WE arrived at Burgos in the midst of a hurricane of piercing wind—wind that was more easily felt by us than it will be understood by our friends in England, who cling to the obstinate notion of the incessant heat of Spain. The cold of that October night, far more intense than an ordinary mid-winter night in England, was made more severe by the utter absence of all comforts, and by the piteous appearance of the natives who shiver and shake all over the country, rolled up into peripatetic bundles of drapery, like denizens of frozen regions. There are people who leave off fires and flannel waistcoats in England because it is the first of April, although, snow may be on the ground; and we have no doubt that several of our friends would have had us array ourselves in white jane pantaloons and linen jackets because we were in Spain. No, there is no reason that, because a man is clever and au fait at all that concerns that state of life to which God has called him in the British metropolis, his meteorological and thermal assertions respecting other countries are to be believed in unreservedly by his friends.

Meanwhile, "Burgos!" was suddenly shouted by the guard of the train, and on looking out, we found we had arrived at that station. About a mile off was the great cathedral, so well portrayed by our David Roberts, looming before us ghostly in the dim light of the watery moon. We descended on to the platform half asleep, and anxious about the portmanteaux, while the train whisked off, leaving us alone, like stranded mariners on an unknown shore. We looked about us, and saw uncouth figures gliding about here and there with lanterns gleaming in the darkness, shapeless forms wrapped up to the eyes in dirty coloured blankets—their heads extinguished with steeple hats and other romantic and curious gear.

A small crowd gradually gathered around us as we sat upon our pieces of baggage, like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, and then everybody began to talk at once with the most frightful velocity and alarming gestures. The chorus, not very unlike that of evil demons in some weird opera, continued for several minutes, raging with great vigour and such rapidity that we could not make even the wildest guess at their meaning, because, amidst the babel no words of their patois could be distinctly singled out. However, directed we suppose by the special providence which presides over British tourists, we eventually made a desperate resolution to follow our luggage and cling to it to the last. Following these tactics, we found ourselves in a short time seated in an elongated vehicle, innocent of all springs, which had some resemblance to a schoolroom on wheels, with all the candles put out. In this conveyance we had the further advantage of the uninterrupted society of a monkish gentleman with sandals, cowl, rope, and what seemed to be a long hairy dressing-gown. Now, we have often heard of the odour of sanctity, but if the odour by which this holy person was accompanied was the article in question, we must say we didn't think much of it.

The vehicle in which we were seated started with a shout, a crack, and a jerk, very suddenly, and, to any one a little absent, without sufficient warning. After rattling over the most fearful pavement, past grey, gaunt buildings, and through dark, narrow, shadowy streets, illuminated at long intervals by a misty lamp swung across from house to house, we were landed at the door of the Fonda del Norte.

At this juncture, the fact that in this life confidence in things as they should be, instead of suspicion of things as they are, is a mistake, was forced upon us very decisively; for had we, on descending from the omnibus, not considered it natural that there should be a step upon which to place the foot, instead of regarding it as possible that there might not be one,—especially if it was at all required,—we should not have fallen heavily out into the road, and been smeared all over with dirt and mire.

After holding out a handful of small coins, thus simplifying matters by letting the omnibus-driver help himself, we were escorted in slow procession,—the luggage going first,—by a train of four damsels, and a very brown old woman, bearing candles, through winding passages all whitewashed, up cold stone flights of stairs, the walls of which seemed to be covered with any amount of black-beetles, until we were ushered into a small double-bedded room, also whitewashed, and adorned with violently coloured prints of saints and martyrs, with what appeared to be fireworks fizzing and exploding out of the backs of their heads. We were then presented with a cup of some darkly red and rather muddy-looking fluid called chocolate, highly flavoured with what to us is the most nauseous thing in the world,—cinnamon. A piece of black bread, and a pat of something which might once have been butter, but now resembled railway wheel-grease, or cheese, was then given to us. Half of a cold bird, of a species, we should imagine, nearly extinct, seemed as little calculated to please the appetite as the bread, butter, and chocolate. These luxuries were placed upon a chest of drawers, there being no table; and as no chair could be found of sufficient altitude to raise us to a proper level with these delicacies, we were constrained to stand at our feast.

The procession of curious followers had now halted, and deployed into a semicircle around us, doubtless to watch the effects of this astonishing banquet upon our weak minds and empty stomachs. To taste of the half-bird was at once to come to the conclusion that the poultry in Spain is fed chiefly on gravel. The black-eyed young ladies who lingered round us wonderingly while we were regaling ourselves, as if we were two specimens of some remarkable race of men, or inhabitants of the planet Jupiter dropped into their hotel, were at length swept off tittering by the brown old female, and we were left alone with the pyrotechnical saints, the whitewashed walls, a couple of iron bedsteads, two chairs, and the chest of drawers, which still groaned beneath the weight of the remains of the viands that had formed our initiatory banquet in the land of Spain. The wild cry of the watchman moaning through the narrow, silent streets, the distant clang of the great cathedral bell sounding the hour, and the misty moonlight streaming through the casement, gave a peculiar finish to our novel experiences of men and things; and so to bed—to a sleep confused with all sorts of impressions, blurred and running into each other on the palette of the mind.

Here we were in Spain; Spain, the land of historical memories—Iberian, Celtic, Phoenician, Greek, Carthaginian, and Roman. From the Phoenicians sprang Cadiz, Seville, Malaga, and Cordova. From the Greeks, Rhodians, and Zanteans, arose Rosas in CataluÑa, the populations of the Balearic Isles, and the immortal Saguntum (Murviedro), which heroically resisted Hannibal, and caused the second Punic war. From the Carthaginians, who conquered Southern Spain (b.c. 237), sprang Carthagena, and also Barcelona. All Spain fell beneath the Roman yoke, and continued under it for a period of four centuries.

Spain, the land of historic memories, Gothic, Moorish, French, British; the land of the Cid and of chivalry; the land of the Inquisition and of bigotry, of the religious monster, Torquemada, [3] and of the great and cruel Duke of Alva; the land of the conquerors of Mexico and Peru, of Cervantes, Lope de Vega, and Calderon; the land of Velasquez, Murillo, and the Ideal, not to speak of extortionate hotel-keepers who are much attached to the Real; [4] the land of impecuniosity, bigotry, intolerance, and fleas; the land of love and revenge, mantillas and stilettos; the land of plenty and horror, gazelle-eyed women, and the blue cholera; the land of bull-fights, cigarettes, blue blood, beggars, monks, and dinners cooked in oil; the land of the wondrous architecture of the sombre Goth and sensuous Moor; the land of a corrupted and vicious court—of lounging, intrigue, procrastination, and pride; the land of staunch, changeless, and noble characters, and of pure and chivalrous hearts; the land of the vine, orange, and cypress—of purple mountains and dreaming sea; the land of light and shadow, of love and hatred, glory and gloom;—in fine, the land of a sensitive, generous, warm-hearted, and graceful people, but the worst government in Christendom.

We are in Spain, certainly; but how cold and sepulchral a city Burgos is! It is chill and damp, and subject to violent attacks of wind, being situated on an elevated, exposed, and treeless plain, 3075 feet above the level of the sea, and surrounded by a wide Arabian-like yellow desert, which, however, waves one vast sea of corn in summer, for it is the granary of Spain. It is sepulchral because, for all the purposes of an advanced and enlightened age, it is a buried city; and there is nothing a Burgolese hates so much as improvement. We are many hundred miles south of England; but how much more bleak and inhospitable is the climate than that of our temperate Northern isle; and we can well understand the proverb relating to the weather in this place, "Diez meses de invierno y dos de infierno."

Burgos is, as we have said, much behind its time. There is no particular trade, excepting in the simple articles considered necessary for the population. The hotels are but second-rate, and are used chiefly as eating-houses for the higher class of tradespeople. Few foreigners seek their shelter.

