away to the occupant of another elegant
carriage. Truly, this little licensed space at
the back of the Louvre presents odd pictures
to strangers.

This is a serious business. The crowd
are listening to a lecture on teeth, and
on the virtue of certain drugs for the
teeth, the composition of which the lecturer
alone knows the secret of—a secret that has
been rigidly handed down in his family from
the time of the ancient Gauls. He is a well
known dentist in Paris, and is in partnership
with his father. The senior dentist remains
at home to perform operations of dental
surgery which are the result of the remarkable
advertising system pursued by the young
man in the carriage. The business, I am led
to believe, is a most flourishing one in the cité;
and, when the father was young, he himself
was his father's advertiser.

The scientific gentleman now haranguing
the crowd is certainly the worthy
representative of his parent. It is reported
indeed that the man is a skilful dentist.
At the present moment he offers to
prove his dexterity upon any individual
present who may be troubled by a refractory
tooth. He looks about eagerly for a
patient. Presently a boy is thrust forward
to be operated upon. The poor little
fellow is rapidly hoisted into the vehicle.
To suffer the extraction of a tooth in an
elegant drawing-room, or in the privacy
of a fashionable dentist's apartment, is not
a pleasant operation, even for a man with
the strongest nerve; but to have a singularly
happy illustration of the ills to which teeth
are subject, drawn from your head, and exhi-
bited to a crowd of curious strangers, is an
ordeal from which all people, save philosophers
and small French boys would shrink
with horror. The little victim, however, does
not seem to be ashamed of his public position.
He seats himself in the presence of the
crowd, and allows the operator to fasten
a towel about his neck, without displaying
the least nervousness. The business-like
manner of the operator is very amusing. He
looks upon the boy only as a model.
When the patient is fully prepared, he displays
him to the crowd with much the same
expression as that adopted by all parental
exhibitors of wonderful little children. The
operation is then performed, and the boy's
head is rapidly buried in a convenient basin.
This accomplished, the dentist, with an air of
triumph, begins to sell his tooth powders, and
other toilette necessaries, and to refer the
crowd to his father's establishment.

We pass the conjuror as an old and well-
known friend, to enjoy the performances of
the sergeant of the old guard. This sergeant
is represented by an old, care-worn looking
poodle—a poodle that appears to be utterly
tired of the world—to have exhausted all the
enjoyments of two ordinary poodles' lives, and
to take good and evil fortune now with equal
calmness. This canine representation of the
old guard is dressed—so far as his poodle's
proportions can be adapted to those of the
human form—in the regimentals of the old
Imperial soldiers, and his long grey
moustaches and shaggy beard give to his head
an appearance not altogether dissimilar to his
assumed character. He stands upon his
hind legs; he carries his musket with
military precision; his most conspicuous
fault, which he seems to have abandoned as
quite insurmountable, is his tail. True it is
a very little tail, but there it is, and he can-
not help it. His master, or superior officer,
is an old man, with silver hair, enjoying
the advantages of a singularly even pair of
silver moustaches. The master and the
subaltern appear to have a family likeness.
The master is dressed in a blue blouse and wide
trousers, and wears a low, half-military cap.
In his hand he carries a little drum and a whip.

The poor old guard as he walks round the
circle formed by the people, to the time of the
drum, looks wistfully at his officer, and sadly
at his officer's whip. To describe the military
movements through which the old guard
passes would be as tedious to the reader as
they are certainly tedious to the poodle; but
the officer is really impressive. He is a
serious old man, with a military severity in
his look. He talks to the poodle in a voice
of thunder, and comments on the slightest
laxity of discipline with tremendous earnestness.
He reminds the old sergeant (who
absolutely looks conscious of his disgrace)
that he is an unworthy representative of the
Emperor's noble veterans. He tells him that
he has twice been fined for drunkenness, and
that he spends every sous he gets in cognac.
The sergeant looks very much ashamed. And
then the anger of his officer rises to a terrific
pitch. The end of the matter is, that the
sergeant goes through all the forms of a
military trial, and is condemned to be shot.
The severe old gentleman then solemnly beats
his drum, and with a mournful look, places
the condemned soldier in the position he is to
occupy while his sentence is carried out. The
poodle, with a hang-dog look, then suffers his
master to fire a percussion cap at him, and
falls dead. But the business does not end
here. The old man proceeds with the utmost
gravity to bury the sergeant with military
honours. Aided by a little boy, he carries
the defunct slowly round the circle, and then
sings a dirge over his grave.

After the funeral, the dog wakes to
a lively air, and performs a country dance
with his serious old master. The animal
is a character, but his master is a study.
His age, his dignified manner, the imperturbable
seriousness with which he goes through
the military forms, the well- acted pathos with
which he pronounces the old sergeant's
sentence, the severity with which he rebukes
any levity in the people, and the insensibility
to ridicule with which he dances the