shoulders. The operation completed, whether
the patient be dead or give signs of life, it is all
one; he is summarily pitched into the canal.
Next day, when the body is found, people
believe in a suicide or in an accident, the result
of intemperance. The habits and resorts of the
escarpes are what might be expected from such
monsters. Like wild beasts, they prowl by
night, and hide themselves during the day.
Happily, the species is diminishing, with a
tendency to disappear. Their number never
much exceeded sixty; the arrest of fourteen
put the others out of spirits. One of these,
Fournier, was executed; fourteen went to the
galleys. There remained only forty-six to make
midnight walks in Paris agreeable.

The eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh
categories are almost exclusively monopolised by
Israelites. Under pretence of making purchases
in jewellers' shops, they steal unset diamonds,
by means of a little bit of birdlime in the palm
of the hand, and will even swallow them as one
way of concealment. Or, one of two confederates
will feign epilepsy, frothing at the mouth
through the instrumentality of a bit of soap
—during the confusion, the other will appropriate
what pleases him best. M. Canler asserts
that, as a general rule, the thieves who exert
the most prudence and perseverance in the
attainment of their ends belong to the stock of
Abraham, and also that, in certain Jewish
families, theft is a hereditary profession—a means
of existence taught by the parents, and carefully
studied by the children, under the maternal
eye, and guided by paternal counsels and
experience. One of these families, composed of
father, mother, six daughters, and six sons-in-
law, could boast within their own domestic
circle an united sentence of two hundred and nine
years of judicial condemnation. The head of
the house exercised, besides, the lucrative
employment of receiving stolen goods.
Nevertheless, though from theft to murder there is
only one step, Israelite thieves very seldom
become assassins. Moreover, they never confess
a crime, however overwhelming may be the
proofs against them; nor do they make
revelations, or denounce their accomplices.

The number of individuals belonging to the
twelfth category, la basse pégre, is incalculable.
Every day it is joined by new proselytes. These
are the small fry who thieve in shoals, the scum
of the caldron, the mob out of which great
criminals emerge. Their tactics are as diverse
as their body is multitudinous. There is the
over-coat theft. This thief enters a public-house
where people are playing at billiards. He hangs
up his shabby surtout by the side of the best he
can fix upon; then, when its owner is busy with
his game, he slips out with the better garment,
leaving the old one in its place. His profits are
consequently calculated by the rule of subtraction.
If caught in the fact of exchanging, he
politely apologises for the mistake. The same
manoeuvre applies to hats and umbrellas.

There is the cobbler's-wax thief. An
individual enters a restaurant where the spoons and
forks are of real silver, seats himself alone at a
table, and orders his dinner. The repast ended,
by way of grace after meat, he fastens a spoon
or a fork under the table with wax or pitch, pays
his reckoning, and coolly retires. As he rises,
a confederate takes his vacant place, dines, and,
before leaving, pockets the article so ingeniously
suspended by his colleague.

We often say, "Proud as a peacock;" we
might say with equal truth, "Proud as a thief."
The thief is as proud of his evil deeds as the
soldier is of his victories. .He boasts of his
exploits, and delights to talk to his co-mates of
the onslaughts he has made on society and
property: of his successes, and the modes employed
to obtain them. The glory of theft is his darling
theme. Not only does he relate his own stratagems,
but his enthusiasm leads him to prate of
robberies which he only knows as the secret of
others; and as he thus lets out both his own
culpability and the names of his confederates,
thieves' vanity is often the cause of a gang of
from thirty to forty malefactors being brought
to justice in a body.

It is terrible to know that, for the Parisian
who has once been in prison, there is neither
peace nor security afterwards, however well he
may conduct himself. The laudable desire of
regaining lost respectability is made the torment
of Sisyphus. Extortion (chantage, in Paris
slang: attaining the proportions of a frightful
profession) pulls the victim down at every
attempt he makes to rise, and often finally crushes
him. Extortioners make a trade of hunting up
people who would fain lead an honest life, and on
whom they fasten as their lawful prey.

A carpenter, doing a good business in Paris,
had, several years previously, been condemned
to, and had undergone, five years' reclusion—
French imprisonments are long—and had married
in the country after he was set at liberty. By
industry and economy he had saved sufficient to
bring up his family respectably. Only, as
liberated reclusionaries are forbidden to reside in
the capital, he avoided company, never went to
the cafés outside the Barrières, and walked
about the streets as little as possible, for fear
of meeting any of his former fellow-prisoners.
Notwithstanding these wise precautions, and
in spite of the change wrought in his countenance
both by prosperity and time, he one day
fell in with one of his ex-companions who was
authorised to reside in Paris, and who, under
pretence of renewing acquaintance, offered to
treat him to a bottle of wine. The carpenter
dared not refuse. Once inside the public-house,
they emptied their bottle, and then a second;
and when they rose to take their departure, the
carpenter's friend proposed to accompany him
home.

"No, I thank you," the other replied. " I
have a great many business errands to do;
besides, I must go to my timber-merchant's, which
would make the walk a little too long."

"Well, at any rate, give me your address,
that I may make a friendly call when I happen
to pass your way."