hung by fig-trees; the air so profoundly tranquil that I actually heard a fruit drop from a bough. Sometimes I was enticed down a mysterious lane, by the prospect of a crag and a Moorish castle, which offered itself to view at its termination, and sometimes under ruined arches which crossed my path in the most picturesque manner.

It was now half-past one, and the world of Alcobaça was alive again the peasant had resumed her distaff, the monk his breviary, the ox his labour, and the sound of the mora, or water-wheel, was heard in the land. The important hour of dinner at the convent, I knew was approaching; I wished to scale the crag above the village, and visit the Moorish castle, which looked most invitingly picturesque, with its varied outline of wall and tower; but I saw a possé of monks and novices advancing from the convent, bowing and beckoning me to

return.'

Mr. Beckford had expressed a desire to visit the monastery of Batalha; and his hospitable entertainers, prompt to gratify his wishes, made instant preparation for the jaunt, by loading sumptermules with a redundancy of matériel pertaining to the least refined of our animal enjoyments. Some slight accidents enlivened the journey. The memorable plain of Aljubarrota was well fitted to awaken the highest enthusiasm in Portuguese bosoms; but, when it broke upon the view, their Excellencies were employed in discussing sundry bottles of an admirable wine, the produce of the neighbourhood, and bearing the same glorious name. Their sympathies did not long hesitate between the battle and the wine. Yonder, along that dark ravine, rushed 'the Castilian knights in wild dismay, while the Lusitanian 'sword made havock of their broken rear,' might Mr. Beckford exclaim with courteous exultation. Muito bom-primoroso' excellente,' murmured the churchmen, as they drained the glass. The Juiz de Toro, a great local antiquary in his way, struck in with a grand episode of some unconquerable warrior of Portugal, before whose lance the bravest of the invaders went down. Ten thousand thanks for your excellent wine: drive on.* And drive on, says Mr. B., they did, with more zeal than discretion, for there was hard riding, and fierce driving, and casualties according, among the party. The Grand Prior and his friends' fell fast asleep,' and continued their nap until awakened by a tremendous jolt,' on the edge of a secluded vale, densely wooded, and thinly inhabited; while, high above the close foliage of its thickets, towered the great church of Batalha, with its rich cluster of abbatial buildings, buttresses, and pinnacles, and fretted spires.' Far and wide stretched its deep shadows, broken by the lights that streamed from its windows, or glanced athwart its dark front, while the lofty entrance was marked by the strong illumination of collected torches; and, as the cortége

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drew nigh, the whole community appeared to 'welcome the com'ing guest.' The establishment, however, was poor, and the monks looked on in utter amazement at the luxuries which were unpacked from plethoric hampers.' Wines of richest vintage, ham and pies and sausages,' came forth from their repositories; and the Batalha Prior, with his attendants, seem to have suspected sorcery, when they saw a gauze-curtained bed, and the Grand Prior's fringed pillow, and the Prior of St. Vincent's 'superb coverlid, and basins and ewers, and other utensils of glittering silver, being carried in.'

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A substantial supper, with somewhat brisk potations to aid its deglutition, had made Mr. Beckford rather feverish; and he placed himself at the open window of his chamber, to gaze out upon the calm moonlight. Soothed by the cool airs and lulling sounds of midnight, he had given free course to memory and feeling, when the sweet song of the nightingale was broken off by a loud voice, echoing through the arched avenues of a vast 'garden,' menacing evil to Portugal, woe, judgement, and the wrath of an offended God! Startled at these dread sounds, he watched eagerly for some explanation of their cause; and shortly saw, issuing from a dark thicket, a tall, majestic, deadly-pale old man,' who moved on with fixed eye and slow step, ever and anon repeating his boding cry. On the following morning, the mystery was cleared up by the apologetic explanation of the Prior to his guests, all of whom had been disturbed by the portentous sounds. The prophet of ill had been, in early life, innocently implicated in the results of that strange and questionable piece of history, the Aveiro conspiracy. youth withered amid the damps of a dungeon; and when tardy justice withdrew its bolts, he came forth, a wasted, care-worn man, to sorrow and loneliness." Firmly believing the innocence of his friends and relatives, denouncing the judicial proceedings which consigned them to the wheel and the block as a vile mockery of justice, and deeply resenting the consequent expulsion of the Jesuits, he viewed all these events as entailing a curse upon the nation; and, by some strange concatenation, such as ecstasy is very cunning in, connecting with that overhanging visitation the outbreak of the French Revolution, he gave himself up to monastic seclusion, passing his hours in silence and solitude, save when, as in the present instance, he raised a prophetic voice in nightly warning to a doomed people.

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His

This explanation was the prelude to a welcome invitation. Breakfast waited, and the rest shall be told in Mr. Beckford's own language,-a beautiful description of scenery surpassingly beautiful, and of circumstances well suited to such scenery.

Leading the way, he conducted me to a large, shady apartment,

in which the plash of a neighbouring fountain was distinctly heard. In the centre of this lofty and curiously-groined vaulted hall, resting on a smooth Indian mat, an ample table was spread out with viands and fruits, and liquors cooled in snow. The two prelates, with the monks deputed from Alcobaça to attend them, were sitting round it. They received me with looks that bespoke the utmost kindness, and at the same time suppressed curiosity; but not a word was breathed of the occurrence of last night, with which, however, I have not the smallest doubt they were perfectly well acquainted.

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I cannot say, our repast was lively or convivial. A mysterious gloom seemed brooding over us, and to penetrate the very atmosphere; and yet that atmosphere was all loveliness. A sky of intense azure, tempered by fleecy clouds, discovered itself between the tracery of innumerable arches; the summer airs (aure estive) fanned us as we sat; the fountain bubbled on the perfume of orange and citron flowers was wafted to us from an orchard not far off: but, in spite of these soft appliances, we remained silent and abstracted.

A sacristan, who came to announce that high mass was on the point of celebration, interrupted our reveries. We all rose up--a solemn grace was said; and the Prior of Batalha taking me most benignantly by the hand, the prelates and their attendants followed. We advanced in procession through courts and cloisters and porches, all constructed with admirable skill, of a beautiful grey stone, approaching in fineness of texture and apparent durability to marble. Young boys of dusky complexions, in long white tunics and with shaven heads, were busily employed dispelling every particle of dust. A stork and a flamingo seemed to keep most amicable company with them, following them wherever they went, and reminding me strongly of Egypt and the rites of Isis. We passed the refectory, a plain solid building, with a pierced parapet of the purest Gothic design and most precise execution; and traversing a garden-court divided into compartments, where grew the orange-trees whose fragrance we had enjoyed, shading the fountain by whose murmurs we had been lulled, passed through a sculptured gateway into an irregular open space before the grand western façade of the great church-grand indeedthe portal full fifty feet in height, surmounted by a window of perforated marble of nearly the same lofty dimensions, deep as a cavern, and enriched with canopies and imagery in a style that would have done honour to William of Wykeham; some of whose disciples or codisciples in the train of the founder's consort, Philippa of Lancaster, had probably designed it.

'As soon as we drew near, the valves of a huge oaken door were thrown open; and we entered the nave, which reminded me of Winchester in form of arches and mouldings, and of Amiens in loftiness. There is a greater plainness in the walls, less panneling, and fewer intersections in the vaulted roof; but the utmost richness of hue, at this time of day, at least, was not wanting. No tapestry, however rich-no painting, however vivid, could equal the gorgeousness of tint, the splendour of the golden and ruby light which streamed forth from the long series of stained windows: it played flickering about in all directions, on pavement and on roof, casting over every object

myriads of glowing mellow shadows ever in undulating motion, like the reflection of branches swayed to and fro by the breeze. We all partook of these gorgeous tints;-the white monastic garments of my conductors seemed as it were embroidered with the brightest flowers of paradise, and our whole procession kept advancing invested with celestial colours.'

In a chapel attached to this splendid edifice, constructed in the best style of Gothic,' and richly adorned with armorial bearings, are the tombs of some of the most justly celebrated rulers of Portugal; kings and queens, regents and Infantes. But in these matters there was no sympathy between Mr. Beckford and his companions. He had in his train, a French cook, Monsieur Simon, who looked with good-natured scorn on the rich, but coarse cookery of the grass-feeding shavelings, and graciously vouchsafed to enlighten their ignorance by occasional intimations of mysteries and sublimities altogether beyond their range. This artiste had, it seems, promised a specimen of his abilities in the shape of an omelette à la Provençale; and, while the English Traveller was fixing the eye of an accomplished amateur on the wonders that surrounded him, the High Almoner was indulging in visions of the said omelet. It will be readily anticipated that the less refined taste carried the day.

