diplomat, an ambassador to more than one foreign court, is now a cab-driver, and not a particularly good one.  Unfrocked priests, unsuccessful school-teachers, small bankrupt tradesmen, swell the ranks, the personnel of which is mainly composed of servants out of place or of provincials who have come to Paris to seek their fortune.  These last come mostly from Normandy, Auvergne and Savoy; and it has been noticed that the Savoyards are the most sober and docile of all.  The Parisian cabman is always under the surveillance of the police:  a policeman stationed on every stand watches each cab as it drives off, and takes its number to guard as far as possible against any overcharge or peculation.  In case of a collision and quarrel or an accident the ubiquitous policeman is always at hand to take the numbers of the vehicles whose drivers may be concerned in the affair.  Complaints made by passengers are always attended to at once, and immediate redress is pretty sure to follow.  The cabman is generally gruff and surly, and, though seldom seen drunk, in the majority of cases is addicted to drink—­a vice which the exposed nature of his calling palliates if it does not wholly excuse.  Some cabmen are devoted to newspaper reading, and may be seen engaged perusing the Rappel or the Evenement while awaiting the appearance of a fare or stationed before the door of a shop or a picture-gallery.  Others prefer to nap away their leisure moments, and may be seen, half sitting, half lying on their boxes, and sound asleep.  It is rather a curious process to pass slowly along the line of a Parisian cab-stand and observe the faces of the men.  Every variety and type of countenance—­from the Parisian “Jakey” with villainous eyes, sharp features and black soaplocks, to the jolly old patriarch, gray and stout, and somewhat stiff in the joints, who has been a cab-driver for over forty years perhaps—­presents itself to your view.  The best way to engage a cab is by observing the face of the driver, not the condition of the vehicle or that of the horse.  The Parisian cabmen wear no uniform, the high glazed hat being the only article of attire which is universally adopted.  Even the red waistcoat, once a distinctive mark of their calling, is gradually falling into disuse, and every variety of coat and overcoat may be seen, liveries past private service being very generally adopted.  Any overcharge may be reclaimed by the passenger by the simple process of making a complaint before the nearest chef de police.  In past days the coachman thus complained against was forced to go in person to the complainant to beg his or her pardon, and to pay over the extra sum demanded.  A frightful catastrophe which occurred some twenty years ago put an end to this form of retribution.  On the 16th of September, 1855, M. Juge, director of the normal school at Douai, took a cab in the Place de la Concorde and went for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne.  The driver, one Collignon, insisted on being paid more