excepted. After once entering on their calling, they usually remain in
it for life. Many of them begin as children in their ninth or tenth
year, and continue, while their limbs will bear them about, and their
eyesight is good enough to detect the objects of their quest. They
are usually so soiled and begrimed that it is hard to distinguish the
young from the old, unless they be small children, and even these have
the look of premature age.
[Sidenote: ROUTES OF CHIFFONNIERS.]
They set out on their rounds between nine and ten o’clock in the
evening, with a large willow basket strapped to their back, carrying
in one hand a stick about a yard long, terminating in a hook, and in
the other hand a lantern fastened to a piece of wire, so that they can
swing it over the ground, and discover if there be anything they want.
They pay particular attention to the little heaps of rubbish, made by
the citizens before their doors, from the miscellaneous refuse of the
household. After these have been raked by the rag-pickers, they are
carried away by the scavengers’ carts. The pickers-up of unconsidered
trifles never waste any time or space. They understand the exact
distance from one point to another, always moving in straight lines,
and taking in everything at a glance. Their vision is like that of
hawks. They very rarely miss anything, or confound one object with
another. They know bone from wood, and coal from glass, though it be
half buried in the mire, and transfer every desirable fragment to
their basket by means of their hooks with unerring accuracy, and by a
single curve movement. It is astonishing how quickly and thoroughly
they can hunt through one of the little dirt-piles. After quitting
it, it is as valueless as the notes of a western wildcat bank, or a
second-hand tombstone.
They never encroach upon each other’s domain, for they have
their particular districts marked out, and generally visit them
unaccompanied, darting about in silence, without the least
indirectness, dawdling, or delay. They are certainly among the most
industrious and indefatigable of laborers, if not the tidiest and
most fastidious. They go forth in all sorts of weather, night after
night, month after month, and year after year; patient, plodding,
never discouraged while there is the slightest chance of finding a bit
of leather or scrap of paper in the entire capital. So dexterous are
they by long practice in the use of their hook, that they very seldom
employ their fingers.
The night-wandering gypsies have the highest expectations from the
gutters, where they are often delighted by securing a prize that
yields them a whole centime,—one fifth of a cent,—and when they
discover what will sell for a sou, they deem themselves blessed.
There, cigar stumps, remnants of shoes, and broken bottles, are
sometimes found, and are enough to cheer the heart of the rag-picker
for weeks after fortune has ceased to smile upon his nocturnal
gleaning. At long intervals a whole bottle dawns upon his vision, and
he is as much rejoiced as an American would be if he should stumble
upon a treasure of gold buried in his cellar.
[Sidenote: DELIGHTED WITH A BOTTLE.]
The pleasures of the bottle have a new interpretation with the
chiffonniers of Paris. The phrase has a literal, not a figurative
meaning with them, and I have heard them speak of finding half a dozen
bottles in one week, as Ponce de Leon might have spoken of discovering
the fountain of eternal youth.
I remember to have bound one of the guild to me in eternal gratitude
by presenting him with a few empty wine bottles, as he passed my
lodgings one stormy night. He regarded me as a gentleman of munificent
income; he went away, I am persuaded, with a semi-conviction that I
owned the Bank of France.
One would hardly think that the poor devils of the hook and basket
would attempt to have any comfort in this life. But they do; for they
are French, and must have dissipation and distraction, however humble
and homely it be. After midnight, they visit the cheap wine-shops,
where they can purchase as much wine as they want for two or three
sous. They smoke their pipes there, and have very pleasant chats,
manifesting a gayety in their rags and dirt that only a Gaul can
feel. They even get mildly tipsy sometimes, but usually start off
with their baskets before daylight, make another round, and then sell
their collection to the rag and refuse merchants who are their regular
customers. The contents of their baskets, holding some two bushels,
will bring from twenty cents to one dollar in our money, the average
rate being from forty to fifty cents.
