To th' safe protection of whose sacred hands, Undoubted Peace, and sempeternall Joy Reste thy fayre Soule in everlasting Blisse; My soule (wh carryed thine)* where thy Soule is : That heav'ns pearle-Portals should be clos'd to Thee, 21 Words call in words! O, from that fruitfull Theme The thirsty Soule whose trembling hand does touch 22 Yet one word more; and then my Quill and I ye both ye way; Will woo Apollo and begge leave to play; THE END. ye; HER EPITAPH. We bragg no virtues, and we begg no teares, It is enough. But tell me why Thou comst to gaze? is it to pry Into our cost? Or borrow A Copie of our Sorrow? Or dost thou come * Peradventure some readers may fancy this passage rather obscure; the poet means to say that he hopes the same hand, which conveyed her soul to Heaven, may also convey his own to the same place.-C. V. Heyre; i. e. heir.-C. V. Cost-i.e., sorrow, a sense in which the word is seldom used now-a-days, except in such phrases as "to your cost,' &c.-C. V. Summe all Perfection up, and she was That. Lyes interr'd at Abesse-Rooding† in ye County of Essex; over the Eptph is a beautifull Mont of ye sd M. C.‡ A FORGOTTEN ENGLISH PEERAGE. DE SOUSA-DE MACEDO. LORD MULLINGAR. 66 AN accomplished English writer, whose pen flings a grace upon whatever subject it touches, even to the investing authentic story with the a useful torch in charm of romance, has aptly described GENEALOGY as the hand of history, as serving to throw light upon much that is obscure in the political combinations of past times," and, independently of this, there is, to certain minds, something attractive and touching in the chronicles of the great names of olden days-the chivalrous origin-the deeds of knightly race-the meridian splendour of the baronial housethe suicidal civil contention-the fierce overthrow and extinction, or the more painful and too frequent spectacle of mouldering cadence and fall. An autumn or two ago, a valetudinarian in search of health made Lisbon a halting-place, bound on a Mediterranean trip, and sought repose in the beautiful capital of Lusitania, and in quiet saunterings amongst much of the vineyards, and through the olive and the orange groves that nestle very round this most lovely of the cities of the west. There is attraction in Portugal for Englishmen-in its annals teeming with romantic vicissitudes-in its episodes of olden story where Englishmen have borne, and nobly borne, a part-in the struggles of the crescent and the cross-in the Spanish border feuds-in the fierce invasions and vassalage to Spain Roome-i.e., want of space.-C. V. Abesse-rooding is Abbess-Rothing, or Abbess-Roding, or as it is sometimes written -Roding-Abbess. It lies in the hundred of Ongar, and derives its name from the paramount manor and church having belonged to the Abbess of Barking. In 1599 this manor was granted to Richard Glascock by Queen Elizabeth; and he sold it in a few days after to the Gamaliel Capel, Esq., of Rookwood Hall. The successors for three generations all bore the Christian name of Gamaliel.-C. V. Over the epitaph is a beautiful monument of the said M. C., which initials refer to the maiden name of the lady, Mildred Capel.-C. V F 2 in the heroic struggles for independence-and the gallant feats of arms, from the foughten field of ALJUBAROTA, where the Auxiliary English chivalry earned no mean fame, until those of recent date-in the great war waged against the French in our own days. The awful earthquake of 1755 that paled Europe with alarm, nearly overwhelmed old Lisbon; portions, however, of its ancient walls, and some few too of historic edifices, and chapelries of remote era, escaped the general wreck; the castle of Saint George, too, towering upon one of fair Lisbon's seven hills, sustained but partial injury, while (joy to the Portuguese) the "GATE OF MARTIM MONIZ," remains as intact, as when the hero of their bards and ballad perished in his last but victor-fight against the Moor. Sites and relics exist as well in crumbling arch, in shattered cross, in mouldering shrine, that from associations, and so long as one stone remains, will be remembered by poet and by peasant, and pointed to as haunted ground. To the bookworm then, and to the dreamer, in a locale so congenial as this, time, in his fatal march, passes unperceived; as in the present instance, where what was originally contemplated as a halt or route further south, imperceptibly wiled away into a protracted stay. One bright and pleasant day, under the inspiration of the invigorating weather of a delicious climate, an invitation that had more than once been mooted, and earnestly pressed, was accepted for a course of antiquarian exploration, to visit spots inside and around the olden sites that tradition had consecrated, and whatever of attraction was to be hunted out and seen in the capital of the Portuguese. An able Cicerone, and kind friend, an old priest, of an old regime, became the volunteer guide and associate in the enterprise, and the aim and desire of this paper will be to carry with us the English reader amongst the nooks and corners penetrated in these our long and sunny saunterings. Breakfast over then, and off by way of the Praça da Figueira, the Covent Garden of Lisbon. We threaded and squeezed our way through its tempting stores of fruits and of flowers, jostling, and being jostled, by the bustling merry throng, the noisy intrusive Gallego with his cesta, a queer looking wicker contrivance, pressing upon and shouting at us at every turn. TheGallego, or Spanish Gallicians, are the porters of the city, the hewers of wood and the drawers of water, to their inert and more indolent neighbour the Portuguese; nearly every species of ambulatory traffic, or where any thing like exertion is required, is willingly conceded to them; they fetch the water from the fountains, cry it about the streets, supply every house, ply at street corner, and market, run of errands, carry messages, while even the domestic servants, in all families, strangers as well as natives, are nearly exclusively confined to this laborious, but too greedy and money-getting race it is but fair to add, that if much cannot be said of their cleanliness, it may at least be testified of their honesty, for a case of betraying trust, and amongst a body numbering upwards of fifteen thousand, is almost an unheard of event. Many rise to the possession of great wealth, while much of the minor commerce is carried on by them, and the ownership of the numerous vendas or wineshops is almost exclusively in their hands. This, our first ramble, was