‘A fermosura desta fresca serra,
E a sombra dos verdes castanheiros,
O manso caminhar destes ribeiros,
Donde toda a tristeza se desterra;
O rouco som do mar, a estranha terra,
O esconder do Sol pellos outeiros,
O recolher dos gados derradeiros,
Das nuvens pello ar a branda guerra:
Em fim tudo o que a rara natureza
Com tanta variedade nos ofrece,
Me està (se não te vejo) magoando:
Sem ti tudo me enoja, e me aborrece,
Sem ti perpetuamente estou passando
Nas mòres alegrias, mòr tristeza!’
Not an image of rural beauty has escaped our divine poet; and how
feelingly are they applied from the landscape to the heart! What a
fascinating languor, like the last beams of an evening sun, is thrown
over the whole composition! If I am any thing, this sonnet has made me
what I am; but what am I, compared to Monteiro? Judge,” continued he,
putting into my hand some manuscript verses of this author, to whom the
Portuguese are vehemently partial. Though they were striking and
sonorous, I must confess the sonnet of Camoens, and many of Senhor
Manuel Maria’s own verses, pleased me infinitely more; but in fact, I
was not sufficiently initiated into the force and idiom of the
Portuguese language to be a competent judge; and it was only in fancying
me one, that this powerful genius discovered any want of penetration.
Our dinner was lively and convivial. At the dessert the Abadè produced
an immense tray of dried fruits and sweetmeats, which one of his hundred
and fifty _protégés_ had sent him from, I forget what exotic region.
These good things he kept handing to us, and almost cramming down our
throats, as if we had been turkeys and he a poulterer, whose livelihood
depended upon our fattening. “There,” said he, “did you ever behold such
admirable productions? Our Queen has thousands and thousands of miles
with fruit-groves over your head, and rocks of gold and diamonds beneath
your feet. The riches and fertility of her possessions have no bounds,
but the sea, and the sea itself might belong to us if we pleased; for we
have such means of ship-building, masts two hundred feet high,
incorruptible timbers, courageous seamen. Don Frederic can tell you what
some of our heroes achieved not long ago against the gentiles at Goa.
Your Joaô Bulles are not half so smart, half so valorous.”
Thus he went on, bouncing and roaring us deaf. For patriotic
rodomontades and flourishes, no nation excels the Portuguese, and no
Portuguese the Abadè!
At length, however, all this tasting and praising having been gone
through with, we set forth on the wings of holiness, to pay our devoirs
to the holy crows. A certain sum having been allotted time immemorial
for the maintenance of two birds of this species, we found them very
comfortably established in a recess of a cloister adjoining the
cathedral, well fed and certainly most devoutly venerated.
The origin of this singular custom dates as high as the days of St.
Vincent, who was martyrized near the Cape, which bears his name, and
whose mangled body was conveyed to Lisbon in a boat, attended by crows.
These disinterested birds, after seeing it decently interred, pursued
his murderers with dreadful screams and tore their eyes out. The boat
and the crows are painted or sculptured in every corner of the
cathedral, and upon several tablets appear emblazoned an endless record
of their penetration in the discovery of criminals.
It was growing late when we arrived, and their feathered sanctities were
gone quietly to roost; but the sacristans in waiting, the moment they
saw us approach, officiously roused them. O, how plump and sleek, and
glossy they are! My admiration of their size, their plumage, and their
deep-toned croakings carried me, I fear, beyond the bounds of saintly
decorum. I was just stretching out my hand to stroke their feathers,
when the missionary checked me with a solemn forbidding look. The rest
of the company, aware of the proper ceremonial, kept a respectful
distance, whilst the sacristan and a toothless priest, almost bent
double with age, communicated a long string of miraculous anecdotes
concerning the present holy crows, their immediate predecessors, and
other holy crows in the old time before them.
To all these super-marvellous narrations, the missionary appeared to
listen with implicit faith, and never opened his lips during the time we
remained in the cloister, except to enforce our veneration, and exclaim
with pious composure, “_honrado corvo_.” I really believe we should have
stayed till midnight, had not a page arrived from her Majesty to summon
the Marquis of M---- and his almoner away.
My curiosity being fully satisfied upon the subject of the holy crows, I
was easily persuaded by the Grand Prior to move off, and drive through
the principal streets to see the illuminations in honour of the Infanta,
consort to Don Gabriel of Spain, who had produced a prince. A great
many idlers being abroad upon the same errand, we proceeded with
difficulty, and were very near having the wheels of our carriage
dislocated in attempting to pass an old-fashioned, preposterous coach,
belonging to one of the dignitaries of the patriarchal cathedral. I
cannot launch forth in praise of the illuminations; but some rockets
which were let off in the Terreiro do Paco, surprised me by the vast
height to which they rose, and the unusual number of clear blue stars
into which they burst. The Portuguese excel in fireworks; the late poor,
drivelling, saintly king having expended large sums in bringing this art
to perfection.
From the Terreiro do Paco we drove to the great square, in which the
palace of the Inquisition is situated. There we found a vast mob, to
whom three or four Capuchin preachers were holding forth upon the
glories and illuminations of a better world. I should have listened not
uninterested to their harangues, which appeared, from the specimen I
caught of them, to be full of fire and frenzy, had not the Grand Prior,
in perpetual awe of the rheumatism, complained of the night, so we
drove home. Every apartment of the house was filled with the thick
vapour of wax-torches, which had been set most loyally a blazing. I
fumed and fretted and threw open the windows. Away went the Grand Prior,
and in came Policarpio, the famous tenor singer, who entertained us with
several bravura airs of glib and surprising volubility, before supper
and during it, in a style equally professional, with many private
anecdotes of the _haute noblesse_, his principal employers, not
infinitely to their advantage.
I longed, in return, to have enlarged a little upon the adventures of
the holy crows, but prudently repressed my inclination. It would
ill-become a person so well treated as I had been by the crow-fanciers,
to handle such subjects with any degree of levity.