evening, this thronged street, with the people, in a hundred different costumes, bustling to and fro under the coarse glare of the lamps: swarthy Moors, in white or crimson robes; dark Spanish smugglers in tufted hats, with gay silk handkerchiefs round their heads; fuddled seamen from men-of-war or merchantmen; porters, Gallician or Genoese; and, at every few minutes’ interval, little squads of soldiers tramping to relieve guard at some one of the innumerable posts in the town.” Thackeray refers in a similar strain to the Garden, or Alameda, which we have just described. It is, he owns, and he might well have said more, a beautiful walk; of which the vegetation has been as laboriously cared for as the tremendous fortifications which flank it on either side. On the one hand rises the vast Rock, with its interminable works of defence; on the other shines Gibraltar Bay, out on which, from the terraces, immense cannon are perpetually looking, surrounded by plantations of cannon-balls and beds of bomb-shells, sufficient, one would think, to blow away the whole peninsula. The horticultural and military mixture is, he continues, very queer: here and there temples and rustic summer-seats have been raised in the garden, but from [Illustration: A MOTLEY GROUP IN THE MAIN STREET. _Page 125._ ] among the flower-pots you are sure to see a great mortar peeping; and amidst the aloes and geraniums stalks a Highlander, in green petticoat and scarlet coat. Fatigue-parties are seen winding up the hill, and busy about the endless cannon-ball plantations; awkward squads drill in every open space; and sentries are marching to and fro perpetually. Yet the scene, says Thackeray, is always beautiful; especially at evening, when the people are sauntering along the walks, and the moon pours its light on the waters of the Bay and the hills and the twinkling white houses of the opposite shore. Then the place becomes quite romantic: it is too dark to see the dust on the dried leaves; the intrusive cannon-balls have for a while subsided into the shade; the awkward squads are at rest; even the loungers have retired,--the fan-flirting Spanish ladies, the sallow black-eyed children, and the trim white-jacketed dandies. From some craft nestling on the quiet waters comes the sound of fife or song; or a faint cheer from yonder black steamer at the Mole, which is bound on some nocturnal voyage. You forget the squalor and motley character of the town, and deliver yourself up entirely to romance. The sentries pacing in the moonlight look like feudal knights of old; and there is music in the old historic challenge, “Who goes there?”