and boldness with great utility, for at one time it supplied with its crystalline flow all the fountains of the city, whence every one was allowed to fetch freely the water they needed, a privilege giving rise to the name of Aguas Livres—free waters. The aqueduct passes out of the city over dale and hill for the distance of ten miles as far as Chellas receiving the water from various springs. The arches number 127, but the most remarkable are those which stride across the valley of Alcantara, close to Campolide, in full view from the train as it emerges from the city tunnel. Their height and majesty exceed those of Segovia, and compete nobly with the monumental constructive feats of ancient Rome. The fact that the aqueduct suffered no injury in the earthquake redounds to the skill of the master-builder, Manuel da Maia.
The little praça of the mulberry trees—dos Amoreiras—might have been a garden for old pensioners, so peaceful the seclusion beyond the great arches, and as the thought occurred I suddenly glanced at a white low building with an ancient roof, and read there inscribed, that it was, indeed, an asylo for aged people. Through open windows lower down came the drone of the loom, an apposite sound in the shade of the mulberry trees. And now the rushing of many waters fell upon my ear coming from the steadfast repositary of the spring waters which heralded their advent from distant hills. I left the praça and made my way to the gateway of the Mãe d'Agua. A spacious hall is that containing the vast cistern with a vaulted roof uplifted by four massive pillars rising from the depths of the basin. It reminded me of the spacious underground cisterns of the east, temple-like in their shadowed and calm seclusion from the outside world. The water descended from the conduit in silvery rivulets over a sloping mass of rocks into the bosom of the limpid, aquamarine
68
