wishing to prove his breeding, insists on escorting the doctor to his house, but on reaching the door says to him that he would not want his cloak any longer, as he had no further cause to fear the rain; wherewith the thief whips off the doctor's cloak, and disappears.

The next trick worth noticing is played on a cloth-dealer, and, as will be recognised, very frequently turns up in our newspapers of to-day. Two thieves make up their minds to rob the clothier, and for this purpose one of them proceeds to a surgeon in the vicinity, and tells him that on the morrow he intends to bring him a young man who wishes to consult him about a certain malady. The youth would probably be shy at first; but the surgeon need only press him, and all would come right. This arranged, on the next morning the rogue proceeds to the clothier's, representing himself as a valet of the surgeon, and selects a parcel of cloths, which he requests the clothier to send with him to his master's house, who would pay for them. The clothier unsuspectingly assents, the scamp gets off with the cloth, the surgeon takes the apprentice for his patient, and there is a glorious scene of confusion. I can distinctly remember nearly the same story figuring at one of our police-courts last year, with the substitution of a dentist for a surgeon. But the following adventures of a young man from the country offer a still closer parallel to the tricks of the present day.

Dorilis, a Picard, having a desire to see Paris, robs his father of 150 crowns, and runs from home. As he crosses the Pont Neuf he is accosted by two rogues, one of whom hands him a packet which he has just picked up, and as he is no scholar himself begs Dorilis to tell him what it is all about. Dorilis opens the parcel and finds a gold chain, with a letter stating its value to be one hundred crowns. The thief agrees to let him have it for forty, to which Dorilis gladly assents. A very decided case of vol à l'Americaine, it strikes me. Quite satisfied with his bargain, Dorilis sets off for the fair of St. Germain; but in crossing the bridge of St. Augustine his attention is attracted by a band of gamblers. Of course he is induced to join-in, and, after winning at first, loses ten crowns, and would have lost every penny piece, says our author, had not his anxiety to see the fair been so great. At the fair he plays again at what is called a blanque, as I fancy from the context, a wheel of fortune. A "bonnet" wins a silver salver, tout comme chez nous, and Dorilis, in the hope of winning too, buys twenty crown tickets, and draws them all blanks. Going a little farther on, he is accosted by two men, who ask him whether he does not come from Amiens, and if he knows the procureur du roi in that town. Dorilis, with some pride, declares that gentleman to be his cousin; whereupon one of the men states that his master is particularly anxious to forward him a letter by a safe opportunity; if Derilis would be good enough to undertake the commission, he would be rewarded with a gold piece. Of course the young man, as a Picard, does not refuse a good offer; hence he follows the two footmen to a house, which one of them enters, and comes out presently, stating that

his master had only a piece of 110 sols, but that if Dorilis could give 50 sols change, he might keep the rest. This, of course, he does, and returns to the fair, where his purse is cut. Nothing remains to him but his chain and the gold coin he has just received from the pretended lackeys.

At night poor Dorilis looks for a lodging, and unluckily puts up at the Pont Neuf, at a house where all the cutpurses and thieves congregate. Now it happens that while Dorilis is lamenting his loss, his cloak of Spanish cloth attracts the notice of a scamp, who resolves to annex it. Hence he makes up to Dorilis, asks the cause of his grief, cheers him up, offers him pecuniary assistance, and finally invites him to supper. Then he plays his great coup. Under the pretext that he has left his cloak in his bedroom, he borrows Dorilis's mantle for the purpose of going to buy a capon for supper, and "skedaddles," in the strictest Yankee acceptation of the term. The unhappy Dorilis waits awhile for supper, and then retires to bed; but during the night thieves carry off all his clothes, and leave him, as our author remarks, "alone, naked, and without assistance from any one, at a spot whence pity was banished and exiled." How many times is the same trick played in modern London, with but slight variations! For the wheel of fortune read the mock auctioneer, and for the thieves' inn the flash lodging-house across the water; and in the story of Dorilis we have that of John Smith from the country.

