From Burgos to San Sebastian, still northward, is a hundred and fifty miles by rail, but Spanish dispatch requires ten hours for the trip. It was a beautiful, soft, sunny day, full of the spirit and promise of early spring. The fruit trees were in blossom, the green fields strewn with wild flowers; flocks of grazing sheep were constantly in sight, and men and women busy with field labor, the red petticoats and white caps of the latter forming charming bits of color against the green background. Sparkling water-courses, with here and there a fall giving power to some rickety old stone mill, added variety to the shifting scenery. On the not far-off hills were veritable castles, border fortresses in ruins, whose gray, moss-covered towers had borne witness to the conflicts of armor-clad warriors in the days of Castilian knighthood and glory. What enchantment hangs about these rude battlements, "rich with the spoils of time!" In looking back upon the ancient days it is fortunate that the mellowing influence of time dims the vision, and we see down the long vista of years as through a softening twilight, else we should behold such harshness as would arouse more of ire than of admiration. The olden time, like the landscape, appears best in the purple distance.

The general aspect of the country, since we left Malaga in the extreme south, had been rather disappointing, and the rural appearance on this beautiful trip from Burgos to San Sebastian was therefore appreciated. It should be called the garden of Spain, the well-watered plains and valleys being spread with carpets of exquisite verdure. In the far distance one could detect snow-clad mountains, which, in fact, were not out of sight during the entire trip. Thousands of acres were covered by the vine, already well advanced, and from the product of which comes the sherry wine of commerce. The vineyards were interspersed with fields of ripening grain. Wheat and wine! Or, as the Spaniards say: "The staff of life and life itself." It was impossible not to feel a sense of elation at the delightful scenery and the genial atmosphere on this early April day. Nature seemed to be in her merriest mood, clothing everything in poetical attire, rendering beautiful the little gray hamlets on the hill-sides, dominated by square bell-towers, about which the red-tiled cottages clustered. Outside of these were family groups sitting in the warm sunshine, some sewing, some spinning, while children tumbled and played in the inviting grass. We had seen nothing like this for many a day—certainly not in Spain. Presently we came up to the lofty snow-capped mountains, which had for a while ranged just ahead of us, when one of them seemed suddenly to open a wide mouth at its base as if to swallow the train. In it rushed puffing and snorting through a dark tunnel nearly a mile long, until at last we emerged on the opposite side of the mountain into a scene of great beauty, overlooking a valley worthy of Japan. Far up towards the blue sky was the snow under which we had been hidden in the darkness of the tunnel, while in this lower range we were surrounded with verdure and bloom. Here were graceful trees, smiling bits of landscape, flocks of sheep, tumbling cascades, so grouped and mingled as to seem like a theatrical effect rather than nature.

We came into San Sebastian in the early twilight; a somewhat famous watering-place on the boisterous Bay of Biscay, drawing its patronage largely from Madrid, though of late both English and Americans have resorted thither. It is a small city, but the thriftiest and most business-like to be found in Spain when its size is considered. The place was entirely destroyed by fire when captured from the French by the English,—a piece of sanguinary work which cost the latter five thousand men. It was on this occasion that Wellington is reported to have said: "The next dreadful thing to a battle lost is a battle won." The dwellings are modern and handsome, the streets broad and well paved, the squares ornamented by shrubbery and fountains, and the drives in the environs and on the beach are very inviting. In short San Sebastian is a model watering-place for summer resort with several good hotels. It will be remembered that Wellington fought some severe battles in this vicinity in 1813. On the way from Burgos the battle-field of Vittoria was pointed out, where the French army was thoroughly routed. The Spanish government has made a miniature Gibraltar of San Sebastian. Overlooking the harbor is a lofty fortification which commands the town and all of its approaches. From the fort, which costs a good climb to reach, a very fine view is obtained of a broad extent of country. Whole blocks of new buildings were in course of construction, and San Sebastian seemed to be preparing for a large summer business. Seen from a short distance, as one approaches in the cars, the grouping of the town, with the lofty and frowning fortification, its neat white dwellings and undulating surface, makes a pleasing picture, standing out in bold relief against the blue sky hanging over the Bay of Biscay.

