ivid narrative of picturesque travel episodes, and a
testimony to its author's keen delight in an adventurous
life of wanderings in the open air.

I landed at Lisbon on November 12, 1835; and on January 5, 1836, I
spurred down the hill of Elvas, on the Portuguese frontier, eager to
arrive in old chivalrous romantic Spain. In little more than half an
hour we arrived at a brook, whose waters ran vigorously between steep
banks. A man who was standing on the side directed me to the ford in the
squeaking dialect of Portugal; but whilst I was yet splashing through
the water, a voice from the other bank hailed me, in the magnificent
language of Spain, in this guise: "Charity, Sir Cavalier, for the love
of God bestow an alms upon me, that I may purchase a mouthful of red
wine!" In a moment I was on Spanish ground, and, having flung the beggar
a small piece of silver, I cried in ecstasy: "Santiago y cierra Espana!"
and scoured on my way with more speed than before.

I was now within half a league of Badajoz, where I spent the next three
weeks. It was here that I first fell in with those singular people, the
Zincali, Gitanos, or Spanish gypsies. My time was chiefly devoted to the
gypsies, among whom, from long intercourse with various sections of
their race in different parts of the world, I felt myself much more at
home than with the silent, reserved men of Spain, with whom a foreigner
might mingle for half a century without having half a dozen words
addressed to him. So when the fierce gypsy, Antonio Lopez, offered to
accompany me as guide on my journey towards Madrid, I accepted his
offer. After a few days of travelling in his company I was nearly
arrested on suspicion by a national guard, but was saved by my passport.
In fact, my appearance was by no means calculated to prepossess people
in my favour. Upon my head I wore an old Andalusian hat; a rusty cloak,
which had perhaps served half a dozen generations, enwrapped my body. My
face was plentifully bespattered with mud, and upon my chin was a beard
of a week's growth.

I took leave of Antonio at the summit of the Pass of Mirabete, and
descended alone, occasionally admiring one of the finest prospects in
the world; before me outstretched lay immense plains, bounded in the
distance by huge mountains, whilst at the foot of the hill rolled the
Tagus in a deep narrow stream, between lofty banks.

Early in February I reached Madrid. I hoped to obtain permission from
the g