behind me, closely following my steps, a
couple of asses belonging to the cavalcade.
Thinking very naturally that they had lost
their way, I turned them round in the direction
of the magazine, and sent them on their
way rejoicing with the help of a few thumps
artistically applied. This done, I continued
my walk. A moment afterwards, I turned
round, and, Holy Sidi Bou Krari! what did
I behold again? The same two asses, which
had not left me. Once more, I made them
face to the right-about; but all in vain! A
minute afterwards they were on my track
again. Sidi, you know me—I am your child
—you are aware that falsehood has never
sullied my lips—"

"Verily, indeed!"

"You will believe, therefore, when I tell
you that more than thirty times I tried to
make the asses go home, and that my efforts
proved unavailing. Consequently, this
diabolical pair of donkeys, do what I could,
followed me up to my tent, and into my tent,
with me, and in spite of me. I was in a rage
with them; so I broke my cudgel on their
backs. But look here—seeing is believing."
And Djilali produced his broken bludgeon in
confirmation of his marvellous narrative.

"I will bet anything that these two asses
had their load of wheat upon their backs."

"You know I have the utmost horror of
falsehood. It is true; the asses had their
sacks on their backs."

"The devil fly away with you!" exclaimed
the magistrate, giving way to a burst of
impatience. "You have been wasting my
time in listening to a cock-and-bull story in
justification of your making off with a couple
of sacks of wheat. You have been prating
about miracles, as if there were any miracle
in that!"

"O Sidi, what a suspicion! To suppose
that I could—Holy Sidi Abd Allah! May
holy Sidi Maman strike me blind, if—"
Djilali's embarrassment, as he endeavoured
to justify himself, was overwhelmed with a
burst of laughter, in which the whole
assembly, the court included, joined.

"Get along with you!" said the magistrate,
who could not help smiling when he
looked at his chaouch's pitiable mien. "Do
you take me for a Turk, to tell me such a
parcel of nonsense as that?"

"Ah, Sidi! Sidi!"

"You deserve that I should make you pay
dearly for your two sacks of wheat." But
here a harmonious concert of supplications in
the chaouch's favour arose in chorus in the
midst of the assembly, in conformity with
the Arab tradition, which, to the other privileges
enjoyed by this functionary, adds that
of being unpunishable. The kaïd of the
Oud-Medaguins confirmed the manifestation
by the gift of the two sacks of wheat which
miraculously entered Djilali's tent.

"Very well," said the court. "I do not
wish to be severe on this occasion; but take
care how you begin again." An admonition
given a hundred times before.

"I am your child; you are my father!"
The eternal argument of chaouchs when
caught at their tricks.

"At any rate, have you sent back the
asses, after having emptied their sacks?"

"Certainly, I have not failed to do so.
Sacks and asses are now in their master's
hands. You know, Sidi, how scrupulous I
am in all those matters."

"So it seems," muttered the magistrate.
"And now try and make up for the time
you have lost me."

Djilali is the hero of other adventures.
Enough for once has been given to-day. He
is a study worth the attention of administrative
reformers (if any such beings are still
in existence), and he is recommended, as a
model, to their consideration.

         ITALIAN VILLAGE DOCTORS.

I LIVE in the neighbourhood of Naples,
and as I wish to talk about some people here,
without being too personal, let it be said that
this my village is the commune of anything
you please—of Castellano for example. My
life is in the hands of one of those people
about whom I intend to speak; it is most
necessary, therefore, to be heedful lest I
give offence. In an underhand way, let me
without their leaves, talk of the doctors of our
village, surgeons, barbers, priests, medical
men—and women.

The priests appear to me to be at the head
of the medical profession in this kingdom of
the Two Sicilies. They publish the cures
performed by almost every image, every
relic. When the cholera was here, they taught
our devout heathens to swallow bits of paper
upon which were woodcut pictures of the
Madonna. And as for the solidified Madonna's
milk, which I take to contain more chalk than
any milk in London, every woman in our
village treasures a piece, which the priest has
sold to her for a miraculous remedy against
all distresses to which woman is liable.

I was so unfortunate as to fall sick while
in this village, and my first visitor in illness
was an old woman who drives a considerable
trade in amulets and charms. She entered
my room with a bit of chalk in one hand and
a glass of water in the other. "Ah, signor,"
she cried, "here is a blessed remedy, if your
excellency would but try it." "Tell me first
what it is, my worthy mistress." She then
explained to me that she was one of the
subscribers to a Society for the Conversion of
the Turks, and that the monks of Ladro
made their rounds once a-year to collect
subscriptions. The collector when he last
came round had presented to her and to
other women small pieces of a sacred mountain
of milk, which he assured them would
work miraculously for the alleviation of pain,
if some scrapings of it were taken mixed