The next day, which was Friday, I called at the house of my friend
Don Geronimo Azveto. I did not find him there, but was directed to
the see, or episcopal palace, in an apartment of which I found him,
writing, with another gentleman, to whom he introduced me; it was
the governor of Evora, who welcomed me with every mark of kindness
and affability. After some discourse, we went out together to
examine an ancient edifice, which was reported to have served, in
bygone times, as a temple to Diana. Part of it was evidently of
Roman architecture, for there was no mistaking the beautiful light
pillars which supported a dome, under which the sacrifices to the
most captivating and poetical divinity of the heathen theocracy had
probably been made; but the original space between the pillars had
been filled up with rubbish of a modern date, and the rest of the
building was apparently of the architecture of the latter end of
the Middle Ages. It was situated at one end of the building which
had once been the seat of the Inquisition, and had served, before
the erection of the present see, as the residence of the bishop.

Within the see, where the governor now resides, is a superb
library, occupying an immense vaulted room, like the aisle of a
cathedral, and in a side apartment is a collection of paintings by
Portuguese artists, chiefly portraits, amongst which is that of Don
Sebastian. I sincerely hope it did not do him justice, for it
represents him in the shape of an awkward lad of about eighteen,
with a bloated booby face with staring eyes, and a ruff round a
short apoplectic neck.

I was shown several beautifully illuminated missals and other
manuscripts; but the one which most arrested my attention, I