IV. A FEW DAYS IN SPAIN. HERE are several ways of getting to Spain. If you THE go by sea, there are good steamers from Southampton to Gibraltar; but then you strike the hot country first. The route by Marseilles and Valencia is the quickest, but it is the dearest, and there is a risk in that case of missing Burgos, just the sort of place to be dropped out of the fag-end of a tour. So we determined to go by Paris, (which every one in his secret heart is glad to find an excuse for going to, if only for a day,) and then on through western France by queenly Angoulême enthroned among her vineyards, and the quays of stately Bordeaux, and across the Landes-not without their mournful beauty, being a kind of Scotch steppe waving like the sea with heather and firs-to Bayonne, which is as much Spain in France, as St Sebastian is France in Spain. The drive across the spurs of the Pyrenees is often pretty, but never sublime. Its chief interest is, that on all sides are the footprints of our great Wellington. At Irun, the first Spanish town, we showed our passports, which were never asked for again till we were leaving Malaga; and when we stopped at St Sebastian we had. our first glimpse of Spanish manners. The conductor of the diligence told us we were to take supper, and then vanished. There was no person from the inn to show us in the dark where the inn was, or to give us reason to suppose that our going there was of the slightest consequence to any one. We saw an open door and a flight of stairs, and then a room, with a table and plates on it, and being hungry and adventurous, we went in and waited for what was to come next. A handsome Spanish girl attended on us with a kind of dainty stateliness, taking round dish after dish, without volunteering a remark, and not condescending to show that she could speak French till we asked what we had to pay. The French conductor, too, furnished us with another glimpse of Spanish character; for coming up in a kind of rollicking simplicity to the top of the table, he was quietly told by the Spaniards present to go down to the bottom, which he did instantly with a good-humoured grimace, and soon showed that his rebuff had not taken away his appetite. Our ten mules pulled us on merrily till we joined the railway at Olazogoitia somewhere about 3 A.M., (the journey from Bayonne to Madrid is now performed in less than thirty hours ;) and then, by Vittoria, which we reached at sunrise, and where we shivered for cold, we went on through a barren and dreary land till the spires of a lofty cathedral, rising above a mass of dull yellow houses and under the crest of a fortified hill, told us that we were at Burgos. At our inn there (Fonda del Norte) we found iron beds, prettily papered rooms, a fair cuisine, and reasonable charges. The cathedral, of course, we visited without delay. At the west end are two crocketed and not very lofty spires. Behind these rises up an octagonal tower, built by the son of the Duke of Alva, and behind this again a lower tower, in itself a good-sized church. The interior is somewhat spoilt by bronze gates a good deal out of order, which "imprison the choir," and give the church the look of being in handcuffs; but its airiness, loftiness, and lightness are quite wonderful, and the elaborate stone carvings, both in the octagonal tower and the mighty pillars which support it, make it a gem of Gothic art. The convent of Miraflores, about a mile out of the town, possesses perhaps the very noblest monument in Spain, erected by Isabella of Castile to her parents; and though the French cruelly mutilated it, and a wretched painted railing makes it impossible to get near enough to examine it quite minutely, it well deserves a visit. The tomb is of the very finest alabaster, about three and a half feet high. On the top are the recumbent effigies of the king and queen: he in his armour, she in her robes, ornamented with lace most marvellously chiselled; while all round the monument are carved figures of martyrs and apostles, each a gem of art. There are seven monks here, all on the silent system, and I did not know how sufficiently to pity them, or to execrate the cruelty that condemned them to their silence. We came across one of them, an accomplished man, who spoke fluently several European languages. He looked lost and unhappy; and a sickly smile lit up his face as he showed us a stick he had been chiselling, and observed, (for they may speak to strangers,) touching his forehead, "This would fail me if I might not thus employ myself." It seemed perfectly natural that when we parted from him, he did not cast back one glance at us, but became instantly absorbed again in his tools and bits of wood. They were his best friends, while we were nothing to him, and to converse with us was but to remind him of his living grave. Burgos is a dull, decayed place, and we were glad to get into the correo, or mail-coach, for Madrid; though, after a journey of twenty-four hours, during which we could buy nothing to eat or drink on the road, we were still more glad to get out of it. The drive is not quite without interest; occasionally we came on bits of wooded country; and, as the sun went down, the distant hills with their lights and shadows reminded us of the Westmoreland fells. Whenever we changed horses, the curé, and the gossips, and the children came to have a peep at us, and so we got a peep at them; and, provided you have no dust, and can have the coupé to yourself, a diligence journey now and then is a pleasant way of travelling, permitting meditation and talk more easily than a railway, and much better opportunities for seeing the country. Madrid, which disappointed us when we entered it, grew on us afterwards; and though it cannot be compared with Paris, Naples, or Berlin, may fairly be ranked with Bordeaux or Milan. The Puerta del Sol (where was our excellent hotel, Fonda de los Principes) has recently been ornamented with a very effective fountain, and at night, when lighted and crowded with people, |