It is a bold thing to say, but nothing will ever persuade me that Society has not a sneaking kindness for a Rogue.

For example, my father never had half the attention shown to him in his own house, which was shown to me in my prison.  I have seen High Sheriffs in the great world, whom my father went to see, give him two fingers—­the High Sheriff of Barkinghamshire came to see me, and shook hands cordially.  Nobody ever wanted my father’s autograph—­dozens of people asked for mine.  Nobody ever put my father’s portrait in the frontispiece of a magazine, or described his personal appearance and manners with anxious elaboration, in the large type of a great newspaper—­I enjoyed both those honors.  Three official individuals politely begged me to be sure and make complaints if my position was not perfectly comfortable.  No official individual ever troubled his head whether my father was comfortable or not.  When the day of my trial came, the court was thronged by my lovely countrywomen, who stood up panting in the crowd and crushing their beautiful dresses, rather than miss the pleasure of seeing the dear Rogue in the dock.  When my father once stood on the lecturer’s rostrum, and delivered his excellent discourse, called “Medical Hints to Maids and Mothers on Tight Lacing and Teething,” the benches were left empty by the ungrateful women of England, who were not in the slightest degree anxious to feast their eyes on the sight of a learned adviser and respectable man.  If these facts led to one inevitable conclusion, it is not my fault.  We Rogues are the spoiled children of Society.  We may not be openly acknowledged as Pets, but we all know, by pleasant experience, that we are treated like them.

The trial was deeply affecting.  My defense—­or rather my barrister’s—­was the simple truth.  It was impossible to overthrow the facts against us; so we honestly owned that I got into the scrape through love for Alicia.  My counsel turned this to the best possible sentimental account.  He cried; the ladies cried; the jury cried; the judge cried; and Mr. Batterbury, who had desperately come to see the trial, and know the worst, sobbed with such prominent vehemence, that I believe him, to this day, to have greatly influenced the verdict.  I was strongly recommended to mercy and got off with fourteen years’ transportation.  The unfortunate Mill, who was tried after me, with a mere dry-eyed barrister to defend him, was hanged.

POSTSCRIPT.

WITH the record of my sentence of transportation, my life as a Rogue ends, and my existence as a respectable man begins.  I am sorry to say anything which may disturb popular delusions on the subject of poetical justice, but this is strictly the truth.

My first anxiety was about my wife’s future.