[T]here is at present nothing to be done at Lisbon, the theatres and balls having all closed since the commencement of Lent […]

Do you know St. Hermenegild? He was son to Leovigild, king of the Longobards, and brother to Prince Recavedus. He married Evarinta, a beautiful Catholic princess, and lived in the woods with her. His father, who followed the Arian Schism, sent a furious priest, called Ebbalinus, at the head of an army to seize him and bring him back, and the said minister found this holy pair in devout meditation on the top of a hill, which hill walked away the instant the soldiers tried to mount it, leaving in its stead a chasm full of flames. However, the prince returned of his own accord to his father, who, by the instigation of the priest, put him to death, which was announced to him by the Holy Ghost. At first it had been agreed to thrust him into the king’s menagerie, but there the lions licked his feet, and quite treated him as a brother. So his head was cut off; notwithstanding which he went up to heaven with it on, dressed in a very handsome white robe, with a palm in his hand, in a cloud more beautiful and transparent than any of Mr. Orme’s screens, surrounded by cherubims and angels playing on various instruments, and singing a chorus composed by Marus Portogallo [sic]. All this happened last Sunday, and you might see it to-night again were you going with me to the Portuguese Theatre, where these martyrdoms take place twice every week, in presence of a numerous and pious audience, who show their piety by clapping of hands and cries of Bravo.