PILGRIMAGES
The _Romarias_, or annual pilgrimages, are a great institution in
Portugal. They are looked on partly as being good for the soul, and
partly as pleasurable outings. Sometimes the pilgrimage is to a shrine
on some lonely hill-top, sometimes to a spot marked by an array of
stone crosses, where some local saint is reputed to have performed a
miracle. These pilgrimages keep up interest in religious observances,
but unluckily there is often much superstition connected with them.
There are two places which, above all others, attract vast crowds of
the devout, as many as 30,000 to 35,000 people being often present.
One is “Bom Jesus do monte” (Good Jesus of the mountain), near
Braga; and the other “Bom Jesus dos boucas” (Good Jesus of the
barren sands), at Mathosinhos, a village on the sea-coast not
far from Oporto. Here, in an unpretentious church, is enshrined a
crucifix reputed to possess the most wonderful miracle-working
powers.
The legend runs that long, long ago, so far back that date and year
have been forgotten, this figure of our Lord was washed ashore and
placed by the priest in the village church. It had been much buffeted
by the waves, and had lost one arm, but some little time after, the
missing limb was discovered in the following miraculous way. A poor
old woman was trudging along the beach one day, picking up driftwood
wherewith to light her fire. She saw a piece which she thought was the
very thing required, and returned home with it, only to find that do
what she would, she could not get it to burn. She put it out in the
sun to dry, but all to no purpose; so at length she decided to cut it
up into little splinters, to see if in that way it would more readily
catch fire. No sooner was her chopper lifted ready to strike than the
wood jumped to one side! The faster the blows rained down the more
nimble did it become, till at last, in alarm, the old dame sought a
priest, to whom she related her strange story. He examined the piece
of wood, and was inspired to recognize the missing arm, which was soon
restored to its proper position.
The pious folk for miles around still firmly believe that this sacred
image, coming to them thus wonderfully from the sea, must have power to
help the toilers of the deep, and must be the very special protector
of seamen and fishermen. When the storms are wildest, and their boats
are in danger of being wrecked, it is to our Lord of Mathosinhos that
the sailors cry in their distress. They ascribe their preservation to
His miraculous powers, and the church is full of the quaintest votive
offerings given in humble gratitude for answered prayers. Extraordinary
wax models of legs and arms hang near the shrine, and also numberless
pictures, crudely painted by the mariners themselves. These depict
ships in every conceivable peril, and generally the figure in the
church is prominently portrayed, stilling the raging waves, or rescuing
the drowning men. Terrible daubs they are, but they hang there, a
pathetic witness to the faith which, in the hour of danger, could seek
for help where alone help was to be found. They are presented with a
gift of money at the great yearly pilgrimage at Whitsuntide.
A large fair is held at the same time, where whole stalls are devoted
to the sale of whistles. They are made of red, yellow, and brown
pottery, and are the very oddest-looking things, in the shape of
grotesque birds, beasts, and figures. Everyone buys one, and everyone
whistles. It is the right thing to do at Whitsuntide in Mathosinhos.
The pilgrimage to “Bom Jesus do monte” also takes place at Whitsuntide,
and lasts for three days. The church stands on a high hill. Leading up
to it are broad flights of steps, zigzagging from terrace to terrace,
and flanked by walls and overhanging trees. The terraces are ornamented
with statues, obelisks, and fountains carved in granite, and all the
way up, at regular intervals, are small shrines or chapels, in which
stand groups of life-sized figures representing different scenes in
the Passion of our Lord. Up these steps toil the pilgrims in their
thousands, men and women, young and old, reverently worshipping at each
shrine before passing on. Some few in their devotion, weighed down by
their burden of sin and sorrow, perform the entire ascent on their
knees. Masses are chanted and sermons preached in the church; solemn
processions pass to and fro, with banners and crucifix borne aloft. All
knees are bent, all heads are bowed, as priests in gorgeous vestments,
bearing the Host, move slowly along.
Children dressed like fairies take a great part in the processions,
with spangled wings, or the soft feathered pinions of a bird fixed to
their shoulders. I have seen weary little pilgrims, so small and so
tired that the men who marched beside them picked them up tenderly and
carried them along, fast asleep, in their arms.
There have to be great preparations made for so large a gathering.
For days beforehand the creaking of ox-waggons may be heard, wending
their way slowly up the hill, with their loads of food and casks of
wine. Decorations are put up, poles, and flags, and strings of Chinese
lanterns. The people begin to arrive on the Saturday. Some go to one
or other of the three hotels, which on these occasions are packed to
overflowing; but they mostly camp out in the woods in tents, or rough
huts made of branches. They also build fireplaces with stones and clay,
and ovens in which to bake their bread.
Here and there an idle youth brings out his guitar, or someone bursts
gaily into song. It is like a scene in a theatre, only that it is all
real--a huge, happy picnic party, come together for prayer and praise,
and after that to enjoy themselves as much as they possibly can.
All are dressed in their very best. The men wear tight trousers, white
shirts, sashes round the waist, broad-brimmed felt hats, and short
coats much tagged and braided. The women look very gay with blue,
orange, or red silk kerchiefs crossed over the breast, snowy-white
blouses, tight-fitting bodices, black or coloured, and thickly-pleated
skirts of every conceivable hue, cut short at the ankles. They wear
bright embroidered aprons, and a sort of pocket hanging round the
waist, very elaborately ornamented with beads or sequins. Embroidered
muslin handkerchiefs cover their heads, surmounted by round black hats
edged with floss silk made to curl and look like ostrich feathers.
Added to all this, they are decked out with a great deal of gold
jewellery--necklaces, heavy earrings, and huge heart-shaped lockets of
strange, intricate design.
A rich farmer’s wife will sometimes have her whole bodice covered
with gold ornaments, and should she happen to be the proud owner of
three pairs of earrings, will wear them all, to the great envy of her
neighbours.
The women also delight in possessing a great many petticoats. The more
they have the more important do they consider themselves, for it shows
how wealthy they must be, and on such an occasion as a pilgrimage they
don them all. Sixteen or eighteen on one woman! Just think of it in
warm weather! On festive occasions a rich peasant woman will be so
be-petticoated that she can scarcely walk, and will have to move slowly
along in a rolling, ungainly manner; but she will be a proud woman, and
will gladly endure the discomfort for the sake of the importance and
dignity conferred upon her by her many skirts.