Mighty: go forth with our hosts in the day of | channel than can be supplied by the bodily battle! Impart, in addition to their hereditary organs. The plainest, and least inspired of valour, that confidence of success which springs his discourses, are not without delicate gleams from thy presence! Pour into their hearts the of imagery and felicitous turns of expression. spirit of departed heroes! Inspire them with He expatiates on the prophecies with a kindred thine own; and, while led by thine hand, and spirit, and affords awful glimpses into the valley fighting under thy banners, open thou their of vision. He often seems to conduct his heareyes to behold in every valley and in every ers to the top of the “Delectable Mountains," plain, what the prophet beheld by the same whence they can see from afar the glorious illumination-chariots of fire, and horses of gates of the eternal city. He seems at home fire: Then shall the strong man be as tow, and the among the marvellous Revelations of St. John; maker of it as a spark; and they shall burn toge- and, while he expatiates on them, leads his ther, and none shall quench them.” hearers breathless through ever-varying scenes of mystery, far more glorious and surprising than the wildest of oriental fables. He stops when they most desire that he should proceed There is nothing very remarkable in Mr. Hall's manner of delivering his sermons. His simplicity, yet solemnity of deportment, engage the attention, but do not promise any of his most rapturous effusions. His voice is feeble, but distinct, and, as he proceeds, trembles beneath his images, and conveys the idea, that the spring of sublimity and beauty in his mind is exhaustless, and would pour forth a more copious stream, if it had a wider | sires." when he has just disclosed the dawnings of the inmost glory to their enraptured mindsand leaves them full of imaginations of " things not made with hands,"-of joys too ravishing for smiles-and of impulses which wing their hearts," along the line of limitless de RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. [NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.] On the first of May, 1818, I sailed in one of the government packets, from the beautiful harbour of Falmouth, for Lisbon. The voyage, though it only lasted eight days, was sufficiently long to excite an earnest desire for our arrival at the port of our destiny. The water which so majestically stretches before us, when seen from a promontory or headland, loses much of its interest and its grandeur when it actually circles round us and shuts us in from the world. The part which we are able to discern from the deck of a vessel, appears of very small diameter, and its aspect in fine weather is so uniform as to weary the eye, which seems to sicken with following the dance of the sunbeams, which alone diversify its surface. There is something painfully restless and shadowy in all around us, which forces on our hearts that feeling of the instability and transitoriness of our nature, which we lose among the moveless grandeurs of the universe. On the sea, all without, instead of affording a resting-place for the soul, is emblematic of the fluctuation of our mortal being. Those who have long been accustomed to it seem accommodated to their lot in feeling and in character; snatch a hasty joy with eagerness wherever it can be found, careless of the future, and borne lightly on the wave of life without forethought or struggle. To a landsman there is something inexpressibly sad in the want of material objects which endure. The eye turns disappointed from the glorious panoply of clouds which attend the setting sun, where it has fancied thrones, and golden cities, and temples with their holy shrines far sunken within outer courts of splendour, while it feels that they are but for a moment, gay mockeries of the state of man on earth. Often, during my little voyage, did I, while looking over the side of the vessel on the dark water, think of the beautiful delineation by the most profound of living poets, of the tender imaginations of a mariner who had been reared among the mountains, and in his heart was "half a shepherd on the stormy seas," who was wont to hear in the piping shrouds "the tones of waterfalls and inland sounds of caves and trees," and "When the regular wind Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail, I remember, however, with gratitude two evenings, just after the renewal of the moon, which were rendered singularly lovely by a soft, tender, and penetrating light which seemed * See Wordsworth's most affecting pastoral of "The Brothers." scarcely of this world. The moon on its first | us softly onwards. On both sides, the shore appearance, before the western lustre had en- rose into a series of hills on the right side, tirely faded away, cast no reflection, however wild, abrupt, mazy, and tangled, and on the