As the morning broke we were favoured with a glimpse of the sun, which cheered us with its vivifying beams for about one hour, and then the dull leaden clouds once more passed over the face of day, while the cold winds swept down from the bare and dusty hills overlooking the town. However, as one wanders through the quiet old streets, one experiences a feeling of indolence which is soothing after the busy roar of other cities. The various colouring of the quaint Spanish streets, with the picturesque irregularity of the houses, as looked at in perspective, is light and lively. The appearance of the balconies, coloured matting, and painted shutters and blinds, is pleasing to the eye of the stranger from its novelty. There are never too many passengers to mar the repose of the scene; and on such as glide quietly past us we look with no small degree of curiosity. How interesting it is to see the good priest with the shovel hat, long black skirts, and stomach-buckle of "Il Barbiere," politely saluting the olive-coloured young lady with the graceful mantilla as she sweeps along with natural and queen-like dignity!

However offensive may be some of the sights we see in this country, however reluctant may be many of its fair denizens to part with their birthright of dirt, there is grace everywhere—grace innocent of the slightest attempt at effect, or of the smallest appearance of affectation; natural indigenous grace, worn by all, either in manner, dress, or bearing, from the highest to the lowest in the land. Even the vermin-hunting beggar, sunning his idle self beneath the carved church door, can be graceful in his rags; and an old rug flung loosely around his form, with the folds caught up here and there, and falling in an easy and becoming manner from his shoulder to his feet, gives to his figure, as he paces calmly by, an air of dignity rarely to be met with elsewhere; while the worn broad-brimmed velvet sombrero, jauntily poised on the coloured napkin which is bound round the head and falls in a knot on the nape of the neck, completes the well-known picture of the proud but beggarly Don, and places him in propri person before our eyes.

At every turn the eye may fall upon beautiful old gems of Gothic architecture, quaint and solemn old houses, carved with heraldic blazonry, or with statues of illustrious warriors dead ages ago set in their walls. Column, pillar, and arch are so intertwined and twisted in all directions, that the buildings look as if they had been suddenly paralysed whilst writhing all over in a fit of agony. One may pass under some beautifully fretted arch, and find oneself within a ruined court of the most graceful Saracenic device. No step breaks the sleepy silence of its light arcades; some goats only are quietly cropping the rank grass amongst the broken pavements of its great square; and the clouds are passing on softly above.

In the outskirts of the town we observed some massive yellow walls, with noble Gothic arches and windows, deep and barred, standing all alone amidst the dust of this arid climate, and looking upon the barren hills in the distance; but there was no living soul to attest whether they were convent or prison. Here and there, too, some rich relics of ancient sculpture were seen built up amidst the bricks of a barn or storehouse—the tottering Past nursed in the arms of the strong Present! In and around the city, feudal towers, grand old gateways, and the palaces of ancient nobles, of the old constables of Castile, with their faÇades ornamented with wonderful devices, armorial bearings, and heraldic monsters, are frequent objects of interest to him who can read a country's history in its antiquarian remains. From the eminence on which is built the convent of La Cartuja, situated about two miles from the city, a general view of Burgos is obtained, with the lace-like pinnacles of the Cathedral spiring to the skies, surrounded on all sides by the desolate hills and far-stretching Sahara-like plains, with scarce a patch of verdure for the aching eye to rest upon in any direction. We, in a weak moment, hired a calÈche to convey us to the convent; but as the road thither was over the most harassing ground, now following the track of a water-course strewn with great stones, then across level ground in which we sank up to the axles in white dust, we came to the conclusion that, like the man in the sedan-chair when the bottom came out, if it were not for the honour of the thing, we might just as well walk. Indeed, we might as well have owned to walking at once,—walking ostensibly, for though the carriage of honour was by our side, we really had to walk half the way.

