turn-outs has a certain splendor of its own, of which no monopoly can wholly rob it. Here is the Grant carriage, with its plain brown linings, and in it Mrs. Grant and her father. A light buggy flies past, drawn by superb horses, driven by a single occupant. He is the President—small, slight, erect, smoking a cigar. The courtly equipages of the Peruvian, Argentine, Turkish and English Ministers, with liveried outriders and beautiful women occupants, with the no less elegant establishments of American Senators, Members and citizens, swell the gay cavalcade on this truly splendid Corso. Standing on the curb-stone, gazing on it with an expression which would have made Dickens wild till he had reproduced it, stands Beau Hickman, long a character of Washington. He is an old man, long and lean, with a face corrugated like a wizened apple and a complexion like parchment or an Egyptian mummy. His aspect is a strange compound of gentility and meanness. His stove-pipe hat, which evidently has survived many a battering, is carefully brushed; his standing collar is very stiff and very high. His vest is greyish white, his coat is dingy and shiny. His faded pantaloons have been darned, and need darning again. His toes are peering through his shoes, and they are down at the heels; yet he carries a foppish cane and wears his hat in a rakish manner. Beau Hickman was born a Virginia gentleman, insomuch as he still manages to live without labor, it being the pride of his heart that he never did anything useful in his life. He ekes out a wretched existence by filching small sums from friends and strangers for telling stories and relating experiences, for which he invariably demands a drink or a supper. One of the most miserable objects I ever beheld is Beau Hickman hungry, hobbling through the Senate restaurant, gazing at one table and then at another, at the comfortable people sitting by them, filling their stomachs, not one alas! asking him to partake.