[Illustration:  AN ARAB MARKET.]

Champagne, which the cunning Mussulmans do not consider as wine, washes the meal, and coffee and pale perfumed tobacco supplement it.  But when the appetite has retired and permitted some sharpness to the ordinary senses, the travelers are amazed at the gradual and silent increase which has taken place in their numbers.  Every group of guests is augmented by a circle of prone and creeping forms that, springing apparently from the earth, are busily breaking the fragments of the feast under the care of the servitors, who appear, rather to encourage than repel them.  Ben-Ali-Cherif, being interrogated, replies calmly, “They are Tofailians.”

The Tofailian is a parasite on system, an idler who elevates his belly into a divinity, or at least a principle.  His prophet or exemplar is a certain Tofail, whose doctrine is expressed in a few practical rules, respectfully observed and numerously followed.  “Let him who attends a wedding-feast,” says one of his apophthegms, “having no invitation, avoid glancing here and there dubiously.  Choose the best place.  If the guests are numerous, pass through boldly without saluting any one, to make the guests of the bride think you a friend of the bridegroom, and those of the groom a friend of the bride.”

An Arab poet said of Tofail:  “If he saw two buttered pancakes in a cloud, he would take his flight without hesitation.”

A Tofailian of marked genius once learned that a festival was going on at a grand mansion.  He ran thither, but the door was closed and entrance impossible.  Inquiring here and there, he learned that a son of the house was absent on the Mecca pilgrimage.  Instantly he procured a sheet of parchment, folded it, and sealed it as usual with clay:  he rolled his garments in the dust and bent his spine painfully over a long staff.  Thus perfect in what an actor would call his reading, he sent word to the host that a messenger had arrived from his son.  “You have seen him?” said the delighted Amphitryon, “and how did he bear his fatigues?” “He was in excellent health,” answered the Tofailian very feebly.  “Speak, speak!” cried the eager father, “and tell me every detail:  how far had he got?” “I cannot, I am faint with hunger,” said the simple fellow.  Directly he was seated at the highest place of the feast, and every guest admired that splendid appetite—­an appetite quite professional, and cultivated as poulterers cultivate the assimilative powers of livers.  “Did my son send no letter?” asked the poor father in a favorable interval caused by strangulation.  “Surely,” replied the good friend, and, comprehending that the critical moment had arrived, he drew to himself a chine of kid with one hand while he unwound the letter from his turban with the other.  The seal was still moist, and the pilgrim had not found time to write anything on the parchment.  “Are you a Tofailian?” asked the host with the illumination of a sudden idea.  “Yea, in truth, verily,” said the stranger, struggling with his last mouthful.  “Eat, then, and may Sheytan trouble thy digestion!” The parasite was shown the door, but he had dined.