still extant in Alfama and Mouraria has aided the cause of preservation.
On the other hand sneers are not lacking at the feeble intelligence of "pious archæologists who confuse the respect for artistic things with the idiotic monomania for preserving all that is old," and these same lovers of the intensely modern further support their opinions by virtuous outcries against the anti-hygienic condition of the decrepid, badly planned houses, the tortuous streets, the lack of light and air, the badly made steps and sidewalks, in a word they protest that the quarters of Alfama and Mouraria are veritable mediæval rubbish heaps which in the cause of humanity should be swept out of existence. There is certainly a miserable side of Lisbon to be seen in these districts, a shadowy, sad side, where as in some of the slums of Paris and London, policemen only enter in bands and fully armed. They are considered the danger spots of the city. In the labyrinths of narrow streets, secluded courts, in many a mouldering, senile habitation congregate whole families of the lowest types of the population. Order is wonderfully maintained by the well-organized service of Lisbon police. Regular battues made in the familiar haunts, in the taverns, coffee shops and doss houses by picked officials, well acquainted with every inch of their ground, guarantee an almost absolute tranquillity to the security of the city.
From the Arco of S. André the road climbs to a near hill called Almofale where the big cruciform church once named S. André, but now recognized as the Graça Church, gives its name to the prosperous new quarter on that northern height. The church stands behind the convent buildings (now a barracks), facing the whole vast panorama of the city. From the broad terrace I looked first towards the hill we had just left, and saw the dark grey wall of the
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