Myself.—This is a noble edifice in which you dwell, father; I should think it would contain at least two hundred students.
Rector.—More, my son: it is intended for more hundreds than it now contains single individuals.
Myself.—I observe that some rude attempts have been made to fortify it; the walls are pierced with loopholes in every direction.
Rector.—The nationals of Valladolid visited us a few days ago, and committed much useless damage; they were rather rude, and threatened me with their clubs. Poor men, poor men!
Myself.—I suppose that even these missions, which are certainly intended for a noble end, experience the sad effects of the present convulsed state of Spain?
Rector.—But too true: we at present receive no assistance from the government, and are left to the Lord and ourselves.
Myself.—How many aspirants for the mission are you at present instructing?
Rector.—Not one, my son; not one. They are all fled. The flock is scattered, and the shepherd left alone.
Myself.—Your reverence has doubtless taken an active part in the mission abroad?
Rector.—I was forty years in the Philippines, my son, forty years amongst the Indians. Ah me! how I love those Indians of the Philippines!