major portion of a whole column; but ever and anon one meets with monosyllabic words, of one, two, or three letters, which are Moorish, and for the meaning of which one must needs consult a dictionary.

But while speaking of racial characteristics I may mention one illustration which is peculiarly remarkable. The tourist who goes southward from Oporto toward Pampilhosa should keep a lookout from the train for what is nothing more than a Dutch settlement. Nigh on five hundred years ago a Dutch vessel was wrecked off the Portuguese coast, and the survivors landed, never to return to Holland. Their descendants do not even know that their ancestors were aught but Portuguese, but from the railroad one may see at Caica a group of windmills, while the plain is intersected by dikes, and, I am assured that all the methods, domestic and agricultural, which are practised to this day in this little colony are wholly Dutch in form, while the people themselves have fair hair and the Dutch cast of

countenance.

metres from the fine old town of Braga, in the northern province of Minho. At a height practically identical with that of Wellington's "iron ridge" stands a pilgrimage church with twin towers, and near by are two or three hotels at which one may live in clover at six francs a day. The atmosphere is refreshing in the extreme, and the available panorama almost as far-reaching as that of Bussaco, if somewhat less undulating and less sparsely filled with habitations. From the plateau, on which stand the church and hotels, a broad double staircase of stone descends for some distance, and at every corner there is a shrine, enclosing tableaux in carved wood depicting various incidents in the Passion. There are no fewer than thirtythree of these small chapels, and as a special privilege I was conducted to each one in turn by the landlord of the Grand Hotel! Though not appealing to a Protestant in the same way as to a member of the Roman Catholic faith, the sculptures are of no small degree of artistic merit, and the experience was as interesting as it was unique.

Around Bom Jesus itself, and all the way up to the adjoining but higher eminence of Monte Sameiro (2,444 feet), where there is another pilgrimage church, there are fine woods, ablaze with camellias in wild profusion and including a small lake, with boating, in a park. As there is tramway communication from Braga to the mountain, and a cliff car up to Bom Jesus, the number of visitors is very large, particularly in the spring. At other times, I am told, Bom Jesus is the special haunt of honeymoon couples.

Braga itself, it may be added, is full of architectural and archæological interest, as well as showing pleasing signs of prosperity. The town and the province of Minho generally are distinguished by the costumes of quite exceptional picturesqueness which are worn by the younger women on Sundays and fête days. One knows, of course, how completely the national costumes have disappeared from Switzerland, while even in Italy they are much less common than of yore; I have driven round the entire country by road without encountering anything really striking until I was as far south as Naples. The gay costumes of Minho, on the other hand, are regular features of the life of the

district, and the wearers take a great pride in their appearance. The details of the dress may be gathered from the photograph herewith [page 406], but the vivid coloring must be left to the imagination. Embroidered skirts, chiefly of bright red and black, are worn with white shirts, cross-folded with yellow or many-colored scarfs; another vivid scarf serves as a head-dress, or alternately a turban. In addition to these adornments, a profusion of gold jewelry is worn, the various items being handed on as heirlooms from one generation to another

It was in Braga that I met an Englishman-the only one in the city-who summed up the Portuguese character in words which will bear repeating, inasmuch as I found them confirmed elsewhere. "The Portuguese," he said, "have cheerful faces and cheerful hearts. 'Live and be merry' is their motto; and they are good friends." He added that they were honorable in their dealings; and I may say that in no part of the country did I meet with anything but kindness and extreme courtesy.

Continuing this review of places and features which stand out with special prominence in my individual impressions,

without any attempt at an itinerary or a categorical résumé of the country's resources for the tourist, I now pass to what is really the most wonderful spot in Portugal sunny Cintra. Its fame, it is true, dates from the pre-railway days of Byron, Southey, and Beckford, who were able to reach it from Lisbon when further exploration of the interior was impossible, for even the roads of Portugal were only made some thirty years ago. But Cintra has greater attractions now than in Byron's days, and they are so numerous as to baffle description.

As a climatic station alone, where one may live in winter under conditions that constitute a perpetual spring, it would be all-sufficing, but of things to see it is metaphorically full to the brim. In the town itself there is an erstwhile royal palace, with many splendid rooms which are a storehouse of architectural interest. Behind the town, however, rises a lofty hill, the Serra de Cintra, which of itself is a natural marvel, for, though it is virtually a mass of rock, it is clothed with verdure of the most prodigal kind. On the lower slopes are numerous villas, and then one rises to the famous Château of Montser

rate, formerly owned by Beckford, the author of "Vathek," and now by Sir Frederick Cook. The interior of this château, which is a little palace in itself, is rich in treasures culled from many countries, while the grounds by which it is surrounded are admittedly the most striking example of verdant luxuriance that can be found in the whole world. It is a perfect paradise, from which those privileged to inspect its beauties can with difficulty tear themselves away. The glories of Montserrate, however, do not end with its immediate entourage, for it overlooks a prospect that is fairy-like in its enchantment

of well-wooded hills, a fertile plain, and the sea beyond flashing in the sunlight.

