This was not my first visit to Lisbon. I was rejoiced to see the Queen Dona Maria again. She was one of my childhood's friends, and I was eventually to become her brother-in-law I know not how many times over. I also renewed my acquaintance with King Ferdinand, of whom I had not seen so much. The King, who was an artist to his finger tips, a distinguished musician, water-colour artist, etcher, and ceramist, hated politics. This and some other little failings common to us both, drew us together, and our friendship endured up to his premature death. I have often been in Portugal since those days, and have always received a welcome for which I feel the liveliest gratitude. I have met distinguished men there, and charming, well-informed, and kind-hearted ladies. I have vowed the sincerest affection alike to both Portugal and the Portuguese, and my best wishes follow both country and people all over the world, but I will not commit myself to any opinion as to their political life.
At the time I speak of, the country possessed two illustrious soldiers, Marshal Saldanha and Marshal Terceira. On these two, in turn, hinged the alternate changes made in its constitution, whether by military insurrection, or other and less unparliamentary means. Such was the national habit, and the country did not seem the worse for it. As in our own case, there were two dynastic parties, but what was strange was that the Miguelists, who opposed Queen Dona Maria, and who, by the way, were few in numbers, set up for being Legitimists, although they claimed the right of government for Don Miguel, the representative of the younger branch of the reigning family. Let wise politicians explain that as best they may.
I do not recollect whether it was on the occasion of this particular visit to Lisbon, that at a reception of mine for the diplomatic body at Belem, the Duke de Palmela, who presented its members (as Minister for Foreign Affairs), asked me to excuse his hurrying through the ceremony, as his Duchess was in the act of bringing her fifteenth child into the world. A palpable proof this, given by the head of its Foreign Office, of the vitality of the Portuguese nation! Some days later the Duke, a diplomatist of the old school, who added to his own considerable wit and cleverness the advantage of having rubbed shoulders with the greatest diplomatists of the century, such as Talleyrand and Metternich, asked me to dine with him. It was a splendid banquet. On our arrival we found the royal archers (so called because they carried halberts!) lining the staircase. Thence we passed into a splendid suite of rooms, at the end of which, after we left table, a great door was thrown open, revealing a magnificent state bed on an estrade with several steps up to it. And in this bed the newly confined Duchess, to whom all the guests hastened to pay their duty!
I noticed some fine rifle battalions at a review of the Portuguese troops, and I had a very amusing talk with the celebrated admiral, Sir Charles Napier, who was present on horseback, in a British post-captain's uniform, but with a little hat, a la Napoleon, with a Portuguese cockade, his trousers all worked up, huge spurs on his feet, and an enormous cudgel in his grasp.
Finally, the King took us on a sporting expedition to Mafra, among the mountains which stretch towards Torres Vedras. They are not high, but steep, and covered with stunted vegetation. It was a picturesque sight this shooting party, in that mountain country, some of it very beautiful, where the eye constantly lighted on scenes that were like pictures of guerilla or partisan warfare. Hundreds of beaters, in their brilliant costumes, wearing breeches, and with handkerchiefs tied round their heads, and cloaks flung over their shoulders, climbed up through the gorges, slipped swiftly along the mountain ledges, and drove a host of small deer, stags, wild boar, and foxes down to the sportsmen. Even after the sun had set the firing was still going on.
But both Aumale and I were very eager to see something more of Portugal than the pleasures and official and political life of Lisbon. So as soon as we were back from the shooting excursion we started on a whimsical expedition of our own, which we hoped to carry as far as the ancient and celebrated university town of Coimbra. All means of communication being most primitive at that time, we travelled on horseback, escorted by a former captain on the French staff, who had been aide-de-camp to the Duke of Ragusa in 1830, who had succeeded his uncle, Hyde de Neuville, as Marquis of Bemposta in Portugal, and who had ended by becoming aide-de-camp to King Ferdinand. We formed a regular caravan, the transport service of which had been undertaken by a native "Almocreve."
