Dinner at the country-house of Mr. S----.--His Brazilian
wife.--Magnificent repast.--A tragic damsel.
11th June, 1787.
To-day we were engaged to dine in the country at a villa belonging to a
gentleman, whose volley of names, when pronounced with the true
Portuguese twang, sounds like an expectoration--Josè Street-Arriaga-Brum
da Silveira. Our hospitable host is of Irish extraction, boasts a
stature of six feet, proportionable breadth, a ruddy countenance,
herculean legs, and all the exterior attributes, at least, of that
enterprising race, who often have the luck of marrying great fortunes.
About a year or two ago he bore off a wealthy Brazilian heiress, and is
now master of a large estate and a fubsical, squat wife, with a head not
unlike that of Holofernes in old tapestry, and shoulders that act the
part of a platter with rather too much exactitude. Poor soul! to be
sure, she is neither a Venus nor a Hebe, has a rough lip, and a manly
voice, and I fear is somewhat inclined to be dropsical; but her smiles
are frequent and fondling, and she cleaves to her husband with great
perseverance.
He is an odd character, will accept of no employment, civil or military,
and affects a bullying frankness, that I should think must displease
very much in this country, where independence either in fortune or
sentiment is a crime seldom if ever tolerated.
Mr. S---- likes a display, and the repast he gave us was magnificent;
sixty dishes at least, eight smoking roasts, and every ragout, French,
English, and Portuguese, that could be thought of. The dessert appeared
like the model of a fortification. The principal cake-tower measured, I
dare say, three feet perpendicular in height. The company was not equal
either in number or consequence to the splendour of the entertainment.
Had not Miss Sill and Bezerra been luckily in my neighbourhood, I should
have perished with _ennui_. One stately damsel, with portentous
eyebrows, and looks that reproached the male part of the assembly with
inattention, was the only lady of the palace Mr. S---- had invited.
I expected to have met the whole troop of my Botanic Garden
acquaintance, and to have escorted them about the vineyards and
citron-orchards which surround this villa; but, alas! I was not destined
to any such amusing excursion. The tragic damsel, who I am told has been
unhappy in her tender attachments, took my arm, and never quitted it
during a long walk through Mr. S----’s ample possessions. We conversed
in Italian, and paid the birds that were singing, and the rills that
were murmuring, many fine compliments in a sort of prose run mad,
borrowed from operas and serenatas, the Aminto of Tasso, and the Adone
of Marini.
The sun was just diffusing his last rays over the distant rocks of
Cintra, the air balsamic, and the paths amongst the vines springing with
fresh herbage and a thousand flowers revived by last night’s rain.
Giving up the narrow tract which leads through these rural regions to
the signora, I stalked by her side in a furrow well garnished with
nettles, acanthus, and dwarf aloes, stinging and scratching myself at
every step. This penance, and the disappointment I was feeling most
acutely, put me not a little out of humour; I regretted so delicious an
evening should pass away in such forlorn company, and lacerating my legs
to so little purpose. How should I have enjoyed rambling with the young
Irish girl about these pleasant clover paths, between festoons of
luxuriant leaves and tendrils, not fastened to stiff poles and stumpy
stakes as in France and Switzerland, but climbing up light canes eight
or ten feet in height!
Pinioned as I was, you may imagine I felt no inclination to prolong a
walk which already had been prolonged unconscionably. I escaped tea and
playing at voltarete, made a solemn bow to the solemn damsel, and got
home before it was quite dark.