Eastern side of the Rock in the early morning-Western side- Clear waters of the bay-Surroundings-Town-Moors- Castle-Name-Capture by the British in 1704-Siege of 1705 A SUMMER'S CRUISE, CHAPTER I. OUTWARD BOUND. Newport-Fog in the Channel-Bay of Biscay-Whales--Spanish fishermen-Cape Finisterre-Corunna, and Sir John Moore-The minor incidents of war-Service off Vigo-Battle of Vigo Bay-Portuguese trade winds-Sea-sickness and imaginative sounds-Rock of Lisbon-Harbours of refuge-Flag signalling-Cape St. Vincent -Sagras Point-Cuttle-fish-Petrels-Nelson and Trafalgar-Miscarriage of the Smyrna fleet-Mountains of Southern Spain-Roman Catholic ecclesiasticism-Blue waters-North Africa-Cape BonEarthquakes-Bed of the Mediterranean-Pantellaria-SicilyPhosphorescent waters-Greece. NEWPORT, in South Wales, is not the most picturesque town in Great Britain, and any one embarking there on a voyage to the Mediterranean would do his utmost to hasten the departure. The higher part of the town is the pleasanter part, and, when you get high enough to look inland, an interesting view of wooded hills and valleys stretches temptingly before you. But the desire to ramble is checked when the fact forces itself upon you that the steamer is in the dock, expecting every tide to drop down the river into the channel and bear you away to new and lovelier scenes. The nearer you get to the docks, the more uninviting Newport becomes. The streets are dustier; traffic increases; dirty men and women, and dirtier children, linger about the shops, and on the doorsteps, and near the public-houses ; the rattle of coal waggons is more distinct as they are run to the dock side, lifted by powerful hydraulic machines thirty feet above the vessel, their contents tipped into the hold, and then, empty and rattling still more, run down the incline, while the fine particles of coal blow about in clouds, and settle thickly upon the decks of the vessel, and the wharves, and the offices, and the workmen, and the water. It was flood-tide at midnight. The docks were silent. The coal dust had all settled. The Treloske lay under the electric light, which, from the lantern of the lighthouse, quivered and streamed into the night, burying in denser darkness everything outside its radius, and weirdly illuminating everything within. There was the hurry of departure; men's voices giving and receiving orders, and saying "Goodbye!" amid the noise of ropes and chains, and the hiss of steam; and, when stretched in the berth and weariedly closing the eyes, these mingled sounds formed themselves into an unusual lullaby. The morning broke through mists, and right ahead, as if it too were awaking from a sound sleep, and pushing aside its wrappings, was Lundy Island. The dark brown hills rose above a cloud of white vapour that rested upon and mingled with the grey sea. It appeared as much an island in the air as in the water, and seemed every moment inclined to wrap itself in its mists again and go to sleep, which it finally did, so far as our observation went; and so did the hills of North Devon. They had been cautiously peering through the mists, withdrawing here and disclosing there, alternately hiding and revealing their loveliness like some beauteous moving form in gossamer, until at last the mists closed in, and rolled over the grey waters and about the ship; and, at half speed, blowing the fog signal, a dismal operation, we passed along the Cornish coast, vainly hoping that the fog would lift sufficiently to permit a run into St. Ives Bay. Friends there knew we were passing down the coast, and we wished to give them a parting whistle. But no! thicker and thicker grew the fog; the soundings showed twenty-seven fathoms, with a bottom of shells and pebbles, and we judged ourselves off St. Ives Head; later on we had thirty-five fathoms, and toward midnight we heard the warning fog-horn of the Sevenstones lightship off the Land's End, and spake with a Newlyn fishing boat, by which we sent our last message home. In the morning we were entering the Bay of Biscay. The sky was clear; the sea was calm; the long dark blue 'billows of the Atlantic were so subdued as to make scarcely any perceptible difference to the motion of the vessel. A large sailing ship, the Winnifred, with sails all set, was gently rising and falling with the swell of the sea. Several passengers, among whom were women and children, were moving about the deck, some of them perhaps impatiently, for she made little, if any, progress, and we steamed past, and speedily lost her as she dipped below the receding horizon. The Bay of Biscay was on its very best behaviour. The boundless expanse of azure overhead appeared to deny the possibility of roaring thunders and sweeping rains; but, in the long majestic swell of the indigo deep beneath, subdued as it was, there was the suggestion of magnificent and irresistible billows before which the boldest mariner might quake, and in the midst of which no ship could live. What tales of terror; what exhibitions of fortitude and bravery; what loving attempts to rescue friends from peril, and to rescue "nearer and dearer" ones still, attempts no less loving because wearied and vain; what strange and varied secrets of human life and destiny lie hidden beneath the troubled surface of those dark blue waters, hidden deep enough never to be disturbed by the fiercest storm that blows, and never to be known till the sea shall give up its dead! Sunday morning brought a fresh wind, with short, whitecapped waves, and haze in the distance. Half a mile off the starboard bow whales were spouting, the columns of water rising thirty feet, and falling in fountain-like spray, while the troubled sea in their track brought to mind the description of Job's leviathan, "He maketh a path to shine after him; one would think the deep to be hoary." And yet the whale, notwithstanding his bulk, is not half so terrible as Job's leviathan, but a timid and inoffensive animal, contented with his food of living jellies, and quite peaceable if only let alone. Spanish fishermen were out, looking very cold clad in shiny oilskins in the grey morning, their anchored boats tumbling uneasily upon the tide, but quite alive to business, Sunday as it was, and indicating in various ways their desire to barter fish for any other commodity we might have on board suitable to their needs or fancy. Among the rest we refused the tempting offer of a large live flat fish, held aloft at arm's length, and wriggling to and fro; and passed on to view Cape Finisterre looming through the haze and growing more distinct with every turn of the propeller. To the north-east of Cape Finisterre the land runs out to the picturesque and memorable town of Corunna, the scene of a gallant struggle during the Peninsular War, and where, "Like a warrior, taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him," lie the remains of Sir John Moore. The retreat of his small army closely pressed day by day by an overwhelming host under the personal command of Napoleon; the unselfish sacrifice of treasure (£25,000 having to be thrown over a precipice, and left behind as a worthless impediment on the weary march); the cold, and hunger, and death; the harassing charges of the French cavalry among the frostbitten stragglers, who fell trodden beneath the horses' hoofs, |