Journal.
on the 8th of October I embarked in the steamboat that plies on the river as far as
Seville; and, after rather a pleasant and favorable passage,. . . . arrived in the evening at the ancient capital of Andalusia.
It is admirably situated on the banks of the Guadalquivir, in the midst of an extensive and fertile plain, and is surrounded with the ancient Moorish wall, that was so terribly defended against St. Ferdinand.
Under the Arabs, it was one of the largest and richest cities in
Spain; and, on its surrender, nearly three hundred thousand
Moors, it is said, emigrated to
Granada, and yet did not depopulate it; so that, in 1426, it had again above three hundred thousand souls within its walls.
The circumstance that the
American fleets came here, increased its wealth prodigiously, between the end of the fifteenth century and the year 1717, as its churches and convents sufficiently prove; but the expulsion of the Moors by Philip III.
gave it a severe shock.
The fall of the manufactures, on which its population depended, and which fell from the introduction of other modes of dress,—as those of
Lyons afterwards did,—hastened its decay; and finally, the exclusive monopoly given to
Cadiz, and the gradual filling up of its river,—which is now no longer navigable for large vessels, though it might again be made so,—completed its ruin, and it lies lifeless and inactive,—
jacet ingens litore truncus,—with a population of hardly ninety thousand souls.
Amidst all this decay, however,
Seville is one of the interesting cities of
Spain, and for the arts and letters perhaps the most so; for the splendid epoch of the Moors, the residence of the early Castilian kings, and the wealth of the newly discovered Americas, have left behind them monuments of no common note; while, at the same time, the circumstance that there are curious Roman ruins in the neighborhood, and that in the sixteenth century it was the capital seat of the genuine
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Spanish school in painting, increase its claims and its interest until, I am hardly disposed to doubt, they are unrivalled in
Spain.
To begin, then, with the oldest.
You pass out of
Seville by the
Faubourg Triana,—which is a corruption of Traiana,—and, after stopping an instant at the fine Convent of
San Isidro del Campo to see the tomb of that Alfonso
Perez de Guzman who gave a new escutcheon to the family of Medina Sidonia by the sacrifice of his son at the siege of Tarifa, you find on the right bank of the Guadalquivir, a league from the city, the extensive ruins of Italica.
It was certainly the native place of Trajan and
Silius Italicus, and may have given birth to Hadrian and
Theodosius, for it seems hardly probable that the favor of one emperor could have spread out so large a city as the ruins here indicate.
The most interesting remains are of the walls, baths, etc., and especially of an amphitheatre and some mosaics, of which
La Borde has given a detailed and interesting description, with a history of the city down to its final fall in the sixth century, in a folio volume published some years since at
Paris.
Everything, however, is neglected.
The amphitheatre even is falling in every year; the mosaics, as I absolutely saw, are a part of a sheepfold, and, of course, more and more broken up every day; and the only person, I believe, who takes any interest in these curious remains, is a poor advocate of
Seville, who comes out here on the feast days, and digs among them with his own hands, though what he has found and what I saw in the Alcazar might well excite to more important excavations, if there were either taste or curiosity in the government to be excited.
Next comes the Alcazar, formerly the palace of the
Moorish kings, where I passed a great many pleasant hours, and dined daily, with its kind, open-hearted, chivalrous governor,
Sir John Downie.
In modern times it has been much altered and enlarged; but still there are a great many apartments, particularly the bathing-rooms and the hall of the ambassadors, that are Arabic, as is its general air, and its gardens of all flowers and fragrance, so that, notwithstanding its changes, it yet remains one of the very curious monuments of Arabian architecture. . . . .
[The
Cathedral] is three hundred and ninety-eight feet long and two hundred and ninety-one feet wide, and altogether one of the most pure, solemn, and imposing specimens of the genuine, uncorrupted, unmixed Gothic style.
Indeed, its great size, its immense naves, supported by the largest and finest columns of the kind, its rich chapels, whose walls are covered with the works of
Murillo and Caño, and its ninety-three storied windows, painted in the best age of the art by
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the best artists, that were brought here for the purpose from different parts of
Europe, entitle it to the rank claimed for it in
Spain, that of one of the very finest specimens of Gothic architecture in
Europe.
Annexed to the
Cathedral, and belonging to it, is a library that must interest an American at least, since it was founded by
Hernando Colon, a natural son of the discoverer of our country. . . . .
Seville, however, should also be considered as the capital seat of the genuine Spanish school in painting.
It is to the
Italian school what the Sylvanus and the
Borghese Gladiator are to the Apollo and the Niobe; the perfection of human beauty, but nothing ideal, nothing taken from that hidden source of more than mortal grace and harmony, where Raphael stole the ideas for his Galatea, his
Psyche, and his Madonnas, as
Prometheus stole the fire of heaven.
This is certainly wanting; yet, perhaps, no man ever stood before the works of
Murillo here,—his Feeding the
Five Thousand, and his
Moses opening the
Rock, in the Caridad, or his Assumption, in the Capuchinos,— and yet could be guilty of breathing a single regret at the recollections of
Italy. . . . . The wonderful genius of
Murillo can be studied and felt nowhere but at
Seville, where he lived and died, and whose Cathedral, convents, and houses are full of his works.
Velasquez, too, was a Sevilian; but he lived and labored at
Madrid, and must be sought there in the Palace, and in the Academy of
San Fernando; but except him, I believe there is no Spanish painter of high merit, that cannot be better understood at
Seville than anywhere else, especially
Herrera and Caño, who, with
Velasquez and
Murillo, are the great masters of the school.
Of the people of
Seville I saw a good deal and under different aspects, during the week I was there; that is, a good deal for so short a period.
The lower classes are gay almost to folly, or, at least, were so at that moment, for it was the season of the great annual fair at Santiponce.
To this fair all
Seville goes out, during a week, every day. There are nothing but playthings, showy ornaments, and other trifles sold there; and as they come back into the city, a crowd is stationed at the bridge and for half a mile farther up, that abuses them with Andalusian volubility for their finery, which they gayly hold out and as gayly defend.
In short, it is a kind of carnival, and I used to walk out that way for half an hour in the evening, to witness and enjoy this singular and striking exhibition of the light-hearted gayety of the popular character here, which, like the
Roman, never passes to excess from this kind of excitement, as the character of the
North does; for in
London or
Berlin you could not have such a crowd and such abuse as I heard without quarrels.
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I knew in
Seville a good many ecclesiastics,—Guzman, who once commanded a Spanish frigate and is now a canon of the
Cathedral, old, and one of the mildest, kindest, and most elegant gentlemen I remember to have met; Pereyra, very rich, with some learning and a great deal of taste, who served me regularly six hours a day as cicerone, and showed me everything in and about the city; and two or three others of less name.
The
Archbishop was out of town, and I did not think him worth a journey of three leagues.
But the ecclesiastics in
Spain never will serve for evening society, for in the evening they have their duties, their habits, and their suppers.
In the evening, then, I used to go to the houses of some of the nobility that have tertulias: to Mestre's, who belongs to what is called the
sangre azl,—the blue blood,—but who, however his blood may be colored, or whatever may be his pretensions, has a fine collection of pictures and a pleasant family; to the house of the
Conde de Arcos, a good-natured gentleman, whom I knew in
Madrid; and to the little dances at the
Countess de Castillejas, which made a more rational amusement than I ever met before at a Spanish tertulia.
Every day, too, I dined regularly at the
Moorish castle, with its chivalrous castellan,
Sir John Downie, a frank, vehement Scotchman, who has risen to much favor by his conduct during the last war. He came out first with
Sir John Moore, and returned with the expedition; then came out again with
Sir Arthur Wellesley, and gained such reputation in
Estremadura, that a legion of seven thousand men was collected by the influence of his name, and served under him during the rest of the war with great success.
It was there he received the present of
Pizarro's sword, from
Pizarro's family, which he showed to me, and which I saw with no common interest.
This sword, too, has attached to it a story that well shows the chivalrous character of its present possessor.
He had it at his side in 1812, when the famous attack was made on
Seville, where he commanded the vanguard formed of his own legion.
At the moment he approached, the
French began to break up the only bridge by which the city could be reached; and, in order to prevent them, Sir John made a charge at the head of his troops.
A chasm had already been made, but, thinking only of his object, he put spurs to his horse and leaped to the enemy's side.
His men, however, who had not horses of such mettle, could not follow, and he remained alone.
At this instant, he was struck by a grapeshot, and, while half senseless, was made prisoner.
