Puslapio vaizdai

is a delight, but the joy of my heart is the other garden! Laid out, no one knows how many years ago-generations, any way, before the house was built, it has long since fallen into neglect. But it is a neglect that has made for beauty. In the morning and at evening I love to pace its grassgrown alleys breathing in the mingied perfumes of roses and lilies, of sweetpeas and carnations, while whiffs of lemon-blossom steal in through the wicket that leads from the orchard hard by, meeting the sharp pungency of Alecrim da Norte, the northern rosemary, or the aroma of lavendar. High walls of box there are, affording scented shade even at the sunniest of noontides, and if they are never clipped into prim precision, all the better for the multitude of feathered things that make their home therein.

Great is the Portuguese caçador, like unto his Spanish and Italian brothers, in the slaughter of small birds, but Donna Emilia will not suffer a gun within her domains, and all day long, this merry month of May, a perfect carnival of courtship goes on with trillings and pipings, and flutings and callings, and floods of melody poured forth to the droning bass of honeyheavy bees. Butterflies, as well as birds, flit in and out of the tall screens of interwoven polished foliage, and small green frogs drop heavily from branch to branch, while bright-eyed lizards flash-streaks of emerald lightning-across the mossy flanking paths.

The boundary of my favorite path on its far side is a low stone wall, broad enough to be inset with seats alternating with beds, which are just now one wild profusion of pink lilies and delicate miniature iris, things of beauty, with their gold-pencilled purple petals. In earlier spring, it is here the violets grow in rank luxuriance, making a scented carpet, from which rise clusters of jonquil and narcissus, and

in the red-watered moat beyond the yellow flags in vain endeavor to grasp the rosy wreaths of almond blossom, stretching with such coquettish allurement over the gray walls of the adjacent orchard. But the flags furled themselves full two months ago and nought but the tall green blades from which they sprang remain, while fruit is already forming in place of the vanished blossoms. Oh! it is sweet to linger in the old sunk garden amid a tangle of flowers left so long ago to grow and multiply at their own sweet will, whose thousand interwoven perfumes mount with such subtle intoxication to the brain. Here in this dewy corner a tall Annunciation lily opened great pure eyes at dawn, that seem to gaze in chaste aloofness at the purple Bougainvillea clasping the date palms in such passionate embrace. There, across the way a pomegranate set about with tufts of scarlet flame, laughs-reckless as any Bacchante, at the nunlike Arum that stands apart with stiff and slender grace. Yonder the ground is a network of sweet-pea, all velvety, maroon and violet; hard by, a patch of red carnations pour forth their spicy fragrance. Honeysuckle flings its yellow trails in languorous caress of all within its reach, and geranium bushes flaunt their wealth of vivid vermillion rosettes in every scrap of sunny open. In the shade of two mighty araucarias, ferus that would make the fortune of a West End florist flourish exceedingly, side by side with orchids of curious resemblance to bees with wings of delicate lilac. Roses are everywhere-roses red and roses white, roses pink and blush, and yellow and mauvy amber. Cabbage roses-oh! such mines of perfume, tea roses and Maréchal Niels, blush roses and Banksia, Noisette, and cottage roses-to my mind sweetest of all. Roses in thickets, roses climbing trellises in densely clustering masses.

roses falling athwart old walls in wanton cascades of color and fragrance, roses garlanding deserted arbors, roses clutching at you as you make your way down long untrodden paths. And, at one end of the terrace that skirts the Palacio, where the broken sundial lies among the oleanders and along whose balustrade great blue and white vases of glazed earthenware stand at intervals overflowing with trails of scarlet geranium and yellow-starred musk-there is a parterre of roses. It is here I cut some hundreds daily for the decoration of dinner-table and living rooms. I might take thousandsthey would never be missed. The supply is inexhaustible and my scissors cannot keep pace with the multitudes that unfold new beauties to the sun each morning.

In the depths of my dear gardensurely no sleeping beauty ever woke to the kiss of her lover in a more enchanting bower-all, save for the song of birds, the cooing of doves and the drowsing hum of bees, is silence. A great lizard fully two feet long, who clasps the top of a post with skinny hands and clings with bright green body and tapering bronze tail to its sides, blinks sleepily at me with eyes set in a head of metallic blue, as motionless as I who fear to send him darting to his secret lair in the grove of feathery pampas hard by.

Suddenly from some remote corner of the Quinta come the voices of the girls at work among the vines, rising into long-drawn not untuneful chants, which, with their final minor cadences, are fraught with all the mysterious melancholy of the East. Whence did they get their song? Was it from gypsy ancestors? The fields of Hungary rise before me as I listen, and wild inarticulate melodies heard among the Carpathians echo in my ears. Or is it a legacy from the Moors, who bequeathed so many indelible traces to

the land of their adoption? Mingled with the unalterable Sehnsucht of the formless melody I seem to hear the faraway beat of the tom-tom, throbbing on air as hot and still as that of some African desert.

