Galleries of the Rock 



Well, the diplomate of the hotel brought us our permit, 

 and we climbed one of the steep staircase streets, and entered 

 beneath the Arabesque arch of an old Moorish castle, which 

 stands forth, picturesque and ruinous, above the smug, 

 scientific masses of modern fortification. The court-yard 

 within seemed full of guard-houses ; here the British soldier 

 smokes clay-pipes, and drinks beer, with an accompaniment 

 of familiar British imprecations, where once the Moslem 

 warriors, cased in Cordovan steel, drank their coff"ee and 

 stroked their beards with pious inshalldhs and other solemn 

 ejaculations. 



An Irish artillery corporal took charge of us — a very civil 

 engineer. He conducted us along zig-zag passages, among 

 fortifications with cannons here and there, which have left 

 only a vague impression on my mind, but I dare say there 

 were ravelins, and curtains, and covered ways, and counter- 

 scarps enough, if described accurately, to be quite impreg- 

 nable to any civilian understanding. At length we came to 

 a black arch, and plunged into the rock. Our corporal led 

 us up dark, steep, dripping, sloppy caverns — the celebrated 

 galleries of Gibraltar. Here and there, in the ascent, were 

 deep-niched portholes, through which, at airy depth, burst 

 in upon the darkness, what seemed by contrast bright views 

 of sea and mountain, though the day was rainy and dark and 

 windy. Of course, in each port-hole was a great gun. After 

 getting very hot and steamy in the damp caverns, we 

 emerged on a point where there was a mighty rushing wind, 

 pleasant and cool, but so violent that it seemed likely to blow 

 us off the precipice. Here we stood, keeping our feet as 

 well as 'we could, on Calpe's brow to admire the view. 



This northern extremity of the rock breaks away from 

 Spain with an abrupt precipice of goodness knows how many 

 hundred feet, as if solidly resolved to have nothing whatever 



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