The present surface of our globe is to our limited views slowly changing; to him who compares time with the immeasurable duration that has preceded and must succeed our existence, it is rapidly hastening to apparent ruin. The waters raised from the ocean, falling in greatest abundance on the land, tear and wear away the surface, and deposit it in the bed of the sea. Deltas form at the mouths of rivers by this action; the basin of the ocean is gradually elevated, and, in addition, islands and archipelagos are raised from its bed. The surface of the sea is for the present lessening under the influence of these causes, but the time must come, unless it be prevented by some catastrophe, when the ocean must in its turn encroach upon the land, when the plains and valleys shall become bays and gulfs, or even unite in continuous expanses of water, and the greater mountains alone, diminished in bulk by continued abrasion, shall stand as islands in the vast abyss. The earth would then again be without form and void of inhabitants, as it was before the creation of man. Such, however, will not be the termination of the present order of things; we are taught to look for this in an igneous eruption, the source of which now slumbers almost quiescent beneath our feet.

Not only does revelation, but science, teach us that the earth must have been covered with water, and void of animate life, previous to its becoming the habitation of man. But they read their scriptures differently from us who think that this state of things was the actual beginning. There is no necessary connexion between the first verse of Genesis and the succeeding. The beginning of the existence of matter, and the state of vacuity and darkness whence the present order of things emerged, may have been, so far as the text is concerned, and were, as we know from appearances, separated from each other by unnumbered ages.

Neither is it necessary that we accept the literal meaning of the passage, and conceive the Deity speaking with human voice, and calling creation forth by audible fiat. The voice of the Deity is that unheard and silent command which nature hears and obeys throughout all his works. The pious and sincere believer sees an overruling providence preserving him in kindness when it saves him from shipwreck, or chastening him in mercy when it deprives him of friends or relations, as distinctly as if he beheld the prince of the air stayed in his furious course, or the angel of destruction taking his visible stand beside the pillow of departing life. No miracles are necessary to him who sees in the rising and setting of the sun, in the order and beauty of the universe, in the absolute perfection of its mechanical laws, in his own fearful and wonderful structure, the evidence of infinite wisdom in design, and infinite power in execution; and the examination of the structure and character of our globe, is as well calculated as any other physical study to exhibit in full and brilliant light these attributes of the Deity.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] See American Quarterly, Vol. V.

[9] See American Quarterly, Vol. III.

[10] Our author has "alluvion."

[11] Alluvial in our author.



ART. V.—AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF THIEVES.

1.—The American Trenck; or the Memoirs of Thomas Ward, now in confinement in the Baltimore Jail, under a sentence of ten years' imprisonment for robbing the United States Mail. Baltimore. 18mo: 1829.

2.—Memoirs of James Hardy Vaux, a Swindler and Thief, now transported to New South Wales, for the second time, and for life. Written by himself. London. 18mo: 1829.

3.—Memoirs of Vidocq, principal Agent of the French Police, until 1827, and since, Proprietor of the Paper Manufactory at St. Maude. Written by himself. Translated from the French. London. 4 vols. 18mo: 1829.

"One half of the world does not know how the other half lives:"—so says the adage, and says truly. Men of reading, however, who direct their attention to biography, and especially to auto-biography, and who combine with their reading attention to the varied pursuits of mankind, may attain tolerably correct notions of the habits, modes of reasoning, and peculiarities of others, though living in evidently different stations, and engaged in occupations the most various. In this view, the volumes above announced are valuable. They furnish a remarkably clear insight of the ways and actings of professional thieves, and of the men with whom they often become connected,—police officers and jailers. But what assurance have we, it may be inquired, that they speak the truth? How can the evidence of such characters be received? These queries must be answered by considering several particulars. In the first place, then, the verity of a narrative may be partly established by its coherence and probability. When the events related have a manifest correspondence with each other, and are such as may be credited, we necessarily attach to them a degree of belief, which we cannot extend to those of an opposite character. The evidence from this source is, however, exceedingly imperfect, since many narratives, almost entirely fictitious, appear so natural, as to impose upon the reader with all the strength of unvarnished truth. Robinson Crusoe has deceived thousands, and Damberger's Travels in Africa were not suspected to be otherwise than true, for a considerable time after their publication; but they were at length proved to be a complete fabrication. Accordingly, in judging of doubtful works, we must resort to additional means; one of which is a comparison of works of a similar description with each other.

When an account appears to be too wonderful for credence, we are, of course, disposed to rank the author with romance-writers; but when we find that divers accounts, equally extraordinary, are related by others as happening under similar circumstances, we then begin to suppose that we may have judged erroneously. Captain Riley's Narrative of his Captivity in Africa was rejected by many as half-fictitious: his sufferings were greater than human nature could bear, and the Arabs of the desert could never lead the life described. But since it has been found that the sufferings undergone by the crew of the French frigate, the Medusa, were no less horrible, and of the same kind, and that Clapperton and others who have subsequently crossed the Sahara, confirmed his statements respecting the Arabs,—he has been regarded very differently. And it may be supposed, that if Sir Walter Scott had known of the remarkable confirmation given by Benyouski, to Drury's account of Madagascar, he would not have expressed his doubts of the latter's veracity.[12] When writers, unacquainted with each other's productions, are found, by incidental allusions, to agree in minute particulars, the evidence is almost irrefutable. Paley has made an admirable use of this species of proof in his Horae Paulinae.

Another mode of judging of an author's credibility is sometimes furnished, by learning whether any of his alleged facts have been contradicted by persons acquainted with them, especially if they are such as these persons would be glad to contradict. If a person is charged with being an accomplice in a crime, and he fails to rebut the accusation, we may infer that he is unable to do so. Or, if the narrator give place and date to certain memorable transactions, which, if false, might easily be shown to be so, a similar inference may be deduced, when it can be shown that others are interested in such exposure.

Now, on bringing the works under notice to these different tests, we shall have tolerably strong presumptive evidence of their being, in the main, worthy of credence. Vaux's Memoirs contain nothing that may not be credited on the score of probability, while the circumstances detailed are remarkably coherent; they seem to arise naturally from each other. Vidocq's, on the contrary, contain so many marvellous escapes from prisons, so many perils from contests with ruffians and bravoes, and such varied turns of fortune, that the reader is necessitated to ask,—can this be true? Here, however, both Vaux and Ward offer him some assistance; the similarity of their accounts, though destitute of so many wonders, corroborating the probability of his. The three narratives are quite in keeping. We find in each the same restlessness, the same blind passion impelling to deeds of vice and desperation, and the same proofs of treachery amongst their companions. Each, too, has furnished so many means of detection, by names of persons, dates, and places, that,—no attempt at refutation having been made by persons implicated,—we are to believe that they must, at any rate, contain much that is true. Neither Ward's nor Vidocq's Memoirs are so connected as Vaux's; but in Ward's case, this may be attributed to a want of scholarship, as he is evidently an ignorant man; and in Vidocq's, to a fondness for the marvellous, in consequence of which he has introduced many episodes. These episodes, accordingly, detract from the merit of the work, considered as a veritable narrative, they being garnished with more of the romantic than the regular account of his own performances.

After all, a degree of suspicion will attach to each of them, from the consideration that they are all avowed liars. If, indeed, there was proof, either external or internal, that they had become reformed characters, and, of course, abhorrers of deceit, we might value their self-condemnation as evidence of truth; for what man of moral feeling would proclaim that he had been an habitual liar, except conscious that the avowal was incumbent on him to substantiate the truth? This was done by Bunyan, the author of the Pilgrim's Progress, and by Cowper, the truly Christian poet:—they are respected accordingly. But in these narratives, except a little cant in Ward's, we find nothing approaching to a sense of shame or remorse. Vidocq, like Homer's Ulysses, has a lie ready for every occasion, and appears, like that hero, to regard himself as "the man for wisdom's various arts renowned." Vaux is almost equal to him in this respect, and exults in the success of his deceptions. If cunning were wisdom, Ulysses, Vidocq, and Vaux, would form a trio of eminently wise men. But this sort of wisdom, how much soever valued by pagans, must be regarded by Christians, enlightened by the Gospel, as utterly unjustifiable, even when employed as a means for the attainment of some good; since they are never to do evil that good may come. Accordingly, those persons who make lies their refuge, must be liable to be doubted, even when they speak the truth. Still, it is possible, that a man's conscience may be so obdurate, as not to perceive the pravity of mendacity, when exercised for his supposed benefit, while he yet retains a regard for truth when engaged in relating his exploits to others. This, we think, is partly the case with our heroes. Their acknowledgment of their disregard of truth, while prosecuting illegal measures, is, indeed,—so inconsistent is human nature,—some guarantee for the fidelity of their narratives. A solitary vice is a thing unknown; as Lillo expresses it, in his tragedy of George Barnwell,—"One vice as naturally begets another, as a father begets a son." Who, then, could believe a practised villain, if he professed himself untainted by mendacity? But if, after a plain avowal of his constant resort to it, we find nothing contradictory in his relation, we may reasonably yield a qualified assent to it; since, as Lord Bacon remarks in his Essays, which "come home to men's business and bosoms," a liar had need possess a good memory to prevent his contradicting himself. Where he is consistent throughout a long narrative, the natural deduction is, that he has mainly depended on his memory, rejecting, for the occasion, his temptation to beguile.[13]

