Spain in 1830, vol. 1

by Henry D. Inglis

It is all pleasing, and always interesting,—the author has at once the eye of a keen observer, and the pen of a ready writer.—Athenæum.

SPAIN IN 1830.

BY
HENRY D. INGLIS,
AUTHOR OF “SOLITARY WALKS THROUGH MANY LANDS;” “A JOURNEY
THROUGH NORWAY,” &c. &c.
IN TWO VOLS.
——————
VOL. I.
——————
LONDON:
WHITTAKER, TREACHER, AND CO., AVE-MARIA LANE.
———
1831.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY S. MANNING AND CO.,
London-house-yard, St. Paul’s.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
HENRY DAVID,
EARL OF BUCHAN.

My dear Lord,

Since I parted from your Lordship, eight years ago, on the bridge of Namur, changes have happened both to you and to myself. You have become a Lord,—I have become an author. When a man acquires a handle to his name, all the world knows it; but when a man begins to handle his pen, it is a chance whether any one knows it but himself. It is very likely, therefore, that your Lordship may be as ignorant upon this point, as I fear the rest of the world are; but it will doubtless surprise your Lordship to be told, that upon you I lay all my sins of authorship.

It was in those daily and delightful strolls on the banks of the Meuse, that you inspired me with the desire of hunting the wild boar in the forest of Ardennes; and when I went to bury myself there,—at the time that your Lordship sought the busier scenes of Paris,—I carried with me that little green writing-desk and its golden key, the gift of the lamented Mrs. Erskine. Figure to yourself, my Lord, my isolated dwelling, with six feet of snow around my doors,—no companion but my great shaggy dog, and my blazing faggots, and the little green writing-desk upon a table by my side,—and your Lordship will admit, that I could not do otherwise than use the golden key and blot my paper.

The dedication of my first book was therefore most certainly due to your Lordship; but besides its own unworthiness, another reason, applicable to all that I have subsequently written, hindered me from laying at your feet this tribute of affection and respect. I was then younger than I am now, and probably more foolish; and asking the notice of the Public under a fictitious name, your Lordship would have said, “who is this Derwent Conway, who impertinently addresses me, My dear Lord, and subscribes himself my Cousin?” But Spain is a country so associated with romance, that a fictitious name to a book of travels in that country, might almost warrant the conclusion, that the book was altogether a fiction: and so now throwing off this veil which was unmeaningly assumed, I take this earliest opportunity of making your Lordship’s acquaintance in the character of an author.