THE CITY OF OPORTO

Like all towns whose origin lies hidden in the night of centuries, Oporto has a history which begins with legends.

It seems certain, however, that the name Portugal derives, in a more or less direct manner, from Portus cale, the name given by archaic texts to the original settlement, or whatever it was, at the mouth of the river Douro. This seems reasonably clear, but it is far less clear – and opinions are divided thereupon – whether this settlement was on the southern bank of the river, where Vila Nova de Gaia now stands, or actually on the northern one, where Oporto itself lies.

On the basis of a mediaeval chronicle written by Fernão Lopes – one of the finest of the early historians –, it has been stated, right down to our own times, that the Portucale castrum of the Visigoths, lay on the bank opposite to the one where Oporto now stands.

But a subtle interpretation of the itinerary of Antoninus has assigned to the other bank the cale of the route from Lisbon to Braga.

However it may be, the original city, or, rather, the old town, suffered, in the eighth century, the invasion of the Saracens; they called it Bortkal, thus at the same time softening, and making one word of, the two primitive Latin words Portus cale.

It was soon taken back by the Christians and, from the ninth century onwards, was the frequent stage of severe fighting between them and the Saracens. It seems, indeed, that the place called Batalha (i.e., Battle), on one of the heights of Oporto, has some reference to the matter; some battle or skirmish is likely to have taken place one the western slope of the hill, and it is not unlikely that the stream flowing by it – Rio Tinto (meaning stained, or dyed, river) – had its waters reddened with the blood of the contenders.

Those who are curious on the matter will find ample details given by Prof. Mendes Correia in his «Origens da Cidade do Porto» (Origins or the City of Oporto).

For the traveler who is not particularly interested in these matters of the past, Oporto is nevertheless one of the most picturesque cities in all Europe, with its old hilly quarters, which time has chilled with gray and faded red, the like of which is not easily to be found elsewhere; with its uneven heights, from which wonderful panoramas may be enjoyed; with its abrupt banks, sometimes sheer down to the torrent of the river Douro.

The river is crossed by two bridges, both in ironwork. One of them, the earlier, was actually built by the great Eiffel, and we believe, indeed, that it was his first one-arch bridge, in one big opening (see Plate 10). It is a viaduct bridge for railway use only. The other bridge, heavier and later, has two superposed ways (see Plate 8). It connects Oporto with the South Bank, the place of the great cellars where that grand wine, Port, is chosen and kept.

The Oporto wharves are extremely picturesque. They teem with life and activity, and we may see / 17 / there the curious costumes of the suburban country-people side by side with the less interesting dress of the town folk; the riverside peasant women who bring in their products, from the maize bread of Avintes to the fruit and poultry they carry in baskets and cages borne on their heads; the many-colored traffic that shines in the sun, under the arcades of the old wall – all this which, as a whole, remains, for all who see it, an unforgettable memory (See Plates 8 and 9).

But to gather, in one sole glance, the vast valley of the Douro, overlooking the river and the wharves, towering above the roofs which cluster up the rocky slopes – here and there laid bare – on which the city is built, we must cross the Don Luís Bridge (see Plate 8) and, halting here and there as we walk across, take in one and another aspect of the panorama before us.

It is up there, right above the masts of the sailing boats and the hulks of the steamers, all of the size of children's toys as we pass so high, that the city spreads out and up before us, in all its variety of houses and towers – a spectacle without parallel for all who like to catch, from an unforgettable angle, the face and semblance of a hitherto unknown city.

Towards the left the river becomes wider and hundreds of boats, of all sorts and shapes, are spread out below us. Some are steamers, and their labored breath and the far-off clank of their unloading rises, almost eeri1y, to where we stand. Others are silent. By their side the barges cluster, now gathering in their exotic products, now delivering into their holds the casks of Port or the onions and oranges, which, even seen from afar, the sun makes more golden still.

About a hundred yards lower than this big bridge is the place where a bridge made of barges was once thrown across the stream, and here a great catastrophe happened at the time of the Napoleonic invasions. A bas-relief in bronze commemorates this sad event (See Plate 9).

But to the right, it is no longer a view of a European city, of a port of Europe. On one side the granite rocks look down sheer on the deep water, as high as the bridge on which we stand; on our left, we see a city with broken arcades, rising up and up, and seeming ever to hold back from falling, in a crumbling heap, into the river. Some rustic houses, set here and there in the remote heights, seem to cap this recovery from a possible abyss. But the whole is so wonderful that, if you are not a painter, you will regret that you cannot fix forever the unforgettable moment; and, if you are a painter, you may think it better not to try.

Further up the river primitive boats sail – so queer and simple that they seem to have strayed into this picture out of some primeval time (see Plate 10). They come from the heart of the region, up river, where the grapes are grown of which the wine called Port is the final result.

Coming, now, to the city itself, we have, first of all, quite near the bridge but to one side of it, a great stretch of the old sixteenth century walls (see Plate 6).

Then comes the Cathedral quarter, the cradle of the city, with narrow, dark, irregular streets, with their queer houses, and names like Bainharia, Pelames, and the like – survivals of the names of mediaeval crafts (see Plates 1, 2, 5 and 7).

We may mention, among them and above all, that relic of the early fifteenth century, the House of the Twenty-Four (see Plate 7), the seat of the federation of guilds, which, presided by the judge of the People, had an active and constant intervention in public life. / 18 /

Further on, and rising also from the Douro towards the higher part of the city, is the Miragaia quarter, facing Gaia (the name Miragaia means that); it is built on arcades of all shapes, some in pointed arches, others on small slender columns. Nearby is the Hill of the Jews and the Esnoga steps – expressive remains, all of them, of the old jewish community at Oporto.

Right in the heart of the city, in the setting of its old quarters, are the new streets and avenues, some of them a few miles long.

A recent town plan has brought a change into the nucleus, that is to say, the part of the city surrounding the Don Pedro Square (see Plate 12), whence fan-shaped avenue emerges, the transversal streets linking all the trade part of the city converging thereto.

A remarkable monument, owing to the daring of its design and the harmony of the whole, is the Tower of the Clérigos Church (Igreja dos Clérigos), rococo work of the eighteenth century, as the temple itself (See Plates 3 and 15).
 To the same eighteenth century we owe likewise the magnificent Hospital of the Misericórdia (see Plate 7), which was built by the private institution bearing that name.

On the West, as we walk towards the sea, we find the magnificent gardens of the Crystal Palace (Palácio de Cristal). Further on, full of cottages and chalets, lies the Oporto beach, Foz do Douro, with its fine walks alongside the river and the sea – that Atlantic Ocean which so tempted the Portuguese that they felt compelled to explore its mysteries.