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.
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