Here, then, on this lovely day, near the end of the year 1812, you are
in Alemtejo--the largest, poorest, and, in every sense, worst peopled
province of Portugal. As its name implies, you are, as to Lisbon,
beyond the Tagus. Hasten eastward over this sandy, arid plain, covered
with a forest of stunted sea-pines, through whose tops the west wind
glides with monotonous and melancholy moans, fit music for the
wilderness around you. Nor need you loiter on this desolate moor,
scantily carpeted with heaths of different kinds and varying hues. The
drowsy tinkling of the cowbell amidst yonder brushwood, the goats
sportively clambering over that ledge of rocks, and those distant
dusky spots upon the downs, which may be sheep, tell you that all life
has not left the land. You may, perchance, on your journey, see a
goatherd or a shepherd here or there; by rarer chance may meet some
wayfarer like yourself, but as likely a robber as an honest man; and
may find shelter, at least, in one of the few and comfortless
_vendas_, the wretched inns the route affords.

You need not pause to gaze on many a wild scene, some beautiful, and
even here and there a fertile spot; nor loiter in this provincial
town--rich, perhaps, in Moorish ruins, but in nothing else--but hasten
onward till you reach that elevated point, where the road, one hundred
miles from Lisbon, winds over the ridge of yonder hill. The chilly
night winds of the peninsula have gone to sleep. Here, even in
midwinter, the sun at this hour shoots down scorching rays upon your
head. Seat yourself by the road-side, on this ledge of slate-rock, at
the foot of the cork-oak, which so invitingly spreads out its
sheltering arms. Here while you take breath, cast your eyes around
you.

You are no longer in the midst of broken, desolate wastes. To the