At One End Was A Large
Pigeon-House, Which We All Entered:
"For," said the curate, "if we
could find some nice delicate pigeons they would afford you an
excellent dinner." We were, however, disappointed; for after
rummaging the nests, we only found very young ones, unfitted for
our purpose.
The good man became very melancholy, and said he had
some misgivings that we should have to depart dinnerless. Leaving
the pigeon-house, he conducted us to a place where there were
several skeps of bees, round which multitudes of the busy insects
were hovering, filling the air with their music. "Next to my
fellow creatures," said he, "there is nothing which I love so
dearly as these bees; it is one of my delights to sit watching
them, and listening to their murmur." We next went to several
unfurnished rooms, fronting the yard, in one of which were hanging
several flitches of bacon, beneath which he stopped, and looking
up, gazed intently upon them. We told him that if he had nothing
better to offer, we should be very glad to eat some slices of this
bacon, especially if some eggs were added. "To tell the truth,"
said he, "I have nothing better, and if you can content yourselves
with such fare I shall be very happy; as for eggs you can have as
many as you wish, and perfectly fresh, for my hens lay every day."
So, after every thing was prepared and arranged to our
satisfaction, we sat down to dine on the bacon and eggs, in a small
room, not the one to which he had ushered us at first, but on the
other side of the doorway. The good curate, though he ate nothing,
having taken his meal long before, sat at the head of the table,
and the repast was enlivened by his chat. "There, my friends,"
said he, "where you are now seated, once sat Wellington and
Crawford, after they had beat the French at Arapiles, and rescued
us from the thraldom of those wicked people. I never respected my
house so much as I have done since they honoured it with their
presence. They were heroes, and one was a demigod." He then burst
into a most eloquent panegyric of El Gran Lord, as he termed him,
which I should be very happy to translate, were my pen capable of
rendering into English the robust thundering sentences of his
powerful Castilian. I had till then considered him a plain
uninformed old man, almost simple, and as incapable of much emotion
as a tortoise within its shell; but he had become at once inspired:
his eyes were replete with a bright fire, and every muscle of his
face was quivering. The little silk skull-cap which he wore,
according to the custom of the Catholic clergy, moved up and down
with his agitation, and I soon saw that I was in the presence of
one of those remarkable men who so frequently spring up in the
bosom of the Romish church, and who to a child-like simplicity
unite immense energy and power of mind, - equally adapted to guide a
scanty flock of ignorant rustics in some obscure village in Italy
or Spain, as to convert millions of heathens on the shores of
Japan, China, and Paraguay.
He was a thin spare man, of about sixty-five, and was dressed in a
black cloak of very coarse materials, nor were his other garments
of superior quality. This plainness, however, in the appearance of
his outward man was by no means the result of poverty; quite the
contrary. The benefice was a very plentiful one, and placed at his
disposal annually a sum of at least eight hundred dollars, of which
the eighth part was more than sufficient to defray the expenses of
his house and himself; the rest was devoted entirely to the purest
acts of charity. He fed the hungry wanderer, and dispatched him
singing on his way, with meat in his wallet and a peseta in his
purse, and his parishioners, when in need of money, had only to
repair to his study and were sure of an immediate supply. He was,
indeed, the banker of the village, and what he lent he neither
expected nor wished to be returned. Though under the necessity of
making frequent journeys to Salamanca, he kept no mule, but
contented himself with an ass, borrowed from the neighbouring
miller. "I once kept a mule," said he, "but some years since it
was removed without my permission by a traveller whom I had housed
for the night: for in that alcove I keep two clean beds for the
use of the wayfaring, and I shall be very much pleased if yourself
and friend will occupy them, and tarry with me till the morning."
But I was eager to continue my journey, and my friend was no less
anxious to return to Salamanca. Upon taking leave of the
hospitable curate, I presented him with a copy of the New
Testament. He received it without uttering a single word, and
placed it on one of the shelves of his study; but I observed him
nodding significantly to the Irish student, perhaps as much as to
say, "Your friend loses no opportunity of propagating his book";
for he was well aware who I was. I shall not speedily forget the
truly good presbyter, Anthonio Garcia de Aguilar, Cura of Pitiegua.
We reached Pedroso shortly before nightfall. It was a small
village containing about thirty houses, and intersected by a
rivulet, or as it is called a regata. On its banks women and
maidens were washing their linen and singing couplets; the church
stood lone and solitary on the farther side. We inquired for the
posada, and were shown a cottage differing nothing from the rest in
general appearance. We called at the door in vain, as it is not
the custom of Castile for the people of these halting places to go
out to welcome their visitors:
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