is the mighty difference? Ah! "Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught! and, though thousands, in all ages, have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account."

I will describe these buildings more or less minutely, commencing as nearly as possible in the order that the prisoners enter them. The first, then, is the Dépot de la Prefecture de Police. This was erected in 1828 at a cost of twelve thousand pounds, and is situated near the river Seine, at the head-quarters of the Prefect of the Police. It is capable of containing three hundred persons, but now has generally one hundred and fifty.Though comparatively a modern structure, it is not built upon a recent model, but resembles the gloomy strongholds of the olden time. Its fastenings and windows have not their strong and massive look, however; and this arises from the circumstance, that the occupants are such as are yet only accused of crime. Everybody arrested in Paris is first brought to this place, where they do not remain more than two or three days. The edifice is divided into several apartments, appropriated to the various grades of those who are confined. Those accused of crime are separated from such as are arrested for minor offences. The young are divided from the old, males from females, those respectably clad from the filthy and drunken, and finally, the sane from the insane. The polite director himself accompanied me round the apartments, obligingly pointed out their peculiarities, explained their uses, and, what was more than all, answered my numerous inquiries. Besides these general divisions, there are subdivisions into private and single rooms, and others for a multitude of twenty or thirty. The former rooms are plain, every one having a grated window, and each containing a bedstead, generally of wood, but sometimes of iron; the sacking of the latter so arranged, however, that its principal advantage-freedom from vermin-is counteracted. On this are placed two or three mattresses, of a mixture of wool and hair, with suitable sheets and blankets, which altogether make up a very comfortable bed; a chair completes the furniture of the dormitory. The arrangements for the toilet are poor. A basin of water permits the indulgence of washing; but

H

when a towel is asked for, the response is the same as was made to the heroine of Mrs. Clavers," Haint you got a 'andkercher ?" One who has money can commad such things as he pleases. The large rooms are filled with the commonest people. Extending the entire length of one side of the room is a something, whose use one cannot at first imagine. It resembles the leaf of a table, but is in fact a species of bedstead, constructed without sacking. This is let down at night, and covered with mattresses; here, with all their clothes on, the whole company of twenty or more, as the case may be, sleep together in the same bed. Truly crime, as well as poverty, make strange bed-fellows. In the day time the mattresses are piled away in a corner, and the bedstead is elevated again to make room for promenading. Such lodging strikes one as rather too bad at first; but after taking a view of the motley crew, who, like the Chourineur, never took their clothes off, perhaps in all their lives, to go to bed, the slight deficiency of etiquette almost disappears, and is partially atoned for by its manifest convenience. Many of the company, indeed, it is quite probable, never enjoyed a better lodging. One of the wards is appropriated exclusively to common prostitutes, who have been apprehended for making a noise in the streets, intoxication, or disease. Another is for the insane, found wandering at large. After their examination, which follows the arrest, as soon as possible, these are all either discharged, or sent to other prisons for their trial. All the Courts are held in the Palais de Justice, of which the Conciergerie is a dependence, and with which it is united by an internal passage. To this last all prisoners on trial are brought for convenience, and, at its close, are liberated, or conveyed in the space of two days to the places of their sentence.

The Conciergerie claims a dreadful pre-eminence among most of the other prisons in its local history. Within its frowning walls have been enacted many of the bloodiest and most horrible tragedies of tyrannical power, and of the no less arbitrary violence of infuriated popular vengeance in the numerous revolutions. The entrance is by an arch in the Quai de l'Horloge to a court, and thence through a great gate, guarded by a portcullis. The stern, sombre vestibule subdues the mind to a tone

