s
are crowing, and the drums and trumpets sounding. We have been told of
sea-baths, cut in the rock, near the Punta, at the foot of our Paseo. I
walk down, under the trees, toward the Presidio. What is this clanking
sound? Can it be cavalry, marching on foot, their sabres rattling on
the pavement? No, it comes from that crowd of poor-looking creatures
that are forming in files in front of the Presidio. It is the
chain-gang! Poor wretches! I come nearer to them, and wait until they
are formed and numbered and marched off. Each man has an iron band
riveted round his ankle, and another round his waist, and the chain is
fastened, one end into each of these bands, and dangles between them,
clanking with every movement. This leaves the wearers free to use their
arms, and, indeed, their whole body, it being only a weight and a badge
and a note for discovery, from which they cannot rid themselves. It is
kept on them day and night, working, eating, or sleeping. In some cases,
two are chained together. They have passed their night in the Presidio
(the great prison and garrison), and are marshalled for their day's toil
in the public streets and on the public works, in the heat of the sun.
They look thoroughly wretched. Can any of these be political offenders?
It is said that Carlists, from Old Spain, worked in this gang. Sentence
to the chain-gang in summer, in the case of a foreigner, must be nearly
certain death.

Farther on, between the Presidio and the Punta, the soldiers are
drilling; and the drummers and trumpeters are practising on the rampart
of the city walls.

A little to the left, in the Calzada de San Lazaro, are the Banos de
Mar. These are boxes, each about twelve feet square and six or eight
feet deep, cut directly into the rock which here forms the sea-line,
with steps of rock, and each box having a couple of portholes through
which the waves of this tideless shore wash in and out. This arrangement
is necessary, as sharks are so abundant that bathing in the open sea is
dangerous. The pure rock, and the flow and reflow, make these
bathing-boxes very agreeable, and the water, which is that of the Gulf
Stream, is at a temperature of 72 degrees. The baths are roofed over,
and partially screened on the inside, but open for a view out, on the
side towards the sea; and as you bathe, you see the big ships floating
up the Gulf Stream, that great highway of the Equinoctial world. The
water stands at depths of from three to