Upon arriving at the gloomy portal of the convent, with its yellow walls, grated windows, and strong buttresses, upon which the long weeds were waving in the blast like the wild straws in the head of some melancholy maniac, we lifted a heavy knocker, and with it produced some blows which sounded dismally and preternaturally loud amidst the silence within. In answer to our summons, a cavernous, lean, pale face appeared for a second or so at a grating to inspect the intruders, and our exterior probably attesting the fact that no danger was to be apprehended from us, the heavy door was swung open by a poor dilapidated son of religion, in a long serge gown and sandals, who looked so depressed and shy with life-long dulness and superstition, that it was no wonder he could not lift his eyes higher than the knees of his visitors. We then entered an elegant little church with pointed arches, of the florid Gothic style, beneath a faÇade emblazoned with the arms of Castile and Leon. In the midst of the subdued light of the holy place, there suddenly broke upon us the magnificent tomb of Juan II. and Queen Isabella of Portugal, formed of white marble. It is truly wonderful that in the recesses of these lonely and decaying walls, in this forlorn spot of earth, inhabited only by five wretched and poverty-stricken monks, are seen objects of interest which, in their marvellous beauty, are unequalled, perhaps, in the world. Executed in pure Carrara marble, octagonal in shape, and raised about six feet from the pavement, with a circumference of nearly thirty-six feet, the tomb of Juan and Isabella perfectly tortures the eye by the amazing intricacy of its detail. Sixteen lions, bearing the royal escutcheons, stand in pairs at each angle; groups of innumerable statuettes, each individual a masterpiece of itself, appear resting under filigree canopies, and within a perfect network of marble lace of infinite delicacy; while festoons and bowers of feathery foliage, fruits and flowers, support birds and insects treading in their marble imagery with the springy touch of life. The statues of the royal pair lie side by side, robed in drapery which might be the finest needlework were it not stone.

In a recess in the wall near by is another wonderful tomb of the same profuse ornament and delicate finish, that of Don Alonzo, son of the above. Over the high altar is a retablo, a mass of gorgeous gilt woodwork representing angels sitting on very solid clouds, while whole coveys of little winged cherubim, with very red cheeks, hover round the great central figure of Christ hanging on the cross, and surmounted by a pelican tearing her breast to feed her young. The entire height of the retablo, from the kneeling figures of the king and queen below to the summit of the topmost clouds amidst which the Assumption of the Virgin is represented, must be nearly forty feet. The gilding with which this magnificent work is profusely adorned, is said to be part of the gold brought by Columbus from America. The finely-carved walnut-wood stalls of the choir are specimens of the wonderful industry and exquisite taste of olden times, and a characteristic of all Spanish churches.

In the central ground of the silent convent cloisters the rank weeds wave over some hundred graves of Carthusian monks. As time rolls on the weeds rise higher and tangle thicker, but the stoneless mound gradually sinks down to the general level of the earth. However worthy the actions or great the deeds of the poor, their graves are ever silent, their names are but writ in water, and the very grass above them withers not so soon as their memory.

After having seen everything that attracted our curiosity, we returned through the deep white dust, and over the stony tracts, with our very useful vehicle jolting behind us, the coachman wrapping more closely round him his ample garment,—a garment with considerably more pretension to hair than to shape, being composed of the skins of many goats. I suppose he rarely, if ever, took it off, night or day; and it is probable, if he ever ventured to dispense with a vestment which had become almost a part of himself, he might have felt the consequences of his rashness.

We fear it is our painful duty to remind the reader that Burgos and the Duke of Wellington were once associated together. Glory is a fine thing, but it is apt after a time to become a bÊte noire to many excellent readers; however, that is their look-out. In November, 1808, Burgos became the head-quarters of Napoleon. Wellington, fresh from his victory of Salamanca, invested the town; but, in consequence of the insufficient support of the Spanish general, was compelled to raise the siege in order to escape being captured by Marshal Soult, who was approaching with an enormous force. To join Hill was the Duke's necessary object, as his troops were few in number, badly provisioned, and worn out by a continued struggle against great odds and many disadvantages, the little band having with them to carry on the siege but three field-pieces and five howitzers, against twenty-six of the French. After a loss of two thousand men, the retreat of the English was carried out with much hazard; but in June, 1813, the fortune of war was changed, and King Joseph, upon the approach of the Duke of Wellington, evacuated the citadel, after blowing up the fortifications, and with them several hundred Frenchmen.

In the Castle at Burgos, once a sumptuous palace as well as a citadel, the marriage of the Cid took place; also that of Edward the First of England and Eleanor of Castile. Burgos is illustrious among cities, as having given birth to the Cid, who in 1040, first saw the light in a house which stood on the spot where now stands an obelisk, in the Calle Alta, erected by Charles III. in 1784. There are, of course, a large number of people who know all about the Cid, and the derivation of the word. But as we are equally certain there are a fair amount who do not, we may as well mention the following particulars in connection with that semi-mysterious personage, to whom frequent allusions are unavoidable in a book about Spain.