Still he did not forget his sword, and, gathering the little strength that remained to him, he threw it back over the chasm among his own soldiers, who
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recognized and saved it. The scabbard, however, being fastened to his side, fell into the hands of the enemy, and they had the meanness to keep it; so that, though the city was taken and he was liberated two days afterwards, it was never found again.
This and a great many other similar stories he used to relate to me, with Scottish openheartedness, as we sat by his Moorish fountains or walked in the corridor of Charles V. after dinner; and these hours I shall remember as among the pleasantest I have passed in
Spain.
My week in
Seville—which was longer than I intended to remain there, though not so long as the city, its monuments and society, deserved-hastened rapidly away, and on the morning of the 15th of October I set off for
Lisbon.
The indirect but best route, which passes through
Badajoz, is so dangerous from the number of robbers that now infest it, that, after taking the best advice I could get, I resolved to go directly across the mountains, under protection of one of the regular bodies of contrabandists that smuggle dollars from
Seville to
Lisbon, and in return smuggle back English goods from
Lisbon to
Seville.
For this purpose I sent to Zalamea, one of their little villages in the mountains, and two of them came openly to the city, and with two extra mules took me and my baggage and carried me to join their marauding party.
We reached it about sundown the same evening, and found them all already bivouacked for the night, twenty-eight strong, with about forty mules.
They were high-spirited, high-minded fellows, each armed with a gun, a pair of pistols, a sword and dirk, lying about in groups under some enormous cork-trees, or else preparing supper at a fire they had kindled.
I easily accommodated myself to their manners, and spreading my blanket on the ground, ate as heartily and slept as soundly as the hardiest of them.
The next morning we felt quite acquainted, and, in the course of a journey of eight days through a country little frequented, and where, in fact, we avoided all human habitation, a curious sort of intimacy grew up between me and my kindly, faithful guides, which gave me a view of human nature on a side where I never thought to have seen it. Two of them were evidently men of much natural talent, and from them I gathered a pretty definite account of the principles and feelings of the fraternity and of their political and religious principles, which were strongly marked and well accommodated to their situation.
This kind of conversation, indeed, was my chief amusement, for everything else on the journey was dreary and cheerless enough.
Roads we sought none, but saw now and then a footpath or a sheeptrack,
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which we rather avoided, and got on more by the instinctive knowledge of the guides than by any positive indication that anybody had ever gone that way before.
Strangers, indeed, almost never had; only four were remembered in an experience of thirty years, by the whole party; and in truth, when the discouragements are considered, —two rainy nights that we slept out, an occasional scantiness of provisions, and the fatigue of a journey of eight days on mules,—I do not much wonder at it.
Yet, for myself, I must needs say I have seldom passed eight more interesting days; for by the very novelty and strangeness of everything,—sleeping out every night but one, and then in the house of the chief of our band; dining under trees at noon; living on a footing of perfect equality and good-fellowship with people who are liable every day to be shot or hanged by the laws of their country; indeed, leading for a week as much of a vagabond life as if I were an Arab or a Mameluke,—I came soon to have some of the same sort of gay recklessness that marked the character of my companions.
In short, I had fine spirits the whole way, and did not find myself to have been long in coming to the borders of
Portugal.
There I bade farewell to the only country in the world where I could have led such a life; the only one, indeed, where it would have been safer to be under the protection of contrabandists and outlaws, than under that of the regular government, against which they array themselves.
On the morning of the 18th of October we arrived on the banks of the Chanza. . . . . We had been travelling through a rude, barren country,. . . . but as soon as we had passed the range of hills beyond the Chanza, we found a country always agreeable and often well cultivated; and this continued through
Serpa, through the fine vale of the
Guadiana, and by Alcacovas to
Carvalho.
The people, too, seem to have a sense and feeling for this beautiful nature that the Spaniards have not. Since I left Catalonia I have hardly seen a country-house, and there they are not properly built; but in
Portugal I have found them everywhere,—a magnificent one with a fine aqueduct at
Serpa, many others scattered along the route, and little gardens abounding in fruits, water, and shade, belonging to the better sort of peasantry, of which no trace is to be found in the rest of the
Peninsula.
As to the character of the people, they have not the
Spanish force and decision, but neither have they the
Spanish coldness, pride, and obstinacy.
