Lisbon has a fine appearance from the harbor. A stranger, after a long sea-voyage, while standing on the deck of his vessel, and gazing on its battlements and towers, might fancy it to be a terrestrial paradise; but, on landing, his admiration would certainly sink below zero, as he plodded his way, beset by saucy beggars at almost every step, through its narrow, filthy streets. Such, at least, was my impression, as I perambulated the city. Among other things, I noticed a great variety of churches and convents, which furnished swarms of plump, good-natured friars, under whose spiritual domination the good people of Lisbon were content to rest. I also counted thirteen large squares. One of them contained a huge black horse, standing in its centre, with the figure of a man upon his back, both much larger than life. What this monument represented, I did not learn. That square is denominated Black Horse Square.
On the day after our arrival, the Macedonian was the scene of considerable bustle. The troops, who seemed to forget their proximity to a field of carnage, in the delight they felt at escaping from the confinement on shipboard, were landed; several boats’ crews were also sent up the river to assist in the defence of the place.
While we lay here, our ship was well supplied with fruits from the shore. Large bunches of delicious grapes, abundance of sweet oranges, water-melons, chestnuts, and also a bountiful supply of gigantic onions, of peculiar flavor, enabled our crew to gratify their palates in true English style. Poor fellows! they feasted, laughed, and joked, as if the future had nothing to develop but fairy scenes of unmixed delight. Little thought, indeed, does your true tar take of the morrow.
Amid these feastings, however, there rose something to trouble Macbeth, in the shape of an order from the admiral to prepare for a cruise. This was peremptory;—for a cruise, therefore, we prepared. Our boats’ crews came on board; the officers stored their larder with the means of gustatory gratifications; and we stood out to sea again.
The port of Corunna, in Spain, was the next place at which we anchored. While lying in this spacious and safe harbor, our little world was thrown into temporary confusion by the loss of the ward-room steward, Mr. Sanders. This man could speak in the Spanish tongue; he had accumulated a considerable sum of money by long service, prize money, and an economy little known among sailors. For some cause or other he had become dissatisfied; so, one day, he engaged a Spaniard to run his boat under the stern of our frigate; dropping from one of the stern ports into the boat, unperceived by the officers, the wily Spaniards covered him with their loose garments and sails, and then conveyed him to the shore. This was running a great risk; for had he been detected in the act, or taken afterwards, he would have felt the cruel strokes of the lash. Fortunately for himself, he escaped without detection.
From Corunna, we returned to Lisbon, where, at the cheerful cry of “All hands bring the ship to an anchor, ahoy!” we once more placed our frigate, taut and trim, under the battlements of the city.
As servant to the surgeon, it was one part of my duty to perform the task of carrying his clothes to be washed. As great attention to cleanliness, in frequently changing their linen, is observed among naval officers, a good washerwoman is considered quite a desideratum. In attending to this matter for my master, I had frequent opportunities to go on shore. This gave me some means of observation. On one of my visits to our pretty laundress, I saw several Portuguese running along, gesticulating and talking with great earnestness. Being ignorant of their language, my washerwoman, who spoke good English, told me that a man had been stabbed, in consequence of some ground for jealousy, afforded by the conduct of the deceased. Hastening to the spot, I saw the wounded man, stretched out on a bed, with two gaping wounds in his side, the long knife, the instrument of the deed, lying by his side. The poor sufferer soon died. What was done to the murderer, I could not discover.
Though very passionate, and addicted to the use of the knife, for the purpose of taking summary vengeance, the Portuguese are nevertheless arrant cowards. Indeed, it is a question by no means settled, whether all classes of men, in any country, who fly to cold steel or to fire-arms in every petty quarrel, are not cowards at heart. We had an evidence of Portuguese cowardice in an affray which occurred between some of the citizens of Lisbon and a party of our marines. Six of the latter, ignorant of the palace or municipal regulations, wandered into the queen’s gardens. Some twenty of the Portuguese, on witnessing this bold intrusion on the privacy of the queen, rushed upon them with long knives. The marines, though so inferior in number, faced about with their bayonets, and, after much cursing and chattering, their enemies, considering perhaps that the better part of valor is discretion, took to their heels, leaving the six marines masters of a bloodless field. These recontres were quite common between them and our men; the result, though sometimes more serious, was uniformly the same.
As an illustration of the manners of this people, I cannot forbear the insertion of another fact. I was one day walking leisurely along the streets, quite at my ease, when the gathering of a noisy multitude arrested my attention. Looking up, I was shocked at seeing a human head, with a pair of hands beneath it, nailed to a pole! They had just been taken from the body of a barber, who, when in the act of shaving a gentleman, was seized with a sudden desire to possess a beautiful watch, which glittered in his pocket; to gain this brilliant bauble, the wretched man cut his victim’s throat. He was arrested, his hands were cut off, then his head, and both were fastened to the pole as I have described them. Upon inquiry, I ascertained that this was the ordinary method of punishing murder in Portugal; a striking evidence that civilization had not fully completed its great work among them. Civilization humanizes the feelings of society, throwing a veil of refinement and mercy over even the sterner acts of justice; at any rate, it never tolerates such barbarism as I saw at Lisbon.