the gates of the town are closed from sunset to sunrise, and none but officers being allowed to walk the streets after midnight, we are challenged at every turn by the question, "Who goes there?" "Officer !" "Pass, officer, all's well."

On the following morning I stroll about the town, investing in Moorish curiosities, such as pipe-tubes, slippers, and also a pugheree, which is folded round a felt hat by a wealthy Moorish merchant, who, if not dives equum, is certainly dives pictai vestis et auri: this worthy explains to me that the real de plata in circulation here is worth four English pence in Gibraltar, and that twelve make a dollar.

About midday I call for Tonyman, who takes me through the far-famed galleries, marvellous triumphs of labour indeed, consisting of large tunnels cut inside the face of the cliff, pierced at intervals with embrasures for cannon, and running in tiers up to the very summit of the rock the Cornwallis and St. George's Halls, large chambers hewn out of the solid rock, are really wonderful specimens of engineering skill. Leaving the galleries about half way up, we ascend the rock by a zigzag road, and

after a fearful amount of clambering, reach the summit: here I observe drifted into a hollow of the eastern face of the steep cliff, a curious bank of sand

blown over it is presumed by high winds from the coast of Africa. The view from this elevated position is very fine in front are the town and fortifications, further on, the Straits and distant African mountains; Ceuta and Apes' Hill being plainly distinguishable through the remarkably clear atmosphere: on the right the bay of Gibraltar, dotted with white sails and proud English war-steamers; the Mediterranean stretches away to the left, and behind lies the neutral ground, or flat level plain marking the boundaries of the Spanish and English territories, guarded by two rows of sentry-boxes: in the background are mountains ranging away till lost in the blue distance.

Standing on this commanding elevation, and surveying the beautiful panorama around me, I cannot help reflecting on the immense importance of this mighty stronghold, truly designated the key of the Mediterranean, the entrance to which it so proudly commands: a monument of England's power and glory is lofty old Gib., as rearing its gun-topped crest high above the waters, it daily and nightly roars forth a haughty defiance to the world. Descending at the double by the winding roadway, I notice La Torre Mocha, built in 725 A.D., a battered old Moorish tower which has sturdily withstood the brunt of centuries, the battle, and the storm.