Читать книгу An Australian Ramble; Or, A Summer in Australia онлайн

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‘How do you like our little town?’ said an Englishman to me as I was about to leave Gibraltar for our good ship, the Orizaba. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘for a place to spend an hour in I like it amazingly.’ ‘Oh, that’s about it!’ was his reply. It seems to me, however, as I plough my way on the blue waters of the Mediterranean—not bluer, however, at present than what we have on the English coast—that a couple of days may be agreeably spent at the far-famed rock, of which, however, you get a very fair idea without stepping on shore. As your eye rests on the harbour you see it full of steamers, which seem to come and go at all hours. As I write a French steamer slowly glides by with the yellow flag denoting sickness of some kind on board. Before us is the town, on our left the old Moorish fort—the oldest building in the place—and on our right the hospital, with houses reaching almost to the end. All the space between is filled with yellow or white houses, save where a thick grove indicates the existence of the Alameda, a public garden, where the band plays, where the townsfolk promenade, and which, with its cactuses and geraniums in full bloom, looks bright and gay even in December. The company have so arranged that you can step into a boat and get rowed to shore and back for a shilling each way—an example which I recommend to the corporation of Gravesend.