town. A broad, briskly-flowing weir stretching to the right of the bridge divides the stream, which is the mainspring of important factories on the banks, paper, corn, wool weaving, and extensive cotton mills, employing two thousand workpeople, putting elements in motion that promote the local well-being of one of the most industrious populations of Portugal, and feed the national markets. And in spite of the industrial use to which its waters are put the Nabão still remains a beautiful river. The huge, lichen-stained water-wheels do but add to the picturesque aspect of the sparkling stream and verdant banks. Private gardens deck the margin with tall, thick hedges of multi-hued roses. Weeping willows dip their deliciously green streamers to the limpid surface. The Public Gardens border the opposite bank, where avenues of acacias and other flowering trees perfume the whole atmosphere. Everywhere the freshness of the verdure is charming, while the near presence of factory chimneys and buildings is veiled by tall poplars, the leafy ash, mulberry, olive and a host of other trees. Six o'clock has struck, and over the bridge stream the factory hands in their scores, women and girls, their gay head-kerchiefs, yellow, rose, green, white, blending into the colours of a moving ribbon above the railings of the bridge.
We follow them across, looking down for a moment on a sandy stretch on the other side, where figures of women washing in groups by the river-side make another bright spot of animated colour. Down the broad road to the left stood once an ancient royal palace, to which came D. Duarte, in 1438, to avoid the plague raging in Lisbon, but he was seized with illness, and died in the Convent of Christ on the hill at the age of forty-seven. A little beyond this site, long ago converted into a factory, but still possessing an old gate topped by a cross, is the Rua dos
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