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straight lines, which have an air of so awful a grandeur in the noblest remains of Roman art. The view from the southern road, though romantic, is, for the most part, confined within narrow boundaries, as rugged hills arise on this side almost from the foot of the Aqueduct, to a height far above its towers, cultivated only towards the lower parts, and covered on the loftier spots with a thin grass and shapeless blocks or masses of granite. This mountainous ridge breaks, however, in the centre, and abruptly displays a piece of the Tagus, like an inland lake, with its tenderly-rimpled blue, and the wild and lofty banks which rise precipitously beyond it . As the sun was declining when I traversed this path, the portion of craggy shore thus disclosed, and the shrubs which flourish among its steeps, were overcast with the richest tints from the West, and the vessels gently gliding through the opening made by the shaggy declivities of the nearer hills, completed the feeling of genial composure diffused over the scene. From the Northern side, the prospect appears arrayed in far gayer charms. The valley here, from the narrow point at which it is seen, spreads out into a fanlike form, till the eminences on each side seem gradually to melt away, and the open country lies in full expanse to the view. It is a scene of fresh, reposing, and perfect beauty. Not an angular intersection breaks the roundness, or interrupts the grace, which characterize the whole. The hills in the foreground sink from each side of the Aqueduct, gradually to the depth of the vale, covered with the freshest verdure, fluctuating in a wave-like motion; and the more distant landscape appears composed of a thousand gentle undulations, thrown up by Nature in her sweetest mood, as though the earth were swelling with an exuberant bounty, even to the rim of the circling sky, with the form of which all is harmonious. The green in which the prospect is clothed, is of a softer and more vivid hue than in England; the pastures seem absolutely to sparkle on the eye; and, amidst this "splendour in the grass, this glory in the flower," the lively groves of orange and the villas of purest white scattered thickly around, give to the picture a fairy brightness. And yet, setting individual associations aside, I prefer the scenery of my own country to this enchanted vale. This is a landscape to visit as a spectacle, not to live in. There is no

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solemnity about it,—no austere beauty,—no retiring loveliness; there are no grand masses of shade,—no venerable oaks, which seem coeval with the hills over which they cast their shadows,—no vast colonnades, in which the fine spirit of the elder time seems yet to keep its state. Nature wears not the pale livery which inspires meditation or solemn joy; her face seems wreathed in a perpetual smile. The landscape breathes, indeed, of intoxicating delight; it invites to present joy; but it leads to no tender reminiscences of the past, nor gives solemn indications of the future. It is otherwise in the very deficiencies, as they are usually regarded, of our happier land. There "the pale primrose that dies unmarried" among the scanty hedge-rows, as an emblem of innocence peeping forth amidst a cheerless world, suggests more pensive yet delicious musing, than the gaudiest productions of this brighter clime. The wild roses, thinly interspersed among our thickets, with their delicate colouring and faint perfume, afford images of rustic modesty, far sweeter and more genial than the rich garlands which cluster here. Those "echoes from beyond the grave," which come to us amid the stillness of forests which have outlived generations of men, are here unheard. In these valleys we are dazzled, surprised, enchanted;—in ours we are moved with solemn yet pleasing thoughts, which "do often lie too deep for tears."

Having traversed both sides of the aqueduct, I resolved to ascend one of the hills beyond it, for the purpose of obtaining a still more extensive view. After a most weary ascent, of which my eye had taken a very inadequate estimate, I reached the summit, and was amply rewarded for my toils. To the north lay the prospect which I have endeavoured to describe, softened in the distance; beneath was the huge pile, with its massive arches and lone turrets bridging the vale. To the south was the Tagus, and, a little onward, its entrance where it gently blended with the sea. Completely round the north-eastern side of the horizon, the same mighty and beautiful river appeared flowing on far beyond Lisbon, in a noble curve, which seemed to dissolve in the lighter blue of the heavens. And, full to the west, beyond the coasts of Portugal, now irradiated with the most brilliant colouring, was the free and circling ocean, on which, amidst visionary shapes or orange and saffron glory, the sun was, for his last moment, resting. Soon the sky became literally "fretted with golden fire," and the hills seemed covered with a tender haze of light, which rendered them yet lovelier. The moon began to blend her mild radiance with the sweet twilight, as I took the last glance at the vale, and hastened to Lisbon.

On Thursday, the 21st of May, a grand festival was holden in honour of Saint George, who is held in peculiar reverence in Lisbon. On this most sacred occasion, all the buildings around the vast area of the Rocio were hung with crimson tapestry; a road was formed of fine gravel, guarded by lines of soldiers; and the troops, to a great number, in splendid uniforms, occupied the most conspicuous passages. When all was prepared, the train issued from a church in one of the angles of the square, and slowly paraded round the path prepared for it . It consisted of all the ecclesiastical orders, attired in their richest vestments, and bearing, alternately, crosses of gold and silver; canopies of white, purple, orange, and crimson silk, bordered with deep fringes; and gorgeous banners, decorated with curious devices. The canopy which floated over the consecrated wafer, formerly borne by the king and the princes, was, on this occasion, carried by the chief persons of the regency. But the most remarkable object was the Saint himself, who, "not to speak it profanely," is no other than a wooden figure, and, I am afraid, must yield in proportion and in grace to that unconsecrated work, the Apollo Belvidere. He was seated on a noble horse, and arrayed in a profusion of gems, which, according to the accounts of the Portuguese, human powers could hardly calculate. His boots were of solid silver; his whole person begirt with jewels, and his hat glittered in the sun like one prodigious diamond. He descended in state from the castle to the church, whence the procession issued, and remained there during the solemnities. He was saluted, on leaving his mansion, with a discharge of artillery, and received the same compliment on his return to that favoured residence. The people, who were of course assembled in great crowds, did not appear to me to look on the magnificent desplay before them with

any feeling of religious awe, or to regard it in any other light than, at the most, a national spectacle.

Of the national character of the Portuguese in general, I can say very little, as my personal intercourse with them was extremely limited. Were I to believe all that some English residents in Lisbon have told me, I should draw a gloomy picture of human degradation, unrelieved by a single redeeming grace. I should say that the common people are not only ignorant and filthy, but universally dishonest; that they blend the vices of savage and social life, and are ready to become either pilferers or assassins; that they are cruel to their children, lax in friendship, and implacable in revenge; that the higher orders are at once the dupes and tyrants of their servants, familiar with them one moment, and brutally despotic the next; that they are in constant jealousy of their wives, and not without reason; and that even their vices are without dignity or decorum. All this can never be true, or Lisbon would not be subsisting in order and peace. To me, the inhabitants appear in a more amiable light . Filthy and ignorant the common people doubtless are; but they are sober; and those dreadful excesses and sorrows which arise from the use, in England, of ardent spirits, are consequently unknown. They are idle; but the warmth of the climate may, in some degree, excuse them. No rank is destitute of some appearance of native courteousness. The rich are not, indeed, Howards or Clarksons; they have no idea of exerting themselves to any great degree, to draw down blessings on the heads of others or their own; they do not go in search of wretchedness in order to remove it; but when misery is brought before them, as it is constantly here In a thousand ghastly forms, they are far from withholding such aid as money can render. The gardens of their country villas, which are exceedingly elegant, are always open in the evenings to any of the populace who choose to walk there, so that the citizen, on the numerous holidays, which the Romish church affords, is not compelled to inhale the dust in some wretched tea-garden, which is a libel at once on nature and art, but may rove with his children through groves of orange and thickets of roses. When the company thus indulged meet any of the family which reside in the mansion, they acknowledge the favour which they are enjoying by obeisances not ungracefully made, which are always returned with equal courtesy. I am assured that this privilege is never abused; even the children walk amidst the flowers and the fruits, without the slightest idea of touching them. This circumstance alone would induce me to doubt the justice with which some have attempted to fix the brand of dishonesty on the inferior classes of Portugal The people want not the natural tendernesses and gentle movements of the heart; all their deficiencies arise from the absence of high principle, the languishing of intellect, and the decay of the loftier powers and energies which dignify man. They have no enthusiasm, no devoted admiration, or love, for objects unconnected with the necessities of their mortal being, or the low gratifications of sense. They have few mighty names to lend them an inspiration, which might supply the place of contemporary genius; and with those, of which they ought to be fond in proportion to their rarity, they appear scarcely acquainted. Of the rich stores of poetry and romance, which they might enjoy from the neighbouring country and almost similar language of Spain, they are, for the most part, unconscious. Not only has the spirit of chivalry departed from these mountains, where it once was glowing; but its marvellous and golden tales are neglected or forgotten.

The degradation of the public mind in Lisbon is increased by the notorious venality of the ministers of justice. There is no crime for which indemnity may not be purchased by a bribe. Even offences against the government of the king may be winked at, if the culprit is able to make an ample pecuniary sacrifice. It is a well known fact that some of the chief conspirators in the plot to assassinate Marshal Beresford, and change the whole order of things in Portugal, were able to make their peace with the judges, and, on the ground of some technical informality, were dismissed without trial. When any one is accused of an offence, he is generally sent at once to prison, where he remains until he can purchase his freedom. There does not seem, however, any disposition to persecution for opinions, or to exercise wanton cruelty. The Inquisition is no longer an engine in the hands of the priests, but is merely a tribunal for the examination and the punishment of political offences. Death is rarely in

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