Don Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, otherwise the Cid, was a gentleman of very warlike tendencies, and spent most of his time in giving vent to the martial ardour within him. He has consequently been regarded by his countrymen of all times as their national hero, and wrapped in a bright haze of fabulous glory and fame. He, however, accomplished a good deal of the work attributed to him, and chased, harassed, conquered, and imprisoned the Moors throughout Spain to a most satisfactory extent. His love for the beautiful and heroic Ximena exemplifies the adage that none but the brave deserve the fair, and shows his prowess in the bowers of Venus as well as in the field of Mars. Shortly after his death a grand poetical glorification of his exploits was offered to his manes in the "Chronicle of the Cid;" and another, a very long time after, by the immortal Corneille in his masterpiece of "Le Cid." Upon the occasion of a great victory, some Moorish notables came to the hero and prostrated themselves at his feet, saluting him with the title of Seid Campeador, or Champion Prince—whence the appellation Cid.

Valencia was the last Moorish stronghold which fell to his arms; and there, after hanging up his spurs and horse-bit upon the Cathedral wall, where they remain to this day, he died in the year 1099. Any inquiring traveller may now satisfy the combined bent of a historical and anatomical mind by inspecting within a wooden urn in the Town Hall of Burgos, the bones of the immortal Don Rodrigo and his lovely Ximena.

Only to see the Cathedral of Burgos would amply serve as a grateful end to a pilgrimage from the uttermost parts of the earth. Coming suddenly from round the angle of some narrow street, there bursts upon the eye that glorious Gothic pile, with all its airy pinnacles. In the interior how rich is this majestic temple with that unequalled pomp so significant of the Roman Catholic faith, while the solemn walls are fretted with chaste ornaments of the rarest beauty, and with groups of slender, graceful pillarets which rise arrow-like to the lofty roof. When one views it, as Scott recommends us to view Melrose, in the pale moonlight, how profound is the impression produced by the weird-like appearance of the immense building, the design of which is so noble, so perfect! The awed pilgrim from other lands, when his eyes first rest on this unequalled shrine, stands enchanted, as if rooted to the spot, his soul leaping within him, transported with the beauty of so rare a spectacle.

As the great carved door swings back behind us, and shuts out from the senses the glare of the Spanish day, the head is instinctively bowed, and the knee bends in worship; for everything in this consecrated temple of the Divinity is calculated to excite the spirit of adoration, and to raise our faith heavenward. When we stand silent on the threshold of that holy place, beneath the lofty arches of the vaulted roof, supported by rows of colossal columns melting away into the distance; when we slowly pace the long aisles, with the tombs of the mighty dead on each side; or when we kneel with the devout worshippers before the altars in the various chapels, gemmed by hundreds of star-like lamps, the soul feels the reality of things unseen; while with the deep diapason of the organ, blended with the holy song of bands of choristers, its aspirations mount like clouds of incense to heaven. Never shall I forget the profound impression which I experienced when, in that noble fane, I felt that religious faith was at once the grandest and the most genuine growth of the human soul.

The staircase, which descends in graceful curvings from the altar to the marble floor beneath, with great griffin heads terminating the balustrades, is very beautiful, and was much admired by our own David Roberts. How magnificent, too, is the choir, with its two hundred stalls, adorned with spires, which are ornamented with the richest and most minute carving! The dark walnut-wood is all chased, chiselled, and traced from pinnacle to floor with one mass of amazing ornamentation, amidst the intricacies of which the sight loses itself, and becomes dim. The choir is entirely surrounded by tall brass railings of exquisite workmanship; and in the fifteen chapels, each enclosing objects of marvellous interest or beauty, the altars are supported by jasper pillars and columns of rarest marbles, while the retablo rises to the roof—a perfect labyrinth of gilt wood-carving, crowded with subjects of wondrous device. On a shelf in a sacristy is mouldering away into chips a great wooden chest which belonged to the Cid, for the indulgence of looking at which not very remarkable article of this hero's outfit a priest did not charge us more than a shilling a head.