main more than twenty-four hours in the house. The Portuguese are interred in churches, and their bodies covered with lime. There is no other open burial place in the city. All the protestants who die in Lisbon are buried here, hereticks being excluded from holy ground. The walks of the burying ground are planted with judah trees and cypresses which shade it at all times from the sun, and impose a sombre and melancholy aspect suited to the solemnity of the place. Seats are placed in them, and they are gravelled like the alleys of a garden. In reading the names and dates over the graves, you are struck with the number of early victims. Of those who are sent hither for their health from England, but few ever return. It is not a little mortifying to see here a crowd of splendid monuments with long, pompous, flattering, and, no doubt, lying inscriptions, erected to the memory of merchants and obscure individuals, of whom it is only known that they were born and died, while not a stone exists to point out to the traveller the grave of FIELDING. He has however left behind him a name aere perennius, and while our language lives his works will be the record of his fame: a record less frail than monumental marble.

The monks are proud of shewing the relicks which they possess, and in proportion to the number of which their convent can boast, they suppose the sanctity of its inhabitants to be increased. A monk of Lisbon was once displaying to a number of visitors a great collection of them. That which he called the most curious, and which had performed by its sacred qualities the most extraordinary miracles, was a hair of the blessed virgin. This invaluable treasure the holy father seemed to present to his attentive and believing auditors, drawing it apparently between his fingers and thumb. Among the rest was a peasant, whose eyes almost started from his head in his eager endeavours to catch a glimpse of the sacred deposit. After straining vainly for some time, "reverend father," he exclaimed, "I can see nothing." "Verily, my son," said the monk, “I do believe thee. These five and twenty years have I shewn it, and yet I have not seen it myself." I have been more fortunate than this countryman, for in a Carmelite convent I have actually seen with my own eyes a verita

ble and bona fide hair of the virgin, so that I am inclined to suspect this other pretended hair was a gross imposition.

In passing through this last mentioned convent, which I very often do in order to walk on the roof, where there is a very extensive terrace commanding a most delightful view, I have frequently seen letters hanging by strings to the walls directed to the most glorious St. Francis. Some of them on inspection (for I have been guilty of a breach of good breeding in looking over the epistles from several of his saintship's numerous correspondents) have proved to be letters of thanks for kindness received, many merely cards of compliment, but the majority solicitations for farther favours. St. Antonio's interest is also supposed to be very strong at court. I am unable always to preserve my gravity at sight of the virgin, Maria purissima. I met her this morning decorated with a stomacher, red shoes with gold buckles, and a. hoop-petticoat, like the old pictures of Queen Elizabeth. In my visit a short time since to a convent, the monks, who had displayed all their curiosities, took out from a cabinet a waxen image designed for the Saviour of the world, which they exhibited to me with the greatest marks of delight and complacency. A Portuguese who was with me, crossed himself at seeing it. The figure was thus accoutred. It was seated in an arm chair. In an upright position it would have been about two feet high. It had on a sky blue velvet coat, cut in the fashion of Charles II. with buckram skirts and edges of gold lace. Its waistcoat was embroidered, of yellow silk with flaps to the pockets. The breeches were black satin, and the stockings of blue French silk gartered on the outside. The shoes were adorǹed with little round buckles, about the size of a half-dollar. On the top of his head was a wig, that flowed in three tails like the periwig which erst covered the skull of Prince Eugene, and on the top of this was a cocked hat. This is an exact description of his apparel, except that there were ruffles to the shirt sleeves, and paste kneebuckles to the breeches. As to the face, it had not much more expression than one which I have seen school-boys cut upon a turnip. From the admiration with which the holy fathers beheld this exquisite piece of art, the care with which they preserved it, and the exultation so manifest in their looks on shewing it, I have no doubt that

they considered it as a chef d'oeuvre. Before they recommitted it to the cabinet, they all knelt and crossed themselves before it.