The merchants have large magazines in the quarters frequented by the
chiffonniers, and employ scores of men and women to assort and arrange
their unwholesome purchases. The air of the magazines is vitiated
and poisoned by the exhalations from mouldy leather, greasy rags,
filthy bones, and repulsive rubbish generally. How those whose duty
it is to attend to this obnoxious business escape contagion is by no
means clear. It may be they are so defiled and encrusted with dirt
themselves, that they cannot receive any harm from what they handle,
though if they were neat in habit, or if their pores were open, they
could not fail to be made sick unto death by breathing such tainted
air. They are advanced in years, or infirm in body, having belonged,
most of them, to the rag-picking profession when they were younger,
and in sounder health. They prefer the more active, open-air duties,
but are forced by circumstances and their condition into this lower
grade of offensive industry. For twelve hours of labor a day, they are
paid about thirty cents, and on this, in some unaccountable way, they
contrive to keep their wretched bodies and souls together.
[Sidenote: HOMES OF THE RAG-PICKERS.]
I ceased to wonder how the rag-pickers lived when I discovered where
and under what surroundings they lived. Live indeed? Theirs is a
satire upon life. It does not deserve the name of subsistence, or
even vegetation, for subsistence and vegetation are at least natural
and salutary. Few strangers in Paris ever see such miserable quarters
as are the damp, dreary, and ill-ventilated cellars of the Quartier
Mouffetard, in the neighborhood of the old Barrière des Deux Moulins,
in which the chiffonniers reside. In those narrow and dismal streets,
reminding me of the streets in the old Spanish towns, the sunshine is
shut out, and the fresh breeze of heaven is unknown. In those vile
dens, the unfortunate toilers herd together, frequently sleeping ten
or twelve in a small apartment, regardless of age or sex, paying
three or four sous a night for their detestable lodgings. Some of
the aged and less impoverished couples pretend to keep house; but it
is after so sorry a fashion that their homes would be unwelcome to a
respectable beast.
The majority of the rag-pickers sleep where they can, and take their
meals in the dismal cook-shops, eating whatever is given them, and
asking no questions. Worthless dogs that have come to tragic ends
are there served up for beef, and cats, whose nocturnal serenade has
been suddenly brought to a close by the hurling of an unappreciative
brick, are placed upon a rude table and labelled as mutton. Customers
who work hard, and earn but three or four dollars a week, are not
fastidious. Whatever satisfies the cravings of hunger is pronounced
good, and where very little is charged, very little must be expected.
I busied myself one day in investigating the quarters of the
chiffonniers, because I always feel an interest in the human family in
its least favorable conditions; but what I saw did not induce me to
repeat the experiment.
[Sidenote: HASARD DE LA FOURCHETTE.]
One of the cook-shops that I entered had a very remarkable way of
feeding its patrons, combining the excitement of chance with practical
advantage. The proprietor of the place purchases from the restaurants
such scraps and fragments as are left upon the tables and in the
kitchen, puts them in a large pot full of water, and submits them to a
long boiling. The result, quite a savory soup, is placed on a table,
and anybody, by paying two sous, has the privilege of thrusting a long
iron fork into the kettle, and of eating whatever he can bring up from
the bottom. Sometimes the handler of the fork is rewarded with a very
tolerable piece of beef, mutton, chicken, goose-liver, or some genuine
delicacy that may have been ordered at a fashionable restaurant in the
Boulevards. Even if the fork come up without the hoped-for prize, the
adventurer is entitled to a plate of the soup, relished none the less
because the eater has had the boldness to risk his sous for something
more substantial. This culinary game is called the fortune of the fork
(_hasard de la fourchette_), and is much enjoyed by the chiffonniers.
I felt a curious interest in it myself, though I lacked the relish of
hunger, and consequently the personal sympathy properly belonging to
the entertainment.
The rag-pickers gathered about the table on which the large kettle
stood, watching with eager eyes the fellow who handled the fork, and
made a dash for the invisible morsel he so craved. When he brought up
nothing, he showed no disappointment, but laughed with the throng;
and when he was lucky enough to lift upon the tines what is called
in Paris a _bonne bouche_, they applauded him with hands and voice,
as if he had obtained a grand victory. The rude and dingy cook-shop,
with the soiled and tattered rag-pickers in the centre, and the burly
proprietor in the background, made a picture which Doré would have
been pleased to draw.
[Sidenote: WINNING A WAGER.]
