Morocco itself is a city of profound gloom, where the Moor indulges to the utmost his taciturn disposition, and melancholy fatalism. It is, therefore, not an enchanting abode for Europeans, who, whilst there waiting on the Emperor, are obliged constantly to ride about to preserve their health, or they would die of the suffocating stench in the Jew's millah, or quarter. But, in taking this equestrian exercise, they are not unfrequently insulted. An ungallant cavalier deliberately stopped Mrs. Elton by riding up against her. The lady spurred her horse and caught with her feet a portion of his light burnouse, dragging it away. He was only prevented riding after and cutting her down, by one of the Emperor's secretaries, who was passing by at the time. Mr. Elton had a fine black horse to ride upon. The populace were so savage at seeing an infidel mounted upon so splendid an animal, that they hooted: "Curse you, Infidel! dismount you dog!" These instances shew the sauciness of the vulgar, and are a fair example of the conduct of the Moors. I am told by Barbary Jews, it would be next to impossible for a Christian to walk without disguise in broad daylight at Fez. Not so much from the hostility of the populace, as from their indecent and vehement curiosity. However, in these cases, I am obliged to give the testimony of others. Mr. Cohen, when travelling through the interior, assumes the character of a quack doctor, the best passport in all these countries. Practising as he goes, he manages to get enough to bear his charges on the way. Oliver Goldsmith piped, but in Morocco the traveller and stranger physics his way. To Europeans, Mr. Cohen gives this advice--"Never to stay more than one night at any place." "Mr. Davidson," he says, "stopped so long at Wadnoun, that all the Desert, as far as Timbuctoo, heard of his projects and travels, and were determined to waylay and plunder him." But, on the contrary, with respect to my own experience in the Desert, the people appeared equally hostile or offended at my taking them by surprise. Desert travelling after all is mostly an affair of luck. Six travellers might be sent to Timbuctoo and three return, and three be murdered, and yet the three who were murdered might have been as prudent and as skilful as the three who were successful. The Maroquine Government often shew a perfect Chinese jealousy of Europeans travelling in the interior. When Doctor Willshire, brother of the Consul, returned from Morocco, the Government gave orders that "he should be taken directly to Mogador, and not be allowed to turn to the right hand or to the left, to collect old stones or herbs." This lynx-eyed government imagined they saw in Doctor Willshire's botanical and mineralogical rambles, a design of spying out the powers and resources of the country.