Lisbon became now a scene of hope and sorrow. Lamentations for one beloved prince was mixed with anxiety for the birth of another: solemn fasts were ordained, vows offered, pilgrimages undertaken, processions made. On the eighth day after Juan’s decease, at the dead of the night preceding the feast of St. Sebastian, all the religious orders in Portugal were seen headed by the archbishop, and cardinal Henry, walking in awful silence, barefooted and dejected, bearing in their hands mourning torches to light them on their way to the grand church of Bethlehem: there mass for the soul of their departed prince was celebrated, with all the pomp of that church which affects and overwhelms the heart by its powerful appeal to the senses. Images, relics, incense, music, all contributed to heighten pity and grief into madness: groans and prayers were for awhile the only sounds heard mingling with the wailing tones of the organ: at length even these ceased, and the priests and the people remained in silence prostrate before the host. At that moment a shout from the multitude without, broke the solemn pause; the next instant this cry was heard--“a Prince! a Prince is born!” The whole mass of suppliants started from the earth; the organ burst into a loud swell; the priests and the people joined their voices; and the dome of the cathedral rang with hymns and thanksgiving. Thus in the midst of national hopes and fears was born the heir of Portugal. His grand-uncle, the cardinal Don Henry, soon afterwards named him Sebastian, in honor of the saint’s day upon which he was given to their prayers; and then rejoicings and illuminations took place all over the kingdom. When the princess Joanna’s safety was thoroughly ascertained, the mournful task of preparing her to hear the account of her husband’s death was undertaken by the Queen: she gradually presented less cheering letters from her son; till at length venturing to pronounce the fatal truth, she called upon the princess to live for her child and them. Joanna heard not these exhortations: she swooned repeatedly; reviving only to call, with frantic cries, upon him whose “ear was now stopped with dust.” From that hour no human effort availed to comfort her: scarcely sixteen, this heaviest of all mortal sorrows was the first suffering her heart had known: even her infant son, though she loved him to agony, failed to reanimate her hopes: as she held him in her arms she would bathe him in tears and think but the more of his father. A curtain of adamant had fallen between her and the world: she felt it; and fearful of being urged into new engagements hereafter, determined upon withdrawing to the sanctuary of a religious profession.