With all its ruin and desolation, Lisbon is unquestionably the most
remarkable city in the Peninsula, and, perhaps, in the south of
Europe. It is not my intention to enter into minute details
concerning it; I shall content myself with remarking, that it is
quite as much deserving the attention of the artist as even Rome
itself. True it is that though it abounds with churches it has no
gigantic cathedral, like St. Peter's, to attract the eye and fill
it with wonder, yet I boldly say that there is no monument of man's
labour and skill, pertaining either to ancient or modern Rome, for
whatever purpose designed, which can rival the water-works of
Lisbon; I mean the stupendous aqueduct whose principal arches cross
the valley to the north-east of Lisbon, and which discharges its
little runnel of cool and delicious water into the rocky cistern
within that beautiful edifice called the Mother of the Waters, from
whence all Lisbon is supplied with the crystal lymph, though the
source is seven leagues distant. Let travellers devote one entire
morning to inspecting the Arcos and the Mai das Agoas, after which
they may repair to the English church and cemetery, Pere-la-chaise
in miniature, where, if they be of England, they may well be
excused if they kiss the cold tomb, as I did, of the author of
Amelia, the most singular genius which their island ever produced,
whose works it has long been the fashion to abuse in public and to
read in secret. In the same cemetery rest the mortal remains of
Doddridge, another English author of a different stamp, but justly
admired and esteemed. I had not intended, on disembarking, to
remain long in Lisbon, nor indeed in Portugal; my destination was
Spain, whither I shortly proposed to direct my steps, it being the
intention of the Bible Society to attempt to commence operations in
that country, the object of which should be the distribution of the
Word of God, for Spain had hitherto been a region barred against