The Actress in High Life | Page 2

oliveyards and orchards, and just north of it, on
a yet loftier peak, with a deep narrow valley lying between them, stands
the crowning castle of La Lippe, the strongest fortress in Portugal. Far
beyond, but plainly seen through the clear atmosphere of the peninsula,
now doubly transparent since it has been purified by the heavy rains
which here usher in the winter, rises the blue mountain of Albuquerque,
far away in Spanish Estremadura. Whichever way you look, Sierras,
nearer or more distant, tower above the horizon, or fringe its utmost
verge.
Among these scenes of nature's handiwork, a production of human art
demands your attention. See, on your right, the beginning of the ancient
aqueduct, reared by Moorish hands, which leads the pure mountain
stream for three miles across the valley to the city seated on the hill.
Here, the masonry is but a foot or two above the ground; below, the
road will lead you under its three tiers of arches, with the water gliding
an hundred feet above your head.
But here comes a native of this region to enliven, if not adorn, the
landscape. This lean, swarthy young fellow, under his sombrero with
ample brim, exhibits a fair specimen of the peasants of Alemtejo. His
sheep-skin jacket hangs loosely from his shoulders, and between his
nether garment and his clumsy shoes, he displays the greater part of a
pair of sinewy legs, which would be brown, were they not so well
powdered with the slate dust of the rocky road he travels. With a long
goad he urges on the panting beasts, yoked to the rudest of all
vehicles--the bullock cart of Portugal. Its low wheels, made of solid
wooden blocks, are fastened to the axle-tree, which turns with them,

and at every step squeaks out complaining notes under the burden of a
cask of the muddy and little prized wine of the province, which is
seeking a market at Elvas.
The carter is now overtaken by a peasant girl, who, with basket on her
arm, has been gathering chesnuts and bolotas in the wood. They are no
strangers to each other, and she exchanges her brisk, elastic step, for a
pace better suited to that of the toiling oxen. The beauty of this dusky
belle consists of a smiling mouth, bright black eyes, and youth and
health. Though fond of gaudy colors, she is not over dressed. A light
handkerchief rather binds her raven hair than covers her head. Her
bright blue petticoat, scanty in length, and her orange-colored spencer,
open in front, both well worn, and showing here and there a rent, but
half conceal the graces of her form, and a pair of nimble feet, scorning
the trammels of leather, pick their way skillfully along the stony path.
That she does not contemn ornament, is shown by her one small golden
ear-ring, long since divorced from its mate, and the devout faith which
glows in her bosom is symbolized by the little silver image of our lady,
slung from her neck by a silken cord, spun by her own silk worms, and
twisted by her own hands. In short, she is neither beautiful, nor noble,
nor rich; yet her company seems instantly to smooth the road and
lighten the toils of travel to her swain. He helps himself, unasked, out
of her basket, and urges her to partake of the stores of his leathern
wallet--hard goat's cheese--and the crumbling loaf of broa, or maize
bread. Soon in deep and sweet conference, in their crabbed, but
expressive tongue, he forgets to make occasional use of his goad, and
thus keeping pace with the loitering bullocks, they go leisurely along.
Let them pass on, and wait for better game.
Turn and look at this cavalcade toiling up toward you. A sudden bend
in the road has brought it into view, and its aspect, half native, half
foreign--its mixed civil and military character--attract attention. Two
mounted orderlies, in a British uniform, lead the way, and are followed
by a clumsy Lisbon coach, every part of it well laden with luggage. It is
drawn by four noble mules, such as are seldom seen out of the
peninsula, deserving more stylish postillions than those who, in ragged
jackets, greasy leathern breeches and huge jack boots, are urging them

on. Two men sit at ease on the coach box. One, a tall young fellow,
looks at a distance like a field-officer in a flashy uniform, but is only an
English footman in a gaudy livery, who needs the training of a London
winter or two, in a fashionable household, to make him a flunky of the
first water. The other, an old man, with a severe countenance, is plainly
dressed, but, with a less brilliant exterior, has a more respectable air