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SAN SEBASTIAN.

LETTER VI.

SAN SEBASTIAN.

SAN SEBASTIAN, Spain, October 5, 1857.

It was a matter of course, that in lodgings so neglected by the housekeeper as those I described in my last, we should find the fleas uncomfortably numerous. The mosquitoes did their part to keep us awake, but a walk the next day on the rocky mount at the foot of which San Sebastian is built, made amends for the annoyances of the night. The west wind had been blowing with some strength for several days; and the agitated ocean was rolling its mighty breakers on one side of us into the bay of Concha, and on the other up the river Urumea, and in front of us dashing them against the base of the rocks on which we stood. The two sublimest features of nature are the sea and the mountains; and it is not often that in any part of the world you see them in their grandeur side by side. Here, at San Sebastian, you have the Pyrenees looking down upon the Atlantic. To the northwest of the city, the sea flings its spray against the dark rocks of Mount Ulia, to the southwest it beats against the steeps of Mount Frio, crowned with lighthouses, and beyond, in the same direction, a lofty promontory stretches, like a sentinel of that

NOISES OF SAN SEBASTIAN.

53

mountain range, far into the great deep. As we looked inland from the height we stood, we had before us an amphitheatre of mountains, with peaked and wavy summits, embosoming the country about San Sebastian; at our feet lay the little city with its little artificial port, made by massive seawalls, and containing its little commercial marine, and beyond the port, where the billows rolled in upon the sands, we saw a row of bathing tents, near which ladies were taking their morning bath, and at some distance were men on horseback, urging their animals into the surf.

From this place, resounding only with the roar of the ocean, we returned to streets as noisy with the voices and occupations of men. I think San Sebastian the noisiest place I was ever in, and that with scarcely any help from the rattling of carriages or the tramp of horses' feet. I seem to be perpetually in the midst of a crowd of children, just let loose from school. The streets resound from early morning to eight o'clock at night with all manner of childish and infantile cries; they are calling to each other in their shrillest accents; they are shouting, crying, singing, blowing penny whistles, clattering castanets. Then you hear artisans of almost every trade, engaged in their work-blacksmiths striking their anvils, tinkers mending brass-kettles, cobblers hammering their lasts; you hear the screech of the file, the grating of the saw, and the click of the stone-cutter's chisel. Parrots are screaming to each other across the streets; and oxen are dragging loaded carts, running on plank wheels without spokes, which creak lamentably as they go. Besides

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COMPACTNESS OF THE TOWN.

all this, there is a most extraordinary yelping of dogs at San Sebastian. Once in ten minutes a dog is flogged, or somebody treads on his tail or toes, and he makes the whole town ring with his complaints.

"Let me show you San Sebastian," said our host, soon after we had returned from our walk. He took us to a balcony, projecting from one of the windows. "There," said he, “on one side, at three or four rods distance, you see the city wall. In the opposite direction, the street extends a few rods further, to that gate, through which you pass to the port. That is the length of San Sebastian." Our host then conducted us to a balcony on the cross street. "Here," said he,

"a few doors to the right, the street ends at the rock upon which the citadel is built; look to the left, and you see where the same street terminates at the city wall. That is the breadth of San Sebastian. You have now seen the city; it is but a village, and would be nothing without its citadel." I was obliged to agree with Monsieur Lafitte as to the extent of the city; which, however, within the narrow circuit of its walls, is compactly built, and can be made no larger; yet in this space are crowded ten thousand persons. The streets are straight, crossing each other at right angles, and rather narrow; the buildings are four stories in height, including the ground floor; and each story, even in the case of the wealthier class, is occupied by a separate family; and as the windows are open all day, scarcely a baby cries in San Sebastian without being heard all over the city.

In one place I found silence; it was Sunday; and I en

CHURCH OF SANTA MARIA.

55

55

tered the church of Santa Maria, erected in the beginning of the last century. Without, the church has a festive aspect, like that of a theatre, the front being carved into scrolls and escutcheons, flourishes and garlands, and heads of cherubs projecting from among foliage. Within, the massive pillars, faced on each of their four sides with Corinthian pilasters, spread from the richly ornamented capitals into richly ornamented cornices, and from these sprout into ribbed arches of a broad span; the whole in what would be called a corrupt style of architecture, but which has a certain imposing and magnificent effect, and that is perhaps the best test of architectural merit. The church was crowded with worshippers, of whom four-fifths were women, and of these a considerable proportion were of the more opulent class. All were in black veils, the national costume; not a bonnet was to be seen; all were on their knees, with their faces turned towards the altar. I observed among them many fine countenances, and was struck with the appearance they showed of being profoundly absorbed in the offices of devotion. All were motionless, save the priest at the richly ornamented altar, with his bows and genuflections; all was silence, save the prayer he murmured, and the tinkling of the little bell, which announced some peculiar part of the ceremonies. The thick walls of the building excluded all sounds from the streets, and on the platform before it all games are rigorously forbidden.

I came out of the church, and entering the street which led to my hotel, found myself, at once, in a perfect hubbub of

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SUNDAY GAYETIES.

noises. Pianos were jangling in the houses; servant girls were screaming to each other in Basque, and uttering shouts of laughter; the chorus of childish voices was shriller than ever; the very parrots seemed to utter their cries with more energy, as if in honor of the holiday; it appeared to me that of all the inhabitants of the city not one was silent. Close to our hotel, and within sight of its windows, lies the great Plaza of the town, and this was full of people, notwithstanding an occasional thin shower of drizzling rain. Here children of different ages were playing their noisy games; some were skipping their ropes, some dancing in a ring and singing, some dancing by themselves and snapping their castanets. Apart from these, some young people were dancing the fandango the young men in flat scarlet caps, scarlet sashes, and hempen sandals tied with scarlet galoon. The tumult of merriment grew more riotous about twilight. A flute was played at one of the corners of the streets, and a band of young girls capered up and down to the music, with shouts of laughter. About nine o'clock all was comparatively quiet, and soon after that hour the watchman of the city began to utter his cries; for it would be inconsistent with the genius of the place to leave the night to its natural silence. At every stroke of the hour and of each intermediate half hour, he proclaimed the time of night in a deep, melancholy tone, as if lamenting its departure. "Las dos dadas;" "las dos y media dadas;" "las tres dadas," &c., &c., were repeated again and again as he paced the street, in a voice which grew less and less distinct, until it was lost in turning some dis