Traits of impudence abound in the pages of F. D. C.; and one Garandin, afterwards broken on the wheel at Rouen, offers a favourable sample. While prowling about Paris on his business, he overhears one citizen ask another to come and share a bad dinner with him the next morning at eleven, and to bring a friend with him. Garandin resolves to be of the party, and for this purpose follows the inviter home, to learn where he lives. The next morning he is at the door punctually, and enters after the guest. The host fancies that Garandin is a friend of his guest, and feasts him heartily, while the guest imagines that Garandin has been invited to meet him. Garandin enjoys his dinner; after which, pretending important business, he begs leave of absence for a quarter of an hour, and goes away, not omitting to take with him a silver wash-basin on which he had fixed his attentions. After a while an explanation takes place between host and guest; but it is too late-the thief has got off safely with his booty.

Very amusing is the way in which a young apprentice thief was received as master into the honourable guild of cutpurses. The youth had come from the country, and after joining the thieves did no work for a fortnight; whereupon the most crafty among the cutpurses was selected to pass him as master; for, as our author remarks, this trade is not like others, in which a master requires first to have been an apprentice. The couple go out then, and in the cloister of St. Innocent see an old woman praying for the dead. The master-scamp orders the lad to go and cut her purse, as a proof of his talent, and after some reluctance he does so. But, to his horror, his comrade shouts to the old lady, "Madame, this

cutpurse has just robbed you." Upon this every body falls on the young thief, and thrashes him from the cloisters into the Rue St. Denis. This was exactly what the elder thief expected; for, during the confusion he managed to cut five or six purses on his own account. This was, however, soon detected, and a hue and cry was raised. He was captured in front of St. Jacques de la Boucherie; but when an archer prepared to cut off his ear,—the usual punishment of cutpurses in those days,-lo, it came off in his hands, being made of wax some one had been there before. The elder thief cleverly escapes to the Place de Grève,-where there was a great crowd, owing to an execution taking place at the time, -cuts two more purses under the gallows-tree (precisely as in England on October 20th, 1862), and then rejoins his comrade, who is received as a master, after having been well thrashed; as he deserved to be, adds our author.

It appears, however, that the thieves did not always have the best of it, as witness the story of a Poitevin gentleman. The latter, being robbed of his purse at the Palace of Justice, did not waste his time in vain lamentations, but went to a locksmith, and had a spring fixed in his pocket, so artfully made that it only required a touch to set it off. Armed with this spring he returned to the palace and confidently waited for his man; nor had he long to wait. He had been robbed so easily the first time, that the cutpurse could not resist the temptation of trying again. In went his hand, and click went the treacherous spring; the thief was trapped. Our Poitevin, however, did not seem to take the slightest notice of it. He walked about for some two hours, dragging the wretched thief after him, and turning every now and then to ask what he meant by following him so closely. At length, when the Poitevin thought that the farce had lasted long enough, he told the cutpurse that he should have him hanged unless he returned the 150 pistoles, and the thief was only too glad to save his neck at the price.

Most surprising was the adventure that happened to one Polydamor, a celebrated lawyer. Returning home late and on foot from a supper, he was stopped by two of those robbers whose profession it was to filch cloaks, and who took from him a bran-new mantle of Spanish cloth, lined with silk. He asked permission to redeem it, and it was arranged that he should be on the same spot the next evening alone, with the money, and it would be restored to him. At the appointed hour Polydamor was at the spot, and was rather surprised at a coach stopping close to him, into which he was ordered to enter. He did so, more dead than alive; his eyes were bandaged, and away flew the coach like the wind. Presently it pulled up before a splendid mansion. Polydamor was shown into a room in which a magnificent supper was laid, and requested to fall to; but he had no appetite. After a while the thieves, seeing that there was not the making of a jolly fellow in their guest, asked him for the money; he laid thirty pistoles on the table, and was bidden enter a small room and select his own cloak. He was amazed at seeing such a stock of

VOL. VII.

S

mantles, but found his own after some difficulty, and prepared to depart. But he had still his scot to pay: the coachman who had driven him hither, and was going to take him back, expected a pistole, while he must pay two for the supper which he had not eaten. He was deposited again on the spot whence he had been fetched, and a paper was handed him, bearing the words, "The great band has passed by here." Lucky for Polydamor that he held this document; for he was stopped two streets farther on by other three robbers, who, however, suffered him to pass on recognising the passport.