After these preliminary considerations, the relevancy of which is obvious, we proceed to furnish our readers with a few extracts; not doubting, that to such of them as lead domestic, retired lives, it will afford gratification to learn something of the ways of others, who are entirely opposite in their habits,—as opposite as the two electric poles, and, like them, "repelling and repelled." One of the most observable points in these volumes, is the contamination of jails. When men are thrown together in a place where reputation is valueless, they have no inducement to conceal their vices. What is the consequence? They delight in recounting to each other their nefarious exploits: thus conscience is more and more corrupted, and the young and inexperienced are initiated into the skilful manoeuvres of adepts. Whoever has read the first edition of Ellwood's Life, (for the subsequent editions do not contain the passage,) may remember the amusing account he has given of the state of the common side of Newgate in the reign of Charles II. Ellwood was imprisoned in that persecuting reign, for adherence to his religious convictions as a Quaker, and had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the ordinary behaviour and conversation of thieves in jail. He saw and lamented the evils incident to a promiscuous assemblage of old and young, of hardened villains and juvenile delinquents; but the remedy was reserved for the present age. That the remedy ought not to have been so long deferred, will be evident to every one who attends to Vaux's account of his first incarceration.

"On entering the gates of the gloomy receptacle to which I was now consigned, and which, on many accounts, has not been unaptly named the Bastile, the sensations I felt may be more easily felt than described. Besides that this was the first prison I had ever entered, every thing around me had an air of unspeakable horror. After being viewed and reviewed by the surly Cerberuses of this earthly Hell, I was conducted up some stairs to a long gallery, or passage, six feet wide, having on either side a number of dismal cells, each about six feet by nine, formed entirely of stone, but having a small grated window near the roof, at the further end, which admitted a gloomy light, and overlooked a yard, in which other prisoners were confined; there was also a similar grate over the door; but, owing to their height, both these apertures were very difficult of access. The cells on the other side the passage were exactly similar, but overlooking another yard, and the doors were immediately opposite to each other. The only furniture of these dreary apartments was an iron bedstead, on which were a bed, blanket, and rug, but all of the coarsest kind. My conductor having given me a pitcher of water, without vouchsafing a word, locked the door, and left me in utter darkness.

"In order to amuse my mind during this solitary week, I climbed up to the grated aperture over the door of my cell, and listened to the conversation of the neighbouring prisoners; and, from their discourse, I acquired a more extensive knowledge of the various modes of fraud and robbery, which, I now found, were reduced to a regular system, than I should have done in seven years, had I continued at large. I was indeed astonished at what I heard; and I clearly perceived that, instead of expressing contrition for their offences, their only consideration was, how to proceed with more safety, but increased vigour, in their future depredations. And here I was struck with the fallacious notions entertained by the projectors of this prison, which was reputed to be upon the plan of the benevolent and immortal Howard, who had recommended the confinement of offenders in separate cells, in order to prevent the effects of evil communication among persons who had not all attained an equal degree of depravity. This object, however, was not effected here; for, being within hearing of each other, they could, by sitting up over the door as I have described, converse each with his opposite neighbour, and even form a line of communication, where the discourse became general, from one end of the gallery to the other. As a proof of what I have advanced, I knew several of the prisoners, then confined with me in this passage, who were at that time but striplings, and novices in villainy, and who, after several years continuance in their evil courses, at length became notorious offenders, and, having narrowly escaped a shameful death, are now prisoners for life in this colony."

As this subject is of great importance, we shall give a few more extracts connected with it. Crime, as Mr. Buxton has shown in his valuable Inquiry, is promoted, instead of being repressed, by such indiscriminate association. Corruption spreads by it, as surely as decomposition is assisted by heat and moisture. Ward thus describes the Baltimore jail:—

"About this time, I was ordered by the sheriff to be put into the criminal apartment, along with untried prisoners, hardened offenders, debtors, and among characters of the most abandoned and vicious stamp;—men of all nations and all colours. Among this mass of vile and depraved men, I had to take up my abode. There was no example of moral rectitude here exhibited but that of my own! No restraint was put by our keepers, on their profane and vile language and conduct. Every one indulged to an excess in every species of the most disgusting practices, profaning and scandalizing every thing holy."

Vidocq's description of the Bagne at Brest, corresponds with the above:—

"The Bagne is situated in the bosom of the bay; piles of guns, and two pieces of cannon, mounted at the gates, pointed out to me the entrance, into which I was introduced, after having been examined by the two guards of the establishment. The boldest of the condemned, however hardened, have confessed, that it is impossible to express the emotions of horror, excited by the first appearance of this abode of wretchedness. Every room contains twenty night camp couches, called bancs (benches,) on which lie six hundred fettered convicts, in long rows, with red garbs, heads shorn, eyes haggard, dejected countenances, whilst the perpetual clank of fetters conspires to fill the soul with horror. But this impression on the convict soon passes away, who, feeling that he has here no reason to blush at the presence of any one, soon identifies himself with his situation. That he may not be the butt of the gross jests and filthy buffoonery of his fellows, he affects to participate in them; and soon, in tone and gesture, this conventional depravity gets hold of his heart. Thus, at Anvers, an ex-bishop experienced, at first, all the outpourings of the riotous jests of his companions; they always addressed him as monseigneur, and asked his blessing in their obscenities; at every moment they constrained him to profane his former character by blasphemous words, and, by dint of reiterating these impieties, he contrived to shake off their attacks. At a subsequent period, he became the public-house keeper at the Bagne, and was always styled monseigneur, but he was no longer asked for absolution, for he would have answered with the grossest blasphemies."

To complete the picture, we shall now transcribe Vaux's account of his being on board a prison-ship, with what he witnessed there.—

"I had now a new scene of misery to contemplate; and, of all the shocking scenes I had ever beheld, this was the most distressing. There were confined in this floating dungeon, nearly six hundred men, most of them double ironed; and the reader may conceive the horrible effects arising from the continual rattling of chains, the filth and vermin naturally produced by such a crowd of miserable inhabitants, the oaths and execrations constantly heard amongst them; and above all, from the shocking necessity of associating and communicating more or less with so depraved a set of beings. On arriving on board, we were all immediately stripped, and washed in large tubs of water; then, after putting on each a suit of coarse slop-clothing, we were ironed and sent below; our own clothes being taken from us, and detained, till we could sell, or otherwise dispose of them, as no person is exempted from the obligation to wear the ship-dress. On descending the hatchway, no conception can be formed of the scene which presented itself. I shall not attempt to describe it; but nothing short of a descent to the infernal regions, can be at all worthy of a comparison with it. I soon met with many of my old Botany Bay acquaintances, who were all eager to offer me their friendship and services; that is, with a view to rob me of what little I had; for, in this place, there is no other motive or subject for ingenuity. All former friendships and connexions are dissolved; and a man here will rob his best benefactor, or even messmate, of an article worth one half-penny. If I were to attempt a full description of the miseries endured in these ships, I could fill a volume; but I shall sum up all by stating, that, besides robbery from each other, which is as common as cursing and swearing, I witnessed, among the prisoners themselves, during the twelvemonth I remained with them, one deliberate murder, for which the perpetrator was executed at Maidstone, and one suicide."