pale, on the waves; but seemed like some left, covered with the freshest verdure and in. princely maiden exposed for the first time to terspersed with luxuriant trees. Noble seats vulgar gaze, gently to shrink back as though appeared crowning the hills and sloping on she feared some contamination to her pure and their sides; and in the spaces between the celestial beauty from shining forth on so busy | elevated spots, glimpses were caught of sweet and turbulent a sphere. As night advanced, it valleys winding among scattered woods, or was a solemn pleasure to stand on the deck of princely domes and spires in the richness of the vessel, borne swiftly along the noiseless of the distance. All wore, not the pale livery sea, and gaze on the far-retiring stars in the of an opening spring, but the full bloom of azure distance. The mind seems, in such a maturest summer. The transition to such a scene, almost to "o'er-inform its tenement of scene, sparkling in the richest tints of sunshine clay," and to leap beyond it. It dwells not on the and overhung by a cloudless sky of the deepest changes of the world; for in its high abstrac- blue, from the scanty and just-budding foliage tion, all material things seem but passing of Cornwall, as I left it, was like the change shadows. Life, with its realities, appears like a of a Midsummer Night's Dream; a sudden advanishing dream, and the past a tale scarcely mission into fairy worlds. As we glided up credited. The pulses of mortal existence are the enchanted channel, the elevations on the almost suspended-" thought is not-in enjoy- left became overspread with magnificent buildment it expires." Nothing seems to be in the ings, like mingled temples and palaces, rising universe but one's self and God. No feeling one above another into segments of vast amof loneliness has entrance, for the great spirit phitheatres, and interspersed with groves of the of Eternal Good seems shedding mildest and fullest yet most delicate green. Close to the selectest influences on all things. water lay a barbaric edifice, of rich though fantastic architecture, a relic of Moorish grandeur, now converted into the last earthly abode of the monarchs of Portugal. Hence the buildings continued to thicken over the hills and to assume a more confused, though scarcely less romantic aspect, till we anchored in front of the most populous part of Lisbon. The city was stretched beyond the reach of the eye, on every side, upon the ascents and summits of very lofty and steep elevations. The white houses, thickly intersected with windows, mostly framed with green and white lattice-work, seemed to have their foundations on the tops of others: terraces appeared lifted far above the lofty buildings, and other edifices rose above them; gardens looked as suspended by magic in the clouds, and the whole scene wore an aspect of the most gorgeous confusion On the eighth morning after our departure from Falmouth, on coming as usual on the deck, I found that we were sailing almost close under "the Rock of Lisbon," which breasts the vale of Cintra. It is a stupendous mountain of rock, extending very far into the sea, and rising to a dizzy height above it. The sides are broken into huge precipices and caverns of various and grotesque forms, are covered with dark moss, or exhibit naked stones blackened with a thousand storms. The top consists of an unequal ridge of apparently shivered rock, sometimes descending in jagged lines, and at others rising into sharp, angular and pointed pyramids, which seem to strike into the clouds. What a feeling does such a monument excite, shapeless, rugged, and setting all form at defiance-when the heart feels that it has outlived a thousand generations of pe--" all bright and glittering in the smokeless rishable man, and belongs to an antiquity compared with which the wonders of Egypt are modern! It seems like the unhewn citadel of a giant race; the mighty wreck of an older and more substantial world. Leaving the steeps and everlasting recesses of this huge mass, we passed the coasts of Portugal. The fields lying near the shore appeared for the most part barren, though broken into gentle undulations, and adorned with large spreading mansions and neat villages. A pleasant breeze brought us soon to the mouth of the Tagus, where a scene of enchantment, "too bright and fair almost for remembrance," burst upon my view. We sailed between the two fortresses which guard the entrance of the river, here several miles in width, close to the walls of that on the left, denominated "Fort St. Julian." The river, seen up to the beautiful castle of Belem, lay before us, not serpentine nor perceptibly contracting, but between almost parallel shores, like a noble avenue of crystal. It was studded with vessels of every region, as the sky is sprinkled with stars, which rested on a bosom of waters so calm as scarcely to be curled by the air