Cadiz—The Fortifications—The Consul-General—Characteristic
Anecdote—Catalan Steamer—Trafalgar—Alonzo Guzman—Gibil Muza—Orestes
Frigate—The Hostile Lion—Works of the Creator—Lizard of the Rock—The
Concourse—Queen of the Waters—Broken Prayer.
Cadiz stands, as is well known, upon a long narrow neck of land
stretching out into the ocean, from whose bosom the town appears to rise,
the salt waters laving its walls on all sides save the east, where a
sandy isthmus connects it with the coast of Spain. The town, as it
exists at the present day, is of modern construction, and very unlike any
other town which is to be found in the Peninsula, being built with great
regularity and symmetry. The streets are numerous, and intersect each
other, for the most part, at right angles. They are very narrow in
comparison to the height of the houses, so that they are almost
impervious to the rays of the sun, except when at its midday altitude.
The principal street, however, is an exception, it being of some width.
This street, in which stands the Bolsa, or exchange, and which contains
the houses of the chief merchants and nobility, is the grand resort of
loungers as well as men of business during the early part of the day, and
in that respect resembles the Puerta del Sol at Madrid. It is connected
with the great square, which, though not of very considerable extent, has
many pretensions to magnificence, it being surrounded with large imposing
houses, and planted with fine trees, with marble seats below them for the
accommodation of the public. There are few public edifices worthy of
much attention: the chief church, indeed, might be considered a fine
monument of labour in some other countries, but in Spain, the land of
noble and gigantic cathedrals, it can be styled nothing more than a
decent place of worship; it is still in an unfinished state. There is a
public walk or alameda on the northern ramparts, which is generally
thronged in summer evenings: the green of its trees, when viewed from the
bay, affords an agreeable relief to the eye, dazzled with the glare of
the white buildings, for Cadiz is also a bright city. It was once the
wealthiest place in all Spain, but its prosperity has of late years sadly
diminished, and its inhabitants are continually lamenting its ruined
trade; on which account many are daily abandoning it for Seville, where
living at least is cheaper. There is still, however, much life and
bustle in the streets, which are adorned with many splendid shops,
several of which are in the style of Paris and London. The present
population is said to amount to eighty thousand souls.
It is not without reason that Cadiz has been called a strong town: the
fortifications on the land side, which were partly the work of the French
during the sway of Napoleon, are perfectly admirable, and seem
impregnable: towards the sea it is defended as much by nature as by art,
water and sunken rocks being no contemptible bulwarks. The defences of
the town, however, except the landward ones, afford melancholy proofs of
Spanish apathy and neglect, even when allowance is made for the present
peculiarly unhappy circumstances of the country. Scarcely a gun, except
a few dismounted ones, is to be seen on the fortifications, which are
rapidly falling to decay, so that this insulated stronghold is at present
almost at the mercy of any foreign nation which, upon any pretence, or
none at all, should seek to tear it from the grasp of its present
legitimate possessors, and convert it into a foreign colony.
A few hours after my arrival, I waited upon Mr. B., the British
consul-general at Cadiz. His house, which is the corner one at the
entrance of the alameda, commands a noble prospect of the bay, and is
very large and magnificent. I had of course long been acquainted with
Mr. B. by reputation; I knew that for several years he had filled, with
advantage to his native country and with honour to himself, the
distinguished and highly responsible situation which he holds in Spain.
I knew, likewise, that he was a good and pious Christian, and, moreover,
the firm and enlightened friend of the Bible Society. Of all this I was
aware, but I had never yet enjoyed the advantage of being personally
acquainted with him. I saw him now for the first time, and was much
struck with his appearance. He is a tall, athletic, finely built man,
seemingly about forty-five or fifty; there is much dignity in his
countenance, which is, however, softened by an expression of good humour
truly engaging. His manner is frank and affable in the extreme. I am
not going to enter into minute details of our interview, which was to me
a very interesting one. He knew already the leading parts of my history
since my arrival in Spain, and made several comments upon it, which
displayed his intimate knowledge of the situation of the country as
regards ecclesiastical matters, and the state of opinion respecting
religious innovation.
I was pleased to find that his ideas in many points accorded with my own,
and we were both decidedly of opinion that, notwithstanding the great
persecution and outcry which had lately been raised against the Gospel,
the battle was by no means lost, and that the holy cause might yet
triumph in Spain, if zeal united with discretion and Christian humility
were displayed by those called upon to uphold it.
During the greater part of this and the following day, I was much
occupied at the custom-house, endeavouring to obtain the documents
necessary for the exportation of the Testaments. On the afternoon of
Saturday, I dined with Mr. B. and his family, an interesting group,—his
lady, his beautiful daughters, and his son, a fine intelligent young man.
