A MOTLEY GROUP IN THE MAIN STREET.
among the flower-pots you are sure to see a great mortar peeping; and amidst the aloes and geraniums stalks a Highlander, in green petticoat and scarlet coat. Fatigue-parties are seen winding up the hill, and busy about the endless cannon-ball plantations; awkward squads drill in every open space; and sentries are marching to and fro perpetually. Yet the scene, says Thackeray, is always beautiful; especially at evening, when the people are sauntering along the walks, and the moon pours its light on the waters of the Bay and the hills and the twinkling white houses of the opposite shore. Then the place becomes quite romantic: it is too dark to see the dust on the dried leaves; the intrusive cannon-balls have for a while subsided into the shade; the awkward squads are at rest; even the loungers have retired,—the fan-flirting Spanish ladies, the sallow black-eyed children, and the trim white-jacketed dandies. From some craft nestling on the quiet waters comes the sound of fife or song; or a faint cheer from yonder black steamer at the Mole, which is bound on some nocturnal voyage. You forget the squalor and motley character of the town, and deliver yourself up entirely to romance. The sentries pacing in the moonlight look like feudal knights of old; and there is music in the old historic challenge, “Who goes there?”
“‘All’s well,’” says Thackeray with humorous exaggeration, “is very pleasant when sung decently in tune, and inspires noble ideas of duty, courage, and danger; but when you have it shouted all the night through, accompanied by a clapping of muskets in a time of profound peace, the sentinel’s cry becomes no more romantic to the hearer than it is to the sandy Connaught-man or the barelegged Highlander who delivers it. It is best to read about wars comfortably in ‘Harry Lorrequer’ or Scott’s novels, in which knights shout their war-cries, and jovial Irish bayoneteers hurrah, without depriving you of any blessed rest. Men of a different way of thinking, however, can suit themselves perfectly at Gibraltar; where there is marching and counter-marching, challenging and relieving guard all the night through. And this all over the huge Rock in the darkness; all through the mysterious zigzags, and round the dark cannon-ball pyramids, and along the vast rock-galleries, and up to the topmast flag-staff, where the sentry can look out over two seas, poor fellows are marching and clapping muskets, and crying, ‘All’s well,’ dressed in cap and feather, in place of honest nightcaps best befitting the decent hours of sleep.”
Every visitor to Gibraltar makes a point of ascending to the Signal Station, though the climb is somewhat arduous, and the higher we ascend the more rugged and rocky becomes the winding path. It must be owned, however, that the view from the summit repays one for the fatigue of the ascent. From this point is clearly seen the ridge-like character of the Rock, dividing it into two steep declivities, which vary considerably in their character. On the east, as we have already said, nothing is visible but an inaccessible precipice; on the west, the slope is more gradual, is broken into terraces, and descends to a narrow level running parallel with the shore, where cluster the houses of the town and the villas on its outskirts, with batteries and other defensive works stretching right away to Europa Point.
Immediately at the foot of the Rock observe the New Mole and the Dockyard. The works which protect the sea-front of the town extend to this point, where they are strengthened by the comparatively new batteries, Victoria and Albert, and the sunken zigzag, poetically named the “Snake in the Grass.” Beyond lies the sheltered nook of Rosier Bay, where ships of the line frequently drop anchor; on the high ground above are situated the Naval Hospital and Barracks. The terraces of Europa and Windmill Hill next come in sight, with an apparently endless series of barracks, forts, magazines, officers’ residences, bastions, curtains, and batteries. Across the Strait the eye rests upon the Spanish fortress of Ceuta, and the mountain-chain which extends from Tetuan to Tangier.
The visitor may prolong his excursion to the ruins of O’Hara’s Tower, above Europa Point. It was built by Governor O’Hara as a belvedere, and forms a picturesque object. Thence, the descent of the eastern side of the Rock is accomplished by a staircase known as “the Mediterranean Steps,” which winds and bends and twists around precipice after precipice, and from point to point, with the Rock above and the blue expanse of the Mediterranean below. The silence and solitude of the spot produce a deep impression on the mind, which seems to enter here into an intimate communion with Nature. We forget the works of man and the purpose for which the grim Rock is so stoutly held; when, on turning a sudden angle, we see, at the