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[247] the most western limit of the European continent, and where nature, by a glorious boundary, marks the termination of her works in the Old World. Besides this, too, we went, of course, to the Moorish fortifications on one of the heights, and to the Cork Convent,—so called because it is lined with cork, to prevent the humidity that reigns in Cintra,—a fearful hermitage, situated on the giddy brow of the precipice, nearly three thousand feet above the level of the ocean that rolls below, from both of which we enjoyed the grand and imposing prospects that their height and situation naturally imply. But it is in vain to talk of the prospects of this enchanting spot, for if I were to begin I should never finish. . . .

My life during these three days was tranquil, and the pleasure I enjoyed was of that quiet kind which leaves no weariness. I rose early, and opening my windows to the balmy freshness of the season, and the beautiful prospect of the rock, and its valleys, with the plain, and the ocean, sat down and read in Dante, or Camoens, or Lord Byron, whose descriptions here are faithful as nature, more so even than I found them in Spain; though there I was struck with them. At nine o'clock, Count Bombelles—with whom I lodged-came into my chamber, and we went over to the beautiful country-house of the Lacerda family, where we breakfasted. Then followed immediately the excursions to the rock, or along the road, on which, when at about two o'clock we became somewhat hungry and very fatigued, we stopped in some little secret, shady dell, and took the collation that had followed us. At evening we returned and dined, never alone, for the Baron's table always had half a dozen extra covers, and there was generally somebody from Lisbon, or some friends in Cintra, that came in to occupy them. Afterwards, of course, cards—the only, the universal, the unvarying amusement in Portugal—came in; but in this house alone I found enough who would not play to make a pleasant party in one corner of the saloon, where, with Count Bombelles, Mr. Musgrave, Donna Maria, and two or three others, I finished the evening.

Lisbon, on my return, seemed cold and inhospitable, for such sort of kindness as I received at Cintra is to be replaced by no other. . . . . There is no Prado, as at Madrid, for the Portuguese women are still more restrained than the Spanish; and the public walks which the Marquis de Pombal made, for the express purpose of producing a freer intercourse between the sexes, are still unfrequented. . . . . There is, too, properly speaking, no society, for in these countries, where comfort and happiness are little sought, social intercourse

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