heard a fruit drop from a bough. Sometimes I was enticed down a mysterious lane by the prospect of a crag and a Moorish castle which offered itself to view at its termination, and sometimes under ruined arches which crossed my path in the most picturesque manner. So I still con- [53] tinued my devious course with a pertinacity that annoyed my lazy conductor past utterance, it seems; for during our whole excursion we scarcely exchanged a syllable.
At length, he could bear with my romanceishness no longer; an irresistible somnolency came over him; and, stretching himself out on the bare ground, in the deep shadow of some tall cypress, he gave way to repose most delectably. I was now abandoned entirely to myself, unsubdued by the quiet of the place, and as active as ever. Some tokens of animation, however, in other beings besides myself would not have been displeasing – the dead silence which prevailed began to oppress me.
At length, a faint musical murmur stole upon my ear: I advanced towards the spot whence it seemed to come – a retired garden-house at the end of a pleasant avenue, which, to add to its pleasantness, [54] had been lately watered. Drawing nearer and nearer, my heart beating quickly all the while, I distinguished the thrilling cadences of a delightful Brasileira (sinha che vem da Bahia), – well-known sounds. I looked up to a latticed window just thrown open by a lovely arm – a wellknown arm: – "Gracious heavens! Donna Francisca, is it you? What brought you here? What inspired you to exchange Queluz and the Ajuda for this obscure retirement ?"
"Ascend these steps, and I will tell you: but your stay must not exceed ten minutes – not a second more."
"Brief indeed," answered I: "I see there is no time to lose."
Up I sprung – and who should receive me? Not the fascinating songstress – not the lady of the lovely arm, but her sedate though very indulgent mother.
"I know whom you are looking for," said the matron; "but it is in vain. You have [55] heard, but are not to see, Francisca, who is no longer the giddy girl you used to dance with; her heart is turned, – nay, do not look so wild, – turned, I tell you, but turned to God. A most holy man, a saint, the very mirror of piety for his years – he is not yet forty, only think! operated this blessed change. You know how light-hearted, and almost indiscreetly so, my poor dear heart's comfort was. You recollect hearing, and you were terribly angry, I remember, that the English Padre told the Inviada it was shameful how very rapturously my poor dear girl rattled her castanets, and threw back her head, and put forward every other part of her dear little person, at the Factory ball – Shame ON HIM, scandalous old crabbed heretic! Well, it so happened that my Lord High Almoner came to court upon state affairs, accompanied by the precious man I have been talking of, – the most exemplary monk in that noble convent, and its right [56] hand. One day at Queluz he saw my daughter dancing divinely, as you know she did; he heard her sing, – you know how she warbles – she still warbles; HE said, (and he has such an eye,) that under the veil of all this levity were lurking the seeds of grace. 'I will develope them,' exclaimed this saint upon earth, in a transport of holy fervour. So he set about it, – and a miraculous metamorphosis did he perform: my gay, my dissipated child, became an example of serious piety; no flirting, no racketing, nothing but pious discourse with this best of discoursers. Two months passed away in this exemplary manner. When the time came for my Lord High Almoner to return, our holy friend was in duty bound to accompany him. What was to be done? Francisca had forgotten everything and everybody else in this sinful world; she existed but for this devout personage; she lived but in his holy smiles when he approved [57] her conduct, and almost died under his reproof when any transient little fault of hers occasioned his enjoining her severe penances: and I shudder to think bow severe they sometimes were; for, would you believe it? he has made her submit to flagellation – and, more than once, to goadings with sharp points. In due course, the hour of departure arrived. 'We must all die,' said Francisca; 'my hour is come.' She looked all she said: she pined and languished, and, I am convinced, would have kept her word, if I had not said, 'Dearest child, there is but one remedy: it is the will of God we should go to Alcobaça; and to Alcobaça we will go, let all your uncles, cousins, and adorers say what they choose to the contrary.' So we took this house and this garden a nice little garden – only look at these pretty yellow carnations! – and we are very happy in our little way, entirely given up to devotion, under the guidance of our [58] incomparable spiritual director, who allows us to want for nothing, even in this world. See what fruit! what fine sweetmeats! what a relishing Melgaço ham! look at these baskets!"
She was just lifting up the rich damask covers thrown over them, when a most vigorous" Hem! hem!! hem ! ! !" in the rustic street snapped short the thread of her eloquence, by calling her to the balcony with the utmost precipitation– "Jesu Maria José! – he comes! he comes!" Had she seen a ghost instead of a very substantial friar, she could not have started with greater abruptness: her scared looks showed me the door so intelligibly that I was off in a twinkling; it would have been most indiscreet – nay, sacrilegious, to remain a moment longer.
It was now half-past one, and the world of Alcobaça was alive again – the peasant had resumed her distaff, the monk his breviary, the ox his labour, and the sound [59] of the nora or water-wheel, was heard in the land. The important hour of dinner at the convent I knew was approaching: I wished to scale the crag above the village, and visit the Moorish castle, which looked most invitingly picturesque, with its varied outline of wall and tower; but I saw a posse of monks and novices advancing from the convent, bowing and beckoning me to return.
So I returned, – and 'twas well I did, as it turned out. Fourteen or fifteen sleek well-fed mules, laden with paniers of neat wicker-work, partially covered with scarlet cloth, were standing about the grand platform before the convent; and the reverend father, one of the prime dignitaries of the chapter, who was waiting at the entrance of the apartment assigned to me, pointing to them, put me in mind that last night I had expressed a vehement wish to visit Batalha; adding most graciously, that the wishes of a person so [60] strongly recommended to them as I had been by the good and great Marquis of Ponte de Lima were laws.
"This very night, if it so please you," said his reverence, "we sleep at Batalha. The convent is poor and destitute, unworthy – nay, incapable of accommodating such guests as my lords the Grand Priors, and yourself; but I hope we have provided against the chill of a meagre reception. These mules will carry with them whatever may be required for your comfort. To-morrow, I hope, you will return to us; and the following day, should you inflict upon us the misfortune of losing your delightful society, myself and two of my comrades will have the honour of accompanying you as far back as one of our farms called Pedraneira, on your return to Lisbon."
There was nothing on my part to object to in this arrangement; I fancied too I could discern in it a lurking wish to be [61] quit of our most delightful society, and the turmoil and half-partial restraint it occasioned. Putting on the sweetest smiles of grateful acquiescence, to hear was to obey; everything relating to movements being confirmed by the terzetto of Grand Priors during our repast – copious and splendid as usual.
The carriages drew up very soon after it was ended; my riding horses were brought out, all our respective attendants mustered, and, preceded by a long string of sumpter-mules and baggage-carts, with all their bells in full jingle and all their drivers in full cry, off we set in most formidable array, taking the route of Aljubarota.
Our road, not half so rough as I expected, led us up most picturesquely-shaped steep acclivities, shaded by chesnuts, with here and there a branching pine, for about a league. We then found ourselves on a sort of table-land; and, a [62] mile or two further, in the midst of a straggling village. There was no temptation to leave the snug corner of our comfortable chaises; so we contented ourselves with surveying at our perfect ease the prospect of the famous plain, which formed the termination of a long perspective of antiquated houses.
Here, on this very plain, was fought in 1385 the fierce battle which placed the diadem of Portugal on the brow of the glorious and intrepid bastard. It was down that ravine the Castilian cavalry poured along in utter confusion, so hotly pursued that three thousand were slain. On yonder mound stood the King of Castile's tent and temporary chapel, which he abandoned, with all its rich and jewelled furniture, to the conquerors, and scampered off in such alarm that he scarcely knew whether he had preserved his head on his shoulders, till safe within the walls of Santarem, where he tore his hair and [63] plucked off his beard by handfuls, and raved and ranted like a maniac. – The details of this frantic pluckage are to be found in a letter from the Constable Nuno Alvarez Pereira to the Abbot of Alcobaça.
I tried to inspire my right reverend fellow-travellers with patriotic enthusiasm, and to engage them to cast a retrospective glance upon the days of Lusitanian glory. Times present, and a few flasks of most exquisite wine, the produce of a neighbouring vineyard, engrossed their whole attention. "Muito bom – primoroso – excellente," were the only words that escaped their most grateful lips.
The Juiz de Fora of the village, a dabbler in history – for he told us he had read the Chronicles, and who stood courteously and obsequiously on the step of our carriage-door, handing us the precious beverage – made some attempts to edge in a word about the battle, and particularly about a certain valiant English knight, [64] whose name he did not even pretend to remember, but who might have been a relation of mine for aught he knew to the contrary. Well, this valiant knight, who had vanquished all the chivalry of France and England, had the honour of being vanquished in his turn by the flower of warriors, the renowned Magriço: a great honour too, for Magriço had excellent taste in the choice of his antagonists, and would only fight with the bravest of the brave. "Even so," continued the worthy magistrate, bowing to the earth, "as our great Camoëns testifies." – No answer to all this flourish except "Ten thousand thanks for your excellent wine: drive on." And drive on we did with redoubled briskness.
The highest exhilaration prevailed throughout our whole caravan. All my English servants were in raptures, ready to turn Catholics. My famous French cook, in the glow of the moment, unpa- [65] triotically declared Clos de Vougeot, puddle compared to Aljubarota, – divine, perfumed, ethereal Aljubarota! Dr. Ehrhart protested no country under the sun equaled Portugal for curiosities in mineralogy, theology, and wineology – which ology he was now convinced was the best of them all. Franchi mounted one of my swiftest coursers – he had never ventured to mount before – and galloped away like the King of Castile on his flight to Santarem. The Grand Prior and all his ecclesiastical cortege fell fast asleep; and it would have been most irreverend not to have followed so respectable an example. I can therefore describe nothing of the remainder of our route.
The sun had sunk and the moon risen, when a tremendous jolt and a loud scream awakened the whole party. Poor Franchi lay sprawling upon the ground: whilst my Arabian, his glossy sides streaming with blood, was darting along like one [66] of the steeds in the Apocalypse; happily his cast-off rider escaped with a slight contusion.
My eyes being fairly open, I beheld a quiet solitary vale, bordered by shrubby hills; a few huts, and but a few, peeping out of dense masses of foliage; and high above their almost level surface, the great church, with its rich cluster of abbatial buildings, buttresses, and pinnacles, and fretted spires, towering in all their pride, and marking the ground with deep shadows that appeared interminable, so far and so wide were they stretched along. Lights glimmered here and there in various parts of the edifice; but a strong glare of torches pointed out its principal entrance, where stood the whole community waiting to receive us.
