The next day at noon I stood and gazed over an indigo sea, from whose waves the light breeze lifted the white foam and cast it wantonly to leeward in a shower of diamonds. All along the coast gleaming towns nestled in the laps of the hills. The mountains of fair Lusitania, pine-clad to the tops, were slowly receding from my view, covered with a glory of opal grey and gold, touched here and there where the shadows fell with tints of darkling green and lavender, whilst the sky over all melted from a horizon of palest primrose, through turquoise, to an illimitable vault of sapphire. As the lovely scene faded in the distance, and the bold jagged rocks of Spain loomed ahead, I turned away full of thankfulness for the ineffable beauty of the world: but I could find no word to say more than the quaint outburst of the simple-minded priest whom the Emperor sent to bring home his Portuguese bride five centuries ago: “_O Portugallia, O Portugallia, bona regio!_” Fifty-two hours afterwards I was shrinking from the chill embrace of a November fog in London. ----- Footnote 8: Oswald Crawford, “Portugal: Old and New.” Footnote 9: The manuscript quoted is in the Vatican Library, and is reproduced at length by Herculano in an article called Archeologia Portugeza in “Opusculos.” Footnote 10: There are fourteen of the same sort in the Cathedral of Viseu, one the famous St. Peter. Footnote 11: The whole interior width of the church is only 46 feet, much less than the nave alone of Toledo, Seville, or York. X HINTS TO TRAVELLERS IN PORTUGAL