ain no guide or
horses, or had been plundered of my money, I might hope to make my way on
foot. But I am ignorant of the country between Seville and Cordova, and
from Cordova to Val de Penas. The route is through the dismal and savage
mountains of the Sierra Morena, where I should inevitably be bewildered,
and perhaps, if not murdered, fall a prey to the wolves. Were the whole
way known to me, I would leave my baggage here and dressed as a beggar or
Gypsy set out on foot; strange as this plan may sound in English ears, it
would be the safest course I could pursue. Should I perish in this
journey, keep the affair secret as long as possible from my dear mother,
and when it should be necessary to reveal it to her, do me the favour to
go to Norwich on purpose; should I reach Madrid, you will hear from me in
about five weeks, from the time you receive this. It would be of no
utility to write to you from Cordova; the letter would never reach you, I
hope this will.

Gomez had not hitherto paid a visit to Seville; when I arrived here, he
was said to be in the neighbourhood of Ronda. The city was under watch
and ward, several gates had been blocked up with masonry, trenches dug,
and redoubts erected, but I am convinced that the place would not have
held out six hours against a resolute assault. Gomez has proved himself
to be a most extraordinary man, and with his small army of Aragonese and
Basques has within the last four months made the tour of Spain; he has
very frequently been hemmed in with forces three times the number of his
own, in places whence escape seemed impossible, but he has always baffled
his enemies, whom he seems to laugh at. The most absurd accounts of
victories gained over him are continually issuing from the press at
Seville; the other day it was stated that his army had been utterly
defeated, himself killed, and that 1200 prisoners were on their way to
Seville. I saw these prisoners; instead of 1200 desperadoes, they
consisted of about twenty poor lame ragged wretches, many of them boys
from fourteen to sixteen years of age; they were evidently
camp-followers, who, unable to keep up with the army, had been picked up
straggling in the plains and amongst the hills. It now appears that no
battle had occurred, and that the death of Gomez was a fiction. The
grand defect of Gomez is not knowing how to take advantage of
circumstances; after his defeat of Lopez he might have marched to Madrid
and proclai