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.