Along the Tagus are more markets of fruits and vegetables and fish, and vessels of every description, from the fishing-boat to the great Atlantic liner, are continually loading and unloading. Above and between the masts of the boats show the many-coloured dresses of fishwives and peasants, while a multitude of snow-white seagulls rise and fall, rise and fall against the turquoise blue of the river. Beyond lies Barreiro, with its cork factories, the banks of the Tagus rise abruptly, and on a clear day lordly Palmella (from which the palmellão wind blows across the Tagus), perched on its lofty crag, gleams from the dark serra. The passing traveller has, even without landing, a magnificent view of city and harbour. But Lisbon has many more intimate beauties which demand a longer study, and would provide an artist with work for months and years. Especially in winter the colouring is often very exquisite, with tints subdued and delicate, as, for instance, on a stormy day the grey irregular roofs with their crops of fresh green grass seen in some steep travessa against the dark indigo of the river or hills beyond; or some glimpse of ruined Carmo or crumbling Alfama set in relief by a sky of limitless clear blue. The old tiled roofs, warped and curving, are a perpetual delight. Sometimes they have grass in straight furrows between the rows of tiles like springing corn, or they are covered by a more continuous carpet of mosses, or even are gay with the flower of hawksweed. It depends largely on the rain. Two or three months of continuous rain in winter brings them to a high perfection. Summer is the great weeder in Portugal: it robs both roofs and cobbled squares of their pleasant green. Alfama from a distance has the look of a tumble-down fishing-village above the Tagus. At close quarters it is found to be an intricate maze of streets so narrow that they never let in the sun, and a man’s stretched-out arms touch either wall, and so steep that they are built often in the form of stairs. Equally picturesque is the district of Santa Catharina, on the other side of the city. The marvellously steep streets and stairways going down from the Calçada do Combro to the river are full of quaint surprises worthy of the wynds of Edinburgh. Narrow stone staircases lead round and down and down, apparently nowhither, small yards and terraces struggle manfully to keep their balance as level spaces, here and there a palm or a vine or an orange-tree gives a touch of green. The principal descending streets are several yards in width. Rows of bright-coloured clothes perpetually a-drying are projected on poles from either side, and beneath these motley banners is a succession of tiny stifling black shops. The steps are strewn with rubbish and with cats and children innumerable. Sometimes from a doorway comes a smell of burnt rosemary or other scented brushwood used to light the kitchen fire, and bringing with it saudade of the life in Portuguese villages. The names of the streets are often as quaint as the streets themselves, or were, for they disappear and change with a dreadful frequency. One may tremble for the Travessa da Larangeira (of the Orange Tree) or for the Travessa dos Fieis de Deus (of the Faithful of God). How soon will these be called the Passage of Progress and the Street of Civilisation? But perhaps those in authority are beginning to realise that these changes often rob the city of what is more precious than much fine gold and can never be replaced.
Village Life.
One need not go many leagues from Lisbon to find a look of immemorial age about the life of the peasantry. One might be in pre-Roman times. The peasant in black peaked woollen cap, black shirt or blouse and knee-breeches and woollen leggings, walks slowly, goad in hand, in front of his ox-cart with its spokeless wheels of solid wood, or is jolted along as he stands against the tall crooked stakes that form the sides of the cart. The life is often very primitive. The village will have some kind of a dark taverna, where men may drink and play cards, and the shop of the grocer who is the little god and gombeen man of the village. His shop sells everything from hats and shoes and brooms to cheeses and candles and wine and bread and melons and grapes. He gives himself no airs and is always ready to serve his customers behind the counter, but he is a power in the land, often makes a considerable sum of money, and becomes an usurer, or even helps to turn the scale at an election.
Prisons.
The village will also, though it may not have a church, almost certainly have a prison, through the bars of which the prisoners converse with their friends or with any passer-by, as is, indeed, the case in the famous Limoeiro prison in Lisbon. The Portuguese are unfortunately notorious for their neglect of the prisons and for the astonishing way in which children and hardened criminals, political and common offenders, are herded together. And the eagerness to arrest is only equalled by the reluctance to provide food for the arrested. In fact, to give a meal to prisoners is a recognised form of private charity, and stands between them and actual starvation.
“Festas.”
The villages themselves, their streets and houses, are often miserable enough, but they are enlivened by a large number of festas through the year. The pilgrimage or romaria is usually to some shrine in the hills or by the sea, and combines the character of a profane picnic with a religious motive. The most famous shrine is that of the Bom Jesus, near Braga, but every village has its small church or hermitage to which a yearly procession is organised. In some parts of the country the year begins with the janeiras, when groups of men go from house to house with songs special to the occasion, after the fashion of the waits in England. This may be on New Year’s Day or five days later on the Day of Kings. It ends, of course, with the festivities of Christmas, which in Portugal, where the ties of family life are strong, is observed with a peculiar devotion, and all the rites of the yule log and other ancient customs, as the consoada or odd meal to pass the time while waiting for the midnight mass, called a missa do gallo. In the towns at Christmas and at Easter the postman, the porter, the newspaper-seller, the tradesman will send you their visiting-cards (!) with their name and, printed beneath it the words, “Deseja boas festas a V. Exa. e sua Exma. familia” (“Wishes a happy fête to Your Excellency and to your most excellent family”). In return for this you are expected at Christmas to dar as broas (lit., give maize-breads—the broas eaten at Christmas in the towns are yellow cakes, in which honey, egg, almond, and orange peel predominate, and are very different from the excellent maize bread of Minho), and at Easter dar as amendoas (almonds). Between the Day of Kings and Christmas comes a long series of feast-days and pleasant customs, such as in autumn (on All Saints’ Day) the magusto, that is, a kind of picnic in which the principal feature is the roasting and eating of chestnuts not unaccompanied by wine.
BOM JESUS DO MONTE, BRAGA