There was no need to keep the mask on any
longer. I threw it off; went through the
superfluous ceremony of a second marriage
with Laura; took stores in the city; built a
villa in the country; and here I am at this
present moment of writing, a convict aristocrat
—a prosperous, wealthy, highly respectable
mercantile man, with two years of my
sentence of transportation still to expire. I
have a barouche and two bay horses, a
coachman and page in neat liveries, three
charming children, and a French governess, a
boudoir and lady's-maid for my wife. She is as
handsome as ever, but getting a little fat. So
am I, as a worthy friend remarked when I
recently appeared holding the plate, at our
last charity sermon.

What would my surviving relatives and
associates in England say, if they could see
me now? I have heard of them at different
times and through various channels. Lady
Malkinshaw, after living to the verge of a
hundred, and surviving all sorts of accidents,
died quietly one afternoon, in her chair, with
an empty dish before her, and without giving
the slightest notice to anybody. Mr.
Batterbury, having sacrificed so much to his
wife's reversion, profited nothing by its falling
in at last. His quarrels with my amiable
sister—which took their rise from his interested
charities towards me—ended in producing
a separation. And, far from saving
anything by Annabella's inheritance of her pin-
money, he had a positive loss to put up with,
in the shape of some hundreds extracted
yearly from his income, as alimony to his
uncongenial wife. He is said to make use
of shocking language, whenever my name is
mentioned, and to wish that he had been
carried off by the yellow fever before he ever
set eyes on the Softly family.

My father has retired from practice. He
and my mother have gone to live in the
country, near the mansion of the only
marquis with whom my father was actually and
personally acquainted in his professional days.
The marquis asks him to dinner once a-year,
and leaves a card for my mother before he
returns to town for the season. The card is
placed at the top of the basket on the
drawing-room table, all the year round, and is
supposed to be privately cleaned at intervals,
so as to make it look as if it had been just
left. They have a portrait of Lady Malkinshaw
in the dining-room. In this way, my
parents are ending their days contentedly.
I can honestly say, that I am glad to hear it.

Doctor Knapton, when I last heard of
him, was editing a newspaper in America.
He had received several thrashings, had
amassed a heap of dollars, and had,
consequently, become one of the eminent
journalists of the Great Republic. Old File,
who shared his flight, still shares his
fortunes, being publisher of his newspaper.
Young File resumed coining operations in
London; and, having braved his fate a second
time, threaded his way, in due course, up
to the steps of the scaffold. Screw carries
on the profitable trade of informer, in
London. The dismal disappearance of Mill
I have already recorded.

So much on the subject of my relatives and
associates. On the subject of myself, I might
still write on at considerable length. But,
while the libellous title of " A ROGUE'S LIFE,"
stares me in the face at the top of the page,
how can I, as a prosperous and respectable
man, be expected to communicate any further
autobiographical particulars, in this place, to
a discerning public of readers?

TURKISH CONTRASTS.

TURKEY is rich to overflowing; the
population meek in all the poverty of indolence.
The loveliness of every landscape is broken
by the most hideous public misery. The
climate is fine, for the air is fresh and soft;
the temperature generally moderate. It is
bad, because it is both cold and wet, foggy
and rainy.

The Turk proverbially loves his ease;
yet he lives in the most inconvenient
manner. He smokes his chibouque or
nargilly on sofas without backs; he uses his
knees for a writing-desk, and the floor for a
dinner-table. He is fond of riding, and has
no roads. He is fond of visiting his friends
in state, but has no carriage: his streets
are neither named nor numbered. Turks
are both clean and dirty. They are
always dabbling with water, but they eat
with their hands; they heap intolerable
garbage before their doors, leave dogs to do the
office of scavengers, and allow dead carcases
to putrefy beneath the windows of their
palaces. They are both quick and slow in
business, for they have few formalities; yet they
have always got a score of opposing interests
in everything. They neglect the most important
affairs in endeavouring to satisfy everybody
on some occasions, and jump at
conclusions with a simplicity and good faith
almost affecting, upon others.

The Turk's wives are so muffled up that they
cannot see where they are walking; and they
roll about like barrels, from the length of
their dresses and the largeness of their shoes.
He veils and imprisons; yet allows them
to go where they please unaccompanied.
Turks are never seen in public with their
wives. On the one hand they appear to
consider ladies as Nature's choicest handiwork;
for they can imagine no present more grateful
to the Sultan, on the great festival of the
Bairam, than a young maiden. On the other
hand, they deny women any place or influence
in society; and, while they refuse them
a soul, insist that they shall be transported
bodily to paradise. In Turkey a girl seldom
brings a portion to her husband; but the
husband pays a sum of money to her parents.
Turkish women are lively, gossiping, restless: