harbour forts, where concealed cannon snarl
and make faces at you; and under the
great pile of limestone and marble, which
soars high and broad fourteen hundred feet
above the crowd of jostling red, blue, and
yellow boats, that push for the water-gate,
close to the Fish Market. This is the port of
Gib, with its three miles of forts—forts high
and low, out of sight, and so near the water
that you can fling a biscuit from our boat into
their gun-holes. This is Gib—the PhÅ“nician
Alube, the Greek Calpe, which those astute
classical rascals likened to a bucket. It is in
Hebrew, Ford says, "the caved mountain,"
and it outfaces the African Ape Hill, the
opposite pillar of Hercules. This is the hill
of Tarik, the Berber chief, who helped to
conquer Spain for the Moors, and if we
remember right, in a grand paroxysm of
ambition, rode up to his horse's neck into
the waves, lamenting that there was no
further land to conquer. This rock has been
more scorched with gunpowder and fire than
any other citadelled height in the world.

Now out on Campo, outside the race-course
and the bare-looking military burial-ground,
or round the other side of the Rock, where
narrow bridle-roads, elbowed by rocks on one
side, and a raging sea on the other, lead to
outpost stations, and small fishing villages,
are not the places to judge of the picturesque
contrasts and motley population of Gibraltar.
No, to see its four thousand Moors, fifteen
thousand Spaniards, hybrid tradesmen, pimps,
Jews, rogues, and higglers; let alone its five
thousand soldiers, its stiff generals, stuck-up
doctors, and starched red-faced majors, you
must go to Commercial Square, where the
Exchange is, and General Don's bust, the
club, library, and open air auctions. Here you
will see the yellow-slippered, purple-robed,
brown-legged Moors, looking complacently at
the long row of hams, or the piles of empty
beer bottles that the ivory hammer is knocking
down for sale, or standing proudly and stoically
before the gold-laced band, or the groups
of red-sashed captains chattering at some
guard-room door. Here, proof to all Gibraltar
fevers are the real scorpion women, of a
pale, clear, brown complexion, in their red
cloaks and hoods edged with black velvet, in
such a peculiar dress, but we are in the region
of odd costumes, and not a day's journey
from the Tarifa women, who still wear the
veritable Oriental yashmuk. Next those
soldiers, with breeches half of leather, and
who from the tartlets of gold-lace on their
breasts, their straddling gate and obtrusive
switches, I take to be horse artillerymen,
is a group of shirking effeminate Jews, in
loose blue cloth gowns, white linen drawers,
straggling sashes, and white buttoned caps.
They are talking with the well-known negro
date merchant, who lives near the Four
Corners, where the Moorish captains wait
for passengers or consignments. Then, going
up to some quiet tavern, "Ale and spirits sold
here," under the sign of the "Good Woman,"
in Horse Barrack Lane, strolls a white-
bloused party of Crimean men; and, mixed
up with the crowd that push us roughly
through, backward and forward, are Spanish
ladies, bare-headed, with fans held up to
keep the sun off; English nursery maids
and refractory "Master Alfreds," who will
pull the stray dogs by the tail, regardless of
consequences; white-plumed and mounted
generals, returning perpetual salutes; yellow-
gartered muleteers, with donkeys laden with
strings of water jars—four in each rack;
staring looking travellers, looking at maps of
Gib; subs in mufti, cavalierly gay; and subs
mounted on spiteful hacks, tearing off for a
mad gallop to Saint Roque or the Cork
woods. Step out of this past the Governor's
house, once a convent, just to get a quick
look at the slopes of gunners' cottages and
officers' quarters, slanting down from the
middle heights of the rock, and you get
at once to a parade flanked by answering
batteries, where silent sentries, under
suspended mats, wait grumblingly for the relieve
guard. Fifteen hundred miles from England,
yet such a sense of England's power.

This is Gib by daylight; but, at gun-
fire, there is a wondrous change. You are
seated in an officer's quarters perhaps, watching
the ape's tricks at his door; or
discussing the military trophies over his mantel-
piece. Suddenly a yellow glare flashes across
your eyes. You look up to see the lightning.
At that instant a shattering report shakes
the roof, makes the window quiver, and the
canary in the cage at the door leap up, take
its head from under its wing, and flutter.
It is the evening gun; the signal for all
stray Spaniards to toss off their last nip
of brandy, and hurry to their smuggling
boats, with their packages of bad cigars,
and devil's dust calicoes. If you go out now
just beyond the terraced roof of the King's
Bason, where some Moors are praying, you
will see the Key serjeant and his assistant
going round, locking up the three miles of
gates, and pallisaded wickets. Look across
at the Ronda mountains, and you will see a
great red glare where the shepherds are
burning the dry grass on the mountains.
If you are on board a tub of a steamer not
yet rounded Europa Point, tremble, for you
will be kept all night on board, as no vessel
enters the harbour of Gib after gun-fire.
Remember Mr. Smith, though squeamish with
a long voyage, there is no use in tearing
your hair or wringing your hands. This is
not Southampton or the London Docks. This
is Gib, that Ford calls "a bright pearl in the
crown of an ocean queen;" and Burke, "a
post of power, a post of superiority, of
connexion, of commerce; one which make us
invaluable to our friends and dreadful to our
enemies." Therefore is not to be imperilled,
Mr. Smith, because you have not yet found
your sea legs, and you are still squeamish.