“O MY FLAIL”

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O my flail, my sor-ry flail!

A ve-ry clum-sy tool art thou.

Ear-ly and late I feel thy weight.

The sweat is pour-ing from my brow,

Yet my flail, my trust-y flail!

My flail that thresh-est out the grain,

Though wear-y now,

Both I and thou

To-mor-row must to work a-gain.

The above is a well-known Portuguese folk-song. As is always the case with folk-songs which are traditional, there are slight differences in the versions in use in different places. The above is the version as sung by students at Coimbra. All present should clap their hands on the first three beats of every bar. The author is indebted for the English translation to Mr. Morton Latham.

Wheat is separated from the husk in a very odd way. It is trodden out by oxen, and beans are worked out of their pods in the same manner. The women toil in the fields just as hard as the men—if anything harder, and one may often see a woman carrying a huge load on her head with a man strolling idle and empty-handed beside her. Even the children have to make themselves useful, starting work at a very early age. A solemn little boy or girl carrying a goad twice their own height will walk barefooted in front of ox-cart or plough, guiding the great docile beasts in the way they should go. The children, too, are sent out to herd the cattle and to look after the flocks.

I knew a little boy who seemed to spend his whole life shepherding his father’s flock of sheep and goats, which are always mixed in Portugal. Early in the morning he would leave the farm and wander off over the moors. In cold weather he would wear a sack over his head to protect himself from the piercing wind; in summer he would try to find a cool spot beneath some high rock or shady tree, and there he would contentedly eat his midday meal of black bread, olives, and goat’s-milk cheese, always, however, keeping an eye on his charges, lest any should stray.

HERD BOY AND FLOCK.

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Quite different is the work of the shepherds in the mountainous country of the north and in the great Estrella range, where the lofty crags and deep gorges of the mountains stretch away as far as the eye can see. Here it is men’s work, and in the summer, when the flocks are taken to the high upland pastures, the shepherds live in roughly-built stone huts. At night they often sleep in the midst of their flocks, while their dogs, big long-haired mastiffs, keep guard on the outskirts to give warning at the approach of danger.

Very real danger it is at times, for in the narrow, precipitous ravines of these wild hills are still to be found—though of late years much more rarely—the large brown wolves, which steal down at dead of night to carry off their prey. The struggle is fierce between the faithful watch-dogs and their savage enemies. The shepherds in the darkness lay about them lustily with their staves, the growling and snarling of the wolves and mastiffs mingle with the bleating of the sheep and goats and the shouts of the men, till at last the wolves are beaten off, slinking away as noiselessly as they came.

The cottages of the poor are often only small, one-storied houses, built of loose stones without cement, and just plastered roughly over to keep out the wind. Inside they are dark and dreary, and very scantily furnished. Although they work so hard, the peasants in many parts are wretchedly poor, and their food none too plentiful. It is different from that of an English labourer, being mainly black bread, made from a mixture of maize and rye-flour. They also eat olives, rice, oil, vegetables, and a considerable quantity of dried and salted cod-fish—bacalhau, as it is called. It smells and tastes very strong, and before it is cooked is as hard as a board. Nevertheless, it is very nutritious. The whole population is particularly fond of it, so much so that it is by no means unusual to see people eating it uncooked, though to us it would not seem at all a tempting delicacy.

THE END OF A LONG DAY.

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[ CHAPTER XII
] PILGRIMAGES

The Romarias, or annual pilgrimages, are a great institution in Portugal. They are looked on partly as being good for the soul, and partly as pleasurable outings. Sometimes the pilgrimage is to a shrine on some lonely hill-top, sometimes to a spot marked by an array of stone crosses, where some local saint is reputed to have performed a miracle. These pilgrimages keep up interest in religious observances, but unluckily there is often much superstition connected with them.

There are two places which, above all others, attract vast crowds of the devout, as many as 30,000 to 35,000 people being often present. One is “Bom Jesus do monte” (Good Jesus of the mountain), near Braga; and the other “Bom Jesus dos boucas” (Good Jesus of the barren sands), at Mathosinhos, a village on the sea-coast not far from Oporto. Here, in an unpretentious church, is enshrined a crucifix reputed to possess the most wonderful miracle-working powers.

The legend runs that long, long ago, so far back that date and year have been forgotten, this figure of our Lord was washed ashore and placed by the priest in the village church. It had been much buffeted by the waves, and had lost one arm, but some little time after, the missing limb was discovered in the following miraculous way. A poor old woman was trudging along the beach one day, picking up driftwood wherewith to light her fire. She saw a piece which she thought was the very thing required, and returned home with it, only to find that do what she would, she could not get it to burn. She put it out in the sun to dry, but all to no purpose; so at length she decided to cut it up into little splinters, to see if in that way it would more readily catch fire. No sooner was her chopper lifted ready to strike than the wood jumped to one side! The faster the blows rained down the more nimble did it become, till at last, in alarm, the old dame sought a priest, to whom she related her strange story. He examined the piece of wood, and was inspired to recognize the missing arm, which was soon restored to its proper position.

The pious folk for miles around still firmly believe that this sacred image, coming to them thus wonderfully from the sea, must have power to help the toilers of the deep, and must be the very special protector of seamen and fishermen. When the storms are wildest, and their boats are in danger of being wrecked, it is to our Lord of Mathosinhos that the sailors cry in their distress. They ascribe their preservation to His miraculous powers, and the church is full of the quaintest votive offerings given in humble gratitude for answered prayers. Extraordinary wax models of legs and arms hang near the shrine, and also numberless pictures, crudely painted by the mariners themselves. These depict ships in every conceivable peril, and generally the figure in the church is prominently portrayed, stilling the raging waves, or rescuing the drowning men. Terrible daubs they are, but they hang there, a pathetic witness to the faith which, in the hour of danger, could seek for help where alone help was to be found. They are presented with a gift of money at the great yearly pilgrimage at Whitsuntide.

A large fair is held at the same time, where whole stalls are devoted to the sale of whistles. They are made of red, yellow, and brown pottery, and are the very oddest-looking things, in the shape of grotesque birds, beasts, and figures. Everyone buys one, and everyone whistles. It is the right thing to do at Whitsuntide in Mathosinhos.

The pilgrimage to “Bom Jesus do monte” also takes place at Whitsuntide, and lasts for three days. The church stands on a high hill. Leading up to it are broad flights of steps, zigzagging from terrace to terrace, and flanked by walls and overhanging trees. The terraces are ornamented with statues, obelisks, and fountains carved in granite, and all the way up, at regular intervals, are small shrines or chapels, in which stand groups of life-sized figures representing different scenes in the Passion of our Lord. Up these steps toil the pilgrims in their thousands, men and women, young and old, reverently worshipping at each shrine before passing on. Some few in their devotion, weighed down by their burden of sin and sorrow, perform the entire ascent on their knees. Masses are chanted and sermons preached in the church; solemn processions pass to and fro, with banners and crucifix borne aloft. All knees are bent, all heads are bowed, as priests in gorgeous vestments, bearing the Host, move slowly along.

Children dressed like fairies take a great part in the processions, with spangled wings, or the soft feathered pinions of a bird fixed to their shoulders. I have seen weary little pilgrims, so small and so tired that the men who marched beside them picked them up tenderly and carried them along, fast asleep, in their arms.

There have to be great preparations made for so large a gathering. For days beforehand the creaking of ox-waggons may be heard, wending their way slowly up the hill, with their loads of food and casks of wine. Decorations are put up, poles, and flags, and strings of Chinese lanterns. The people begin to arrive on the Saturday. Some go to one or other of the three hotels, which on these occasions are packed to overflowing; but they mostly camp out in the woods in tents, or rough huts made of branches. They also build fireplaces with stones and clay, and ovens in which to bake their bread.

Here and there an idle youth brings out his guitar, or someone bursts gaily into song. It is like a scene in a theatre, only that it is all real—a huge, happy picnic party, come together for prayer and praise, and after that to enjoy themselves as much as they possibly can.

All are dressed in their very best. The men wear tight trousers, white shirts, sashes round the waist, broad-brimmed felt hats, and short coats much tagged and braided. The women look very gay with blue, orange, or red silk kerchiefs crossed over the breast, snowy-white blouses, tight-fitting bodices, black or coloured, and thickly-pleated skirts of every conceivable hue, cut short at the ankles. They wear bright embroidered aprons, and a sort of pocket hanging round the waist, very elaborately ornamented with beads or sequins. Embroidered muslin handkerchiefs cover their heads, surmounted by round black hats edged with floss silk made to curl and look like ostrich feathers. Added to all this, they are decked out with a great deal of gold jewellery—necklaces, heavy earrings, and huge heart-shaped lockets of strange, intricate design.

