French territory, it is commencing,
apparently just too late, a system calculated at
once to develope the rich resources of the
country, and to stimulate the energies of its
dreaming population to a par with European
enterprise and activity. The last Bey, Sidi
Achmet, who appears to have been a man of
considerable administrative ability, originated
reforms and abolished abuses (among others,
that hideous one, the slave traffic), with a
perseverance which no doubt tended greatly
to the moral and social elevation of his people.
The present sovereign—after some temporary
hesitation—entered frankly into the same
policy; has already done much, and promised
more. To the laudable course thus pursued,
France and England have, through their
representatives, leant a hearty co-operation;
and if, in the case of the former, there has
been, conjoined with its encouragement, a very
evident desire to further the ambition of the
Bey to assert his absolute independence, we
are not such lynx-eyed politicians as to grow
grave at the reflection that such independence,
by depriving Tunis of the support of
the Sultan and his allies, must leave her at
the mercy of her powerful neighbour. In
the mean time, let it be recorded that
whereas in the Crimean war gracious Tunis
lent us ten thousand men—of whom only
one-fifth were repaid—France hath given
him an order, and we none.

Nothing to be done to-day. It rains in
torrents, and we are compelled to keep
house till dinner. Much excitement in Tunis,
relative to a miserable event that recently
occurred, and which, as illustrative of Tunisian
prison-discipline, may be worth noting in its
authentic shape, at which we took some
pains to arrive: A month or two since, Pompeo
Calci, a Lombard refugee, arrived in
Tunis, and claimed the protection of the
Sardinian consul. This was promised, under the
sole and very reasonable condition, that the
man should by his conduct and bearing prove
himself deserving of it. But a few days,
however, elapsed before Pompeo Calci became
involved in a quarrel at the café, with a
Hungarian (also a refugee) in which knives
were drawn on both sides, and the
Hungarian received a hurt so severe as, for a
short time, to place his life in danger.
Thereupon, Calci was delivered into custody
of the Sardinian officials, of whom he was
shortly after claimed by those of Austria,
the wounded person being a subject of the
latter power. He was given up. The
Austrian consul was about to leave Tunis
for a time, during which the affairs of the
consulate were referred to the British
representative. The latter, finding the
prisoner an embarrassment, handed him over
to the custody of the Tunisian police, by
whom he was lodged in the general prison—
a hideous dungeon—until his fate should be
decided.

In the meantime, the wounded man
recovered and left the country. Calci was put
upon his trial. No one appeared against him;
but, instead of being set at liberty, he was
conveyed back to that prison, the horrors of which
will be better understood when it is explained
that, for those immured there,—no bed, no
food, no garment, no necessary of any description,
is provided. The captive is dependent
entirely upon the compassion of his friends and
the charity of his fellow-prisoners. Now
Pompeo Calci had no friend. The charity of
his wretched companions was, as might be
expected, quickly exhausted. The man was
abandoned to his fate. Without food, almost
without clothes, covered with filth and
vermin, the miserable man lay wasting
slowly away: not in painless exhaustion, for,
horrible as it may seem, it is, nevertheless,
true, that he had gnawed his own hands in
the protracted agonies of famine. His reason,
however, had given way, and it was probably
owing to this latter circumstance that
his condition became known. The credit
of having interfered on his behalf appears to .
have been principally due to the French
residents at Tunis. He was removed from his
wretched dungeon to the Goletta; fed,
clothed, and—as soon as his mental condition,
allowed—provided with the means of quitting
the scene of his sufferings.

This morning, note from the general
commanding the nearest French station, announcing
to us the turn out of English ministry.
We are rather out of the tide of the world,
here, and depend chiefly upon charity for any
cold scraps of news. Why trouble ourselves
with political squabbles? A few leagues
hence lies the renowned spot where the
lotos-eaters swallowed their oblivious salads—and,
it is to be feared, left none for seed. No
matter. Away to Carthage!

Nine miles from Tunis, about three from
the principal sites of the ancient city, stands,
in a green confusion of orange, almond,
olive, cypress, and palm-trees, the picturesque
Moorish villa, Ghamart, erected by the hands
of Christian slaves, just previous to the
taking of Algiers, in eighteen hundred and
sixteen.

Here dwells the author of a pleasant book
of eastern travel, and, at present, Excavator-General, and Discoverer of Ancient Phoenician
Relics—to the British government and
public—a gentleman to whose zeal and
perseverance certain compartments of the Museum
already bear ample testimony. An excellent
oriental scholar and linguist, and a personal
friend of the reigning Bey, it would have been
difficult to select a person better qualified to
conduct the interesting researches now in
progress. We have no introductions whatever;
but, with the cool assurance of British
lion-seekers, make no scruple of marching straight
upon Ghamart, about the hour of noontide
refection. Welcomed, rather like old
acquaintance than errant strangers, we are at
home at once in that kind and pleasant