We teach the Indians Castilian. There is no
better language, I believe. We teach them Castilian, and the
adoration of the Virgin. What more need they know?
Myself. - And what did your reverence think of the Philippines as a
country?
Rector. - I was forty years in the Philippines, but I know little of
the country. I do not like the country. I love the Indians. The
country is not very bad; it is, however, not worth Castile.
Myself. - Is your reverence a Castilian?
Rector. - I am an OLD Castilian, my son.
From the house of the Philippine Missions my friend conducted me to
the English college; this establishment seemed in every respect to
be on a more magnificent scale than its Scottish sister. In the
latter there were few pupils, scarcely six or seven, I believe,
whilst in the English seminary I was informed that between thirty
and forty were receiving their education. It is a beautiful
building, with a small but splendid church, and a handsome library.
The situation is light and airy: it stands by itself in an
unfrequented part of the city, and, with genuine English
exclusiveness, is surrounded by a high wall, which encloses a
delicious garden. This is by far the most remarkable establishment
of the kind in the Peninsula, and I believe the most prosperous.
From the cursory view which I enjoyed of its interior, I of course
cannot be expected to know much of its economy. I could not,
however, fall to be struck with the order, neatness, and system
which pervaded it. There was, however, an air of severe monastic
discipline, though I am far from asserting that such actually
existed. We were attended throughout by the sub-rector, the
principal being absent. Of all the curiosities of this college,
the most remarkable is the picture gallery, which contains neither
more nor less than the portraits of a variety of scholars of this
house who eventually suffered martyrdom in England, in the exercise
of their vocation in the angry times of the Sixth Edward and fierce
Elizabeth. Yes, in this very house were many of those pale smiling
half-foreign priests educated, who, like stealthy grimalkins,
traversed green England in all directions; crept into old halls
beneath umbrageous rookeries, fanning the dying embers of Popery,
with no other hope nor perhaps wish than to perish disembowelled by
the bloody hands of the executioner, amongst the yells of a rabble
as bigoted as themselves: priests like Bedingfield and Garnet, and
many others who have left a name in English story. Doubtless many
a history, only the more wonderful for being true, could be wrought
out of the archives of the English Popish seminary at Valladolid.
There was no lack of guests at the Trojan Horse, where we had taken
up our abode at Valladolid. Amongst others who arrived during my
sojourn was a robust buxom dame, exceedingly well dressed in black
silk, with a costly mantilla. She was accompanied by a very
handsome, but sullen and malicious-looking urchin of about fifteen,
who appeared to be her son. She came from Toro, a place about a
day's journey from Valladolid, and celebrated for its wine. One
night, as we were seated in the court of the inn enjoying the
fresco, the following conversation ensued between us.
Lady. - Vaya, vaya, what a tiresome place is Valladolid! How
different from Toro.
Myself. - I should have thought that it is at least as agreeable as
Toro, which is not a third part so large.
Lady. - As agreeable as Toro! Vaya, vaya! Were you ever in the
prison of Toro, Sir Cavalier?
Myself. - I have never had that honour; the prison is generally the
last place which I think of visiting.
Lady. - See the difference of tastes: I have been to see the prison
of Valladolid, and it seems as tiresome as the town.
Myself. - Of course, if grief and tediousness exist anywhere, you
will find them in the prison.
Lady. - Not in that of Toro.
Myself. - What does that of Toro possess to distinguish it from all
others?
Lady. - What does it possess? Vaya! Am I not the carcelera? Is
not my husband the alcayde? Is not that son of mine a child of the
prison?
Myself. - I beg your pardon, I was not aware of that circumstance;
it of course makes much difference.
Lady. - I believe you. I am a daughter of that prison, my father
was alcayde, and my son might hope to be so, were he not a fool.
Myself. - His countenance then belies him strangely: I should be
loth to purchase that youngster for a fool.
Gaoleress. - You would have a fine bargain if you did; he has more
picardias than any Calabozero in Toro. What I mean is, that he
does not take to the prison as he ought to do, considering what his
fathers were before him. He has too much pride - too many fancies;
and he has at length persuaded me to bring him to Valladolid, where
I have arranged with a merchant who lives in the Plaza to take him
on trial. I wish he may not find his way to the prison: if he do,
he will find that being a prisoner is a very different thing from
being a son of the prison.
Myself. - As there is so much merriment at Toro, you of course
attend to the comfort of your prisoners.
Gaoleress. - Yes, we are very kind to them; I mean to those who are
caballeros; but as for those with vermin and miseria, what can we
do? It is a merry prison that of Toro; we allow as much wine to
enter as the prisoners can purchase and pay duty for. This of
Valladolid is not half so gay: there is no prison like Toro. I
learned there to play on the guitar. An Andalusian cavalier taught
me to touch the guitar and to sing a la Gitana.