A rich farmer’s wife will sometimes have her whole bodice covered with gold ornaments, and should she happen to be the proud owner of three pairs of earrings, will wear them all, to the great envy of her neighbours.

The women also delight in possessing a great many petticoats. The more they have the more important do they consider themselves, for it shows how wealthy they must be, and on such an occasion as a pilgrimage they don them all. Sixteen or eighteen on one woman! Just think of it in warm weather! On festive occasions a rich peasant woman will be so be-petticoated that she can scarcely walk, and will have to move slowly along in a rolling, ungainly manner; but she will be a proud woman, and will gladly endure the discomfort for the sake of the importance and dignity conferred upon her by her many skirts.

[ CHAPTER XIII
] FARMS AND VINEYARDS

The best tilled farms in Portugal are in the north, in the rich province of Minho. They are quite small, and are worked like well-kept gardens by the farmer and his family, with perhaps the help of one or two hired hands.

The chief crop grown there is maize, and many different things are sown with it, such as dwarf kidney-beans and gourds. Young cabbages are also planted among the maize, and in the winter, after the grain has been garnered, they grow to a great height, when their leaves are plucked off one by one, the top being left to grow taller still.

June and July are very busy months. Besides the wheat and rye harvests, the maize, which is not cut until September or October, gives endless work. First it has to be hoed, and then earthed up. Later on it is gradually thinned out, some of it being taken as fodder for the cattle, and all the time it has to be carefully and regularly watered. This is generally done by irrigation. A farmer’s whole prosperity depends on his water-supply, and no trouble is too great to insure a good one. Sometimes it is brought for miles in underground channels, or along a groove cut in the top of a broad wall. Another method is to raise it from a well by means of an old-fashioned water-wheel, worked by oxen. Many buckets are set about a foot apart on an endless chain, which passes over the wheel. With each turn these buckets dip into the well, and as they come up again empty the water into little channels, which carry it in all directions to irrigate the growing crops.

As the maize ripens to harvest the golden cobs have to be cut from the straw, husked, dried, and finally threshed.

The husking or removing of the outer sheath is a tedious business, so the farmers often give a kind of harvest home, to which they invite the neighbouring peasants. They provide food and wine in plenty, and their guests work far into the night, to the accompanying music of guitars and violins.

There are many different kinds of beans grown—black, white, grey, and yellow, mottled beans and striped beans, large and small. Flax, too, is widely cultivated, and in the north the farmers’ wives and daughters spend the long winter evenings spinning and weaving it into linen for their clothes. In the marshy land near the sea we find rice, and most of the onions that are sold in England as Spanish onions in reality come from the North of Portugal.

From the north, too, comes the wine we call port. Vineyards flourish, and wine is made in all parts of the kingdom; but that which is imported so largely into England, and which is handed with dessert in so many English houses, is made only from the grapes grown on the steep hillsides of a tract of country on the banks of the River Douro, some sixty miles above the old seaport town of Oporto. It extends a long way up the river, and for a few miles to the north and south, through the valleys and gorges of many small tributary streams. It is a mountainous country, and from the water’s edge to the high hill-tops there is nothing to be seen but vineyards, rising terrace above terrace in dull, unvarying monotony. The vines are grown as bushes, and have none of the beauty of those in many other parts, where they are trained over trellises, or allowed to ramble at will up pollarded trees.

You may have often seen the rich tawny red wine on the dining-room table, but I wonder if you have ever thought of all the labour that went to produce it. The construction of the terraces where the vines are to grow is in itself a mighty piece of work. Each terrace has its strong retaining wall, built with the stones taken from the soil, and when the vines have been planted, they require constant care and attention. In the autumn the low-growing shoots have to be removed and the roots uncovered. Pruning begins at the same time, and occupies the whole winter. The ground has to be dug in March, when all weeds are cleared away, and the earth is hoed into little mounds to protect the roots from the hot rays of the sun. Next comes the training and propping of the branches, which are secured by willow or rush ties to stakes driven into the ground. A second digging takes place in May, when the earth is once more levelled, and during the summer the vines have to be sprayed with sulphur to keep off a dreadful blight called oidium, which would otherwise do great damage.

At last, towards the middle or end of September, the vintage begins, and this brings with it the hardest work of all. Bands of men and women arrive from far-away villages in every direction to help with the work, singing and dancing as they come, as though out on a holiday jaunt.

