Nothing of its kind can surpass the beauty of the view. The steep slope below is planted with oranges and pomegranates—the first laden with golden fruit, the second with crimson flowers—broken here and there by palms, figs, olives, and carob trees, standing against a background of deep blue water, dancing in the gentle westerly breeze. On our left the steep slope of the mountain, rising over against the blue outline of Cape Trafalgar, forms the portal through which the Atlantic pours its current into the Mediterranean. Along the opposite shore of Spain every undulation, from the coast to the distant purple sierra, is plainly seen. The little town of Conil and the very houses of Tarifa are discernible with the naked eye, and visitors are enabled through a glass to watch the people as they come and go, and that extraordinary phenomenon for Southern Spain, the diligence, that of late years has plied between Algeciras and Cadiz. Turning to the right, the eye reaches the entrance to the Mediterranean, between the rock of Gibraltar and the loftier summit of Ape’s Hill; and in clear weather the range of the Serrania de Ronda, stretching towards Malaga, is seen on one side, while on the other the snowy peak of the Beni Hassan, south of Tetuan, closes the view. To give variety, if that were wanting, there is the ceaseless passage of shipping through this greatest of maritime highways, in a double stream of vessels, of every size and every nation, from the great Peninsular and Oriental steamer to the Moorish felucca. It is an example of the readiness with which sound travels over an unbroken surface, that the morning and evening gun at Gibraltar, nearly forty miles distant, are usually heard at this spot.