The soup had an appetizing odor, and I could not doubt that what
appealed so much to one sense must be grateful to another. I told my
companion, a young New Yorker, that I thought of tasting it; whereupon
he offered to bet me the price of a dinner at the Café Anglais that
I durst not obey my thought. I called at once for a plate of the
_potage_, and really found it excellent, twenty times better than
much that I have eaten in first-class hotels at home. The effort of
my friend to thwart my humor by talking to me of broiled horse, roast
cat, boiled parrot, and stewed puppy, had no effect. I finished the
soup with satisfaction, and at the dinner which I had won expressed
my regret that the Julienne we had there was not so good as the
mysterious mixture in the Quartier Mouffetard.
[Sidenote: HONESTY OF CHIFFONNIERS.]
The chiffonniers are reputed to be extremely honest. As evidence of
this, they are very seldom arrested for any violation of law, and,
according to the French code, the finder of any article of value is
considered guilty of larceny unless he makes some effort to restore
the property. In a great and luxurious city like Paris, many such
articles must necessarily be lost, and they are very likely to fall
into the possession of the rag-pickers. The representatives of this
order are constantly discovering objects which they must feel a strong
temptation to keep. Still, they do not yield to the temptation, but
deposit what they find with the commissioner of police, who gives
a receipt, and takes the name and address of the finder. The thing
found is carried to the Prefecture, where it is held, with many other
articles, for twelve months; and if, during that time, no one claims
it, it is returned to the finder on the presentation of the receipt.
In no other city can you feel half so certain of regaining what you
have mislaid, or left, or dropped in some public place. I have known
of watches and pocket-books (with something in them, too) restored,
time and again. I have even recovered lost umbrellas, without the
least trouble, and have been handed small pieces of money which I had
left upon the tables of restaurants, several days after I had dined
there.
Every week a list of articles found and deposited at the Prefecture
of Police is published in the official journal, some of which, one
would imagine, could not be very readily lost. Among the articles the
most frequent are bank notes, porte-monnaies, watches, jewelry, rings
of keys, lorgnettes, canes, shawls, gloves, &c. But it is somewhat
singular to note, as I have noted, in the list, casks of wine, barrels
of brandy, sets of false teeth, wigs, baskets of newly-washed linen,
petticoats, hats, and even babies, who have been accidentally left in
omnibuses, railway cars, or the public parks, by absent-minded nurses
or self-absorbed mothers.
The great majority of the rag-pickers are, as would necessarily be
inferred, ignorant, and of the humblest origin. Some of them, however,
are persons of education, who have fallen from their natural position
through defect of their own, or adversity of circumstances.
I recollect a rag-picker—he must have been nearly fifty years of
age—who passed nightly along the Grands Boulevards, and who, when not
surveying the ground with his lantern, walked erect, and with military
precision. I was told that he had been well born, was of an old and
influential family, and had served with distinction in the army in
Algiers. Cashiered for some irregular conduct, his family disowned
him, and he began a course of dissipation, which soon left him without
friends, money, or self-respect. He came to this country in the hope
of being able to reform; but his habits of intemperance adhered to
him, and after numerous disreputable experiences, and after several
arrests on charges of stealing, he returned to Paris.
He could get no employment there of the kind he wanted, and after
trying divers methods of obtaining a livelihood, he settled down,
socially and mentally, into a rag-picker. Oddly enough, in this
position he became industrious and moderately abstemious. Two years
ago he was accounted one of the most energetic of his tribe, and often
earned, with his lantern and his rake, fifty or sixty francs a week,
which is much above the average. Having reached the lowest level, he
seemed quite satisfied; and they who had talked with him said he never
murmured at fortune, and very rarely referred to his antecedents. His
health and strength were so well preserved, that he had continued
in his grubbing occupation twelve or fifteen years longer than is
customary with his class. This appears to be one of the few instances
in which as men descend socially they rise morally.
[Sidenote: LA BELLE D’ENFER.]