For it is not in song alone that here we recognize the East, but also in the cold gaze of dark eyes, in the dainty proportions of high-instepped feet, and in the love of vivid color and personal adornment, SO peculiarly noticeable among those that garner the harvest, whether it be that of the fields or of the sea. The peasant-wife who jogs by on her donkey to market, perched between her panniers of beans or Indian corn, the fishermaid who squats crosslegged in the Praça with her basket of soles and turbot before her, the girl who weeds and hoes in springtime, and gathers in the vintage when autumn is over the land, balancing on her head weights that I cannot stir with my two hands, and moving with the carriage of a queen-their muffled heads recalling the Oriental veil as the heavy draping of their forms does the yashmak-one and all love to bind scarlet kerchiefs about their brows and to don skirts of pink or yellow, buff or magenta, which, kilted high on the hips, make spots of brilliant color in the distance. They know not shoes nor. stockings, but ornaments of pure gold glitter in their small ears even while they dig and delve, and their persons are veritable jewellers' étalages whenever fitting occasion for display presents itself.


How they amass this treasure of gold, and this, too, in its most unalloyed form, is an unsolved riddle to Most of the store hoarded by their grandmothers was earned at a time when a day's work, literally from the rising to the setting of the sun, only brought in its 32d. The passing of the years has doubled this wage, but life is not much easier to be lived

now than it was half a century ago. If the cheapness of ready-made clothing, of ghastly lace-trimmed blouses and shoddy suits has ousted to a deplorable degree the often picturesque and always dignified costumes that were still general some fifty years ago, the price of the elementary necessaries of life has quadrupled. The house of the ordinary peasant is bare to destitution, his windows are unglazed, and he and his family eat squatting on the clay floor of what is little better than a hovel, gathered round a central bowl, into which each dips his or her spoon without further ceremony. We shall not see this if we peep through the open doors of the tiny houses that shelter the working man of Figueira da Foz-the little seaport town whose white walls gleam pearly through the blue haze two miles away to the south on the edge of the Mondego-but we may if we wander north to the heights or Serra behind us. The wretched hamlets that lie along the crest of the green-fluffed ridge are not the collections of pigsties and stables for which it would be easy to mistake them, but the abodes of human habitation, swarmed over by tribes of dark-eyed, Murillo-like children, of gaunt, halffamished dogs, of lean and ever-hungry goats. And who shall cast the first stone at the squalor, at the lack, indeed, of common decency in which the Portuguese peasant is forced to live? Last of all may the law-makers of this misgoverned country! Exorbitant duties, of export as of import, and an atrocious octroi-system are not the sole grievances under which the long-suffering Portuguese has to groan. State monopoly takes toll of the glass with which, in consequence, none but the comparatively well-to-do among the laboring classes can afford to fill their windows, of the straw hat, which, consequently, has not succeeded in replacing the quaint pointed cap of black LIVING AGE. VOL. XLIV. 2311

cotton inherited by the camponezo from his grandfather, or the colored kerchief of his wife and daughters, of the cigar which is his sole luxury, of the match with which he lights it. And these are only a few of the monopolies grasped by the State. Most heavily of all presses that of lucifer matches. Woe betide the unfortunate peasant who conceals tinder and flint in his cottage. Imprisonment and heavy fine are his lot if detection follows. A year or two back, when, with Hintze Ribeira at its head, the Republican party was at the upper end of the political see-saw, it was in all seriousness proposed to make bread a State monopoly. Fortunately for itself, the Government stopped short of this crowning iniquity. If punishment came later, it fell, alas! on the comparatively innocent, the guilty escaped and the last state of the camponezo is worse than the first.

Happily for him, mother earth is prodigal of her favors in this blest land of fertile soil and balm-breathing dewy air, and the glow of health is seldom absent from the peasant's swarthy cheek. He owns the land whereon he dwells, and it seldom fails to produce the handful of beans, the measure of oil and of wine, that with a pennyworth of sardines or a shred or two of sausage form the staple food of those that live by the sweat of their brow. The Indian corn, ground in the tiny wooden windmills which, spiking the breezy ridges all around us, are such picturesque features of the landscape, is also home-grown. These little mills may well be numerous, for it is of this meal that the daily bread of agricultural Portugal is made. This brou, so called to distinguish it from pao, or wheaten bread, is a compound, stodgy and satisfying to the last degree. A very superior kind of broa is sometimes baked for the proper celebration of highdays and holidays,

when it goes by the name of portas or cake. Would you like to introduce it at your next tea-party? If so, you must take equal proportions of Indian corn and ordinary flour and add a modicum of yeast. Butter comes next, then raisins, chopped walnuts and pinhoes (the seeds of the giant pine), ground cinnamon, too, and any other spices your individual fancy may suggest. For sole moisture, stir in the pulp of boiled pumpkin. Then divide the dough thus formed into loaves and bake. The result is not unpalatable, though it must be confessed that a little of it goes a long way!

