of Mexican crime,—mixed and mingling, like a hill of busy ants swarming from their sandy caverns. Some are stripped and bathing in the fountain;—some are fighting in a corner;—some making baskets in another. In one place a crowd is gathered around a witty story-teller, relating the adventures of his rascally life. In another, a group is engaged in weaving with a handloom. Robbers, murderers, thieves, ravishers, felons of every description, and vagabonds of every grade or aspect, are crammed within this dismal court-yard; and, almost free from discipline or moral restraint, form, perhaps, the most splendid school of misdemeanor and villany on the American continent.
Below,—within the corridor of the second story,—another class of criminals is kept; and yet, even here, men under sentence of death, are pointed out who are still permitted to go about without restraint.
In one corner of the quadrangle is the chapel, where convicts for capital offences are condemned to solitude and penance, during the three last days of their miserable life; and, at a certain hour, it is usual for all the prisoners to gather in front of the door and chant a hymn for the victim of the laws. It is a solemn service of crime for crime.
The women are not generally seen in the Accordada, but their condition is but little better than that of the males. About one hundred of the men, chained in pairs like galley slaves, are driven daily, under a strong guard, into the streets as scavengers; and it seems to be the chief idea of the utility of prisons in Mexico, to support this class of coerced laborers.
There can be no apology, at this period of general enlightenment in the world, for such disgraceful exhibitions of the congregated vice of a country or capital. Punishments, or rather incarceration or labor on the streets, is in reality no sacrifice, because public exhibition deadens the felon's shame, inasmuch as such inflictions cannot become punishments, under any circumstances of a lepero's life. Indeed, what object in existence can the Mexican lepero propose to himself? His day is one of precarious labor and income;—he thieves;—he has no regular home, or if he has, it is some miserable hovel of earth and mud, where his wife and children crawl about with scarce the instinct of beavers. His food and clothing are scant and miserable. He is without education or prospect of social improvement. He belongs to a class that does not rise, for his class is ostracised by hereditary public opinion. He dulls his sense of present misery by intoxicating drinks. His