Another hero of those times was Pallioly of Toulouse, the inventor of the "pear of agony." This was a species of small ball, which could be opened and expanded by means of certain springs inside it, and there was no way of closing it up again except by a key made expressly for the purpose. This pear was employed to gag the victim whose house the thieves entered, so that he could not possibly cry for assistance, and they plundered his stores under his very nose. Nor was Pallioly very particular about removing the pear when the trick was done. One unfortunate citizen he left in agony till four o'clock of the next day, when the robber's companions at length induced him to forward the key by a porter. Pallioly was also a distinguished cloak-stealer. One afternoon, while crossing the Pont Neuf, he saw a mantle which he determined to have. He managed it admirably two of his accomplices walked up to the gallant, and each took him by the hand, expressing their delight at seeing him, while Pallioly, at liberty behind him, coolly cut his cloak-knot and ran off with it. I regret to add that such talents as these only had the result of bringing Pallioly to the wheel.

:

Comes a gentleman from Poitou to pay a visit to his brother, a jurisconsult, in Paris. In vain does his brother warn him against the tricks of the cutpurses; the Poitevin has a strong opinion of his own cleverness, and defies the combined roguery of Paris. To give him a lesson, therefore, the jurisconsult suborns two cutpurses, probably clients of his, by a bribe of ten crowns to steal his brother's purse and deliver it to him. The next day the Poitevin proceeds to the palace about his law-suit (every body seems to have had a law-suit in those days), and is accidentally hustled and thrown down. Of course the well-dressed gentlemen are profuse in their apologies, help him to his feet, and-take his purse. The Poitevin goes home to his brother's, swearing like our army in Flanders, and eats no dinner. At dessert, however, a dish is served up which at once restores his appetite; it is his own purse, contents intact. But now comes the cream of the joke. The Poitevin declares that he is not to be had again, and backs his judgment by a wager. "Take care," the jurisconsult says to him; "to-morrow afternoon, at two, you will be accosted by a man dressed in gray and another in red; they are the men who had your purse, and they will have it again." Another bargain between the jurisconsult and the cutpurses. The purse is rightly obtained by knocking off the Poitevin's hat, and picking his pocket while

he is stooping down; but instead of returning to their employer the cutpurses think it wiser to depart with the fifty pistoles which the purse contained. The Poitevin returned home perfectly at ease, thinking that he should have his money back again, as on the first occasion; but the cutpurses, our author sagely remarks, thought it a little too strong that they should be expected to return the same purse twice.

The next chapter to which I shall refer, "The pleasant jest played at the Près aux Clercs, upon ten or twelve citizens of Paris," opens in such a characteristic manner that I venture on an extract, especially as it will give a good idea of my author's style.

"The Parisians, among all those who dwell within the borders of Celtic Gaul, greatly love liberty, and are very glad to leave their city in order to take the air in the fields and withdraw from the crowd and the ordinary concourse of people who flock day by day into the said city. Moreover, always to dwell in a thick and impure atmosphere is to acquire evil humours, and not pay much attention to one's health. This is why several persons have found pleasure in building houses in the fields, in order to divert themselves at times and take a few hours' relaxation from so much business, which is, so to speak, daily for them; that is the sole reason why we see, in the environs of Paris, so many fine palaces and superb buildings, which the bourgeois have had built at various times. Now, it was expedient that the people should feel something of this; and as their means did not permit them to have houses near Paris, where they could divert themselves privately, the public took care of them generally; and thus the Près aux Cleres was destined by the University for the lower classes, in order to give them the means of taking the air, and guarding themselves against the inconveniences and maladies which they might derive from the filth of the town. This spot is situated in a very good air, bordered on one side by the Seine, on the other by a small eminence, whence the prospect is agreeable and diversified, and which affords satisfaction to those who make their promenade there. On holidays an infinite number of that sex which seeks amusement is found there; so that when I contemplate this spot, I fancy I see the Elysian Fields, as the diversity is so admirable; for every thing which the poets recount to us of these Fields is found with many greater advantages here. You see here all sorts of games and exercises in which the citizens of Paris take honest recreation and pastime; and the sports vary in proportion as the visitors are diversified in quality and humours."

In these Elysian Fields of 1630, then, a thief who had probably done no business during the day, was taking an evening walk, seeking whom or what he might devour. His first attention was devoted to the clothes of the youthful bathers, but they were too well guarded. As our author remarks, "He was like those dogs that hunt the stag, which, while thinking they are about to stick a tooth into the venison, only drink the wind." After this he picked up with a villager, who seemed fair game; but just as he expected to make something out of him, his prey was carried off by a friend of the villager. He went about despairingly till he noticed a party of cits playing at bowls, and overheard them agree to sup together at one of the great and famous hostelries in the Faubourg St. Germain.