The first day we crossed a sort of desert country, of evil repute, covered with heather as far as the eye could see—the lowest spurs of the Sierra d'Estrella, a long mountain chain which rises in Spain, near Segovia and Avila. Passing through a wild gorge, at a place called Mecheira, we came upon a band of evil-looking men, gun on shoulder, who seemed to be out shooting in an easy-going fashion. Our party was both well-armed and numerous, and I fancy they looked on it as too heavy game for their rifles. I am all the more inclined to this opinion, because we met some cavalry patrols a little further on, who had been sent out in a great hurry, some travellers having been stopped and stripped at Mecheira that very morning. Two days' travelling brought us to Alcobaca and Aljubarota. My reader will notice these names beginning with Al. The Moors have passed this way! Aljubarota is famous for the battle there, which established the autonomy of the kingdom of Portugal in 1385. The army commanded by the Grand Master of Avis, Don Jao, had to do with a Spanish force using firearms (the "needle-gun" of that date!), which were quite unknown to the Portuguese troops. These last had both wind and sun and dust against them. But buoyed up by their native bravery, and by the example of Don Jao, and of the Bishop of Braga, who rode down the ranks with helmet on head and lance in hand, they put the Spanish army to flight, and the Spanish King never stopped till he got to Seville. As for the Grand Master of Avis, who became King of Portugal, he founded the church and convent of Batalha, which we had come to see, in memory of his victory.
I know not how to describe ancient buildings. I am no architect; but things which are stately always strike me deeply; and there is no doubt about it, Batalha is stately, simple, severe, with that religious stamp about it which I look for vainly in the churches of our own day. The doorway, delicately carved, and in beautiful preservation, represents terrestrial paradise, and every one of the statues of the saints is a little masterpiece. Behind the church there is a chapel begun by Don Emmanuel, and which he was never able to finish. This is much to be regretted, to judge by what already exists. There is some sculpture of the most extraordinary delicacy—almost like a spider's web. But, alas! vandals have come upon the scene. The stained glass has gone, and ever so many statuettes are missing from their niches, sold to collectors or to passing tourists. Close to the church stands the convent, similar in style to the convent at Belem. There is one huge Gothic hall, which I thought superb. The story goes that the vaulted ceiling gave way three times, and that when it had been built up again the fourth time the architect stood himself underneath it just as the last scaffolding was knocked away. The vault stood, and he had his own face carved on one of the pendentives, thus forming a statuette which is by no means one of the least beautiful in that splendid building, all the more to be admired, to my thinking, on account of its being absolutely untouched by the barbarous hand of the restorer.
We went on to Leiria, where a great market gave us an opportunity of admiring the beauty of the country women and their charming costumes. We put up in a posada, in which the stable was on the first floor and the kitchen on the second, and where we shared rooms with geese and pigs and a party of travelling gelders from France. After Leiria came Pombal. These little Portuguese towns are all charming. They seem as if they belonged to another period altogether. The pillory is still to be seen in them, and the gaol too; this last a sort of wild beast cage, with a huge grated window level with the public square, through which every one can talk, without any surveillance, with the prisoners, condemned or otherwise, who are all huddled together pell mell. There were only two young women in the gaol at Pombal. We entered into conversation with them. By dint of questioning them, and the passers-by as well, we learnt that they were sisters—and then came the eternal old tale. The eldest had a lover, and all the rest of it! She had not courage to put the child out of the way, and her young sister buried it alive. The unhappy girls had been five months in that cage waiting their sentence, exposed to all the insults, jests, and coarse remarks of the populace. What torture to those poor women, who, to judge by their features and appearance, were evidently of a superior class to the mere peasants! The elder one, the mother, was very beautiful, though pale and seemingly weakened by suffering. Her expression was so gentle it pained me to look at her. "Ah, let no man insult a woman who has fallen," says the poet.
After the pillory and the gaol we had another memory of the Middle Ages. Shortly before we got to Coimbra we met one of the great local families, the Pinto-Bastos, travelling along the road, the ladies in litters, each borne by two gaily-caparisoned mules, the gentlemen on horseback, in the costume of the country, and escorted by numerous serving-men, also mounted, and wearing big caps, breeches, and handsome velvet jackets with silver buttons. Each man carried his striped wrapper over his shoulder, and was armed with the huge stick the Portuguese know how to wield so well. The whole caravan made a fine effect. Looking at it pass by, you might fancy yourself in the sixteenth century. All at once, from the crest of some rising ground, we caught sight of the beautiful and smiling Mondego Valley, with Coimbra rising in terraces along the river against a fine mountain background. It was most picturesque. We descended towards a long stone bridge leading to the town, and each members of our caravan made himself ready as best he could to give the least handle possible to the jests with which the students habitually salute all newly-arrived strangers. The whole corporation was under arms, indeed, in the sable costume, doublet, breeches and cloak, with which the "Estudiantinas Espagnoles" have familiarised us, only in this case the Spanish cocked hat and spoon was replaced by a sort of black Phrygian cap. To our astonishment, these young gentlemen, instead of poking fun at us, got off the parapet on which they had been sitting, pulled off their caps to us, and welcomed us with the most kindly politeness. They knew, perhaps, that we too had worn our breeches out upon school benches, and thus saluted us as comrades!