all of them at the very top of their voices, so it was impossible to
follow what was being said, but I have no doubt that their opinions
were all sufficiently "enlightened" and "advanced." "The Liberator"
sat apart in an arm-chair, his patriarchal white beard streaming over
his chest, and was treated with immense deference by every one
present. At intervals during the evening glasses of Guinness' bottled
stout were offered to the Liberator (and to no one else), this being a
beverage of which most South Americans are inordinately fond. I was
duly introduced to the Liberator, who received my advances with
affability tempered with haughtiness. I flattered myself that I had
made a very favourable impression on him, but I learnt afterwards that
the old gentleman was deeply offended with me, for, on being
introduced to him, I had assured him that it was a pleasure to meet
"so distinguished a _man_" (un _hombre_ tan distinguido), whereas I
should have said "so distinguished a _gentleman_" (un _caballero_ tan
distinguido), a curious point for so ardent a democrat to boggle over.

No stranger in Buenos Ayres should omit a visit to the Plaza Euskara
on a Sunday.

The Plaza Euskara is the great court where the Basques play their
national game of "pelota." Euskara is the term used by the Basques
themselves for their mysterious language, a language with no affinity
to any European tongue, and so difficult that it is popularly supposed
that the Devil, after spending seven fruitless years in endeavouring
to master it, gave up the attempt in despair. "Pelota" is the father
of racquets and fives, and is an immemorially old game, going back, it
is said, to the times of the Romans. Instead of using a racquet, it is
played with a curved wicker basket strapped on to the right wrist.
This basket is not unlike in shape to those wicker-work covers which