It is impossible for an Englishman to pass by this place—­the scene of the most celebrated naval action on record—­without emotion.  Here it was that the united navies of France and Spain were annihilated by a far inferior force; but that force was British, and was directed by one of the most remarkable men of the age, and perhaps the greatest hero of any time.  Huge fragments of wreck still frequently emerge from the watery gulf whose billows chafe the rocky sides of Trafalgar:  they are relies of the enormous ships which were burnt and sunk on that terrible day, when the heroic champion of Britain concluded his work and died.  I never heard but one individual venture to say a word in disparagement of Nelson’s glory:  it was a pert American, who observed, that the British admiral was much overrated.  “Can that individual be overrated,” replied a stranger, “whose every thought was bent on his country’s honour, who scarcely ever fought without leaving a piece of his body in the fray, and who, not to speak of minor triumphs, was victorious in two such actions as Aboukir and Trafalgar?”

We were now soon in sight of the Moorish coast, Cape Spartel appearing dimly through mist and vapour on our right.  A regular Levanter had now come on, and the vessel pitched and tossed to a very considerable degree.  Most of the passengers were sea-sick; the governor, however, and myself held out manfully:  we sat on a bench together, and entered into conversation respecting the Moors and their country.  Torquemada himself could not have spoken of both with more abhorrence.  He informed me that he had been frequently in several of the principal Moorish towns of the coast, which he described as heaps of ruins:  the Moors themselves he called Caffres and wild beasts.  He observed that he had never been even at Tangier, where the people were most civilised, without experiencing some insult, so great was the abhorrence of the Moors to anything in the shape of a Christian.  He added, however, that they treated the English with comparative civility, and that they had a saying among them to the effect that Englishman and Mahometan were one and the same; he then looked particularly grave for a moment, and, crossing himself, was silent.  I guessed what was passing in his mind: 

“From heretic boors,
And Turkish Moors,
Star of the sea,
Gentle Marie,
Deliver me!”

At about three we were passing Tarifa, so frequently mentioned in the history of the Moors and Christians.  Who has not heard of Alonzo Guzman the faithful, who allowed his only son to be crucified before the walls of the town rather than submit to the ignominy of delivering up the keys to the Moorish monarch, who, with a host which is said to have amounted to nearly half a million of men, had landed on the shores of Andalusia, and threatened to bring all Spain once more beneath the Moslem yoke?  Certainly if there be a land and a spot where the name of that good patriot