which wafted air." We landed, and the enchantment vanished, at least for a season. Very narrow streets, winding in ceaseless turnings over steep ascents and declivities, paved only with sharp flints, and filthy beyond compare, now seemed to form the interior of the promised elysium. Nature and the founders of the city appeared to have done their best to render the spot a paradise, and modern generations their worst to reduce it to a sink of misery. Lisbon, like ancient Rome, is built on at least seven hills. It is fitted by situation to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Seated, or rather enthroned on such a spot, commanding a magnificent harbour, and overlooking one of the noblest rivers of Europe, it might be more distinguished for external beauty than Athens in the days of her freedom. Now it seems rather to be the theatre in which the two great powers of deformity and loveliness are perpetually struggling for the mastery. The highest admiration and the most sickening disgust alternately prevail in the mind of the beholder. Never was there so strange an intermixture of the mighty and the mean-of the pride of wealth and the abject ness of poverty-of the memorials of greatness | to the Tagus, which here spreads out into a and the symbols of low misery-of the filthy breadth of many miles, so as to wear almost apid the romantic. I will dwell, however, on the appearance of an inland lake, forms the thae fair side of the picture; as I envy not those southern part of this modern city. At the who delight in exhibiting the frightful or the south-eastern angle, close to the river, stands gloomy, in the moral or the natural world. the Exchange, which is a square white buildOften after traversing dark and wretcheding, of no particular beauty or size. The sides streets, at a sudden turn, a prospect of inimi- of the square are occupied with dull-looking table beauty bursts on the eye of the spectator. white buildings, which are chiefly offices of He finds himself, perhaps, on the brink of a state, excepting, indeed, that the plan is inmighty hollow scooped out by nature amidst completely executed, as the unfinished state hills, all covered to the tops with edifices, save of the western range of edifices sadly evinces. where groves of the freshest verdure are in- In the centre is an equestrian statue of King terspersed; or on one side, a mountain rises Joseph, on a scale so colossal that the image into a cone far above the city, tufted with of Charles on horseback at Charing Cross woods and crowned with some castellated pile, would appear a miniature by its side. From the work of other days. The views fronting the northern side of this quadrangle run three the Tagus are still more extensive and grand. streets, narrow but built in perfect uniformity, On one of these I stumbled a few evenings and of more than a quarter of a mile in length, after my arrival, which almost suspended the which connect it with another square called breath with wonder. I had laboured through the Rocio, of nearly similar magnitude and a steep and narrow street almost choked with proportions. The houses in these streets are dirt, when a small avenue on one side, ap- white, of five stories in height, with shops, parently more open, tempted me to step aside more resembling cells than the brilliant reto breathe the fresher air. I found myself on positories of Cheapside, in the lower departa little plot of ground, hanging apparently in ments, and latticed windows in the upper the air, in the front of one of the churches. I stories.-They have on both sides elevated stood against the column of the portico ab- pathways for foot passengers, neatly paved sorbed in delight and wonder. Before me lay with blocks of stone, and leaving space for a large portion of the city-houses descended two carriages to pass in the centre. The beneath houses, sinking almost precipitously Rocio is surrounded on three sides with houses to a fearful depth beneath me, whose frame- resembling those in the streets, and on the works, covered over with vines of delicate north by a range of building belonging to the green, broke the ascent like prodigious steps, Inquisition, the subterranean prisons of which by which a giant might scale the eminence- extend far beneath the square. A little onthe same "wilderness of building" filled up the ward to the north of this area, amidst filthy vast hollow, and rose by a more easy slope to suburbs, stands the public garden of the city. the top of the opposite hills, which were It is an oblong piece of ground, of consideracrowned with turrets, domes, mansions, and ble extent, surrounded by high walls, but alregal pavilions of a dazzling whiteness-be- ways open at proper hours to the public. It yond the Tagus, on the southern shore, the is planted with high trees of the most delicate coast rose into wild and barren hills, wearing green, which, however, do