bringing over hounds from England. Sir Andrew, who at the time was British Minister at Madrid, appears in the picture of one of the first meets of the pack, which hangs in the Club House at Venta de la Rubia. The country hunted over was mainly open space, and the going good and light. There was scarcely any jumping-a few open drains and an occasional wall, but the hares were strong, the scent was good, and when, as often was the case, you got a good straight hare, you enjoyed a capital run. One was always hunting, since there were any number of hares; indeed, so large was the number that an occasional shoot had to be organised to keep them within bounds. The hounds were a nice-looking lot, and were well hunted. It always used to amuse me to observe how the huntsmen had translated English hunting language into Spanish. Some distance away, the hunting noises might have emanated from any British hunt servant; but when you got near, you heard that the language of the chase had been transformed into Castilian.

I am sorry to say that my days in Madrid were but few. I was only there one winter, and I had no opportunity to enjoy the excellent shooting probably some of the best in Europe that the Peninsula affords. Nor did I have an opportunity, beyond a scratch knock-about game or two, of playing polo at Madrid. Of

bull-fights I did not see many, and I cannot claim to be an aficionado." Let me say this, however: there is a great deal of nonsense talked about bullfighting. It is a cruel sport, perhaps, but it is not the only cruel sport in the world. Cruel or not, bull-fighting requires great courage in the bullfighters from the espada to the mozo, and also great skill and coolness. It is no joke to stand up to a seven-year-old picked bull fed on the best food and prepared all his life for the supreme twenty minutes at the close of it. No small skill in horsemanship is required to be a successful rejoneador-i.e., a mounted man whose business it is to stick his lance, which is really a long banderilla, into the neck of the bull and escape without harm to himself or his horse.

Nor does the following incident do anything but credit to the pluck and skill of an espada I once saw at San Sebastian. It was his first bull, and he had made several abortive attempts to get the sword in. The people began to get impatient, and shouted "Bravo, Toro fuera," stamped with their feet, and clapped their hands to disconcert him. Nothing is more trying to the nerves than to be surrounded by a hostile crowd. However, this man pulled himself together, determined to show his mettle. When a horse ridden by a picador is badly hurt in the ring he is killed by a chulo, who inserts a dagger between

the vertebræ, severing the spinal cord, and killing him instantaneously. The espada I am speaking of did this to the bull. As the bull charged he received the lowered head on the point of his sword, severed the vertebræ, and dropped him stone dead at his feet. This performance brought an immediate change in the attitude of the spectators, and from hoots they turned to shouts of applause.

Enough, however, of bullfighting. I did not see many fights, but I saw enough to learn that there are many things about this ancient Spanish sport which elevate it above the barbarous butchery which many people describe it as being.

or

One other Spanish sport there is which is almost as racy of the soil as a bull-fight. I refer to the Basque game of pelota. I need not describe it, for many of my readers must have seen it played at Bordeaux Biarritz, if not in Spain or South America. I wonder it has never been imported into England, for surely a game which requires such marvellous skill should be popular in this country. Perhaps it is that so much practice is required, and it is so difficult, that amateurs hesitate to devote the amount of time necessary even to play at all decently; also the expense of making the court may be a deterrent. Be that as it may, I would venture to recommend pelota to those members of our Universities who are in search of fresh pas

tures in games. An inter'Varsity pelota match would be well worth adding to the list of contests, and a good pelota player would certainly be deserving of a half blue, if not, indeed, of a whole one

After a few months at Madrid I was transferred rather hurriedly to the Legation at Tangier. Much as I liked my former post, I quickly came to the conclusion that my new one was the most delightful in the world, and subsequent experience has not led me to change my view. One great advantage of Tangier to an impoverished Third Secretary was that, strange as it may seem, one could almost, if not quite, live on one's pay. Being a country where Arabic is the native language, one could secure £100 per annum for knowledge of Arabic, which, with one's £100 a year international law allowance, brought a Third Secretary's pay up to the magnificent sum of £350. On this or very little more one could in those days live well and keep several horses.

The North African horse, or rather pony, is a hardy brute; he can pick a living cheaply, and he doesn't go lame. His bone is close as ivory. If you see the section of the bone of a Barb and that of an English horse, the former resembles the section of a billiard ball and the latter a piece of pumicestone. His fault is that he is not high couraged, and to keep him at it you have to be continually forcing him. Owing

to the fact that the export of horses was forbidden by the Moorish Government, prices ran very low; £10-£15 was high, and the usual price for a decent sort of animal was £5. The horses were all stallions, which made them rather vicious, their vice usually taking the form of biting. I had rather a nasty experience playing polo. A man was coming up to ride me off, and as soon as his pony's nose got level with my leg the brute seized my thigh and pulled me clean off, inflicting a very nasty wound, and striking at me also with his fore-feet.

Horses were very necessary animals in Morocco in my time, since there wasn't such a thing as a wheeled trap in the country, nor a road you could drive it along if there had been; but the chief thing one had in mind in buying a horse was whether he was or was not a good pigsticker. I had a nice fast pony called "Cork," who would go like anything up to the pig, then just as you were getting your spear ready the brute would shy right off. On the other hand, my colleague, Mr Irwin, the interpreter of the Legation, owned a small grey pony called "Pajarito," who would literally go for the tame Spanish pigs one met rooting for a living round about the town.

The great sport at Tangier was the pig-sticking. To my mind there is nothing like it in the world. It is a better sport than fox-hunting, for even in the best run the man who

has gone best and seen the whole thing from start to finish might probably just as well have stopped at home for all the use he has been in the actual killing or hunting of the fox. But with a pig it is different; you must find him yourself, hunt him yourself, and kill him yourself, and you have only yourself and the other spears with you to depend on.

Everyone has to work hard, or no pigs get killed.

The Tangier Tent Club was founded by Sir John Drummond Hay. One day when walking on the old mole at Tangier, Sir John picked up a sword blade, which he found to be of such beautifully tempered steel that, though it had lain for years in the sea, he was able to render it fit for use, and, having mounted it, he used it as a hog-spear. Later he introduced the long lance used in India. In 1868 Sir John persuaded his colleagues and the Basha of Tangier to preserve the pigs round Tangier, and to stop their subjects from shooting them; but it was not till a few years later that he obtained from the Sultan the specific right to stick pigs in the Tangier neighbourhood, and the first Réglement de la Chasse was drawn up. He had a certain amount of difficulty in overcoming the suspicions of some of his colleagues, for there were those among them who thought that there was a good deal of politics mixed up with sport, and that Sir John's object was

to increase his prestige in native circles. It happened that the El Amarti family of Swami were British protégés. They were the most influential people in the village, and probably the Basha was benevolent to the villagers in consequence. Anyhow, most of the latter came out as beaters to keep in Sir John's good books, and the story got about that the whole village was under British protection, which, of course, was not the case. Sir John retired from the Diplomatic Service in 1886, but the Tent Club flourished under successive British Ministers. In my time Sir Arthur Nicolson (now Lord Carnock) filled that post. We hunted all the country from Tangier to the west as far as the sea.

Our Field Master was Colonel Mansel Pleydell, upon whom devolved the arrangements for beaters, dogs, camp, &c. As a rule we camped at Hawara, close to the best beats, the Cork Woods and Shaf al Akab. The beaters were drawn from the villages around, some coming from Swami, and others from Mediouna, Dshur, and other places. Each man brought his dog-nondescript animals as a rule, not very different to the ordinary pariah dogs of the towns. In addition to his dog he had his gun, and generally a big knife or bill-hook to help him through the scrub. To protect himself against thorns he usually wore a kind of gaiter made of straw round his legs, and some sackcloth protection round his body.

The guns were the ordinary Moorish Tetuan guns, very long in the barrel and very short in the stock-smooth bores and muzzle-loaders. Beaters were supposed to use nothing but powder in their guns, but they generally arrived with them loaded, and as the spherical ball which they discharged had to be hammered into the muzzle, it was impossible to draw the charge without firing the gun. Hence it was not an uncommon thing for bullets to fly about during the beat. Once in the Cork Woods a beater shot a pig close by me. He said he didn't know his gun was loaded, but this was the only time I remember any damage occurring from loaded guns. One drove the scrub rather in the same manner as one beats a covert. The beaters, dogs, and two or three spears, lined up at one end, stops were placed along the sides of the covert, and the other spears were placed in pairs at the other end. The covert was driven towards an open space, with another covert on the other side. Thus the pig broke into the open, crossing the marsh or plain, and made for the other covert. The spears back would look out for pig going back through the line of beaters, and trying to break at the sides in spite of the stops. The beaters were under the direction of the head beater. In my time this was generally an old Sheikh of Swami, named Hadj Abdallah, a most genial old gentleman and a great

sportsman. He used to ride about on a white pony up and down the line directing, abusing, and encouraging his beaters. I never met a man who laughed so much. Moors are a cheerful race, but the Hadj was even more cheery than the majority of his compatriots.

Although the spears forward got the best runs, I used to prefer to go back with the beaters. In the first place, when forward one had to wait perhaps a couple of hours for the pig to break, and then very likely one mightn't get a run, whereas back one was always with pig boars, sows, and squeakers all around one. One did not, it is true, often kill a pig when back, but one was never idle and always hunting. Also, one had the fun of watching the beaters, which was a never-ending source of interest and amusement to me. If no spears were near, or if they thought you knew no Arabic, they would shout, “Ya halluff Ya ben Nazareni" (Yah pig Yah son of a Nazarene), but if a Nazarene approached the pig was addressed as "Ya halluff Ya ben hudi" (Yah pig Yah son of a Jew); but there is no doubt that the favourite objurgation, and the one considered the greatest insult to the pig and therefore the most likely one to rouse him, was to call him the son of a Naza

rene.

Posted forward one had to keep as much out of sight as possible-being down-wind the

pig couldn't wind you; but he is sharp of hearing, and noise or talking would soon attract his attention. Pigs are supposed to see badly, but my experience is to the contrary. Anyone wearing white clothes, or being otherwise conspicuous, would soon be picked up by them. One had to let the pig get well away from covert before one began to ride him, or he would break back. Then when he was clear and out in the open, one had to ride as hard as one knew how, because, great lumbering beast though he is, a pig travels fast, and the open spaces were not large-half a mile or threequarters was a long run. But a heavy boar, on the whole, prefers fighting to running. I shall always remember my first pig. I was posted with Mr Hofman Phillip, Secretary of the American Legation, at the Cork Woods, and a large boar broke across the marsh. The going was heavy, and I was just up to the pig, but as he heard me coming, splashing through the water, he turned, and my pony shied just as I thought I had my spear into him. Phillip, who was behind, speared him, but only grazed him slightly. The pig then charged me, my spear splintered, the pig got in under the pony, and ripped him in the near hock, knocking us both over. Phillip then speared him, but the same thing happened, and his pony was also rather badly ripped. However, the pig hadn't much left in