Convent of Boa Morte.--Emaciated priests.--Austerity of the
Order.--Contrite personages.--A _nouveau riche_.--His house.--Walk
on the veranda of the palace at Belem.--Train of attendants at
dinner.--Portuguese gluttony.--Black dose of legendary
superstition.--Terrible denunciations.--A dreary evening.
Nov. 9th, 1787.
M---- and his principal almoner, a renowned missionary, and one of the
most eloquent preachers in her Majesty’s dominions, were at my door by
ten, waiting to take me with them to the convent of Boa Morte. This is a
true Golgotha, a place of many skulls, for its inhabitants, though they
live, move, and have a sort of being, are little better than skeletons.
The priest who officiated appeared so emaciated and cadaverous, that I
could hardly have supposed he would have had strength sufficient to
elevate the chalice. It did not, however, fall from his hands, and
having finished his mass, a second phantom tottered forth and began
another. From the pictures and images of more than ordinary ghastliness
which cover the chapels and cloisters, and from the deep contrition
apparent in the tears, gestures, and ejaculations of the faithful who
resort to them, I fancy no convent in Lisbon can be compared with this
for austerity and devotion.
M---- shook all over with piety, and so did his companion, whose knees
are become horny with frequent kneelings, and who, if one is to believe
Verdeil, will end his days in a hermitage, or go mad, or perhaps both.
He pretends, too, that it is this grey-beard that has added new fuel to
the flame of M----’s devotion, and that by mutually encouraging each
other, they will soon produce fruits worthy of Bedlam, if not of
Paradise. To be sure, this father may boast a conspicuously devout turn,
and a most resolute manner of thumping himself; but he must not be too
vain. In Lisbon there are at least fifty or sixty thousand good souls,
who, without having travelled so far, thump full as sonorously as he.
This morning, at Boa Morte, one shrivelled sinner remained the whole
time the masses lasted with outstretched arms, in the shape and with all
the inflexible stiffness of an old-fashioned branched candlestick.
Another contrite personage was so affected at the moment of
consecration, that he flattened his nose on the pavement, and licked the
dirt and dust with which it was thickly encrusted.
I must confess that, notwithstanding this very superior display of
sanctity, I was not sorry to escape from the dingy cloisters of the
convent, and breathe the pure air, and look up at the blue exhilarating
sky. The weather being delightful, we drove to several distant parts of
the town, to which I was yet a stranger. Returning back by the Bairro
Alto, we looked into a new house, just finished building at an enormous
expense, by Joaô Ferreira, who, from an humble retailer of leather, has
risen, by the archbishop’s favour, to the possession of some of the most
lucrative contracts in Portugal. Uglier-shaped apartments than those the
poor shoe-man had contrived for himself I never beheld. The hangings are
of satin of the deepest blue, and the fiercest and most sulphureous
yellow. Every ceiling is daubed over with allegorical paintings, most
indifferently executed, and loaded with gilt ornaments, in the style of
those splendid sign-posts which some years past were the glory of
High-Holborn and St. Giles’s.
We were soon tired of all this finery, and as it was growing late, made
the best of our way to Belem. Whilst M---- was writing letters, I walked
out with Don Pedro on the verandas of the palace, which are washed by
the Tagus, and flanked with turrets. The views are enchanting, and the
day being warm and serene, I enjoyed them in all their beauty. Several
large vessels passed by as we were leaning over the balustrades, and
almost touched us with their streamers. Even frigates and ships of the
first rate approach within a quarter of a mile of the palace.
There was a greater crowd of attendants than usual round our table at
dinner to-day, and the huge massy dishes were brought up by a long train
of gentlemen and chaplains, several of them decorated with the orders of
Avis and Christ. This attendance had quite a feudal air, and transported
the imagination to the days of chivalry, when great chieftains were
waited upon like kings, by noble vassals.
The Portuguese had need have the stomachs of ostriches to digest the
loads of savoury viands with which they cram themselves. Their
vegetables, their rice, their poultry, are all stewed in the essence of
ham, and so strongly seasoned with pepper and spices, that a spoonful of
peas, or a quarter of an onion, is sufficient to set one’s mouth in a
flame. With such a diet, and the continual swallowing of sweetmeats, I
am not surprised at their complaining so often of head-aches and
vapours.
Several of the old Marquis of M----’s confidants and buffoons crept
forth to have a peep at the stranger, and hear the famous missionary
descant upon martyrdom and miracles. The scenery of Boa Morte being
fresh in his thoughts, his descriptions were gloomy and appalling: Don
Pedro, his sisters, and his cousin, the young Conde d’Atalaya,[23]
gathered round him with all the trembling eagerness of children who
hunger and thirst after hobgoblin stories. You may be sure he sent them
not empty away. A blacker dose of legendary superstition was never
administered. The Marchioness seemed to swallow these terrific
narrations with nearly as much avidity as her children, and the old
Abade, dropping his chin in a woful manner, produced an enormous rosary,
and kept thumbing his beads and mumbling orisons.
M---- had luckily been summoned to the palace by a special mandate from
his royal mistress. Had he been of the party, I fear Verdeil’s prophecy
would have been accomplished, for never did mortal hold forth with so
much scaring energy as this enthusiastic preacher. The most terrible
denunciations of divine wrath which ever were thundered forth by ancient
or modern writers of sermons and homilies recurred to his memory, and he
dealt them about him with a vengeance. The last half hour of the
discourse we were all in total darkness,--nobody had thought of calling
for lights: the children were huddled together, scarce venturing to move
or breathe. It was a most singular scene.
Full of the ghastly images the good father had conjured up in my
imagination, I returned home alone in my carriage, shivering and
shuddering. My friends were out, and nothing could be more dreary than
the appearance of my fireless apartments.