Here we were in Spain; Spain, the land of historical memories--Iberian, Celtic, Phœnician, Greek, Carthaginian, and Roman. From the Phœnicians 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.