pressing manner to use all his influence to make the knowledge of the Scripture the basis of the education which the children were to receive, and added, that half the Bibles and Testaments which I had brought with me to Evora were heartily at his service; he instantly gave me his hand, said he accepted my offer with the greatest pleasure, and would do all in his power to forward my views, which were in many respects his own.  I now told him that I did not come to Portugal with the view of propagating the dogmas of any particular sect, but with the hope of introducing the Bible, which is the well-head of all that is useful and conducive to the happiness of society,—­that I cared not what people called themselves, provided they followed the Bible as a guide; for that where the Scriptures were read, neither priestcraft nor tyranny could long exist, and instanced the case of my own country, the cause of whose freedom and prosperity was the Bible, and that only, as the last persecutor of this book, the bloody and infamous Mary, was the last tyrant who had sat on the throne of England.  We did not part till the night was considerably advanced, and the next morning I sent him the books, in the firm and confident hope that a bright and glorious morning was about to rise over the night which had so long cast its dreary shadows over the regions of the Alemtejo.

The day after this interesting event, which was Saturday, I had more conversation with the man from Palmella.  I asked him if in his journeys he had never been attacked by robbers; he answered no, for that he generally travelled in company with others.  “However,” said he, “were I alone I should have little fear, for I am well protected.”  I said that I supposed he carried arms with him.  “No other arms than this,” said he, pulling out one of those long desperate looking knives, of English manufacture, with which every Portuguese peasant is usually furnished.  This knife serves for many purposes, and I should consider it a far more efficient weapon than a dagger.  “But,” said he, “I do not place much confidence in the knife.”  I then inquired in what rested his hope of protection.  “In this,” said he:  and unbuttoning his waistcoat, he showed me a small bag, attached to his neck by a silken string.  “In this bag is an oracam, or prayer, written by a person of power, and as long as I carry it about with me, no ill can befall me.”  Curiosity is the leading feature of my character, and I instantly said, with eagerness, that I should feel great pleasure in being permitted to read the prayer.  “Well,” he replied, “you are my friend, and I would do for you what I would for few others, I will show it you.”  He then asked for my penknife, and having unripped the bag, took out a large piece of paper closely folded up.  I hurried to my apartment and commenced the examination of it.  It was scrawled over in a very illegible hand, and was moreover much stained with perspiration, so that I had considerable difficulty in making myself master of its contents, but I at last accomplished the following literal translation of the charm, which was written in bad Portuguese, but which struck me at the time as being one of the most remarkable compositions that had ever come to my knowledge.