not form a mass of an aspect of the roughest sublimity and gran- impervious shade, but afford many spots of the deur-and, in the midst, occupying the bosom thickest shelter, and give room for the play of the great vale, close between the glorious of the warm sunbeams, and for the contemcity and the unknown wilds, lay the calm and plation of the stainless sky. The garden is majestic river, from two to three miles in width, laid out with more regularity than taste: one seen with the utmost distinctness to its mouth, broad walk runs completely through it from on each side of which the two castles which north to south, on each side of which, beneath guard it were visible, and spread over with a the loftier shade, are tall hedge-rows, solid thousand ships-onward yet farther, far as the masses of green, cut into the exactest paralleleye could reach, the living ocean was glisten-ograms. The equal spaces on each side of the ing, and ships, like specks of the purest white, were seen crossing it to and fro, giving to the scene an imaginary extension, by carrying the mind with them to far-distant shores. It was the time of sunset, and clouds of the richest saffron rested on the bosom of the air, and were reflected in softer tints in the waters. Not a whisper reached the ear. "The holy time was quiet as a nun breathless with adoration." The scene looked like some vision of blissful enchantment, and I scarcely dared to stir or breathe lest it should vanish away. middle walk are intersected by similar hedge- The eastern quarter of Lisbon, which is chiefly built since the great earthquake, stands There are two small places of public amusealmost on level ground; and, though sur-ment in Lisbon, where dramatic pieces are rounded by steep hills, with trees among their performed, chiefly taken from the Spanish. precipices, and aerial terraces on their sum- The "legitimate drama," however, is of little mits, is not in itself very singular or romantic. attraction, compared with the wonderful conA square of noble extent, open on the south tortions and rope-dancings which these houses exhibit, and which are truly surprising. The Opera House, called the Theatre San Carlos, is, except on a few particular occasions, almost deserted. The audiences are usually so thin, that it is not usual to light up the body of the house, except on particular days, when the rare illumination is duly announced in the bills. I visited it fortunately on the birth-day of the king, which is one of the most splendid of its festivals. Its interior is not much smaller than that of Covent Garden Theatre, though it appears at the first glance much less, from the extreme beauty of the proportions. The form is that of an ellipse, exquisitely turned, intersected at the farther extremity by the stage. The sides are occupied by five tiers of boxes, at least in appearance, for the upper circles, which are appropriated to the populace by way of gallery, are externally uniform with the rest of the theatre. The prevailing colour is white; the ornaments between the boxes, consisting of harps and tasteful devices, are of brown and gold, and elegantly divided into compartments by rims of burnished gold. The middle of the house is occupied by the grand entrance into the pit, the royal box, and the gallery above it, which is in continuation of the higher circle. The royal box is from twelve to fifteen feet in length, and occupies in height the space of three rows of the common boxes. Above are the crown and regal arms in burnished gold, and the sides are supported by statues of the same radiant appearance. Curtains of green silk, of a fine texture, usually conceal its internal splendours; but on this occasion they were drawn aside at the same moment that the stage was discovered, and displayed the interior illuminated with great brilliancy. This seat of royalty is divided into two stories-a slight gallery being thrown over the back part of it. Its ground is a deep crimson; the top descends towards the back in a beautiful concave, representing a rich veil of ermine. In the front of the lower compartment, behind the seats, is the crown of Portugal, figured on deep green velvet; and the sides are adorned with elegant mirrors. The centre of the roof of the theatre is an ellipse, painted to represent the sky with the moon and stars visible; the sides sloping to the upper boxes are of white adorned with gold and crimson. The stage is supported on each side by two pillars of the composite order, of white and gold, half in relief, with a brazen statue between each of them. It forms an excellent framework for a dramatic picture. The most singular feature of the house is a clock over the centre of the stage, which regularly strikes the hours, without mercy. What a noble invention this for the use of those who contend for the unity of time! How nicely would it enable the French critics to estimate the