Our next stopping-place after leaving San Sebastian was Bayonne,—that is "The Good Port,"—about forty miles further towards the French frontier. It is a city of some thirty thousand inhabitants, located at the junction of the Adour and Nive rivers, in the Lower Pyrenees. Here, again, the cathedral forms nearly the only attraction to strangers; though very plain, and with little architectural pretension, still it is gray, old, and crumbling, plainly telling the story of its age. The city has considerable commerce by the river, both in steam and sailing vessels, and exports a very respectable amount of domestic products. Most continental cities have their Jews' quarter,—the Ghetto, as it is called; but in Bayonne the race is especially represented by the descendants of those who escaped death at the hands of the Inquisition, in the time of Philip II. They form fully one third of the population, judging from appearances; and though not characterized by neatness or cleanliness, their quarter is the home of numerous rich men. They have retained their old Spanish and Portuguese names and fortunes. Many of the Jewish capitalists of London, Paris, and Havre, are from Bayonne. There is a decided difference in the manners and the dress of the people from those of Spain generally, being more like those of the Basque Provinces, to which it belongs geographically.

Here one sees the palace where Catherine de Medici and the Duke of Alba planned the terrible massacre of the Huguenots. In and about the city some very pleasant drives may be enjoyed. A large, well-shaded public garden commences just at the city gates and extends along the left bank of the Adour. It will occur to the reader that the familiar military weapon, the bayonet, got its name from Bayonne, having been invented, or rather discovered, here. It seems that a Basque regiment, during an engagement with the Spaniards near this spot, had entirely exhausted their ammunition; but fixing their long knives in the muzzles of their guns, they thus successfully charged on and defeated the enemy. The legend is mentioned, as every one must listen to it from the local guides, though—between ourselves—it is a most gross anachronism.

We have not yet come to a conclusion as to what language our landlord spoke. He certainly understood French, though he did not attempt to express himself in it. It was not Spanish, that we know; therefore it must have been Basque, the language which Noah received from Adam, if we are to believe the residents of Bayonne. An out-door fair was visited, upon an open square lying between the hotel and the harbor, where the gay colors, shooting-booths, hurdy-gurdies, drums, fifes, flags, and games, together with a wax exhibition, representing a terrible murder and an assassin committing the deed with a poker painted red hot, all served to remind us of a similar occasion at Tokio, in far-off Japan. Striking scenic effects came in here and there, the distant summits of the Pyrenees being visible beyond the mountains of Navarre.

A drive of five miles from Bayonne took us to Biarritz, situated a little southwest of the old city, at the lower part of the Bay of Biscay, being the Newport of southern France. Our postilion was gotten up after the Basque fashion of his tribe, in a most fantastic short jacket of scarlet, with little abbreviated tails, silver laced all over, and with a marvelous complement of hanging buttons. He wore a stove-pipe hat with a flashing cockade, and flourished a long whip that would have answered for a Kaffir cattle-driver. The horses—large fine specimens of the Norman breed—were harnessed three abreast, and decorated with many bells, while their headstalls were heavy with scarlet woolen tassels, and ornamented with large silver-plated buckles. The vehicle was a roomy, old-fashioned barouche, comfortable, but about as ancient as the cathedral. Altogether we looked with such unfeigned amazement at the landlord, when this queer outfit drove to the door, that he, native and to the manner born, could not suppress a broad smile. It answered our purpose, however, and as the populace was evidently accustomed to such florid display, we did not anticipate being mobbed; but during the entire trip that harlequin of a driver, who was as sober as a mute at a funeral, shared our admiration with the pleasing and varied scenery. He was a thorough native. It would have been of no use to attempt to talk with him, for the foreigner who can speak the Basque tongue has yet to be discovered.

