CHAPTER IX.

PRISON RESEARCHES ABROAD.

1775-1781.

HOWARD'S home and foreign journeys suc

ceeded each other so rapidly, that readers of his life become confused. I have therefore thought it best to keep his researches on the Continent distinct from those in Great Britain and Ireland, that a clear impression may be left respecting the lines of his philanthropy.

In April, 1775, he started for France. Louis XVI. was on the throne. Marie Antoinette in the pride of her beauty presided over her luxurious court. The finances of the country were in a state of wretched disorder. Turgot, Maurepas, and Necker were busy with theories for filling an empty exchequer. The country was discontented, and cries for reform came from the lips of all classes, premonitory of a crash which soon startled the world. Still, fashion and folly were rampant in the metropolis and the provinces. Splendid equipages rolled along the streets, balls and masquerades dazzled the aristocracy in the halls of Versailles and the hotels of Paris, whilst peasants groaned under the salt tax and cursed the rich, who generally were unmindful of their sufferings. Amidst these lights and shadows Howard made his appearance.

Reaching the city on the banks of the Seine by some lumbering diligence, or some scarcely more convenient chaise, he began immediately to thread narrow, winding, dirty streets, amidst din and bustle, searching for the Conciergerie, the Grand and Petit Châtelet, the Fort L'Evêque, and the Bicêtre prisons. His first question everywhere was "Whether the gaoler or keeper resided in the house?" An answer always came in the affirmative. In most cases he found four or five gates; the inner one called a turnstile. Five or six turnkeys were seen on patrol, watching for plots and surprises. No prisoners were in irons, a fact which astonished one familiar with chains in England. Courts were clean, air was fresh, and he seldom perceived offensive smells. Mass was daily said, from which the attendance of Protestants was excused. He measured the cells, tested the supplies, copied the regulations, interrogated the gaolers, and picked up information respecting men and women in confinement. He found few debtors, owing to a law which made persons who committed them to prison, responsible for the payment of nine shillings a month towards board and lodging. In default of payment, prisoners recovered their liberty.

The Bicêtre, an hospital built on an eminence two miles from Paris, included paupers and lunatics. About five hundred rooms had an occupant in each. La Cour Royale, in this edifice, had eight dungeons, with chains fastened to the wall, and a stone funnel in each cell to let in air. Prisoners made straw boxes, toothpicks, and other articles, which they were allowed to sell to visitors. 1

1 State of Prisons, p. 92.

M

The Bastille-so huge, so strong, so walled and moated, so full of mystery, that Carlyle exclaims, "Could one but, after infinite reading, get to understand so much as the plan of the building." The Bastille, so covered in everybody's thoughts with stories of injustice and cruelty, of innocent lives sacrificed, or, what was worse, lengthened out in misery, -that inaccessible fortress, of course, inspired the curiosity of the traveller. Of his attempt to explore its secrets, which might be wrought up into a sensational story, or, painted by a skilful artist, would make a capital picture he gives the following account a perfect specimen of sententious simplicity. "The Bastille may occur to some of my readers as an object concerning which some information would be acceptable. All that I can give them is that I knocked hard at the outer gate, and immediately went forward through the guard to the drawbridge before the entrance of the castle. I was some time viewing this building, which is round, and surrounded by a large moat. None of the windows look outwards, but only towards a small area; and if the State prisoners are ever permitted to take the fresh air, it must be on the leads, which have high parapets. But whilst I was contemplating this gloomy mansion, an officer came out of the castle, much surprised; and I was forced to retreat through the mute guard, and thus regained that freedom which, for one locked up within those walls, it is next to impossible to obtain."

This incident, recorded with conscientious accuracy, I find to have been also entrusted to tradition as well as to paper; and instead of being worn away by long handling, it has recently developed into the following

romantic dimensions. "He boldly drove up to the gates in a handsome carriage and four, with several servants in livery, dressed himself like a gentleman of the court. Stepping out of the carriage, with an air of authority, he desired to be shown over the building. The officials, taken by surprise, and never doubting from his deportment his right to be obeyed, permitted him to examine everything he chose." 1

This comparison of an original and authentic statement in writing, with a story told by one person to another over and over again, well illustrates the marvellous effect of tradition. How the traveller gained admittance to other prisons, he explains by reference to a law, which allowed of charitable individuals visiting the inmates, to bestow alms, either by their own hands or through the medium of a gaoler. The latter method alone was allowed in the case of dungeon-prisoners.

In the provincial gaols of France, Howard saw little worth noticing; and in May we follow him to Belgium. Near Brussels is the town of Vilvorde, where William Tyndale, the English translator of the Scriptures, was imprisoned, strangled, and burnt. Whether or not the prison explorer thought of that tragedy I do not know, but he stopped to see the House of Correction, and took down the dimensions of rooms and the number of steps.

At Mechlin, under the shadow of its grand cathedral, he sought out the prison, and was glad to find no debtors in it. The criminals lodged "up stairs," not in filthy dungeons; each was provided for with

1 Memories of Seventy Years, edited by H. Martin, p. 59.

"straw and two blankets," and "clean linen every week from a charity."

At Bruges, he heard the far-famed Carillon ring out its mysterious music from—

The belfry old and brown: Thrice consumed, and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the

town.

There too were pictures quaint and beautiful, having charms for most travellers; but in a book on “The State of Prisons," he only tells us how debtors and criminals were treated; the former receiving an allowance from their creditors, the latter not shut up in underground cells. He records the care taken of the sick, and states that a list of charities hung up in the council chamber.

In Ghent, the Hôtel de Ville told of Charles V., and the streets, of the Brewer, Jacob Van Arteveld. The name of the city further suggested to an Englishman, recollections of "time-honoured Lancaster; but Howard had one thing to do. In La Maison de Force he tells us that prisoners had bedsteads, mattresses, pillows, sheets, and blankets, also good and sufficient food. Men and women were separated, the former weaving, the latter washing, spinning, and mending. Spirituous liquors were prohibited; and altogether he pronounced the establishment " a noble institution." But the prison belonging to the Benedictine Monastery presented a contrast, with its dreary subterranean dungeons. Howard's habit of counting steps and measuring doors and windows greatly displeased the governor, who soon cut short his stay, and thus put an end to his inquiries.