Arthur Griffiths

The bagnes, the survival of the old galleys at Brest, Rochefort and Toulon—Character and condition of the convicts—Day and night at the galleys—Forgery of official documents and bank notes—Robberies cleverly effected by expert thieves—Severe discipline enforced—The bastonnade—Cruelties of the warders—Escapes very frequent—Petit, a man impossible to hold—Hautdebont—The payole or letter-writer, a post of great profit—Usury at the bagne—Wanglan an ex-banker does a large business in money lending, and creates a paper currency—Some convicts always in funds—Collet lives in clover—Sharp measures taken with usurers.

Some attempt was made in 1810 to improve the French prison system, and the maisons centrales, or district prisons, were instituted; but no great progress was made with them. At that time the principal punishment inflicted was labor in chains at the seaports in the so-called bagnes of Brest, Rochefort and Toulon, or the travaux forcÉs, the survival of the old galleys, the population of which found a permanent home ashore, when the warships ceased to be propelled by human power. These bagnes will now be described. The earlier records have already been given in the volume immediately preceding.

The name bagnes, which was at one time in general use to express these hard labor prisons, is derived from bagnio, the bath attached to the Seraglio at Constantinople, which was the Turkish establishment for galley slaves. The bagnes were sometimes known as prisons mouillÉs, or floating prisons, because the prisoners were for a long time housed in hulks; but as their numbers increased, buildings were at length erected on the shore, containing vast dormitories, each capable of holding five or six hundred prisoners. The grand total at the Naval Arsenal often exceeded several thousand men. The rÉgime was not exactly severe. The labor was easy, and consisted of little more than rough jobs about the wharves, moving guns to and fro, storing shot and shell, occasionally excavating for new buildings. As described by an eye-witness, penal labor was a mere farce. “The bulk of the convicts,” wrote the Director of Naval Arsenals, in 1838, “do no more than doze. They may be seen, eight or ten of them, following a light cart, not half laden, which they pull in turn, two and two. The hospital is full of them as invalids or nurses. They are to be found in private houses and hotels, engaged as private servants.” In earlier days things had been much worse.

Under the Directory and under the First Empire many who possessed private means were allowed to purchase improper privileges. A certain old convict at Rochefort was allowed to go at large in the town, where he was admitted into society and welcomed for his affable manners. He went so far as to make overtures to the authorities to purchase his release, by building and equipping a ship-of-war at his own expense. It was said in those days that Napoleon I was willing to forgive crimes at a price; that big robberies were sometimes condoned by a gift to the State. One convict, Delage, sentenced for embezzlement, was a man of large private fortune, which he was allowed to spend freely in ameliorating his condition. He arrived at Rochefort in a carriage and pair, escorted by two gensdarmes. He was located in a separate room at the Hospital, which he furnished comfortably, and later his wife and children joined him at the bagnes. He was in the habit of leaving the prison every morning at gun-fire to spend the day with his family, and return in the evening, on the excuse that he had a situation in the port, and must sleep on board the ship. This man was known as le joli forÇat on account of his good looks and pleasant demeanor. Others of the same class were to be seen parading the town in fashionable garb, bearing the badge of their real position only in the basil, or ankle-iron, which all were obliged to wear. Criminals with accomplishments or skill in trades could always find remunerative employment. Private families found tutors for their children and music or dancing masters in the bagnes, while all high officials might employ convict coachmen, grooms and cooks.

For the rest, life was irksome. The progress of the ordinary prisoner has been well described by Maurice Alhoy, who paid many visits of inspection to the various bagnes. The journey to the coast was made in the cellular carriage, which came into use in 1830, in substitution for the abominable chain gang, by which the wretched forÇats marched through France. The way was long, the coach moved at a foot pace, there was no rest or ease on the road. On arrival the passengers, broken with fatigue, were carried to the reception ward, identified, examined, stripped of their clothes and dressed in the uniform of the bagne,—a crimson blouse, yellow pantaloons and a coarse canvas shirt. These clothes were covered with marks, the first syllable of the word galÉrien, “GAL,” in black letters. A woollen cap of red or green, according to the term of sentence, covered the head. When dressed and passed fit for full labor (grande fatigue), the coupling took place. For long years French forÇats were chained together in pairs, and the merest chance decided upon the chain companionship. The pair, thus indissolubly joined for a term of years, might begin as perfect strangers to each other, having nothing in common, neither ways nor tastes, not even language. The coupling was accomplished by first riveting an iron ring above the ankle, to which one end of the chain was attached, the other end being riveted to the ankle of his fellow. The whole chain measured nine feet, half of it belonging of right to each. But if each had different ideas and intentions, they naturally pulled in opposite directions, the limit of difference being reached at nine feet. Sometimes, as at the hour of mid-day rest, there was a difference of opinion between the partners. One might wish to walk, the other to be quiet; but the to and fro movement of the first dragging at the chain would disturb the second, and then the matter could only be settled by a fight or a compromise. To quarrel was to risk punishment, so the usual course was for one to take out a pack of cards and cry: “Je te joue tes maillons,” “I will play you for your half of the chain.” The game would proceed calmly while the stake, the disputed chain, lay coiled between the players; and in the end, according to the issue, both would walk, or both would lie down to sleep. Often enough one of a couple was quite indifferent as to the behavior of his chain-companion. A case was known where a fight was started between a chaussette, or convict, permitted to go about singly, and one of a chain couple. In the course of the struggle the second and passive member of the twins, who had watched it quite unconcernedly, was dragged nearer to the edge of a deep ditch by his companion, into which both were nearly precipitated. Had not the conflict ceased both would probably have been drowned.

The first three days after arrival were allowed for rest and recovery. On the fourth day at gun-fire (6 A. M. in winter and 5 A. M. in summer) the new arrival’s chain was released from the bar, which ran the length of the wooden guard bed, the night’s resting-place for all, and he was marched out with his fellow convict to labor. On passing through the great gates a blacksmith struck with a hammer upon the leg iron to test its solidity. A short pause followed for the issue of a ration of sour wine, and the parties were then distributed to the various works in hand. It was for the most part unskilled labor, mere brute force applied to moving heavy burdens. They were harnessed like beasts to carts, laden with stone, or set to work in gangs at raising the great weight of the pile driver, or operating the steel drill, driven down into the solid rock. But work was continued incessantly and in all weathers, “rain or shine,” in the pelting storm and under the fierce rays of the summer sun, with a short rest at mid-day; bodies thrown down anywhere they stood, when the signal was given. Work went on for ten hours daily until the hour of return to the bagne, where the evening meal, the common feed at the trough, awaited them. Each squad, a dozen or more, gathered round the same gamelle, or great tub, filled with a mess of bean soup, into which they dipped their wooden spoons, fighting like dogs over a bone, each for his portion. The weakest fared worst, and the strongest and greediest carried off the lion’s share. The same vessel was passed from hand to hand, and they drank foul water with dirty mouths. After the sorry feast an hour or two of idleness followed, and the convicts lay on the great wooden bed (rama), conversing with one another. At last the whistle for all to “turn in” was heard, when every one, without undressing, rolled himself in his grass blanket, and sought oblivion, often vainly, in sleep. Nothing now broke the silence but the footsteps of the night watchman going his rounds under the dim light of the oil lamps, and the occasional falling of his hammer as he struck the bars and chains to be certain that they had not been tampered with. When this was done just before the rising hour it was called “morning prayer.”

Use becomes second nature, and many forÇats could bring themselves to endure the miseries and discomforts of the life at the bagne. They had their hours of relaxation, which they spent in the manufacture of fancy articles, to be sold for the few francs that helped to increase and improve their daily rations according to their taste. Some kept and trained dogs to perform marvellous tricks or taught mice to draw a carriage. A convict well known in his time, nicknamed Grand Doyen, who had done forty out of sixty years in various prisons, is remembered for his extraordinary power of taming rats. By a strange contrast this Grand Doyen was a man of cruel character and abominable temper, who was ever at enmity with his fellows. He was constantly in gaol, now for fraud, now for robbery with violence, at last for murder, with extenuating circumstances. He spent all his life, from the age of nineteen, in detention of some sort. No one liked him, and in his loneliness he captured a young rat, and trained it to live with him. He began by drawing its teeth and shortening its tail. He taught it all kinds of tricks, harnessed it to a cart, and secured it with a collar and chain, which he fastened to a waistcoat button, leaving sufficient length to the chain to allow the vermin to shelter in his waistcoat pocket. Once, when at BicÊtre waiting for a chain, Grand Doyen let the rat loose to run about the yard, where it was pounced upon by the prison cat. Grand Doyen, in defence of his pet, promptly killed the cat with his wooden sabot. Then the rat got into trouble by gnawing a hole in a convict’s clothes, and an order for his execution was forthwith issued. Grand Doyen, in despair, saved his friend by substituting another rat, which he had caught on purpose, and decorated with the chain of his favorite before handing it up to justice. The warder asked why he had not killed the rat as ordered, and was put off by the excuse that he had not the heart, so he brought it now to the warder, who was not so sensitive, and hammered it on the head with his key. The pet rat was still alive, safely hidden by Grand Doyen, who was on the point of removal from BicÊtre. How was he to get it past the gates? Inventiveness was stimulated by the difficulty, and Grand Doyen, being in possession of one of those enormous loaves in which French ration bread is baked, tore out the crumb in the centre, and made a comfortable hole for his pet. Then, carrying his loaf under his arm, he took his place on the chain, and passed safely through the gates.

