A wild tract of forest-land.--Arrival at Estremoz.--A fair.--An
outrageous sermon.--Boundless wastes of gum-cistus.--Elvas.--Our
reception there.--My visiters.
Saturday, December 1st, 1787.
Hitherto I have had no reason to complain of my accommodations in
travelling through Portugal. A mandate from the governor procured me
milk this morning for my breakfast, much against the will of the
proprietor, who had a great inclination to keep all to himself. The idea
of its being squeezed out by force, persuaded me that it had a very sour
taste, and I hardly touched it.
I laid in a stock of carpets for my journey, of strange grotesque
patterns and glaring colours, the produce of a manufactory in this town,
which employs about three hundred persons. Methinks I begin to write as
dully as Major W. Dalrymple, whose dry journal of travels through a
part of Spain I had the misfortune of reading in the coach this morning,
as we jogged and jolted along the dreary road between Arroyolos and
Venta do Duque.
We passed a wild tract of forest-land, and saw numerous herds of swine
luxuriously scratching themselves against the rugged bark of cork-trees,
and routing up the moss at their roots in search of acorns. Venta do
Duque is a sty right worthy of being the capital of hoggish dominions.
It can boast, however, of a chimney, which, giving us the opportunity of
making a fire, rendered our stay in it less intolerable.
The evening turned out cloudy and cold. Before we arrived at Estremoz,
another city on a hill, better and farther seen than it merits, it began
to rain with a vengeance. I hear it splashing and driving this moment in
the puddles which lie in the vast, forlorn market-place, at one end of
which our posada is situated. For Portugal, this posada is by no means
indifferent; the walls and ceilings have been neatly whitewashed, and
here are chairs and tables. My carpets are of essential service in
protecting my feet from the damp brick-floors. I have spread them all
round my bed, and they make a flaming exotic appearance.
Sunday, December 2nd.
When I opened my eyes about seven in the morning, the sky was still
dismal and lowering; and a crowd of human figures, enveloped in dark
capotes, were just issuing from several dens and lurking-places on each
side the entrance of the posada. A fair, which was held to-day, had
drawn them together, and they were lamenting in chorus the rainy
weather, which prevented the display of their rural finery. Most of
these good people had passed the night in the stables of the posada. As
I came down stairs, I saw several of their companions of both sexes
lying about like the killed and wounded on a field of battle; or, to use
a less fatal comparison, like the dead-drunk during a contested election
in England.
From the windows of the posada I looked down on a vast opening a
thousand feet in breadth, surrounded by irregular buildings; amongst
which I could not discover any of those handsome edifices adorned with
marble columns, some travelling scribblers mention in terms of the
highest commendation. The marble tower, too, they describe, built by Don
Deniz, has totally lost its polish, if true it is it ever had any.
Hard by the posada is a little chapel, to which I repaired as soon as I
had breakfasted, and heard an outrageous sermon preached by a
grey-headed, fiery-eyed capuchin, to a troop of blubbering females.
As it did not positively rain, but only drizzled, after the fashion of
my own dear native country, I rode part of the way to Elvas, and
traversed boundless wastes of gum-cistus, whose dark-green casts a
melancholy shade over the face of the country. A mile or two from Elvas,
the scene changes to a forest of olives, with fountains by the wayside,
and avenues of poplars, which were not yet deprived of their foliage.
Above their summits tower the arches of an aqueduct, supported by strong
buttresses, and presenting, when seen in perspective, an appearance, in
some points of view, not unlike that of a ruined gothic cathedral. The
ramparts of Elvas are laid out and planted much in the style of our
English gardens, and form very delightful walks.
Upon entering the town, which seems populous and thriving, we were
conducted to a very clean neat house, prepared for our reception by
order of the governor, Monsieur de Vallarè. A dignified sort of a page,
or groom of the chambers, in a blue coat richly laced, and the order of
St. Jago dangling at his buttonhole, stood ready at the door to show us
up stairs, and, according to the Portuguese system of politeness, never
quitted our elbows a single moment.
I had hardly reconnoitred my new apartments, before Monsieur de Vallarè
was announced. He brought with him the Abade Correa, one of the
luminaries of modern Portuguese literature, whose conversation afforded
me great amusement. We sallied out together to visit the fortifications,
the stables for the cavalry, and barracks for the soldiers, which are
all in admirable order; thanks to the governor, who is indefatigable in
his exertions, and retains at a very experienced age the agility of
five-and-twenty. I was delighted with his cheerful, military frankness,
and unaffected attentions. He told me, he had stood the fire of our
formidable column at Fontenoy, and never enjoyed himself so much in his
life, as in the smoke and havoc of that furious engagement.
From one of the bastions to which he conducted us, we had a distinct
view of the fort de la Lippe, erected at an enormous expense on the
summit of a woody mountain. Had the weather been fine, it might have
tempted me to climb up to it; but showers beginning to descend, I
preferred taking shelter in a snug apartment of the maréchal, enlivened
by a blazing pile of aromatic woods, raised up on a grate in a
christian-like manner. The abade and I drawing close to this hospitable
hearth, talked over Lisbon and its inhabitants; whilst Verdeil amused
himself with scrutinizing some minerals the maréchal had collected, and
which lay scattered about his room.
In these occupations the time passed till supper. We had pork delicately
flavoured, exquisite quails, and salads, prepared in different manners,
the most delicious I ever tasted. Our conversation was lively and
unrestrained; Correa has an originality of genius and freedom of
sentiment, which the terrors of the inquisition have not yet
extinguished.