came from, with his flaring torch, his red eyes, his flying hair, his hoarse howl, his sturdy tramp, which trampled civilization in the dust, and his reckless spirit, which let loose all the devils of incarnate vice for a mad riot.  There are no such creatures as this under the shadow of the Madeleine!  We never meet them on the Boulevard des Italiens!  They don’t live in the Faubourg St. Germain!  There are none such in the Champs Elysees, even on Sunday, when, as everybody knows, the lower orders invade the haunts of the better classes—­to wit, ourselves, the tourists.

Nevertheless, these very creatures are still in Paris in great numbers.  The most elegant tourist who has walked the streets of the French capital this year, though he kept strictly to the choicer quarters, has touched elbows with these creatures unconsciously; and if he has ventured into the Belleville quarter, into the regions beyond the Place of the Bastile, into the neighborhood of the Pantheon or the Gobelins tapestry-mill, he has been jostled against, on the narrow sidewalks of narrow streets, by thousands of them.  They are not such a conspicuous feature of the city’s daily life now as they were when the volcano of revolution was belching its lava torrent through the streets; but they are there.  They are not now occupied in the way they were then; they make less noise; they dress more quietly; they attend, in one way or other, to the business of getting a living.  Some are working at trades; some are playing at soldiers; some are keeping cabarets; some are driving fiacres.  I am morally certain the rascal who drove me home from the Gymnase one night was a petroleum-flinger at the most active period of his existence.  “Give me your ticket, cocher,” I said to him; for the law requires the cabman to give to his fare, without solicitation, a, ticket with his number, and the legal rates of fare printed on it.  He cracked his whip at the left ear of his steed, and drove on without paying any attention.  “Give me your ticket,” I repeated.  This time he shrugged his shoulders—­it requires a really superhuman effort on the part of a Frenchman to refrain from letting his shoulders fly up to his ears, whatever his determination to control himself—­but drove on in silence.  Then I brandished my umbrella, and punching him with that weapon in the back in an energetic manner, repeated, “Cocher, oblige me with your ticket, tout de suite.”  He turned round on his seat in a fury.  “Ah, ca!” he roared, thee-thou-ing me as an expression of his direst rage and power of insult, “where hast thou come out of, then, that thou hast no sense left thee at the last?” Yes, I am morally certain he helped burn the Tuileries, that fellow!