continues the whole way, with the sea beating against the rocks on the right; while the varying prospects of valley and mountain, luxuriant foliage and fields, never fail to delight the eye.

I have seen many lands, but recollect none which equal in beauty the great valley of the Entre-Minhoe-Douro; especially when coming upon the River Minho, which separates Spain from Portugal.

On arriving at Oporto, the porter at the inn conducted me to the house of a friend, where I first met with the fine, high-flavoured, light, old port that the English merchants have for their own use; and most excellent it is.

I ventured to return to my hotel without a guide, but, losing my way, wandered up and down the precipitous streets for two or three hours, having forgotten the name of the inn; could I have recollected it, I was unable to make enquiries, from my ignorance of the language. At length I stumbled against two men, who stopped and spoke to me; and even in the darkness of those southern climes, could perceive they were policemen, with guns. The fear of sleeping in the street, and of the large rats running about, fighting and screaming, brought into play the old proverb of 'necessity being the mother of invention.' Fortunately I remembered that my inn was in the high part of the town, and that close to it was a large open space where men were spinning ropes. Anxiety to escape acquaintance with an Oporto Watch House, or to avoid

POLICEMEN AND ROPESPINNING.

125

passing my first night al fresco, set my wits to work, thinking how I could make those men understand that although a wanderer, I had a home. Recollecting that rope spinners walk backwards, I began to do so, at the same time holding out my hands as if I were spinning, and then pointing up the street; they seemed much amused, and talking together, beckoned me to follow; when shortly I found myself on the great square, and in a few minutes more, in my Hospedaria.

The next morning, I first beheld by daylight the beautifully situated towns of Oporto and Villa Nova on opposite sides of the river; and the surrounding country, with its quintas and mansions, many of them in the midst of orange groves, which diffused their fragrance around.

Unless the vintage be very bad, it is usual for the partner or manager of each English house in Oporto, to go up to the wine district, where many of them. have country quarters, and live very comfortably during their sojourn. As the reputation of their firm depends upon their selection, there is, of course, much anxiety and rivalry among the numerous buyers congregated in this little privileged tract, called the Upper Corgo; which begins about sixty miles up the Douro, and is about twenty-four miles in length, and twelve in breadth, on both sides of the river.

What can more strikingly demonstrate the evils of the system connected with the supply of port wine than. the fact, that not one gallon can be legally exported to

any part of Europe unless it has been passed by the Alto Douro Company as suitable? This company has also the power of fixing, each year, the quantity that it considers sufficient; and often, a farmer, with twenty pipes of the very same wine, gets a bilhete (i. e. a certificate of goodness) for only ten pipes, while the other ten, having no bilhete, lose half their value; as they must be placed among those for country use, or for exportation to any place, not in Europe.

Some years ago, this and an export duty of about 6d. per pipe to America, while it was about 6l. to Europe (i. e. England), occasioned large shipments to the former country and Canada, and reshipments of the same wine to Britain; till the practice was put a stop to by oaths and bonds, and informers abroad. There is now a reduction from the former high export rate, to about 17. per pipe. These bilhetes are bought and sold as openly as railway stock here, at a price varying from 31. to 67. per pipe, according as the company permits more or less exportation of the yearly produce. Protected by them, wines entirely different from those for which they were granted, with others, actually made out of the bounds of the company's limits, are brought to the river-boats, and to the lodges in Villa Nova, where the wines are stored. There is no feeling that there is anything wrong in this; indeed, bad as port wine often is, it would be much worse if the merchants were compelled to adhere to the qualities often approved by the men who are sent up by the Alto Douro

Company to pronounce their decision, and for which it receives a yearly subsidy of about 35,000l.,being about the half of the duty on all wine exported to Europe.

In the year 1833 the old Company, which had existed since 1756, was abolished, and for about ten years all was free; but in 1843, the government in Lisbon was induced to re-establish it; lopping off, however, many of its powers and privileges, though still retaining sufficient to do much injury. It is probably not any exaggeration to add that, were it not for this incubus, we should have wines, not only from the present district (the Upper Corgo), but likewise from the former favourite ground, the Lower Corgo, at much more moderate prices than ports have long averaged.

It is also notorious that there are some of the finest vine-growing land and aspects in the world out of the bounds of demarcation; and nothing but railroads and perfect freedom of operations are required to open up great districts teeming with vegetable and mineral wealth, and with a fine laborious population.

The truth of the old proverb, that, 'two of a trade can never agree,' has been well proved by 'port,' and port making; and many a fight and dispute there have been on the subject; especially since the day that the talented Baron Forrester (who was drowned in the Douro about three years ago) struck out, right and left, against all his factory neighbours and fellow

countrymen who had hitherto lived an easy-going life, undisturbed by intestine discord and untroubled by the pestilent 'agitators' (among whom I have had the honour to be included), who for some years past have left nothing alone, from princes and palaces to port wines. Even Cobden himself has not been more abused, nor have more attempts been made to put him down, than were made against Baron Forrester; but he was one of those men who, conscious that he understood his subject, and could give good reasons for his statements, would not be driven from his point. I have been again reading the documents on his side, and on that of his opponents, and have no hesitation in declaring my conviction that he was right. Without in the least expressing approval of many of his ways, or of the frequent great contrast between his writings and his practice, it cannot be denied that no man knew better and few so well as he, the port wine country, the people, and everything connected with the Douro, from the Foz to Spain.

There are few men, or women either, who have not a considerable share of vanity, and the amount which Joe (as he was usually called) possessed, was great indeed, and he had not the good sense to conceal, or even to control it. He was constantly at warfare, which appeared to be the delight of his life; and the following extract from a Liverpool newspaper shows that he was as ready for a fight as the Irishman at Donnybrook, who called out 'Who'll say black is the white of my eye?'