These horrible accounts must, we suppose, convince every one of the necessity of keeping criminals separate from each other. In vain do you hope by classification, labour, discipline, and moral instruction, to reclaim men from their vices in prison, so long as you allow them to associate freely together. No compromise will do, short of preventing their conversing with each other. Whether solitary confinement, as practised in Pennsylvania, or public labour in silence, as in New-York, be the better mode of punishment, may admit of argument; but that either is incomparably superior to promiscuous intercourse, is unquestionable. And we do conjure magistrates and legislators in every part of the United States, to rouse themselves from apathy on this momentous subject. It is due to their country and to posterity, to strive to remove an evil, which, like the Upas, extends its pestiferous influence in every direction. Let them reflect that the object of punishing criminals is to protect society. This object may be promoted by the reformation of the transgressor; but if he is placed in a situation where contagion is inevitable, the punishment, however severe, is not conducive to that result. A severe punishment may, indeed, be influential in deterring others from pursuing similar courses; but if he, on obtaining his release, instead of being disposed to conform to regularity of conduct, is only determined to practise more skilfully the very crime that was the cause of his commitment; or if, from his moral sense being deadened, in consequence of having heard others boast of their villainous exploits, he is ready to engage in new and more desperate attempts, the influence which his punishment may have had on others, is in danger of being overbalanced. What, in such a case, does society gain by the severity of the law? Is it not clear, that all the expense, trouble, and loss of time attendant on the prosecution, are almost fruitlessly bestowed? And here, it is impossible not to lament the accumulated evils arising from the slow operation of law. A man is charged, perhaps innocently, with petty larceny. The tribunal before which he is to be arraigned is not in session; accordingly, unable to procure bail, he is committed to jail, there to lie for three, or perhaps six months, and all the time uncertain whether he is to be acquitted or condemned. In the mean time, his character has deteriorated while his enjoyment has been abridged. Can such a method be consistent with civilization? Would it not be preferable, at the hazard of some injustice, to revert to the summary process of barbarism? Can it be right, that a magistrate shall be empowered to incarcerate a man for months, while he is debarred from pronouncing definitively on his guilt or innocence? There is an incongruity in all this, of which savages might be ashamed. We trust that the time is approaching when a better system will be established. Consolatory is it to consider, that in various countries of Europe, as well as in America, the subject of prison discipline, and of criminal jurisprudence, occupies the attention of philanthropists and statesmen to a degree never before witnessed, as from their simultaneous exertions much good may be anticipated. One of the causes assigned by Dr. Robertson and other historians, for the resuscitation of Europe from the intellectual degradation of the middle ages, is the discovery at Amalfi, in the twelfth century, of the Pandects of Justinian. Would it not then be irrational to conclude, that the improvements now taking place in law, will not be followed by a correspondent amelioration in society, since it is obvious that a much higher degree of civilization is attainable by man, than any country has yet exhibited?

To those who wish for information on the subject of prison discipline, we recommend a perusal of the correspondence between Mr. R. Vaux of Philadelphia, and Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool; also of the account of the Auburn prison contained in Captain Hall's travels in the United States. In reference to the latter work, it gives us satisfaction to say, that the chapter referred to is unexceptionable. We wish we could say as much for the rest.

We now proceed to furnish some specimens of the modes of life which thieves and swindlers fall into, that our honest readers may have an opportunity of contrasting them with their own. In so doing, they will doubtless congratulate themselves on the possession of moral principle, satisfied that predatory propensities would have disturbed that calm which belongs only to virtue. The following is Ward's account of his first act of dishonesty.—

"Finding it impossible, as I thought, to withstand the impetuosity of my inclinations and desires for freedom and pleasure, I resolved, even against my better judgment, to leave Mr. Pusey and seek my fortune. My hopes were raised to the highest and most pleasing prospects of independence, ease, and affluence; and having in my earliest life cultivated the principle, that in all cases which require secrecy, we should never divulge to a friend what we wish to conceal from an enemy, I concealed my intentions from every body, determining to embrace the first opportunity favourable for prosecuting my first, long-cogitated, and, as I thought, exceedingly cunning plan. Accordingly, during the autumn of 1806, on a Sabbath afternoon, I determined to execute my scheme. Near home, there was a store kept by Mr. Kinsey, in copartnership with Mr. Pusey. I was on terms of the greatest harmony and friendship with Mr. Kinsey; and, taking advantage of this confidence, I had ascertained where his cash was kept. I entered the store, and found no difficulty in obtaining every cent. All the family being from home, I concluded to let the house take care of itself, as, having done thus much, I must inevitably make my departure. Having saddled Mr. Pusey's best horse, I mounted, and, with saddle-bags and clothing, started from the house. Being certain I should be pursued as soon as the robbery was discovered, I thought it would be proper to take a course, on which I could most advantageously travel by night as well as by day. I accordingly took my way towards Lancaster; but about four miles from home, I was seen by some person who knew me. Now I was likely to be defeated in all my calculations. At dark, I arrived at Witmer's Bridge, within two miles of Lancaster, having ridden sixteen miles in two hours. I stopt there only a few minutes to water and feed my horse, and, remounting, I rode to near daylight next morning, when I arrived at Anderson's Ferry on the Susquehanna. There I was detained some time by the negligence of the boatmen; and I had not proceeded more than half way across the river, when I heard the horn blow as a signal for them to hurry back. Although I trembled at the dread sound and alarm of the approach of my pursuers, I vainly hoped it was impossible for them to be so close after me. However, I determined now that I would give them every trouble, let them take me or not. I did not stop for breakfast, and as I had ridden the whole night, my horse became fatigued and slow, so that about noon I was overtaken by another horseman, whom I found to be my own cousin. He desired me to stop immediately and return, he himself having been suspected of the very act I had committed. As my horse was tired down, I sprang with all my might, to secure myself by taking to the woods. Here again my hopes were frustrated; for my foot caught in the stirrup, and I was forced to yield to superior strength. On our way back, he explained the cause of his overtaking me. Having ridden his horse down, he had hired fresh ones at regular distances. This mode of pursuit I had not thought of; but, alas! I was told of it now, when it was too late! Every measure that I had thought most fitly adapted for my clearance, seemed now only to aggravate my folly. Shame for my guilt filled my mind with the keenest remorse.

Mr. Pusey sent for a constable, and informed me I must go to jail. Attended by the constable, and another as an assistant, I started with a heavy heart. We travelled on foot, and very slowly, so that when night came on, we had eight or nine miles yet to go. The constable being negligent, permitted me at times to be twenty or thirty yards from him; and of these opportunities I designed to avail myself. Accordingly, on reaching a place where the road made a short turn, I dashed from them into the bushes, where I hid myself. After they had passed me unnoticed, I cut a large club, and travelled my own way a short distance, when I met a man who eyed me in a scrutinizing manner. I immediately asked him, whether he had seen a fellow running that way from the constables who were taking him to jail? He answered that he had, and that he believed I was the very fellow! 'Well,' said I, 'if you think so, you are welcome to take me.' But fearing my large club, he left me to pursue my journey. Travelling a little distance, I came to a tavern, and looking through the window, saw the constable and his assistant eating their supper. Their horses resting under a shed, I was about to take one; but seeing a barn at a short distance from me, I abandoned my intention. I went into it, and retired to rest for the night. I arose next morning after a refreshing sleep, and pursued my journey to my father's, and arrived at Strasburgh about breakfast time. On entering the tavern, I saw an elderly lady who had lived with Mr. Pusey. She asked me how I was, and where I was going? I told her to visit my parents. She answered, that she really believed I was running away! Apprehensive of danger, I resumed my journey towards my father's, and on the road I met him. From my relation of the affair, he gave it as his opinion that it would be imprudent in me to return again; for he had not the least doubt that I should be arrested, and dealt with according to my offence; so, after remaining at his house a short time, I bent my course to Reading. I confidently believe, to this very day, that if I had not escaped punishment for this crime, I never should have committed another in my whole life."

Another of his escapes we shall here insert, premising that he had been apprehended for stealing a horse.