on Tuesday, a day of more than usual bustle, groups of people were making their way in every direction for the Campo da Sancta Anna, for it is the weekly fair day, the Feira da Ladra, held in that wide campo, or open space. Feira da Ladra truly interpreted, bearing the ominous meaning of the "Fair of Stolen Goods," and is a favourite rendezvous of idlers, and a lounge for all classes. It may be described as a sort of open air curiosity-shop, occupying some two or three acres of uneven ground, planted with alleys of trees, and dotted all over with booths, where everything almost in the world that has a name, and is useless in character, is being bartered and sold. Cracked earthenware, broken glass, damaged china, old iron, dilapidated tin-ware, decrepid furniture, horrible mouldy rags, bundles of flock and of horse-hair, secondhand clothing in a very last stage indeed, incomplete saddlery, legless chairs, toothless saws, odd and handleless everythings, tattered prints, old pictures, stalls of worm-eaten books, in partial sets or odd volumes, rare however, and valuable upon occasions, and mutilated wrecks of rich MSS., the evident spoils of godless revolution from plundered public library, or pillaged conventual treasure; cooking going busily on in every direction; fried fish and queer-looking dishes attracting the hungry; wineshops thronged with boisterous, convivial groups, mingling with huckstering traffic; and the picture of the Feira da Ladra is pretty well sketched out. This campo of Sancta Anna is generally visited by strangers, for the narrow streets and odd-looking thoroughfares with which it is surrounded, is to Lisbon what the Triana is to Seville; it is the faubourg or stronghold of the swarthy sons of Ind-the Bohemian, Ziegunier, Cigano, or Gipsey, as in the several countries they are called. In Lisbon there are some thousands of them, of that wild and mysterious race whose origin and European advent have defied the curious, and been an unapproachable puzzle to the learned for ages, who in all lands live the same singular life, practise the same arts, bear the same impress, ever restless in the towns, and flying to the way side, who In sheltry nooks and hollow ways, Ever the same,-few countries that they have not overran, but Portugal, and more especially Spain, may be considered the great rendezvous of the race. Upon these Tuesdays they are to be seen in the camps of Sancta Anna, in full glory, gaudily decked out, the men and lads in the fantastic Spanish hat, and wrapped up in the many and lively coloured manta; the women and the girls bedizened with taudry finery, and glowing in the blaze of beads and copper jewels; for the wreck of what was, upon a time, a regular horse fair, is still held on the Tuesday, although now in the universal ruin that has involved everything Portugese, the consequence of miserable civil wars and mock revolutions, the traffic in this line is of a most meagre description-a spavined horse or two, a few wretched mules, and a sprinkling of donkeys, is all the attraction; but it collects a crowd, affords the cigano an opportunity for juggle, their women an occasional job of fortune telling, and they are supremely happy. The exquisite beauty of their children is universally remarked, while lax in all that is otherwise moral, the honour of the women is singularly beyond reproach. A few vintems or pence laid out in an old book or two, and we left the fair; and almost immediately, by passing under a tottering archway, came in front of a long two story pile of building, having a handsome, though quaintly sculptured, chapel in the centre. We were before the Paço da Rainha, "Palace of the Queen," the retreat and residence, until her death, of poor Catherine of Bragança, the widowed queen of the second Charles of England. Over the principal doorway, deeply cut in stone, are the royal arms of England, impaling Bragança, while the stately lion and the unicorn seem to keep watch and ward, and to mourn the desolation and ruin that has fallen on the regal edifice since the spoilations of 1834. The building is fast going to decay; it serves now for quarters for a company or so of soldiers, who seem to delight, unchecked, in a wanton spirit of profitless devastation-such is Portugal now. In the immediate neighbourhood, and close to the Sacavem Gate, is a handsome convent, although somewhat in ruins; it was founded also by Queen Catherine, and yet retains its purpose as a convent, although its revenues have been seized by the state, and confiscated. Here, too, over the porch, are the English royal arms. Gossipping over these and similar matters, the conversation happened to turn upon a somewhat rare and curious book we had picked up in the fair, at the price of a few pence, "the Nobiliarchia Portugueza," of Villasboas, in fact an old Portuguese Peerage. "Yes," said the old priest, "you'll find something to interest you there, for not a few of ournoblest houses have their origin from England, the Durmonts, the Almadas, Paims, Brandaons, and Lencastres, for instance; and besides which, we have an English peerage or two vested in Portuguese families, that perhaps you have never heard of; and," said he, "we shall be passing the palace of one of these very nobles in the course of another few minutes or so;" and entering a large open space at the angle of a cross street (the Rua dos Anjos), my attention was directed to what had more the appearance of a high mud wall than anything else, and seemingly the boundary of a garden or vineyard, but on coming closer might be seen a large gateway, but filled up, covered with escutcheons and blazonry, and the remains of a tower, giving evidence of what had been, and like Ivy'd arch, or pillar lone, Pleaded haughtily for glories gone. "This wreck," said the Priest, "is not at least the result of modern vandalism, a splendid pile stood here, but was destroyed by the earthquake, it was the palace of the potent family of the Sousas-Macedo, Viscounts of Mesquitella, and Barons of Mullingar, in your English Peerage; the work in your hand will tell you something of the family, and should you be credulous, and you seem to be, upon the point, I will give you the history of the English Peerage, how it came to be conferred, and in whom it is now vested." It is to information derived from the erudite and antiquarian Padre, that the readers of the "St. James's Magazine," have now to learn the origin, the descent, and in whom isvested this FORGOTTEN ENGLISH PEERAGE. Dom John, the fourth King of Portugal, was one of the most faithful |