den where children were
playing. On going in I found myself alone save for a gardener who was
cutting down some rank grass with a scythe. This cemetery is the
quietest and most beautiful I ever saw. One might imagine the dead were
all friends. They are at anyrate strangers in a far land, an English
party with one great man among them. I found his tomb easily, for it is
made of massive blocks of stone. Having brought from home his little
_Voyage to Lisbon_, written just before he died, I took it out, sat down
on the stone, and read a page or two. He says farewell at the very end.
As I sat, the strange and melancholy suggestion of the dead man speaking
out of that great kind heart of his, now dust, the strong contrast
between the brilliant sunlight and the heavy sombreness of the cypresses
of death, the song of spring birds and the sound of children's voices,
were strangely pathetic. I rose up and paced that little deadman's
ground which was still and quiet. And on another grave I read but a
name, the name of some woman "Eleanor." After life, and work, and love,
this is the end. Yet we do remember Fielding.

On the following day I went to Cintra out of sheer _ennui_, for my
inability to talk Portuguese made me silent and solitary perforce. And
at Cintra I evaded my obvious duty, and only looked at the lofty rock on
which the Moorish castle stands. For one thing the hill was swathed in
mists, it rained at intervals, a kind of bitter _tramontana_ was
blowing. And after running the gauntlet of a crowd of vociferous
donkey-boys I was anxious to get out of the town. I made acquaintance
with a friendly Cintran dog and went for a walk. My companion did not
object to my nationality or my inability to express myself in fluent
Portuguese, and amused himself by tearing the leaves of the Australian
gum-trees, which flourish very well in Portugal. But at last, in cold
disgust at the uncharitable puritanic weather which destroyed all beauty
in the landscape, I returned to the town. Here I passed the prison. On
spying me the prisoners crowded to the barred windows; those on the
lower floor protruded their hands, those on the upper storey sent down a
basket by a long string; I emptied my pockets of their coppers. It
seemed not unlike giving nuts to our human cousins at the Zoo. Surely
Darwin is the prince of pedigree-makers. Before him the darings of the
bravest herald never went beyond Adam. He has opened great possibilities
to the Coll