chances to turn his back, you will find in a twinkling two or three tatterdemalions at your elbow. Let you be sitting in the most distant part of the room, they will come without ceremony up to the table. It is by no means a very pleasant accompaniment to a breakfast to have these gentry shaking their rags in your face, independent of the risque you run of receiving a colony of the live stock which they generally carry about them. Never did I behold objects so horrible as some of the beggars here. It is indeed a most melancholy and disgusting sight to see such an immense assemblage of miserable wretches, made monstrous by nature and their own vices, as infest the streets.

Of this multitude, many rove about from place to place, while others have their fixed and regular stations. Here they remain crying out continually in the most doleful cadence, wearying you to death as you pass, with everlasting supplications for the love of God, the most holy Virgin Maria santissima dos Dolores, and St. Antonio. They most faithfully promise, if you will bestow your charity, to mention your name to Nossa Senhora in their prayers. Some of them practise artifices to excite compassion. A friend of mine told me that one of them fell down before him, as he was walking along the other day, pretending to be expiring through hunIger, by which means he obtained a considerable present. He afterwards saw the fellow in another part of the town re, hearse the same theatrical feat, though not so successfully as before. Many of the beggars whom you meet, are, according to the order of the day, decorated like the rest of their fellow citizens, with that patriotick badge, the Portuguese cockade. They are also strict observers of the national costume. They are wrapped up in cloaks, have their hair queued, and wear a chapeau bras of vast circumference. The politeness of these gentlemen to each other when they meet, is also a remarkable trait in their character. They take off their hats with the most courtly ceremony, bow down to the ground, embrace, and reciprocally present their snuff-boxes; which last is considered by a Portuguese as the highest mark of civility which one human being can pay to another. No one is ever so rude as to refuse taking a pinch.

The number of female mendicants is equally great. The multitude of both sexes is inconceivable. Many of the women are exceedingly well clad. You will often see them

with white muslin handkerchiefs on their heads, and the rest of their apparel comparatively neat. Those of this description do not so much annoy you. Their supplications are more silent, and of course frequently more effectual. This last sort of beggars I am told, do not belong to the regular established fraternity. Their appearance is comparatively very respectable, aud they are by no means so insufferably troublesome as the others. Many among them are reduced servants, persons who have been thrown out of employment by the emigration of the court, or the invasion of the French. Their number is however lamentable. I was solicited the other evening by a whole family, a man, his wife, and five daughters, all of whom appeared to have been accustomed to better days.

There is another branch of begging here, in every respect as annoying as the first, and which is carried on with considerably more success; that is for souls in purgatory. The Portuguese consider that whatever they bestow for this object, is so much gained by themselves, as an account current is said to be kept, by which they receive credit when their own souls are in purgatory; and for every penny which they give for the souls of others, a certain deduction will be made from the period of their own durance. Self interest of course operates as a very powerful incentive to this species of charity; and this class of beggars is in a very flourishing condition. The employment is farmed out by different religious societies to certain individuals, who pay an nually for their privilege a regular stipend, or sometimes a per centum, on the profits of the year. These persons post themselves in the neighbourhood of the church or convent in whose employ they are, and in their begging are quite as vociferous as the less successful members of the profession. These religious beggars frequently gain a very comfortable subsistance. Their solicitations are made, pelo amor de Dios

pelas almas. For the love of God and suffering souls. This class of charity is considered much the most meritorious, and those persons, whose limited means do not allow them to give much away, bestow all that they do give on the purchase of masses for the souls of such unfortunate wights as have died without leaving sixpence to save themselves from the flames. They think it is their duty, having little to give, to take especial care that this little should be applied to the

most useful purpose. Of how much less importance is it to save a fellow-creature from the trifling inconvenience of starvation in this world, than to rescue his soul from ages of fire and brimstone? Such convents as do not employ agents to beg for them have boxes at the doors with most piteous inscriptions, imploring the charitable for the love of all the saints in heaven, to drop a little money into them. In order more effectually to awaken compunction in the hard hearted and unfeeling, divers views taken from the regions of purgatory are painted on the boxes in the most fiery colours. These miserable wretches are seen in all the agonies which hell flames can communicate, lifting up their imploring eyes in anguish and indignation to those of their relatives and friends who are so stingy and niggardly, that they will suffer their souls to remain in these abodes of torment, sooner than put a few farthings into the box. How any one can be so unfeeling as to grudge a little money to secure a tolerable reception for an acquaintance in the other world, or to allow a neighbor's soul to continue in torture when these pictures salute his eyes, I cannot for my part possibly conceive. Every thing in this country is done for the love of God and for souls. The convents send out the fruits, which their gardens produce to be sold, in order, as they say, to perform masses with the money, though the proceeds of their sales are generally appropriated in a much more substantial manner. The fruit, which is most usually grapes or figs, is hawked by little boys about the streets, vociferating with all their might, uvas pelas almas! figos pelas almas! grapes for the souls! figs for the souls and intreating all good christians to buy some of their cargo. They are by far the most successful traders in Lisbon, and very speedily dispose of their load, as a Portuguese will much more readily purchase of them than of the lay fruit sellers. He thinks it is in a certain degree cheating the Devil; and it is also, as it were, killing two birds with one stone, as he fills his belly and stands an additional chance of saving his soul. Cigars for the souls, made by nuns, are likewise cried through the town by little bandy-legged urchins, who run about with lighted oakum.