The women gather the great clusters of grapes into baskets, and empty these into other larger ones, which the men carry away on their shoulders, passing from terrace to terrace right down the hill to the wine-presses. These are large granite tanks, into which the grapes are thrown, and men are employed to tread out the juice with their bare feet. It is very tiring, and is performed by relays of workers, trampling steadily, their hands placed on each other’s shoulders to steady themselves. This goes on for many hours. The pulp is then left to ferment for some time, and bubbles and heaves as though it were boiling. When the stalks and skins rise to the surface the liquor gradually begins to cool down, and the time has come for running it off into the huge vats in the cellars below. The following spring the wine is put into casks, and sent in large boats down the Douro to Oporto, where it is stored in the merchants’ “lodges” till required for export.

A LONELY FARM.

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[ CHAPTER XIV
] OPORTO

How am I to give you an idea of the quaint picturesque old town of Oporto? It dates back to Roman times, when it was already a busy seaport, and it is now only second in importance to Lisbon itself.

It does not at first sight present such an imposing appearance as Lisbon, that dazzling white city throned on its seven hills and looking down in calm dignity on the bright blue waters of the Tagus. But whereas the southern capital is disappointing when you see it nearer, Oporto grows on you more and more, with its steep, dark alleys and old-fashioned balconied houses, its gardens and fountains, and busy, bustling wharfs. The heart and soul of Oporto are to be looked for by the riverside, the narrow green-watered Douro flowing swiftly along between high granite cliffs, to which cling the white and yellow houses with their many-tinted, red-tiled roofs.

The river is always crowded with shipping, from full-rigged ocean-going merchantmen to dugouts shaped from a single tree; broad-beamed boats, with graceful lateen sails, and narrow boats, with high peaks at bow and stern; large flat-bottomed wine-boats from the vineyards far up the river; rowing-boats, sailing-boats—in fact, boats of every size and shape and colour.

The quays swarm with people hard at work loading and unloading cargo. Women pass up and down along narrow planks from shore to ship with baskets full of coal balanced on their heads. Longshoremen and idlers look on, contentedly smoking. Groups of boys may be seen playing cards or throwing dice, and younger urchins, of similar tastes but fewer possessions, gambling excitedly with buttons. Here also are barefooted, brightly-dressed fishwives, and girls selling fruit, children at play, chestnut-sellers with their little charcoal stoves, rough brigand-like men rolling barrels of wine ashore, strings of pack-mules, and ox-carts waiting to be loaded, each with its pair of pretty browny-yellow oxen, under their high, elaborately carved yokes.

It all forms the most charming medley of movement and colour against a background of tumble-down overhanging houses with projecting gables and painted balconies. There are vine-trellises offering leafy shade, clothes hanging out to air, rows of fine old trees, and here and there glimpses of the ancient river-wall. In this wall are many deep recesses used as wine-shops, or as general stores, where the sailorman may satisfy his numerous requirements in the way of oilskins, ropes, blocks, and all the many articles smelling of tar, so dear to the seafarer’s heart.

This is Oporto as seen from below, down by the water’s edge; but the best view of the whole town is to be had much higher up, where the great bridge of Dom Luiz spans the narrow gorge. From this point of vantage you may look straight down on the river and on the busy wharfs far below; you may see the narrow, rough-paved streets that lead by flights of steps up the hillside, the many churches, the solid square towers of the cathedral on the hill, the old Moorish walls, and the odd little gardens—bright patches of colour in unexpected nooks and corners.

Beyond the bridge, on the south side of the river, stands the ancient convent of Nossa Senhora da Serra do Pilar, Wellington’s headquarters in May, 1809, when he so successfully drove the French army under Marshal Soult out of Oporto.

Six weeks earlier, after a three days’ siege, Soult had assaulted and taken the brave old city, which had gallantly, if foolishly, refused to surrender. Its fall was followed by hideous scenes of rapine and slaughter. The French gave no quarter, and the hunted people fled down to the river in thousands, hoping to escape by a bridge of boats that stretched across to the other bank. So great a crowd proved more than the bridge could bear. It sank under the weight, and over 18,000 men, women, and children were drowned, or butchered by the French soldiers.

It was, however, a short-lived triumph for the arms of France. Three weeks later Sir Arthur Wellesley, the future great Duke of Wellington, landed at Lisbon, and before he had been in the country ten days he was on his way north to retake Oporto.