When the Virgin Mary passes, many of the pious often imagine that they catch her eyes, and shout out in rapture"Oh, she looked at me. She looked at me, The holy virgin looked at me!" In any other part of the world such numerous processions, through streets like those of Lisbon, would be exceedingly beneficial to the dealers in soap and water; for whenever they pass, the conscience of a Portuguese will not allow him to stand on his legs, or even to select a clean place in which to kneel. He drops down immediately on his marrow bones, without looking to see what kind of a cushion there is to receive him, though he usually finds it a soft one. But, alas, in this city the profession of a washerwoman is a most unprofitable one were it not for the English residents, I am apprehensive that the few of the sisterhood, that there are would be in great danger of starving. The trade of a hatter must certainly I think be a good one here. The people, from their extreme civility to each other, and from their piety, pull off their hats so many times a day, in all weathers, that they soon get the worse for wear. You cannot go fifty yards in any part of the town without seeing the image of some saint stuck up against the wall in a glass box. If a stranger in passing by one of these scarecrows neglects to uncover his head, he is thought to be on the high road to Pandemonium. For my own part I make it a rule never to pass the most ridiculous without making a profound salutation. A sculptor in Lisbon who had borne the character of a freethinker, was dying. A monk came to confess him, and exclaimed, as he held a crucifix before his eyes. "See here is God, whom you have so often offended! Do you know him ?” “Oh yes,” replied the unfortu nate sculptor, "for I made him myself." I do not however think that the Portuguese are in any danger of sinning against the command, "thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven image; for those which they worship bear but a very faint resemblance to any thing in heaven above or in the earth beneath. Before most of these personages a dim taper glimmers at night, which is the only illumination afforded to the streets, and the only beacon which there is to guide the steps of the unwary

wanderer amid the perils which abound. Mr. P. an English merchant here a few years since, put up a lamp at his gate, which was broken on the first night it was lighted. He no sooner had it mended than it was again broken. This was several times repeated with the same success. The gentleman was about to abandon his attempt in despair, when at last he determined to try the experiment of putting up a saint be hind it. He accordingly had St. Antonio mounted at his door, under whose protection his lanthorn has since remained unmolested and whole.

The obscure entrances to the houses afford a great facility to the perpetration of murder. Many families often reside in one house with a publick staircase, which not being lighted, gives opportunity to the assassin to post himself undiscovered behind the door, and to aim his weapon with certainty. Murder is always perpetrated with knives, which, notwithstanding there is a law against the use of them, are worn universally by the common people, who draw them on the slightest provocation. The temper of the knives which they wear is so excellent, that I have seen many that would strike through a dollar. Close to the north side of the town over the deep valley of Alcantara, is situated the famous aqueduct of Lisbon. Much as I had heard of this grand and magnificent work, when I saw it I was struck with astonishment at its stupendous height. It is indeed a monument of which a nation may be justly proud. In magnitude and grandeur it is unequalled by any work of modern times, and excelled by none which antiquity has left. That part which crosses the valley is called by the Portuguese os Arcos. It rests on thirty-five arches, and extends from mountain to mountain two thousand four hundred feet. In the middle there is a covered arch-way of seven or eight feet, where the water flows on each side through a tunnel of stone. Without there is on each side a gallery or path defended by a stone parapet, over which you may look down to the bottom of the valley, The centre arch is three hundred and thirty-two feet high, being nearly as lofty as the cross of St. Paul's. It's breadth is of a capacity sufficiently ample to admit the passage of a first rate man of war under spread ensigns.

When the spectator is placed beneath, its pointed arches seem changed into a majestick vault that reechoes every sound.

The men

In looking down from the parapet above, your head grows giddy; fearful and dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low. beneath seem diminished to pigmies. The echo here is most extraordinary and distinct. I was lately present at a review of dragoons in the valley. Three regiments charged down the hills at once, and not a horse stumbled. The effect, as I beheld the spectacle from the parapet above, which was produced from the sound of arms reverberated, was inconceivably grand. All the while sonorous metal blowing martial sounds. The aqueduct is built of white marble. Such is the goodness of the architecture and the stability of the fabrick, that it received not the slightest injury from the great earthquake. John V. has the honour of being the founder of this noble structure. It was begun in 1713, and the whole pile was completed in 1738. On an arch in town which was erected by the inhabitants to the memory of the founder, is the following inscription:

The water is brought from several springs situated near the village of Bellas, at a distance of three leagues. Near the town there are ten smaller arches, and many still smaller in the neighbourhood of its source. In some parts it is conducted under ground. The water enters Lisbon at a place called da Amoreira, where it branches into several other aqueducts, supplies the chafarizes, or fountains, and is emptied into a great