They are even polite and gentle, so that the first peasant I met seemed to me to be asking alms, when he was only bidding me ‘God speed’; and in their houses, owing to the free introduction of
English
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manufactures for above an hundred years, under the Methuen treaty, they have more conveniences and are able to receive you more comfortably than in
Spain.
In short, from what five days experience taught me, which is a good proportion of all that can be known in this little kingdom, I would rather travel in
Portugal than in
Spain, though my guides, with true Spanish exclusiveness, were every moment reminding me how much worse it was.
On the 23d, just five months from the day I entered
Madrid for the first time, I reached La Moita on the
Tagus, opposite
Lisbon, and embarked to cross it. It was a beautiful day, and I did not at all regret that an unfavorable wind kept us nearly four hours in passing only fourteen miles.
1 The city, which, with its suburbs, forms one long line upon the shore of above eight miles, broken by as many hills that finally tower above it and are covered with gardens, vineyards, and orange groves, formed a splendid view, shifting and changing into new and striking beauties every moment, as the wind drove us up or the current carried us towards the mouth of the river; while, at the same time, the shore from which we receded, dotted with neat white villages, and gay with cultivation or frowning with castles and fortifications on its bold, solemn cliffs, added to the effect by contrast, and made the passage worthy of the beautiful stanzas Lord Byron has written about it. At last we landed, and I finally finished the most wearisome, dangerous, and difficult journey I ever made, though certainly one of the most interesting and instructive. . . . .
Lisbon is, in its situation and external appearance, a most beautiful city.
The opening into the ocean, the splendid bosom of the
Tagus, which here stretches to the breadth of twelve miles and then is contracted again by the precipices below
Belem to a comparatively narrow, rapid stream; the multitude of ships crowded together by the amphitheatre of hills; and the city, which, springing from the water's edge, rises with its beautiful white houses and towers, and is crowned behind by the heights that are ornamented with country-houses, gardens, convents, and churches,—altogether make it a kind
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of rival for
Naples.
But within there is little to justify this magnificent exhibition as you approach it; for, besides the extreme filthiness of the streets, there is little either curious, interesting, or beautiful in the buildings and architecture. . . . .
The only building that has anything like a classical interest is the fine convent and church at
Belem, an immense building or rather mass of buildings, erected about 1497, in a singular style, between Gothic and Arabic, by the famous
Dom Manuel, to commemorate the successful accomplishment of the great voyage of
Vasco de Gama.
It was from this spot he went out, and it was here he landed again; and Camoens, therefore, has consecrated it in two stanzas that might have given immortality to a subject less interesting and worthy than this monument of the greatest of all the Portuguese achievements,—see Lusiad, IV. 87, and X. 12,—for
Portugal has never produced so great an effect on the world as by the discovery of the Indies.
But of all the works at
Lisbon that deserve to be seen, the most remarkable is certainly the aqueduct that supplies the city, which is, I doubt not, unrivalled either as a conveyance for water or as a specimen of this kind of architecture; for, as antiquity has certainly sent down to us nothing so perfect or so bold, I presume modern times have no competition to offer.
It was the work of John V., and was built between 1713 and 1732.
It brings the water from Bellas, about eleven English miles from
Lisbon, and passes frequently under ground, and several times traverses deep valleys.
The most remarkable point is where it crosses the vale of
Alcantara, just before it enters the city; and here it altogether exceeds everything I have seen, even the
Pont du Gard, which is more remarkable than the aqueducts about
Rome.
The length of it here is more than two thousand four hundred
Paris feet, and it passes on thirty-five enormous arches, springing from the depths of the valley and going boldly up to the top, of which the one in the centre is one hundred and seven feet eight inches wide and two hundred and thirty feet ten inches high,—the very boldest arch, I presume, ever risked,—and yet of such exact proportions and construction that it resisted the tremendous earthquake of 1755.
The water passes the whole way completely covered, in a kind of continued building in which you can walk upright, and divided into two channels, in one of which it flows half the year and in the other the other half, so that it may be kept clean and in repair,—an advantage, I believe, no other aqueduct possesses.
On each side, too, is a walk like a bridge, and the view from it of the valley winding up between the hills, ornamented with the country-seats of the nobility, and covered with orange
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and lemon and almond trees, is worthy of the neighborhood of
Lisbon; while, as you look perpendicularly down, your head grows giddy at the awful height.