On the morning of May 12, 1809, he was already on the south bank of the Douro, but without bridge or boat by which to pass over. So safe did Soult believe himself to be, with the steep cliffs and the swift-flowing river between himself and the English, that he never contemplated the possibility of a crossing, and Sir Arthur was able to carry out one of the most daring plans in the annals of war.

By the aid of the inhabitants two boats were at last secured, and twenty-five British soldiers rowed across in broad daylight, just above the town. Under cover of artillery fire three companies of the Buffs were next ferried over. They climbed by a track up 200 or 300 feet of rock, seized an unfinished building, and held it with great bravery while more troops were hurried across. Gradually the tables were turned. The English became the attackers, the French slowly retreating, till after some two hours’ fighting Soult and his army took to their heels, leaving bag and baggage, guns and ammunition behind them. Sir Arthur Wellesley is reported to have said on the evening of the 11th that the next day he would breakfast in Oporto. He did breakfast in Oporto and dined there too, on the food that had been prepared for the French general!

The markets of Oporto are very attractive. The chief one is the Mercado do Anjo, which lies just to the north of the fine church of the Clericos, whose lofty tower may be seen from most parts of the town. It is a picturesque spot, and presents a busy scene in the early mornings; but as I write it is another market-square that rises before my mind’s eye. It was the first I saw after landing in Portugal. I could not drag myself away from it, and the fascination of it seems to hold me still.

There were low, shady trees in the middle of that little square, and white booths beneath them, covered with fruit and flowers, cakes and vegetables. The open-doored shops at the sides were windowless, and had piles of goods heaped on the pavements in front of them, and spreading out well into the road: shining pots and pans; gay coloured kerchiefs—red and yellow, blue and green; rolls of sombre woollen material and lighter-coloured cottons; and, most inviting of all, the many heaps of pottery. What may not be purchased here for a penny, or even for a halfpenny? Jugs and jars, mugs and plates, basins, bowls and dishes, all of a dull cream-coloured ware, with simple brightly painted designs boldly splashed upon them. Next to them, and more tempting still, are the unglazed, red-brown earthenware vessels used all over Portugal for carrying water. Beautiful in shape and colour, they are of Moorish or Roman design; some with quaint twisted handles, others with long narrow necks, some few with spouts, and all so cheap that the smallest coin in your pocket will pay for two or three of them.

[ CHAPTER XV
] COIMBRA AND THREE OLD MONASTERIES

Another town that has filled an important position in Portuguese history is Coimbra. A charming old place it is, built on a hill, the River Mondego flowing at its foot, and the University buildings crowning the summit. Its steep, narrow streets are full of picturesque peasants and of students clad in long black cloaks, of the selfsame pattern as the togas worn by the Romans of old.

This ancient city witnessed the days of the Gothic occupation; saw the Goths supplanted by the Moors, and the Moors by the Christians; was for many years the capital of Portugal; and ever since 1306, when King Diniz founded the University, it has with but short intermission been the seat of learning and culture.

The University buildings are grouped round a large quadrangle, at one side of which is a terrace commanding a view that may well have inspired the ardent souls of poets and scholars. Looking out over the town, the eye wanders up the silvery waters of the Mondego, and round the bends and turns of a beautiful and fertile valley to the blue mountains in the distance.

Across the river stands the great white convent of Santa Clara, “once the glory of Coimbra and the cloister of Queens,” but now used as a factory. Lower down are the ruins of another convent, in which the Porta de Rosa recalls the pretty legend of the miracle of the roses. St. Elizabeth, the wife of King Diniz, spent all her time and money in ministering to the poor, till at length her husband remonstrated with her and forbade her to continue her good works. The Queen was very unhappy; she was loath to disobey, but her kind heart bled for the hungry women and little children who would look in vain for her coming, and one day she again sallied out with a basketful of bread on her arm. As she was passing through a doorway, who should she meet but the King.

“What have you there?” cried he in anger.

“Roses,” faltered the trembling Queen, not daring to tell the truth.

“Let me see them!” thundered the King, lifting the cover of the basket. And lo and behold! to the good St. Elizabeth’s joy and wonder, it was full of beautiful roses.

This story is also told of her aunt, St. Elizabeth of Hungary, but I like to think it was true of the sweet Portuguese Queen.

To the right of the old convent lies the Quinta das Lagrimas—the Villa of Tears. The tragic history attached to this is no legend, but records the sad fate of a beautiful woman, Inez de Castro, who was a maid of honour at the Court of Portugal in the middle of the fourteenth century.

