Beyond this friendly row of men in black, we saw the river dotted with white sails, and on its banks, among the willows, we beheld not a few of those well-shaped washer-women with turned-up skirts, whom Camoens christened the nymphs of the Mondego. At the far end of the bridge, between tall irregular walls, stood a gateway as dark as the entrance to a Turkish town; and just as we would have passed through it, mournful objurgations and sorrowful appeals from some invisible mortals rose around us, while baskets hanging on pulleys came down upon our heads, and porringers fastened to long reeds started out of holes in the walls and terrified our horses. The prisoners shut up within those walls were thus beseeching us to deposit our alms, pecuniary or other, in their baskets or their porringers! Having dismounted at a good inn, we discovered that the "Mesonero" (in other words, our host) was the possessor of two pretty daughters, whom he kept in a tower under lock and key, so dangerous a town is Coimbra! But we set our wits to work to catch a sight of the beautiful recluses. By means of a nosegay tied to the end of a long stick we drew two sprightly faces, well worthy their reputation, to the window, and so we made acquaintance. Then we were fetched to go over the university, the honours of which were done us by the "grand master" in a blue and gold gown, assisted by two professors who spoke French admirably well. Aumale, being much more lettered and academic than myself, kept the conversational ball rolling brilliantly. The huge institution, in which professors and students alike seemed to me to know their work thoroughly, is admirably organised, and is venerated throughout the whole country on account of its great antiquity. To the Portuguese mind it is the fountain-head of all knowledge; and we were told, in the most artless manner, that if our universities in France were good it was because they were managed by professors from Coimbra! From the university we went on to see an ancient mosque which had been turned into a cathedral, but which still preserved its thoroughly Moorish character. In Spain and Portugal alike the Moors have left indelible traces of their passage, both in the buildings, in the language, and in the types of the two races. Our stay at Coimbra ended with an expedition to the "Quinta das Lagrimas" (the Villa of Tears). In the shadow of the gigantic cedars which shelter this villa, standing in a lovely spot on the banks of the Mondego, the romantic story of the loves of the Infant of Portugal, Don Pedro, and of Inez de Castro, as sung by Camoens, and ending in that murder of Inez, to the punishment of which the whole life of Don Pedro "the Avenger" was devoted, unfolded itself. The proprietors for the time being of the villa gave me some of Inez de Castro's hair, which they had collected when her tomb was violated during the Napoleonic wars. It is fair hair.
We returned to Lisbon by a different route, over terrible roads, scarcely more than tracks, across a land of moors and pine-woods, picturesque enough, but wild and lonely, where we came in broad daylight on huge wolves, prowling round the flocks of goats, which the goatherds still call, as in the most primitive times, by blowing on conch shells. Two days' march brought us within sight of the little town of Thomar, and at nightfall we reached our halting place—a horrible "hospedaria," in the kitchen of which we took refuge, chilled, and aching with fatigue. Aumale dandled the children in the chimney-corner, thereby winning their fond affections, while I set to work to make love to the mistress of the establishment, a stout and not altogether illiterate lady—for she could swear in any language.
Thomar! Were you ever at Thomar? Did you ever even hear of it? Yet how many a journey has been made, how much trouble has been taken, to see what is much less worth seeing! The object of my admiration there is a convent, sacked, alas! and plundered—well-nigh utterly destroyed, but still the most singularly remarkable building conceivable. The nucleus of the convent is formed by a round mosque, with coloured pillars, and a "mirhab," which I still see in my mind's eye, full of long-robed and turbaned Mussulmans, plunged in solemn meditation. With the Christian conquest, the mosque became a Christian church, and the mirhab in its centre the high altar. After the Moors came the Templars, and then the Knights of Christ, who bravely defended the convent against an attempted Moorish recapture. A gate is still shown, called the "Gate of blood" on account of the carnage of which it was the scene. The Templars and the Knights of Christ have both left their mark upon the edifice. Later in the day came Don Emmanuel, and with him the rich and quaint style of his period. A choir and a wonderful doorway were added to the old mosque, the cloisters were lengthened, and beautiful halls were erected. Then the Spanish Philips, during their suzerainty over Portugal, made Thomar their residence, and in the new cloisters they added to the edifice, the severe and heavy style of architecture which the gloomy character of Philip II. brought into fashion is exemplified. The convent is at once an architectural and historical museum, and the most striking of religious monuments. The silence of the immense cloisters—there are six or seven of them—is deeply impressive. I could not tear myself away, every moment seemed to reveal some new and striking detail. I was roused from my admiration and my reverie by a volunteer guide who had attached himself to me, and who, seeing me pause before an exquisite statuette, said, "I'll take it down for you to carry away with you," adding, when I exclaimed in horror at the idea "But everybody takes what they like here!" I am happy to be able to add that we denounced this vandalism as soon as we got back to Lisbon, at the same time so exciting King Ferdinand's truly artistic feelings by our description of Thomar that he went there in his turn, and, thanks to him, the preservation of that unique edifice was thenceforth assured.
We made a delightful journey from Thomar to Lisbon, by Abrantes, at which place I saw an old gentleman in an antediluvian uniform, wearing his sword transversely like a powdered marquis in a play, advance towards me, and throw himself on his knees, embracing mine, and exclaiming, "Let me embrace the man who brought back Napoleon!" (Le conducteur de Napoleon), an allusion to my St. Helena expedition, which somewhat amazed me. When we got back to Lisbon I bade a sorrowful farewell to Aumale, who departed on board a steamship for Algiers, there to commence the brilliant campaign which ended in the capture of Abd-el-Kader's smalah. Horace Vernet's fine picture in the Versailles Museum perpetuates the memory of this splendid exploit.
My readers are aware that having started to capture the smalah, my brother got up to it with nothing but his cavalry and far from his supports, after several night marches, which he contrived to steal on the enemy. "The enemy is very strong," said Colonel Yusuf, a gallant officer, who was with the advance guard, hurrying back. "No prince of my race has ever turned back," was the answer. "Forward!" and the little force, with the general at its head, threw itself unhesitatingly on the mass of warriors in front. Its audacity was justified by its success.
As for me, while Aumale was steaming towards Algeria I was bidding farewell to my excellent friends and relatives, Queen Dona Maria and King Ferdinand, and setting sail for Senegal and the Guinea Coast, where I was to make the round of our colonial settlements.
CHAPTER X
1843
The canoe manned by four paddlers in which I had crossed the bar at Guet-n-dar was carried high up on the sand on the crest of a huge wave. A crowd of blacks rushed forward before the wave could come back, lifted me out, and put me down, with loud shouts of "Petit roi pas goutte d'eau" (Not a drop of water on our little king), at the feet of Bobokar, King of Guet-n-dar, a tall negro, dressed in a striped cotton gown, and with a laced cocked hat on his head, which had seen better days on a general officer's or a coachman's.
As soon as I was landed, the King of Guet-n-dar (I only call him king in obedience to the African custom which bestows the title on every chief who has a right to beat other people)—the King, I say, set himself to work to make way for me through his subjects crowding round, with heavy blows from his cudgel, and crossing the tongue of sand between the Senegal river and the sea, which forms his kingdom, I entered St. Louis, the capital of our possessions on the West African coast. While nobody talks anything but sugar at Martinique, nor cod in Newfoundland, at St. Louis the only subject of conversation is GUM. It is its staple product, and indeed is found nowhere else, except in Arabia.