BARCELONA, _November 10, 1845_.
Here I am, having reached the end of my long journey without
encountering either brigands or impassable rivers, which is still more
unusual. I was cordially received by the registrar, who had my
work-table and my record books already arranged for me, and where I
shall certainly lose the little eyesight that still remains to me. To
reach his _despacho_, one has to pass through a Gothic room, built in
the fourteenth century, and a marble court-yard, where there are orange
trees as high as our roofs, all laden with ripe fruit. It is most
poetic, as is also my apartment, which, in point of luxuries and
comforts, reminds me of the caravansaries of Asia.
One is, however, more comfortable here than in Andalusia, but the
natives are in all respects inferior to the Andalusians. They have,
moreover, one crowning fault in my eyes, or, rather, in my ears; that
is, that I can not understand one word of their jargon. While at
Perpignan I saw two superb gipsies shearing some mules. I spoke to them
in _caló_, to the great horror of the Colonel of Artillery who was with
me; but he discovered that I was more familiar with it than they, and
that they bore striking testimony to my knowledge, of which I was not a
little proud.
To sum up the results gained from my journey, I feel that they were not
worth the trouble of travelling so far to get, and that I might just as
well have finished my story without coming to disturb the venerable dust
on the archives of Aragon. This is an admission of honesty on my part,
of which my biographer, I hope, will take account. On my journey, when I
was not sleeping, that is to say, for nearly the whole route, I built
thousands of air castles, which lack only your approval. Reply
immediately, and write the address in very large and legible characters.