Um Americano em Thomar - Ernest Peixotto (1922)

Ernest Peixotto (1869-1940) foi um escritor, ilustrador e artista americano, que viajou pelo mundo tendo visitado Portugal e Espanha.

O seu apelido tão lusitano deve-se ao facto de ser de ascendência sefardita.

Esta é uma obra de luxo, a todos os melhores níveis.

A obra "Through Spain and Portugal" publicada em 1922, resulta desta viagem e tem a sua passagem por Thomar, o que a notabiliza mais uma vez, sendo que o capítulo respectivo inclui duas ilustrações de Ernest.

O autor eleva Thomar através dos monumentos e arquitectura que encontrou, maravilhando-se com o Convento de Cristo.


Fica aqui o Capítulo: THOMAR, da descrição e das ilustrações:


The drives in central Portugal are truly delightful. The little open carriage, the horses* steady pace, the soft fragrance of the air, the ever-changing and ever-pleasant pictures along the way, make an ideal mode of travel, far from the noisy railway and the dust of automobiles. The scenery is not spectacular in any way—just lovely country, peaceful and idyllic. Rows of oaks and eucalypti ranged against the sky, cork-trees by the roadside, vineyards perched on rocky terraces, vales of olive groves, and, most of all, pine woods, sundrenched and balsamic, on the risings—such are the features of the landscape. Villages seem few for populous Europe, but the farms, when you come upon them, are homelike, freshly painted, and clean. For some hours we drove along, crossing many steep ridges until, toward noon, Ourem's Castle came in sight, perched high on a fat, round hill. This we skirted, through vineyards and olive or-

chards, until we entered the long street of a town. Villa Nova d'Ourem, where we drew up before a very modest hospedaria. Notwithstanding its humble appearance, we found a neat, cool room up-stairs and had a good, plain luncheon. As soon as the noonday glare had somewhat subsided we were off again for another two hours. Then, at a turning, Thomar's church and castle suddenly rose before us. It seemed too late to climb the hill that evening, so we loitered instead in the fragrant gardens that skirt the Nabao, a little stream that seems to run right through these pleasuregrounds, feeding numerous picturesque wheels that dip its water into sluices and carry it off to the thirsty fields. When, next morning, we did ascend to the castle, we found it a fine old ruin that overlooks a vast expanse of country. From its battlements you may follow the course of one river after another —the Nabao, the Zezere, the Isna—as they wind through orchard and vineyard to their junction with the mighty Tagus. The merlons of its ramparts, pierced with loopholes in the shape of a cross standing on a circle,

show that it was built for the Templars, this being their emblem—the cross upon the earth. Their day passed, the infidel was driven from the country forever, and, relieved of the nightmare of the Moor's return, a new brotherhood arose and installed itself in the castle—the Order of Christ. Headed by its grand master, Henry the Navigator, its members put all their strength to new endeavor and dreamed their dreams of conquest and exploration, unveiling one by one the secrets of the ocean, finding the water routes to the uttermost ends of the earth, adding far countries to the crown of their sovereign. The church that adjoins the castle reflects both these periods. Its earlier portions, rugged and battlemented, built like a fortress, an outpost fronting the enemy, suggest the warlike spirit of the Templars. Its later portions voice the dreams of the Knights of Christ, and remain perhaps the supreme record of the most heroic and patriotic period of Portugal's history, when these knights constituted the vanguard of their country's civilization, supplying the wealth to back Prince Henry's enterprises and send one expedition after another over the seas,

the sails of the caravels emblazoned with the special cross that was the sign of their order. Each stone of the church speaks of some feat of these navigators; every detail of its ornament chants a song of the sea and the whole edifice is a poem of patriotism written in stone by its genial architect, Joao de Castilho. To read its story you must forget cold architectural measurements and look at the church as a vast fabric of symbols. Then, upon its buttresses, you will discern the corals and pearls of the tropic seas; upon its string-courses you will find ropes twisted through cork floats; in the reveals of its rose window the sails of the caravels belly in the wind, restrained by taut cordage and, capping its battlements, pierced by a frieze of armillary spheres, emblems of hope and of the king, the crosses of the Order of Christ form the cresting against the sky. The extravagant climax is reached in the chapterhouse window, a fantasy in limestone, a bit of submarine architecture worthy to grace a palace of the Nereids at the bottom of the sea : corals and sea-kelp, moving wave forms, bits of anchors and broken chains, shells and anemones, conches and cockles


blended together in a strange medley of forms too intricate to describe and too delicate to draw that contrast beautifully with the vast plain surfaces that surround them. The main entrance to the church is much more restrained and is perhaps the most beautiful doorway in the country, reminding one of the same architect's design at Belem, but finer both in conception and execution. The interior befits the meeting-place for holy knights, recalling some temple of the Grail. The knights worshipped in the coro alto to which a staircase ascends from the great cloister, and one can readily picture the chevaliers, two and two, mounting its narrow steps in dignified procession. The cloisters are of vast extent, but, owing to their late date, offer little of artistic interest, except perhaps the little cemetery courtyard, gay with flowers and Moorish tiles. From one of the large cloisters you step out upon a terrace overlooking a lovely vale. The convent wall edges the hill beyond, and all between stretch the gardens of the knights —bouquets of stately pines and rich masses of foliage— while in the quinta nearer the monastery, now the property of the Count of Thomar, oleanders, oranges,


 and loquats bloom amid masses of handsome flowers. Thomar is the swan-song of the Portuguese builders—the last outpouring of their soul, the final burst of glory before misfortune overtook their country and a Spanish Philip built the cold Palladian cloister that proclaims the death of the country's greatest hopes.