Dom Pedro, the King’s son, was desperately in love with her; but his father and the nobles deemed her no fit mate for the heir to the throne, and at length, in their hatred, caused her to be foully murdered beside the waters of a deep spring which gushes out of the rock—“The Fountain of Love in the Garden of Tears,” as it is called to this day.

Dom Pedro’s grief was deep and bitter. He rebelled, and raised an army to fight against his father. Two years later, when the old King died, and Pedro in his turn came to the throne, he made a solemn declaration that he had been privately married to the fair Inez. To punish the haughty courtiers and nobles who had helped to bring about her death, he had her body removed from its grave, crowned, arrayed in royal robes, and placed on the throne. All had to vow fealty to her as to a Queen, kneeling and kissing her hand in homage. Loyal to the last, this most constant of royal lovers is buried in the old cathedral church of Alcobaça, and close by, in another beautifully carved tomb, lies his beloved and long-mourned wife.

The Monastery of Alcobaça was founded by King Alfonso Henriques in 1148, as a thank-offering for the capture of Santarem from the Moors. It grew to be one of the wealthiest in Europe, and the monks—all men of noble birth—ruled with kindly, despotic sway over the tenants and peasants who tilled their broad acres.

Though living in the greatest luxury, and entertaining exalted guests with more than royal splendour, they did not ignore the claims of charity, but dispensed food and clothing to hundreds of poor people at their gates.

The years passed by, war and desecration stripped the abbey of its magnificence, and now that the religious orders have been suppressed in Portugal, and their lands confiscated by the State, the monks and friars are to be seen no more. The church where the French soldiers stabled their horses is once more used for holy service; but only visitors and tourists now frequent the bare and deserted cloisters, and the remaining portion of the vast old building is used as a cavalry barrack.

Some fifteen miles from Alcobaça lies Batalha, another huge deserted monastery, the finest in Portugal, or perhaps in any other European country. The road from Alcobaça leads through vineyards and cultivated fields to the village of Aljubarrota, where in 1385 John the Great gained his famous victory over the Spaniards. The story is still told of a brave baker’s wife who sallied forth during the fray armed only with her “oven-peel”—a sort of long wooden shovel—and slew seven Castilian soldiers with this homely weapon.

Farther on we reach a high, narrow ridge, where silvery-grey aloes grow in the sandy soil, and many high, weather-worn stone crosses stand by the wayside.

The road then passes through dark pine-forests, carpeted with heather, and down to the little hamlet of Batalha. In its midst rises the vast old abbey, a perfect dream-abbey of grandeur and beauty, with its glorious west front and its fretted pinnacles and spires. The church inside is severe in character, but the light which streams through the richly coloured windows, stains the grand, simple columns with many hues, and the wealth of carving in the chapels and cloisters is a revelation of grace and lightness in the airy delicacy of its exquisite tracery. If Alcobaça, with its great kitchen and hospitable traditions, carries one’s thoughts back to the time when monks made merry there on the best of good cheer, Batalha, on the other hand, conjures up a vision of pious brethren living in sanctity and poverty, the dim aisles of their beautiful church echoing to the sound of holy chant and psalm.

It was Philippa of Lancaster, Portugal’s English Queen, who first thought of building this beautiful monastery as a perpetual memorial of the victory of Aljubarrota. She and her husband, John the Great, are buried in the Founders Chapel, their stone figures lying hand in hand, beneath a canopy bearing the joint arms of England and Portugal.

The Convent of Mafra, built by John V. as a thank-offering for the birth of a son, is another great monument of the past. It is some twenty or thirty miles to the north of Lisbon, and is less remarkable for its beauty than for its immense size. Even after gazing at its long façade, and wandering for hours through its endless courts and halls, you find it difficult to realize how huge it is. It is said to contain 2,500 doors and 5,200 windows; it took thirteen years to build—from 1717 to 1730—and at one time as many as 45,000 workmen were employed on it.

Statues and busts adorn the building inside and out. Towers and pavilions rise above the roof, which is crowned by a dome, and the floors, walls and columns are of the most costly materials—rare marbles, porphyry, jasper, and other stones collected from all parts of the kingdom. It comprises a church, a monastery, a palace, and barracks, and cost over £4,000,000. This sum was raised by extra taxation, and put the final touch to the ruin and poverty of the country.