Hospice de la BicÊtre

A celebrated hospital founded by Louis XIII in 1632 for invalid officers and soldiers. It is now devoted to the aged, the incurable poor, and the insane.

The ingenuity of the prisoners was equalled by their industry. The most unpromising materials and the rudest tools served to produce the most artistic pieces. Cocoanut shells, beautifully carved, formed elegant goblets. Old bones were converted into chessmen or paper knives or penholders, the tools by which they were shaped being scraps of iron picked up in the yards. The products of their cleverness were not always avowable or harmless. The bagne was often the home of false money makers, and their audacity must have been something marvellous. That prisoners employed in the workshops should be able to escape observation and manufacture files, keys and other tools to be employed in compassing escape, was not so strange; but it was almost incredible, that, working in the open or under the shelter of a ship’s side, they could cast metal coins, having first made the molds and melted the substances, then polish and perfect them so as to deceive any but the sharpest eye. There were still more marvellous frauds accomplished. Forgery and all kinds of imitation of signatures, the preparation of official documents, even the seals to attach to them, were within the powers of these clever convicts. One case is on record, in which release was all but secured by means of a forged authority, but at the last moment one document was missing, and when search was made for it among the papers in the office, the fraud was discovered. In this instance several signatures had been imitated, including that of the Chancellor and the King himself. On another occasion one of the trade-instructors received a letter, enclosing a note for five hundred francs, but unhappily found, when rejoicing at his good fortune, that the bank-note was false, although it had deceived many expert persons.

When a certain tradesman got into money difficulties, and his papers were seized by a sheriff’s officer, one paper was found amongst them, which he had been foolish enough to retain. It was a letter from a convict in the bagne of Rochefort, claiming payment for the fabrication of a receipt at the instance of the bankrupt. “May I remind you,” ran the letter, “that at your request I manufactured a receipt, for which you promised me two louis, if the document served its purpose. As it was exactly what you wanted I now claim the completion of your promise. You can pass the two louis in to me by enclosing them in half a pound of butter, which I can receive at the canteen. I trust that you will not oblige me to apply to you again.” This letter was handed over to the police, with the result that the fraudulent tradesman was arrested and sentenced to ten years for having made use of the false receipt.

The most adroit thieves were to be met with at the bagne. Extraordinary stories are preserved of the daring ingenuity and marvellous skill in which the thefts were carried out. The story is told of a bishop, who visited the bagne, and who was moved to great pity for one unhappy criminal, to whom, after exhortation, he gave his blessing and his hand to kiss. As usual he carried on his middle finger his Episcopal ring with a valuable precious stone. When he left the prison, the ring had disappeared. It is not recorded in what manner it was abstracted, nor whether Monseigneur recovered his jewel. On another occasion a convict actually stole a cashmere shawl from the back of a visiting lady. The victim was Mdlle. Georges, a famous actress, who, when visiting the bagne of Toulon, spoke kindly to several of the inmates, and was especially drawn to sympathise with one of good address, who had once been an actor. This man actually purloined her shawl, and in triumph started to carry it off, but had the good taste to bring it back and replace it on her shoulders, exclaiming, “This is the first time I have ever made voluntary restitution.” At another time a watch was stolen from one of the visitors, who was examining the articles which the convicts offered for sale. The chief guardian, certain that the thief must be among a particular group of convicts, declared that he would flog them in turn until the watch abstracted had been given back. The punishment was actually in progress, when the official received a letter from the visitor who had been robbed, saying that on his return to his hotel he had been met by a poor creature, dressed in a ragged old blouse, who approached and handed him a small parcel containing his watch. It had been passed out, either by the culprit himself or one of his comrades, and was now surrendered under threat of the bastonnade.

An expert thief known in all the bagnes was Jean Gaspard, who, although crippled and compelled to walk on crutches, could use his hands, the only good limbs left him, with wonderful skill. His ostensible business was that of a wandering beggar, and he relied upon his infirmities to insinuate himself into crowds of people. He then worked with ready skill, and managed to pass his plunder to friendly accomplices, who removed it to a distance. He was a professional thief. He had inherited his skill from his forbears. His father and mother, his brothers and sisters, all his relatives, in short, were thieves; and some of them had suffered the extreme penalty of the law.

Thieving at the bagne was greatly encouraged by the facilities that offered for getting rid of the plunder. The business of “receiving” flourished when the gangs marched to and fro, free people hanging about, who managed to enter into relations with the thieves.

The administration of the bagnes left much to be desired. The discipline was severe, even cruel, and relied chiefly upon the lash, the bastonnade as it was called, which might be inflicted for all sorts of offences. Attempts to escape, extending to sawing through irons or the assumption of disguises, were punished by the whip; also a theft of value up to five francs, drunkenness, gambling, smoking and fighting with comrades. Any convict might be flogged, who made away with his clothing, wrote clandestine letters, or was found in possession of a sum of more than ten francs. There were graver penalties for escape and recapture. In the case of a convict sentenced for life, the punishment for escape, upon recapture, was three years of the double chain—that is he was kept in close confinement, and not allowed to go to work in the open air. An extension of the term of imprisonment by three years was the punishment for those sentenced to shorter terms. A theft of more than five francs was met with extension of term. Last of all the guillotine was the penalty for striking an officer or killing a comrade, or for entering into any combined plan of revolt.

Repression and safe custody were the guiding principles of the bagnes. Their supreme rulers, who were always naval officers, commissaries of the marine ranking with captains, might at times realise that they had a higher duty than that of keeping a herd of black sheep, but any idea of amelioration or improvement rarely entered their heads. They were rough old sailors, of coarse manners, with little of the milk of human kindness, imposing their authority harshly, exacting submission with a word and a blow. Some revolting stories are preserved of the cruelties of the garde-chiourmes, the slang name of the officers of the bagne.

Several couples of convicts were once at work unloading a cargo of wood. Some sorted out the wood, while others levelled a mound of earth and piled up the barrows, which were dragged away. One of a chained couple suddenly struck work, declaring that he could hardly stand, from fever and weakness. “You shall go to hospital to-morrow,” replied his officer. “Go on working now. I will give you a dose of medicine to help,” and with that he applied his stick to the poor creature’s back. His comrade thereupon charged himself with the whole labor, and drew the barrow alone, while the sick man staggered along, becoming worse and worse every moment, and unable even to carry the weight of the chain. Then his companion lifted him in his arms on to the barrow, and proceeded to drag it along. The guardian, resenting this act as defiance of his will, applied his stick to the back of the good Samaritan, calling forth redoubled effort, which ended in the upset of the barrow, which dragged over the sick man, who died then and there. This story is vouched for by an eye-witness of the atrocity. He rewarded the kindly convict, and would have reported the guardian, but was afterwards unable to recognise him.

The rÉgime, as we have seen, was tyrannical, but it must often have been lax, to judge by the frequency of the escapes at the bagnes. The regulations were stringent. Notice of an escape was immediately proclaimed by three guns, and flags were run up at all commanding points. At the same time the personal description of the fugitive was circulated through the neighborhood, and brigades of gensdarmes were sent in pursuit. Handsome rewards were offered for recapture; twenty-five francs (five dollars) if it was effected within the port, double that amount if within the town and one hundred francs (twenty dollars) for apprehension beyond the walls. In spite of all, the determination to break prison, a fixed idea with all animals in captivity, was always present with the inmates of the bagne. It has well been said that the prisoner, in his endeavors to escape, displays skill and energy enough to win him inevitable success in any reputable line of life. The stories of the results achieved at the bagnes, the conquest of many difficulties, the triumph over all surveillance, imperfect, perhaps, but systematic and generally alert, read like a fairy tale.

One undefeated convict, by name Petit, escaped continually. He was always getting the better of his gaolers. He took a pride in stating precisely the hour at which he would arrive at Toulon and the day upon which he would leave it a free man. The event always came off exactly. Petit, at one time, when recaptured, after escaping from Brest, was lodged in the prison at Abbeville. He at once warned the prison officials that he could not stay in such an unsatisfactory prison. On the next day he had disappeared. He had broken into a room where the linen was kept, climbed several high walls, fell at length into the garden and got out and away, although his two feet were chained together. He got rid of his irons outside the walls, and had the audacity to return and sell them openly in the market place of Abbeville.

