the greatest on record. The grand attack was on the 13th of September, 1782. On the land-side were stupendous batteries, mounting 200 pieces of heavy ordnance, supported by a well-appointed army of 40,000 men, under the Duc de Crillon; on the sea-side were the combined fleets of France and Spain, numbering forty-seven sail of the line, besides numerous frigates and smaller vessels, and ten battering-ships of formidable strength. General Elliott's garrison threw 5,000 red-hot shot on that memorable day; and the attack was utterly defeated at all points.

Gibraltar, it may be added, occupying a promontory in the South of Spain, at the entrance from the Atlantic into the Mediterranean, 60 miles from Cadiz, consists of a high rocky mountain (the ancient "Mons Calpe," and one of the "Pillars of Hercules "), running from North to South, about three miles in length, from half a mile to three-fourths in width, and 1,600 feet high. On the North side is a sandy isthmus, about a mile and a half in length, and half as much in breadth, which connects the "Rock with the continent. The North front of the Rock is almost perpendicular; the East side is full of frightful precipices; while the South, being narrow and abrupt, presents hardly any possibility of approach, even to an enemy in command of the sea. On none of these sides has the garrison ever been attacked. There remains only the West front, which is almost as abrupt as the others; but which may be approached by shipping from the bay, and presents a kind of pied à terre in the level spot on which the town is built. Here, accordingly, have the efforts of assailants been directed, and here are the great batteries and works of defence. The town stands at the foot of the promontory, on its North-West side. Though fortified in itself, its chief protection is derived from the batteries on the neighbouring heights, which sweep both the isthmus, and the approach by water. One of the important features of Gibraltar is the Bay, which is of great extent, and forms a convenient naval station, being protected from the most dangerous winds. The "Rock" was first fortified in the modern style in the reign of Charles V., of Spain.

Since the invention of steam, the power of Gibraltar, as the key to the Mediterranean, is necessarily very much lessened. By the establishment of the overland route, however, the fortress has acquired a new value, as one of a chain of ports connecting England with her Indian Empire; and one thing is at all events certain, that having expended some millions of money upon it, and covered it with all the prestige of a glorious defence, there is now but little chance of such a possession as that of Gibraltar being ever surrendered by its conquerors.

W

HEN the steam-ship 'Firefly' sailed on her voyage to China, Adam Clarke was one of the seamen who signed articles to her captain. He was an easy-going, pleasant kind of fellow, and soon became a favourite with his shipmates. None could sing a jolly song over the grog so well as he; and, if truth were to eno told, no one could swallow so much grog without being visibly onatal the worse. This was an additional advantage in the of the crew; but it did not tend to Adam's well-being, and there was one man

eyes

*By EDITH M. DAUGLISH. Reprinted from "The Church of England Temperance Chronicle."

on board who watched the young fellow with a yearning heart, longing to help, but not knowing how.

This was John McNeill, the mate of the 'Firefly,' a man of much experience in ships and sailors, and who looked on grog as their greatest curse. He was a strict teetotaller himself, and when opportunity offered did his best to make the men follow his example. It was seldom of any use. They scoffed at him for a canting, sour-hearted Pharisee, who wished to put a stop to the only enjoyment the sailor had; so it was not often that John could get them to listen to him. The captain did not trouble himself much about the matter. Grog was part of a sailor's rations, he considered; and if they were such fools as to spend all their wages in getting drunk when on shore, why, all the worse for them and their wives—he did not see what he could do to help it. So he never took any interest in the work John McNeill had at heart, though he respected him for a brave and conscientious man.

One cold evening the men were gathered together in the forecastle making merry as usual, and the sounds of their jolly songs reached McNeill as he leaned over the taffrail smoking his pipe.

Adam Clarke had a rich bass voice, and just then he broke forth with the old song, "The lass that loves a sailor." His companions joined lustily in the chorus, and drank the toast set forth in it—

"The ship that goes, the wind that blows,

And the lass that loves a sailor,"

with three times three.

After the uproar subsided, Adam proceeded with his song, and the words sounded strangely solemn amid such surroundings—

"That God would bless our Poll, or Bess."

Ah! Adam had a bonnie little wife, and her name was Polly. John McNeill had seen the parting between them at the docks, when she and her fine baby boy came to " say good-bye to father."

Tears had stood in her eyes as she kissed her husband, and held the boy up for him to hug. McNeill had turned away from the scene; it reminded him of one a few years before, when he had been the chief actor, and a sweet wife and child had bidden him farewell, and their hands had met never to clasp each other again in this world. When he returned from his voyage, a little mound in the cemetery covered both his treasures; and two locks of hair, one dark, the other a tiny baby ring of gold, were all he had left of them.

McNeill was so absorbed in recalling these memories, that he quite started when Adam Clarke passed him to go on watch.

"You've been jolly in there to-night?" said McNeill.