"He brought with him a blacksmith, who had a load of chains upon his shoulder. The smith put a collar round my neck, and shackles on my ankles. Between these was a small chain for the purpose of making me fast to any thing by a padlock. Mounted on horseback, this chain was passed to the one attached to my collar, and there locked; besides this I was hand-cuffed. Thus equipped, we repaired towards Georgia, through a country mostly inhabited by Indians. On arriving within two days' journey of home, we took lodging at a public house, the first we had seen. Dismounting, my chain was in part wrapped round one of my legs, and the others around my neck. In this situation we took supper with the family, and sat a considerable time after the table was removed. As it was determined we should remain here for the night, which was dark and rainy, I had hopes that I could some way or other make my escape. Having called to a servant to bring me a basin of water to wash my feet, I took care to wind the chain closely around my leg. I then asked her to open the front door for me, as though I intended only to throw out the dirty water; this I did, and finding there were no fears of my going out, I walked a few times across the floor. This gave me a chance to put on my hat unnoticed, when, taking the advantage of a minute, I dashed out and jumped the yard fence; but in so doing, I lost my hat. Having no time to lose, I made a straight course from the house. I soon heard them all in confusion, and saw some of them out of doors with a light. The landlord having a large dog, they brought him in pursuit of me. He took my track, and had nigh taken me when I just reached a creek, into the waters of which I waded some distance, turning with the stream from the place I entered at. Here I stood, leg deep, for some time, hearing all their conclusions respecting me. Thinking I had crossed there, they gave me up, and returned to the house again. I immediately made my retreat from a place surrounding and threatening me with so many dangers. After running and walking about four miles, fatigued and lost, I lay down and slept till morning. I then steered my course across the country, avoiding houses and settlements, hoping to see some slaves in the fields to help me to take off my irons, but could see none. Near noon, I came in sight of an old house which I discovered was inhabited. I approached it at the side where there was no window. I went to a wagon, and taking from it an iron bolt and a linchpin, I made to the woods, where, with much difficulty, I succeeded in extricating myself from my collar and chains. I placed them in a pile at the root of a large tree, near which I lay down and slept till evening, being afraid to travel in the day-time. At dark I arose, and made my way towards South Carolina, walking the whole night, and by morning was thirty miles from where I started. My greatest difficulty was having no hat. Coming, however, to a river, I saw a bridge that crossed it a little below me. I went on it, and stood leaning over its wall, till I saw a traveller coming the other way. As soon as he approached me, I told him, with much concern, that I had met with bad luck; for I had just been looking over the wall when my hat fell off, and went rapidly down the stream, the sides of which were so dangerous I could not possibly get it again:—would he be so kind as to tell me where I could buy another? He told me he would conduct me to a store; I went with him and purchased one."

The life of a thief is one of perpetual anxiety, yet with many it becomes a sort of passion. The earnings of honest industry, even when sufficient to keep them in comfort, are not sufficient to keep them satisfied. The recollection of dangers escaped, the chance of similar fortune again, the prurience of activity,—all urge to a renewal of their lawless pursuits; and as a thoroughbred sportsman despises the practice of catching game by snares, deeming it unworthy of a skilful marksman, so, we suspect, do thieves regard the reward of industry, when compared with the booty of a dangerous encounter. In Vaux's Memoirs we find much to lead us to this conclusion. Several times was he well settled in the way of obtaining, not only an honest livelihood, but of participating in elegancies, luxuries, and agreeable society. Still, as if impelled by destiny, he continually risked the loss of all, to gratify his bad propensity. Ward, on the contrary, had been perpetually unfortunate in realizing his visionary hopes; he was entreated by his wife to forsake his evil courses; but it was all in vain. "Resorting occasionally," he says, "to the company of some adepts in crime, it seemed to afford me pleasure." And in the narratives of the other two, we find evident delight manifested at the success of a hazardous, fraudulent undertaking, while the guilt of the action, and the pain and misery it may have occasioned, are overlooked or lightly regarded, just as a military hero, exulting in a victory, laments the loss of neither friends nor foes. Human happiness, in truth, is connected in the minds of different persons with the most opposite deeds and qualities. Diogenes in his tub, and Alexander at the head of an army, was each pursuing his gratification; and who shall decide which was the more successful? Hume, in one of his Essays, remarks, that there is no question that a boarding-school miss has often experienced as exquisite delight on finding herself the idol of a ball-room, as an orator when receiving the rapturous applauses of a delighted audience; and Colley Gibber says, that on hearing an old actor express admiration at one of his early performances on the stage, he felt so proud of the commendation, that he doubted whether "Alexander himself, or Charles XII., when at the head of their first victorious armies, could feel a greater transport in their bosoms." After reading this, some may perhaps think that Pope's epigram on Cibber[14] was not unmerited; but when they consider that thieves feel a similar exultation, they may rather be inclined to pity poor human nature. In exemplification of what we have advanced, we request attention to the following extract from Vaux. Some of his acquaintances in Newgate had informed him that Mr. Bilger, a jeweller and goldsmith, was a good flat.

"About 5 o'clock in the evening, I entered his shop, dressed in the most elegant style, having a valuable gold watch and appendages, a gold eye-glass, &c. I had posted my old friend and aid-de-camp, Bromley, at the door, in order to be in readiness to act as circumstances might require, and particularly to watch the motions of Mr. Bilger and his assistants on my quitting the premises. On my entrance, Mrs. Bilger issued from a back parlour behind the shop, and politely inquiring my business, I told her I wished to see Mr. Bilger; she immediately rang a bell, which brought down her husband from the upper apartments. He saluted me with a low bow, and handed me a seat. I was glad to find no other person in the shop, Mrs. Bilger having again retired. I now assumed the air of a Bond-street lounger, and informed Mr. Bilger, that I had been recommended by a gentleman of my acquaintance to deal with him, having occasion for a very elegant diamond ring, and requested to see his assortment. Mr. Bilger expressed his concern that he happened not to have a single article of that description by him, but if I could without inconvenience call again, he would undertake in one hour to procure me a selection from his working-jeweller, to whom he would immediately despatch a messenger. I affected to feel somewhat disappointed; but, looking at my watch, after a moment's reflection, I said, 'Well, Mr. Bilger, I have an appointment at the Cannon coffee-house, which requires my attendance, and if you will, without fail, have the articles ready, I may probably look in a little after six.' This he promised faithfully to do, declaring how much he felt obliged by my condescension; and I sauntered out of the shop, Mr. Bilger attending me in the most obsequious manner to the outer door. After walking a short distance, Bromley tapped me on the shoulder, and inquired what conduct I meant next to pursue; for he had viewed my proceedings through a glass-door in the shop, and saw that I had not executed my grand design. I related to Bromley the result of my conversation with Mr. Bilger, and added that I meant to retire to the nearest public-house, where we could enjoy a pipe and a glass of negus, until the expiration of the hour to which I had limited myself. We accordingly regaled ourselves at a very snug house, nearly opposite Bilger's, until about half after six, when I again repaired to the scene of action, leaving Bromley, as at first, posted at the door. Mr. Bilger received me with increased respect, and producing a small card box, expressed his sorrow that his workman had only been enabled to send three rings for my inspection, but that if they were not to my taste, he should feel honoured and obliged in taking my directions for having one made, and flattered himself he should execute the order to my satisfaction. I proceeded to examine the rings he produced, one of which was marked sixteen guineas, another nine guineas, and the third six guineas. They were all extremely beautiful; but I affected to consider them as too paltry, telling Mr. Bilger that I wanted one to present to a lady, and that I wished to have a ring of greater value than the whole three put together, as a few guineas would not be an object in the price. Mr. Bilger's son, who was also his partner, now joined us, and was desired by his father to sketch a draught in pencil of some fancy rings, agreeable to the directions I should give him. The three rings I had viewed, were now removed to the end of the counter next the window, and I informed the young man that I wished to have something of a cluster, a large brilliant in the centre, surrounded with smaller ones; but repeated my desire that no expense might be spared to render the article strictly elegant, and worthy a lady's acceptance. The son having sketched a design of several rings on a card, I examined them with attention, and appeared in doubt which to prefer, but desired to see some loose diamonds, in order to form a better idea of the size, &c. of each ring described in the drawing. Mr. Bilger, however, declared he had not any by him. It is probable he spoke truth, or he might have lost such numbers by showing them, as to deter him from exhibiting them in future. Without having made up my mind on the subject, I now requested to see some of his most fashionable brooches, or shirt-pins. Mr. Bilger produced a show-glass, containing a great variety of articles in pearl, but he had nothing of the kind in diamonds. I took up two or three of the brooches, and immediately sunk a very handsome one, marked three guineas, in my coat sleeve. I next purloined a beautiful clasp for a lady's waist, consisting of stones set in gold, which had the appearance and brilliancy of real diamonds, but marked only four guineas. I should probably have gone still deeper, but at this moment a lady coming in, desired to look at some ear-rings, and the younger Mr. Bilger immediately quitted his father to attend upon her at the other end of the shop. It struck me that now was my time for a decisive stroke. The card containing the diamond rings, procured from the maker, lying very near the show-glass I was viewing, and many small articles irregularly placed round about them, the candles not throwing much light on that particular spot, and Mr. Bilger's attention being divided between myself and the lady, to whom he frequently addressed himself, I suddenly took the three rings from the card, and committed them to my sleeve, to join the brooch and lady's clasp; but had them so situated, that I could, in a moment, have released and replaced them on the counter, had an inquiry been made for them. I then looked at my watch, and observing that I was going to the theatre, told Mr. Bilger that I would not trouble him any further, as the articles before me were too tawdry and common to please me, but that I would put the card of draughts in my pocket-book, and if I did not meet with a ring of the kind I wanted, before Monday or Tuesday, I would certainly call again, and give him final directions. I was then drawing on my gloves, being anxious to quit the shop while I was well; but Mr. Bilger, who seemed delighted with the prospect of my custom, begged so earnestly that I would allow him to show me his brilliant assortment of gold watches, that I could not refuse to gratify him, though I certainly incurred a great risk by my compliance. I therefore answered,—'Really, Mr. Bilger, I am loath to give you that unnecessary trouble, as I have, you may perceive, a very good watch already, in point of performance; though it cost me a mere trifle, only twenty guineas; but it answers my purpose as well as a more valuable one. However, as I may probably, before long, want an elegant watch for a lady, I dont care if I just run my eye over them.' Mr. Bilger replied, that the greater part of his stock were fancy watches, adapted for ladies, and he defied all London united, to exhibit a finer collection. He then took from his window a show-glass, containing about thirty most beautiful watches, some ornamented with pearls or diamonds, others elegantly enamelled, or chased in the most delicate style. They were of various prices, from thirty to one hundred guineas, and the old gentleman, rubbing his hands with an air of rapture, exclaimed,—'There they are, sir,—a most fashionable assortment of goods; allow me to recommend them; they're all a-going, sir—all a-going.' I smiled inwardly at the latter part of this speech, and thought to myself,—'I wish they were going, with all my heart, along with the diamond rings.' I answered, they were certainly very handsome, but I would defer a minute inspection of them till my next visit, when I should have more time to spare. These watches were ranged in exact order, in five parallel lines, and between each watch was placed a gold seal or other trinket appertaining to a lady's watch. It was no easy matter, therefore, to take away a single article without its being instantly missed, unless the economy of the whole had been previously deranged. I contrived, however, to displace a few of the trinkets, on pretence of admiring them, and ventured to secrete one very rich gold seal, marked six guineas. I then declared I could stay no longer, as I had appointed to meet a party at the theatre; but that I would certainly call again in a few days, and lay out some money in return for the trouble I had given. Mr. Bilger expressed his thanks in the most respectful terms, and waited upon me to the door, where he took leave of me with a low conge, a la mode de France, of which country he was a native. I now put the best foot foremost, and having gained a remote street, turned my head, and perceived Bromley at my heels, who seized my hand, congratulating me on my success, and complimenting me on the address I had shown in this exploit; for he had witnessed all that passed, and knew that I had succeeded in my object, by the manner in which I quitted the shop. He informed me that Mr. Bilger had returned to his counter, and without attending to the arrangement of the articles thereon, had joined his son, who was still waiting upon the lady, and that he, Bromley, had finally left them both engaged with her."

Who can fail to perceive, in the above narrative, the satisfaction of the author in displaying his adroitness? His vanity seems to be as much gratified, as if he had been relating some performance meriting approbation. The feeling of shame is altogether alien to him. And thus, by Vidocq's account, it always is with thieves, they glorying as much in detailing their successful exploits, as if no ignominy could attach to them. Amongst his confederates too, and all of the same class, his reputation is proportionate to his daring and skill. Of this, take the following instance related by Vidocq.—

"The incredible effrontery of Beaumont, almost surpasses belief. Escaped from the Bagne at Rochefort, where he was sentenced to pass twelve years of his life, he came to Paris, and scarcely had he arrived there, where he had already practised, when, by way of getting his hand in, he committed several trifling robberies, and when, by these preliminary steps, he had proceeded to exploits more worthy of his ancient renown, he conceived the project of stealing a treasure. No one will imagine that this was in the Central Office, now the Prefecture of Police!! It was already pretty difficult to procure impressions of the keys, but he achieved the first difficulty, and soon had in his possession all the means of effecting an opening; but to open was nothing; it was necessary to open without being perceived, to introduce himself without fear of being disturbed, to work without witnesses, and go out again freely. Beaumont, who had calculated all the difficulties that opposed him, was not dismayed. He had remarked that the private room of the chief officer, M. Henry, was nigh to the spot where he proposed to effect his entrance; he espied the propitious moment, and wished sincerely that some circumstance would call away so dangerous a neighbour for some time, and chance was subservient to his wishes. One morning, M. Henry was obliged to go out. Beaumont, sure that he would not return that day, ran to his house, put on a black coat, and in that costume, which, in those days, always announced a magistrate, or public functionary, presents himself at the entrance of the Central Office. The officer to whom he addressed himself, supposed of course that he was at least a commissary. On the invitation of Beaumont, he gave him a soldier, whom he placed as sentinel at the entrance to the narrow passage which leads to the depot, and commanded not to allow any person to pass. No better expedient could be found for preventing surprise. Thus Beaumont, in the midst of a crowd of valuable objects, could, at his leisure, and in perfect security, choose what best pleased him; watches, jewels, diamonds, precious stones, &c. He chose those which he deemed most valuable, most portable, and as soon as he had made his selection, he dismissed the sentinel and disappeared.

"This robbery could not be long concealed, and the following day was discovered. Had thunder fallen on the police, they would have been less astonished than at this event. To penetrate to the very sanctuary! The holy of holies! The fact appeared so very extraordinary, that it was doubted. Yet it was evident that a robbery had taken place, and to whom was it to be attributed? All the suspicions fell on the clerks, sometimes on one, sometimes on another, when Beaumont, betrayed by a friend, was apprehended, and sentenced a second time. The robbery he had committed might be estimated at some hundred thousand francs, the greater part of which were found on him.

"Beaumont enjoyed amongst his confraternity a colossal reputation; and even now, when a rogue boasts of his lofty exploits,—'Hold your tongue,' they say, 'you are not worthy to untie the shoe-strings of Beaumont!' In effect, to have robbed the police was the height of address."

We now proceed to make the reader acquainted with the habits and exertions of police-officers, who perform exploits equal in craft and danger to those of thieves. In order to detect the latter, they often resort to the vilest places, and associate with the vilest of mankind; assume various characters and occupations; and sometimes, perhaps,—stimulated by the hope of reward,—lead others to commit crimes in order to entrap them. Vidocq, however, professes in every case to have acted without any desire to entice. He says that he himself never proposed any scheme of robbery; but took care to concur in such as were proposed by others. This declaration must, we suppose, be received with some qualification, as without an occasional suggestion, he would probably have been suspected in his designs. Be that as it may, he was eminently successful in securing villains; for having practised villainy himself, he knew their ways and devices, thus verifying the propriety of the maxim,—"Set a thief to catch a thief." Some of the convicts at Botany Bay make the best police-officers. Of this we have an instance in Barrington, the famous London pick-pocket, who rendered such essential services to the colony, that in his old age he was pensioned by the government. By what means Vidocq, after all his devotion, came to lose his office, he has not mentioned; an omission rather singular, which lays his character open to suspicion, especially as he has given the circumstances that first led him to offer himself to the police. These circumstances it may be proper to glance at, as they exhibit a view of the dangers attendant on a lawless course of life.

"At this period, it seemed as if the whole world was leagued against me; I was compelled to draw my purse-strings at every moment, and for whom? For creatures who, looking on my liberality as compulsory, were prepared to betray me as soon as I ceased to be a certain source of reliance. When I went home from my wife's, I had still another proof of the wretchedness affixed to the state of a fugitive galley-slave. Annette and my mother were in tears. During my absence, two drunken men had asked for me, and on being told that I was from home, they had broke forth in oaths and threats, which left me no longer in doubt of the perfidy of their intentions. By the description which Annette gave me of these two individuals, I easily recognised Blondy, and his comrade, Deluc. I had no trouble in guessing their names; and besides, they had left an address, with a formal injunction to send them forty francs, which was more than enough to disclose to me who they were, as there were not in Paris any other persons who could send me such an intimation. I was obedient, very obedient; only in paying my contribution to these two scoundrels, I could not help letting them know how inconsiderately they had behaved. 'Consider what a step you have taken,' said I to them; 'they know nothing at my house, and you have told them all. My wife, who carries on the concern in her name, will perhaps turn me out, and then I must be reduced to the lowest ebb of misery.'—'Oh! you can come and rob with us,' answered the two rascals. I endeavoured to convince them, how much better it was to owe an existence to honest toil, than to be in incessant fears from the police, which, sooner or later, catches all malefactors in its nets. I added, that one crime generally leads to another; that he would risk his neck who ran straight towards the guillotine; and the termination of my discourse was, that they would do well to renounce the dangerous career on which they had entered. 'Not so bad!' cried Blondy, when I had finished my lecture, 'not so bad.' 'But can you, in the mean time, point out to us any apartment that we can ransack? We are, you see, like Harlequin, and have more need of cash than advice;' and they left me, laughing deridingly at me. I called them back, to profess my attachment to them, and begged them not to call again at my house. 'If that is all,' said Deluc, 'we will keep from that.'—'Oh yes, we'll keep away,' added Blondy, 'since that is unpleasant to your mistress.' But the latter did not stay away long: the very next day, at night-fall, he presented himself at my ware-house, and asked to speak to me privately. I took him into my own room. 'We are alone?' said he to me, looking round at the room in which we were; and when he was assured that he had no witnesses, he drew from his pocket eleven silver forks, and two gold watches, which he placed on a stand. 'Four hundred francs for this would not be too much—the silver plate and the gold watches.—Come, tip us the needful.'—'Four hundred francs!' said I, alarmed at so abrupt a total,—'I have not so much money.'—'Never mind; go and sell the goods.'—'But if it should be known!'—'That's your affair; I want the ready; or if you like it better, I'll send you customers from the police-office;—you know what a word would do;—come, come,—the cash, the chink, and no gammon.' I understood the scoundrel but too well: I saw myself denounced, dragged from the state in which I had installed myself, and led back to the Bagne. I counted out the four hundred francs."

Considering the danger in which Vidocq was placed, his offer to serve the police was judicious. What could be more trying than to lie at the mercy of rascals? Obliged to be continually supplying them with hush-money, and yet always afraid of being betrayed by them, he was in perpetual torment; but, his services once accepted by the police, all this was at an end. He must have felt himself like a man escaped from a wreck, and from the horrors of contending elements; like Ulysses, to whom we have before compared him, when, having accepted the mantle offered him by Leucothea, he reached the friendly shore of Pheacia. Like him, too, his toils were to be renewed. He had enemies to cope with and subdue, and who required to be encountered with as much subtlety and resolution as Penelope's suitors. The following is his account of his first capture.—

"One morning I was hastily summoned to attend the chief of the division. The matter in hand was to discover a man named Watrin, accused of having fabricated and put in circulation false money and bank-notes. The inspectors of the police had already arrested Watrin, but, according to custom, had allowed him to escape. M. Henry gave me every direction which he deemed likely to assist me in the search after him; but, unfortunately, he had only gleaned a few simple particulars of his usual habits and customary haunts. Every place he was known to frequent was freely pointed out to me; but it was not very likely he would be found in those resorts, which prudence would call upon him carefully to avoid: there remained, therefore, only a chance of reaching him by some bye-path. When I learnt that he had left his effects in a furnished house, where he once lodged, on the boulevard of Mont Parnasse, I took it for granted, that, sooner or later, he would go there in search of his property; or, at least, that he would send some person to fetch it from thence; consequently I directed all my vigilance to this spot; and after having reconnoitred the house, I lay in ambush in its vicinity, night and day, in order to keep a watchful eye upon all comers and goers. This went on for nearly a week, when, weary of not observing any thing, I determined upon engaging the master of the house in my interest, and to hire an apartment of him, where I accordingly established myself with Annette, certain that my presence could give rise to no suspicion. I had occupied this post for about fifteen days, when, one evening, at eleven o'clock, I was informed that Watrin had just come, accompanied by another person. Owing to a slight indisposition, I had retired to bed earlier than usual; however, at this news I rose hastily, and descended the staircase by four stairs at a time; but whatever diligence I might use, I was only just in time to catch Watrin's companion; him I had no right to detain, but I made myself sure that I might, by intimidation, obtain further particulars from him. I therefore seized him, threatened him, and soon drew from him a confession, that he was a shoemaker, and that Watrin lived with him, No. 4, Rue des Mauvais Garcons. This was all I wanted to know: I had only time to slip an old great coat over my shirt, and, without stopping to put on more garments, I hurried on to the place thus pointed out to me. I reached the house the very instant that some person was quitting it: persuaded that it was Watrin, I attempted to seize him; he escaped from me, and I darted after him up a staircase; but at the moment of grasping him, a violent blow, which struck my chest, drove me down twenty stairs. I sprung forward again, and that so quickly, that, to escape from my pursuit, he was compelled to return into the house through a sash-window. I then knocked loudly at the door, summoning him to open it without delay. This he refused to do. I then desired Annette, who had followed me, to go in search of the guard; and, whilst she was preparing to obey me, I counterfeited the noise of a man descending the stairs. Watrin, deceived by this feint, was anxious to satisfy himself whether I had actually gone, and softly put his head out of the window, to observe if all was safe. This was exactly what I wanted. I made a vigorous dart forwards, and seized him by the hair of his head: he grasped me in the same manner, and a desperate struggle took place: jammed against the partition-wall which separated us, he opposed me with a determined resistance. Nevertheless, I felt that he was growing weaker; I collected all my strength for a last effort; I strained every nerve, and drew him nearly out of the window through which we were struggling; one more trial, and the victory was mine; but in the earnestness of my grasp, we both rolled on the passage floor, on to which I had pulled him. To rise, snatch from his hands the shoemaker's cutting knife with which he had armed himself, to bind him and lead him out of the house, was the work of an instant. Accompanied only by Annette, I conducted him to the prefecture, where I received the congratulations, first of M. Henry, and afterwards those of the prefect of police, who bestowed on me a pecuniary recompense."

The next account we shall transcribe, is one of his freeing the community of a receiver of stolen goods. This man had been long watched by the police; but all attempts to convict him had failed. Accordingly M. Henry was desirous that Vidocq should use his endeavours, which he readily did as follows.

"Posted near the house of the suspected dealer in stolen property, I watched for his going out; and, following him when he had gone a few steps down the street, addressed him by a different name to his own. He assured me I was mistaken; I protested to the contrary; he insisted upon it I was deceived; and I affected to be equally satisfied of his identity, declaring my perfect recognition of his person, as that of a man who, for some time, had been sought after by the police throughout Paris and its environs. 'You are grossly mistaken,' replied he warmly; 'my name is so and so, and I live in such a street.' 'Come, come, friend,' said I, 'excuses are useless; I know you too well to part with you so easily.' 'This is too much,' cried he, 'but, at the next police station, I shall probably be able to meet with those who can convince you, that I know my own name better than you seem to do.' This was exactly the point at which I wished to arrive. 'Agreed,' said I, and we bent our steps to the neighbouring guard-house. We entered, and I requested him to show me his papers; he had none about him. I then insisted upon his being searched, and, on his person, were found three watches, and twenty-five double Napoleons, which I caused to be laid aside till he should be examined before a magistrate. These things had been wrapped in a handkerchief, which I contrived to secure, and, after having disguised myself as a messenger, I hastened to the house of this receiver of stolen goods, and demanded to speak with his wife. She, of course, had no idea of my business, or knowledge of my person, and seeing several persons besides herself present, I signified to her, that my business being of a private nature, it was important that I should speak to her alone; and in token of my claims to her confidence, produced the handkerchief, and inquired whether she recognised it? Although still ignorant of the cause of my visit, her countenance became troubled, and her whole person was much agitated, as she begged me to let her hear my business. 'I am concerned,' replied I, 'to be the bearer of unpleasant news; but the fact is, your husband has just been arrested, every thing found on his person has been seized, and, from some words which he happened to overhear, he suspects he has been betrayed; he therefore wishes you to remove out of the house certain things, you are aware would be dangerous to his safety if found on the premises. If you please, I will lend you a helping hand, but I must forewarn you that you have not one moment to lose.' The information was of the first importance. The sight of the handkerchief, and the description of the objects it had served to envelope, removed from her mind every doubt as to the truth of the message I had brought her; and she easily fell into the snare I had laid to entrap her. She thanked me for the trouble I had taken, and begged I would go and engage three hackney coaches, and return to her with as little delay as possible. I left the house to execute my commission, but on the road, I stopped to give one of my people instructions to keep the coaches in sight, and to seize them, with their contents, directly I should give the signal. The vehicles drew up to the door, and, upon re-entering the house, I found things in a high state of preparation for removing. The floor was strewed with articles of every description; time-pieces, candelabra, Etruscan vases, cloths, cachemires, linen, muslin, &c. All these things had been taken from a closet, the entrance to which was cleverly concealed by a large press, so skilfully contrived, that the most practised eye could not have discovered the deception. I assisted in the removal, and, when it was completed, the press having been carefully replaced, the woman begged of me to accompany her, which I did; and no sooner was she in one of the coaches, ready to start, than I suddenly pulled up the window, and, at this previously concerted signal, we were immediately surrounded by the police. The husband and wife were tried at the assizes, and, as may be easily conceived, were overwhelmed beneath the weight of an accusation, in support of which there existed a formidable mass of convicting testimony."