Opportunity and good luck usually favored escape. Hautdebont was a convict tailor employed in the workshops where the guardians’ uniforms were made up. He caught sight of a new suit hanging on a peg, which he calculated would fit him, and at a moment when the master-tailor’s eye was withdrawn, Hautdebont took down the uniform, put it on and walked out. Unhappily for the fugitive the suit was immediately missed. The foreman tailor raised an alarm, and Hautdebont was quickly caught and sentenced, among other penalties, to lose his place in the tailor’s shop. Excessive bad luck was the portion of the convict who had exactly calculated that, by surmounting the boundary wall at a particular point, he would reach a certain retired and solitary street. All went well till, having surmounted the wall, he lowered himself on the far side to fall straight into a cart, where a guardian was taking his mid-day rest. He awoke and snapped greedily at the hundred francs’ reward which had fallen straight into his hands.

Convicts have often to thank their own quick-wittedness and self-possession for succeeding in attempted escape. One convict at Brest, helped by a free workman, who had promised him shelter and a suit of plain clothes, reached the outskirts of the town, where he made up as a laborer, concealed his closely cropped hair under an old hat, borrowed a barrow and a pick and started off for Orleans as if he were in search of a job. His leisurely gait and frequent halts betrayed no feverish desire to get away. The people gave him bon jour as he passed, and the gensdarmes whom he met accepted a pinch of snuff; and he went on his way without interference. He marched thus for a couple of hundred miles, taking by-roads, still wheeling his barrow before him, resting by night in the woods, and at last reaching Orleans in the heart of France, where he found friends, who helped him out of the country.

Ingenuity and boldness of plan of escape were often equalled by the limitless patience with which it was pursued. More than once a long passage was tunnelled underground, leading to liberty beyond the Arsenal walls, and this in spite of surveillance and the galling inconvenience of carrying chains. In one case a space had been contrived at the end, large enough to contain the disguises, into which the fugitives were to change when the moment arrived, and to store the food saved up for the journey. The paving stones were taken up, and places of concealment contrived beneath to hide the intending fugitive until pursuit had passed on. Once a man got within a heap of stones, and presently more stones were brought outside to add to the heap. He narrowly escaped being built in alive. By desperate efforts he broke through and gained the boundary wall, which he escaladed, and fell into the arms of a couple of fishermen on the far side, who seized him and took him back to the bagne. The promised reward was generally too strong a temptation to working men to let a fugitive go free.

There were convicts with no sense of loyalty to their comrades, always ready to betray an intended escape, eager to gain the reward. Others, again, had invented a strange business, that of giving assistance to a comrade, resolved to attempt an escape, by helping him in the work of excavation, or of standing sentinel to prevent surprise by the guard. On the arrival of any convict, known to be well furnished with funds, he was approached by these friends with proposals. Sometimes the kindly convict made a double coup,—for when he had started to escape he betrayed the plot and was paid the authorised reward by the other side. The guards sometimes encouraged an attempt to escape, and then turned on the would-be fugitive after he had gone so far from the prison to be worth the full sum of a hundred francs.

Great cleverness in preparing, and promptitude in assuming, a disguise was frequently shown. One convict manufactured the whole of an officer’s uniform out of paper, which he painted and completed so as to escape detection. Petit, who has been mentioned already, whose escapes were almost miraculous, got away once from the court at Amiens, after being recaptured, by entering the dressing-room of the advocates, where he stole a robe and wig, in which he walked out into the street. A convict named Fichon, at Toulon, disappeared so effectually that it was concluded he had left for good. But he was still on hand, although the most minute searches were fruitless. He had hidden under water in the great basin of the dockyard, and had arranged a leather duct to bring him air from the surface. At night he emerged from his moist asylum, landed, ate his food, placed for him by his friends, and at daybreak took to the water again.

