Quite distinct from the chiffonnier, though
of the same type, is the "ravageur," who rakes
all the gutters that intersect the Paris
pavements, with a piece of wood at one end of
which is a sort of iron crook, with the view of
fishing out any scraps of iron or copper, boot
or other nails, or stray coins, that may chance
to have fallen into these receptacles. The
class, however, is far from a numerous one, and
since open gutters at the sides and in the centre
of the roadways have been for the most part
done away with, is gradually becoming extinct.

The very mud one scrapes from off one's
feet is turned in Paris to profitable account.
In London, contractors are paid to cleanse
the streets, and how indifferently they too
often fulfil the duty we all of us know;
whereas in Paris they pay six hundred
thousand francs (twenty-four thousand pounds)
a-year for the privilege of keeping the city clean,
and do their work admirably. The mud and
other refuse which they cart away is deposited
in the "pourrissiers" (rotting places) at Argenteuil,
a few miles from Paris, and is eventually
sold as manure to the thousands of suburban
market-gardeners at from three to five francs
the cubic mètre of thirty-nine inches—two and
a half millions of francs worth being thus
disposed of annually.

The scavengers of Paris are a class by
themselves. In the whole of the eighty brigades,
of which they are composed, not a single real
Frenchman is to be found. The prefect's
lancers, as the gamins of the capital delight to
style them, are all either Germans, or Alsatians,
who are Germans in everything but nationality
and name. Between three and four o'clock
every morning they may be encountered
descending upon Paris from the high ground at
La Villette, or spreading over the city from the
neighbourhood of the Place Maubert, each
with a broom or shovel on his or her shoulders,
for men and women are employed indiscriminately.
Clothed in ragged garments, which
are frequently soaked through by the rain,
spite of the oilskin cape with which many of
them are provided, the men yet wear a smart
glazed cap with a brass plate in front, showing
that, although paid by the contractors, they are
still the servants of the municipality. The
women all wear coarse stuff or woollen dresses,
and have coloured handkerchiefs on their heads,
falling in a long point behind, and fluttering
with every breath of wind. To protect
themselves from the cold, both men and women wear
enormous gloves and gigantic sabots, or thick
hobnailed shoes, stuffed full of straw, which
some of them twist over their blue woollen
stockings, half way up their legs, to serve as
boots.

These sweepers, who must be under five-
and-thirty years of age when engaged, are
about one thousand six hundred in number.
The eighty brigades into which they are formed
give four brigades to each of the twenty
arrondissements of Paris. Work commences
punctually at four o'clock, and those not
present at the roll-call lose their day's pay, which
is at the rate of fourpence per hour for the
time they happen to be engaged, which is,
on an average, from four to five hours daily.
The contractors pay them their wages, and the
city of Paris provides them with their shovels
and brooms. Each brigade of sweepers has its
inspector, who, without a particle of pity for
the fatigue which he has himself formerly undergone,
sees that every one under him performs
his or her share of labour. Above the corps
of inspectors come the sub-controller, the
controller, the director, and finally the chief
engineer of the city.

The houses in the Rues de Meaux and de
Puebla, where the great bulk of the Paris street-
sweepers reside, are sufficiently dismal looking.
In their large and dirty courtyards swarms of
children are generally playing in the mud, rags
of many colours are hanging from all the
windows, and, stowed in the corners of the dark,
damp passages, which emit a sickening odour
of cabbage and fried bacon, are heaps of worn-
out brooms. Most of the men are pale, scrofulous,
and stupid-looking, and all the women
resemble each other; the old seem never to
have been young, and the young appear already
old. Not a dog, nor a cat, nor a bird even is
to be seen, which is easily accounted for, as
these animals cost something to keep, and
produce nothing in return, which would not suit
people of such thrifty habits as the Paris
sweepers, who, out of the shilling or eighteen-
pence a day which they earn, invariably manage
to save sufficient to enable them to return after
a time to their native place, there to settle down
for the remainder of their days in comparative
independence.

One of the most ingenious of small Parisian
industries is that of the "riboui," or maker of
what is known as the "dix-huit," which is an
old shoe become new again, hence its appellation
of "dix-huit" (eighteen) or "deux fois
neuf," which every one knows signifies both
"twice new" and "twice nine." These shoes
are made of old vamps, to which old soles
turned inside out are added, plenty of cobbler's
wax and numerous large nails being used to
conceal the cheat. As a general rule they fall
to pieces after a week's wear.

By far the most unscrupulous picker up of
what most people regard as unconsidered trifles
is unquestionably the "échantillonneur," or
collector of samples, who has satisfactorily
solved the problem that has perplexed all the
economists, of how to live while producing
nothing and consuming a good deal. His mode of
proceeding is simple enough. He preys on all he
can, and consumes or sells all he gets. On one
pretence or another—a large foreign or colonial
order, a municipal or other contract, a private
connexion among the wealthy classes—he
collects samples of every conceivable thing from
all the manufacturers and wholesale dealers he
can prevail on to trust him, and these he eats,
drinks, wears, uses, and sells according to
circumstances. Of course he uses up a certain
number of firms every week; still Paris is a
large city, and the directory furnishes a never-