Early the next morning, a steamer, the _Balear_, was to quit Cadiz for
Marseilles, touching on the way at Algeciras, Gibraltar, and various
other ports of Spain. I had engaged my passage on board her as far as
Gibraltar, having nothing farther to detain me at Cadiz; my business with
the custom-house having been brought at last to a termination, though I
believe I should never have got through it but for the kind assistance of
Mr. B. I quitted this excellent man and my other charming friends at a
late hour with regret. I believe that I carried with me their very best
wishes; and, in whatever part of the world I, a poor wanderer in the
Gospel’s cause, may chance to be, I shall not unfrequently offer up
sincere prayers for their happiness and well-being.
Before taking leave of Cadiz, I shall relate an anecdote of the British
consul, characteristic of him and the happy manner in which he contrives
to execute the most disagreeable duties of his situation. I was in
conversation with him in a parlour of his house, when we were interrupted
by the entrance of two very unexpected visitors: they were the captain of
a Liverpool merchant vessel and one of the crew. The latter was a rough
sailor, a Welshman, who could only express himself in very imperfect
English. They looked unutterable dislike and defiance at each other. It
appeared that the latter had refused to work, and insisted on leaving the
ship, and his master had in consequence brought him before the consul, in
order that, if he persisted, the consequences might be detailed to him,
which would be the forfeiture of his wages and clothes. This was done;
but the fellow became more and more dogged, refusing ever to tread the
same deck again with his captain, who, he said, had called him “Greek,
lazy lubberly Greek,” which he would not bear. The word Greek rankled in
the sailor’s mind, and stung him to the very core. Mr. B., who seemed to
be perfectly acquainted with the character of Welshmen in general, who
are proverbially obstinate when opposition is offered to them, and who
saw at once that the dispute had arisen on foolish and trivial grounds,
now told the man, with a smile, that he would inform him of a way by
which he might gain the weather-gage of every one of them, consul and
captain and all, and secure his wages and clothes; which was by merely
going on board a brig of war of her Majesty, which was then lying in the
bay. The fellow said he was aware of this, and intended to do so. His
grim features, however, instantly relaxed in some degree, and he looked
more humanely upon his captain. Mr. B. then, addressing himself to the
latter, made some observations on the impropriety of using the word Greek
to a British sailor; not forgetting, at the same time, to speak of the
absolute necessity of obedience and discipline on board every ship. His
words produced such an effect, that in a very little time the sailor held
out his hand towards his captain, and expressed his willingness to go on
board with him and perform his duty, adding, that the captain, upon the
whole, was the best man in the world. So they departed mutually pleased;
the consul making both of them promise to attend divine service at his
house on the following day.
Sunday morning came, and I was on board the steamer by six o’clock. As I
ascended the side, the harsh sound of the Catalan dialect assailed my
ears. In fact, the vessel was Catalan built, and the captain and crew
were of that nation; the greater part of the passengers already on board,
or who subsequently arrived, appeared to be Catalans, and seemed to vie
with each other in producing disagreeable sounds. A burly merchant,
however, with a red face, peaked chin, sharp eyes, and hooked nose,
clearly bore off the palm; he conversed with astonishing eagerness on
seemingly the most indifferent subjects, or rather on no subject at all;
his voice would have sounded exactly like a coffee-mill but for a vile
nasal twang: he poured forth his Catalan incessantly till we arrived at
Gibraltar. Such people are never sea-sick, though they frequently
produce or aggravate the malady in others. We did not get under way
until past eight o’clock, for we waited for the Governor of Algeciras,
and started instantly on his coming on board. He was a tall, thin, rigid
figure of about seventy, with a long, grave, wrinkled countenance; in a
word, the very image of an old Spanish grandee. We stood out of the bay,
rounding the lofty lighthouse, which stands on a ledge of rocks, and then
bent our course to the south, in the direction of the straits. It was a
glorious morning, a blue sunny sky and blue sunny ocean; or, rather, as
my friend Oehlenschlæger has observed on a similar occasion, there
appeared two skies and two suns, one above and one below.
Our progress was rather slow, notwithstanding the fineness of the
weather, probably owing to the tide being against us. In about two hours
we passed the Castle of Santa Petra, and at noon were in sight of
Trafalgar. The wind now freshened and was dead ahead; on which account
we hugged closely to the coast, in order to avoid as much as possible the
strong heavy sea which was pouring down from the Straits. We passed
within a very short distance of the Cape, a bold bluff foreland, but not
of any considerable height.
