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

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I land, and declining a carriage drawn by mules amid the loud vociferations of the Spanish owners, turn to my left, and find myself in the main street, the only ugly building in which is the red-brick mansion in which the British Governor resides. All the houses are shops—full of the little trifles of Morocco manufacture, such as pipes and jewellery and gay mats and carpets, with which we are familiar at home. There are 20,000 Spanish residents, and the place swarms with them. There are some 5,000 British soldiers here, and they are en evidence, as was to be expected. They have five years to stop here at a time, and they evidently think that—as indeed it is—too long. One of the first things to interest you is the little graveyard on your right, in which the heroes of the siege were buried—shaded by trees, especially by a fig-tree of gigantic size and very old, as you can tell by the smallness of the leaf. A building which attracts your eye just before you enter the busy street is that of the Soldiers and Sailors’ Institute, which is erected on a freehold site, and comprises on the ground floor a coffee and refreshment-bar, dining-room, bath-room, and lavatories; on the first floor a reading, writing, and recreation-room, with a small library; and above is a large hall for mission services, public meetings, Bible classes, and mothers’ meetings. The soldiers and sailors, I fear, do not appreciate the advantages as they might, though Mr. Holmes, the superintendent, tells me at times the hall is more than filled. It is in the streets—or rather in the people that crowd them—the chief charm of Gibraltar lies.