Biarritz, which is in the department of the Basses-Pyrenees, yet a long way from the mountain range, was unknown to fame until Eugenie, empress of the French, built a grand villa here, and made it her summer resort; being, however, over five hundred miles from the French capital, it never became very popular with the Parisians. The emperor and empress resorted thither annually, and, laying aside the dignity of state, were seen daily indulging in sea-bathing. The building of the Villa Eugenie made the fortune of Biarritz. The climate is particularly dry and warm, proving, if we may believe common report, excellent for invalids. The hot days of summer are tempered by a sea-breeze, which blows with great regularity inland during the day. The town is elevated, being seated upon a bluff of the coast, and has two small bays strewn with curiously honey-combed rocks, worn into the oddest of shapes by the fierce beating of the surf for ages. Art has aided nature in the grotesque arrangement of these rocks, so as to form arches and caves of all conceivable shapes. It must present a splendid sight here in a stormy day, when the surf breaks over the huge rocks and rushes wildly through these cavernous passages. Such a battle between the sea and the shore would be grand to witness. The beach shelves gently, and is firm and smooth, so that it is particularly well adapted for bathing.

Biarritz being in nearly the same latitude as Nice and Mentone, one looks for similar foliage and vegetation, but there are no palms, aloes, oranges, or trees of that class here. The place lacks the shelter of the Maritime Alps, which the two resorts just mentioned enjoy; but bright, sunny Biarritz will long live in the memory of the little party whom the Basque postilion drove thither and back. The late imperial residence, the Villa Eugenie, is now improved as a fashionable summer hotel. The drive from Bayonne to Biarritz can be made by one road, and the return accomplished by another. On the way back we passed through two or three miles of thick, sweet-scented pine forest, still and shady under the afternoon sun, except for the drowsy hum of insects, and the pleasant carol of birds. Here and there were open glades where the sun lay upon little beds of blue flowers of unknown name, but very like the gentian; and there were also the wild daphne and scarlet anemones. The lofty trees located on both sides of the road had been tapped for their sap, and little wooden spouts were conducting the glutinous deposit into small earthen jars hung on the perpendicular trunks,—reminding one of the mode of "milking" the toddy palms in India and Ceylon, by which ingenious means the natives obtain, a liquor which, when fermented, is as strong as the best Scotch or Irish whiskey.

Our journey through Spain proved to be one of great and lasting interest, although it was mingled with a sense of disappointment, not as to its historic interest, nor its unrivaled monuments "mellowed by the stealing hours of time;" but we missed the bright sunny fields of France, we found none of the soft loveliness of the Italian climate or vegetation, and were ever contrasting its treeless surface with well-wooded Belgium and Switzerland. When gazing upon its stunted shrubbery and dry yellow grass, it was natural to recall the lovely valleys and plains of Japan, and even the closely-cultivated fields of China, where every square foot of soil contiguous to populous districts is made to produce its quota towards the support of man. The pleasant oases to be found here and there, the exceptional bits of verdant fields and fertile districts which we have described, only prove what the country in the possession of an enterprising race might be made to produce. Now it is little more than a land of sun and blue skies. The Spanish people seem to be imbued with all the listlessness of those of the tropics, though not by the same enervating influence. Nature is willing to meet men more than half way, even in Spain, but will not pour out there her products with the lavishness which characterizes her in the low latitudes. The country is not composed of desolate sierras by any means, but its neglected possibilities are yet in such strong contrast to the most of continental Europe as to lead the tourist to very decided conclusions. The beautifully shaded avenue at Burgos along the Arlanzon, and the road to Miraflores forming a charming Alameda, show very plainly what can be done by planting a few hundred suitable trees to beautify the environs of a half-ruined, mouldering, mediaeval city. It is to be hoped that those who planted these luxuriant trees may have lived to enjoy their grace and beauty. Under Ferdinand and Isabella, Spain was a great and thriving nation, almost beyond precedent. Her colonial possessions rivaled those of the entire world; but her glory has vanished, and her decadence has been so rapid as to be phenomenal, until she is now so humbled there are very few to do her honor.

