To be sure, the Montserrat was riding proudly in my view, although the warships to which she had been used to curtsy in the open roads of Cadiz would never cut those shining waves again. The waters were as turquoise blue as if they had just come from the brush of an old master, and the towered city rose before us like a crystal castle in the air. Its limited space, built as it is within great sea walls on an outlying rock, which only a rope of sand moors to the mainland, has necessitated narrow streets and high houses, whose miradores, lookouts that everywhere crown the terraced roofs, give this battlemented aspect to the town. One of the most ancient and tragic cities known to time, claiming Hercules for its founder, in turn Phœnician, Carthaginian, Roman, Gothic, Moorish, Spanish, it yet looks fresh as a water-lily. I could have spent another three days in gazing. And this sparkling vision was Spain's Copa de Plata, the Silver Cup which has brimmed with the gold and pearls of America, with blood and flame and glory. Its riches have taken to themselves wings, but its high, free spirit and frank gayety abide. Still the Andalusians sing:—
"Viva Cadiz, Silver Cadiz,
Whose walls defy the sea,
Cadiz of the pretty girls,
Of courtesy and glee!
"Good luck to merry Cadiz,
As white as ocean spray,
And her five and twenty cannon
That point Gibraltar way!"
But I am bound to add that the cannon do not look dangerous.