is no lack of drinks here, very fortunately; beer and stout, and something—which being put into lemonade bottles passes, I suppose, for that beverage—are speedily, greedily, gulped down our parched throats. The supposed lemonade which, by special desire, fell to my lot, was enough to engender thoughts of disloyalty to a certain lady and her cause in the mind of the stoutest champion of the league; and I took considerable credit to myself that I passed scathless through such a trying ordeal. What stuff! Just imagine, you who are drinking your stout with such keen relish, and smacking your lips in such evident satisfaction, imbibing a liquid as hot almost as the surrounding air, and so insipid that I have tasted medicines far more palatable. Opportunely I call to mind a proverb of our Spanish friends yonder, "The sailor who would caulk his boat must not turn up his nose at pitch;" and as, figuratively speaking, I want to caulk mine, I make a virtue of necessity, and the obnoxious liquid vanishes.
Having regaled ourselves at a very moderate cost, all things considered, we are invited to insert our names in the visitors' book. To satisfy a curiosity we possess we turn back over the pages, to see who has honored this height with their presence. We find princes from Germany, grandees from Spain, professors from America, naval officers of almost all nations, and ladies not a few. One person of a witty and poetical turn thus records his and his friends' visit:—
"April 17th, 1878.
Three friends this day
Walked all the way
To the signal station;
There was W. T.,
With his chum, C. G.,
And R. H. of the British nation."
After such an enjoyable rest, suppose we just step outside on the terrace, and have a look around whilst we "do" our tobacco.
We are at a height of 1255 feet above the level of the sea; and the fatigue of the ascent is more than compensated by the view of the splendid natural panorama, spread out like a map around us. The bay of Gibraltar, with the houses of the town of Algeciras, are distinctly visible; so, too, is the southern range of the Ronda mountains, the purple Mediterranean, with the immense jumble of Afric's sparkling shores, the Atlas mountains, the Neutral ground, and the Spanish lines. These are some of the objects which never tire the eye. The precipices below us are amazingly steep, in some cases the heights even overhang. Many precious lives were lost through inadvertent steps during the first occupation; and this suggests to me a story I have read somewhere, and which I will ask your pardon for telling you.
A young officer of the garrison, who with a brother officer was on guard one day, suddenly missed his companion; and on retracing his steps a little he saw his poor friend's mangled body about 400 feet below. The sub, however, made no reference or allusion to this accident in his report. His commanding officer, on being informed of the sad business, immediately summoned his subordinate before him, and demanded an explanation of his conduct, the following dialogue taking place between them:—"You say, sir, in your report, 'N.B.—nothing extraordinary since guard mounting,' when your brother officer, who was on guard with you, has fallen over a precipice 400 feet high and been killed! call you this nothing?" Our sub, who hailed from 'auld reekie,' thus replied, "Weel, sir, I dinna think there is onything extraordinary in that; had he fa'n doon a precipice 400 feet high, and not been killed, I should ha'e thocht it vera extraordinary indeed, and would ha'e put it doon in my report!"
I think we have found the down journey not nearly so difficult or wearying as the ascent, for we are in the town ere we are aware of it, and following in the wake of a throng of people, seemingly all heading in one direction. As we have still a few hours left us we will accompany them, and make a study of Spanish life by gaslight.
Graceful, black-eyed women, instinct with loveliness and vivacity, claim our first notice—first, because they are ladies, and, secondly, because of their becoming attire and the natural grace of their movements; for theirs is "the very poetry of motion." We have all possibly seen pictures of Spanish women, and may have, no doubt, remarked the head-gear they were depicted with. The flowing lace adornment, reaching from the head to the shoulders, and from thence thrown in graceful folds over the back and one arm, is called the "mantilla," and is the characteristic costume of the ladies of Spain. Each carries a fan in her hand—no lady is dressed without it—which they use, not so much for the purpose of cooling themselves as to convey the subtle emotions of the Spanish female mind. It seems to do the duty of eyes, though they possess very beautiful eyes, too. What I mean is, that whereas we in our colder climate generally indicate love, passion, or melancholy by means of the eyes principally, and through the facial muscles generally, these ladies interpret all this through the agency of the fan. So skilled are they in its use, that there is scarcely an emotion, it is said, which they cannot render intelligible by this means.
To say that we passed them without an impertinent stare is to confess at once that we are not sailors. This want of manners, or seeming want, is excusable, I think, insomuch that in our everyday life we see so little of them, that when we do fall across "the sex" we regard them more in the light of curiosities than tangible flesh and blood like ourselves. I see, too, that some of the more susceptible of our party are looking behind them. "Remember Lot's wife," and remember, too, the blue-eyed girls of your village homes whom you parted from so recently; for the Spanish maids, with all their charms, will scarcely bear comparison with our bonnie English lasses.
We have said something of the "senoras," now a word for the "senors." The dress of the men is as picturesque and gaudy as that of the ladies is not; in the particular, indeed, the sexes seem to have usurped the other's rights. Young Spanish swells, in colored velvet breeches and tastefully embroidered leggings, scarlet silk sash around the loins, and irreproachable linen, with, here and there, one with the far-famed guitar, improvising amorous nothings for the ear of some susceptible damsel, abandon themselves to the luxury of the hour in true Spanish style.
But what is this? Whither has the crowd conducted us? Surely the fairies have been at work! In other words, we have wandered into the Alameda, or Public Gardens. I beg to recall a statement which I fear I made somewhat rashly a few pages back, in which I said that Gibraltar could not possibly yield any green thing, owing to its miserable soil. I find I am wrong, for here before us is a perfect greenery. Stately trees, beautiful blossoms, fragrant and gaily-flowered shrubs, ferns and grasses—all are here in abundance. How charming it all looked by the light of many colored lamps! These gardens are evidently the favorite promenade of all classes of the people—the Spanish don, the English officer, the Southern Jew, and the swarthy African—all find a place in its walks, and glide along its various avenues in twos or threes, according to taste. The strains of the Garrison band, too, invite us to linger yet, as the sweet airs of the reminiscences of Scotland whisper among the branches. Sombre-clad priests, in long togas and shovel hats, bustle about here and there, now talking cheerfully to one lady, now looking correction at another; but all enjoying themselves with as much evident pleasure as their more mundane flocks.
The boom of the Citadel gun cuts short all our pleasing reflections, and we may (very unwillingly it must be confessed) tear ourselves away from this happy place.
On arriving at the Dockyard gates we are summoned to give the pass-word by the vigilant guard before we are allowed to pass the ponderous portal. Those who have read Captain Marryatt's delightful story, "Peter Simple," and I should hope there are few sailors who have not, will perhaps recall the amusing scene which took place on this very spot between lieutenant O'Brien and the soldier on guard.
Our days at pleasant "Gib." are drawing to a close. I feel assured that we shall carry with us, in our voyage to the far east, many pleasing recollections of Gibraltar—its balmy air and genial climate—its abundance of grapes, melons, and oranges. Would we could send some to our friends in England.
CHAPTER III.
| Melita! The glory of a triumph clings, odorous as incense, Around thy hero dead! |
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