Or, as you look up from the bottom, and see the majestic arch over you, at such an elevation that its thickness is sensibly diminished to the sight, though it still echoes and re-echoes every sound you utter, you feel that indistinct impression of inferiority and subjection that you do when you stand before one of the great works of nature. . . . .
I cannot, of course, speak with minuteness or assurance of
Lisbon.
I was there only from October 23 to November 21, and my time was so incessantly occupied that, excepting in the evening, I went out only by accident, unless it were to one of the public libraries. . . . .
But, though I should pass over everything else, I must not pass over Cintra.
To this beautiful spot I went with my friend
Sir John Campbell, and we passed there three days, at the festival of San Martinho, when all the country was rejoicing in the balmy freshness of a second spring, and all the fields and valleys were filled with flowers, as they are with us in the month of May.
This singular phenomenon I have been witnessing ever since the rains fell in the end of September; for since then, the earth has been putting on its gayest hues again, so that now, when the second spring, as it is here called, may be considered in its perfection, everything, even to the lilies and roses and lilacs, is in blossom.
Cintra, therefore, was exquisitely beautiful.
It is the height first descried on approaching this coast, and is called by the sailors the
Rock of Lisbon.
You approach it from the city by a road that offers occasionally a few fine prospects; but you are obliged to turn the angle of the mountain and come round full upon the side that faces the northwest before you can see it.
Cintra, therefore, is a village and a collection of country-seats scattered on the declivity and in the dells of a precipitous mountain, whose sides are covered about two thirds of the way to the summit with the beautiful verdure of rich and various woods, and broken by innumerable little cascades that come rushing down over its rocks; while from its base extends a luxuriant plain, full of culture and population, which, at the distance of between four and five miles, is terminated by the ocean, whose magnificence finally closes up the whole prospect.
The road passes, I should think, about half-way between the summit and the base, and beginning from the southeastern point, where you first enter, extends round to beyond the village of
Colares,—a distance of four or five miles,—cut like a kind of cornice in the side of the mountain, whose windings and indentations
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it follows, so that the prospect shifts and varies at every step you advance; now hiding you in some sunless little dell, where you have only the secrecy of a solitude, covered by the deep shades of its rocky forest, and made, as it were, audible to the feelings by the gushing of some cascade from above, and now carrying you out upon a projecting precipice, from which you have again the wide and glorious prospect of the rock, its broken sides, and the houses and castles that cover them, with all the richness of the plain below and all the grandeur of the ocean beyond.
All this was heightened to me by the society of those who make every ‘scene of enchantment more dear’; for with
Sir J. Campbell,
Mr. Musgrave, the
British agent, and
Count Bombelles, the Austrian
charge d'affaires, all pleasant and interesting men, and men of excellent culture, I passed my time in the family of
Baron Castel Branco, whom we joined every morning before breakfast, and from whom we did not separate until midnight. This excellent family, commonly known here by the name of the Lacerdas, is of the ancient and most respectable Portuguese nobility; and consists, besides the father and mother,—who are worthy people,—of three accomplished and interesting daughters, one of whom, Donna Maria da
Luz, is a most open-hearted, sweet, intelligent girl.
Their hospitality was altogether of that kind and winning sort, which comes upon you with the heartiness of old familiarity; and when I had passed half the first day there, I felt that I should wrong their kindness if I went anywhere else.
They, like my friends from
Lisbon, had of course seen everything at Cintra for the thousandth time; but each morning after breakfast, mules were brought to the door for us all, and the whole cavalcade of nine or ten persons set out to scramble over the rocks together.
In this way we went successively to the palace where Alphonso VI.
has left the traces of his weary footsteps, and where he died in 1669, after an imprisonment of seven years; to the ‘sete ahis,’— seven sighs,—the country-seat of the
Marquis of
Marialva, where the famous Convention of Cintra was signed; to Penhaverde, the favorite retreat of Don
Joao de Castro, the great navigator and powerful viceroy of the Indies. . . .; to Mon Serrate, the romantic, elegant seclusion of that
Mr. Beckford whom Lord Byron has justly ‘damned to eternal memory’ under the name of Vathek;
2 to the Quinta da Penha, to
Colares, and, finally, to the rock which forms
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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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can be produced only by great wealth, and great wealth has now passed to the Brazils with the chief nobility, and those who remain do not seek the pleasures of society.