value of a tragedy at a single glance! How accurately might the time be measured out in which eternal attachments should be formed, conspiracies planned, and states overthrown; how might the passions of the soul be reed to a minute, and the rise and swell of the great emotions of the heart determined to a hair; with what accuracy might the moments which the heroes have yet to live be counted out like those of culprits at the Old Bailey! What huge criticisms of Corneille and Voltaire would that little instrument supply! What volumes, founded on its movements, would it render superfluous! Even Grecian regularity must yield before it, and criticism triumph, by this invariable standard, at once over Sophocles and Shakspeare. The scenery was wretched-the singers tolerable-and the band excellent. The ballet took place between the acts of the opera, and was spun out to great length. The dancing consisted partly of wonderful twirlings of the French school, and partly of the more wonderful contortions of the Portuguese; both kinds exceedingly clever, but exhibiting very little of true beauty, grace, or elegance. At the close of the first act, a perfect shower of roses, pinks, and carnations, together with printed sonnets, was poured down from the top of the theatre in honour of his majesty, whose absence, however, even Portuguese loyalty cannot pardon. The churches are the most remarkable of the public buildings of Lisbon; though plain on the outside, they are exceedingly splendid in the interior. The tutelary saints are richer than many Continental princes, though their treasures are only displayed to excite the reverence or the cupidity of the people on high and festal occasions. The most beautiful, though not the largest of the churches which I have examined, is that of the Estrella, which is lined with finely-varied and highly-polished marble, vaulted over with a splendid and sculptured roof, and adorned, in its gilded recesses, with beautiful pictures. Were it not, indeed, for the impression made on me by one of the latter, I should scarcely have mentioned this edifice, unable as I am technically to describe it. The piece to which I allude is not, that I can discover, held in particular estimation, or the production of any celebrated artist; but it excited in me feelings of admiration and delight, which can never die away. It represents Saint John in the Isle of Patmos, gazing on the vision in which the angels are pouring forth the vials, and with the pen in his hand, ready to commit to sacred and imperishable record the awful and mysterious scenes opened before him. Never did I behold or imagine such a figure. He is sitting, half entranced with wonder at the revelation disclosed to him, half mournfully conscious of the evils which he is darkly to predict to a fated and unheeding world. The face, in its mere form and colouring, is most beautiful: its features are perfectly lovely, though inclining rather to cherubic roundness than Grecian austerity, and its roseate bloom of youth is gently touched and softened by the feelings attendant on the sad and holy vocation of the beloved disciple. The head is bent forward, in eagerness, anxiety, and reverence; the eyebrows arched in wonder, yet bearing in every line some undefinable expression of pity; the eyes are uplifted, and beaming with holy inspiration, yet mild, soft, angelical; around the exquisitely-formed mouth, sweet tenderness for the inevitable sorrows of mankind are playing; and the bright chestnut hair, falling in masses over the shoulders, gives to all this expression | learn only to feel our weakness. But in the of high yet soft emotion, a finishing grace and sacred place where all that could perish of our completeness. This figure displays such un-orators, philosophers, and poets, is reposing, we speakable sweetness tempering such prophetic feel our mortality only to lend us a stronger fire; such religious and saintly purity, mingled and more ethereal sense of our eternal being. with so genial a compassion; it is at once so Life and death seem met together, as in a holy individual and so ideal; so bordering on the fane, in peaceful concord. While we feel that celestial, and yet so perfectly within the range the mightiest must yield to the stern law of of human sympathies; that it is difficult to necessity, we know that the very monuments say, whether the delicious emotions which it which record the decay of their outward inspires partake most of wonder or of love. frame, are so many proofs and symbols that The image seemed, like sweet music, to sink they shall never really expire. We feel that into the soul, there to remain for ever. To see those whose remembrance is thus extended such a piece is really to be made better and beyond the desolating power of the grave, happier. The recollection is a precious trea-over whose fame death and mortal accidents sure for the feelings