This being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and fights，has rags like a baby and tatters like a philosopher，fishes in the sewer，hunts in the cesspool，extracts mirth from foulness，whips up the squares with his wit，grins and bites，whistles and sings，shouts，and shrieks，tempers Alleluia with Matantur-lurette，chants every rhythm from the De Profundis to the Jack-pudding，finds without seeking，knows what he is ignorant of，is a Spartan to the point of thieving，is mad to wisdom，is lyrical to filth，would crouch down on Olympus，wallows in the dunghill and emerges from it covered with stars.The gamin of Paris is Rabelais in this youth.
He is not content with his trousers unless they have a watch-pocket.
He is not easily astonished，he is still less easily terrified，he makes songs on superstitions，he takes the wind out of exaggerations，he twits mysteries，he thrusts out his tongue at ghosts，he takes the poetry out of stilted things，he introduces caricature into epic extravaganzas.
It is not that he is prosaic；far from that；but he replaces the solemn vision by the farcical phantasmagoria.If Adamastor were to appear to him，the street Arab would say：'Hi there！
The bugaboo！'
BOOK FIRST.——PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM
Ⅳ HE MAY BE OF USE
Paris begins with the lounger and ends with the street Arab，two beings of which no other city is capable；the passive acceptance，which contents itself with gazing，and the inexhaustible initiative；Prudhomme and Fouillou.
Paris alone has this in its natural history.The whole of the monarchy is contained in the lounger；the whole of anarchy in the gamin.
This pale child of the Parisian faubourgs lives and develops，makes connections，'grows supple'in suffering，in the presence of social realities and of human things，a thoughtful witness.He thinks himself heedless；and he is not.
He looks and is on the verge of laughter；he is on the verge of something else also.Whoever you may be，if your name is Prejudice，Abuse，Ignorance，Oppression，Iniquity，Despotism，Injustice，Fanaticism，Tyranny，beware of the gaping gamin.
The little fellow will grow up.
Of what clay is he made？
Of the first mud that comes to hand.A handful of dirt，a breath，and behold Adam.
It suffices for a God to pass by.
A God has always passed over the street Arab.Fortune labors at this tiny being.
By the word'fortune'we mean chance，to some extent.
That pigmy kneaded out of common earth，ignorant，unlettered，giddy，vulgar，low.
Will that become an Ionian or a Boeotian？
Wait，currit rota，the Spirit of Paris，that demon which creates the children of chance and the men of destiny，reversing the process of the Latin potter，makes of a jug an amphora.
BOOK FIRST.——PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM
Ⅴ HIS FRONTIERS
The gamin loves the city，he also loves solitude，since he has something of the sage in him.
Urbis amator，like Fuscus；ruris amator，like Flaccus.
To roam thoughtfully about，that is to say，to lounge，is a fine employment of time in the eyes of the philosopher；particularly in that rather illegitimate species of campaign，which is tolerably ugly but odd and composed of two natures，which surrounds certain great cities，notably Paris.
To study the suburbs is to study the amphibious animal.
End of the trees，beginning of the roofs；end of the grass，beginning of the pavements；end of the furrows，beginning of the shops，end of the wheel-ruts，beginning of the passions；end of the divine murmur，beginning of the human uproar；hence an extraordinary interest.
Hence，in these not very attractive places，indelibly stamped by the passing stroller with the epithet：
melancholy，the apparently objectless promenades of the dreamer.
He who writes these lines has long been a prowler about the barriers of Paris，and it is for him a source of profound souvenirs.That close-shaven turf，those pebbly paths，that chalk，those pools，those harsh monotonies of waste and fallow lands，the plants of early market-garden suddenly springing into sight in a bottom，that mixture of the savage and the citizen，those vast desert nooks where the garrison drums practise noisily，and produce a sort of lisping of battle，those hermits by day and cut-throats by night，that clumsy mill which turns in the wind，the hoisting-wheels of the quarries，the tea-gardens at the corners of the cemeteries；the mysterious charm of great，sombre walls squarely intersecting immense，vague stretches of land inundated with sunshine and full of butterflies，——all this attracted him.
There is hardly any one on earth who is not acquainted with those singular spots，the Glaciere，the Cunette，the hideous wall of Grenelle all speckled with balls，Mont-Parnasse，the Fosse-aux-Loups，Aubiers on the bank of the Marne，Mont-Souris，the Tombe-Issoire，the Pierre-Plate de Chatillon，where there is an old，exhausted quarry which no longer serves any purpose except to raise mushrooms，and which is closed，on a level with the ground，by a trap-door of rotten planks.The campagna of Rome is one idea，the banlieue of Paris is another；to behold nothing but fields，houses，or trees in what a stretch of country offers us，is to remain on the surface；all aspects of things are thoughts of God.
The spot where a plain effects its junction with a city is always stamped with a certain piercing melancholy.Nature and humanity both appeal to you at the same time there.Local originalities there make their appearance.
Any one who，like ourselves，has wandered about in these solitudes contiguous to our faubourgs，which may be designated as the limbos of Paris，has seen here and there，in the most desert spot，at the most unexpected moment，behind a meagre hedge，or in the corner of a lugubrious wall，children grouped tumultuously，fetid，muddy，dusty，ragged，dishevelled，playing hide-and-seek，and crowned with corn-flowers.All of them are little ones who have made their escape from poor families.
