"Not here. Hairdresser at the theatre."

"Falempin?"

"Walking gentleman in the comedy."

"Grimplin?"

"Heroine in the tragedy."

"Sansbarbe?"

"Grisette in the farce."

"Potauver?"

"Scene-painter."

"Then is your theatre the Grand Opera?"
asked the general.

"Very nearly, General,"

"And you mean to show me that?"

"Certainly, General, the theatre is a part of
the army which you have to inspect."

In the evening, by the light of a brilliant
chandelier, the inspector applauded the graces
of the Zephyrs, who, elegantly perfumed,
curled and gloved, in the guise of charming
Parisiennes, played out their plays to the
great entertainment of the divisional general
inspecting.

But after the vaudeville, comes the tragedy;
the great piece treads on the heels of
the little one. The farce will then follow, to
make us forget Melpomene's dagger and
poison-bowl.

The scene is changed; the theatre is
forgotten. The merry chorus is heard no more.
We have passed beneath the cold and humid
vaults of one of the ancient Spanish buildings.
There are no external apertures; no daylight
enters that sombre mass of stone. The
ceilings sweat an icy water, which falls drop
by drop, like tears from the eye whose briny
source is being exhausted by sorrow and
long continued want. Having passed through
some doors of incredible weight and thickness
which swing heavily on their rusty
hinges, we enter a narrow dungeon excavated
in a damp and chilly soil; although beneath
a glorious sky, which is ever tinged with
blue or gold. Through the veil of a grey and
gloomy twilight which is never pierced by a
ray of sunshine, we perceive two men
crouching opposite to each other on the
ground, and holding in their hands cards.
What are they saying?—" Hearts! clubs!"

"Trumps! The game is mine!"

"I have lost again!" the other replies.

Then, stretching towards his adversary one
of his three remaining fingers, " There, cut
away!" he shouts. The door unexpectedly
opens.

We were then in the fort of Mers-el Kebir,
whither insubordination and crime had
conducted a pair of Zephyrs. Isolation and the
stings of conscience, soon became insupportable
to such excited spirits. The worst of the
two had pocketed a pack of cards, his only
missal. They first tried hard to find amusement
in contests which soon were found insipid.
What could they play for, who possessed
nothing?—nothing which could give value
to the victory? They had nothing there,
except their own persons. But one's person is
a sort of property; and it is possible, too, to
venture it. The craving for excitement, and the
dread of vacant hours, made them mutually
chance the loss of a finger, to be cut off by
the winner at five points of ecarté. The loser
was about to suffer mutilation, when the door
opened to admit the Serjeant who acted as
the turnkey of the prison. Shocked at such
an atrocious bargain, he forbade the performance
of the sacrifice. But, as soon as the Serjeant's
back was turned, the gamesters chose
another stake. The loser was to murder the
interloper who had prevented the payment
of a debt of honour. The loser kept his
word, and they were both executed for the
murder of the Serjeant.

We will now have a peep at more cheerful
scenes; for many a Zephyr has the art of
employing, in merry mood, the hours which
he is obliged to spend in a dungeon, or at the
bottom of the silos. Silos are dull places of
retirement. They are a sort of enormous
cisterns in which the Arabs store their grain.
When, during oppressive heats, the first culprit
descends to the bottom of the vast amphora,
a sensation of coolness refreshes him
for a moment. The change is rather agreeable
than otherwise, and the arrival of a
companion in misfortune gives him an equal
additional pleasure. But soon three, four, and
five new prisoners are added; and, before long,
air, which can only enter at the upper orifice,
begins to run short. Mutual assistance is
necessary to mount each other's shoulders,
and they have to transform themselves into a
living ladder to enable each to take in a stock
of air at the hole, to last until his turn to
breathe comes round again. Meanwhile
continued jokes and laughter burst forth from
the various human rounds of the ladder. It
is wonderful that such an amount of hardship
and trial does not suggest to them Franklin's
idea; to turn honest and respectable men, as
the most successful piece of roguery they can
play.

Tattooing is a grand pastime during
captivity. The battalion has its regular
professors of engraving upon human skin, who
never stir without their instruments about
them, carefully treasured in proper cases.
What delight is theirs to find a new recruit,
a blank page of white paper, upon whose fair
and virgin surface they can exercise their
decorative talent. In order that every
customer may be suited to his taste with an
emblem to fix upon his chest or his arm, they
convert themselves into vast pattern books,
entirely covered with specimens. Many an
admiring amateur, excited by the beauty of
these pictures on living vellum, has allowed
subjects to be punctured on his skin, which he
would afterwards thankfully get erased, even
by means of a red-hot iron. We were once
acquainted with a Zephyr-lad, whom we never
knew by any other name than the one he
had punctured upon his forehead. This
unfortunate boy commenced his career by
taking a spite against the number which