Long brooding on the impossibilities of regaining freedom has been known to produce mania. An Italian, named Gravioly, at the bagne of Rochefort, was driven mad by his failures to escape. He was sentenced for life after three brutal attempts to murder. The hopelessness of his condition led him to secrete a knife, with which he suddenly wounded the adjutant of the day, broke his chain and ran amuck through the prison, brandishing his weapon and attacking all who tried to stop him. Another adjutant fell before him, and the guard at the gate he killed. Another murderer, of exemplary prison character, after years of good behavior in the maritime hospital, struck one of the nursing sisters a fatal blow, which severed her head. It was supposed that she had discovered his intention to escape, and he was unable to persuade her to hold her tongue. In these days we should call this man a homicidal maniac, but he was executed; and, on mounting the scaffold, smiled pleasantly at the guillotine.

The disciplinary methods at the bagnes were brutal enough, but the severity of the system was softened by privileges and concessions, that would not be tolerated in any modern prison. It was much the same as in Australia in the early days and at this moment in the Spanish penal colony at Ceuta. The freedom given to some convicts in service naturally favored escape, and in one case a high official was robbed of his full uniform by a convict employÉ, who, having changed his costume, mounted his master’s horse and rode off through the principal gate, after having received the compliments of the sentries and guards at the grand entrance. When the reins were tightened and these improper privileges were forbidden, others of a minor and mitigating character still survived. There were situations in the service of the prison, as sweepers, barbers, cooks and lamplighters. Some became gardeners, others coopers, more were nurses and bedmakers in the hospital, and a few were permitted to act as hucksters in the sale of food and condiments within the prison buildings. A post of great profit was that of payole or prison scribe, which was given to an educated convict who was allowed to write the letters of his comrades. The payole became the confidant of every one, and knew all their most precious secrets. Often enough he abused his position, and, after eloquently stating the case to a prisoner’s family, would misappropriate the funds forwarded by soft-hearted relations. The payole was constantly the author of the so-called “Jerusalem letters,” the equivalent of the begging letter or veiled attempts at blackmail, which often issued in large numbers from the bagnes.

Reference has been made already to the ingenious manufacture of articles for sale, but a less honorable, although more profitable, trade was that of usury, which long flourished in the bagnes. The business was started by an ex-banker named Wanglen, who was condemned to travaux forcÉs in the time of the Empire. He brought with him to the bagne a certain amount of capital, carefully concealed, and with the skill acquired in his business he trafficked in usury, and made advances, like any pawnbroker, upon the goods and valuables secretly possessed by his fellows as well as upon the pÉcule or monthly pittance accorded as wages to the convicts. He had so large a trade that he created a paper currency to take the place of the specie so generally short in the prison. But his business suffered seriously from the competition that might have been expected in such a place; for after a time his notes were cleverly imitated by forgers, and he had no redress but to return to cash payments. This man Wanglen is said to have made a great deal of money by the time he retired from business, and to have had many successors. When a borrower could offer no tangible security the good word of a convict reputed to be a man of substance was accepted instead; and such men were to be found in the bagnes.

A notable one was the celebrated Collet, whose criminal career will be detailed further on. Collet, strange to say, was always in funds. According to M. Sers, who wrote at some length on the bagnes, from facts under his own observation, Collet, during the twenty years of his imprisonment, was never known to hold a single centime more, in the hands of the official paymaster, than the regulation allowance, yet he lived luxuriously the whole of these twenty years. He always wore respectable clothing and the finest underlinen, very different from that supplied by the prison; he lived on the fat of the land, despising the mess of pottage, the horrible haricot of beans, that made up the daily ration. He was supplied always with abundant and succulent repasts from the best hotel in the town. The source of his wealth and the means used to bring it to his hand were secrets never divulged during his long term of imprisonment, although inquiries were constantly made, and every effort tried to unravel the mystery. The secret died with him; and even after death nine pieces of gold were found sewn into his waistcoat pocket.

The authorities in due course set their faces against these convict usurers, called capitaines, whose processes were very properly condemned as tending to demoralise convicts and aggravate their miserable condition. A very strict surveillance was instituted, and when detected the capitaines were severely punished. Sometimes they were flogged; but other methods were tried, one in particular, calculated to bring the culprit into ridicule, always a potent weapon in dealing with Frenchmen. The prison barber was ordered to shave the culprit’s head, leaving one lock only upon the crown. He was then dressed as an old woman, and made to sit upon a barrel at the entrance to the prison, where he was exposed to the jeers of his comrades on their return from labor. The same measure was meted out to the capitaine’s assistants, for the big men always employed a number of agents or canvassers in extending their business.

Thus, it is seen, that ours is a world of worlds, one within the other; and assuredly the prison world is not less interesting, though much less inviting than many others held in greater esteem.