Mafra is no great distance from one portion of the celebrated lines of Torres Vedras, the double range of hills which runs from the town of Alhandra on the Tagus in a north-westerly direction to the sea, and which was fortified and held by Wellington to protect Lisbon from the French.

It was during the gradual retreat of the English and Portuguese army on this strong position that the Battle of Bussaco was fought. Bussaco is a name for English people to be proud of, for it was there that on September 27, 1810, Wellington defeated the French under Massena, “the spoilt child of victory,” as Napoleon called him.

The British headquarters were at a little monastery hidden away in the heart of a beautiful forest on the side of a hill, where giant cedars and other trees and plants, collected from every corner of the globe, grew and flourished under the fostering care of the good Carmelite Fathers. Above the wood lies the battlefield, a steep, bare rock-strewn ridge, which was held by the English and their Portuguese allies against the much larger army of Massena. It was a desperate hand-to-hand struggle, beginning at break of day, and both sides fought with the utmost gallantry. At one moment the French actually gained the crest of the hill, but a timely bayonet charge drove them back again, and by midday the battle was over.

WASHERWOMEN AT COIMBRA.

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[ CHAPTER XVI
] BULL-FIGHTING

We in England have many sports, such as hunting, shooting, fishing, racing, cricket, football, and countless other games and pastimes. In Portugal, beyond a very little shooting, there is only one real sport, and that is bull-fighting.

It is very exciting indeed, and the Portuguese take great delight in watching it.

Most of us think of bull-fighting as terribly cruel, and as degrading to those who witness it, and so it is in Spain. The audience there expect to see bulls killed, horses gored to death by cruel horns, and many other horrors too revolting to think of.

In Portugal, however, it is altogether different, although it is still such a dangerous amusement that a slip or a false move may cause a man’s death. The main object is to show great skill and agility in teasing and playing with the infuriated bull, without giving him the chance of retaliating. Anyone who gets either himself or his horse injured is looked on as a very clumsy fellow.

I will try to tell you all that Pedro, a little bullet-headed Portuguese boy saw, one fine Sunday afternoon, when his father and mother took him for the first time to see a bull-fight.

It was at Lisbon, where there is an enormous bull-ring, a great round building standing on a hill to the north of the city, and big enough to hold 10,000 or 12,000 people. Large crowds were trooping towards it, some in carriages, some on foot.

Pedro was all excitement, and was quite bewildered when he got inside at seeing so many faces, row upon row, and the boxes and stalls packed with gaily-dressed ladies.

The building had no roof, and was divided into two parts called sol and sombra—“sun” and “shade.” Those who could afford it sat in the shade, those who had less of this world’s goods took cheaper seats in the sun, which beat down fiercely on them, and until the commencement of the sport, the sunny side was one vast sea of parasols and umbrellas. Water-sellers with glasses and large red earthenware jars plied a busy trade, as they passed up and down crying with shrill voices: “Water, cold water!”

Pedro was one of the lucky ones who sat on the shady side. He was quite cool and comfortable, so he had nothing to distract his attention from all that was going on. A band played some preliminary music, but the little boy could hardly listen to this, so anxious was he for the show to begin.

At last a flourish of trumpets and the applause of the company proclaimed that the Director of the Corrida had entered the tribune, just below the royal box, which was empty on this occasion, though royalty may often be seen at the bull-fights.

A bell rang, and Pedro could have screamed with delight as a gateway facing the tribune was thrown open for a horseman and twelve men on foot to enter. The horse was a beautiful animal, caparisoned in silk and gold. The rider, or cavalheiro, was young and handsome, with powdered hair, and dressed in a most becoming costume, such as might have been worn by Dick Turpin or Claude Duval. He had on a dark green coat, richly laced with gold, and with deep cuffs, broad lapels, and ruffles at the wrists; a frilled shirt, lace cravat, a three-cornered hat with feathers, white breeches, and high boots up to the knees. The stirrups were of the old-fashioned, square, box-like variety common to the country, and were of shining silver.

On either side of him stood three banderilheiros—men who attack the bull on foot. They, too, had three-cornered hats, and wore tightly-fitting jackets and breeches of bright-coloured silk, embroidered with gold or silver lace, and gaudy coloured scarves were wound round their waists.

Behind these were six other men, called moços de forcado, or fork-men, so named from the pole, with a small blunt iron fork at one end, which they sometimes carry. They were peasants from the plains of Alemtejo, where the bulls are bred, and on this occasion were clad in gay-flowered chintz jackets, drab breeches, bright sashes, white stockings, and long green bag caps.

Whilst all these remained standing, the cavalheiro rode round the ring. He was a most finished horseman, and as he bowed gracefully, hat in hand, making his horse caracole and amble, little Pedro quite lost his heart to him, and thought he was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

After this all withdrew, and then the cavalheiro returned, accompanied by two of the banderilheiros carrying red cloaks, with which to irritate the bull. They were all provided with darts—sticks about a foot long, with very fine barbed points, and ornamented with floating ribbons. These have to be stuck in the upper part of the bull’s neck, about 6 inches behind the horns, and on a spot less than 4 inches square. It is the one part of the sport that might be considered cruel, but the skin in that place is about 2 inches thick, and very hard and callous, and it is said (let us hope with truth) that the bulls hardly feel the prick.

As the feat of placing the darts is generally performed while the animal is actually charging, it demands the utmost daring, agility, and sureness of eye.

At a given signal a door was thrown open, and while Pedro held his breath with excitement and terror, a fierce black bull rushed bellowing in, and charged straight at the bold cavalheiro. Galloping past it, he plunged his little dart into the animal’s neck, at the very moment when the small spectator felt that nothing on earth could prevent both horse and rider being thrown to the ground. For an instant the bull turned aside, only to renew its mad rushes again and again. The rider flew before it, or galloping alongside, and forcing his now terrified horse to close quarters, placed his darts and wheeled away once more with marvellous quickness to escape the horns of the enraged beast.

The performance lasted for ten minutes, and then eight or nine tame oxen, with bells round their necks, were driven in through a large doorway. They surrounded the wild bull, and got him to trot quietly out with them.

All this time Pedro had been held spellbound, but the moment had now come when his hero was to receive the reward of his prowess in the shape of applause, clapping of hands, shouting and stamping. Caps and hats were thrown in the air, ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and Pedro joined with the others till he had shouted himself hoarse.

After this another bull was let in, and this time he was tackled by two banderilheiros. He tossed his head, pawed up the ground, and bellowed so loudly that it sent a cold shiver down poor little Pedro’s back. How was it possible, he thought, for unarmed men on foot to escape?

The bull charged straight at one of them, who stood like a statue, holding his scarlet silk cloak in front of him. As the bull seemed almost in the act of tossing him, he bounded lightly to one side, striking with his dart at the same moment, and throwing the cloak into the animal’s face. It was torn to ribbons in a few seconds, for the enraged beast lowered his great muscular neck, and gored and tossed it, trampling and stamping on it as though he were killing some living thing. The next moment he was once more charging his enemy, who escaped this time by leaping nimbly over one of the barriers which separated the audience from the ring.

Later on a great commotion was caused by the bull himself jumping the first barrier in pursuit of his tormentor—no mean feat, for it was five and a half feet high. The people in the front seats were terrified lest he might take it into his head to clear the second also, and get in among them, and the relief was great when he was safely back in the ring.

Another item of the programme consisted of what might almost be called a romp with the bull, carried out by the moços de forcado.

One of them walked boldly forward shouting, hooting, whistling, and throwing his arms about to attract the animal’s attention, and, finally, leaning down with his hands on his knees, stared him straight in the face. A furious charge followed, and quick as lightning the man leapt upwards right between the lowered horns, which he grasped firmly with both hands, resisting every effort made to toss him. Loud was the applause as the maddened beast tore round the ring with his enemy borne aloft and unhurt.

His companions now rushed forward to rescue him. With foolhardy daring they seized the bull by the tail, the horns, the legs; pushed against his sides, and so bewildered and overpowered him, that the man was able to jump down in safety from his dangerous position.

The performance was divided into two parts, and there were ten bulls in all. Several times the whole audience went, what we placid English people would call quite “off their heads” with enthusiasm over some special act of skill or daring, and on one occasion, not content with shouting, stamping, and clapping, they flung gloves and handkerchiefs, flowers and cigars into the ring at the hero’s feet.

Pedro joined in the applause, feeling quite hurt at not being allowed to throw something himself, not even his mother’s fan, which he wanted to do very badly indeed. He was determined that when he grew up, he, too, would be a handsome cavalheiro on a beautiful prancing horse, and would receive the plaudits of the multitude with becoming grace. In this happy frame of mind let us say “Good-bye” to him, and to Portugal.

BILLING AND SONS. LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD