I have no desire to bore my readers, with detailed descriptions of the various weird and picturesque ceremonies that constantly engross the attention of European visitors in Tangier, although I feel sorely tempted while speaking of them to go on. "Sumurun" and "Kismet" illustrate them far better than I can do, and there are many well-written books on the subject. My companion now suggested what he thought would best give me an idea of the surrounding country and coast scenery, viz. a ride to Cape Spartel[9] Lighthouse. I assented, and we hired the mules. The view all along the route was certainly very engrossing; but at certain altitudes, looking down on the sea, I felt as though I must fall over into the abyss below, it being so precipitous! However, we reached our destination in safety and I was well rewarded by the panorama that surrounded us. After dismounting and taking refreshment, a Moor approached with what appeared to be--rather uncanny--a full-grown scorpion. After marking, with a piece of stick, a circular line on the ground he proceeded to cover it with red-hot ashes, and when this wall of charcoal was completed, to place the wretched scorpion within the circle. Naturally, it did its utmost to escape, but, growing weary in its attempts, arched its tail over its back and stung itself to death. This was termed suicide, but I fear the scorching was the cause, although it retired well into the middle of the circle first. The performance, although curious, was distinctly not edifying. About now I was lucky enough to make the acquaintance of an English merchant--Mr. Stanbury--from Birmingham who annually visited Morocco. He knew the country and the people and could speak their language, and not only was he a useful travelling companion, but a very nice fellow to boot. As he was starting on a business visit to Tetuan, and invited me to come with him, I took this exceptional advantage of joining him, as I heard it was a place that an artist would revel in. We were most unlucky in the day we selected to start, for it rained incessantly. I wore a common Moorish Jhelab, which, being full of grease, protected me from the damp. A soldier and muleteer accompanied us, and notwithstanding that we were well mounted, our journey was not all my fancy pictured. It is about a sixty-mile ride, and although we plodded on, the ground was so heavy that it was useless to attempt to get into the town that night. We therefore stopped half-way at the Fondak where the cattle are housed, at four in the afternoon. The rain showing no signs of ceasing, we put up for the night.