Introduction 



extremely shaky in his Spanish, and I recollect scoffing 

 hugely at the pretence that any one who called a Custom 

 House officer a doganero could possibly be mistaken for a 

 Spaniard. But the scenes in the ventas by the wayside, 

 the vastness of the landscapes, the lonely tracks through the 

 rugged mountains, the tragic encounter with the footpad 

 near Seville, all described with racy picturesqueness of 

 speech and unfailing humour, brought home to me with 

 absolute truth the very spirit of Spain. The somewhat 

 lackadaisical love-letters in which much of the narrative is 

 contained seemed to me an unworthy vehicle for such 

 heroic, but yet perfectly attainable, adventures, and most of 

 the philosophical discussions by the way were ruthlessly 

 skipped with a boy's eagerness to " cut the cackle and get 

 to the horses." But, with youth's eclecticism, the book 

 was enshrined in my heart as an incomparable master- 

 piece, and conned again and again with delight. It led 

 me too to the book of all books, " Don Quixote," before 

 which even "Las Alforjas" paled, and by which, after a time, 

 it was supplanted. But, though the Knight of the Mancha 

 much more than filled its place, " Las Alforjas " was kept in 

 loving memory for what it had opened to me, and through 

 more years than I care to think the recollection of it was 

 cherished gratefully, though the book itself had long been 

 lost ; and I fondly thought that no other living soul but 

 myself had ever heard of it. 



But one day I was seated at a large London dinner-party 

 next to a gifted lady who asked me whether I had ever 

 heard of such a book as " Las Alforjas ; or. The Bridle 

 Roads of Spain." Had I ever heard of it forsooth ? My 

 answer was that I thought no one else ever had ; but to my 

 surprise it appeared that George John Cayley had left 

 behind him a small circle of admirers who reverently 



7 