We must extract one more account from Vidocq, to show the desperate hazards which police-officers sometimes run, in capturing criminals; hazards which, when surmounted, they naturally exult in. Information had been received at the police-office, that one Fossard, who had several times effected escapes from jail, was living with his mistress in a certain district of Paris; that the windows of his apartment had yellow curtains; and that a hump-backed seamstress lived in the same house. This was very indefinite; for neither the street, nor the number of the house was known, and curtains might be changed. However, Vidocq was not deterred from undertaking a search; accordingly, disguised as an old-fashioned gentleman, he began the enterprise. He went from street to street; ascended staircase after staircase till his limbs ached; called at the doors of scores of seamstresses, but no hump-backed damsel appeared;—all were as straight as arrows! Not more ardently, he says, did Don Quixote pant for Dulcinea, than he for Humpina. Days rolled on unsuccessfully: he began to despair. At length he resolved to change his measures, and, instead of clambering up flights of steps, to station himself near the stand of a gossiping milk-woman, and watch her customers. Numbers of women came to buy their milk in the morning, but not one adorned with the delectable hump. At length, in the evening, he caught sight of one whose back had the desired ornament. He followed her from the milk-woman's to the grocer's, from the grocer's to the tripe-shop, and, finally, to her home; but when he got there, no yellow curtains were to be seen. What was to be done? He resolved to speak to her at all events; so, feigning himself to be a deserted husband, he inquired of her whether Fossard and his mistress were occupants of any part of the house? Her reply was disheartening:—they had quitted their lodgings, and were gone, she knew not where. Still, the case did not appear hopeless. He had employed a porter to carry his goods, and might not that porter be found? A new search was requisite, and it terminated successfully, by his tracing Fossard to a vintner's. Considering, then, that it was advisable to have the vintner on his side, he called on him in his usual dress, and informed him, from the police, that his lodgers meditated robbing him. He and his wife were in consternation at the intelligence; but Vidocq having pacified them, arranged his plans. The grand difficulty to be overcome, arose from Fossard's always carrying a loaded pistol in his hand, and which, they knew from his character, he would assuredly discharge at the first man that laid hands on him. Here Vidocq must tell his own tale, we premising, that Fossard's mistress styled herself Madame Hazard.—

"At an early hour, on the 29th of December, I betook myself to my station. It was desperately cold; the watch was a protracted one, and the more painful as we had no fire. Motionless, however, and my eyes fixed against a small hole in the shutter, I kept my post. At last, about three o'clock, he went out. I followed gladly, and recognised him; for, up to that period, I had my doubts. Certain now of his identity, I wished, at that moment, to put into execution the order for his apprehension; but the officer who was with me, said he saw the terrible pistol. That I might authenticate the fact, I walked quickly and passed Fossard, and then returning, saw clearly that the agent was right. To attempt to arrest him would have been useless, and I resolved to defer it. On the 31st of December, at eleven o'clock, when all my batteries were charged and my plans perfect, Fossard returned, and, without distrust, ascended the staircase shaking with cold; and, twenty minutes after, the disappearance of the light indicated that he was in bed. The moment had now arrived. The commissary and gend'armes, summoned by me, were waiting at the nearest guard-house until I should call them, and then enter quietly. We deliberated on the most effectual mode of seizing Fossard, without running the risk of being killed or wounded; for they were persuaded, that, unless surprised, this robber would defend himself desperately. My first thought was, to do nothing till daybreak, as I had been told that Fossard's companion went down very early to get the milk; we should then seize her, and, after having taken the key from her, we should enter the room of her lover; but might it not happen that, contrary to his usual custom, he might go out first? This reflection led me to adopt another expedient. The vintner's wife, in whose favour, as I was told, M. Hazard was much prepossessed, had one of her nephews at her house, a lad about ten years of age, intelligent beyond his years, and the more desirous of getting money, as he was a Norman. I promised him a reward, on condition that, under pretence of his aunt's being taken suddenly ill, he should go and beg Madame Hazard to give him some Eau de Cologne. I desired the little chap to assume the most piteous tone he could; and was so well satisfied with the specimen he gave me, that I began to distribute the parts to my performers. The denouement was near at hand. I made all my party take off their shoes, doing the same myself, that we might not be heard whilst going up stairs. The little snivelling pilot was in his shirt; he rang the bell;—no one answered: again he rang;—'Who's there,' was heard.—'It is I Madame Hazard; it is Louis: my poor aunt is very bad, and begs you will be so very obliging as to give her a little Eau de Cologne.—Oh! she is dying!—I have got a light.' The door was opened; and scarcely had Madame Hazard presented herself, when two powerful gend'armes seized on her, and fastened a napkin over her mouth to prevent her crying out. At the same instant, with more rapidity than the lion when darting on his prey, I threw myself upon Fossard; who, stupified by what was doing, and already fast bound and confined in his bed, was my prisoner before he could make a single movement, or utter a single word. So great was his amazement, that it was nearly an hour before he could articulate even a few words. When a light was brought, and he saw my black face and garb of a coalman, he experienced such an increase of terror, that I really believe he imagined himself in the devil's clutches. On coming to himself, he thought of his arms,—his pistols and dagger,—which were upon the table; and, turning his eyes towards them, he made a struggle, but that was all; for, reduced to the impossibility of doing any mischief, he was passive."

From the above extracts, a tolerably correct idea may be formed of thieves and police-officers;—men who co-exist in every civilized community, but who lead lives requiring the cunning and personal bravery of savages. The thief exults in the success of a daring exploit, and prides himself on his skill in avoiding the meshes of magistrates and lawyers: the police-officer is no less vain of his skill, in detecting and dragging to justice the man who boasts of his superiority in artifice, while he almost defies the arm of vengeance. In order that the number of such characters may be reduced, all reasonable attempts should be made to reclaim juvenile delinquents; prisons should be not only places of terror, but places where the spread of corruption is effectually prevented, by the prohibition of intercourse amongst the inmates; and, above all, education, founded on a moral and religious basis, should be extended throughout society. Facts bear us out in asserting, that crimes of the greatest magnitude, such as murder, burglary, and arson, considerably diminish with the spread of civilization, which operates, like the circle formed by the pebble thrown into water, in extending its influence in proportion to its circumference. As philanthropists in many different countries are labouring simultaneously to promote this great end, we are justified in considering the present age as the harbinger of a better; and we may rejoice in the anticipation. The progressive improvement of the human family is a delightful subject for meditation, giving us, perhaps, a prelibation of the joys of futurity, and animating us to contribute our aid, trifling as it may be, to the melioration of the condition of our country.

Before closing this article, we can scarcely forbear remarking, that the translator of Vidocq has used various words which have been considered by English writers as Americanisms; such as to progress, to approbate, and lengthy; also chicken-fighting for cock-fighting. Whether he is an American or an Englishman we know not; but certain we are, that nearly every one of the alleged peculiarities in language, adopted by Americans, may be found either in old English authors, or are known to have been used in one or other of the provincial brogues of England. Captain Basil Hall notices the substitution of fall for Autumn; but he might have known, that though nearly obsolete in England, it is still current in the west of England amongst the vulgar.[15] Even the much laughed at I guess, is in vogue in Lancashire; so that with the exception of to tote for to carry, which, as Dr. Webster remarks, was introduced by the negroes into the southern states, we do not know whether a single word or expression supposed to be peculiar to the United States, may be found, which cannot be traced to Great Britain or Ireland. In the volume on Insect Architecture, issued by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, we notice the word sparse, which, till then, we had supposed to be of American formation; and a late writer in Blackwood's Magazine says, that the New-England word tarnation, is current in the county of Suffolk in old England. The probability of its being introduced into Massachusetts from that part of England, is confirmed by the great number of towns in Massachusetts bearing the same names as towns in the counties of Suffolk and Essex, and by the correspondence remarked by travellers between the dialects of the two districts. Every one may have observed, that the New-Englanders,—many even of the educated amongst them,—pronounce the participle been, as if written ben; and this peculiarity, we are assured, is prevalent in the part of England just mentioned.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See the second series of Tales of a Grandfather.