If the material wants of the Portuguese peasant are few, his intellectual requirements are satisfied even more easily. Theoretically every one in the country can read and write. As a matter of fact, not one in ten can do So. Though the lack of such distinction is a bar to the much esteemed privilege of a vote (esteemed, I fear, more often on account of its pecuniary value than from any idea of the personal dignity it may bestow), the majority of laboring men only acquire the rudiments of education during their term of compulsory military service, while, as may be imagined, by far the greater number of women go through life unable to sign their own names or read that of another. None of the peasant's hard-earned reis, therefore, are devoted to literature in any form, not a newspaper, even, finds its way into his smoke-darkened den. Nor, to his credit, does the tavern take toll of his scanty wage. During the course of many and prolonged visits to Portugal, I have never once seen an intoxicated person, and even on the occasions of family festivity or social gathering, the public house is not chosen as the scene of conviviality. This abstemiousnessand the Portuguese peasant eats no more copiously than he drinks-is probably one of the contributory factors to

the very high character of rural conduct. While it is true that in the parts where I now am (Figueira is the haunt of pleasure-seekers in the sunmer, of seafaring men of every nation all the year round) the standard of morality is lamentably low, very different, in this respect, is the interior of the country. These more unsophisticated regions breed a race of men upright and self-respecting, of women chaste and faithful. In Portugal's mountain fastnesses, the locks of a girl who has been led astray are clipped completely short, and not suffered to grow till subsequent marriage acts as a magic hair-restorer.

Amusements that involve payment do not tempt many reis out of the peasant's slender purse. The one form of entertainment which the fairly pecunious find irresistible is, of course, the Corrida da toros. This is too costly, however, to be within the reach of the majority of the peasantry, the cheapest seats in the bull-ring of Figueirathose exposed to the sun throughout the whole length of the performancecosting 300 reis, or 18. 22d. each. These Portuguese Corridas, please remember, are conducted on lines altogether humane and unobjectionable, and differ entirely from the savage bull-fight of Spain, which is condemned as unreservedly in this country as in our own. After the bull-fight comes the drama, though even this is not a luxury attainable by all. Still, in every Portuguese village, however small, you will notice, conspicuous among the white-walled, flat-roofed, Eastern-looking houses, a large barulike structure, in form and absence of ornament so strongly suggestive of the "Bethels" and "Bethesdas" scattered broadcast all over Wales, that there is something very funny in its being proudly pointed out as "Nostro Teatro." The building is generally the property of a sort of informal club. The par

ticular one I have, for instance, in my mind, is owned by a society of some hundred members, who pay all expenses of repairs and lighting out of a monthly subscription of 54d.; and there are many such, at which, with the object of circumventing the heavy Government tax on all places of public amusement, no entrance money is charged, admission being by tickets, of which each member has a share-proportionate to his subscription-for his family and friends. In other places a charge of eighty reis or one testoes (44d. or 5d.) is made for a seat. This necessarily excludes all but those in comparatively easy circumstances, but it covers all expenses, including taxes. The young men and lads of the village furnish the corps dramatique, even playing the female parts, as, in a country where the principle of the seclusion of woman is carried to almost Oriental lengths, it is seldom a girl can be persuaded to lend her services. Scenery also, and, except on very great occasions, costume is of home production, and this presents the less difficulty as farces, or melodramas, illustrative of everyday life form by far the largest part of the répertoire.

The orchestra,

too, is supplied by local talent, and will consist of a score or so of guitars, flutes and violins, besides a violoncello and the inevitable violo, while a couple of boys will handle their tambourines with amazing dexterity, twirling them behind their backs or under their knees, or tapping with elbow, knee, or any other projection that comes handy.

As I have said, the Portuguese camponezo is a hard-working person of sturdy independence. He is also honest-as far as his lights go. If, at fairtime, he finds himself without the wherewithal to complete an unforeseen purchase, his word, although he may be a complete stranger to all around him, is as good as his bond. Highway robbery is unknown, and it is only I

who conjure visions of burglars out of the rats that scamper o' nights along the deserted corridors of the lonely Palacio. If Encarnacao, the presiding genius of Donna Emilia's kitchen, choose to surfeit the servants' hall with fish in place of meat, because the fluctuating price of the former forbids too close a control of the pence entrusted to her for the day's marketing; if the rose or the lily I have watched from earliest bud to bursting blossom, rejoicing in its dawning beauty and in the exquisite effect it will have in my aunt's favorite vase, if it vanish at break of day to reappear in the Praça and entice a few reis into Dorinda's pocket; if not a girl in the Quinta but knows that the best oranges grow on a tree which never seems to furnish any for the mistresses' table-well! who would make great peccadilloes out of little ones? The Portuguese is only a conscious thief (and, even then, he may also be called a conscientious one) when he is anxious to propitiate St. Matteus, the Saint who is specially honored at Soure-a little vine-hung village which gives its name to a station between Coimbra and Pombaland to whom only offerings that have been stolen are acceptable.

All religious observances peculiar to the Portuguese camponezo are not as devoid of poetry as the one just recorded. To-day is Ascension Day, and soon the women will be afield gathering the posies that ensure prosperity to their households throughout the ensuing twelve months. This must be done between noon and one o'clock, the hour that saw the Ascension of Nostro Senhor. Ears of corn must be plucked to bring a blessing on the bread, and of these the baker's wives take plentiful supply. Olive twigs, symbolizing domestic peace, are added, together with rosemary, emblematic of bodily wellbeing; flowers, too, representing, in the sight of the Lord, the good deeds,

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