Visiting a cemetery is generally rather a gloomy proceeding, but this one is quite an exception. I saw it first in the month of April, when the tombstones were wreathed in masses of pink roses, and everywhere, growing so thickly that no earth could be seen, were beautiful white arum-lilies, rising out of a perfect sea of glistening green leaves. Above them stood the dark cypresses and light, spreading Judas-trees, covered with purple-pink blossoms, which shed a carpet of flowers on the narrow paths below.

There is a wise old proverb which says, “Do in Rome as Rome does,” and certainly it pays in Lisbon to do as Lisbon does, and the same applies to any part of Portugal. When you go shopping you must remember to wish the shopkeeper “Good-day,” and if you are a man, to bow and raise your hat. You are always expected to be polite, and you receive great politeness in return. Even if you turn out half the shop, and then go away without buying anything at all, the attendant shows no annoyance, but, on the contrary, is sometimes even profuse in his apologies for not having that which the signor is in search of. If, however, you enter in a lofty way—as I am sorry to say I have sometimes seen English people do—and, omitting all form of greeting, roughly demand this article or that, it is quite possible that even should the shopkeeper have exactly what you want, he may tell you he does not stock it, and bow you out of the door.

The people you see in the streets are mostly small and dark, and to judge by the way they stand about talking, sometimes for hours together, they would not seem to have very much to do. Walking down the principal streets of the town any afternoon, you will see little groups of men leaning up against the walls, or standing on the pavement arm in arm, blocking the way for other people, and talking together with much animation. Many are officers in uniform, from bemedalled generals and admirals to subalterns and midshipmen. It looks quite natural in Lisbon, but would strike us as very odd indeed in Bond Street or Piccadilly.

One of the prettiest sights in the whole town is to be seen early in the morning down on the quays along the river, when the graceful, gaily-painted fishing-boats come in, and land their cargoes of shimmering fish. The quays are very wide, and some of them slope right down to the water’s edge. Here the fish are landed and piled up in heaps, and a crowd of waiting women set to work to fill their large flat baskets and take them off for sale in the market near at hand, or to hawk them round the town. Some balance the baskets on their heads, others have them attached to either end of a long pole, which rests on the shoulder. These women are most picturesque. They have gaudy handkerchiefs tied round their heads, beneath small black “pork-pie” felt hats; the sleeves of their cotton blouses are turned up above the elbows, and their bare feet show below very full, short, brightly coloured petticoats.

LISBON FISHWIVES.

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These Lisbon fish-wives correspond to our Cockneys in their fund of ready wit and good-humoured repartee. It is sometimes quite amusing to listen to the banter which passes between the busy workers on the quays and the fishermen, who shout their remarks from the much-encumbered decks of the boats. There are other men and women busily employed, salting and packing some of the fish into boxes and baskets for transportation inland, and others are already at work overhauling the nets.

The method of selling milk strikes one as very odd indeed. Instead of a milk-cart and cans, the cows and goats go round to the houses, and in the early morning are to be seen, even in the most busy streets of the town, being driven slowly along and milked as required at people’s doors.