seulement, messieurs!” Then there are jugglers, mountebanks, and importunate beggars. My great torment in the Boulevard is a little wretch of a girl, about ten or twelve years old, whose ostensible business is the sale of toothpicks, but in reality is begging. This little animal fixes herself on one with the tenacity of a leech--running by one’s side, occasionally holding up the articles of her pretended trade, and unceasingly plying her song: “Ah, monsieur! cure-dents, monsieur? En voulez-vous, monsieur? deux sols, monsieur! Ah, monsieur! le pauvre père, monsieur; il est malade, monsieur!” and then, when she becomes convinced of the inutility of perseverance, suddenly stopping and entering into an indifferent, perhaps merry, confab with some chum, and again starting after some other likely-looking customer. She frequently follows me from her stand, which is at the end of the Rue de Richelieu, to the Rue de la Paix. Other characters there are of different descriptions, and many of them forming a feature in this motley and daily crowd. Amongst these I have particularly noticed an old man, with long grey locks flowing in a most picturesque style over his back and shoulders, strumming a cracked guitar; and a female, somewhat advanced in years, dressed in shabby old finery, her faded charms partially concealed under a rusty-black veil, who attempts to excite interest in and extract metal from the passengers by warbling a pathetic love-song in a most ominously husky voice. A little farther, a proud and stately Mohammedan, in full Turkish costume, offers for sale I know not what, and evinces much indignation at the itinerant sausage-vendor, who pushes steadily through the crowd, the fiery brasier suspended before him by a strap passing round his neck, everywhere opening for him a free passage. Over the brasier a square pan contains the savoury-smelling, hissing sausages, which as they fry he is able, from having his hands at liberty, to keep turning, or to serve out to customers and receive their sols in return. The steaming pan has frequently made my mouth water, and I give no credit to the fierce and angry look of our stately Turk when startled by his near and unexpected approach. I’d wager a sol did they but encounter in some obscure passage he would himself become a customer to the Giaour’s polluted pan.