Ay, ay, sir," responded Clarke. ""Tis a good way to pass a cold evening." The mate made no reply to this, but said abruptly—

"Do you love your Polly, Clarke?"

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'Do I what, sir?" exclaimed Adam, taken aback at this strange question "You've just been praying that God might bless her," went on McNeill. "Do you think it's likely He will, after the way you've asked Him?"

Adam's head was a little confused. But it was not the grog, certainly not— only the cold night air after the heated forecastle.

He did not take in McNeill's meaning; so after a moment he laughed awkwardly, and said he must "be off," and off he went.

The next day, however, he frankly came to McNeill, and asked him to explain what he had meant the night before. "I was a bit stupid," he confessed, "and did not rightly catch your meaning."

"You're often a bit stupid,' as you call it. Do you know, Clarke, that you are going on to destruction as fast as you can ?"

"I hope not," said Adam, with a half laugh; "that ain't a pleasing lookout, sir."

"It's true, though; in another year you will be a confirmed drunkard, if you go on as you do now. Give up the drink, man; if not for the love of God, for the love of your Polly, that you were singing about last night. Do you think she would like to see you as you often are ?"

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I think you're hard on a fellow, sir," said Adam, struck by the earnestness of the address. A man must have a bit of fun; I don't, not to say-drink. I don't know why I should give up my glass of grog; why, it heartens a fellow up when he's wet and cold; I could not do without it."

"That's just it—you're getting a slave to it. Only see what a drinking lot they all are; you and Joe Wright were the only two who came on board sober, and next time I shan't be sure of you. Is that what a man would like to answer for before God, do you think?" Adam had no reply ready. McNeill's words were true, and he could not deny their truth. All day long he felt uncomfortable, wishing to do right, yet too weak to do it in his own strength. He was not a praying man, so he failed to keep his good resolves. For a night or two he kept away from his jolly companions, and even refused the grog; but he soon found that some one else benefited by his despised portion, and this consideration, together with the ridicule of which he was the victim, soon effaced the effect of the mate's words. When the Firefly' arrived in port, McNeill again spoke earnestly to Adam; he was kind to him as well, and generally looked after him to try and keep him out of the temptations of shore. Adam felt both gratitude and affection for McNeill by the time the Firefly' started on her return voyage; and when, as usual, he saw every man of the crew come on board more or less drunk, he resolved to follow out his friend's advice and take the pledge. At first, great confusion prevailed on board, and he said nothing about his resolution. At Shanghai the captain fell ill of a dangerous fever, and had to stay behind; so McNeill was in command of the ship. The

men were very troublesome and difficult to manage, and almost came to mutiny on one or two occasions. One man in particular, Will Jones, was so threatening and abusive that he had to be put in irons for a couple of days; on being released he promised to "do" for the ship, and the craven teetotaller that commanded her-but he did not speak very loudly, and the few who heard took no notice.

One wild, stormy night, the 'Firefly' was in great danger, and all hands were hard at work amid the raging seas that dashed over the decks every minute. About four in the morning, the second mate came to McNeill for an extra supply of grog for the drenched and exhausted men. McNeill, whether wisely or not, refused, and ordered coffee instead. The crew, however, were not to be outdone; and, by the connivance of the second mate, succeeded in broaching a cask of brandy which was part of the cargo. By eight o'clock, most of the men were considerably under the influence of the stolen spirits. McNeill soon perceived something was wrong; but his whole attention was obliged to be given to the navigation of the ship, as the 'Firefly' was just then passing through a specially dangerous channel. It was a time requiring the coolest nerve and the greatest judgment; McNeill was equal to his work, but those under him were not. It little avails that the captain's head be steady, if his men be confused and incapable. His orders were but half comprehended-the crew, tried to their utmost by wind and waves, and stupefied by the extra supply of spirits, were almost helpless; and, in the midst of drenching rain and spray, the ill-fated vessel grounded, with a dull quivering shock, which told McNeill that all was lost.

A fearful scene of confusion ensued. The boats were lowered, although there was not much chance of their living in such a wild sea. The men, sobered now, rushed forward in a frantic effort to leave the sinking ship. Every life would have been lost, but for the brave self-possession of McNeill, and one or two under him. Arming himself with a pistol, he threatened to shoot any coward who should enter a boat before the women and children. One by one they were collected, and lowered over the ship's side, and one boat cast off, only to be swamped a few minutes later by the angry sea.

The second boat put off, and the third was being rapidly filled. A moment more, and there was but one place vacant-Clarke stood by McNeill's side, too brave to desert him in this moment of awful peril.

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'Go,"

"Come!" shouted the men, one of you there's no time to lose." said McNeill, pushing Adam forward, "I'll stay by the ship." "I won't go without you," cried Adam, in an agony, as he frantically clutched his friend to force him into the boat.

"If both come we'll be swamped," shouted the boat's crew again; " only room for one." "You shall go," muttered McNeill, with determination all the stronger because death stared him in the face. "Your wife and child, think