It is impossible for an Englishman to pass by this place—the scene of the
most celebrated naval action on record—without emotion. Here it was that
the united navies of France and Spain were annihilated by a far inferior
force; but that force was British, and was directed by one of the most
remarkable men of the age, and perhaps the greatest hero of any time.
Huge fragments of wreck still frequently emerge from the watery gulf
whose billows chafe the rocky sides of Trafalgar: they are relics of the
enormous ships which were burnt and sunk on that terrible day, when the
heroic champion of Britain concluded his work and died. I never heard
but one individual venture to say a word in disparagement of Nelson’s
glory: it was a pert American, who observed, that the British admiral was
much overrated. “Can that individual be overrated,” replied a stranger,
“whose every thought was bent on his country’s honour, who scarcely ever
fought without leaving a piece of his body in the fray, and who, not to
speak of minor triumphs, was victorious in two such actions as Aboukir
and Trafalgar?”
We were now soon in sight of the Moorish coast, Cape Spartel appearing
dimly through mist and vapour on our right. A regular Levanter had now
come on, and the vessel pitched and tossed to a very considerable degree.
Most of the passengers were sea-sick; the governor, however, and myself
held out manfully: we sat on a bench together, and entered into
conversation respecting the Moors and their country. Torquemada himself
could not have spoken of both with more abhorrence. He informed me that
he had been frequently in several of the principal Moorish towns of the
coast, which he described as heaps of ruins: the Moors themselves he
called Caffres and wild beasts. He observed that he had never been even
at Tangier, where the people were most civilised, without experiencing
some insult, so great was the abhorrence of the Moors to anything in the
shape of a Christian. He added, however, that they treated the English
with comparative civility, and that they had a saying among them to the
effect that Englishman and Mahometan were one and the same; he then
looked particularly grave for a moment, and, crossing himself, was
silent. I guessed what was passing in his mind:
“From heretic boors,
And Turkish Moors,
Star of the sea,
Gentle Marie,
Deliver me!”
At about three we were passing Tarifa, so frequently mentioned in the
history of the Moors and Christians. Who has not heard of Alonzo Guzman
the faithful, who allowed his only son to be crucified before the walls
of the town rather than submit to the ignominy of delivering up the keys
to the Moorish monarch, who, with a host which is said to have amounted
to nearly half a million of men, had landed on the shores of Andalusia,
and threatened to bring all Spain once more beneath the Moslem yoke?
Certainly if there be a land and a spot where the name of that good
patriot is not sometimes mentioned and sung, that land, that spot is
modern Spain and modern Tarifa. I have heard the ballad of Alonzo Guzman
chanted in Danish, by a hind in the wilds of Jutland; but once speaking
of “the Faithful” to some inhabitants of Tarifa, they replied that they
had never heard of Guzman the faithful of Tarifa, but were acquainted
with Alonzo Guzman, “the one-eyed” (_el tuerto_), and that he was one of
the most villainous arrieros on the Cadiz road.
The voyage of these narrow seas can scarcely fail to be interesting to
the most apathetic individual, from the nature of the scenery which
presents itself to the eye on either side. The coasts are exceedingly
high and bold, especially that of Spain, which seems to overthrow the
Moorish; but opposite to Tarifa, the African continent, rounding towards
the south-west, assumes an air of sublimity and grandeur. A hoary
mountain is seen uplifting its summits above the clouds: it is Mount
Abyla, or as it is called in the Moorish tongue, Gibil Muza, or the hill
of Muza, from the circumstance of its containing the sepulchre of a
prophet of that name. This is one of the two excrescences of nature on
which the Old World bestowed the title of the Pillars of Hercules. Its
skirts and sides occupy the Moorish coast for many leagues in more than
one direction, but the broad aspect of its steep and stupendous front is
turned full towards that part of the European continent where Gibraltar
lies like a huge monster stretching far into the brine. Of the two hills
or pillars, the most remarkable, when viewed from afar, is the African
one, Gibil Muza. It is the tallest and bulkiest, and is visible at a
greater distance; but scan them both from near, and you feel that all
your wonder is engrossed by the European column. Gibil Muza is an
immense shapeless mass, a wilderness of rocks, with here and there a few
trees and shrubs nodding from the clefts of its precipices; it is
uninhabited, save by wolves, wild swine, and chattering monkeys, on which
last account it is called by the Spaniards, _Montana de las Monas_ (the
hill of the baboons); whilst, on the contrary, Gibraltar, not to speak of
the strange city which covers part of it, a city inhabited by men of all
nations and tongues, its batteries and excavations, all of them miracles
of art, is the most singular-looking mountain in the world—a mountain
which can neither be described by pen nor pencil, and at which the eye is
never satiated with gazing.