and the imagination, of which nothing, while they endure, can deprive them. have no power, are not themselves destroyed. And when we recollect the more indestructible monuments of their genius, those works, which live not only in the libraries of the studious, but in the hearts and imaginations of men; we are conscious at once, that the spirit which conceived, and the souls which appreciate and love them, are not of the earth, earthy. Our thoughts are not wholly of humiliation and sorrow! but stretch forward, with a pensive majesty, into the permanent and the immortal. The church at Belem, a fortified place on the Tagus, three or four miles from Lisbon, where the kings and royal family of Portugal have, for many generations, been interred, must not be forgotten. It is one of the most ancient buildings in the kingdom, having originally been erected by the Romans, and splendidly adorned by the Moorish sovereigns. Formed of white stone, it is now stained to a reddish brown by the mere influence of years, Having inspected the city, I was naturally and frowns over the water "cased in the un- anxious to visit the celebrated Aqueduct, which feeling armour of old time." Its shape is is carried across a deep valley two or three oblong, its sides of gigantic proportions, and miles from Lisbon. Having passed the suits massive appearance most grand and awe-burbs, and reached the open country, I saw, at inspiring. The principal entrance is by a a sudden turn in the pathway, the mighty obdeep archway, reaching to a great height, and ject of my wanderings. I found myself on the circular within, ornamented above and around summit of a gently sloping declivity, at a little with the most crowded, venerable, and yet distance from the foot of which a hill rose to fantastic devices-martyrs and heroes of chi- an equal height, with a bold and luxuriant sweep. valry-swords and crosiers-monarchs and It is across the expanse thus formed, that the saints-crosses and sceptres-"the roses and stupendous bridge runs, in two straight lines flowers of kings" and the sad emblems of from each eminence, which form an obtuse mortality—all wearing the stamp of deep anti-angle in the centre. The whole is supported quity, all appearing carved out of one eternal by thirty-six arches, which, as the ground from rock, and promising by their air of solid grandeur to survive as many stupendous changes as those which have already left them unshaken. The interior of this venerable edifice is not less awe-breathing or substantial. Eight huge pillars of barbaric architecture, and covered all over with strange figures and grotesque ornaments in relievo, support the roof, which is white, ponderous, and of a noble simplicity, being only divided into vast square compartments by the beams which cross it. Such a pile, devoted to form the last restingplace of a line of kings who have, each in his brief span of time, held the fate of millions at his pleasure, cannot fail to excite solemn and pensive thought. And yet what are the feelings thus excited, to those meditations to which the great repository of the illustrious deceased in England invites us! Here we think of nothing but the perishableness of man in his best estate-the emptiness of human honours-the low and frail nature of all the distinctions of earth. A race of monarchs occupy but a narrow vault: they were kings, and now are dust; and this idea forced home upon us, makes us feel that the most potent and enduring of worldly things-thrones, dynasties, and the peaceable succession of high families-are but as feeble shadows. We each extremity sinks, increase in height, or rather depth, till in the middle of the pile, the distance to which they ascend from the vale is fearful. This huge structure is composed of dark gray stone, the deep colour of which gives to its massiveness an air of the sternest grandeur. The water is conveyed across the level thus formed, through a chain of building which occupies its centre, and appears almost like a line of solid and unbroken rock. Above this erection, turrets of still greater height, and of the same materials, are reared at regular intervals, and crown the whole. The road is thus divided into two passes, which are secured by high ridges of stone, in the long, uninterrupted straight lines, which have an air of so awful a grandeur in the noblest remains of Roman art. The view from the southern road, though romantic, is, for the most part, confined within narrow boundaries, as rugged hills arise on this side almost from the foot of the Aqueduct, to a height far above its towers, cultivated only towards the lower parts, and covered on the loftier spots with a thin grass and shapeless blocks or masses of granite. This mountainous ridge breaks, however, in the centre, and abruptly displays a piece of the Tagus, like an inland lake, with its tenderly rimpled blue, and the wild and lofty banks |