On reaching the end of the first-floor passage in the Bonne-Nouvelle Bazaar, you passed through a doorway, and were quite surprised to find yourself in a room excellently adapted for this style of performance. There were stalls, pit, gallery, and boxes; the decorations were most elegant, and, above all, there was plenty of room to stretch your legs. An orchestra composed of six musicians of doubtful talent executed a symphony to the accompaniment of the _mélophone_, a species of accordeon recently invented by a man of the name of Leclerc, who undertook the musical arrangements of the palace. The curtain rises. To the great surprise of the spectators the stage is in perfect darkness. A gentleman dressed in black emerges from a side door and walks towards us. It is Philippe: I recognise him by the Provençal twang of his accent. All the other spectators take him for the manager, and fear they are about to hear some painful intelligence, as this gentleman holds a pistol in his hand. Their uncertainty is, however, soon dispelled, for Philippe introduces himself. He states that he has been delayed in his preparations, but, in order to save time, he will light the innumerable candles on his stage by firing a pistol. Although a fire-arm is not required for the experiment, and is only intended to throw powder in the spectators’ eyes, the candles are suddenly lighted at the sound of the detonation. The audience applaud vociferously, and deservedly so, for this trick is remarkably striking. However much it may be applauded, the time it requires for preparation, and the mortal terror it occasions the performer, are beyond recompense. In fact, like all experiments in which static electricity plays the chief part, this magic inflammation is not infallible. When this misfortune occurs, the position of the operator is the more embarrassing, as the phenomenon has been announced as the result of magic. Now, a magician must be omnipotent, or, if he be not so, he most avoid at all risks any failure which may lower his prestige in the eyes of the audience. The stage once lighted, Philippe commenced his performance. The first part, composed of very average tricks, was relieved by the manœuvres of some curious automata. For instance: The _Cossack_, which should have been called the _Grimacer_, so quaint were the contortions in which it indulged. This Cossack was also a very clever juggler, for it passed into its pocket with considerable skill various articles of jewelry its master had borrowed from the spectators. The _magic peacock_, which uttered its unmelodious screech, expanded its gorgeous plumes, fed from its master’s hand, &c. And lastly, a _Harlequin_, like the one I repaired for Torrini.