benediction—"May it do you good," or "May
your stomach be the better."

The wonder is not so much that one gentleman
swallows his knife as that many more
do not inadvertently follow his example, for
every individual present is using that implement
in the capacity of a spoon. Science
and practice have done much to divest this
always interesting feat of its peril, and there
would be little to cavil at would the
performers but abstain from using their knives
as saltspoons too.

The banquet proceeds. There is Monsieur
Nonfait, the French vice-consul; there is the
Comte de Bongle, his compatriot; there is the
Count Gules, equerry to the King of Sardinia,
passing his month's congé in shooting and
photography. (These latter gentlemen enter
with us.) There is the skipper of a Maltese
schooner, tearing his fish with his thick ropy
fingers; there is a gentleman attached to the
Tunis opera, who sings between every mouthful;
and a few others. But our eyes are
perpetually turning towards the
knife-swallower. He sees it, though he does not
look, and presently, taking his napkin, folds
it carefully and evenly, then, placing his fork
and spoon within, bolts the whole at a gulp.

"Who—who is that man?" we gasp into
the turban of Mohamed, the Arab waiter.

"Bosco!" responds Mohamed.

It is even he. Bosco, the magician! Bosco,
the warrior! For did he not fight under the
banner of Napoleon—that greater magician
still—amid the snows of Russia? Was he
not overthrown and speared by a Cossack?
And did he not pick that Cossack's pocket as
fast as the victor rifled HIS? Wounded and
a prisoner, did he not cast his spells over the
hearts and understandings of his barbarous
captors, and escape at last with six thousand
livres in his pocket?

He has been performing before the Bey,
and has received from that potentate ten
thousand piastres (two hundred and seventy
pounds, sixteen shillings, and eightpence),
together with the order (seventh class) of the
Spoon and Hedgehog.

Honours and rewards have not spoiled the
man. Bosco is affability itself. He orders
three bottles of champagne, and sends it
creaming round. It is vile: but to refuse it
were viler. We drink to his future triumphs
over common sense and the evidence of eyes.

Now the magician produces a pack of
suspicious-looking cards, with most dishonest
faces; and, after playing a few choice tricks,
in which the cards are his humblest servants,
observes:

"I will now, gentlemen, show you a trick
you shall remember as long as you live.
You shall see that I know your thoughts."

One of our party—a quiet, shrewd, retentive
individual—is selected to have his secret
counsels revealed. Bosco takes from his
pocket-book a blank slip of paper, writes a
few words, and gives it to our friend, with
directions to place it, unread, in his bosom.
Then he takes a pack of cards, prepares to
deal them out, and desires our friend to stop
him when he chooses.

Slowly and regularly the cards drop from
his fingers. At the seventh, our friend cries
suddenly—

"Stop!"

"Have the goodness to look at the paper
in your vest."

He is obeyed: and, behold, there is
distinctly written in French:

"The gentleman desires me to stop at the
seventh card."

Wondrous man, farewell!

Who is for the Tunis opera? It is not far.
Down the muddy lane, through a filthy alley,
into a dark den, up a ladder, and we are in
presence of the assembled fashion and
loveliness of Tunis, listening to some sprightly
music from Columella—an opera of which,
we are ashamed to say, we never heard.

The building was a stable two months
since. The stalls retain both place and name.
The pit is seventy feet long by ten broad.
To the boxes the access is attended with
some little difficulty. The British consul,
who, as befits his dignity, occupies the best
box, has, with his party, been hoisted up to
his place, and the ladder is gone away to
assist the wily representative of French
interests to his. Sweden, Sardinia, and the
United States in like manner send their
consuls to this opera; and there is present
also a mysterious man (Monsieur Touslemonde)
who represents all these nations in
turn, and sometimes—in the summer, when
everybody leaves—Tunis altogether! His
personal history is as mysterious as his
occupation; for he is a Corsican by birth, French
by family, and Lombard by adoption. He is
Tunis's universal arbitrator and referee. In
any doubt or difficulty—no matter of what
nature, "Consult Touslemonde" is the word.

But the opera arrives at a sudden close,
and with it our first day in Tunis.

Up early. Count Gules sends word he has
a special order to visit the Bey's palace, a mile
or two out, and invites us to bear him
company. In the meantime, we ascend to a lofty
parapet and smoke the morning weed. Little
is to be seen but flat roofs; but, close beneath,
an interesting scene is passing.

Eighteen Arabs are gravely and deliberately
building a wall.

The process is singular. Seven men are
engaged in the preparation of a small clod of
mortar, of whom one, after several feints and
pauses, lays a portion of that cement, about
two feet in length. The rest assemble round,
and, with solemn faces and heads a little on
one side, examine and remark upon the progress
that has been made. Then one takes a
stone from the pile, and hands it to another,
who pats and presents it to a third, who
prepares to lay it; but he does not. Another