The distance from Bayonne to Bordeaux is one hundred and twenty-five miles, a dull and uninteresting journey, the route lying through what seemed an interminable pine forest, so that it was a decided relief when the spires of this French capital came into view. Bordeaux was found to be a much larger and finer city than we had realized. The topographical formation is that of a crescent along the shore of the Garonne, which here forms a broad and navigable harbor, though it is located some sixty miles from the sea. There were many Roman antiquities and ancient monuments to be seen, all interesting, venerable with the wear and tear of eighteen centuries. The public buildings, commanding in their architectural character, were found to be adorned with admirable sculpture and some fine paintings. The ancient part of the town has narrow and crooked streets, but the modern portion is open, airy, and has good architectural display. The Grand Theatre is remarkably effective with its noble Ionic columns, built a little more than a century since by Louis XVI. Bordeaux is connected by canal with the Mediterranean and has considerable commerce, especially in the importation of American whiskey, which is sent back to the United States and exported elsewhere as good Bordeaux brandy, after being carefully doctored. The Sabbath was passed here, but its observance or non-observance is like that common in Continental cities. It is a mere day of recreation, the Roman Catholic element attending mass, and devoting the balance of the day to amusement. There were performances at all of the theatres, the stores and shops were generally open, and very large fine shops they are. In the afternoon two balloons were sent up from the Champ de Mars: one a mammoth in size, containing half a dozen persons; the other smaller, containing but one person to manage it—a lady. There were at least fifty thousand people in the great square to witness the ascension,—a very orderly and well-dressed throng. A military band played during the inflating process, and the promenaders and loungers presented a gay concourse.

There was an unmistakable aspect of business prosperity about the streets of the city. Everybody seemed active and engaged in some purpose. There were few loungers, and, we must make a note of it, no beggars. It was observable that the large Norman horses used in the working teams were sleek and fat, splendid creatures; such as Rosa Bonheur represents in her famous picture of the Horse Fair. What a contrast these noble, well-kept animals presented to the poor, half-starved creatures to be met with in the East, and, indeed, in only too many of the European cities,—Rome, Florence, Antwerp, and Madrid. We are now approaching such familiar ground that the reader will hardly expect more of us than to specify the closing route of our long journey.

From Bordeaux to Paris is about four hundred miles. As we left the former city the road passed through miles upon miles of thriving vineyards, those nearest to the city producing the brands of claret best known in the American market. The route generally all the way to Paris was through a charming and highly cultivated country, vastly different from northern and central Spain. The well-prepared fields were green with the spring grains and varied crops, showing high cultivation. Sheep in large flocks, tended by shepherdesses with tall white Norman caps, and picturesque, high-colored dresses, enlivened the landscape. These industrious women were knitting or spinning in the field. Others were driving oxen, while men held the plow. Gangs of men and women together were working in long rows, preparing the ground for seed or planting; and all seemed cheerful, decent, and happy. The small railroad stations recalled those of India between Tuticorin and Madras, where the surroundings were beautified by fragrant flower-gardens,—their bland, odorous breath acting like a charm upon the senses, amid the noise and bustle of arrival and departure. Now and again, as we progressed, the pointed architecture of some picturesque chateau would present itself among the clustering trees with its bright, verdant lawns and neat outlying dependencies; and so we sped on, until, in the early evening, we glided into the station at Paris.

There was a clear sky, a young moon, and a full display of the starry hosts, on the night of our arrival in this the gayest capital of the world. Four hundred miles of unbroken travel that day, so far from satiating, only served to whet the appetite for observation. Ten years had passed since the writer had trod those familiar boulevards; and now hastening to the Place de la Madeleine we renewed acquaintance with the noble church which ornaments the square, the purest and grandest specimen of architecture, of its class, extant. Thence passing a few steps onward, the brilliantly-lighted Place de la Concorde was reached, that spot so emblazoned in blood upon the pages of history. How the music of the fountains mingled with the hum of the noisy throng that filled the streets! What associations crowded upon the mind as we stood there at the base of the grand old obelisk of Luxor, looming up from the centre of the grounds. In front was the long, broad, flashing roadway of the Champs Elysees, one blaze of light and busy life; for Paris does not awake until after dark. Far away the Arc de Triomphe is just discerned where commences the Bois de Boulogne. On the left, across the Seine, is outlined against the sky the twin towers of St. Clotilde, with the glittering dome of the Invalides; and to the eastward are seen the dual towers of Notre Dame. The brain is stimulated as by wine, till one grows dizzy. Proceeding through the Rue Rivoli we turn towards our hotel by the Place Vendome, looking once more upon that vast and beautiful monument, the finest modern column in existence, and then to bed—not to sleep, but to revel in the intoxication of that bitter-sweet—memory!

