(It is a curious fact, which I may note in passing, that the
only American author whose writings appear to be really well known in
Paris to-day is Fenimore Cooper. Next to him stands Edgar
Poe--_Poaye_, as the French call him, pronouncing both the vowels.)
There is a street in the crowded quarter of Paris back of the Pantheon
which has the, reputation of being the especial haunt of the
ragpickers. It is called the Rue Mouffetard, and includes many of this
class of blousards among its population; but as there are over twenty
thousand ragpickers in Paris, it needs little argument to show that
they are not _all_ hived in the Rue Mouffetard. Great numbers live in
the Brise Miche quarter, behind the church of St. Mery; at Montmartre,
along the Canal de Bievre; in the purlieus of Belleville; out beyond
the Bastile; in fact, wherever there is dirt enough to suit their
tastes. For if the truth is to be written here, it must be said that
the ragpicker of Paris is the most degraded creature ever met in the
guise of a human being. I have met Digger Indians, too, in California.
There is something to be said in defence of the bestiality of a
Digger: he has not been exposed to the refining influences of
surrounding civilization; he was reared in darkness and ignorance; so
were his fathers before him for many generations; the white man and
his ways have just dawned upon the poor Digger's consciousness; and so
on.
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