The following pages were written more than twenty
years since, and were then published periodically
in Household Words.
In the original form of publication the Rogue was
very favorably received. Year after year, I delayed
the republication, proposing, at the suggestion of
my old friend, Mr. Charles Reade, to enlarge the present
sketch of the hero’s adventures in Australia.
But the opportunity of carrying out this project has
proved to be one of the lost opportunities of my life.
I republish the story with its original conclusion
unaltered, but with such occasional additions and
improvements as will, I hope, render it more worthy
of attention at the present time.
The critical reader may possibly notice a tone of
almost boisterous gayety in certain parts of these
imaginary Confessions. I can only plead, in defense,
that the story offers the faithful reflection of a
very happy time in my past life. It was written
at Paris, when I had Charles Dickens for a near neighbor
and a daily companion, and when my leisure hours were
joyously passed with many other friends, all associated
with literature and art, of whom the admirable comedian,
Regnier, is now the only survivor. The revising
of these pages has been to me a melancholy task.
I can only hope that they may cheer the sad moments
of others. The Rogue may surely claim two merits,
at least, in the eyes of the new generation—he
is never serious for two moments together; and he
“doesn’t take long to read.”
W. C.
Gloucester place, London, March
6th, 1879.
I am going to try if I can’t write something
about myself. My life has been rather a strange
one. It may not seem particularly useful or respectable;
but it has been, in some respects, adventurous; and
that may give it claims to be read, even in the most
prejudiced circles. I am an example of some of
the workings of the social system of this illustrious
country on the individual native, during the early
part of the present century; and, if I may say so
without unbecoming vanity, I should like to quote
myself for the edification of my countrymen.
Who am I.
I am remarkably well connected, I can tell you.
I came into this world with the great advantage of
having Lady Malkinshaw for a grandmother, her ladyship’s
daughter for a mother, and Francis James Softly, Esq.,
M. D. (commonly called Doctor Softly), for a father.
I put my father last, because he was not so well connected
as my mother, and my grandmother first, because she
was the most nobly-born person of the three. I
have been, am still, and may continue to be, a Rogue;
but I hope I am not abandoned enough yet to forget
the respect that is due to rank. On this account,
