The roof is particularly striking in its solid majesty, the middle flute
of each cluster of columns springing to the ceiling and supporting a
round arch carried over the nave to the opposite column, something like
the roof plan at Alcobaça. The transepts have majestic rose windows at
each end, and the central lantern tower or cimborio stands on pillars of
lofty clustered columns, forming round arches rising as high as the roof
of the nave; all this being as early as the first foundation of the
church. The chancel is very beautiful early Gothic, with pointed arches,
and a gorgeous ceiling, and the little Gothic chapels round the
ambulatory are many of them interesting. Tombs and sarcophagi of
archbishops, most of ages long past, crumble in dark corners and dim,
grated chapels, and two splendid royal tombs of Affonso IV. and his wife
are on the left of the high altar. Here, to be seen only on great
occasions, rest the bones of the patron saint, Vincent, opportunely
discovered by the king, Affonso Henriques, in their hiding-place far
away, where, guarded by ravens, they had been saved from the desecration
of the unbelieving Moors. The ship that brought the holy relics from the
southernmost point of Portugal, for reverent preservation, to Lisbon was
always escorted by the faithful ravens, thenceforward sacred birds for
the cathedral church of Lisbon, where some of them are kept to this day
in memory of their piety.
Along the walls of the aisles run large pictorial tableaux of scenes in
the life of St. Vincent and incidents in the miracles of the ravens, the
ancient blue and white tiles of which the pictures are composed showing
clear indications of the still lingering Moorish traditions in early
Christian ceramics. It was Saturday afternoon as I mused in the old
church, which was blocked and encumbered in many places by the materials
of the restoring workmen; and, wandering past an open doorway in the end
of the south aisle, I heard the hum of voices. It came from the ruined
cloister, where a sad-looking young priest and a sister of charity were
teaching classes of little children. It was a charming picture. The
bright sun filtered through the half-ruined twin lancet lights of the
ogival arches and fell in dappled patches of gold upon the ancient
sarcophagi and dismantled altars that lined the humble arcade: a wild,
neglected little garden, all abloom with untended masses of autumn
flowers and trails of crimson creepers, and the droning hum of the
children reciting in turn the sacred lesson they were conning. Peace and
remoteness from the world seemed to reign in this quiet nook of the busy
capital. Here was none of the sculptured glories such as dazzled the
beholder at Belem or Batalha; only two plain pointed narrow arches in
each bay of the arcade, with a round light above, bordered by a simple
nailhead or rouleau moulding. Everything is ruinous and in course of
restoration, but devout humility is the note struck throughout the