'We were hurried unmercifully through the royal cloisters; a glorious square of nearly two hundred feet, surrounded by most beautifully proportioned arches; fitted up with a tracery as quaint as any of the ornaments of Roslin chapel, but infinitely more elegant; it is impossible to praise too warmly their tasteful and delicate ramifica. tions. I could not fail observing the admirable order in which every the minutest nook and corner of this truly regal monastery is preserved; not a weed in any crevice, not a lichen on any stone, not a stain on the warm-coloured apparently marble walls, not a floating cress on the unsullied waters of the numerous fountains. The ventilation of all these spaces was most admirable; it was a luxury to breathe the temperate delicious air, blowing over the fresh herbs and flowers, which filled the compartments of a parterre in the centre of the cloister, from which you ascend by a few expansive steps to the chapter-house, a square of seventy feet, and the most strikingly beautiful apartment I ever beheld. The graceful arching of the roof, unsupported by console or column, is unequalled; it seems suspended by magic; indeed, human means failed twice in constructing this bold unembarrassed space. Perseverance, and the animating encouragement of the sovereign founder, at length conquered every difficulty; and the work remains to this hour secure and perfect.

This stately hall, though appropriated to the official resort of the living, is also a consecrated abode of the dead. On a raised platform in the centre, covered with rich palls, are placed the tombs of Alfonso the Fifth, and his grandson; a gallant, blooming youth, torn from life and his newly married consort, the Infanta of Castile, and its

fairest flower, at the early age of seventeen: with him expired the best hopes of Portugal, and of his father, the great John the Second.'

We shall add to this striking picture, the interesting account of the same noble structure, given by Miss Pardoe, in her "Traits and Traditions of Portugal;" a work which, while it lies open to animadversion, contains some valuable information and more animated description.

‹ The chapter-hall . . is accounted a great curiosity, being very extensive; immensely lofty, and supported only by its outer walls, without a single column or pillar. They have a singular tradition attached to this noble building. Twice it was built and roofed in; and twice, when the scaffolding was removed, the walls gave way, and it became one heap of ruins. But the architect would not be thus foiled in his magnificent undertaking;—a third time the walls were raised; the richly groined roof, rising spirally at its centre, once more united them ;-all the best energies of the spirit which had conceived, and the perseverance which had yet again produced the work, had been exhausted in the undertaking; and Alphonse Domingues, after having surveyed, with mingled pride and dread, the lordly pile which he had reared, swore that if a third time his skill had failed, he would not survive the disgrace, but would find a grave among its ruins. In vain was he dissuaded from what was universally considered an act of voluntary self-immolation. He walked calmly to the centre of the hall-he issued his directions with an unfaltering voice-portion by portion, he saw the mighty beams which stood, perhaps, between him and a painful and revolting death, removed by his reluctant assistants. At length, the last prop was drawn away, and many covered their eyes with their hands to shut out the miserable spectacle; but there was no necessity for the precaution. The architect stood unharmed and secure: his mighty work was above and around him,-most magnificent and wonderful! A memorial of his undying genius!

It is asserted that King John was so charmed by the high spirit and heroic daring of Domingues, that he commanded him to place within the hall some commemoration of the deed. With a modesty equalled only by his genius, the architect obeyed; and a small figure, not exceeding a foot in length, is seen in the act of supporting a portion of the edifice, where the roof touches on the north wall. It is a representation of Alphonse Domingues!'

Mr. Beckford, we must remark, does not always appear to be consistent with himself. Both theoretically and practically, he would seem to be a genuine admirer of Gothic architecture in all its legitimate varieties; and yet, some of the following expressions have a strange effect as coming from a person of his ostensible predilections. Tired of feasting, longing for the clear turf and the free air, he mounted his Arabian, and, after a sort of Pampas gallop, found himself once more at Batalha. His object