When some two years ago I first gave _The Zincali_ to the world, it was, as I stated at the time, with considerable hesitation and diffidence: the composition of it and the collecting of Gypsy words had served as a kind of relaxation to me whilst engaged in the circulation of the Gospel in Spain. After the completion of the work, I had not the slightest idea that it possessed any peculiar merit, or was calculated to make the slightest impression upon the reading world. Nevertheless, as every one who writes feels a kind of affection, greater or less, for the productions of his pen, I was averse, since the book was written, to suffer it to perish of damp in a lumber closet, or by friction in my travelling wallet. I committed it therefore to the press, with a friendly ‘Farewell, little book; I have done for you all I can, and much more than you deserve.’ My expectations at this time were widely different from those of my namesake George in the _Vicar of Wakefield_ when he published his paradoxes. I took it as a matter of course that the world, whether learned or unlearned, would say to my book what they said to his paradoxes, as the event showed,—nothing at all. To my utter astonishment, however, I had no sooner returned to my humble retreat, where I hoped to find the repose of which I was very much in need, than I was followed by the voice not only of England but of the greater part of Europe, informing me that I had achieved a feat—a work in the nineteenth century with some pretensions to originality. The book was speedily reprinted in America, portions of it were translated into French and Russian, and a fresh edition demanded. In the midst of all this there sounded upon my ears a voice which I recognised as that of the Mæcenas of British literature: ‘Borromeo, don’t believe all you hear, nor think that you have accomplished anything so very extraordinary: a great portion of your book is very sorry trash indeed—Gypsy poetry, dry laws, and compilations from dull Spanish authors: it has good points, however, which show that you are capable of something much better: try your hand again—avoid your besetting sins; and when you have accomplished something which will really do credit to — Street, it will be time enough to think of another delivery of these _Gypsies_.’ Mistos amande: ‘I am content,’ I replied; and sitting down I commenced the _Bible in Spain_. At first I proceeded slowly—sickness was in the land, and the face of nature was overcast—heavy rain-clouds swam in the heavens,—the blast howled amid the pines which nearly surround my lonely dwelling, and the waters of the lake which lies before it, so quiet in general and tranquil, were fearfully agitated. ‘Bring lights hither, O Hayim Ben Attar, son of the miracle!’ And the Jew of Fez brought in the lights, for though it was midday I could scarcely see in the little room where I was writing. . . .