suited to the gloomy apartments to be afterwards seen. From the vestibule one door conducts to the greffe, where is the office of the directors; another to the advocate's room, where the counsel of the prisoners are admitted to consultations with them. It is divided from the vestibule by a grated partition; so that it is completely under the inspection of a multitude of jailors, who are constantly seated there. Another door leads to the parloirs, or speaking rooms. There are two for the two sexes, and are alike in their construction, which is peculiar. A double grating, two feet asunder, divides the room into parts; into one of which the prisoner is introduced, and the visitor into the other. None but relations, with few exceptions, are allowed to visit here. From this description, it is apparent, that nothing can be communicated from the visitor to the prisoner, who, in addition to this effectual isolation, is subjected to the incessant vigilance of a jailor. In this prison there are few private apartments, properly speaking, though every one sleeps alone in a small room, which occasionally contains two beds. The furniture is similar to that already spoken of at the Dépôt. At seven in the morning a bell summons all to rise and sweep out their rooms; at eight they are served with their allowance of soup; at ten with their meat, and at twelve with vegetables. They may eat them when they choose, but they have no more till the next morning recommences the same routine. They all enter into a common court-yard together; in the centre of which, a fountain permits to all, who wish, the privilege of washing. In this court-yard, the assassin and thief, the footpad and burglar, assemble together. In bad weather a large room affords them shelter; when cold, the cell of Louvel, the murderer of the Duke de Berri, contains a stove, round which they gather. This is the only place which is warmed on the men's side. In the Dépôt, on the contrary, each cell is warmed by an iron pipe running through it, heated by steam. The cell of Louvel is circular, and in the top of its arched ceiling is a hook, from which was suspended the iron cage, in which he was confined. The dungeon is wholly destitute of light, but what comes from the grated door.

The side of the females is the same as that of the men, except that the chauffoir is a common appartment;

but, at the same time, it is the most remarkable of rooms. That, now used for the Sacristie, is particularly worthy of notice; for it was here that the unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette was incarcerated two months and a half; and left it only for the guillotine. The room is now much altered and enlarged by the addition of several smaller ones; but its original dimensions are easily discernible. Allowing for the part, occupied by her bed, a space of ten feet by two was all that remained for a tenant of palaces, and a daughter of the illustrious house of Hapsburgh. Behind, a small room was constantly occupied by an armed guard, who watched every motion. It now contains three excellent pictures, which, from the darkness of the room lighted only by a coloured glass window, are scarcely visible. They commemorate portions of the sad history of her checquered life; her parting from her family before going to prison; her prison, as it was, when she was there; her dress, with every article truthfully painted; and her absolution by the priest, before she mounted the scaffold. Her sweet face, as there depictured, with the memory of her excellent character, made even the jailor blush for the despicable and unmanly barbarity of his country. This room leads to the chapel, where mass is chaunted every Sabbath to the assembled prisoners. The men are stationed below, and the women in a grated gallery above, which screens them effectually from observation.

A large apartment, now unoccupied, is used in times of disturbance, to confine persons under arrest; and is capable of containing two hundred individuals. Still another, much smaller, without any furniture but a stove, is called the Condemned Cell, in which all, on whom judgment of death has been pronounced, are confined, till their removal to the Prison des Condamnés. They are sent hither as soon as sentenced, a strait jacket put upon them, a mattress laid for them in a corner, and an armed soldier placed on constant guard in the cell. Three days after sentence they are executed, unless they consent to make confessions, in which case forty days are allowed them.

No work is done in the Conciergerie, and its capacity is two hundred and fifty persons, though rarely containing that number.

XIX.

Prisons of Paris. St. Lazare. An Actress off the Stage. Filles Publiques. Debtors' Prison.

IN continuing the particular description of the prisons of this metropolis, we come to that exclusively devoted to females. St. Lazare, situated in the rue du Faubourg St. Denis, was, at the close of the sixteenth century, a hospital for the leprous. When that loathsome disease was extirpated, it was given to the establishment of Saint Vincent de Paul, and to the congregation, which he founded in 1625. From being a Convent of the Lazarists, it was employed for the confinement of genteel young debauchees and licentious poets, till it has now been converted into a place for the detention of females committed for trial, or condemned to a confinement of less than a year; or for those awaiting removal to the general prison in the centre of the kingdom at Clermont, whither all are conveyed who have been sentenced for a long term.

Before proceeding farther, let me remind the reader, that St. Lazare is the thrilling scene of many a chapter of Eugene Sue's Mysteries of Paris. Here are the walls that encompassed the sweet Fleur de Marie, the kindhearted Rigolette, and the bold, fearless Louve. While reading that work, I remember being struck with the achievement of Louve in saving the drowning Marie by plunging into the rapid Seine. My surprise has ceased. This apparently improbable portion of the history is now rendered less remarkable, for I find, that a great many French women are expert swimmers. The river in summer is almost concealed by immense floating buildings in the form of a hollow square. In these buildings are baths; and in the centre, which is covered so as to defy the intrusive eye, is the swimming school. There are many of them of both sexes, and both are well filled during the warm weather. A few days since, at noon