Whilst our sumpter-mules were unlading, and ham and pies and sausages were rolling out of plethoric hampers, I thought these poor monks looked on [67] rather enviously. My more fortunate companions – no wretched cadets of the mortification family, but the true elder sons of fat mother church – could hardly conceal their sneers of conscious superiority. A contrast so strongly marked amused me not a little.
The space before the entrance being narrow, there was some difficulty in threading our way through a labyrinth of panniers, and coffers, and baggage, – and mules, as obstinate as their drunken drivers, which is saying a great deal, – and all our grooms, lackeys, and attendants, half asleep, half muddled.
The Batalha Prior and his assistants looked quite astounded when they saw a gauze-curtained bed, and the Grand Prior's fringed pillow, and the Prior of St. Vincent's superb coverlid, and basins, and ewers, and other utensils of glittering silver, being carried in. Poor souls! they hardly knew what to do, to say, or be at - [68] one running to the right, another to the left – one tucking up his flowing garments to run faster, and another rebuking him for such a deviation from monastic decorum.
At length, order being somewhat reestablished, and some fine painted wax tapers, which were just unpacked, lighted, we were ushered into a large plain chamber, and the heads of the order presented by the humble Prior of Batalha to their superior mightinesses of San Vicente and Aviz. Then followed a good deal of gossiping chat, endless compliments, still longer litanies, and an enormous supper.
One of the monks who partook of it, though almost bent double with age, played his part in excellent style. Animated by ample potations of the very best Aljubarota that ever grew, and which we had taken the provident care to bring with us, he exclaimed lustily, "Well, this is as it should be – rare doings! such [69] as have not been witnessed at Batalha since a certain progress that great King, John the Fifth, made hither more than half a century ago. I remember every circumstance attending it as clearly as though it had only taken place last week. But only think of the atrocious impudence of the gout! His blessed Majesty had hardly set down to a banquet ten times finer than this, before that accursed malady, patronized by all the devils in hell, thrust its fangs into his toe. I was at that period in the commencement of my noviciate, a handsome lad enough, and had the much-envied honour of laying a cloth of gold cushion under the august feet of our glorious sovereign. No sooner had the extremities of his royal person come in contact with the stiff embroidery, than he roared out as a mere mortal would have done, and looked as black as a thunder-storm; but soon recovering his most happy benign temper, gave me [70] a rouleau of fine, bright, golden coin, and a tap on the head, – ay, on this once comely, now poor old shrivelled head. Oh, he was a gracious, open-hearted, glorious monarch – the very King of Diamonds and Lord of Hearts! Oh, he is in Heaven, in Heaven above! as sure – ay, as sure as I drink your health, most esteemed stranger."
So saying, he drained a huge silver goblet to the last drop, and falling back in his chair, was carried out, chair and all, weeping, puling, and worse than drivelling, with such maudlin tenderness that he actually marked his track with a flow of liquid sorrows.
As soon as an act of oblivion had been passed over this little sentimental mishap by effacing every trace of it, we all rose up and retired to rest: but little rest, however, was in store for me; the heat of my mid-day ramble, and perhaps some baneful effect from our moon-lit journey, [71] the rays of our cold satellite having fallen whilst I was asleep too directly on my head, had disordered me; I felt disturbed and feverish, a strange jumble of ideas and recollections fermented in my brain - springing in part from the indignant feelings which Donna Francisca's fervour for her monk, and coldness for me, had inspired. I had no wish to sleep, and yet my pleasant retired chamber, with clean white walls, chequered with the reflection of waving boughs, and the sound of rivulet softened by distance, invited it soothingly. Seating myself in the deep recess of a capacious window which was wide open, I suffered the balsamic air and serene moonlight to quiet my agitated spirits. One lonely nightingale had taken possession of a bay-tree just beneath me, and was pouring forth its ecstatic notes at distant intervals.
In one of those long pauses, when silence itself, enhanced by contrast, seemed [72] to become still deeper, a far different sound than the last I had been listening to caught my ear, – the sound of a loud but melancholy voice echoing through the arched avenues of a vast garden, pronouncing distinctly these appalling words –"Judgment! judgment! tremble at the anger of an offended God! Woe to Portugal! woe! woe!"
My hair stood on end – I felt as if a spirit were about to pass before me; but instead of some fearful shape – some horrid shadow, such as appeared in vision to Eliphaz, there issued forth from a dark thicket, a tall, majestic, deadly-pale old man: he neither looked about nor above him; he moved slowly on, his eye fixed as stone, sighing profoundly; and at the distance of some fifty paces from the spot where I was stationed, renewed his doleful cry, his fatal proclamation: – "Woe! woe!" resounded through the still atmosphere, repeated by the echoes of vaults [73] and arches; and the sounds died away, and the spectre-like form that seemed to emit them retired, I know not how nor whither. Shall I confess that my blood ran cold – that all idle, all wanton thoughts left my bosom, and that I passed an hour or two at my window fixed and immovable?
Just as day dawned, I crept to bed and fell into a profound sleep, uninterrupted, I thank Heaven, by dreams.

FIRST DAY.

Supreme command given to two distinguished Prelates to visit the Monasteries of Alcobaça and Batalha, and a royal wish expressed that the Author should accompany them. - Preparations in high style for the Journey. - The general Rendezvous. - Departure. - Nossa Senhora de Luz. - Lumiares. - Domain of the Monks of St. Vincent. - Reception there

SECOND DAY.

A Morning Walk. - Boundless Orchards of Orange and Apricot. The River Trancaô. - Magnificent Bay-tree. - A Fishing-party. - Happy Inclosure. - An Afternoon Ramble to the Palace of the Patriarch, and its immense Parterre. - Musical contest between Frogs and Nightingales

THIRD DAY.

Curious Conversation with an Ex-missionary from China. -Wonders of the Imperial Gardens. - Strange Belief of the Emperor of China

FOURTH DAY.

A first-rate Blessing. - The Duke d'Alafoens' Chateau. - The great Highway to the Caldas.- Extensive Fertility. - Cadafaiz. - Boundless Vineyard. - Eggs of the Sun. - A calm Retirement. - Peaceful State of Portugal compared to other parts of the Continent

FIFTH DAY.

A Ramble over the Hills. - Beautiful Grotto.- Reminiscences of Gil Blas. - Journey resumed. - First Sight of Alcobaça. - Pompous Reception. - The Three Graces of Holiness. - Gloomy Church. - Sepulchral Chapel of Pedro the Just and Iñez. - Interrupted Reveries. - Enormous Kitchen. - Hospitable Preparations. - The Banquet Hall. - The Banquet. - Tiresome Minuets. - Ineffectual Offer. - Ceremonious "Good Nights"

SIXTH DAY.

Endless Corridors and a grim-looking Hall. - Portrait of St. Thomas à Becket. - Ancient Cloister. - Venerable Orangetrees. - Sepulchral Inscriptions. - The Refectory. - Solemn Summons to Breakfast. - Sights. - Gorgeous Sacristy. Antiquities. - Precious Specimen of Early Art. - Hour of Siesta. - A Noon-day Ramble. - Silence and Solitude. - Mysterious Lane. – Irresistible Somnolency of my Conductor. - An unseen Songstress. - A Surprise. - Donna Francisca, her Mother and Confessor. - The World of Alcobaça awakened. - Return to the Monastery, - Departure for Batalha. - The Field of Aijubarota. - Solitary Vale. - Reception at Batalha. - Enormous Supper. - Ecstasies of an old Monk. - His sentimental Mishap. - Night Scene. - Awful Denunciations

SEVENTH DAY.

Morning. - The Prior of Batalha. - His Account of the Nocturnal Wanderer. - A Procession. - Grand Façade of the Great Church. - The Nave. - Effect of the golden and ruby light from the windows. - Singularly devout celebration of High Mass. - Mausoleum of John the First and Philippa. - Royal Tombs. - The Royal Cloisters. - Perfect Preservation of this regal Monastery. - Beautiful Chapter-house. - Tombs of Alphonso the Fifth and his Grandson. - Tide of Monks, Sacristans, Novices, &c. - Our Departure. - Wild Road. - Redoubled kindness of my Reception by the Lord Abbot, and why. - Dr. Ehrhart's visit to the Infirmary, and surgical raptures. - A half-crazed Poet and his doleful tragedy. - Senhor Agostinho in the character of Donna Iñez de Castro. - Favouritism, and its reward

EIGHTH DAY.

Too much of a good thing. - My longing for a Ramble. -Sage resolves. - A Gallop. - Pure and elastic Atmosphere. - Expansive Plain. - Banks of the River. - Majestic Basilica of Batalha. - Ghost-like Anglers. - Retrospections. -The Conventual Bells. - Conversation with the Prior. - A frugal Collation. - Romantic Fancies. - The Dead Stork and his Mourner. - Mausoleum of Don Emanuel. - Perverse Architecture. - Departure from Batalha. - Twilight. - Return to Alcobaça

NINTH DAY.

Lamentations on our Departure, and on the loss of Monsieur Simon. - Mysterious Conference. - A sullen Adieu. - Liveliness of the Prior of St. Vincent's. - Pleasant Surprise. -Vast and dreary Plain. - A consequential Equerry. - An Invitation. - The Bird-Queen. - Fairy Landscape. - The Mansion. - The great Lady's Nephews. - Reception by her Excellency. - Her attendant Hags. - The great Lady's questions about England and dismal ideas of London. - The Cuckoo. - Imitations. - Dismay of her Sublime Ladyship and her Hags. - Our Departure from the bird-ridden Dominions. - Cultivated Plain. - Happy Peasantry, and their gratitude to the Monks of the Royal Convent. - Their different feelings towards the great Lady. - Female Peasants bearing Offerings to our Lady of Nazarè. - Sea View. - Pedraneira. - Banquet of Fish. - Endless Ravine. - Alfagiraõ. - Arrival at the Caldas. - Sickly Population. - Reception of Dr. Ehrhart. - His Visit to the Invalids, and contempt of the Medical Treatment of the place. - A determined Bore. - His Disaster

TENTH DAY.

Knavish Provedore. - Leave the Caldas. - Obidos. - Aboriginal-looking hamlet. - Exquisite Atmosphere. - Pastoral Hymns to St. Anthony. - Bonfires on the Eve of his Festival. - Reception at Cadafaiz. - Delightful change

ELEVENTH DAY.

Excursion to a Franciscan Convent. - A Miracle. - Country resembling Palestine.-Innumerable Assemblage of Peasants. - Their sincere Devotion. - Sublime Sight. - Observations of the Prior of Aviz. - The Benediction. - Ancient Portuguese Hymn. -Its grand effect on the present occasion. - Perilous descent from the Mountain. - A Mandate from the Prince. - Evening. - Music and a Morisco Dance

TWELFTH DAY.

Dreary expanse of Country between Cadafaiz and Queluz. - Arrival at the Palace. - Court Lumber. - Observations of the Marquis of Anjeja relative to the Prince-Regent. - Promised Promised Audience of his Royal Highness. - Visit to the forbidden Gardens. - Surprise of an African Gardener. - A Pavilion. - Night-scene. - Preparations for a Fête. - The Infanta's Nymph-like Attendants. - The young Marquis of Marialva. - Interview with her Royal Highness. - A Race. - A Dance. - The Prince's Summons. - Conversation with him. - Character of that Sovereign. - Baneful influence of his despotic Consort. - Unhappy Aspirants to Court Benefits. - Private Conference with the Marquis. - The Prince-Regent's Afflictions. - His Vision. - Anjeja's urgent Request. - Terrible Cries from the Queen. - Their effect on me. - My Departure from the Palace