It was near sunset, and we were crossing the bay of Gibraltar. We had
stopped at Algeciras, on the Spanish side, for the purpose of landing the
old governor and his suite, and delivering and receiving letters.
Algeciras is an ancient Moorish town, as the name denotes, which is an
Arabic word, and signifies “the place of the islands.” It is situated at
the water’s edge, with a lofty range of mountains in the rear. It seemed
a sad deserted place, as far as I could judge at the distance of half a
mile. In the harbour, however, lay a Spanish frigate and French war
brig. As we passed the former, some of the Spaniards on board our
steamer became boastful at the expense of the English. It appeared that,
a few weeks before, an English vessel, suspected to be a contraband
trader, was seen by this frigate hovering about a bay on the Andalusian
coast, in company with an English frigate, the _Orestes_. The Spaniard
dogged them for some time, till one morning observing that the _Orestes_
had disappeared, he hoisted English colours, and made a signal to the
trader to bear down; the latter, deceived by the British ensign, and
supposing that the Spaniard was the friendly _Orestes_, instantly drew
near, was fired at and boarded, and proving in effect to be a contraband
trader, she was carried into port and delivered over to the Spanish
authorities. In a few days the captain of the _Orestes_ hearing of this,
and incensed at the unwarrantable use made of the British flag, sent a
boat on board the frigate demanding that the vessel should be instantly
restored, as, if she was not, he would retake her by force; adding that
he had forty cannons on board. The captain of the Spanish frigate
returned for answer, that the trader was in the hands of the officers of
the customs, and was no longer at his disposal; that the captain of the
_Orestes_ however, could do what he pleased, and that if he had forty
guns, he himself had forty-four; whereupon the _Orestes_ thought proper
to bear away. Such at least was the Spanish account as related by the
journals. Observing the Spaniards to be in great glee at the idea of one
of their nation having frightened away the Englishman, I exclaimed,
“Gentlemen, all of you who suppose that an English sea captain has been
deterred from attacking a Spaniard, from an apprehension of a superior
force of four guns, remember, if you please, the fate of the _Santissima
Trinidad_, and be pleased also not to forget that we are almost within
cannon’s sound of Trafalgar.”
It was neat sunset, I repeat, and we were crossing the bay of Gibraltar.
I stood on the prow of the vessel, with my eyes intently fixed on the
mountain fortress, which, though I had seen it several times before,
filled my mind with admiration and interest. Viewed from this situation,
it certainly, if it resembles any animate object in nature, has something
of the appearance of a terrible couchant lion, whose stupendous head
menaces Spain. Had I been dreaming, I should almost have concluded it to
be the genius of Africa, in the shape of its most puissant monster, who
had bounded over the sea from the clime of sand and sun, bent on the
destruction of the rival continent, more especially as the hue of its
stony sides, its crest and chine, is tawny even as that of the hide of
the desert king. A hostile lion has it almost invariably proved to
Spain, at least since it first began to play a part in history, which was
at the time when Tarik seized and fortified it. It has for the most part
been in the hands of foreigners: first the swarthy and turbaned Moor
possessed it, and it is now tenanted by a fair-haired race from a distant
isle. Though a part of Spain, it seems to disavow the connexion, and at
the end of a long narrow sandy isthmus, almost level with the sea,
raising its blasted and perpendicular brow to denounce the crimes which
deform the history of that fair and majestic land.
It was near sunset, I say it for the third time, and we were crossing the
bay of Gibraltar. Bay! it seemed no bay, but an inland sea, surrounded
on all sides by enchanted barriers, so strange, so wonderful was the
aspect of its coasts. Before us lay the impregnable hill; on our right
the African continent, with its grey Gibil Muza, and the crag of Ceuta,
to which last a solitary bark seemed steering its way; behind us the town
we had just quitted, with its mountain wall; on our left the coast of
Spain. The surface of the water was unruffled by a wave, and as we
rapidly glided on, the strange object which we were approaching became
momentarily more distinct and visible. There, at the base of the
mountain, and covering a small portion of its side, lay the city, with
its ramparts garnished with black guns pointing significantly at its
moles and harbours; above, seemingly on every crag which could be made
available for the purpose of defence or destruction, peered batteries,
pale and sepulchral-looking, as if ominous of the fate which awaited any
intrusive foe; whilst east and west towards Africa and Spain, on the
extreme points, rose castles, towers, or atalaias which overcrowded the
whole, and all the circumjacent region, whether land or sea. Mighty and
threatening appeared the fortifications, and doubtless, viewed in any
other situation, would have alone occupied the mind and engrossed its
wonder; but the hill, the wondrous hill, was everywhere about them,
beneath them, or above them, overpowering their effect as a spectacle.
Who, when he beholds the enormous elephant, with his brandished trunk,
dashing impetuously to the war, sees the castle which he bears, or fears
the javelins of those whom he carries, however skilful and warlike they
may be? Never does God appear so great and powerful as when the works of
his hands stand in contrast with the labours of man. Survey the
Escurial, it is a proud work, but wonder if you can when you see the
mountain mocking it behind; survey that boast of Moorish kings, survey
Granada from its plain, and wonder if you can, for you see the Alpujarra
mocking it from behind. O what are the works of man compared with those
of the Lord? Even as man is compared with his creator. Man builds
pyramids, and God builds pyramids: the pyramids of man are heaps of
shingles, tiny hillocks on a sandy plain; the pyramids of the Lord are
Andes and Indian hills. 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. The
greater part of the civilians appeared to be Spaniards, but there was a
large sprinkling of Jews in the dress of those of Barbary, and here and
there a turbaned Moor. There were gangs of sailors likewise, Genoese,
judging from the patois which they were speaking, though I occasionally
distinguished the sound of “tou logou sas,” by which I knew there were
Greeks at hand, and twice or thrice caught a glimpse of the red cap and
blue silken petticoats of the mariner from the Romaic isles. On still I
hurried, till I arrived at a well known hostelry, close by a kind of
square, in which stands the little exchange of Gibraltar. Into this I
ran and demanded lodging, receiving a cheerful welcome from the genius of
the place, who stood behind the bar, and whom I shall perhaps have
occasion subsequently to describe. All the lower rooms were filled with
men of the rock, burly men in general, with swarthy complexions and
English features, with white hats, white jean jerkins, and white jean
pantaloons. They were smoking pipes and cigars, and drinking porter,
wine and various other fluids, and conversing in the rock Spanish, or
rock English as the fit took them. Dense was the smoke of tobacco, and
great the din of voices, and I was glad to hasten up stairs to an
unoccupied apartment, where I was served with some refreshment, of which
I stood much in need.
I was soon disturbed by the sound of martial music close below my
windows. I went down and stood at the door. A military band was
marshalled upon the little square before the exchange. It was preparing
to beat the retreat. After the prelude, which was admirably executed,
the tall leader gave a flourish with his stick, and strode forward up the
street, followed by the whole company of noble looking fellows and a
crowd of admiring listeners. The cymbals clashed, the horns screamed,
and the kettle-drum emitted its deep awful note, till the old rock echoed
again, and the hanging terraces of the town rang with the stirring noise:
“Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub—thus go the drums,
Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.”
O England! long, long may it be ere the sun of thy glory sink beneath the
wave of darkness! Though gloomy and portentous clouds are now gathering
rapidly around thee, still, still may it please the Almighty to disperse
them, and to grant thee a futurity longer in duration and still brighter
in renown than thy past! Or if thy doom be at hand, may that doom be a
noble one, and worthy of her who has been styled the Old Queen of the
waters! May thou sink, if thou dost sink, amidst blood and flame, with a
mighty noise, causing more than one nation to participate in thy
downfall! Of all fates, may it please the Lord to preserve thee from a
disgraceful and a slow decay; becoming, ere extinct, a scorn and a
mockery for those selfsame foes who now, though they envy and abhor thee,
still fear thee, nay, even against their will, honour and respect thee.
Arouse thee, whilst yet there is time, and prepare thee for the combat of
life and death! Cast from thee the foul scurf which now encrusts thy
robust limbs, which deadens their force, and makes them heavy and
powerless! Cast from thee thy false philosophers, who would fain decry
what, next to the love of God, has hitherto been deemed most sacred, the
love of the mother land! Cast from thee thy false patriots, who, under
the pretext of redressing the wrongs of the poor and weak, seek to
promote internal discord, so that thou mayest become only terrible to
thyself! And remove from thee the false prophets, who have seen vanity
and divined lies; who have daubed thy wall with untempered mortar, that
it may fall; who see visions of peace where there is no peace; who have
strengthened the hands of the wicked, and made the heart of the righteous
sad. O, do this, and fear not the result, for either shall thy end be a
majestic and an enviable one, or God shall perpetuate thy reign upon the
waters, thou old Queen!
The above was part of a broken prayer for my native land, which, after my
usual thanksgiving, I breathed to the Almighty ere retiring to rest that
Sunday night at Gibraltar.