One's capacity for admiration seems to have exhausted itself when one quits the neighborhood of Montserrate; but there is much more in store if one drives or walks up the steeply ascending road until one reaches the gates of the park below the Palace or Castle of Penha. A magnificent drive through woods in which camellias bloom all the winter through in riotous profusion, alternating with massive bowlders of bare rock, brings one at length to the castle itself. It was a favor

ite summer residence of the late King Carlos, and of the ex-King Manuel; it was here, in fact, that the deposed monarch spent his last night in Portugal ere the revolution precipitated his flight from the country.

The building itself, as even a photograph will reveal at a glance, is a striking example of mingled Moorish and Gothic architecture, and equally impressive from within and without, while the sense of exaltation aroused by a survey of the panorama which unfolds itself from the rooms or terraces is incapable of being defined in words.

On another pinnacle of this extraordinary Serra de Cintra stands the shell of an ancient stronghold-the "Castle of the Moors." As with the modern palace, so

convent that the place is a standing record of the growth of Portuguese architecture over a period of six centuries. The Church of the Order of Christ is declared to be the most brilliant example of Manueline architecture in the country, and especially fine is the window of the choir in the chapter-house; but there is a wealth

with this grim remnant resting on its heaped-up pile of titanic bowlders, the view it affords of the hills and vales below, bright with white villas and redroofed cottages, amid groves of cork-trees, pines, and elms, and roads leading to infinity, is one which no succeeding impres

sions can ever efface.

In Portugal one seems always to be rising to some height in order to see some fresh wonder, and the traveller is ever in doubt which to admire the most-the marvel itself or the landscape on which it looks down. Thomar is another case in point. Unusually rich in medieval buildings, the town lies in a green plain watered by the Nabao; but away on a neighboring hill is as striking and interesting a building as can be found in Europe. This is the palace, or monastery, of the famous Knights Templars of old, and so numerous have been the additions to the original

of variety and charm in the adjoining buildings, with turrets, donjons, battlements, and other romantic survivals of the most interesting places in the world.

Few, indeed, are the lions of Portugal which are dependent upon one isolated feature; every expedition rewards the tourist to a manifold and unlooked-for degree. Almost the sole exception is Batalha, to which one drives for the sake of seeing the monastery of

Santa Maria da Victoria, one of the most elaborate Gothic structures to be found in any Catholic country. As with ecclesiastical buildings generally in Portugal, the feature which leaves the visitor breathless with admiration is less the grandeur of the architectural conception than the supremely marvellous skill and exuberant variety of the carvings in stone; had they been moulded in soft plaster, instead of chiselled in stone, they could not have been more amazingly ornate. No one who has not viewed the cloisters of Batalha can hope to realize the heights to which the skill of man has attained in sculptured tracery and fretwork.

Not far from Batalha is yet another place which is visited perhaps for the sake of a single attraction, and that is Leiria, a town set among pine-clad hills, the highest point of which is crowned by a ruined castle, built by King Diniz, which offers a

landmark from many miles around. Yet even here, if one ascends the hill, the interest of the ruins is enhanced by the glorious views of the surrounding country; while in the town itself one may see any day a picturesque group of women round a sixteenth-century fountain in the Praca de Rodrigues Lobo.

The finest town in Portugal, away from Lisbon and Oporto, is undoubtedly Coimbra, which boasts a handsome and spacious university. Spread over a hillside, as usual, the city presents a highly effective picture from the opposite bank of the Mondego, the most beautiful river in Portugal, as well as the only one which is Portuguese from source to estuary. Ancient and modern mingle in Coimbra in pleasing juxtaposition, and it is a place which attracts one for an indefinite period, from the scholarly atmosphere of the university to the peculiarly handsome peasant women, while the natural surroundings are charming.

On a wooded ridge stands the long white convent of Santa Clara, which contains a statue of Saint Elizabeth, consort of King

Diniz, illustrative of a curious legend. The benevolent queen was forbidden by her husband to give alms to the poor, but he met her one day with something obviously bulky in her apron. Suspiciously he demanded what she was carrying, and in trepidation she answered, "Roses." As a matter of fact, they were loaves of bread! Roughly he insisted upon seeing for himself; but, as she let the apron fall, the loaves were turned by the Almighty into a shower of roses. Statues and pictures of the queen are almost as common in Portugal as those of the revered Princess Elizabeth of Prussia in Germany, and to this day a wife's lie to a husband is justified by the Roman church if uttered in the cause of charity.

A legend of a more tragic kind is attached to the Quinta das Lagrimas, or "Villa of Tears," on the north bank of the Mondego. In the grounds is the Fonte dos Amores ("Lovers' Fountain"), the waters of which are said to have conveyed secret letters from Dom Pedro, son of Affonso IV, to Iñez de Castro. She was foully murdered at the spring itself by