no more latticed houses and green _jalousies_, no more of those charming _patios_, with marble fountains in the midst of the shops: but clothiers, cutlers, armourers, hotels with the arms of Great Britain, flagged footpaths, fair women, red officers, and English horses. Tom Thumb had lent us his boots, and each step we had taken from the deck of the Véloce had carried us seven leagues. We entered a _restaurant_. We ate raw beefsteaks, sandwiches, butter, moistening them with ale and porter; but when, after breakfast, we asked for a glass of Malaga, they were obliged to send out for it. On the other hand, the tea was irreproachable.” This is a very fair skit on the Englishman’s habit of carrying his country’s usages into climates for which they are totally unadapted. Although feeling, according to his own account, far from at his ease in this British military colony, of whose warlike aspect and regulations he sketches a ludicrous caricature, M. Dumas would not leave it without paying a visit to the governor; and, lest the anonymous lady to whom his African letters are addressed should be unable to comprehend this unusual (?) desire on his part to make the acquaintance of those in high places, he beguiles the time, till the governor returns from his ride, by telling the story of Lavalette. No matter that it has been pretty often told; related _à la Dumas_, that is to say, with a superabundance of detail, it covers a few pages, and explains his wish for an interview with the English general. “Sir Robert Wilson, a magnificent old man, sixty-six or sixty-eight years of age, who still breaks his own horses, and rides ten leagues every day, gave me a charming reception. I was so imprudent as to express my admiration of some Moorish pottery-wares upon his sideboard, and I found them in my cabin on returning to the Véloce. If anything could have induced me to remain another day at Gibraltar, it would have been the pressing invitation Sir Robert Wilson was kind enough to give me. Impressed with a lively sentiment of admiration, I left this noble and loyal-hearted man. May God grant long and happy days to him, to whom another man was indebted for long days of happiness.” All his admiration of Lavalette’s saviour was insufficient to detain him in Gibraltar, which he declares himself to have quitted with as strong a sensation of relief as Napoleon’s ex-aide-de-camp can have felt when, thanks to Sir Robert Wilson’s chivalry, he safely set foot across France’s frontier. French and English are now well used to each other’s jocular sarcasm, and are never the worse friends for it, because it is the interest of both to remain in amity. There is no venom in M. Dumas’ playful satire, which one glances over with a smile, quitting it with regret for the croakings of Mr Urquhart. This gentleman has some very peculiar notions respecting Gibraltar, whose restoration to Spain he strongly advocates, and to