When
Marshal Beresford is here,—which he is not now,—there is much company at his palace, but that is all; and even what is called society, in the houses of the rich merchants, is but a great dinner, with cards in the evening, to such excess and fatuity, that out of forty-five people I have counted ten tables, and of course, only five persons remained, like myself, to walk up and down among them, in wearisome listlessness.
Another embarrassment to society is the distance at which people live from each other.
The city extends eight miles along the river, and there is no part of it in which either the rich, the noble, or the fashionable chiefly live, or more resort, than to any other; so that any person of a particular class finds himself at a fatal distance from the rest, with whom he would naturally associate; and I, who lived near the booksellers, and the
Public Library, happened, to be sure, to be near one or two persons whom I could call my friends, such as
Mr. Stephens,
Mr. Musgrave, etc., but was, at the same time, four miles from the two families I would gladly have visited the most frequently.
I do not mean, however, that I felt the want of society, even at
Lisbon. . . . I knew a good many persons who interested me more or less; several men of letters, such as
Macedo, Barbosa, Trigozo, and Andrade, with whom I was familiar; several ecclesiastics, who, by the by, are in general more cultivated than the clergy at
Madrid; and several families, both foreigners and Portuguese.
Among the last was
Mr. Stephens, an old English gentleman, at whose table I always had a plate, and where I met generally
John Bell,
Mr. Musgrave, and two or three other men of letters, and
M. Lesseps, the
French charged d'affaires, an uncommonly interesting man from his knowledge and vivacity, and remarkable as the only individual who escaped from La Peyrouse's last fatal expedition,. . . . of which he never speaks but with very strong emotions, for he loved La Peyrouse like a father.
Two Portuguese families are to be noted. . . . . The first is the family of the
Count d'alba, whose wife is sister to the famous
Count Palmella,—now just going to be the
chief minister at the Brazils,—and is considered the most cultivated woman in the highest class of the nobility.
Like her sister, Mad.
de Souza,—who gave me my letter to her,—she is rather awkward and dry in her manner; but still she is interesting, because she endeavors to be so by good sense and unpretending kindness; and if she had not lived nearly four miles off, I should have gone to see her often.
For the same reason I saw
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but little of the
Duchess de Cadaval, the most distinguished and the most extraordinary woman in
Portugal.
She is daughter of the
Duke of
Luxembourg, and married the
Duke de Cadaval, who was of the Braganza blood, and who, with the family of Lafoes and the family of the
Duke of
Wellington, had the only dukedoms in
Portugal. . . .
The name of
Cadaval is the great name in
Portugal, and the people already look to it, as they did to the name of Braganza in the time of the Philips; and the intention of the wild conspiracy of Gomez Freire, in June, 1817, was to take the
Duke of
Cadaval, inexperienced as he is, and place him by violence upon the vacant throne.
The
Duchess, however, who is now, I suppose, about fifty years old, pale and feeble, but with an animated, original countenance, and strong, cautious talents covered by great elegance of manners and gentleness of disposition, has thus far kept all suspicion from finally attaching to herself or her son. Still, however, her very conduct and caution alarm the government.
She sees no Portuguese society, and teaches her son to hold himself aloof from intercourse and observation; she keeps still more removed from foreigners; and though she received me with politeness and attention, because I brought her a pressing letter from her near relation, the Prince Laval, there was a sort of calculated elegance in her manner whenever I saw her, which was clearly intended for effect. . . . .
The only Portuguese families to which I could have gone with pleasure would have been
Count d'alba's, that was too far off, and the Lacerdas, that had not come in from Cintra when I left
Lisbon.
But when I had a moment of time during the day, it was only necessary to go out and climb some of the hills in the city, and the beautiful prospects that everywhere abound came upon my heart like intimacy and kindness.
Among other favorite spots, I went several times to the
English burying-ground, beautiful in itself from its solemn neatness and from the cypresses, poplars, and elms with which it is planted, and still more so from the prospects it commands.
It was stipulated for in the treaty
Cromwell made in 1655, and all Protestants are now buried there.
I saw a few names that I knew, among others those of
Mrs. Humpbrey's father and mother, and that of
Dr. Doddridge; but I sought in vain for
Fielding's, who died here in 1754, and the tradition of whose grave is preserved only by
Mr. Bell, and two or three other Englishmen in
Lisbon, who take an interest in letters.
3 
