of the party has made a remark which elicits
a grave laugh. The stone is laid down, a
pipe takes its place, and is passed round.
After which the whole party squat upon
their haunches, and fix their undivided
attention upon one individual, who tells a
story.

It must be a funny story, for all laugh till
their sides shake; and it is no slight matter
that will excite Arab risibility thus far.
Presently, one of them starts suddenly to his
feet, as though he were saying:

"Come, old fellows, this won't do. We
can't listen all day, even to such fun as this!
Let's get on with the wall."

The rest reluctantly acquiescing, the stone
is lifted, and actually laid upon the mortar.
A brief consultation is held over it; after
which, a second is handed from the pile, and
conveyed, in the manner before described,
towards the wall. It does not reach it,
however. Some point in the story just related
has been simmering in the mind of one of the
party. He bursts into a hearty laugh, and
we fancy we hear him saying:

"By your soul, now, Ali, and by the beard
of the Prophet, was it as you tell us? Did
he answer that Kafir of a silk-merchant in
those to-be-remembered words?"

Ali, the stone-bearer, drops his load,
retouches the point of his narrative, and
resumes the pipe, amidst the renewed applauses
of his auditory. It is now time to take a
little refreshment. Flat, deep-brown loaves,
and some enormous onions, are produced,
and the progress of the works is postponed
for one hour.

We, on our part, descend, and accompany
our friend, Count Gules, to the Bey's palace.
At the gate we are encountered by the captain
of the guard, an officer of the household,
and a sprinkling of attendants. The former
draws Gules aside, and, in a solemn whisper,
entreats that not a word of English may be
uttered. Italian, French (as much as you
please); German, if you can; but no English.
This looks well for English influence in
Tunis! But it is no matter. We Frenchify
ourselves on the spot, and enter the
mysterious precincts.

Passing a marble fountain in the outer
court, the officer of the household points
significantly to the broad lip of the basin, and
relates a sanguinary story:

Forty or fifty years ago, there resided at
the court of the reigning Bey, an Italian
physician, Antonio Stanchi. This man, with
the view of ingratiating himself with the
heir to the succession, resolved to destroy his
master. One day, the latter took his seat, as
usual, to administer justice, and called for
his pipe. A few whiffs, and the poor Bey fell
insensible—dead. The tobacco had been
poisoned. On the following day, the heir
ascended the throne: Antonio Stanchi, who
had made no secret of the deed, standing at
his side, glorying in his success. The courts
were filled with eager suitors: for the
character of the new sovereign, for justice and
moderation, stood deservedly high. The Bey
took his pipe, gazed curiously into the bowl,
put the delicate amber to his lips, and took
it away again. There was clearly something
on his mind.

Suddenly, he spoke:

"I reward devotion, as I punish guilt.
Stand there, before us, O! Antonio Stanchi.
To your deed I owe my throne. To a similar
deed, my successor may be indebted for his.
Your skill is great. Give him his reward."

A peculiar sign accompanied the last word.
The blood deserted Stanchi's visage, and
never returned; for, a lane was formed from
the seat of justice even up to the marble
fountain in the court beyond, and the assassin,
dragged forth, was, within a minute, decapitated
on its edge.

Hypocrites as we are! There is certainly
nothing in the excellent Bey's villa to justify
those ejaculations of "Superba!" "Bellissima!"
&c., which formed the only coin in
which we were permitted to repay the
courtesy of our conductors. There is, in
truth, a noble full-length picture of
Louis-Philippe, in the tapestry, so finely wrought as
to have the effect of a highly-finished work
in oil; and there is also a beautiful Sevres
and Dresden table: both, presents from the
above-named monarch, who seems, as his
conquests advanced in Africa, to have evinced
quite a parental interest in this portion of it,
and who actually built a chapel (which might
easily be turned into a fort) on the most
commanding site in the neighbourhood of the
bay. There is, further, a portrait of the late
Bey, Sidi Achmet, bestriding an impossible
animal, before whose frantic and furious
aspect, even a Rarey might quail. The creature
is balancing himself upon the tip of one
of his hinder shoes, and if, under such trying
circumstances, the Bey's features retained
one quarter of the marvellous repose the
artist has depicted, all honour to his equestrian
pluck! The remainder of the gallery
did not detain us long. We did not care
much for engravings where we hoped for
pictures; and Tunny-fishing, Mazeppa, and
the Village Barber, though excellent, are not
new.

His Highness the Bey resides chiefly at
his palace, at Marsa, eight miles from Tunis;
where, in a large marquee, erected close
beside the palace, he may be seen daily, during
his stay, administering justice in patriarchal
form, and with a wisdom and moderation
which, in one invested with irresponsible
power, can never be too highly commended.
But, for the future of the country, the qualities
evinced by Sidi Mahomed and his
predecessors come too late.

The fate of Tunis (the Regency, as it is
still called, though its dependence on the
Porte is but nominal), is a singular one.
Certain to be, at no distant date, absorbed in the