SEPTEMBER 24.

The Portuguese are great lovers of bell-ringing. Immediately opposite to our lodgings is a convent of Franciscans

which to those who are partial to this sort of musick is an other strong recommendation. As for myself, I must confess that I am so much of a heretick as not to be remarkably fond of it. However agreeable the sound may be to the people here, it is to me an insufferable annoyance. At first I supposed it to proceed from the present occasion of rejoicing, and comforted myself that it would soon be over. But alas! I have been miserably mistaken. All days I find are alike. The noise never ceases. The discord is everlasting. From dawn. till midnight, and indeed all night, there is an eternal ding dong of great bells and small. We can sometimes scarcely hear one another speak. Of all the monks in Lisbon our neighbours are most particularly attached to the amusement. It appears to be their only employment. It is the first sound which salutes my ears when I wake, and the last which rings in my ears at night. Twenty times an hour I wish the monks and the bells at the Devil. By the way, it is well understood that Satan is afraid of bells, or at least that he has a singular antipathy to the sound. Indeed, in this respect, I much approve the taste of his, infernal majesty, in which I have the honour most fully to coincide. This I believe is one reason of the incessant ringing, for so long as he hears the sound, it is supposed that he will fear to approach. By this means they are always enabled to defy the Devil, and keep him at bay.

It is utterly impossible for one who has not been here to have an adequate idea of the filth of this city. Such things as pipes and common sewers are unknown. The streets are the receptacle of every species of uncleanliness and corruption, and there can be no greater proof of the excellence of the climate than the absence of a perpetual plague. In order that the balconies in rainy weather may be preserved against the wet, the spouts for conveying water from the roofs of the houses are made to project very far into the street. Here the water lies stagnant in the middle of the street, and mixing with the heaps of accumulated filth forms puddles, that are frequently impossible to pass, and which continue until dried by the sun, or swept away by the wind. It consequently requires no small share of skill and knowledge of geography in walking the streets to avoid foundering in some of these bogs, or running foul of a dunghill, especially in those narrow streets where the dirt is never washed away by the rain. In many of those which are most frequented, there is only a narrow path

winding near the sides of the way, where there is any possibility of walking. It may easily be conceived how agreeable it must be between such a Scylla and Charibdis to encounter carriages, carts, horses and mules, and to jostle with a multitude of people all equally anxious with yourself to avoid being thrust against one of the neighbouring mountains of dung. With the utmost care you can seldom escape being splashed and bespattered from top to toe. When there is no moon, the streets at night are in a state of Egyptian darkness. The lamps are never lighted. The city is illuminated only by the dim tapers which are placed here and there at long and unequal intervals before the image of some saint. The feeble rays which they emit serve only to heighten the surrounding gloom, and to make the darkness visible. The city is badly paved with small sharp stones that cut your feet, and the streets are so steep that many of them you are actually obliged to climb up. These circumstances render walking at noon day exceedingly disagreeable, but when added to the obscurity of the night, and the facility which is thereby afforded to the perpetration of murder, you cannot walk abroad at unseasonable hours without danger.

Lisbon has ever been infamous for the frequency of assassinations, and for the boldness of its assassins; and there is perhaps no city in Europe, where deeds of darkness can be committed with such impunity. But at the present moment these perils are infinitely increased. Not a night passes but we hear of a dozen murders of French centinels who have been stabbed by parties of the populace, and of numbers of the latter who have been killed in retaliation by the French soldiers. Only two evenings since there were three murders before my door. Walking at night is thus rendered unsafe as well as highly disagreeable. You are also, if you would go any considerable distance, under the necessity of passing through a French camp, which is by no means a pleasant affair. I have several times found myself among them before I was aware of the circumstance, and have only been apprised of my proximity by the hoarse voice of the centinel, exclaiming Qui vive? Ne boutez la, and not seldom by finding his bayonet at my breast. The frequency of assassination was, however, always such as to render it perilous to walk alone at night. In the most peaceable times, every night was marked by bloodshed. The most audacious robberies were constantly com