THE BAY OF BISCAY. 189 



these storms, for I know no pen or pencil that could 

 afford any just idea of these convulsions of the at- 

 mosphere, or of the excessive violence of the wind 

 which continued to blow for forty-eight hours in the 

 same manner as it blew for a few moments in Paris 

 on the day of the waterspout at Montville. No one 

 could adequately depict those enormous waves that 

 were sometimes swept by the hurricane into foam 

 which was blown over the beach like flakes of snow, 

 and at another time rose in vast masses up the in- 

 clined slopes of Santa Clara like reversed cataracts, 

 crowning even the summit of the rock, which is very 

 nearly as high as the platform of Notre-Dame, and 

 darkening the atmosphere with humid dust which 

 rose to the very top of the lighthouse, whose eleva- 

 tion certainly equals that of Montmartre. Those 

 gigantic billows which passed through the narrow 

 channel of the roadstead expanded within the bay 

 into a large fan-like shape, by which the violence of 

 the waves was proportionally diminished, and yet 

 within the harbour the ships were striking against 

 one another, and one unfortunate brig, after having 

 broken away from its moorings and vainly sought 

 shelter behind the Castillo, was at last obliged to 

 yield to the frightful pressure of the water, and 

 finally ran aground and was wrecked near the base 

 of the harbour. 



In the midst of this confusion of the elements, 

 white-plumed burgomasters and red-coloured ospreys 

 were sporting tranquilly before my windows, blend- 

 ing their cries with the crash of the tempest, describ- 

 ing in their aerial course a thousand capricious curves 



