an aspect of solitude and desolation truly appalling.  Whilst I was viewing the cloisters, a fine intelligent-looking lad came up and asked (I suppose in the hope of obtaining a trifle) whether I would permit him to show me the village church, which he informed me was well worth seeing; I said no, but added, that it he would show me the village school I should feel much obliged to him.  He looked at me with astonishment, and assured me that there was nothing to be seen at the school, which did not contain more than half a dozen boys, and that he himself was one of the number.  On my telling him, however, that he should show me no other place, he at length unwillingly attended me.  On the way I learned from him that the schoolmaster was one of the friars who had lately been expelled from the convent, that he was a very learned man, and spoke French and Greek.  We passed a stone cross, and the boy bent his head and crossed himself with much devotion.  I mention this circumstance, as it was the first instance of the kind which I had observed amongst the Portuguese since my arrival.  When near the house where the schoolmaster resided, he pointed it out to me, and then hid himself behind a wall, where he awaited my return.

On stepping over the threshold I was confronted by a short stout man, between sixty and seventy years of age, dressed in a blue jerkin and grey trousers, without shirt or waistcoat; he looked at me sternly, and enquired in the French language what was my pleasure.  I apologised for intruding upon him, and stated that, being informed he occupied the situation of schoolmaster, I had come to pay my respects to him and to beg permission to ask a few questions respecting the seminary.  He answered that whoever told me he was a schoolmaster lied, for that he was a friar of the convent and nothing else.  “It is not then true,” said I, “that all the convents have been broken up and the monks dismissed?” “Yes, yes,” said he with a sigh, “it is true; it is but too true.”  He then was silent for a minute, and his better nature overcoming his angry feelings, he produced a snuff-box and offered it to me.  The snuff-box is the olive-branch of the Portuguese, and he who wishes to be on good terms with them must never refuse to dip his finger and thumb into it when offered.  I took therefore a huge pinch, though I detest the dust, and we were soon on the best possible terms.  He was eager to obtain news, especially from Lisbon and Spain.  I told him that the officers of the troops at Lisbon had, the day before I left that place, gone in a body to the queen and insisted upon her either receiving their swords or dismissing her ministers; whereupon he rubbed his hands and said that he was sure matters would not remain tranquil at Lisbon.  On my saying, however, that I thought the affairs of Don Carlos were on the decline (this was shortly after the death of Zumalacarregui), he frowned, and cried that it could not possibly be, for