The Sunny South: An Autumn in Spain and Majorca. John William Clayton

now in and around San Sebastian, the sleepy quiet of which is broken only by the roar of distant waves, that it is difficult to conjure up the scenes of carnage which, after the defeat of the French garrison by the English, took place here—the rush of hissing shot, the crash of falling houses, and the shrieks of women and children dying midst flames and smoke! Who can imagine the condition of a town given up to drunken soldiers, maddened with lust, success, and wine? England has glorious annals in her history, and well may her sons rejoice in their English birth; but there have been times when devils might have rejoiced and angels wept at the deeds done by Englishmen, and the day of the sack of San Sebastian was one of them.

      After a short stoppage we proceeded onwards again through sombre gorges, rocky defiles, and verdant valleys. We swept across dry and arid plains, with the long line of the retiring Pyrenees bounding their horizon, and past wonderful old villages, mostly in ruins, built in the chinks and crannies of rocky mountains, and inhabited by wild-looking men and women. The plashing rain descended and the wind whistled as we dashed through the spume and mist, with great rocks, old castles, and majestic trees looming in the midst thereof like uncouth ghosts. Then—

      "One long last peal of thunder,

      The clouds are cleared away;

      And the glorious sun once more looks down

      Upon the dazzling day."

      When light once more shone on our path, we looked up and beheld high overhead beetling crags and detached boulders of rock, suspended apparently so insecurely that a breath might dislodge them from their lofty shelves, and dash them down in ruin upon the passing pigmies beneath. On that spiring pinnacle sits a mouldering castle, where Roderick, last of the Goths, transported the lovely La Cava, who cost him his sceptre and his life.

      The plains of Vittoria at last appeared spread before us, indistinctly seen in the darkening twilight, with a lunar rainbow hanging over them.

      Oh! the oppressive heat of Spain! Oh! the suffocating and sultry air! But the Spanish climate is often subject to great changes, and we can only say right glad were we that we took a fool's counsel, viz., our own, and had brought no end of wrappers. Like Job, we had our comforters, and fortunately had carried with us a stout great-coat to this broiling land!

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       [2] Man is naturally a benevolent creature.—Antonin.