Among the trilleuses,—the old women who arrange and assort the
contents of the chiffonniers’ baskets for the rag-merchants,—I recall,
just before the Franco-German war, one of the ugliest hags it has ever
been my fortune to see; and my observation of hags has been extensive,
varied, and profound. One of Rembrandt’s ancient females was youthful
and beautiful to her, who attracted me, somewhat after an inverted
fashion, by her positive hideousness. Seeing her one day in the Cité
Doré, I inquired of a gendarme respecting her. He expressed his
surprise that I did not recognize her, adding, “Everybody knows her.
She is called the Belle of the Bottomless Pit (_Belle d’Enfer_).” He
then gave me her history; and thus it ran:—
[Sidenote: A ROMANTIC STORY.]
She was nearly seventy; forty years before, had been one of the
handsomest and most courted of the lorettes of Paris. Everybody
admired her lovely face and exquisite figure. Her fame as a beauty had
extended to all the capitals of Europe. She had any number of wealthy
lovers, and not a few young noblemen of high rank in her train. She
lived like a queen. Her horses, and carriages, and toilets were the
envy of the most fashionable ladies; and when the name of Annette
Gariteau was mentioned, as it constantly was, eulogies on her charms
were upon every lip.
On retiring one night, her bed-curtains caught fire, and she was
dreadfully burned. Not a single trace of her beauty was left, but in
its stead a frightfully disfigured face, and a shrivelled and crippled
form. For some weeks it was thought she could not live; and when she
did recover, she was so disgusted with herself, she tried to commit
suicide by drowning, by poison, and by charcoal. They all failed,
and she then fancied it was the wish of Heaven she should atone for
her past errors by living until nature summoned her. Since then she
has been very pious, never neglecting her religious duties in the
smallest particular. She became a rag-picker because she considered
that the humblest of callings, and because she thought that in it she
would best serve her purpose of penitence, and render her reformation
clear as noonday in the eyes of all who had known her in her pride of
iniquity.
That was a queer story, and would hardly have been plausible, or
probable, except when told of a French woman. I heard it repeated
several times afterwards, and have no reason to doubt its correctness.
The tale made a deep impression on me; and now, whenever I see some
deformed and miserable creature, I try to forget her deformity and
misery by fancying that she may be another Annette Gariteau.
LX.
BRIGANDAGE AND PIRACY.
RELATIONS OF THE STEAM ENGINE TO HONESTY.—PIRACY AND
STEAMSHIPS.—HOW THE SLAVE TRADE WAS BROKEN UP.—STORIES OF
BRIGANDS.—EXPLOITS OF SPANISH ROBBERS.—“ROAD AGENTS” IN
CALIFORNIA.—AN ADVENTURE WITH HIGHWAYMEN.—AN ARMED STAGE
COACH.—THE HAUNTS OF THE ROBBERS.—STORY OF A PLUNDERED
PASSENGER.—“PUT UP YOUR HANDS.”—AN EXCITING INCIDENT.—BROAD-HORNS
AND KEEL-BOATS.—MIKE FINK AND THE CLERGYMAN.—PIRACY ON THE
MISSISSIPPI.—A FIGHT WITH RIVER PIRATES.—A CAPTAIN AND CREW
MURDERED.—VISIT TO A ROBBERS’ CAVE.
The invention of the steam engine, while it has done a good deal for
honest labor and honest enterprise, has done just as much towards
breaking up dishonest enterprises and occupations. Before steamships
came into fashion, the broad ocean and its adjacent waters were in
many places the cruising grounds of pirates. They had sailing vessels
built very long and low, with large spars, and, in proportion to the
size of their hulk, with an immense spread of canvas. In a light
wind or a heavy breeze, they could outsail the deeply and richly
laden merchant ships, whose breadth of beam was great in proportion
to their length, in order that they might carry heavy cargoes. These
pirate vessels either sailed on the open ocean, in the track of
merchant ships, or were concealed along the coast, whence they could
dart out, and, after securing their prey, could sail back to their
safe retreats. It was impossible to avoid them, impossible to escape
them in a fair race, and, from the great number of men they carried,
generally impossible to contend against them. Ships of war, like
merchant ships, depended upon the wind for their propulsion, and were
rarely able to sail as rapidly as the pirate craft. The invention of
the steam engine was followed by the construction of the steamship;
and when the steamship was armed with guns, she could run down and
destroy these pirate cruisers.
