he one or the other, and sometimes he is both.

The great mass of those who rioted in the Commune--the rank and file
of that turbulent army--may be found wherever there are blouses in
Paris. Occasionally, arrests are made, even now, of men who were
prominently active, unduly noisy, in that terrible time: the French
police has got a list of such, and will go on tracking them down and
bringing them to punishment for years to come, or until the next
revolution arrives. In a most respectable street in the Faubourg St.
Germain, where I lived, a quiet wine-seller next door to me was
arrested and his business broken up nearly two years after the war was
over, his only offence being that he had been too active a Communist.
Later, an industrious blousard of my acquaintance was arrested at his
work, and sent to prison for the same offence: he was a
carriage-maker. In the Rue de Provence an old woman who begged very
assiduously with a drugged baby, and whom I used to watch from my
window by the half hour, fascinated by her practical methods of doing
business, was hauled up one day on the same charge, and went her way
with the gendarme, to be seen no more. A meeker-looking old creature I
never saw as she leaned against the wall over the way, and collected
sous industriously from the passers-by, and hid them in a pocket in
the small of the poor baby's back; but I was told she displayed
tremendous energy as a petroleuse in those other days when robbery was
a better trade than even beggary. You may have observed, when you
have been returning home from the opera some night in Paris, in the
gloom succeeding midnight, a dusky figure moving along by the paved
gutter in the shadow of a large square lantern which he carries. The
lantern has a light only in front, and catches your eye as it glides
along two or three inches above the paving-stones, so that you see the
figure in the shadow behind it but dimly. Close down to the stones it
throws its glare for two or three feet about, and into that
glare-emerges a hook--an iron hook--which pokes and prods at>out in
the gutters, and now and then fastens like a finger on a wisp of paper
and disappears behind the lamp. Following the hook with your eye, you
see that it deposits the wisps of paper in a deep basket fastened on
the back of a man. The is shaggy, dirty and begrimed. He wears a hat
which he has at some fished out of a gutter, a ragged blue blouse, a
raggeder apron, which was in its brigh