In the small railroad depot of Burgos, while the slow purgatory of being served with tickets was endured, a traveler found fault in good Saxon English as to the stupidity of such delay about trifles, and also complained of having been robbed of some small article of luggage. Another Englishman, particularly disposed to palliate matters, said there must be some mistake about it; he had been here before, and the people of Burgos were proverbially honest. By and by a great excitement was apparent on the platform, when it came to light that the apologist and indorser of the good people here was declaring that a leather strap had been purloined from his trunk, between the hotel and the depot, and the contents of his hat-box abstracted. What was to be done? The engine was screeching forth the starting signal with unwonted vigor, and there was no time to be lost. He who had spoken so favorably of the local population a few moments before, was now red in the face with anger and improper language. He had barely time to get into his seat before the train moved onward, and doubtless left his trust in humanity behind him with the stolen property. It was only an instance of misplaced confidence; and thus we bid farewell to the sleepy but picturesque old city.
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.