After a few weeks passed in Paris, the journey homeward was renewed by way of Antwerp, a city which owes its attraction almost solely to the fact that here are to be seen so many masterpieces of painting. The great influence of Rubens can hardly be appreciated without a visit to the Flemish capital, where he lived and died, and where his ashes rest in the Church of St. Jacques. This is considered the finest church in Antwerp, remarkable for the number and richness of its private chapels. Here are the burial-places of the noble and wealthy families of the past, and among them that of the Rubens family, which is situated just back of the high altar. Above the tomb is a large painting by this famous master, intended to represent a Holy Family, and the picture is in a degree typical of the idea. But its object is also well understood as being to perpetuate a series of likenesses of the Rubens family; namely, of himself, his two wives, his daughter, his father, and grandfather. The painting is incongruous, and in bad taste, being quite open also to criticism in its drawing and grouping. The whole production appears like a forced and uncongenial effort. Vandyke and Teniers were also natives of this city, where their best works still remain, and where the State has erected fitting monuments to their memory. Jordeans, the younger Teniers, and Denis Calvart, the master of Guido Reni, were natives here.

The famous cathedral, more picturesque and remarkable for its exterior than interior, is of the pointed style, and of about a century in age. Did it not contain Rubens' world-renowned pictures, the Descent from the Cross, the Elevation of the Cross, and the Assumption, few people would care to visit it. A gorgeous church ceremony was in progress when we first entered the church: some one of the three hundred and sixty-five saints receiving an annual recognition on the occasion of his birthday. A score of priests were marching about the body of the church at the head of a long procession of boys, with silk banners and burning candles, chanting all the while to an organ accompaniment. On the borders of this procession the people knelt and seemed duly impressed.

The patter of wooden shoes upon the streets is almost deafening to strangers, men, women, and children adding to the din. Probably it is found to be cheaper to take a block of wood and hew out a pair of shoes from it, fit to wear, than to adopt a more civilized mode of shoeing the people; but these heavy clogs give to the inhabitants an awkward gait. In all of the older portions of the town, the houses have a queer way of standing with their gable ends to the street, just as they are addicted to doing at Amsterdam and Hamburg, showing it to be a Dutch proclivity. Dogs are universally used here for light vehicles in place of donkeys,—one or more being attached to each vehicle adapted to the transportation of milk or bread and other light articles. These are attended by boys or women. Beggars there are none, to the credit of the city be it said; nor is one importuned by hackmen or other public servants; all are ready to serve you, but none to annoy you. Antwerp has some fine broad squares, avenues, public gardens, and noble trees.

Belgium is a nation of blondes, in strong contrast with its near neighbor, France, where the brunettes reign supreme. It is singular that there should be such a marked difference in communities, differences as definite as geographical boundaries, and seemingly governed by rules quite as arbitrary. Why should a people's hair, eyes, and complexion be dark or light, simply because an imaginary line divides them territorially? No one for a moment mistakes a German for a Frenchman, an Antwerp lady for a Parisian. The very animals seem to partake of these local characteristics, while the manners and customs are equally individualized. The French women of all classes put on their attire with a dainty grace that contrasts strongly with the careless, though cleanly costume of their sisters over the border. Aesthetic taste, indeed, would seem almost out of place displayed upon the square, solidly-built women of Flanders. Is it imagination, or can one really trace somewhat of the same idea in Flora's kingdom? The Dutch roses, tulips, and other flowers, like the naval architecture of the Low Countries, have a certain breadth of beam and bluntness of prow that makes them differ from the same fragrant family of France. Has any learned essayist ever attempted to draw philosophical deductions from these aspects of the vegetable world, as showing local kinship to humanity?

Embarking from Antwerp, July 14th, on board the Steamship Waesland, of the Red Star Line, New York was reached after a voyage of twelve days, July 24th, and Boston by the Shore Line the same evening, coming in at the opposite side of the city whence we started a little more than ten months previous; having thus, in a journey of about forty thousand miles, completed a circuit of the globe.

THE END