I was now at Badajoz in Spain, a country which for the next four
years was destined to be the scene of my labour: but I will not
anticipate. The neighbourhood of Badajoz did not prepossess me
much in favour of the country which I had just entered; it consists
chiefly of brown moors, which bear little but a species of
brushwood, called in Spanish carrasco; blue mountains are however
seen towering up in the far distance, which relieve the scene from
the monotony which would otherwise pervade it.
It was at this town of Badajoz, the capital of Estremadura, that I
first fell in with those singular people, the Zincali, Gitanos, or
Spanish gypsies. It was here I met with the wild Paco, the man
with the withered arm, who wielded the cachas (shears) with his
left hand; his shrewd wife, Antonia, skilled in hokkano baro, or
the great trick; the fierce gypsy, Antonio Lopez, their father-in-
law; and many other almost equally singular individuals of the
Errate, or gypsy blood. It was here that I first preached the
gospel to the gypsy people, and commenced that translation of the
New Testament in the Spanish gypsy tongue, a portion of which I
subsequently printed at Madrid.
After a stay of three weeks at Badajoz, I prepared to depart for
Madrid:
