Man builds walls and so does his Master; but the walls of God are the black precipices of Gibraltar and Horneel, eternal, indestructible, and not to be scaled; whilst those of man can be climbed, can be broken by the wave or shattered by the lightning or the powder blast.Would man display his power and grandeur to advantage, let him flee far from the hills; for the broad pennants of God, even his clouds, float upon the tops of the hills, and the majesty of God is most manifest among the hills.Call Gibraltar the hill of Tarik or Hercules if you will, but gaze upon it for a moment and you will call it the hill of God.Tarik and the old giant may have built upon it;but not all the dark race of whom Tarik was one, nor all the giants of old renown of whom the other was one, could have built up its crags or chiseled the enormous mass to its present shape.
We dropped anchor not far from the mole.As we expected every moment to hear the evening gun, after which no person is permitted to enter the town, I was in trepidation lest I should be obliged to pass the night on board the dirty Catalan steamer, which, as I had no occasion to proceed farther in her, I was in great haste to quit.A boat now drew nigh, with two individuals at the stern, one of whom, standing up, demanded, in an authoritative voice, the name of the vessel, her destination and cargo.Upon being answered, they came on board.After some conversation with the captain, they were about to depart, when I inquired whether I could accompany them on shore.The person I addressed was a tall young man, with a fustian frock coat.He had a long face, long nose, and wide mouth, with large restless eyes.There was a grin on his countenance which seemed permanent, and had it not been for his bronzed complexion, I should have declared him to be a cockney, and nothing else.He was, however, no such thing, but what is called a rock lizard, that is, a person born at Gibraltar of English parents.Upon hearing my question, which was in Spanish, he grinned more than ever, and inquired, in a strange accent, whether I was a son of Gibraltar.I replied that I had not that honour, but that I was a British subject.Whereupon he said that he should make no difficulty in taking me ashore.
We entered the boat, which was rapidly rowed towards the land by four Genoese sailors.My two companions chattered in their strange Spanish, he of the fustian occasionally turning his countenance full upon me, the last grin appearing ever more hideous than the preceding ones.We soon reached the quay, where my name was noted down by a person who demanded my passport, and I was then permitted to advance.
It was now dusk, and I lost no time in crossing the drawbridge and entering the long low archway which, passing under the rampart, communicates with the town.Beneath this archway paced with measured tread, tall red-coated sentinels with shouldered guns.There was no stopping, no sauntering in these men.There was no laughter, no exchange of light conversation with the passers by, but their bearing was that of British soldiers, conscious of the duties of their station.
What a difference between them and the listless loiterers who stand at guard at the gate of a Spanish garrisoned town.
I now proceeded up the principal street, which runs with a gentle ascent along the base of the hill.Accustomed for some months past to the melancholy silence of Seville, I was almost deafened by the noise and bustle which reigned around.
It was Sunday night, and of course no business was going on, but there were throngs of people passing up and down.Here was a military guard proceeding along; here walked a group of officers, there a knot of soldiers stood talking and laughing.