[13] Since the above was written, we have met with an old schoolfellow of Vaux's, and who also knew him in after life; and from him we have learnt that Vaux's Memoirs have strong claim to credence, from the circumstance that the account of his early life appears to be correctly given, as also that part of his subsequent career which is known to our informant. He added, that his manners were quite fascinating.

[14] As many of our readers may not recollect it, we here insert it. Cibber, it should be borne in mind, was poet-laureate.

"In merry old England, it once was a rule, That the king had his poet, and also his fool; But the times are so altered, I'd have you to know it, That Cibber will serve both for fool and for poet!"

Cibber seems so little to have minded this, and the rest of Pope's satire on him in the Dunciad, that he wrote another epigram nearly as pungent on himself! We give the following stanzas as a specimen of it.

"When Bayes thou play'st, thyself thou art; For that by nature fit, No blockhead better suits the part, Than such a coxcomb wit.

In Wronghead, too, thy brains we see Who might do well at plough; As fit for Parliament was he, As for the laurel thou."

[15] See A Summary View of America. By an Englishman. 8vo. London: 1824.



ART. VI.—TOBACCO.

1.—"Counterblaste to Tobacco." By KING JAMES I. of England. Works, fol. from 214 to 222.

2.—A Dissertation on the Use and Abuse of Tobacco. By The Rev. ADAM CLARKE. pp. 32. October: 1798.

3.—Observations upon the influence of the habitual use of Tobacco upon Health, Morals, and Property. By BENJAMIN RUSH, M.D. Essays. p. 263 to 274. 1798.

4.—Notices relative to Tobacco. By DR. A. T. THOMSON. Appendix (Note B) to Mrs. A. T. Thomson's Life of Sir Walter Ralegh. pp. 24: 1830.

The annals of literature furnish abundant examples of authors, who, through wantonness, whimsicality, a desire to say something, where many could say nothing, and few could say much, or from some other impulse, (for which it were now unprofitable to search,) have adopted themes either insignificant in themselves, or repugnant to truth; subjects barren, or improbable, or laborious, or palpably absurd. Thus Homer has celebrated the battle of the Frogs and Mice; Virgil sung of Bees; Polycrates commended Tyranny; Phavorinus sets forth the praises of Injustice; and Cardan pronounced the eulogy of Nero. The Golden Ass of Apulcius is well known; Henry Cornelius Agrippa has employed his wit and learning on an elaborate "Digression in praise of the Asse." Other authors have discovered virtues and excellencies in this animal, though the generality of mankind have agreed in supposing it possessed nothing remarkable but dulness and obstinacy. Lucian exercised his genius on a fly; and Erasmus has dignified Folly in his Encomium Moriae, which, for the sake of the pun, he inscribed to Sir Thomas More. The subject of Michael Psellus is a Gnat; Antonius Majoragius took for his theme Clay; Julius Scaliger wrote concerning a Goose; Janus Dousa on a Shadow; and Heinsius (horresco referens) eulogized a Louse. This last animal elicited some fine moral verses from Burns; Libanus thought the Ox worthy of his pen; and Sextus Empiricus selected the faithful Dog. Addison composed the Battle of the Pigmies and Cranes; Rochester versified about Nothing; and Johannes Passeratius made a Latin poem on the same subject, which is quoted at full length by Dr. Johnson at the end of his Life of Rochester. The Jeffreidos were written to commemorate the perils to which Sir Jeoffrey Hudson was exposed; Sir William Jones thought Chess worthy of the epopee; and at the foot of this list of egregious triflers, we place Dr. Raphael Thorius, who wrote a much and often praised Latin poem on the Virtues of Tobacco.

Now, to most of our readers, this last theme would seem to offer fewer inducements to the poet's pen than any of those thus enumerated; and genius could scarcely have selected one, which seemed less ennobling in itself, or rather, which at once presented such palpable discouragements, from the coarse associations connected with it, and the cureless vulgarity and nauseousness with which the whole subject appears to be invested. In opposition to so many obstacles and dissuasives, this great man yielded to the impulse of his muse, and obtained an immortality to which no other action of his life would have entitled him. It is with unaffected regret that we are compelled to state, that, to procure a sight of this celebrated poem, we have ransacked our libraries without the least success. How painful is the reflection, that perhaps this work has never yet reached the United States! What a reproach to our republic, that a poem whose object was to celebrate the virtues of the most incomparable of all our native plants, should be totally unknown in that new world, with whose discovery it was nearly contemporaneous! But perhaps our Jeremiad may be premature; for in some obscure corner in Virginia, (the garden of this weed,) a copy of the poem may at this very moment exist, like unobtrusive merit, disregarded and despised. For the honour of our country, we hope this may prove true; since it may lessen the odium with which men habitually load poor republics, a name which has long been the by-word and synonime of ingratitude.

We are fully aware of the contemptuous manner in which Doctor Clarke speaks of this production, and its English translation by the Rev. W. Berwick, declaring them to be "of equal merit, and that they scarce deserve to be mentioned." But to the merit of this work we have testimony infinitely higher than the opinion of the Reverend Doctor. Thus, Howell, in his inimitable "Familiar Letters," a book which cannot be too highly commended, or too often read, says, "if you desire to read with pleasure all the virtues of this modern herb, you must read Dr. Thorius's Potologis, an accurate peece, couched in a strenuous heroic verse, and continuing its strength from first to last; insomuch that for the bignes it may be compared to any piece of antiquity, and in my opinion is beyond [Greek: Batzachomnomachia] or [Greek: Galeomnomachia]."[16] The learned Mr. Bayle speaks of the same production in very commendatory language.[17] Bayle tells an excellent story of Thorius, which, as it illustrates the character of the great tobacco poet, deserves to be read. He was extremely fond of his glass of wine, and had, beside, that hydrophobic distaste, which has been imagined essential to the true poet. Being one day seated at the dinner table, in company with the celebrated Peireskius, in the festivity of the occasion, he was urging the latter to quaff off a bumper of wine, and after the most importunate intreaties, Peireskius at last agreed to do it upon one condition, which was, that Thorius should immediately afterwards drink a bumper himself. No condition could be more acceptable, no penalty more easy; but what was the surprise and horror of Thorius, when his turn came, to find that he was called upon to drink a bumper, not of wine, but of water!—which insipid and unaccustomed beverage, after sundry efforts and awry faces, he contrived to get down, amidst peals of laughter from his hilarious and learned friends.

We classed Thorius's poem among the extravagant vagaries of genius; but the more we reflect upon the subject matter of this poem, the more the conviction fastens upon our minds, that it is by no means a trivial or undignified topic; that considered in what light it may, tobacco must be regarded as the most astonishing of the productions of nature, since, although unsightly, offensive, and, perhaps, in every way pernicious, it has, in the short period of about three centuries, subdued not one particular nation, but the whole world, Christian and Pagan, into a bondage more abject and irremediable than was ever known to tyranny or superstition. Kings have forbidden it; popes have anathematized it; and physicians have warned against it. Even ministers of the gospel have lifted up their voices, and thundered their denunciations from the pulpit; but all has been in vain; its use has increased, is increasing, and will increase, as long as the earth continues to yield this miraculous vegetable to the unnatural appetite of man.

That what is persecuted should thrive the more in consequence of persecution, can excite no surprise in any one at all skilled in the history of human nature; but this is altogether inadequate to account for that preternatural eagerness with which men seek after this wonderful plant. In fact, there appears to be some occult charm connected with it—some invisible spirit, which, be it angel, or be it devil, has never yet been, and perhaps never will be, satisfactorily explained. To those who have never revelled in this habit, and consequently can neither comprehend its nature or strength, the hyperbolical language which most authors use when they speak of tobacco, must appear, in an eminent degree, burlesque and overstrained. "Tobacco," says the Anatomist of Melancholy, "divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all their panaceas, potable gold, and philosophers' stones, a soveraign remedy to all diseases—A good vomit, I confess, a vertuous herb, if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medicinally used; but as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, 'tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, and health; hellish, devilish, and damned tobacco; the ruine and overthrow of body and soul."[18] So in his valedictory to tobacco, Mr. Lamb is not less extravagant and contradictory. The health of the poet it appears had suffered seriously from the immoderate use of tobacco, which had been in consequence interdicted by his physician. Compelled to surrender his favourite enjoyment, he vents his feelings in a very spirited "Farewell to Tobacco," which exhibits a singular mixture of opposite sentiments, and of violent struggles between his propensity to the habit and his acquiescence in the necessity which severs him from it, together with feeble attempts to curse that, without which, life to the unhappy poet seemed scarcely endurable.

"Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite—— ——Nay, rather Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you; 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee, None e'er prospered who defamed thee."