I spent a pleasant week at Lisbon, and had a fair
opportunity of measuring what progress she has made
during the last sixteen years. We have no longer
to wander up and down disconsolate
Mid many things unsightly to strange ee.
If the beggars remain, the excessive dirt and the
vagrant dogs have disappeared. The Tagus has
a fine embankment; but the land side is occupied by
mean warehouses. The sewers, like those of Trieste,
still want a cloaca maxama, a general conduit
of masonry running along the quay down-stream.
The Rocio has been planted with mean trees, greatly
to the disgust of the average Lusitanian, who hates
such sun-excluding vegetation like a backwoodsman;
yet the Quintella squarelet shows what fine use may
be made of cactus and pandanus, aloes and palms, not
to mention the ugly and useful eucalyptus. The
thoroughfares are far cleaner than they were; and Lisbon
is now surrounded by good roads. The new houses
are built with some respect for architectonic effect
of light and shade: such fine old streets as the
Rua Augusta offend the eye by facades flat as cards
with rows of pips for windows. Finally, a new
park is being laid out to the north of the Passeio
Publico.
Having always found ‘Olisipo’ exceptionally
hospitable and pleasant, I look forward to the days
when she will be connected with Paris by direct railway.
Her hotels are first-rate; her prices are not excessive;
her winter climate is delightful, and she is the centre
of most charming excursions. The capital has
thrown off much of her old lethargy. Her Geographical
Society is doing hard and honest work; she has nobly
expiated the national crime by becoming a ‘Camonian’
city; and she indulges freely in exhibitions.
One, of Ornamental Art, was about to be opened when
I last saw her, and it extended deep into the next
spring.
FROM LISBON TO MADEIRA.
My allotted week in Lisbon came to an end only too
soon: in the society of friends, and in the Camonian
room (Bibliotheca Nacional), which contains nearly
300 volumes, I should greatly have enjoyed a month.
The s.s. Luso (Captain Silva), of the ‘Empresa
Insulana,’ one of the very few Portuguese steamers,
announced her departure for December 20; and I found
myself on board early in the morning, with a small
but highly select escort to give me God-speed.
Unfortunately the ‘May weather’ had made
way for the cacimbas (mists) of a rainy sou’-wester.
The bar broke and roared at us; Cintra, the apex of
Lisbon’s extinct volcano and the Mountain of
the (Sun and) Moon, hid her beautiful head, and even
the Rock of Lisbon disdained the normal display of
sturdy flank. Then set in a brise carabinee,
which lasted during our voyage of 525 miles, and the
Luso, rolling like a moribund whale, proved
so lively that most of the fourteen passengers took
refuge in their berths. A few who resisted the
sea-fiend’s assaults found no cause of complaint:
the captain and officers were exceedingly civil and
obliging, and food and wines were good and not costly.