[Sidenote: ONE EFFECT OF STEAM.]
Piracy in the West Indies and other regions, as well as on the open
sea, came to an end when steamers were brought into general use as
ships of war. At the present day, piracy prevails only in those
portions of the far east where the steamer is in comparatively little
use.
The slave trade received its death blow within the past twenty years,
when England and the United States, with other nations interested in
its suppression, substituted war steamers for sailing ships along the
coast of Africa. From the ports of the west coast of Africa, where
the slave ships were laden, it was comparatively easy to escape under
cover of a dark night; and, once fairly at sea, the slavers could bid
defiance to their pursuers. With the wind, all had the same chance,
and the slavers were generally so constructed and equipped as to be
able to outsail their pursuers; but it became otherwise when the
latter availed themselves of steam.
On land, in past times, brigandage flourished, and was profitable
until the railway came into general use. A stage coach or a carriage
with a private traveller, on a lonely road, might be robbed with
comparative ease; but when the stage coach or the private carriage was
exchanged for the railway train, robbery was not so easy. Enterprising
brigands in Spain and other countries occasionally try their hands at
robbing railway trains, but such exploits are rare. Safety in every
way, whether against accidents or human malice, is rendered much
greater by the use of steam. At the present day the countries most
affected with brigandage are those where railways are comparatively
scarce. Until within the past few years, California had no railway
lines, and she was the most profitable field in all the United States
for the exploits of robbers. Californians facetiously call highwaymen
“road agents,” and I have heard sometimes that the Californians are
proud of their existence.
[Sidenote: AN ADVENTURE IN CALIFORNIA.]
I remember some years ago taking a stage coach in the Golden State
over a route infested with robbers. I had heard vague rumors of
exciting scenes along the road, and we had no great objection to a
small encounter with these artists of the revolver. As we started from
the station near the infested region, the agents of the stage company
furnished every man with a rifle, and told us to keep a sharp lookout
for the road agents. About half of us were accustomed to fire-arms,
but the other half evidently knew as much about the handling of a
rifle as a horse knows about geometrical surveying. I was fearful at
starting that, if we came to a fight, the accidents among us by the
careless handling of our rifles would have caused more mortality and
inflicted more wounds than the fire-arms of the robbers.
There were several points on the road where the robbers were looked
for, and when we approached one of them, the driver would call our
attention to the fact. Then everybody would move about in his seat,
and straighten himself like a rooster ready for crowing; and some of
the more timid ones would start as though they had suddenly dropped
upon a chestnut bur. Our rifles were held in all sorts of ways, and
with the barrels sticking out in different directions, the coach bore
a faint resemblance to an enormous porcupine. Each of the dangerous
places we passed without accident, and at the next station we left our
rifles, and were thankful that the great peril was over.
I afterwards learned that the robbers had fully determined to attack
us that day, but one of the party had gone on a drunk, and deranged
their plan. Before that time I had regretted the habit of intemperance
among the Californians, but when I heard of this occurrence, I was
thankful that the principles of Father Mathew did not prevail among
them. With all due regard to John B. Gough and the cause he has
advocated, I have no objection to every robber in the world getting
blind drunk every morning, and remaining so for forty-eight hours at
least.
Robberies on that route were of quite frequent occurrence. Since
that time the railway has taken the place of the stage line, and
the robbers are heard of no more,—all honor to James Watt and George
Stephenson!
One of my fellow-passengers of that day had been over the route many
times, and had been engaged in several fights. He entertained us with
pleasing accounts—that is to say, the accounts were very interesting,
but just at that time they were not calculated to be cheering.
[Sidenote: STORY OF A TRAVELLER.]
“About a month ago,” said he, “I was riding along this very road, and
in this very coach, and just about this place; it may be half a mile
or so ahead from here.” Here a dyspeptic individual at the corner of
the coach gave a groan, and muttered something which sounded like a
wish that he was at home.
“It was just about daylight, when all at once the horses stopped.”
Here the coach came to a sudden halt, and every one of us fully
expected that the robbers had taken our horses by the bridles; but the
voice of the driver reassured us, as he said he had stopped to hitch
up a trace.